by S. L. Duncan
“We’re seeking the Church of Our Lady Mary of Zion—,” his dad said but was silenced with a slap to the back of his head.
The officer shouted again, this time enraged. Gabe couldn’t tell whether he was yelling at his father or the soldier who’d slapped him.
The remaining men picked apart the Land Rover like vultures on a kill. They cut open seats, ripped panels from the doors. What little baggage was in the trunk was thrown into the street. One of the men picked up the sword’s case and unscrewed the top. The blade spilled onto the ground along with the cloth-wrapped spear tip. Micah attempted to pull free from her soldier’s grip but could do nothing with her arms held behind her back. The soldier tossed the material aside and held his findings up before presenting them to the monk.
The old man received them and shook his head. He then turned toward the interior of the complex and motioned for his officer to follow.
The soldiers responded to the gesture by shoving their captives toward the steps.
Without any explanation, the Land Rover was driven away.
Gabe, Micah, and his dad walked at gunpoint through the gate. Once inside the compound, one of the soldiers shouted and pointed to the ground with the muzzle of his gun.
Gabe understood first and dropped to his knees with his hands still interlocked behind his head. He figured it was the best strategy to avoid getting a bullet. Prisoner executions looked as though they might be one of this army’s specialties.
Micah glared at them, her jaw and fists clenched. Her gaze dropped to one of the guns. She wanted it. Wanted to use it, Gabe suspected.
“Please—,” his dad started before having the barrel of the gun placed on his folded hands behind his head.
The message was clear: No more talking.
The more Micah simmered on the ground, the more Gabe realized she was about to make a move. She’ll be shot dead, he thought.
Something had to be done to prevent her from getting herself killed, but the opportunity was slipping away.
Yuri had power. So does Micah. That means I have power somewhere inside me, he thought. If I could only get to it . . .
As if responding to his desperation, his skin began to crawl. Neck hairs stood on end. A feeling—alien and new—welled up inside. He felt like he might explode. His shirt became statically charged, tingling against his skin. Gabe felt a shock against his shoulder as a flash of electrical current arced from his shirt to the barrel of the gun.
The soldier behind him lifted his gun away and yelled to his comrades. He sounded terrified, his voice rising in octaves as he took a step back, shaking his weapon at Gabe.
His father and Micah watched, the look in their eyes a mix of fear and confusion as the energy spread from soldier to soldier. Gabe could feel it growing inside, and he knew he was losing control. Dog tags and buttons on the soldiers moved of their own accord, reaching out from their bodies, sticking to weapons and medals on their jackets.
The sensation was just like the one Gabe remembered from the vision. He’d felt it just before going supernova.
The officer gave an order to the soldier behind Gabe, his voice calm and deliberate, careful, motioning with his hand. Hesitant feet moved closer, and Gabe felt the cold steel of a gun barrel settle on his birthmark.
He looked to the ground. Grains of sand and tiny pebbles rolled away as if pushed by some unfelt wind.
Micah shook her head, pleading for him to stop, but he didn’t know how. She mouthed, What are you doing?
Gabe shrugged. He had no idea, but he knew the soldiers would kill them unless he acted. The power inside him had built to a crescendo, and heat radiated from his palms. Gabe decided it was now or never. He seized the moment, fists clenched, and spun on his captor, only to see the butt of the machine gun thrusting toward his head.
Then there was a burst of pain followed by darkness.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
Gabe opened his eyes, unable to focus on the ground moving beneath him. His legs dragged behind him through the dirt. Two men held him, each by an arm. A throbbing pain pulsed over his right eye. Something warm trickled into his eye and down his nose. He felt dizzy and nauseous, then, without warning, he vomited. The men who carried him stopped and let him finish. Once his stomach emptied, they adjusted their path to avoid the mess.
He gathered the strength to lift his head and fight the vertigo. Ahead was a small domed and primitive-looking square temple behind a protective gate. The structure looked not much bigger than some of the mausoleums in the old graveyards scattered around Durham.
They’re going to bury me, Gabe thought as they unlocked the fence.
Around the entrance was a façade of handcrafted brick rising in the pattern of two columns next to the entrance, giving the surface a rough, textured look. Large windows flanked the brickwork. Their panes were shaped like Christian crosses and painted a bright yellow that contrasted the mosaic of green tiles bordering the glass. Above the entrance he could see a purple cross in a window peering out into the front garden within the fence.
Gabe’s eyes fluttered. He fought to stay conscious. Images of Micah’s face flashed before him, and he wondered if he’d ever see her again. A terrible feeling of regret filled him when he realized he’d never be able to redeem himself in her eyes. That she’d always only think of him as the reason she lost Carlyle.
The monk from the street walked by them, still holding the sword and spear tip, and moved ahead through the building’s entrance, which was nothing more than a simple red curtain that discouraged passage to the interior.
Gabe glanced at the sky one last time before the soldiers took him inside. Atop the dome, a spire reached into the sunlight. A wind compass. At the north, south, east, and west points, four arms stretched out, each affixed with a unique design. Each looked very familiar, despite the jumbled thoughts in his head. He focused on the symbol pointing south. It was circular, with elliptical objects arranged to form a symbol.
Before he succumbed to the concussion, he remembered that first day in Durham, the day his father and Carlyle showed him the document from the Vatican, and in his mind he could see the symbol as clearly as he had when he looked upon it reflecting in the handheld mirror—the mark of the archangel Gabriel.
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
Gabe choked and spit water onto his shirt as he was roused awake in a fit of coughing. He opened his eyes in time to see the monk leave with two soldiers through the red curtain. One of them held a bucket.
Empty, obviously. He found he was once again able to think clearly. The vertigo had left his mind, taking with it his nausea from the moment before.
His hand went to his head, the soldier’s cracking blow still fresh in his mind, and he expected to find a gash and some major swelling but felt nothing. On his fingers and palm he saw no signs of blood—only the wetness from the bucket’s water.
He propped himself up with his hand, somewhat surprised at the ease with which he was able to do so, and discovered that the pain in his ribs had also gone, though the discomfort of being soaked still remained. Warm water dripped from his clothes. A quick sniff of his shirt made certain that it was only water that had doused him. On the floor, a gritty mix of mud had formed from the dust and liquid.
Gabe looked around the room and saw paintings on the domed ceiling—demons and angels locked in battle. These were the depictions so common in murals and paintings he’d seen in famous works by famous artists—red gargoyle-like devils and white-winged angels. The warriors were separated by the two halves of the arched support beam that ran through the center of the ceiling. On one half were the angels, glowing in white tunics, their halos suspended above their heads. Men and women fled on the green field that curved down into the walls, away from the battle at the center.
The opposing half looked like a land tortured and rotting. Dark skies had been drawn across the ceiling, with clouds lit by a hellish orange. Demons surrounded a larger being, a humanoid form made of fire. Ther
e was a face where the head should have been. Its black mouth hung open, and inside the eye sockets, deep blue flames burned. The beast was lashing out in anger. This was something different from any artwork Gabe had seen before. Something he wished he’d not seen at all.
It was like a nightmare pulled from Dante’s Inferno.
The rest of the room was a little less frightening. Only a curtain blocked the entrance, so Gabe figured he was probably not in a prison. And it didn’t look like a mausoleum with such a decorative interior. The building was more like a temple, though a very small one, similar to the Norman Chapel. A single marble structure, a sort of altar, had been erected in the middle of the square, stone room. It stood chest-high with a cloth draped across its surface. Gabe used the centerpiece to pull himself to his feet, surprised again by his sudden wealth of strength.
On the other side of the room sat a throne occupied by the elderly Ethiopian monk. He peered at Gabe from beneath the wrinkles of a furrowed brow half covered by the shawl wrapped around his head.
After a moment of silence, he held up the sword and stone with his bony, skeletal fingers. “I am wary of visitors who burden me with intrusion on our sanctuary of peace, especially those who bring such devices of ill intent,” the old man said in perfect English through a heavy Ethiopian accent. “Who comes to this holy land bearing the mark and claiming himself to be the Strength of God?”
“Where are my companions? What have you done with them?”
The Ethiopian eyed Gabe, scrutinizing everything about his presence. “Arrested and imprisoned for trespassing on sacred grounds and for the illegal possession of weapons. Both punishable by death,” he said with a smile. “As you may also be.”
“Are they okay? Have they been harmed?” Gabe asked.
“For the moment they are detained and awaiting execution.”
“Please, we were sent here to find assistance with very important things.”
“And what sort of assistance can be found in the city of Axum?”
“My name is Gabe . . . Gabriel Adam. We’ve come seeking information.”
“Information?” The man challenged. He placed the stone in a wood box next to the throne and put aside the sword. “These days, many come to Axum seeking information. The devout and the fanatic alike. The wealth of knowledge can be invaluable in such tumultuous times. Careful, we must be, to whom it is disseminated. What knowledge do you seek to find? You do not look like a follower of our traditions.”
Gabe hesitated and wondered, Can this monk be trusted? Has he been corrupted like Yuri?
“Speak!” The Ethiopian stood and took a step toward Gabe. Only the large stone centerpiece separated them. “I do not have all day to entertain criminals.”
Flustered by the man’s aggression, Gabe couldn’t think of a way to get information about the ark without revealing their purpose. Besides, lying had never been a gifted skill. Finally, he gave up. “Knowledge contained inside the Ark of the Covenant.”
The Ethiopian laughed, waving his hand to dismiss the answer. “You are a fool to seek such treasures here. You, like many who have come before, journeyed a long way for nothing, I’m afraid.”
“No. It is here. I’ve seen the mark of the Watchers on the dome. We were told by Enoch—”
“Silence,” the man said, but Gabe’s words seemed to make him reconsider. Leaning against the stone tomb, the man’s demeanor changed. The lines of his face softened. “You claim to be Fortitudo Dei? The Strength of God?”
“I can prove it. I have the mark,” Gabe responded.
“Which can be easily fabricated. I will, however, allow you to prove that you are indeed telling the truth. A test, perhaps. One that only the true Gabriel could pass,” the man said, and another smile crept across his face. The Ethiopian took a step toward the boy and then raised his hand.
Unfamiliar with the man’s customs, Gabe simply looked at his outstretched palm until there was a crackle of energy and a consuming white light that blinded him to the world around him.
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
Gabe landed hard on the dusty stone path in the garden outside, rolled, and skidded to a stop. The red curtain had wrapped around his head and shoulders, binding his movements. The blast had singed the material, and it smoked, threatening to set fire. Quickly, he disentangled himself, patted out the embers, and pushed the curtain away, careful to avoid getting burned. A quick examination of his body confirmed everything was still intact. His rear end hurt where he landed, but that was the extent of his injuries, apart from a few scrapes on his arm.
He knew exactly what had just happened. It had been the same by the River Wear when Yuri had unleashed his power against him, catapulting them both into the air. The effect was identical—a momentary loss of motor skills and fleeting dizziness—and Gabe imagined the sensation was similar to being shot by a stun gun. He shook his head, trying to rid himself of the ringing in his ears, and sat on the ground while the disorientation quickly faded.
Somewhere in the near distance he thought he could hear Micah yelling profanities, but it was difficult to tell with traumatized eardrums, but they, too, were recovering. Joining her voice, someone was definitely laughing.
The Ethiopian entered his field of view. With the sunlight behind him, he appeared as a silhouette. A broad, toothy grin accompanied a hearty chuckle. “You passed the test, my friend,” he managed to say through a fit of laughter. “I believe that you are indeed the Strength of God.”
“What the hell, old man?” Gabe started.
“Please,” the Ethiopian said, holding out a hand, “let me introduce myself. I am Afarôt, the Healer of God and Sentinel of the Ark. We are brothers!”
He helped Gabe to his unsteady feet. Micah and his father, accompanied by their armed escort near the curtainless building, looked concerned. In a foreign language, Afarôt said something to the soldiers. They acknowledged the order, released their captives, and marched away, disappearing into the compound.
Afarôt turned back and asked, “I take it you are not harmed?”
“I’m fine,” Gabe snapped.
“I do apologize for the rude welcome you’ve received to the Temple of the Ark,” Afarôt said, still smiling as he held out his arm to formally present the ornate building behind them. “You must understand that many are seeking treasures in Axum. Especially now that the signs have begun. My men are committed to the security of these premises. And they are dedicated to my safety. Only I am to be the keeper of its secrets.” He frowned, as if noticing Gabe’s discomfort for the first time. “I am sorry for the test. As archangels cannot truly harm each other by means of our gifts, this was the fastest way to see if you really are who you claimed to be.”
“You could have just looked more closely at the mark. Or asked for a freaking passport,” Gabe said.
Micah and his dad moved closer so they could hear the man talk. His father took a step toward him, his brow furrowed in concern for his son, but Gabe waved him off.
“Yes, but this is the only true way.”
“And if I hadn’t been?”
“Quite messy, I’m afraid.” Afarôt winked. “But worry not. I suspected you were Gabriel the moment I was informed by my men that you had entered Axum, but you can never be too certain until you are too certain. However, I did not expect you to fly through the door such as you have done. Your defensive technique is lacking, my friend. That is something we shall want to remedy. It has been quite some time since another Watcher has been here. Allow me to assume my true form.”
The old man took a step back, and like sweat on his skin, a sheen of luminance formed that radiated from his body. Years faded away from his face. Lines softened, wrinkles vanishing as skin pulled tight against his face. His hair thickened from gray to black as youth flowed into his body.
Gabe could only stare.
Afarôt’s posture grew sturdy and less feeble, standing taller and broader, his body no longer just a collection of bones in a bag of skin. The
light then softened and dissipated. Where an old man had stood, there was now a teenager.
Gabe was amazed, like a child who had just seen a magician’s greatest trick. It forced a smile to his lips. “How did you do that?”
Afarôt’s age looked close to Gabe’s and Micah’s. “I am capable of many things, Gabriel. As are you. You see, in these parts of the world, authority is often exclusive to those of a certain age. Which of course helps when unwanted visitors who come seeking the ark knock at our door.”
“You’re another Watcher, aren’t you?” Micah finally said. “I thought there were only four.”
“You are not incorrect. There are indeed only four. I am the first and the last and have many names.” He unwrapped the covering from his head and turned to reveal the mark above his neck.
“Raphael,” his father said, recognizing the symbol.
“That is my familiar name amongst some cultures. Though I do prefer Afarôt.”
“I’m Micah Pari.” She offered her hand.
Afarôt shook it. While doing so, his expression broadened, eyes alight, and then he let out a hearty laugh. “No, certainly not the archangel Michael? The Creator’s ways are mysterious, are they not? And you, sir? An Essene, perhaps?”
“No.” His father hesitated. “I’m Joseph Adam, Gabe’s father and Protector.”
“Uriel is dead. He betrayed us,” Micah said.
“Dead? That is interesting,” Afarôt said, almost dismissing the news. “Are you quite certain?”
“Yeah. He’s definitely dead,” she said with a hint of pride. “I killed him myself after he murdered my . . . our Essene.”