Hope's Prelude: The Angelorum Twelve Chronicles #2.5

by L. G. O'Connor

  “As well as can be expected,” she said, replying with a mere pleasantry, unable to tell him more and knowing he wouldn’t ask. Other than supplying her cover and providing the occasional message, he had no part in her mission. She ran her fingers over the smooth leather. The pouch was the signature wrapping of a privileged Angelorum communication sealed with a lock only her fingerprint could open.

  “From Constantina,” he added.

  She smiled despite herself, eager to release the contents.

  Warner headed for the door. “I’ll give you some privacy. Let me know if I can be of any further assistance,” he said and closed her inside.

  Sandra sat in one of the leather chairs facing the desk and snapped open the silver clasp. The pouch contained only one creamy sheet of paper.

  My dearest Hope,

  Many blessings to both you and Isa for the New Year.

  I sense your mission is almost upon you. Although this is something you must do alone, I want to express my deepest gratitude and apologize for the circumstances from which this necessity has evolved. We sometimes do things that we think are right, yet turn out to be wrong. Their consequences are far-reaching since our destinies are wound tightly in complex patterns of interdependency. That is the danger as well as the beauty in God’s gift of free will. But you already know this . . .

  Please be comforted that I will fight alongside you in this battle. I will try to undo as much as I can to right the wrong. But you must succeed first in order for me to do so.

  No matter where our destinies lead us, know that I will always love and honor you. Journey forth in peace and love.

  Your loving mother,

  Eae

  Unmoving, Sandra stared at the fine looping script, noting that Constantina had signed using her true angelic name, and ground her teeth. She folded the letter, returned it to the pouch, and stuffed it into her handbag. Rather than comforting her, Constantina’s words left her with a sense of discontent and pique.

  After no word for nearly a year, couldn’t she have just wished them a Happy New Year and left it at that?

  Now more than ever, Sandra felt like the Angelorum’s sacrificial lamb. True, she had volunteered for this and had even undergone a painful and soul-crushing physical alteration to pass as human and maximize her chances of success. Yet . . . she couldn’t help the twinge of resentment that pinched her gut. Or the blame.

  She strode out of the office, staring at the ground and mumbling under her breath when she crashed headlong into a passerby. They went down in a tangled jumble onto the plush Oriental rug.

  Strong hands hoisted her and the man she’d fallen on from the floor in one powerful lift.

  “Are you all right, my beauty?” Isa asked as the familiar brown-haired man dangling from his other hand righted himself.

  Dr. Tom Peyton.

  “Whoa there, Isa. Thanks for the lift, buddy. Literally.” Tom brushed invisible lint off his jacket. His eyes lit up when they landed on Sandra. “Just the person I was hoping to run into—um, bad choice of words.”

  Sandra chuckled, adjusting the strap of her evening bag back onto her shoulder. “Escaped the game room, I see.”

  He snorted. “Not before losing fifty dollars and having to defend my hypothesis about the genetic markers for longevity in the Galapagos tortoise.” Tom pointed toward the noisy ballroom. “How about joining me for a drink inside? I need to check in with Paula.”

  “Lead the way,” she said. Isa followed silently alongside her, his warm hand protectively resting on the small of her back.

  Tom leaned over and whispered in her ear as they entered the room. “I’m hoping to talk a little shop if you don’t mind. I could use some advice.”

  Déjà vu momentarily blinded her as a tingle skittered over her skin. Walking straight ahead, she nodded. “Of course.”

  Leaving Isa with Paula’s brother to talk football and the odds of the Ravens winning the upcoming Super Bowl, Sandra stepped away with Tom. Even though she awaited her official Calling and final confirmation that Tom would be the Center Stone of her Trinity, she was already carefully weaving a plan. For what, she wasn’t entirely sure. Sometimes her gift was as much of a handicap as a blessing. She both knew too much and not enough, an often dangerous combination.

  Tom led her away from the crowd over to the frosty window next to the tall Christmas tree, brightly lit and decorated with antique glass ornaments and hand-strung garlands made of tiny gingerbread men. He shifted nervously, running his fingers through his dark locks.

  “I can’t talk specifics,” he said quietly, his gaze surfing across the room behind her. “But I could really use your expert opinion on a few things involving a project I’m working on.”

  “You’ll have my utmost discretion,” Sandra said.

  “May I stop by the University this week . . . and show you some samples?”

  She gave him an encouraging smile. “Surely.”

  His shoulders lowered, the tension easing. “I’d like to learn as much as I can about your longevity and healing studies.”

  “I’m glad to assist in any way I can.”

  Excitement mixed with dread in the center of her stomach. If she was right, this was only the beginning, and her Calling wouldn’t be far behind.

  “Good. That’s good.” He shook his head and chewed on his thumbnail with an unfocused look in his eye. “I found an interesting mutation in one of my samples.”

  “Oh? What kind of mutation?”

  “I’m not sure. Something odd on chromosome seventeen . . . but not on the test sample,” he said, lowering his voice, “On the control sample.”

  Sandra raised her brows in feigned surprise and wondered what he’d stumbled upon. The possibilities were endless. “Well, between our database of study results and the Consortium we’re a part of, I’m sure I can help.”

  If their mission had to do with joining their genetics expertise—she could almost guarantee it did—discovery would be the easy part. Replication. That’s where it could all break down.

  Chapter 7

  SAMUEL

  Menlo Park, California.

  AT THE L.F. INTERNATIONAL SHIPPING COMPANY, the guard gripped his weapon and peered through the bars at the top of the heavy metal door. “Looks like he’s finally out.”

  The technician in the white lab coat snorted. “Well, I should hope so. There was enough sedative in that dart to bring down a baby rhino.”

  So this is where they’re keeping them, Samuel thought. Cloaked, he hung back out of the way, eyeing the row of cell doors. He’d followed the lab tech down to the prison floor on yet another reconnaissance mission to map out the inner workings of Achanelech’s holdings. Cleverly hidden underneath the shipping company—the perfect cover for the archdemon’s subversive activities—was a high-tech laboratory and a modern-day dungeon.

  More than half the cells had to be occupied, based on the number of Nephilim Samuel had helped capture over the past year. That, and the varying tentacles of energy that tugged at him, setting his nerve endings alight the moment he’d stepped inside the dungeon—at least nine distinct signatures.

  He scrubbed at his face, unnerved that his veil of invisibility did nothing to hide his energy from the others. A surprising and disconcerting discovery that he’d made during his first capture. Afterward he found out that’s exactly why Emanelech had used him as bait. His energy was the perfect lure to draw out other Nephilim.

  At least now he knew where they were stashing his brethren. That alone was worth the price of some minor physical discomfort.

  The lab tech tapped his foot and wore an impatient scowl, his hands filled with syringes and a small square plastic tray that held glass vials. Keys jangled and the cell door opened. The guard stood aside and allowed the other man to enter the darkened cell, securing the door behind him.

  “How long will this take?” asked the guard through the open bars at the top.

  “Ten minutes, max.” The tech’s voic
e echoed from inside.

  Good. Plenty of time. Samuel wasn’t due to pick up Emanelech’s package at the lab for another forty minutes.

  Hard to believe he was on this side of a cell door for once. Much had changed since becoming Emanelech’s trusted servant. For the first time, her word had meant something. As promised, Samuel’s station had transformed overnight, giving him limited freedom and an upgraded standard of living. Released from the dungeon, he’d been moved into a small, clean room in the servant’s quarters that had a real bed, modern plumbing, regular meals, and a limited wardrobe. He owned a pair of closed-toe shoes for the first time in his life. Most importantly, the random beatings and experimentation that had defined his life had ceased.

  In return for his loyalty, he’d acquired a radius on his tracking device that continued to grow wider. As long as he stayed within seventy-five miles of Achanelech’s compound and showed up when and where he was expected, he was left in peace. Initially, his suspicions had flared at the long leash until he discovered that the tracker embedded under the skin at the center of his back harbored an explosive device. If he tried to escape, they would detonate it and blow him to high Heaven. A minor setback, but not insurmountable. If there was one valuable lesson Marie-Claire had taught him, it was patience. Once he knew enough to destroy Achanelech, he would execute his plan to free himself, body and soul. He’d waste no time. Only a fool would believe this situation could last much longer.

  Samuel ducked around the corner, out of sight and uncloaked. He needed to conserve energy for slipping into the lab since he’d skipped breakfast. Without a hearty meal to refuel, maintaining a veil of invisibility for long stretches drained his reserves.

  Silent voices assaulted him the moment he dropped his veil.

  “Who are you?” One demanded inside of his head, followed by a probing strand of energy that pulled at his power from behind one of the cell doors.

  A shiver blew down his spine, stiffening the muscles of his back in its wake.

  “Identify yourself, coward!” came a second telepathic shout.

  His jaw locked tight. He couldn’t answer.

  Warriors all, there were no pleas for help among the captives. Instead, their angry voices echoed inside his head, taunting and humiliating him. To them he was nothing but a traitor, a Rogue who was no better than the demons who had imprisoned them.

  He listened, but responding would only compromise his position and his ability to help them later. If Emanelech hadn’t sent her twin ice minions off on another errand, he wouldn’t have made it this far. They would’ve detected him the moment he stepped foot in the dungeon and blocked the other Nephilim’s ability to communicate with him telepathically.

  So much for conserving energy, he thought, and cloaked to silence their fury. Guilt and shame gnawed at his insides over his part in their confinement, but if all went according to plan, one day they’d be set free. For now, he could trust no one—least of all them.

  Relieved to see the lab tech emerge from the cell with the new samples, Samuel fell in behind him and followed him up the metal stairs to the lab.

  Samuel glanced over the tech’s shoulder and memorized the code as he punched it in on the keypad. He added it to his mental list after the code for the dungeon then reflexively checked for the set of cell keys he’d procured on the way out.

  The door lock released with a soft click.

  Only one person was inside, a dark-haired man bent over a tray with a large syringe-like object in his hand.

  “What took you so long?” he asked, glancing up as the door shut behind them.

  “I had to wait for the sedative to kick in.” The tech grumbled, heading over toward the seated man. He handed him the tray and laid down the rest of his paraphernalia on the table.

  “Be glad she only asked for the easy stuff this time, saliva, hair. Better than the one we have in surgery to collect some organ tissue samples. I thought he’d never go under,” said the dark-haired man.

  “So how’s the one in recovery?”

  “Fine. The bone marrow samples are almost ready for separation,” he said still hunched over the neon green tray. “I need to doctor them up so Forrester doesn’t get the whole picture . . . if you know what I mean.”

  “When’s the courier due to arrive?”

  The man glanced at his watch. “Twenty-five minutes. But that’s for a different batch.” He pointed to a small box at the edge of the lab table. “Can you take their sample out of the separator and package it up?”

  “Sure,” the tech mumbled, and then snatched up the slender box and disappeared through a door on the back wall.

  A ringtone sounded next to the dark-haired man, breaking the silence. He pressed the phone to his ear. “Dr. Romano.” He scowled and bobbed his head. “Yes, that’s normal . . .” His scowl deepened. “Yeah, but that’s not. Give me a minute. I’ll be right down.”

  Disconnecting the call, Dr. Romano swore under his breath and snapped off his rubber gloves.

  Samuel moved closer to the lab table as the doctor headed toward the door.

  A twinge hit Samuel’s straight in the gut, followed by a flash of heat, the warning signal his body sent before his cloak disintegrated. He dropped to a crouch behind the table where Dr. Romano had been seated and stayed put until the heavy door clicked shut. He picked up the sounds of the other man working steadily behind the rear door with no signs of stopping, and he relaxed.

  Straightening up, he eyed the tiny vials. The label on the tray read “Test Subject 9, bone marrow cells.” He snatched three of them from the perimeter, hoping they wouldn’t be missed.

  He caught movement out of the corner of his eye, and glanced at the reflective glass on the machine next to him. His mirror image stared back.

  Damn it. His cloak had evaporated.

  Grabbing another small box like the one in preparation for Forrester, he stuffed the vials inside as he strode to the door and slipped the package into a pocket inside his jacket.

  Peering into the empty hallway, he stepped outside. The door shut just as the interior door opened. “Romano?”

  Samuel made haste and exited using the far staircase, taking the stairs two at a time. Lucky for him, the security cameras were trained on those entering—not leaving—the downstairs compound. He couldn’t cloak, but that wasn’t the only tool in his arsenal. He said a prayer for swiftness, opened the door, and sped underneath the camera unseen.

  Slowing to a normal pace halfway down the hall, he followed a couple of warehouse workers to the cafeteria to pick up a sandwich before he doubled back for Emanelech’s package.

  He touched his hand to his jacket and felt for the box. A smile crept onto his lips. He might have finally gotten the break he’d been waiting for . . .

  Chapter 8

  SANDRA

  Stanford University. Palo Alto.

  “WHEN WE ACCOUNT FOR GENE MODIFIERS—” The words froze on Sandra’s tongue. She stared out into the amphitheater filled with her ten a.m. graduate advanced genetics class. A wisp of energy tickled the skin on her face, raising the hairs on the back of her neck.

  Three weeks had passed since her New Year’s Eve conversation with Tom. He had yet to stop by and see her. In the interim, varying apocalyptic visions had plagued her dreams, turning them into a nightmarish landscape and leaving her rattled—destiny’s calling card to remind her that the future was still in flux.

  She counted backward from twenty. That would be all the time she had before the message from the Flow broke through on her personal vibrational hotline.

  Finger-tapping on the one hundred plus electronic devices in the audience ceased and just as many pairs of expectant eyes gaped back at her, the class appearing to hold its collective breath.

  Inconvenient was the mildest word that came to mind for the interruption. “Sorry, everyone. Please excuse me. Let’s take our fifteen-minute break.” Several students rose and hurried over to the podium where she stood.

  S
andra turned on her heel and escaped around the corner toward the exit. Not wanting to take any chances, she stepped into a supply closet and locked the door behind her, hoping no one had spotted her detour. Drawing in a deep breath, she closed her eyes and opened her thoughts to the electromagnetic stream that surrounded the earth. Like a fingerprint, the molecules of Sandra’s body vibrated, connecting with her personal frequency.

  “Hope, Daughter of Eae,” the voice greeted her telepathically. “It’s time. The Calling awaits. You know what to do. Journey forth in peace and love.”

  The wisp of power disappeared, the message complete. Had she not been filling both roles of Messenger and Soul Seeker in her Trinity, she wouldn’t have had the luxury of a Messenger’s warning. Her pulse accelerated. There wasn’t much time before the Calling claimed her, and the soul whom she sought was revealed through the Flow. The moment that happened, her mission would officially begin and she would be tied to that soul’s essence until the mission concluded . . . or she died. But she already knew who the soul would be . . . another anomaly unique to her implanted Trinity versus one that operated according to the standard principles.

  She opened her eyes. Her night vision snapped on, revealing the small, cluttered interior. Open metal shelving held a combination of janitorial supplies and obsolete projection equipment, while freestanding rolling whiteboards clogged the space in front of her.

  “Isa,” she called telepathically. “It’s time. I need to get someplace safe.”

  “I’ll be cloaked outside your classroom. Give me two minutes,” he replied. Reality left an unexpected bittersweet taste in her mouth. After fifteen years, she’d settled into her human existence with Isa and enjoyed her research. Given her origin and knowledge, she still had a lot to offer the field. Now, she prayed that any legacy she created wouldn’t end up delivering the key to Heaven into Lucifer’s greedy palm.