by Aiden James
Plague of Coins
The Judas Chronicles
by
Aiden James
Created by J.R. Rain
Acclaim for Aiden James:
“Aiden James has written a deeply psychological, gripping tale that keeps the readers hooked from page one.” Bookfinds review for “The Forgotten Eden”
“Not only is Aiden James a storyteller par excellence, but his material for his story is riveting.” Ruth Wilson, Huntress Reviews, for “The Forgotten Eden”
“The hook to this excellent suspense thriller is the twists that will keep readers wondering what is going on as nothing is quite what it seems. Adding to the excitement is that the audience will wonder whether the terror is an evil supernatural creature or an amoral human…Aiden James provides a dark thriller that grips fans from the opening.” Harriet Klausner, for “The Forgotten Eden”
“Aiden James writing style flows very easily and I found that Cades Cove snowballed into a very gripping tale. Clearly the strengths in the piece were as the spirit's interaction became prevalent with the family…. The Indian lore and ceremonies and the flashbacks to Allie Mae's (earthly) demise were very powerful. I think those aspects separated the work from what we've seen before in horror and ghost tales.” Evelyn Klebert, Author of “A Ghost of a Chance”, “Dragonflies”, and “An Uneasy Traveler” for “Cades Cove”
“The intense writing style of Aiden James kept my eyes glued to the story and the pages seemed to fly by at warp speed…. Twists, turns, and surprises pop up at random times to keep the reader off balance. It all blends together to create one of the best stories I have read all year.” Detra Fitch, Huntress Reviews, for “The Devil’s Paradise”
“Aiden James is insanely talented! We are watching a master at work….Ghost stories don’t get any better than this.” J.R. Rain, Author of “Moon Dance’ and “Vampire Moon” for “The Raven Mocker”
BOOKS BY AIDEN JAMES
CADES COVE SERIES
Cades Cove
The Raven Mocker
THE TALISMAN CHRONICLES
The Forgotten Eden
The Devil’s Paradise
Hurakan’s Chalice
(Coming 2013)
GHOSTHUNTERS 101 SERIES
Deadly Night
The Ungrateful Dead
THE DYING OF THE DARK SERIES
The Vampires’ Last Lover
The Vampires’ Birthright
Blood Princesses of the Vampires
Scarlet Legacy of the Vampires
(Coming spring 2013)
THE JUDAS CHRONICLES
Plague of Coins
Reign of Coins
Destiny of Coins
(Coming December 2012)
WITH J.R. RAIN
Temple of the Jaguar
(Coming early fall 2012)
COLLECTIONS
Terror at Midnight
Dark Legacy
Twice Bitten
Pray for Daylight
Cursed Immortals
In the Dead of Night
Dying of the Dark Vampires
Vampires, Ghosts, and God
Published by Aiden James
Copyright © 2011 by Aiden James
www.aidenjamesfiction.com
Cover Art: Susanna Ivy
All rights reserved.
Ebook 3rd Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to your favorite ebook store and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Plague of Coins
Chapter 1
This looks promising....
It was late one evening, and I stood in the bowels of the Smithsonian Center for Materials Research. The staff had gone home for the night, and I was alone. Surrounded by lab equipment, computers, and stacks of dusty old books, this room could only be described as creepy. Damned creepy.
Then again, many would describe me as damned creepy, too. And maybe a little shady—at least if I ever get caught rummaging around in the basement. As a Smithsonian archivist, most of what I spend my days reviewing is upstairs or in other locales managed by the National Museum of History. Really, I rarely venture outside of the Anthropological Archives’ scope of responsibility. Just like a good, dependable archivist should be doing.
Oh, it isn’t so terrible, all cynicism aside. In my current vocation, I’ve been privileged to view some of the most ‘secret’ collections of field notes, photographs, and correspondence from the more significant scientific expeditions covering the past two centuries. Hell, that’s why the job appealed to me in the first place. My son, Dr. Alistair Wolfgang Barrow, the noted historian and professor at Georgetown, is the one who brought it to my attention. Yes, he’s the very same historian noted for his treatments concerning the Middle East and its volatile tensions. Tensions fueled by millennia of history and bad blood that will take decades if not centuries to cure, despite the latest diplomatic progress.
But I digress.
Upon the near-obsolete video screen, a collection of articles and photographs spanning nearly eighty years scrolled before my eyes. All of this information centered around one small village in Iran. Al-haroun is the name of the place.
I paused to sip my coffee while rubbing my eyes. Not so much from being tired as the damned viewer’s fuzziness. I’m spoiled by my MAC.
Yes, very promising...could be home to one small, priceless piece of silver....
I get a feel for things, you see. It’s something I’ve gotten better with over time. Call it honed experience, or perhaps it’s the mastery that comes with practice and carefully aged wisdom and acute perception.
Okay...I can almost hear the indignant silent questions out there. ‘And who in the hell are you, hot shot?’ That’s what I’d be wondering right about now, after re-reading the first two pages of my story.
Fair enough. My name is William. William J. Barrow, though I’m sure you already determined my last name from my son. I like the name William, actually better than any other moniker I’ve gone by since the Crusades ended. It makes it a lot easier for me to fit in without engendering questions about who I am or where I come from. I like it much better than any of the Apostle names like Peter, Paul, and Matthew. Although, pretending to be Bartholomew nearly two thousand years ago was a lot of fun.
That got you, I’m sure.
It would make me older than dirt. Right? Well, if we ever cross paths you won’t even notice me if it’s some ancient Methuselah you’re seeking. I don’t look a day over thirty—haven’t looked a day past the ‘prime of life’ since I wrote my own chapter on the most famous stage in modern history.
Back then my Hebrew name was Yehuda. I guess if history had left me hanging from some tree or tripping into a garden to where my guts squirted out of my condemned body, the world would be no wiser. My role in the ultimate betrayal long forgotten, maybe I’d be just a small footnote, and not the most reviled human being ever to walk this earth.
You can thank the Greeks and Romans for that honor, unfortunately. Or, I guess I can...at least credit goes to them. Born in Kenoth in the region of Judea, and falsely accused of being a member of the ‘Sicari’. Yes, these are all clues.... Give up?
The Greek for Yehuda is Yudas, and that name in Roman is Judas.
So there...that’s me. I’m Judas Iscariot.
But bef
ore you simply close this book in disgust, let me explain a few things. Things that could change your mind about the above claim, and take on a little of my perspective. In truth, I could literally give a rat’s ass if you believe I’m Judas or not. It’s not even the reason I’ve decided to write down my story. After all, if I don’t gain the final nine silver pieces needed for my restitution during my current ‘lifetime ruse’ as William Barrow, I’ll still be working on this project while you and everyone you care about has died and passed away. Perhaps all of you will land in the eternal Holy Mecca I so badly long for.... To be forgiven at long last and reunited with the One I looked on as a mere prophet and wonderful teacher, instead of the Lord of Lords that He is.
How do I know the truth about Jesus now as compared to then? You’ll have to read on for that answer—and it comes in bits and pieces, really. No, it won’t be some pompous sermon. What I’ve learned these past two thousand years transcends anything and everything you’ve ever read in any book—including what is considered the standards for the Holy Scriptures—like the Bible, Koran, etc. You’d be surprised at the shenanigans I’ve witnessed that later became the accepted “truth from the very mouth of God Almighty.”
So much is rubbish, and yet hidden within it all is the truth. Or, at least a version of the eternal truth.
But I digress, again. Just know that I am supremely confident of this: everyone’s burning questions will be answered by the end of my story…the first installment of what remains of my earthly quest.
So, back to this place called Al-haroun. While there are many places in the world that suffer from a host of calamities, only a few originate from a small epicenter within a few square miles. And not every one of these places contains what I need. However, since at first glance it is impossible to know for sure, I must research them all.
As a town, Al-haroun is no stranger to the wrath of God, or if you will, the unfortunate reputation as a cursed place. That night, I viewed article after article, along with an endless stream of film images to support the stories—literally, an endless succession of earthquakes, floods, famines, wars, and plague. Even a rare tornado struck the town in 1942 that destroyed nine homes and killed three people. Not exactly catastrophic weather, unless you consider the fact this is Iran we’re talking about and not Topeka, Kansas.
But all in all, if one considers the previous millennium’s host of travesties visited upon this small area, I have to consider the likely source: a single coin. Buried somewhere, and likely hidden from the light of day for centuries. Meanwhile, hundreds, if not thousands of lives have been ruined—either killed, homeless, or both. The last article I looked at talked about a rare blizzard from thirty years ago. That event took place in May, when things begin to heat up near the Alborz Mountains. More than three feet of snow fell upon the town, and the temperatures plummeted deeply enough to destroy livestock and crops.
The people believe they’re cursed, that somehow they’ve offended Allah. If only they knew that something there—likely buried beneath the soil—was indeed offensive to God, they might burn everything to the ground and leave. Forever.
My gut instinct was telling me a single silver shekel was responsible. One that bears Caesar’s notorious beak of a nose on one side and a proud eagle upon the back. Just like twenty-nine others I once accepted as payment for my evil deed. A moment of folly, and to think it could’ve been forty pieces of silver if Caiaphas hadn’t tried to cheat me by offering half-shekels instead.
Anyway, I was certain my assumption was one hundred percent correct. As I studied the latest stories and pictures on the screen, my left hand began to tremble. This familiar sensation always confirms the truth of what my intuitions tell me.
Silver ‘blood-coin’ number twenty-two is within reach.
Satisfied, I turned off the viewer. I then returned the older film to the correct cabinets and the newer CDs and flash drives to their file drawers.
It was time to request some vacation days, and make arrangements for a little trip overseas.
Chapter 2
Prowling the streets of D.C. after midnight is probably not a brilliant idea...at least for most folks. But for an immortal human being, the fear of injury or death from some hard-up junkie or other low-life miscreant has long since left me.
Perhaps the biggest miracle for most folks—at least those who have become more than mere acquaintances over the centuries—is the fact that my cells are in a continuous process of immediate regeneration. I can’t age because my body won’t let it happen. It’s the same for injuries—even the most extreme amputations anyone can concoct. Not that I intend to present details that will make the faint of heart squeamish. But, obviously, if nothing can hurt me, then I can’t die. Since it’s been so long since I haven’t felt well physically, I don’t even remember what it’s like to be sick.
The only things I do remember are the brief moments when I have experienced physical pain. Like when I first tried to strangle myself after betraying my buddy Jesus long ago. Or, the two dozen times I’ve been executed during the past two millennia. Not a lot of fun. Fortunately, each death has come with some sort of benefit, although not all have been altruistic enough to profit my soul or my coin-collecting journey.
I’m sure that many of you have questions about this, and I’ll get around to explaining more about it all. But for now, my purpose for mentioning any of this stuff is to set up my midnight rendezvous with my boy, Alistair.
“Ali, it’s me—your dad!” I whispered, harshly, into the intercom system provided by his posh condo building near the Capitol. “I think I’ve found Number Twenty-two.”
“Okay, Pops...come on up!” he said, after a moment’s hesitation. I must have roused him from a wonderful dream. The main door buzzed open, and I moved inside the building.
Harold Mathis, the night watchman, smiled and gave me a nod as I passed by his station.
“Hey, Mr. Barrow, I see you’re burnin’ the midnight oil again!” He chuckled, and his light gray eyes seemed to glow within his smooth ebony skin. “You keep that up and you’ll start lookin’ like me and your old man!”
His smile widened, revealing a perfect set of veneers. To me, Harold doesn’t look a day over forty-five. But he’s only a year or two younger than my boy, who’ll be sixty-one in about a month from now. Not only does my kid get to hear about how his African-American pal looks a helluva lot younger than him, he’s also in real danger of one day soon looking like he’s my grandpa instead of my dad.
It’s one of the reasons I keep Alistair stocked up with either plenty of Jack Daniels, or my preferred brand of imported Scotch, Dewar’s.
“Yeah, that’d be an awful sight, wouldn’t it?” I returned Harold’s smile as I headed for the elevator. “Hopefully I can catch up on some sleep in the next week when I go on vacation!”
“Vacation? You??” He craned his head around the corner to watch me step inside the elevator car. “Alistair tells me that you’re always workin’—even when you’re supposed to be on a vacation!”
I laughed along with him until the elevator door closed and the car began its labored climb to the top floor. Alistair resides in a penthouse unit, which would be quite a sum each month on his income, even as substantial as it is. But I’ve accumulated a nice fortune over the years, with bank accounts spread throughout the world. Picking up the tab for this extravagance was my idea, and after he had allowed me to bring in a first-rate decorator sensitive to my boy’s tastes and other preferences, Alistair relented to staying there.
It’s the least I could do to make up for my absence in his life from puberty until shortly before his thirty-fourth birthday.
***
“Do you think you will ever learn to control the impulse to wake me up in the middle of the night when a wild idea hits you?”
Gruffer than usual when I’ve awakened him, Alistair seemed especially irritated that I buzzed him out of the world of dreams to hear about a hunch, instead of fact. These things a
lways start as hunches...but to be honest, sometimes the hunch goes ‘poof!’ before I’ve finished making plane reservations. Something about Al-haroun felt much more promising than other hunches, and it definitely was stronger than anything else in the past year.
“It’s different this time. I’m sure of it, son.”
I followed him into his spacious living room. The walls bore an assortment of items from Africa, South America, and the Himalayas. All were artifacts from our joint expeditions.
He motioned to the bar, where he had already poured me a glass of Dewar’s, circa 1981, which was a fairly decent year. He held a small mug with what looked like hot chocolate. Knowing Alistair’s habits as well as I do, whatever was steaming in his cup certainly contained some sort of sleep aid, natural or enhanced. I wouldn’t have long to talk about my findings from earlier that night.
“So it isn’t like the ‘sure thing’ in Denmark, I take it?” He snickered.
Ouch! Yeah, that one stung a little. With his eyebrow raised, he reminded me so much of his mother. My son was born and raised in Glasgow, Scotland, where I met his mom, Beatrice McGregor, back in 1948, right after the war. He is the perfect blend of she and I. As he has grown older, he draws many comparisons to Sean Connery. He bears the same Scottish brogue in the accent, along with prominent dark eyebrows and intense brown eyes that twinkle with mirth. Especially when he savors a pipe, like the one he just picked up from the coffee table while awaiting my reply.
“Hell, no!” I said, perhaps more meanly than warranted. But no parent reacts well to a smart mouth—regardless of the fact my kid has been an independent adult since he was seventeen. I picked up my glass of Scotch before continuing, and sat down on the sofa across from the overstuffed chair he preferred. “Not only are all the signs that we look for present in this location, but it’s a place I’ve considered before. I’ve just never gotten around to actually checking it out.”