“I’ve been so blind,” he said, his hand coming to rest at last on the ancient words of the Prophecy. Without looking up, he resumed speaking.
“The rock has a very long lineage as a relic. It was the instrument of the first sin committed by mankind after leaving the Garden. Imagine that. Your race falls, and yet it is penitent and resists its nature for all that time, only to fall prey to the most heinous of crimes one could imagine.
“You rightly question why the Prophecy says the rock perverted Cain. It is an inanimate object, after all. And yet as he held it in his hand, it seemed to Cain as if it throbbed with life, as if it were speaking to him, goading him into taking what was his: the rightful place of honor that his brother, Abel, had so thoughtlessly stolen from him. And when he held it later, dripping and glistening with the life force of his brother, it almost seemed to mock him for his weakness. The rock was the instrument of his temptation, and thus it earned its status as a perversion.”
“You talk about it as if you were there.”
“I saw it all,” he said, sorrow tingeing his voice.
I imagined him watching from afar, unable or perhaps too proud to intervene when mankind, which he had defended so mightily, proved unworthy of his faith.
He lifted his head and smiled sadly. “Just as money could be the root of all evil, this rock compelled your race down the path of its own destruction. It broke open the dam that had been so precariously built to save you from yourselves. After Cain struck down Abel, there was no hope of turning back.”
I squirmed where I sat, suddenly aware of how weak he must think mankind. How disappointing we must be to him. To God.
He shrugged, as if reading my thoughts, and continued.
“The angels who resented God’s creation of humanity seized upon this sin. Proof, they cried, that mankind is soiled and rotten to its very core. Proof that the cause of mankind is hopeless. Wishful thinking. The right thing to do, they declared, the righteous thing, was to wipe out man’s existence on Earth before he sullied anything more in God’s creation.”
He paused, his eyes far away, his fingers twitching over the scroll as he remembered the ancient argument.
“But you fought for us,” I whispered, the realization dawning on me suddenly.
His eyes snapped back into focus as he looked me full in the face, a look of amusement dancing across his gray visage.
“So quick with your intuition these days, aren’t you? Yes, I defended you. My band held off those who would have exterminated you all, and I led Cain away to safety, where he lived out his life as an exile.
“So why is it called the Key of Righteousness?” he pondered almost to himself. “I have never heard of it referred to in that way—if I had, I would have immediately recognized it in the verses.” He busied himself with refolding the paper. “I suppose it is because the self-righteous angels, consumed with jealousy, seized upon it as their proof, their justification, for that which they wished to do.”
He rose slowly to his feet, his movements those of an ancient and weary soldier rather than of the young man he appeared to be. He turned to the window. “What Cain did split the angels into two camps, permanently. Many who had been obedient to God’s will before that were appalled at the ugliness his creation had unleashed upon the world and chose to side with the ones who would exterminate mankind.”
I crept up behind him and touched him lightly on the shoulder. “And they blamed you for stopping them.”
He stiffened, but he did not shrug off my hand. “They blamed me, and they sealed their own fate as the Fallen.”
He turned around, bringing himself within inches of my body. Every bit of me was vibrating with energy, longing to close the space between us, to be even closer to him. But I could not move, did not dare move. I looked up into his face, unable to breathe. His eyes were sad. Resigned.
“It all comes back to the war between you,” I said.
“If they win their way back in, everything will change.” As he said the words, his entire countenance changed, breaking the spell he seemed to have on me. His eyes glinted with steel and his back straightened; he was the warrior once again. “It won’t be Armageddon. It will be much, much worse.”
“What could be worse than Armageddon?” I whispered, numb with fear.
“Armageddon ends with the holy in Paradise. There will be no Paradise if the Fallen Ones have their way. We must find that Key before they do.” He brushed past me, walking purposefully about the room, gathering up his things in a knapsack that I hadn’t even noticed before. I let the shock of his words settle softly about me like folds of cloth, insulating me from the horrible reality of the danger we faced.
Don’t just stand there. Ask him where it is, Henri urged, frustrated.
“What happened to it? The Key?” I breathed, trying to stay calm as I watched Michael pack. “Did you take it with you when you helped Cain escape?”
He snorted, shoving something into the bag as if he would punish it. “What would I do with that? Better to have thrown it into the sea where it would never be found.” He stopped his packing and looked at me curiously. “You honestly don’t know where it is?”
I shook my head. “I don’t. It all kind of clicked for me last night, but knowing what the Key was is as far as I got.”
Michael mumbled something under his breath and resumed shoving things into the pack with a vengeance.
“What did you say?”
“Nothing,” he muttered between clenched teeth. “But to answer your question, the rock in question was seized upon by some misguided humans who wanted to preserve it. Because of my association with the incident, I have had the misfortune of having it linked to me on occasion.”
“I don’t understand.”
His jaw tightened in frustration, and he threw his pack down onto the rumpled bed. “I expected you to be able to keep up, what with your sudden burst of insight.”
I felt my face redden. “I’m sorry, but I don’t think that was called for. I’m just trying to understand.”
He blew out a long breath, raking his hand through his hair.
“They started treating it as a relic. Humans. They put it in shrines, toted it out for blessings and miracles and the like. Most of the time it was locked up in crypts inside churches that were dedicated to me: the defender and savior of mankind,” he added bitterly.
“Then you must know where it is!”
Michael threw his arms down in frustration and looked at me. “How convenient that would be,” he said, sarcasm dripping from his words. “But no, I have not been blessed with such knowledge. I haven’t seen it in centuries.” He walked off toward the tiny bathroom.
Panic started building inside of me; whether it was from his sudden change of mood or the feeling that we were lost once again, I wasn’t sure. I trailed after him, trying to reason with him.
“When did you last see it? Maybe we can start from there.”
He turned in the hallway and loomed before me. Once again, I was reminded of how small I was.
“Why must you torture me so?” The vein in his forehead was throbbing again, and I couldn’t help noticing that he was gripping his hands into fists, restless, I supposed, to fight.
I took a deep breath and willed myself not to shrink back from his anger. “I’m not trying to torture you. I’m trying to help you find the Key. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”
He stared morosely at me before, with an effort, he relaxed and moved away from me. “It was in Turkey. Before the Crusades.”
I didn’t speak, but I urged him on with my eyes.
“There was a shrine there dedicated to me, built around a spring. It has been destroyed for a long time. There is nothing to see there now.”
I let out the breath I hadn’t known I was holding. “That’s something to go on. Before the Crusades, you say?”
He nodded tersely, his body still filling up the tiny hallway. An idea popped into my head.
“Maybe
it’s on one of the pilgrimage routes. Maybe someone spirited it away to keep it safe, and it is in one of your churches along the way. Surely there are other churches in Turkey, where it could be hidden?”
Michael rolled the idea around in his brain, nodding slowly. “It could be. People had certainly gone to great lengths to preserve it before.” He eyed me suspiciously. “This idea—it just came to you? Just like that, out of thin air?”
Henri snorted. He doesn’t like having the tables turned.
Confused, I ignored Henri’s comment. “Yes, it just seemed to make sense. Anyway, it’s the only idea I have. Do you have anything better to go on?”
Michael rolled his eyes. “No. No, I do not.”
He turned away and walked out into the hallway, not stopping as he stated, “Get yourself ready. We’re going to Turkey.”
The door slammed behind him, leaving me to wonder what I had done wrong this time.
I jumped when Henri, unbidden, answered my question. He’s afraid he has lost his gift of intuition.
“His what?” I asked.
Michael always operates on hunches, remember? That feeling he has that guides him to be in the right place at the right time.
“Yes,” I said, not understanding. “Why is he afraid he has lost it?”
God’s little joke, Henri chuckled. On the off chance someone actually survives an—ahem—inappropriate liaison with an angel, God has arranged it so that the lucky human gets a bonus prize. They drain a little bit of that angelic energy out of their lover, gaining angelic qualities at the very time they strip away what made the other special.
“You mean—” I let my voice drift off as Henri’s words sunk in.
Your miraculous healing, your sudden realization of what the Key is—those weren’t accidents, Hope. You were only able to do those things because you’ve taken away some of Michael’s powers. The very powers he relies upon to fulfill his role as Archangel.
“That’s why he couldn’t find us the other night,” I whispered, horrified.
And that’s why he has no clue where to look for the Key, Henri added. He laughed, full of spite. Such a comeuppance for him, don’t you think?
“He must hate me,” I said. I stared at the closed door, suddenly understanding the sarcasm and resentment that had driven him to stalk off. “Surely he knew this would happen before now?”
Apparently not, Henri responded. That’s what makes this so delicious. I’m actually surprised he managed to figure it out at all, but I guess he’d have to be in complete denial to miss the signs.
“Oh, Michael,” I whispered, raising my hand as if I could reach him. “I’m so sorry.”
Don’t be sorry. Now that he knows he cannot search for the Key without you, he has to keep you alive—at least for now. But stay on your toes. He undoubtedly will resent you. If you anger him, there is no telling what he might do.
“But, Henri, what do I do?” I pleaded with my Guardian, thankful that there was someone I could trust watching my back.
Stay one step ahead of him, Henri whispered. Find the Key. And don’t let him know that you know.
twenty-one
“Mrs. Carmichael, you’d better sit down.”
A surge of impatience went through Mona as she heard Agent Hale’s voice. A neat stack of used paper cups sat in front of her on the table, marking the hours she had spent idling at the FBI’s offices the day after Don had mysteriously arrived at her garage. She had been waiting for any news. She wasn’t used to having to wait. She wasn’t used to being told what to do, and it rankled her to feel so useless.
“I’m already sitting,” she said drily, looking up at him where he stood in the doorway.
“Ah, yes,” Hale said, shuffling through a stack of papers before turning his attention to her. “On second thought, why don’t you come out here? It’s probably going to be easier to show you than to try and explain it.”
For a second, Mona thought her heart had stopped beating. She looked up at him, waiting for him to share whatever news he had, but instead he simply gestured toward the sea of computers that filled the large, open room. She stood up, her bones aching, and followed him out. They wound through the desks in silence.
They stopped at a large station where several agents were huddling. Giant television screens and maps filled the space around the bank of computers. Clayton was standing in the small crowd. He gave her a tiny half-smile, reaching his hand out toward her.
She sucked in her breath and looked at his hand, wondering how bad the news would be. Slowly, she placed her hand in his and he gave it a little squeeze.
“You’ll want to come closer,” he said quietly, pulling her in.
Mona took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. “Tell me.”
Hale cleared his throat. “We aren’t sure what to make of it, ma’am. But here is what we have. Your husband’s phone signal establishes his location at the time of your conversation as Alabama, here,” he said, pointing to the map, “just as he led you to believe. But the last signal we have for your daughter’s phone places her here.” His hand swung a big arc across the map, landing on the western half of the United States. “In Las Vegas.”
Mona’s mind came into sharp focus. “When was the signal?”
“A few days ago, presumably at the time you called. Shortly after that, the signal went dead. The phone must have been destroyed.”
“So he did take her,” she whispered, hardly believing it. “But not until after I talked with him.”
“We thought so, too,” Hale interrupted. “But it gets more complicated. When we went through security tape from the airport, we found confirmation of their departure to Las Vegas.”
He picked up a remote control and pressed a few buttons. The television above her head sprang to life and a fuzzy picture started up. The shots were cut together, erratically jumping from scene to scene, but they were clear enough for her to see her daughter, filthy and disheveled, being escorted through various points—the ticket counter, security line, and gate—her husband, Don, at her side. The footage ended with them in the boarding process.
“I don’t understand,” Mona said sharply. “That is him, clear as day. This proves he did it.”
“Look at the date and time stamp in the corner, Mona,” Clayton said gently.
She looked at the digital numbers flashing in the corner, not comprehending until Clayton broke the silence once more.
“This footage is from almost a week ago. Well before you spoke with Don.”
Her mind lashed out, refusing to accept what the flashing numbers were telling her. “But that doesn’t mean anything. He took her there and he came back,” she asserted, refusing to believe what she was hearing.
“They checked that, Mona. While they can find the credit card charges for the trip out, there are no records of him coming back from Las Vegas, not on any flight.” Clayton pressed her hand, hard, as he spoke, as if willing her to think harder. She looked up at him.
“But—” her voice trailed off. “Maybe he went under a pseudonym?”
Hale shook his head. “We ran every manifest through the computer. Nothing checked out.”
She didn’t know what to think.
“Show her the rest,” Clayton commanded. Hale nodded once, and the agent sitting at the computer began to type furiously. A second television screen sprang to life with another fuzzy image. She watched frame after frame of her husband, standing behind the counter at the Taco Bell, working the drive-thru window, talking to guests.
With a sinking feeling, she looked at the time stamp of the film and compared it to the one that was frozen in place on the airport footage. They were the same.
“That’s not possible,” she whispered.
They all watched as the restaurant security tapes jumped ahead one more day, then another, then another, accounting for her husband’s presence for every day that Hope had been missing—except, of course, for yesterday morning, when he’d shown up at her house, a
nd today.
Hale pointed his remote control at the television bank and the screens went black. “The time-clock data from the restaurant confirms what we see in the security tapes. He punched in and out every day. Your husband never left Alabama. Not even to come up to Atlanta.”
She felt like she was floating above the scene now, not a part of it but far away, taking it all in so she could process it later when she was at a safe distance. Clayton’s insistent voice pulled her back in.
“Mona, are you listening?”
“I’m sorry,” she said, blinking back the tears that were threatening to come. “I was just thinking about what this all meant. You were saying?”
“There’s one more video. Are you up for watching it?”
Fear gnawed at her stomach. What more could there be that they hadn’t yet told her?
Ignoring the pit in her middle, she nodded. Clayton squeezed her hand again. She looked at him gratefully.
“This last one we’re streaming in from our offices in Las Vegas,” explained Hale. “You’ll have to bear with us.” The agent at the computer again typed furiously, bringing the video feed to the screen.
“This shows someone who looks like Hope walking through one of the casinos,” Hale narrated. She squinted hard. It was Hope, but her daughter was dressed in clothes Mona had never seen before, and she looked way too grown up. She seemed uncomfortable, tugging at her skirt and wobbling on the high sandals she was wearing. Mona squinted again.
“Her neck. She isn’t covering her Mark,” she mumbled in shock, pointing at the screen. The poor resolution made it hard to see the markings themselves, but Hope’s neck was clearly uncovered, her hair upswept, and she didn’t seem to be attempting to shield the strange tattoo-like pattern from any stranger’s gaze.
Mona leaned in closer to the monitor. At Hope’s side was a man who looked like Don, but who was dressed to the nines and acting way too familiar with the environment, striding confidently between the tables. He didn’t have the humble shuffle that had somehow overtaken Don’s walk over the years. She watched the footage of them winding around the casino floor as Hale narrated what the FBI had learned.
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