by Darci Hannah
Kilwylie, with a mirthless laugh, said, “You mean to cripple me limb by limb. You mean to savor my death. I know the tactic. Very Saracen. How would a nice lad like you know it?” He came at Dante as he spoke, and, anticipating the young man’s next move, grabbed left. Dante went right and launched himself under Kilwylie’s tree-trunk arm, raking the blade of the knife down the ribs, creating a long, clean slice. He landed on the floor and scrambled to stand. He was almost there.
Kilwylie was quick for a big man, and smart. Turning toward the knife as it raked his side, he fell, letting gravity do what his muscles could not. He hit the young man as he was coming up and pinned the sinewy body under his own, grabbing the kicking legs with his arms, feeling the frantic squirm. Dante still held the knife, and he slammed it down, aiming for Kilwylie’s neck.
A loud crash and a yell from a guard erupted from the storeroom beyond the prison. For a split second Dante’s relentless focus was removed, and his gaze came up—just as the blade hit. He pierced Kilwylie’s flesh, but it wasn’t his neck. It was his shoulder. Kilwylie’s other arm came whipping across then, knocking the blade from his hand. It flew clattering across the cold stone floor and hit the wall. “Oh,” Sir George breathed, scrambling on top of the smaller man, fighting for control over the pummeling fists and twisting body. The lad was strong. There was no doubt. He also knew every fighter’s trick in the book; every muscle had been trained to perfection. He was squirming, trying to find purchase with his feet and legs to overthrow the daunting weight that held him to the floor. Against a normal-sized man there would have been no question. The young man was a weapon honed and sharpened to perfection. However, the Lord of Kilwylie was not a normal man. He pinned the arms and legs beneath his heavy body as his other hand, searching, closed over the handle of the knife.
“Oh, I remember you now,” Kilwylie said, looking at the tragically beautiful face that had fallen back against the floor; the swollen veins of the neck pulsating with rage; the symmetrical features pinched and fraught with strain; the raven-black hair, fraught with loose curls, pooled on the stone exposing the pale ear. Kilwylie brought his lips close and uttered, “How could one forget such a sweet face? You belonged to Curtogoli Reis, didn’t you?” Dante’s flashing black eyes stilled and bore, with exquisite hatred, into the light-green ones. “Oh, indeed. You were his boy. Did he buy you as well? He was rather anxious to get his hands on your master. But you already know that. Were all three of you lovers? Or perhaps he shared you with the crew?”
Dante, enflamed with a hatred he hadn’t felt in years, jerked with such force that he nearly threw Kilwylie. Another exhaustive bout of wrestling ensued until Kilwylie got him under control again.
The guard had spotted the open door, seen the wrestling bodies, and now he ran toward them.
“My dear boy, you can attempt to drown out the past by living in the bottom of a wine barrel, or by numbing your pain with drugs and a steady stream of cheap women. But you cannot run from what you are, sweetheart. And neither can he. ’Tis a hellish life. I will do you both a favor. I will make it better.” Dante felt the point of the knife bite at his skin, high between his ribs. “What will it be, my sweet? A slow and painful death like I gave your master? Or do you want it quick, so you’ll be there to greet him when he arrives?”
The guard came bounding into the cell. Dante’s eyes, a bitter mix of hatred and sorrow, never left Kilwylie’s.
“I’d better make it quick,” Kilwylie said, “but I shall send you off with the sweet memory.” The knife came as Kilwylie, slowly lowering his head, covered the quivering lips with his own. He savored the twitch of the body beneath him; he reveled in the flood of fear, pain, and heartrending remorse. And he was truly touched by the single tear that fell from the cold black eyes.
The guard, horror-struck at the sight, fell still. His fear made him easy prey for the knife as well.
We stayed on the bed and listened as Seraphina, sitting in the chair beside us, told her riveting story. It was similar to the stories we heard as children, only this one was a little different. I would have thought it unbelievable if I didn’t know that it just might be true.
“You, my dears,” she began, her eyes calm yet serious, “among all God’s children, are quite unique. It is none of your own fault. It happened long ago, when the divine expression of God known as grigori, or watchers—the group of angels who kept eternal vigilance over man—had a few members who became so enamored with human women that they wished to experience all the pleasures of humanity. In short, they wished to be human. However, to do this, from the vantage point of the heavens, meant denying God’s eternal grace, and knowing, beforehand, that the children of such a mixed race would naturally have sublime power. It has been many, many years since the fall of the angels, and most Nephilim, those with the blood of angels coursing through their veins, or, as the Bible describes them, ‘the mighty men that were of old, the men of renown,’ have perished. They were wiped out in the Great Flood. But a few survived. Your ancestor was one of them.
“You are not, by any means, immortal. But both of you are capable of great and wondrous things. You, Julius, learned this early. I watched you as a young boy and saw how everything came so easily for you. And I have watched you struggle with the temptation of being able to topple entire nations—to lead men to sin and avarice with a twinkle in your eye, and yes, even to wreak havoc on trade in foreign markets. It is the result of the divine spark that burns within you. It can drive men to greatness, or it can lead to terrible evil. Your curse is always having to walk that fine line, my lad.
“And you, Isabeau, you are specially blessed, yet because of it, you are also vulnerable. Only through you does the divine spark pass. Your children will be as you are. But there are others out there, others of a similar race. It is not easy to tell those of angelic blood from ordinary humans. Many have it. Many will never know that they do. Your line, however, has been followed closely. Your ancestors are the guardians of nations; through your line are born the guardians of Scotland.”
I was dumbfounded by this news, even though I had heard much of it my entire life.
“Is our father …?” I began to ask, looking at Seraphina, for the Blythes had long been a powerful border family and hereditary guardians of Scotland.
“No,” she replied. “The Blythes are a noble family indeed, and their sons are brave warriors to a man, but they are very human.”
“But the angel above our gates … and our motto?”
Her old eyes twinkled. “Your Blythe ancestors were also devout men. Did you know your family motto was established after the Battle of Bannockburn? Your Blythe ancestors fought alongside Robert the Bruce and survived. Battlefields, my children, try men’s souls; angels are known to appear on battlefields. And my children,” she continued, looking pointedly at us, “it might interest you to know that your mother is descended from William Wallace.”
I looked next to me, to Julius, to see what he made of all this. But I saw that he had already figured much of it out, for his cynical eyes mocked my amazement, while his lips twitched with childish smugness. Why was I ever to expect anything less?
“So, our mother really was an angel. Is that why I see things?” Before Seraphina could answer, Julius broke in.
“You see visions like I do,” he said, with derision in his voice. “Because every now and then we are allowed a glimpse of heaven—to taunt us, to show us what we’ll never have. Do you not think I aspire to that also?” He was looking accusingly at Seraphina. “I want redemption, same as other men, only I know that it will never be, will it? Because that’s what our father learned, isn’t it? Isabeau is a life-giving vessel of hope and goodness, while I’ve been condemned to this.” And then, as if struck by some invisible force, he froze, his smile fading, his eyes focusing inward.
“What is it?” I uttered.
He looked at me, a horrible expression crossing his fine features, and then, slowly absorbing the shock of it, he
shook his head. “I don’t know. I felt terribly cold. I’m fine.”
I reached out a hand and felt his head. He was warm and looked infinitely better than he had when we arrived. Julius was healing.
“Will you do me a favor though?” he asked, his face still frightfully pale. “Will you check on Dante? He gets a bit emotional when I’m injured. He’s supposed to be with your fallen Hospitaller. I just want to be sure.” It was a polite request, but I could tell Julius was greatly troubled. I looked at Seraphina and excused myself.
“Wait,” she said, her face stricken with panic. “I haven’t told you everything. About your family, about the manuscript—”
“I know. I’ll be back,” I said, and kissed her on the cheek.
Dante was not with Gabriel. Gabriel and Lord Hume were so absorbed in their talk they must have forgotten. At the mention of the name, Gabriel looked at Lord Hume. A living thought passed between them, and Lord Hume uttered, “Dear God, Kilwylie’s down there!” Before I could ask the question, both men were at the door. “Get back to your brother and stay there!” Gabriel said, his voice touched with something cold and fearful. He turned and ran down the corridor after Lord Hume.
It was then that I saw Gabriel’s gear. It had been brought to Sir Alexander’s study and was now resting against the desk. I went to the saddlebag and removed the long velvet sack I had placed there containing the ancient scroll that belonged to my father. The velvet sack was new, yet it smelled musty, old, and now it had a hint of leather. I smiled at that and brought it with me, wanting to show Julius—hoping it might ease his mind until the men returned.
The moment I walked through the door I knew something was wrong. Julius was in bed, his face still and expressionless, yet his eyes burned with something beyond hatred as they fixed on the space near the door. Seraphina was on her feet, her face frightened, yet her eyes were on me. “Dante …,” I began in an attempt to deliver the news; and then I heard the door shut behind me. The back of my neck prickled. I knew who it was by my reaction, and my heart dropped to my stomach as I turned to face him.
“My darling fiancée,” said George Douglas, his words and manner belying the ferocity that lay behind the piercing eyes. “In what fictitious world do you live that would make you believe I would not find you? Everything I do, Isabeau, I do for love of you.” He came closer, and stopped not more than two feet away. I stood still, frozen to the spot. For the life of me I could not move. “You left me, my sweet,” he continued, his eyes filling with gentle concern. It was damnably convincing. “What was I to do? I had no choice but to hunt you down. When you locked your gates against me, what else was I to do but burn them? And when you were abducted by another man, I went mad as a berserker. Forgive me, Isabeau.” He moved even closer, until he was a mere few inches away. I could feel his breath on my face and closed my eyes. I wanted to move, but there was something terrible about him that held me still.
“Look at me,” he demanded. I opened my eyes.
“Leave her be, Kilwylie.” It was Julius who spoke. He was still in bed, his face hard and suffused with hatred. “Nobody is buying the rubbish you’re spewing these days. It’s me you want. Let’s not be silly and start playing with little girls.”
“Julius.” Kilwylie’s gaze shifted to the bed as a sardonic smile appeared on his lips. “I’m sorry, I nearly forgot you were there. No. It’s always been your sister I wanted. And, truthfully, I thought you were dead. I believed this time I had really done it. I must apologize, but when I met that charming friend of yours, that beautiful young man, I sent him along to be with you. You should be proud. He was devoted to the end.” He lifted up a hand and displayed a knife. It was still dripping blood.
“No!” I cried, stunned by the biting cruelty of his words and the contrast of the profane smile on his lips. My eyes flashed to the face of my brother then, knowing how much Dante had meant to him—knowing how completely his heart was breaking. But the mask, the implacable mask, revealed nothing. It was beyond torture, and I could take no more of it.
“You soulless beast, how could you!” I cried, and slammed my right hand into Sir George’s chest. He barely moved. “By God!” I seethed, “I have never hated anyone so much as I do you!”
“That is a pity, my dear. Because you’re going to be with me a very long time. Come,” he said, and grabbed me, spinning me to face my brother and Seraphina as he pinned me against his solid, heaving chest. “And if you don’t,” he whispered softly, yet not so softly that Seraphina and Julius couldn’t hear him, “I will take everything from you, everything you hold dear, until you have nothing but emptiness and pain and remorse. You will come to me then, Isabeau; you will come to me then on your knees begging for mercy. Come with me now, or come later; that is your choice.”
“No!” cried Seraphina, walking steadily toward us. “Do not listen to him, Isabeau. He has no power over you and never did. Do not listen.” And then I saw the flash of a small dagger in her hand. Sir George had seen it too, and lifted his other arm. Realizing too late what he meant to do, I watched as the crimson-stained knife—the knife that had taken Dante’s life—spun through the air and struck Seraphina right between the eyes. Aghast, I dropped the velvet sack I had been holding. And then a scream, high and mournful, escaped me.
“Bloody bitch,” Sir George seethed, watching as my governess dropped to her knees, still clutching the little dagger in her fist. “I’ve been charged with your murder, so it’s only fair you should die!”
Julius was out of bed and on the floor beside her in an instant, gathering her head and cradling it on his lap. Her blood dripped from the mortal wound, mingling with the dark and crusted blotches already covering his white nightshirt. Seraphina’s eyes were heavenward, her mouth was moving as her lifeblood ran in rivulets down her face. It looked as if she was saying a prayer. With a mighty twist I slipped from Sir George’s relaxed grasp and fell to the floor, crawling across the polished wood to be with them. I could heal her, I thought, tears pouring from my eyes. Julius had shown me that I could—he made me believe that I had the power to heal. “Let me …,” I uttered, but the look in my brother’s eye was one of unconcealed fright. And then I saw what he saw. I saw the rays of light emanating from Seraphina’s quivering body.
If we had ever doubted my father’s story, we now believed it—all three of us. Sir George, soulless devil that he was, stood transfixed, watching the miracle unfold before our eyes. The light that came from Seraphina shot heavenward, momentarily blocked by the ceiling. The plasterwork began to shimmer, until it became translucent, opening to the cloud-speckled blue sky above. And then they came—a host of shimmering celestial beings descending to the earth on radiant light. The beauty of them was so profound that they left us both awestruck and breathless. Mme. Seraphina, my mother’s guardian, left her body then, in much the same way a puff of smoke lifts off a flame, quietly evanescent. She was a glittering spirit now, a distinct soul of pure and sublime love. We felt it move through us as she left, carried on the wings of the angels that had come for her. And then Mme. Seraphina, leaving her body behind, was gone. She was, and had always been, a guardian of the Nephilim of our line. I knew this in a way that was unexplainable. “You are blessed,” her voice echoed through me. And then all was quiet and still as the light slowly faded away. The ceiling once again became just a ceiling.
Sound came then, loud and distracting, filling the room with the rumble of booted feet. On the other side of the door men were approaching. Sir George, staring at us as we remained huddled on the floor beside our lifeless governess, flinched. It was then that I noticed he was bleeding. Blood oozed from a wound on his left thigh, and a dark, wet stain appeared on the side of his rich green doublet. I wasn’t sure if it was his or not. And then my gaze dropped to the floor. His did too, and held the object that had drawn my focus. We were all staring at it as understanding flashed behind Sir George’s eyes. Julius made a move but Kilwylie was faster. With a self-satisfied grin he pic
ked up the velvet sack containing the scroll.
“Thank you for this,” he said, then added, looking pointedly at me, “I’ll be back for you, my sweet.” I watched as he limped to the window. The door crashed open at the same moment that Kilwylie jumped. Lord Hume, running in, looked wildly around the room. And then his eyes came to rest on the body of Seraphina. He froze. Still unable to speak, I pointed to the window. He ran across the room and looked out, then started shouting orders to his men. Gabriel walked in then, and in his arms he carried the body of the beautiful young man, Dante.
Julius, having hastily pulled a sheet over Seraphina’s body, slowly rose. “Set him on the bed, quickly!” he demanded, his eyes wide and aqueous as they rested on Dante. In four strides he was beside them. Gabriel’s eyes, I saw, were wet as well, and I too helped place the limp form on the bed, all of us unwilling to believe what we saw.
“Oh God …” The voice, always carefully modulated, always under control, had cracked as Julius looked at the unmoving form on the bed. His hands cradled the still face, urging life to appear with his seeking touch as he yelled his friend’s name. It was then that the implacable mask of my brother’s face began to melt before our eyes, and the carefully guarded emotions trickled forth, revealing a vast and desperate pain. “Jesus, sweet Jesus, no!” he cried, and then, with soul-hacking urgency, he turned to me. “Isabeau … please? I need you to … pray for him. I can’t do this alone!” His cornflower-blue eyes were wide and pleading.