“I’m sorry, Omar.” Mark Andrew looked at the bloody patches on the back of the pajamas. “I wish I could help you out of here. You have to let me go back so I can come in a more substantial form. Your summons was too weak. I am like nothing…” he held up one hand in front of his face. The skin was translucent to the point of transparency. “Like dust.”
“Just tell my father. He will know what to do.” Omar’s breath was becoming more and more ragged. “And try to get Ruth out of there. I think that Bari might have…” Omar stopped talking and closed his eyes.
“What? Might have what?” Mark asked him and reached for his head, but his hand passed through him.
“I think he may have seduced her or perhaps … raped her.”
“My God, Omar. I’m sorry. I’m truly sorry. I never saw it coming!”
“Neither did I. Just help her. I still love her, but she… she loves Lucio. She always has and since this happened to me…” Omar grimaced in pain. “Since I changed. She does not care for me at all.”
“I have to get back, Omar.” Mark Andrew told him as he struggled for every breath. “You must release me. Where is the…” He looked about in panic as he realized there was no sword here to strike. “Omar! Where is the sword? How did you do this?”
“I don’t know.” Omar tried to move his head again, but could not. He was bleeding again and what little blood he had regained was rapidly leaving him. His limbs were cold and numb. His breathing very shallow.
“You have to release me.” Mark instinctively reached for him again and again, his hand passed through the Prophet and slapped the floor beneath him. He was a long way from home. This had never happened before. He had no idea what to do. “Omar!”
The prophet lay very still now. His eyes were closed and blood trickled from his mouth.
“Omar?” Mark leaned closer to him. The Prophet was dead. “Omar! For God’s sake! Omar!”
He looked up as he heard grating noises at the door. The guards had heard him.
“Dammit!” He looked about the tiny cell. No where to go! No where to hide! He stood up and waited for them to enter.
The two guards, both Fox soldiers rushed into the room with their weapons drawn. They drew up short at the sight of Mark Andrew.
“Your Grace!” One of them found his voice.
The other one turned and raced from the room, shouting at the top of his lungs two words.
“The Prophet!! The Prophet!!”
Mark Andrew smiled slightly at the remaining guard and shrugged. Maybe he was not so far from home after all.
The guard reached for him tentatively and he stepped back.
“Do not touch me!” He said and the guard stepped away from him quickly. The sounds of heavy footsteps… many footsteps reached their ears as they stood staring at each other over the body of the Prophet.
“Pick him up!” Mark Andrew snapped the order at the mesmerized guard in his native tongue. “And be easy. Put him on the bed.”
The man hesitated only briefly and then followed the order, dragging Omar as best he could to the bunk, turning him on his side. More blood ran from the Prophet’s mouth. The bullet wounds, attended only superficially, had taken their toll.
“Open the cuffs.” Mark struggled with his fears and emotions to put on his most demanding airs. If he could not pull this off, here and now, he might be stuck in New Babylon for a long time.
“But, Your Grace. He is a criminal!” The man backed away in fear.
“He is dead.” Mark Andrew reminded him. “Check him yourself. I killed him. I will bring him back when I am ready.”
The guard took a step forward and put his hand against Omar’s throat.
“He is dead, sir,” he said quietly and pulled a set of keys from his belt. He worked on the shackles and chains and then laid Omar out on his back. By now, there were several more Fox soldiers and local jailers crowded in the room and in the door, trying to see what was happening. Mark cast a dark glance at them and they cowered back.
“Do not touch me. I have just passed through the ether and I am unclean,” he told them all. “Bring the Chief of Police here at once. I will speak to him.”
A rather frightened looking man dressed in a flamboyant uniform that was a mixture of the Fox black and Omar’s colors, purple, white and gold, stepped forward timorously.
“I am Assistant Chief, Ramal Bada,” he said and seemed as if he would faint.
“Where is the Chief?” Mark demanded. He liked their attitudes, complete terror.
“He has retired to Tahiti,” the man told him frantically. “He has not been replaced, Your Grace!”
“He is replaced now!” Mark said. “You are Chief. Now send for an ambulance. We will take Colonel St. John to the Palace and get to the bottom of this atrocity at once. Some great mischief is at work here.”
“But General Watkins gave orders to arrest him,” the newly promoted chief of police protested feebly.
“General Watkins?!” Mark’s eyes blazed. “The last I heard, he was in a mental hospital! What is going on here?”
“General Watkins has recovered, Your Grace. It was he and your son, Bari, who revealed the truth of this man’s treachery.”
“Ahhh.” Mark nodded. So the good General was also taken in by the dark powers. “We will see about that. Now call for the ambulance. Surely you are not afraid of a corpse?”
“No, Your Grace!” The Chief straightened himself up and tried to regain some semblance of composure in front of his men. They could still hear shouts in the hall beyond, as the news traveled through the building that the Prophet had appeared in St. John’s cell and killed the man. A complete distortion of the truth, but one that Mark planned to use to the fullest effect.
“Then do as I say. There is much to be done and little time to do it.” He could not leave the immediate vicinity of the dead Prophet and if he guessed correctly, Omar would not stay dead long. Twelve minutes or three days. Either way. Not good at the moment. “Pick him up. Take him down to the infirmary.”
Three of the soldiers stepped forward immediately, saluted the new Prophet and then lifted Omar gently from the bed. Mark stayed as close as possible to them, avoiding their bodies as they moved out of the room and down the corridor. As he went, men fell to their knees, snapped salutes and murmured in shock and surprise. Mark knew that he did not look exactly like Omar Kadif. There was the size difference and the eye color, several shades darker blue and the white braid, but without the Prophet’s presence and given the length of time that had passed since they had seen him, he passed easily through the crowd. His command of the language stood him in good stead, though it made his head hurt tremendously to force the old memory to the surface under such a demanding situation. He wondered that he was able to have a headache in this form. Some things never changed!
When they reached the infirmary, Mark had them lay his grandson out on a more comfortable bed and cover him with a sheet. He then told them to draw the curtains and leave him until the ambulance arrived. He also instructed the Chief to call in more security, clear the streets between police headquarters and the palace. The news would have already traveled outside the building and reached the streets. He could well imagine the chaos that would be consuming the capitol of the world by the time they left the building. His main concern was staying near the prophet and not coming into physical contact with any of the men he met.
The Chief asked him if he should contact the Prime Minister and General Watkins and he told him to tell the Prime Minister to go to the palace and wait for him there. He further instructed him not to send any official word to the General, that he would take care of it personally. There was no hope that the General would not hear about this, had not already heard. Again he warned them not to touch him.
While he waited for Omar to start breathing again, he wandered about the tiny enclosure, feeling of the objects in the room. He could lift and handle almost everything as if he were truly in physical form. Everything
except Omar’s flesh. He had never explored this state of being having never spent much time in the state. His last appearance in such a form had been when Luke Andrew had called him to the Fyre Tower at St. Patrick’s and they had moved the skulls from beneath the floor. Before that, Omar had inadvertently called him to the top of the palace in this very city. There he had surprised the prophet and stole his crystal skull. He knew he retained some of his powers, but he did not know how much he could do. Strangely, he had been able to touch Luke quite well. He thought perhaps it was because Luke had been in command of all his faculties and had also had the golden sword to help with the rite, but this Omar had been in great distress, dying in fact and no proper circle, no proper posture or sword had been available. It was a wonder it worked at all.
Mark Andrew was here and not here. It was a bit frightening to think his body was still in America. He also had to assume the body of St. John may have something to do with the botched invocation. If Omar had still been Omar, a complete creature of mystic origins, he might have been able to touch him. He spun about when he heard his grandson draw a ragged breath and cough. If only he could keep him from sinking into the healing coma.
“Omar!” He leaned close to his face.
Omar coughed again and spit up more blood. Mark Andrew pressed a towel against his face and wiped away the blood and foam.
“Omar? Can you hear me?”
The Prophet nodded his head slightly and his eyes fluttered open.
“Don’t speak,” Mark told him. “Just follow my instructions. We are going to leave here together and we are not in a good position. Trust me!”
Omar nodded again and his eyes rolled up in his head. The loss of blood was very great, but he was healing. Mark had to shake the little bed desperately to keep him from falling asleep again.
When the Chief returned to report that the ambulance had arrived, but they were having a hard time clearing the streets, Mark allowed the man to see that Omar lived again.
The Chief nearly fainted.
“I have brought him back,” Mark lied. “I will reveal the truth of the situation to the Prime Minister. Colonel St. John has been acting on my behalf while I have been away.”
The Chief stood swaying near the curtain, staring at the man on the gurney.
Almost an hour passed while Mark Andrew paced the tiny space in the infirmary in agitation. Two soldiers appeared to report the street was clear, but there were great crowds closing in on the station and the palace even as they spoke. The news had already found its way to the airways and reports were being flashed worldwide. The situation was escalating dramatically and rapidly. By the time they reached the palace gates, the entire city appeared to be in the streets and a steady roar of voices shouting the Prophet’s name could be heard. So Omar had not lost his following after all. He had voiced his concerns to Mark Andrew only a few days before he had left for America that he felt he was losing control. That he had no real loyalty among the upper echelon of the Fox, and that the Fox was even trying to distance itself from him as more and more charges were made against the Prophet and his former General, Abbe Don’a Paul Lyon.
The once vicious gang of criminals known as the Dogs of Shaitan were trying to transform themselves into innocent victims, trying to place the blame on their predecessors and the Prophet. But it was plain to see that the people in general, at least in New Babylon, still supported their Prophet and local god, Omar Kadif. They cared not at all how he got his start and they didn’t give a damn about the Dogs of Shaitan… dogs, after all, were always dogs. Not revered beasts in Eurasia and the Middle East. It had been Martin St. John who was losing control. Now that the Prophet had returned, the people were happy to pour into the streets shouting his name.
Ruth met them at the front doors and Bari Caleb stood behind her. The young man’s eyes were wide and his face pale as he recognized Mark Ramsay for who he really was. Mark met his gaze steadily as they rolled the gurney in through the front doors and stopped in the grand entry hall.
“Ruth!” Mark Andrew greeted his ‘wife’, but refrained from embracing her. “Please show these men to the…”
“This way” she said quickly, relieving him of this awkward moment. “Upstairs!”
The palace was in chaos. The servants peeked out from everywhere as the ambulance attendants and soldiers carried Omar up the stairs. Ruth hurried down the long, gleaming corridor and showed them into a room, elegantly appointed. One of the spare bedrooms.
“In here!” She held open the door. Bari stayed close to his mother’s elbow, completely speechless at this development. He had not expected to see Mark Ramsay here! He had underestimated his father’s powers, but in light of the uproar and the chaos of the moment, he could do nothing. He had no contingency plan and General Watkins was not here to help him out. They placed Omar in the bed carefully and Ruth covered him with the blankets.
“Bari!” Mark looked at his great-grandson who stood motionless against one wall. “Stay with us. Chief Bada, station your men outside with the guard. Allow no one in except the Prime Minister. Let me know when he has arrived. Give me a bit of privacy with my wife and son.”
“Of course, Your Grace!” The Chief saluted him and backed out of the door, closing it behind him.
Ruth ran around the bed and he held up one hand to stop her.
“Ruth, be still! Be quiet!” He turned on Bari and the young man cringed against the wall. “You are in serious trouble, young man.” He could think of nothing more to say to his great-grandson and the words seemed totally inept to explain what he was feeling. He could not allow the boy out of his sight. “Sit down!” Bari slumped into a Queen Anne chair in front of a matching writing desk.
“Mark Andrew, please!” Ruth stood wringing her hands, looking from Mark to Omar.
“Shhh.” Mark put one finger over his own lips. He could not touch her, but he did not want Bari to realize his precarious position. “You must trust me, Ruth. I don’t know what your son has told you, but you can disregard whatever it was. We are in a very dangerous position here.” He turned on Bari. “And you! If you move, if you say one word, if you try anything, I will split you from head to toe and feed your carcass to the hyenas while yet you still breathe.”
He wanted desperately to take the boy by the throat and throttle him. This could not have happened at a worse time. “You had best explain yourself and make it quick.”
Mark stood as close as he dared to the cowering boy and put his hands on his hips.
“Ruth!” Omar called weakly to his wife from the bed. “Ruth, I’m sorry.”
“Bambino!” Ruth cried as she sat down on the bed beside the weakened Prophet. “What is happening?! I don’t understand. What did Bari do? Surely you don’t blame him for this?”
Omar reached for her hand and squeezed it feebly.
“Ruth.” He had not the strength to explain and not the heart to tell her his suspicions about their son.
If he was correct, Ruth had no recollection of what Bari had done to her and she most likely would not have believed him anyway. He regretted having convinced her that Bari was still their son and she should accept him as such. Now it was too late and Ruth’s maternal instincts had rejuvenated with remarkable speed.
He could not bear the thought of destroying her once again, even though he knew her heart truly belonged to the Golden Eagle and always would. It was not her fault. It had never been her fault and he had known it from the very beginning. It had only been her connection to the Templars that had caused him to take her as his wife to start with. With a sickening, yet profound, understanding, he finally had to admit that he had never truly been in love with her. He loved her, but he had not fallen in love with her. It had been a strictly political move on his part. Politics mixed with his own mystical beliefs that a good match would produce perfect children. He had needed a wife and she had arrived in his life at precisely the right time! Not a virgin, of course, but possessed of several very desirous traits, n
ot the least of which was immortality. He would not ever have to watch her grow old and die. His own father had recommended her highly to him. It was not her fault.
“It’s not your fault,” he uttered the one phrase that kept circling in his head where there was little blood in his veins.
Chapter Eighteen of Twenty
and he begetteth a son, and there is nothing in his hand.
“This is worthless.” Jozsef Daniel perused the leaves of the strange green book they had stolen from the Templars, and then shoved the thing toward his companion.. “I can’t read this.”
They sat at one of several small, concrete picnic tables near the shore of the lake. The first gray of dawn showed over the trees to the east and a guttering candle stuck on the table lit the crowded inscriptions on the thin slabs of stone. “Why is this so important?” He asked and glanced up as the horses, tied nearby, snorted and pawed the ground nervously.
“This is one of the old languages of men. Perhaps, it is the other thing that brought them here. The thing the priest was after.” He poked at the white, purple and gold bundle on the table.
“Don’t touch that!” Jozsef snapped at him. “It has something to do with the Ark. It could be dangerous.”
Schweikert drew his hand back and drummed his fingers on the table.
“We should be away from here, Master.” The General eyed the lightening sky in trepidation. “They may come looking for us.”
“They wouldn’t dare!” Jozsef laughed and slammed his fist on the table. “We have wasted our time. This is more of Adar’s Arcana. Alchemy! Rubbish!”
“Perhaps so,” Schweikert agreed. “Let us take them and go, Your Grace. There are no skulls here. I tell you they are in Scotland. We know where the one is. It should be simple enough to learn the location of the others. The one was simple enough to find. All we have to do is use the right leverage. One of the disadvantages of family.”
Thoth, the Atlantean Page 37