‘Where is he?’ Pharmaros asked, turning round in a slow circle.
‘Not here,’ Salamiel said bleakly.
‘He will be,’ Daniel said. ‘Be patient.’
Penemue sat down uneasily on one of the pews. His large frame looked awkward in the narrow seat.
Gadreel had gone to investigate a cast-iron gate to the left of the altar. Her voice echoed slightly. ‘There are steps here. This must be the crypt.’ She shook the gate. ‘But it’s locked.’
Salamiel and Kashday joined her at the gate and inspected the lock. They would need tools to break it.
‘We can’t break in,’ Pharmaros said. ‘Someone will hear us.’
‘There doesn’t seem to be anyone around,’ Gadreel said.
Daniel sighed. ‘Just wait. Shem will come and he will open the gate.’
Salamiel laughed coldly. ‘With the power of his hands, no doubt.’ He went to sprawl on a pew at the front of the church, with his feet up on the worn wood. ‘Shall we sing a few hymns to get us in the mood?’
Daniel glanced at him sourly. He sensed the tension in his companions. Pharmaros would be happier fleeing the place; Gadreel was worried Shem would not come; Penemue felt bewildered and nervous having recently been dumped by Shem into twentieth century chaos; while Salamiel thought that what they were doing was a waste of time. Only Kashday seemed confident and calm. Daniel himself felt like a spring about to uncoil abruptly in a confined space. He sensed danger, but not in the church. It was outside, closing in.
Shemyaza and Melandra were walking through Old Babylon, having recently got out of a taxi. Both were dressed completely in black. Shemyaza’s hair shone with white fire against his dark shirt. The sun had already begun to sink, but darkness was about an hour away. Before they’d left their lodgings, Shemyaza had given instructions to Tiy. ‘Go to the Sphinx, mother, and use your inner eye to watch my progress through the chambers.’
Tiy had nodded, but with some reluctance. She’d frowned. ‘Something weighs heavily within you,’ she’d said. ‘Have strength, my son.’
Shem had nodded. ‘Yes.’
Outside, he had refused to answer Melandra’s question as to why he had sent Tiy to the Sphinx. ‘She does her job,’ he’d said. ‘Just do yours. That’s all I ask.’
‘But Giza will be heaving with party-goers,’ Melandra had argued. ‘Is that any place to send an old woman alone?’
Shemyaza had smiled to himself. ‘If I were you, I’d never let Tiy hear you say anything like that.’
Now they walked along a street crowded with people and animals and traffic. Dust hung heavily in the air and the sunlight was almost orange. Melandra was sure she could hear the throb of loud music from beyond the city. Bands had been playing on the Giza plateau all day. Since they’d left their lodgings, Melandra had sensed pursuit; faint at first, but now her spine tingled with apprehension. ‘We are being followed,’ she said.
Shemyaza nodded. ‘Keep alert.’
‘It could be other operatives of the Children of Lamech.’ Would she have to protect them from someone she already knew?
Shemyaza shook his head. ‘No. It is the Brethren of the Black Sun.’
Melandra had her weapon ready in her bag. She could almost imagine it was alive, eager to claim lives. She felt as if she was walking through a dream. The one she had been sent to kill, whom she’d been told was evil incarnate, walked beside her. He had been a strange companion, distant and silent, brooding upon his destiny. Lately, when he talked, it sounded as if he was uttering the lines from some ancient tragedy. Melandra no longer doubted that he spoke the truth, mainly because of the cordial yet respectful way he acted towards her, and the obvious torment that sometimes smoked from his eyes. She could still not totally disassociate him with the image of Christ, and even now, walking through the antique streets of the oldest part of the city, she felt as if her feet were leading her to Gethsemane. Her feelings were torn. A faint voice from the past, deep within her, questioned her switch of alliance, yet her heart was filled with sympathy for this tall, charismatic man. He seemed so sad, bringing recollections to her of the feelings she had picked up when handling her crucifix at home.
Shemyaza suddenly stopped dead and winced.
‘What is it?’ she asked.
He shook his head. ‘They are so… dark.’ His face had assumed an expression of pain. ‘Keep moving. The sacred gate is ahead. It was built by a Grigori family many centuries ago and will be a refuge for us.’
An electric shudder coursed up Melandra’s spine. She could sense the black presences behind them, drawing ever closer. Without her even realising it, the street had become deserted. Their foot-steps echoed, perhaps smothering the sound of pursuit. A strange, ground-hugging mist had begun to seep from every shadowed side alley; perhaps a natural phenomenon from the gullies and culverts of the city’s water system. Melandra did not like it, unable to dispel the suspicion that the people following them had conjured the mist as concealment. For a moment, she was filled with doubt. If their pursuers were as terrible as Tiy and Shemyaza had intimated, would a gun be enough to deter them?
There was a wide archway ahead, which spanned the street. It had perhaps once been part of another structure, which had long vanished. Its granite blocks were corroded with age, but there was something imposing about it, something both watchful and meaningful. Melandra and Shemyaza had increased their pace. Melandra felt that if they could just pass beneath the arch, they would be safe. It was an irrational feeling. They were so close now, only feet away. The sun had nearly left the sky.
Then, a tall, dark figure stepped from beneath the shadow of the arch. Shemyaza drew in his breath sharply. Melandra reached for her weapon. There was no doubt in her mind that the person ahead of them represented a severe threat. He was dressed in a long, black leather coat, his short, fair hair swept back from his brow, his face forbidding and emotionless. Melandra shuddered: he looked like a crazed Nazi from an old war movie.
The man made a movement with his hand that suggested he was about to throw something. Melandra reacted quickly and a shot rang out into the twilight. The man uttered a grunt and crumpled forward.
Good shot, girl, Melandra thought to herself. Her self-congratulation was short-lived.
Tall figures were melting out of the shadows on every side, all dressed similarly to the man she had shot. Melandra raised her weapon again, but one of the Brethren flung out his hand. It seemed a bolt of mercurial silver light shot towards her. It struck the gun from her hand. She glanced down and, at her feet, saw a shining silver disk, almost like a CD, but carved with strange, curling patterns. At once, Melandra leapt forward, kicking high. She was trained in half a dozen disciplines of Oriental martial arts. Her body adjusted to the habitual movements, so that she flew with fluid grace towards their assailants. Her training took over. Her feet met solid flesh. Her arms, anticipating every move against her, deflected blows. She felt invulnerable, unconquerable, fulfilling her role as she had been schooled to do,
But then, another of the Dark Brethren threw one of the disks towards her. She could see it coming, shining, shimmering, as if in slow motion. She felt the impact of it, which brought immediate stinging pain. Melandra glanced at her wrist and, in horror, saw that she was bleeding profusely. She clamped her left hand over the wound in an attempt to stem the flow, but it was too deep; the bone laid bare. A quick glance around the street advised her that she and Shemyaza were now surrounded by tall, dark shapes, clad in black leather. Her whole body weakened. They were as good as dead. She had failed him.
‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered. Shemyaza, now standing close behind her, did not answer.
One of their pursuers stepped towards them. His face was as severe as if it was fashioned from painted iron; his eyes were the blue of new steel. ‘Peverel Othman,’ he said in a clear, toneless voice.
Shemyaza’s body tensed. ‘You know who I am,’ he said. ‘As I know you: Prometheus.’
The man�
��s cold, handsome face cracked into a smile. ‘So, you know one of my names. I am impressed.’
‘You must let me pass, Prometheus. Do not attempt to obstruct me.’
The other laughed. ‘Alas, we cannot allow you to go any further.’ His smile faded. ‘We tolerated Othman, because he was just a directionless mass of havoc energy — quite entertaining. We were prepared to tolerate Shemyaza too, as long as he remained an icon of worship within the Masonic halls of minor, Grigori cabals. But now it appears you want to change things. We are intrigued as to how you intend to do this.’
Shemyaza spoke monotonously, as if he was reciting lines from an ancient text. ‘I have come to the land of my ancestors to put wrong to right. I will open up the Chambers of Light and return to the source of our creation.’
The leader of the Black Sun laughed coldly. ‘How commendable! And just how will you accomplish these things, Anakim? Do you intend to offer a sacrifice, through blood and the fires of hell?’
‘My offering is love,’ Shemyaza answered stonily.
His adversary pantomimed exaggerated concern. ‘Indeed? Then it seems we really do have a problem. Loving and killing: it’s all the same. They both initiate change, and we don’t want change to occur. Let’s just say we like the world as it is.’ He raised a hand.
Shemyaza said no more, as if resigned to whatever would happen next. Melandra, dazed beside him, wondered why he had revealed his purpose to these soulless creatures. Couldn’t he summon his own power now and destroy his adversaries?
The dark brotherhood moved towards them, from every side. Melandra put her shoulder against Shemyaza’s chest, and urged him to retreat, until they were pressed back against the wall of a shuttered house. Her mind was churning with a thousand unconnected thoughts: memories of her childhood; Nathaniel Fox’s face; the queen of Babylon; traffic in the city centre.
Prometheus strode towards them, his hands clasped behind his back. His silent companions parted to let him pass between them. Halting directly in front of their captives, he sneered in Melandra’s face. ‘My dear, you, and your incompetent commanders of the Children of Lamech, have inconvenienced us greatly. We dislike dealing with these messy, sordid matters ourselves, but unfortunately your untimely defection has left us no alternative. We are busy people, and traitors have to pay for disrupting our routine.’
Melandra felt weak now; her blood pumped out between her numb fingers onto the dirt of the road. An enervating force that poured from the dark brotherhood amplified the effects of her wound. Her legs could no longer support her weight and she sank down to kneel, swaying, before her towering enemy. Tiny, bright motes pulsed before her eyes, but she was still able to see that the Brethren of the Black Sun were all armed; not with guns, or the silvery cutting disks, but with what appeared to be knives or daggers. Perhaps because she was losing consciousness, it seemed to her as if the knives had no real form. They were like black holes in the shape of blades; non-reflecting, made of shadows.
‘You, traitoress,’ hissed Prometheus, ‘have reached the end of your life. You have abandoned your god, so you die in sin. Look forward to hell, little assassin. You will have an eternity to reflect upon the rashness of your apostasy.’
The dark figures closed in, their shadow-daggers raised. Their leader stood, hands on hips, appraising Shemyaza with dispassionate eyes. ‘Few things have the power to destroy you completely, but rest assured these blades will not only end your physical life but annihilate your soul.’
Shemyaza did not move. Melandra leaned against his legs now, and it seemed to her as if a torrent of soothing strength flowed out of him into her. Why wasn’t he afraid or angry? She wanted to rise up and fight for him, but her strength had gone.
‘Helen, I really think we should go back now.’ Lily’s voice had changed from sounding merely tense to fearful. ‘It’s horrible here. We can’t stay.’ The empty streets had closed in around them, watchful and threatening. Dust rose in eddies on the road ahead of them, but there was no wind. They walked through an ochre gloom. The sky, the buildings around them, even the air glowed with a deep, orange tint. No-one lived here or walked here: it seemed no-one ever had.
‘Not long now,’ Helen murmured. She let go of her mother’s hand and tilted back her head, as if listening to something.
Lily frowned. ‘I can’t hear anything.’ She paused. ‘Helen, listen. There isn’t a single, normal sound. No traffic, no people, not even the wind. Even our voices sound muffled. We’ve got to get out of here.’
‘Mum, it’s all right,’ Helen said softly. ‘We’re not in danger.’ She lifted Met-Met’s jar before her face and slowly unscrewed the cap.
‘What are you doing?’ Lily asked in a whisper.
Her daughter glanced up at her with a disturbingly adult expression. ‘He is in terrible danger,’ she said. ‘I have to help him.’
‘Who’s in danger? Where?’
‘Shemyaza,’ Helen said. ‘He is near to us now. Very near.’ She removed the lid of the jar completely.
‘He’s here?’ Lily’s voice was soft. She appeared to accept Helen’s words without argument. Her eyes stared without blinking at the motionless scarab within the jar, as if she expected it to spring to life at any moment and launch itself from confinement.
The scarab did not move, but a sound came out of its container. At first, it was hardly more than a sigh, like scouring sand rubbing against dry grasses, but gradually it changed into a rapid clicking, as if a thousand insects were trapped within the jar and snapping their wing-cases. Met-Met still lay alone in the bottom of the glass, but Lily and Helen could hear an enormous swarm of insects that whirred and chattered its way up in the evening sky. They poured invisibly out the jar, and the noise of their chitinous wings filled the air.
‘Fly!’ Helen shouted, flinging out her arms. She still held the jar in one hand.
For a moment, Lily saw an amorphous dark cloud hanging over them. Instinctively, she ducked, but then the swarm was speeding away from them over the roofs of the buildings. Lily clutched at her face, staring between her fingers at the burning sky.
With precise movements, Helen carefully recapped the jar, where the body of Met-Met still lay inert, and offered it to Lily to put into her shoulder-bag. ‘We can go now,’ she said.
Lily scraped her hands through her hair, swallowed. ‘Where?’ she asked in a hoarse voice. ‘Where can we go?’ She knew in her heart they would not be returning to the hotel. Something had begun here, like a spring pushing its way up through the ground. Now, they were caught in its current.
‘To the great lion,’ Helen said and took her mother’s hand in her own once more.
‘Is Shem there?’ Lily asked.
‘It is where he wants us to go,’ Helen answered.
Together they began to retrace their steps through the silent streets.
The Brethren of the Black Sun were so close to their prey now, they were forced to step through the puddle of Melandra’s blood. She could no longer tell if her left hand was still clamped around her right wrist and wished, wearily, that it could all be over. If death was to happen, let it be quick. She was prepared to face whatever came after. But these dreadful faces, these cold, inhuman men: she could not tolerate their proximity. They seemed to be advancing in slow motion, relishing the fear and pain they saw in her eyes. Shemyaza was like a statue behind her; she could no longer feel his warmth.
Then, a strange sound, like the rushing of a field of corn, filled Melandra’s ears. She blinked, forcing her heavy eyes to focus upon the source of the sound. Was it simply the approach of death, the rustle of his sere robes brushing against the ground? When would the fatal blows fall?
She closed her eyes for a moment, but became aware that movement had ceased around her. Forcing her lids apart, she saw that the Brethren had halted their approach. They had raised their heads to the sky and were sniffing at the air like dogs. They seemed perturbed. Then, Prometheus spoke a rapid phrase in a language she did not re
cognise. The rushing sound had grown louder. It was no longer the susurration of corn, but something like the whirring of a million insect wings. She thought of locusts, a biblical plague. Blinking, she tried to focus on the sky, but could see nothing. The Brethren had begun to slap at their heads and shoulders, as if assailed by invisible insects. Melandra drew in a painful breath. Either her sight was truly fading, or the air had become black and dense, but not with anything that she could actually see. She could not describe what she was seeing; it was perceived within the deepest level of her being.
One by one the Brethren fell to the ground, clutching at their throats. A writhing, formless dark mass swarmed all over their bodies, probing with invisible feelers, pushing relentlessly into all orifices. The mouths of the Brethren were stretched into hideous blackening holes as they gasped for breath. Melandra watched them turn blue, their movements become fewer, until they lay motionless on the street around their erstwhile prisoners. Their destruction had taken less than three minutes. A faint, ground level breeze scattered grains of dust over the still, open eyes. Dust gathered in the folds of clothing, between lips, in hair. Melandra imagined that very soon, the attackers would be nothing more than unrecognisable, sand-covered mounds in the street. It seemed as if the desert was prepared to take them already, even here in this back-street of Old Babylon.
Shemyaza uttered a short sigh, leaned down and lifted Melandra to her feet. ‘Those who hate change should learn that it is always inevitable,’ he said. ‘Here ends the Brethren whose legacy has initiated all holy wars throughout human history.’
Stealing Sacred Fire Page 34