by Gaelen Foley
“You can sit down if you want to.” He gestured toward the rough-hewn wooden table. “Would you like a drink?” Without waiting for her answer, he poured her a glass of red wine from the dusty bottle on the table.
Daphne accepted it wordlessly; maybe he thought she was going to need it. He looked at her for a long moment.
“Do you remember when you asked me about Albert saying I disappeared when we were boys?”
She nodded slowly.
“The school that I was sent to is, indeed, in Scotland, but it is not an ordinary academy.”
She stared at him, holding her breath. Max searched her eyes.
“I belong to a hereditary order of chivalry named after St. Michael the Archangel.” He pointed to the floor mosaic. “You know his role, I am sure—God’s warrior angel who cast Satan down from Heaven with his fiery sword. The castle in Scotland is, in fact, the Order’s headquarters, and that’s where I was sent, to fulfill an oath made by the first Lord Rotherstone.”
“The original owner of that broadsword in your gallery?” she murmured.
He nodded. “This duty was passed down through my family to me. Not all my predecessors were called upon to serve—the threat varies over the centuries, and many have escaped it altogether—but I could not.
“When I was thirteen, Virgil came to our estate and made arrangements with my father for me to be handed over to the Order and taken away to Scotland to begin my training as an agent for them. That’s where I met Rohan and Jordan—and Drake, among others. This whole Inferno Club is merely a false front.”
He lowered his gaze, his angular face sculpted by the candle’s glow. “The Order’s motto is taken from the book of Hebrews: ‘He makes His angels winds, and His servants flames of fire.’ The Order is named after St. Michael, for like him, we are dedicated to battling a pernicious evil. Struggling to rid the world of it, though there seems to be no end in sight.”
“What is this evil?” she breathed.
“The Promethean Council. A secret society of very powerful men, bent on enslaving humanity. Their lust for power never changes, only the names do. They’ve infiltrated every government on earth…but all this has been going for six hundred years.”
She shook her head in wonder.
“The struggle dates back to the late twelfth century,” he continued. “Long ago, the first Lord Rotherstone, along with my friends’ medieval ancestors, joined King Richard the Lionheart in the Holy Land on a quest to free Jerusalem from the armies of Saladin.
“This was the Third Crusade, and since it was unsuccessful, if you recall your history lessons, the even bloodier Fourth Crusade was launched a few years later. Our ancestors remained in the Holy Land for that one, too.”
“I see,” she whispered, and took a drink of her wine.
Max gazed at her. “The story goes that, one day, King Richard sent out a scouting party of about twenty knights to determine the enemy’s location. A sandstorm began forming in the desert, so the knights took shelter with their horses in a cavern that they noticed amid the rocks. They began searching around inside the caves to see if there was any source of water there for their horses to drink, but instead, they came across some ancient clay jars.
“When they looked inside these jars, the Crusaders found that they contained a mysterious set of scrolls. One of the knights—Falconridge’s ancestor, it was—was an accomplished scholar who had spent some years of prayer and study in a monastery. So, with his greater learning, he was able to make some sense of what was written on the scrolls.
“The scrolls were already a couple hundred years old when the Crusaders found them—apocrypha written in Syriac, from about A.D. 900. The first thing the scholar-knight recognized was that the scroll announced itself as one of a few existing copies of an older document, whose original had been burned in the great fire that destroyed the ancient Library of Alexandria.”
Daphne marveled at the tale. “What did these scrolls contain?”
“Something very dark. A sort of unholy bible for a strange cult of mixed origins, dedicated to Prometheus. Its founding tale sprang out of an Old Testament story, concerning the great Bible patriarch Joseph. You know, the one who was sold off into slavery in Egypt by his brothers?”
“Oh, yes,” she said. “The brothers were jealous that their father had given Joseph the coat of many colors, while they had no such token of his favor.”
“Just so,” Max replied. “As I’m sure you will recall, Joseph did fairly well for himself in Egypt in spite of his brothers’ treachery. By correctly interpreting Pharaoh’s dream, he saved Egypt from a terrible famine.
“Now, the lesser-known part of that story is that Pharaoh wanted to reward Joseph for his service to the kingdom, so the grateful Pharaoh arranged an advantageous marriage as his reward. Joseph was given the beautiful Aseneth for his bride. Aseneth was the semi-royal daughter of the Egyptian high priest of Heliopolis.
“The two were married,” he continued, “Hebrew and Egyptian, and from those beginnings, a cult took root, mixing the sacred mysteries of the Jewish Kabbalah with the divination and the rites of the Egyptian high priests. The earliest practitioners of this Joseph-and-Aseneth cult had a particular interest in the Egyptian practices aimed at preparing the soul for immortality, the very purpose for which her people had built the Pyramids in which to bury their god-kings. But it did not end there.
“As this occult sect spread, they constantly incorporated new beliefs and rituals, seeking supernatural abilities, such as those that were said to belong to the Magi, like the three wise men who showed up at Bethlehem. It seemed the earliest Prometheans would try anything in their search for occult powers.
“Ancient Greek beliefs were also absorbed, the use of oracles like the one at Delphi, for example. There were also darker practices, the occasional human sacrifice. That one, they supposedly picked up at Crete, the home of the Minotaur.”
“How dreadful.” She shuddered in the clammy darkness of the stone chamber. She could almost imagine the bullheaded monster emerging from one of those stone-carved tunnels.
“Dreadful, yes, to us or to any sane person. But not to them. The Prometheans savor bloodshed, and they’re not afraid to die because they don’t believe that is the end. Essentially, they believe they are above death, and that by their black magic, the processes of death and regeneration can be brought under their control.
“As a result, not surprisingly, it was the Greek myth of Prometheus that inspired the name they have come to be known by.”
“Prometheus, who stole fire from the gods,” she echoed.
“Yes. Like him, they see themselves as mankind’s savior, bringing light into the world.”
“But wait.” She furrowed her brow. “I thought bringing light into the world was supposed to be Jesus’ job.”
“Not to them, indeed. Did you know the name of Lucifer means Light-bearer?”
She stared at him in amazement. “Are you telling me they have actual black magic?”
“All I know is they believe it’s real. So much so that they’re willing to kill for it. They chose the Titan, Prometheus, as their icon because in spite of his horrible torment, what with the eagle coming each night to eat out his liver, each day he awoke anew, whole and unscathed.
“In itself, that might have been harmless. But unfortunately, the whole point of their longed-for immortality is to slowly bring all of mankind under their control. I’m sure you know who Jesus called the ‘master of this world.’”
“Satan.”
“That is their true god,” he said, nodding grimly. “Of course, they don’t openly admit that. They prefer to pretend that they are working for the ‘good’ of humanity. That if mankind has to have the ‘true illumination’ rammed down its throat by force, then so be it. But first, to the conclusion of our story about the Crusaders and their temptation in the desert.”
“Yes, what happened to them?”
“By the time the sandstorm was over, the
knights’ reaction to the scrolls was split. Half of them thought the scrolls vile and unholy, and the work of the Devil. After all, these were medieval men. They immediately wanted to burn the scrolls—cast them into the Inferno, if you will.
“The other group had a very different idea. They saw this ancient ‘magic’ as perhaps dangerous, but still useful information. Some of them wanted to bring the scrolls to King Richard and use the black magic they contained as a possible secret weapon that might allow them to defeat Saladin and his ferocious Mamluk armies. The Crusade was going badly, after all, and considering that the goal was to free Jerusalem, a noble cause, the ends, in their view, justified the means.”
“Always dangerous thinking,” she murmured.
“Indeed. The knights’ argument soon grew heated. Their whole party quickly turned to chaos, and being medieval warriors, it wasn’t long before violence broke out. One of the men was struck down. Seeing they had murdered one of their own, the knights in favor of trying out the magic escaped with some of the scrolls. They knew they could not go back to King Richard without dire consequences for killing one of their comrades.”
He paused. “At least the evildoers did not get away with all of the scrolls. In the fray, the knights who remained true were able to keep a number of the documents out of their hands. But from these murderous beginnings, turning knight against knight and friend against friend, the poisonous effects of these ancient writings were very clear.
“To the best of our knowledge, the others eventually approached King Richard’s court astrologer to see if His Majesty might want to try using the scrolls’ black magic against Saladin after all. According to the legend, our Christian warrior-king did not dare attempt to dabble in such stuff. At least,” Max added slowly, “not at first.
“But after the Third Crusade failed, after His Majesty had emptied England’s coffers to pay for his war, some say Richard allowed the court astrologer to have at it when the Fourth Crusade came round.
“It is rumored that the use of the scrolls resulted not just in the victories of the Fourth Crusade, but also in the fact that that whole campaign was hideously bloody, with battles and sieges that were considered wholesale slaughters, even by medieval standards. Whether the magic is real or not, the evil of these scrolls seems to have that effect on men.”
Daphne stared at him in awe.
“Eventually, the Crusaders who had embraced these dark ancient writings returned to Europe, bringing their newfound cult back with them like the Plague.” Max shook his head. “They did not care how far they went or how twisted they became. All they cared about was using their newfound creed to gain power.
“Of course, the Church quickly pronounced their beliefs heretical, so they had to take their rituals underground. It was then, too, that the Order of St. Michael was established to root them out.
“With the Pope’s blessing, King Richard established our Order to hunt down this cult, destroy the scrolls, and bring this evil to an end. My ancestor, the first Baron Rotherstone, and Warrington’s and Falconridge’s, all took the blood oath swearing not just themselves but their descendants to the fight.
“Unfortunately, our enemies have proved as determined to persist as we have been in seeking to thwart them. Once this evil took hold, they have never stopped working to achieve their aims.”
“What exactly are their aims?” she asked in an ominous tone.
“Originally, the Prometheans claimed that, having seen the bloodshed in the Holy Land and throughout their barbarous Europe of the Dark Ages, their main desire was to use the occult secrets in the scrolls to end all future wars, by establishing one vast kingdom that would stretch across the entire world. They painted themselves as benevolent when in fact they were anything but. For years, they claimed that what they were trying to establish was nothing less than the kingdom of Heaven on earth.”
“But Jesus said the kingdom of Heaven is already at hand,” Daphne murmured. “And it has nothing to do with worldly power.”
“Exactly. It was a lie. And before long, even the Prometheans themselves gave up this pretense. Their quest was for raw, naked power, and it continues to this day.”
He lowered his head. “Everything I’ve told you about my life, traveling in Europe, international investments, collecting art—all of that is only the surface truth. The real reason for my travels, indeed, the whole soul and substance of my life till I met you, was in this duty on my lineage, to persist continuously to topple them.
“In recent years, they had grown powerful. Certain members of their cabal had wormed their way into high positions around Napoleon, as well as in other European courts. Given Napoleon’s genius and the extent of the empire he established, they thought they could use him to finally bring about their vision of one seat of power to rule the earth. They got very close.”
“Oh, God.”
“You asked me once how I ended up at the Battle of Waterloo,” he said. “The real answer is that I received a message from Jordan warning me that the Prometheans had sent an assassin after the Duke of Wellington. They had managed to get a spy into his headquarters like the one you and I unmasked at Westwood Manor. They had already planned in advance that if things went badly for Napoleon at Waterloo, our General Wellington was to be shot on the field. This would have thrown the allies into chaos long enough to let Napoleon regroup.
“My mission was to identify and destroy the enemy agent they had planted in Wellington’s headquarters, and that is exactly what I went to Waterloo to accomplish.”
“You killed the would-be assassin?” she whispered.
“Yes,” he replied in cool, unflinching calm. “The mask of the libertine nobleman was merely a device I employed to ward off the suspicions of both the enemy and everyone else. The charade allowed me to travel about freely on my various missions. Only the men here, my fellow agents, my brothers, have known who I really am. It is very important to me now, Daphne, that you also know.”
“Oh, Max.” She got up from the table and went around it to hug him.
He caught her up hard in his arms. “Sweeting.” He closed his eyes and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “God, after Waterloo, I truly thought all this was over, that, at least, we had held them off for another fifty years,” he whispered. “If there had been any doubt in my mind, I would never have started down this path of marriage. Not for all the world would I have brought you into danger. But now that you are in it, I can only think it is safer for you to know the nature of the threat we face.
“I will teach you. All right?” He pulled back slightly and took her face between his hands, staring passionately into her eyes. His own had darkened a shade with his troubled intensity. “I will teach you how to keep yourself safe, so that even when I am not there…Oh, I could never let anything happen to you.
“But above all, Daphne, now you must share in our pact of secrecy, no matter what. You can tell no one. Not Carissa, not Jonathon, not even your father. You must carry this as I have, and understand that it now separates you from the rest of the world, as it has separated all of us.”
“Oh, Max. As long as I am not separated from you.”
He pulled her close again.
“Darling, I had no idea you were part of something reaching back across the centuries. I’m glad you told me. I can’t imagine what would have become of our love if you had not shared this with me. It’s too huge and important to have let it stand between us for the rest of our lives.” She paused, trying to wrap her mind around all he had told her. “And now you say one of your agents is missing. Drake?”
“Yes.”
“Lady Westwood’s son,” she murmured.
“The rest of his team was killed,” Max said. “We thought Drake was dead, too. That would have been awful enough. But then…I saw him on our wedding day.”
She looked at him in surprise.
“I was outside with your father having a smoke. He went riding past in a blasted hackney coach. I thought I’d seen a g
host. It was almost as if he came looking for me. The notice of our wedding was in all the papers. But he did not stop.” Max shook his head. “And that bodes very ill.”
“So, that was the ‘cutpurse’ you chased.”
He nodded slowly. “You cannot know how much I hated lying to you—on our wedding day, of all days.”
She gazed sadly at him.
“I was not able to catch him.” He shrugged. “I wasn’t even sure if my mind was not playing tricks on me. But then that woman upstairs, Ginger, she saw him, too. She’s been to a few of our parties, so she knows the lads. She waited awhile out of fear, but she finally came and told Virgil. That’s when Virgil wrote to me with instructions to call on Lady Westwood.”
“So, her son really is out there somewhere, alive?”
“Yes, probably being held captive, not unlike our prisoner, John the footman. If Drake gives our names to whoever’s holding him, then it’s only a matter of time before they come looking for us.”
“What shall we do, Max?”
He looked at her for a long moment. “Stick together,” he said softly. “You stay alert and aware, but I will tell you if there comes a point where you should be afraid. Until then, I promise you, we are all right.” He shook his head, staring wistfully into her eyes. “I did not want to tell you all these things. I didn’t want you to have to live in fear. We generally leave the women out of it as a rule.”
“Well,” she said slowly, “you and I agreed to make our own rules. But, Max, I want you to know you can trust me. No one, no matter how horrible, could ever induce me to betray you, or to reveal the things that you’ve entrusted to me. Not if it cost me my life.”
He gazed at her longingly. “I love you, Daphne.”
“I love you, too.” As he held her again, Daphne nestled in his arms, until all of a sudden, a thought came into her mind that made her blood run cold. “Max?” She pulled back suddenly, paling. “Does this mean someday they will come to take away our son?”