The Paradise Prophecy

by Robert Browne

  “We’ve had this argument before,” Sunglasses said. “But even the execution of their so-called savior didn’t give us the power we need.”

  The German snorted. “Proof that he was as mortal as the rest of them.”

  “But if those ancient rumors are true, the Telum will change the game. And I thought we all agreed what our first priority is.”

  The businessman shook his head. “I made no such agreement. I see no reason to abandon the tried and true in hopes that a fairy tale might bear fruit.”

  The woman leaned toward him now.

  “Tried and true?” she said incredulously. “Like the Crusades? The Black Death? World War Two? Your efforts have fallen short time and again, Radek, and the sooner you put that ego of yours in check, the better off we’ll all be.”

  The businessman flicked his gaze toward her, his eyes cold with contempt. “I’d advise you to watch your tongue, my dear. If you think I’d hesitate to cut it off, you’re sadly mistaken.”

  “You’re certainly welcome to try.”

  Ajda watched in horror as the two stared at each other, neither willing to look away.

  “Enough,” Sunglasses said. “These petty disputes only serve to divide us, and we can’t afford that now. If Custodes Sacri is indeed active again, then we can use them to our advantage. They do, after all, hold the key to what we seek. And that knowledge is as important as the Telum itself.”

  The German looked doubtful. “What makes you think they’ll be any different than the others of their kind? We’ve tried working with them before.”

  “It only takes one.”

  “Assuming you can find any of them.”

  The woman smiled now. “This is why I summoned you all to Esau.”

  “Oh?”

  She gestured toward the window. “The auction house across the street. My friend seems to believe the owner is one of them. A rancid little beast named Ozan.”

  “And he knows this how?”

  “He’s a student of our world. Seems to know more about it than I do myself. And despite his failings, his intellect is quite formidable. He could be useful to us.”

  The businessman glanced at the other two men, then smirked at her. “It’s quite obvious you have a soft spot for this pathetic creature.”

  She studied him coldly. “Now whose tongue is in danger?”

  “Let’s get back to the problem at hand,” Sunglasses said, then turned again to the woman, once more stroking the small of her back. “I assume you’d prefer to handle the matter?”

  “I think it’s only fitting, don’t you?”

  “How so?” the businessman asked.

  “You’ve all had your chances to prove yourselves. Now it’s mine. And even if this Ozan creature fails to give us what we need, he’ll no longer be an obstacle.” She smiled. “By the time I’m finished, none of them will.”

  Sunglasses looked at the others. “There you have it then. You two can continue doing what you so love and leave the rest to us. Are we all in agreement?”

  The other men seemed to hesitate a moment, as if giving in were somehow equivalent to a battle lost. Then there were nods all around as each of the four raised a palm, saying in unison, “A posse ad esse.”

  Ajda froze in place as a shiver ran through her bones. She had dropped all pretense now and was staring openly at them, certain that what she was witnessing was the planning of a crime of some kind. Possibly even murder.

  What else could it be?

  The woman glanced up sharply and Ajda quickly averted her gaze. She had to speak to Ferid. He knew people. Could summon the police. The auction house was closed at this hour, so maybe they could warn this man Ozan before these horrid people got to him.

  But as she turned to flee to the kitchen, she stopped short, surprised to find the woman standing directly in front of her-an impossible feat that confused Ajda, rendering her momentarily immobile.

  “You speak Russian,” the woman said.

  A statement, not a question.

  Alarmed, Ajda swiveled her head to look at the others, for fear they might be coming for her. But to her further surprise, the table was empty except for four untouched cups of tea. There was no other indication that the men had ever been here at all.

  “You’re quite lovely,” the woman continued, now speaking Turkish with the fluency of a native. And as Ajda tried to move past her, she quickly discovered that her immobility was not temporary at all.

  The woman looked her straight in the eyes. And just as Ajda had feared, this was no ordinary gaze. It felt as if a foreign entity had invaded her body.

  But not, she realized, an unpleasant one.

  “I’m sure all the boys adore you,” the woman said, then gave her a small, knowing smile. “And perhaps some of their sisters, too?”

  Then, without even a hint of hesitation, she reached forward and gently cupped Ajda’s left breast, brushing a neatly manicured thumb across the fabric covering her nipple.

  To Ajda’s astonishment, she was not offended nor embarrassed by this. It didn’t bother her that a complete stranger was touching her in a place that no woman had ever touched. It didn’t even concern her that the door to the cafe was unlocked and that someone might walk in at any moment.

  It was as if she were dreaming. A dream she had no desire to awaken from. One with no restrictions, no taboos.

  Her senses were whirling. This woman’s touch had stirred something inside her. Something primal. And as her body reacted, she suddenly felt . . . free. Free to act on her impulses without judgment.

  “So beautiful,” the woman said, then ran her hands down the front of Ajda’s blouse, unbuttoning it, dropping it to the floor. With a quick, practiced motion, she unhooked Ajda’s bra, then leaned forward and kissed the spot where her thumb had just been.

  Ajda didn’t resist.

  Had no desire to.

  Whatever fear she had felt before had vanished along with her modesty, and she found the sensation of this stranger’s tongue to be quite exhilarating.

  Something loosened inside of her, something wet and wonderful-a feeling that Ferid, with all of his fumbling, had never been able to awaken.

  And as they sank together to the floor, hands roaming, fingers exploring, all Ajda could think about was the hunger she felt.

  She wanted more.

  Give me more.

  BOOK II

  The Fall and Rise of Gabriela Zuada

  I fled and cry’d out, Death!

  Hell trembl’d at the hideous Name, and sigh’d

  From all her Caves, and back resounded Death!

  -Paradise Lost, 1667 ed., II:787-89

  3

  SAO PAULO, BRAZIL

  Her screams were what told them she was in trouble.

  Before that, Alejandro and the others had assumed that she’d merely wanted time alone, as she often did. And despite the danger, despite her utter carelessness, the moment the show was over, she had managed to slip away from them and disappear.

  Some might have considered it a prima donna move. But Gabriela Zuada was no prima donna.

  Alejandro knew this better than anyone.

  After nearly a year as her personal manager, and three before that running Lar do Coracao-Gabriela’s Home of the Heart charity-he had never seen her throw a temper tantrum, had never seen her raise her voice in anger, had never seen her make a single reckless move that would lower her to the level of any of the flavor-of-the-week pop stars who had come and gone over the years.

  But the woman liked her privacy. Especially after a performance. And Alejandro knew that the hordes of ravenous fans, the paparazzi, and all the trappings of superstardom sometimes got to be too much for her. So he had assumed, along with everyone else in Gabriela’s entourage, that this was why she had quietly disappeared.

  He had only turned away for a moment, to make another phone call. One minute she was walking alongside him, the next she was gone. A trick she had perfected after several months of pr
actice.

  Alejandro couldn’t count the number of times he had patiently explained to her that she was not only a public figure, but a controversial one as well, and that she must stay with her bodyguards at all times.

  But Gabriela rarely listened. She may not have been a prima donna, but she definitely had a mind of her own.

  This was the last night of her Glory Revealed World Tour, and Gabriela had always liked to end with a show here in Sao Paulo. Had once said to Alejandro, back in the days when she had shared his bed, that home was the only place she truly felt safe.

  “This is where God chose to put me on this earth,” she’d said as she snuggled up close, pressing a warm breast against his arm. “Where his angel watches over me.”

  Alejandro had loved the feel of her skin against his. The rise and fall of her chest as she breathed into his ear. Missed it even now, all these months later.

  They had both known that their affair was a sin, but had succumbed to temptation more than once-seventeen glorious times, to be precise-until the guilt had finally driven Gabriela to break it off.

  “How can I preach chastity to young girls when I’m not chaste myself?”

  It was a fair question. One that Alejandro couldn’t argue with.

  But when he had broached the subject of marriage, Gabriela had scoffed. She had no time for such things. Not with the ministry finally taking off, not with all the work that had to be done.

  She would only allow herself to be committed to the Lord and no one else. And she must serve as an example of purity in a world polluted by mankind’s weaknesses-especially now, when that world was quickly headed toward the oblivion of hell, when economies were failing and the streets were filled with so much anger and hate.

  She had never seen such unrest, she’d told Alejandro. Several months ago, at a concert in Greece, a near riot had broken out for no other reason than someone mistakenly sat in the wrong seat. It had taken a plea from Gabriela herself to calm the crowd.

  Shortly after that night, she had broken it off with Alejandro. She had somehow gotten it into her head that her growing lack of attention to her own faith had rubbed off on others, and the only way she could fight against the chaos was to renew her vow to the Father.

  It was bad enough, she said, that she was forced to get up on that stage and shake her hips. Some in the church were appalled by her overtly sexual performances, but they couldn’t complain about the results. Gabriela had brought young people from all over the globe into the fold, and she considered a few pelvic thrusts a small compromise, as long as they never overshadowed the larger message in her music:

  God is good.

  God is great.

  God is the light in a world of darkness.

  Besides, who ever said children of the Lord couldn’t be sexual? Hadn’t He given them these urges for a reason? And maybe, just maybe, He approved.

  But Gabriela had eventually drawn the line at continuing to sleep with Alejandro. As much as she’d loved their nights together-or so she had claimed-she could no longer allow herself to sin.

  “So this is it,” she had said as she climbed atop him and guided him inside her for the very last time. “Tomorrow is a new beginning. Tomorrow I give myself to God and no one else.”

  God is a lucky man, Alejandro had thought.

  Then he’d closed his eyes and reveled in the feel of that thrusting pelvis against his, in the knowledge that he had tasted the sweetness that was Gabriela Zuada, a sweetness that had brought him such unbridled pleasure that he would remember it with exquisite clarity for the rest of his life.

  And now, as he strode with a platoon of bodyguards, searching the maze of corridors backstage for the woman he loved-a maze that hadn’t seemed quite so confusing before this moment-Alejandro once again remembered that last sinful night, relishing his good fortune.

  And despite being cut off from those amazing bodily treasures . . . the perfect breasts, the skilled hands, the rolling tongue, that dark, delicious hair . . . Despite the fact that Gabriela was nowhere to be found in this impossibly confusing place, a sense of calm washed over Alejandro and he felt at peace with the world.

  Until the acrid smell of gasoline filled his nostrils, and Gabriela began to scream.

  4

  Ten minutes before those screams, Gabriela Zuada stood onstage with her bandmates, their hands locked together as they took their final bow.

  The crowd was cheering, many of them on their feet, some even chanting, “Santa Gabriela, Santa Gabriela, Santa Gabriela . . .” as they showered the stage with flowers and candies.

  Scooping up one of the flowers-a bloodred rose-Gabriela threw it into the air, then lifted her chin toward the rafters and shouted, “Gloria a Deus, nosso Pai!”

  The crowd went wild, hands thrusting heavenward as they repeated her words in unison, over and over, tears streaming down their faces, tears full of joy and hope and the promise of salvation.

  And in that moment, Gabriela-bone weary, drenched in sweat-thought:

  They would do anything for you.

  Anything at all.

  Then the thought was gone, skittering away like a roach exposed to a kitchen light, and Gabriela felt a chill run through her.

  Where had that come from?

  How could she think such a horrible thing?

  It was true that she wasn’t feeling well tonight, had been concerned that she was coming down with a cold and fever and might not make it through the entire show, but was that enough to put such thoughts into her head?

  Before she could take any time to analyze the moment, Francisco, Rafael and the others waved to the crowd and headed offstage. Gabriela fell in behind them, blowing one last kiss to her fans as she disappeared behind a wall of amplifiers.

  By the time she reached the ramp at the back of the stage, the thought was forgotten, overtaken by the sudden realization that her feet were killing her. All she wanted was to get out of these shoes, into a limousine, take the short ride home to her penthouse in the heart of Sao Paulo, then swallow a handful of aspirin and go to bed.

  That wasn’t too much to ask, was it?

  As she reached the bottom of the ramp and handed her headgear to the sound technician, Alejandro and her bodyguards surrounded her, escorting her toward a dimly lit hallway behind the stage.

  Alejandro handed her a towel, a bottle of lemon-lime Gatorade and her cell phone. Their usual ritual.

  The phone was Alejandro’s idea. He thought it absolutely essential that she have one with her at all times. A security precaution.

  It was true that Gabriela had ruffled some feathers by speaking out against the drug lords here in Sao Paulo, but she sometimes felt that Alejandro was too paranoid for his own good.

  “Outstanding show, querida. We’ve finished the tour on a high note.”

  Gabriela tucked the phone into her back pocket, wiped her face and neck, then returned the towel to him and took a swig of Gatorade. “I was off-key half the night. I think my ears are going.”

  “Nonsense.” He reached out and squeezed her hand. “They loved you. We all love you.”

  She gave him a small squeeze back, feeling a tiny twinge of guilt. Their history together would always be a source of discomfort for her, and she quickly withdrew her hand as they moved into the hallway.

  Alejandro didn’t seem to notice. He had his own phone pressed to his ear now and was calling for the limousine to be brought around back. He was in fine spirits tonight, but Gabriela often worried about him, feared that she had broken his heart.

  It was easy to admit that she loved him, but there were things about her that Alejandro could never know. A secret she couldn’t reveal. And the closer she had gotten to him, the more she had wanted to share that secret.

  So she had stepped away. Just as she had stepped away from the streets. And the parties. And her addiction to Poeira do diabo.

  Devil dust.

  They veered left, taking an adjoining hallway, and Gabriela was surprised
by this. She had played this venue many times before, yet the layout seemed different somehow. Backwards. She could’ve sworn that the last time she was here, it had veered to the right, following a straight line to a set of double doors that led to the loading dock.

  But not this time. And it occurred to her that either she was crazy or she was simply confused by the many weeks of touring and the hundred other backstage passageways she had traveled.

  Up ahead, the fluorescent lights were flickering, and Gabriela was suddenly struck by the memory of a much darker time in her life. A time when she and her best friend, Sofie, would get high in a gas station bathroom, the light above the cracked, graffiti-laden mirror flickering endlessly as they shared a pipe.

  It was Sofie’s death that had brought Gabriela to God. And every night, when she spoke to Him, she made sure to include a prayer for her lost friend.

  She was remembering one of their better times together (riding their bicycles on the streets of the favela) as she and the others passed under that harsh, flickering light.

  Then something odd happened.

  Gabriela felt a short, abrupt tug, as if she’d been hooked to a wire and yanked forward. For a moment she thought she was still wearing the harness she donned at the top of every show-the one that allowed her to make her entrance by swooping over the audience liked a winged angel as she sang the opening bars of “Paradise City.”

  But that made no sense. She had discarded the harness by her second number and had gone through six costume changes since.

  Yet she felt the pull of that wire as plainly as she had felt the squeeze of Alejandro’s hand. And without warning, she stumbled forward into sudden darkness-seemed to be drowning in it-only to emerge on the other side to find herself alone. Standing in yet another dim corridor.

  Gabriela stopped, whirled. “Alejandro?”

  But Alejandro wasn’t there. Neither were any of her bodyguards. One minute she had been surrounded by them, listening to their voices reverberate against the walls-