Four Dominions

by Eric Van Lustbader

  Ayla did not understand. Nevertheless, she closed her eyes, pictured Elias lying asleep beside them. When nothing came to her, she pushed her thoughts back, seeing him as he had been in his makeshift home, standing over Bravo. As if a key had been turned, her mind locked on to that image. Everything else fell away into blackness. She saw the boy illuminated by dazzling sunlight against the trunk of a tree. What kind of tree? An apple tree. She knew this without having to look at its leaves or its fruit. The scent of fresh apples came to her, and then a wind arose. A wind with a voice, and at once a warmth flowed through her like a briny tide, making her fingertips tingle. She did not open her eyes or move her own hands but held them out like an offering to Elias, the tree, the scent of fresh apples, the voice in the wind.

  An immeasurable time later, she opened her eyes, stared directly into Bravo’s.

  “What happened?” Her voice was hoarse. Having lost an octave, it was barely recognizable even to herself.

  “The boy is the key.” Bravo’s voice had lost the silky, dreamy tone, but it was still soft, scarcely above a whisper. “Or, rather, he is the conduit.”

  “The conduit to what?”

  “From your father, my grandfather, to us.”

  Ayla started. “But he died a long time ago. You were there when he was buried—”

  “And where, Ayla. Where was Conrad buried?”

  Her eyes opened in full-on wonder. “Beneath an apple tree on the Shaw estate.”

  “His apple tree. The one he loved above all others. The one he took me to, defying my father’s orders.”

  Ayla regarded him with a penetrating look. “I think now would be an appropriate time to go back over what we both know about Conrad.”

  Bravo nodded, shifted a bit in his chair, to ease the throbbing pain that dogged him after leaving the hospital prematurely and to the consternation of his doctors.

  Ayla waited until Bravo was comfortable again, then continued. “It’s crucial to remember that you and I and Emma carry Conrad’s very special genes. Conrad himself was very specific about that with my mother. He told her that I must remain a secret until the day the rough beast raises its head. When she had that dream about you in Tannourine she believed that day had come.”

  “My poor father.”

  She nodded. “The enmity between Dexter and Conrad sprang from the fact that your father was perfectly ordinary.”

  “Yes and no. Their enmity had as many heads as Medusa. Conrad believed fervently in the existence of the Unholy Trinity. With good reason, as we have witnessed. He believed that should Lucifer manage to obtain all three, it will trigger a return to his full power. His reascendancy would be assured. For this very reason, Conrad spent much of his life in search of the Unholy Trinity, of which we know only one: The Testament of Lucifer. The identities of the other two are still shrouded in mystery.

  “In 1918, Conrad arranged a meeting with the mystical poet William Butler Yeats. Yeats’s ideas about time cycles, about the struggle between God and Lucifer, went entirely against the grain of Catholic dogma. This put Conrad outside the scope of even the most liberal thinkers inside the Order. Among all but Conrad there was a unanimity of opinion that the Unholy Trinity was a myth. And yet Conrad persisted in delving deeper and deeper into the occult, just as King Solomon had done.”

  “So your father had no choice but to finally exile him.”

  “When my grandfather was old. But as we both know, there was a personal enmity between them. My father lacked what you and I and Emma have. He resented that, and, I think, he knew that Conrad must have been disappointed in him—frightened even at the thought that the Shaw line would no longer have the power to fight what was coming.” He shook his head. “But that’s the extent of my knowledge about Conrad. How was he special? How are we special? We’re not immortal like Fra Leoni.”

  “I don’t think so, no.”

  “But the Fallen cut off your mother’s head to kill her.”

  “Well, now you understand why she came to Conrad’s attention. There was something special about her, too. He recognized it in her before she did. But she learned from him. She learned everything from him.”

  “So what are we? Conrad, your mother, you, me, Emma. What are we?”

  “I can only tell you what Conrad told my mother when they were together. He said that between immortal and demon lie those who will save mankind.”

  “Is there a name for us, I wonder?”

  “Another riddle Conrad left for us to solve.”

  “Grandfather was a riddle all on his own. ‘The world is built on lies,’ he told me as we headed for that apple tree. ‘Everything you think you’ve learned is false. Everything you want to learn you don’t.’ ”

  “Huh! That sounds like a couple of Zen Buddhist koans mashed together.”

  “Paradox just about defines Conrad.” Pain rebuilding, Bravo shifted again. “Sometimes I think he purposely said things to drive people nuts, that this propensity was the ultimate self-defense.”

  Ayla looked away for a moment, staring out at the magnificent rear garden, the massive beds of roses, like clouds at sunset. “We still haven’t answered the most pertinent question: How can Conrad still be alive?”

  “I told you I had some ideas on that score. Remember I read the Nihilus Inusitatus.”

  “I haven’t forgotten.” She turned back to him. “Also, that you haven’t shared what you discovered.”

  “I told you that the Nihilus led me to finding The Testament of Lucifer.”

  “The Book of Deathly Things. Yes.” She regarded him with no little intensity. “Which brings up the question of how you weren’t affected when you handled the manuscript.”

  “My reading of the Nihilus prepared me. There was a formula in there, just as there was for preventing you from dying from demon-serpent’s bite.”

  “What else did the manuscript tell you?”

  “It’s full of formulae, some of them far beyond my current knowledge.”

  “Not surprising, since it was compiled by King Solomon’s cadre of alchemists.”

  “Yes, but what is surprising is a handwritten note in the margin of the introduction. The Nihilus Inusitatus was actually written after Solomon died. It says during his reign he gathered a thousand and one alchemists from all corners of the world to do his bidding. After he died, all but sixty-six defected, having become disillusioned with his son.”

  “So the Nihilus was written by these sixty-six.”

  Bravo nodded.

  “Why did they stay?”

  “They were the venal ones. Rehoboam, panicked, paid them whatever they wanted.”

  “Since it was these sixty-six who conjured the sorcerous gold, the Nihilus should contain the formula they finally came up with.”

  “Perhaps it does,” Bravo said. “Maybe one or more of the formulae I couldn’t decipher were what they used.”

  “Then we should experiment with—”

  “Absolutely not. Every action has a reaction; the realm of the alchemical is no exception. The conjuring of the gold is what unsealed the portal between our world and that of the Fallen.”

  “You mean these sixty-six undid the work of God?”

  “Seems improbable. Nevertheless, it’s true. I imagine God never considered the possibility that his own beloved humans would be meddling around in such matters.”

  “Is God not all-seeing, all-knowing?”

  “We’d like to think so, wouldn’t we? Takes the terrifying chaos out of life. But the truth is that God has a blind spot for his own creation.”

  “It’s my understanding that the Catholic Church says God is infallible.”

  “We only have men’s word for it, and as we know, men are fallible, men lie; men twist words to suit their purposes,” Bravo said gravely. “But assuming it’s so, then this apocalyptic battle is part of his plan.”

  “And we’re on the front line.” Ayla’s eyes grew dark with foreboding. “Let us pray that God’s plan for
us is not to be cannon fodder.”

  19

  Paris / Halicarnassus, Turkey: Present Day

  HUGH HIGHSTREET WAS ON HIS WAY HOME TO HIS THIRD-floor flat in the northern precinct of the Marais when he noticed the shining black Daimler saloon with blacked-out windows. It was Highstreet’s habit to spend an hour of the early evening at an exclusive health club in the 5th arrondissement to unwind, after which he walked across to the Right Bank, over the western tongue of the Île Saint-Louis, and home.

  The Daimler slowed; he kept walking. The car kept pace, drawing closer to the curb. The rear window slid down and Highstreet recognized the pale, suety face of Obarton.

  “Mr. Highstreet,” Obarton said in a conversational tone despite the street noise, “a word.”

  The first thing Highstreet thought was that Obarton had found the electronic bugs Lilith had planted. It was the logical conclusion as to a reason for this unscheduled meeting; Highstreet had never before been alone with Obarton. However, Obarton’s expression was anything but hostile.

  Highstreet decided to stop. “Sir. What may I do for you?” he said in his most formal, clipped upper-class British accent.

  Obarton heaved his bulk and the nearside rear door swung open. “If you would indulge me, Mr. Highstreet.” Was that a twinkle in his eye? “I promise I will not take more than ten minutes of your valuable time.”

  Despite the cordiality of the conversation, Highstreet hesitated. He was repulsed by the idea of sharing an enclosed space with the old man, especially since it was controlled by him. Despite that, he didn’t think he had a choice without seeming terribly rude.

  The inside of the saloon was warm and humid; Highstreet felt as though he were standing too close to human breath. Obarton’s breath, in this instance. The vehicle nosed out into the sparse traffic the instant Highstreet sat. The door closed on its own, probably via the driver’s remote control, Highstreet surmised. He wondered rather uneasily whether the windows were so controlled. A sense of being trapped stole over him.

  “Mr. Highstreet, please excuse this intrusion on your daily routine,” Obarton began, courteous while at the same time reminding Highstreet of his complete surveillance of his movements. “I have one simple question to ask of you: Where is Lilith Swan?”

  Highstreet’s eyes opened wide. This was the last thing he expected, as he and Lilith had already discussed and decided on her options in this matter: Obarton had sent her on a mission. How could he not know where she was?

  “I’m afraid you’re asking the wrong person,” he said.

  Obarton’s face darkened perceptibly. “You are her associate, isn’t that right?”

  “It is.”

  “You are also—and correct me if I’m wrong—the person closest to her.”

  “I cannot dispute that, Mr. Obarton. Nevertheless, she informed me that her destination was a matter of the utmost secrecy.”

  Obarton’s face darkened further, sure harbinger of a storm front approaching. “Am I to believe that she didn’t tell you where she was going?”

  “That is correct. Sir.”

  “Huh.” Obarton sank back into the cushions, hands over his sumo-size belly, sausage fingers interlaced. “Well, then. That changes everything.”

  “Sir?” Highstreet’s brows knit together. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  “Of course you don’t.”

  Obarton was silent for some time. Glancing out the window closest to him, Highstreet saw the inside-out monstrosity of the Pompidou Centre passing on his right as they continued north along the boulevard de Sébastopol.

  At length, because he had heard nothing more out of the man beside him, Highstreet said, “I believe I’m due an explanation.”

  “What?” Obarton seemed to come out of a deep musing. “Yes. Positively, you are, Mr. Highstreet. Apologies.” He sighed deeply. “May I interest you in a drink? An aperitif, perhaps? There’s a boite of some small repute I’m somewhat familiar with up ahead.”

  “Thank you, no.” Highstreet had heard of Obarton’s legendary drunks, and wanted no part of one. He suspected this made him a poor spy, since people deep in their cups were apt to be indiscreet, but he was no spy; that was Lilith’s bailiwick. He was smart enough not to involve himself in something he knew nothing about.

  “Pity, well... A man such as yourself...” Obarton cleared his throat. “I mean to say, it’s perfectly understandable. Natural, I suppose.”

  Had he been of another nature, Highstreet would surely have struck the fat man in the snoot. Instead, Slings and arrows, he thought. Slings and arrows.

  Obarton, leaning forward and giving Highstreet’s address—another reminder who was holding the strings here—called for the car to turn back south.

  “That’s all right,” Highstreet said. “I’ll get out here.” He smiled at the other man. “As you know, I’m partial to walking.”

  “Any more of a flaneur,” he said, using the French word for an inveterate stroller, “and you’ll be a dyed-in-the-wool Frenchman.”

  Highstreet shrugged off the deliberate insult to an Englishman, opened the door as the saloon rolled to a stop.

  “Oh, by the way,” Obarton said as he was sliding his legs out, “it’s not too late to correct the egregious error you have made.”

  Highstreet froze. “Is that so.”

  “You’re backing the wrong horse. Lilith will never get what she wants. In fact, the Order is at this moment closing ranks against her.” His smile was that of an indulgent uncle. “It’s the God’s honest truth, Mr. Highstreet. Lilith may have gained some temporary edge by shocking the Circle Council, but in the light of a new day that shock has faded, her feral nature examined and found wanting. A vote has already taken place.”

  “Without her.”

  “Or you. The vote was unanimous.” Obarton’s eyes were like dried currants pressed into raw dough. “But the Circle Council values you and your vote.”

  Highstreet’s brain was running a mile a minute. He felt like Odysseus in the narrow strait between Scylla and Charybdis. He could be loyal to Lilith and be cut down like a stalk of wheat or lend his vote to the majority and abandon her to the circling wolves.

  “Now, Mr. Highstreet.” Obarton’s voice held the urgent edge of command. “Make your choice now.”

  *

  EMMA SHAW was waiting for Lilith on a small, high ridge just beyond the splayed corpse of the jackal. Its death rictus, an obscene smile, sent a chill down Lilith’s spine, and yet she went on without a second thought, or even a concern. Is that what love does to you? she asked herself. Makes you so ill that normal reactions are beneath you?

  As she mounted the winding path, the crash-and-spill of the waterfall rose in volume. The atmosphere had thickened, fine sprays of moisture sending tiny rainbows to intercept the shafts of sunlight. Birds called raucously to one another—larger ones than had been evident below the death line.

  From her perch on the tiny ridge, Emma watched Lilith as she came into view. To Emma’s right, the cataract crashed down white-blue-green into an unseen gorge. Behind her a natural bridge had been carved out over the uncounted eons, arcing ruddy and rough across the gorge. It was partially obscured by the waterfall at the center of its span. To her left the forest rose so steeply it appeared like a vertical wall of greenery, solid as the rock upon which they now both stood.

  “You made it,” Emma said.

  “Did you think I wouldn’t?”

  “I hoped you would.” Emma took a step toward her. “But hope is a weak and pitiful thing. It dissolves in the night.”

  Lilith cocked her head. “What an odd thing to say.”

  “Once I would have agreed.” Emma took another step toward her. “Not now.”

  “Why not now? What’s changed?”

  “Everything,” Emma said. “Everything is different.”

  “Tell me. I have the curiosity of a cat.”

  Emma laughed. “You know the old saying.”

  “I�
��m not that kind of cat,” Lilith said with a tremulous defiance.

  They were standing so close together they breathed in each other’s exhalations. Lilith was dizzy in such close proximity to Emma. They were alone here, no one to see them, to spy on their actions. Her legs were suddenly rubbery. She wanted nothing more than to melt into the other woman, to discover... everything.

  “No? What kind of cat are you, then?”

  How neatly she had boomeranged the conversation, Lilith thought with a combination of annoyance and admiration. “A cat with a highly evolved instinct for self-preservation.”

  “Brava!” Emma clapped her hands in delight. “You’ll need that instinct where we’re going.”

  “This place where you’re taking me. It’s part of the change you spoke of.”

  “It is.”

  Something Lilith could not name swam in Emma’s eyes, and despite her intense infatuation she recalled Obarton’s admonition that Emma Shaw had in some mysterious way developed a close relationship with the Fallen. Up until this very moment she had found the idea of the existence of a cadre of Fallen Angels, let alone them traipsing around here on earth, to be fairly ludicrous. She had come here to see what Obarton had in mind for her, to take a large step back from the brink he seemed determined to shove her over, at least by proxy. Now, all at once, she wasn’t so sure. In fact, she wasn’t sure of anything. It was as if she had been under a mesmeric spell from the moment she had first laid eyes on Emma Shaw in the spangled light of the Bodrum café.

  Lilith’s nostrils dilated. What was that odor coming from inside Emma? It was bittersweet, coppery, like blood, and yet had about it a distinctive tang. Once, when she was a child, Lilith had stolen three oranges from a fruit stand. Safely around the corner, she had stuffed her face with two of them one after another. She was so full that she never took the third out of the pocket of her corduroy jacket. In fact, she forgot about it until one evening when she slipped the jacket on and an odd scent came to her. It was the third orange, which had green-blue mold growing on it. Putting it up to her nose, she inhaled deeply. That scent was a combination of the growing mold and the rotting fruit. It seemed to her then that the one was taking over the other, that when the marbled mold covered the entire orange there would be nothing left of the fruit. It would have been turned into a dried-out husk. And then, with its host gone, what would happen to the mold? Stupid mold, she thought as she heaved the orange over a fence into an empty lot.