Nephilim

by Barrowman, John; Barrowman, Carole;

  The nephilim’s wings were folded against his nakedness and his hair was loose around his face. He looked of the light, and yet he had a presence outside of it. He was malevolence personified, and yet fully human in his design. Matt struggled to stand, reaching for his sunglasses.

  ‘Gaze on me,’ said Luca evenly.

  Matt knew if he obeyed, he would never see again. He squeezed his eyes closed and pressed his back to the wall. The air around him sparked with electricity, his mind an explosion of light and colours.

  ‘Mattie, look at me.’

  Matt dropped to his knees and covered his head. It was his dad’s voice.

  ‘We will be great together, Mattie. Open your eyes.’

  The dad he’d known and loved as a young boy. Not the monster he’d killed among the beasts in Hollow Earth.

  ‘Look at me!’

  Matt was seven instead of seventeen. He lifted his head, tears streaming down his cheeks. He opened his eyes.

  69.

  BATTLE ROYALE

  As Matt’s eyes fluttered open, the archangel swooped down from the tower with his wings outstretched, blocking the nephilim’s light. It was all the time Matt needed. Quickly, he reached for his shades and slammed them on his face.

  The archangel raised his sword and charged at Luca. The nephilim laughed. Matt felt the whistling of a fiery spear hit the wall just centimetres from his shoulder. Luca reached for Michael’s ankle and whipped the archangel out over the battlements and into the swirling, smoky cloud. Michael darted briefly from the haze, and then he was gone. There was a crash of swords and a spray of dark blue blood. Briefly Matt glimpsed the two creatures – one angel, one half-angel – as they wrestled, Michael hovering above Luca, pushing his blade closer and closer.

  With his shaking palms pressed against the walls, Matt sidled round the perimeter of the battlements until his left hand found the automatic plate to open the double doors back to the stairwell. Inside, he pressed the button for the lift, pulled his sleeve over his fist and smashed out the light. The darkness was enough for his eyes to recover their equilibrium. He took out his pad and drew a pair of yellow and black Cyclops goggles right out of X-Men.

  On the ramparts, the nephilim howled. Hoping the fight was over, Matt crept back to the entrance to the battlements with his goggles firmly in place.

  Michael’s sword was sliding slowly through Luca’s clenched fist, only a touch away from the nephilim’s abdomen. The archangel’s wings were shimmering, drops of water pooling like shards of glass under his hovering, sandalled feet.

  Luca opened his fist. Michael’s sword powered into the muscle above the nephilim’s hip, but the momentum of the thrust carried the archangel into the nephilim’s arms. Luca began to squeeze, enclosing them both in a shell of black, silver-flecked feathers.

  Matt fled, taking the stairs three at a time, the archangel’s anguished screams tormenting him all the way. He could still hear Michael’s tortured cries long after he had destroyed the drawing.

  70.

  WHY ARE WE HERE?

  Em used a loose railing to dislodge the chunks of marble covering Hadrian’s coffin. Another rat scrambled out of the debris, tearing across the room and disappearing into the same pool of water as before.

  The tomb was empty.

  Em sat on the edge of the marble, her exhaustion taking its toll.

  ‘This can’t be right,’ she groaned. ‘Why would Zach send me a message to come here?’

  Caravaggio put his hand on her arm. His sincerity surprised her.

  ‘I have been thinking about the history of this place,’ he said, ‘and Luca’s possible connection to it. What if this is his lair?’

  ‘He’s a powerful supernatural being,’ said Em, frustrated. ‘He’s not going to pick this place to hang around waiting for the Second Kingdom.’

  A roll of thunder shook the foundations, dropping a chunk of plaster from the ceiling. Caravaggio shoved Em clear just in time. The plaster shattered on the spot where she’d been sitting, as she fell against the part of the wall still lined with the original Roman bricks.

  Em caught her breath. She ran her hand over the bricks distractedly.

  ‘Are you hurt?’ said Caravaggio, crouching next to her. ‘I did not mean to push you quite so hard.’

  She waved away his concern. ‘Do you know what the mark is on this brick?’

  Caravaggio traced his fingers over a worn etching in the ancient brick. ‘It looks like a laurel wreath, except it’s tiny thistles,’ he said intently. ‘Masons often signed their work, especially in ancient times. This ring is the symbol of the person who built this vault. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Because I’ve seen it before.’ Em combed her hair from her face, forgetting about the burns on her scalp. ‘Rémy found a set of bagpipes back in Scotland. A similar wreath of thistles was etched into the chanter: the part of the bagpipes that looks like a flute.’

  She wrapped her arms around her legs, trying to think. What the hell did this mean? She didn’t get it. And how would Zach, of all people, know about this place anyway?

  Em took out her sketchpad, pressed a blank page over the etching and rubbed her charcoal crayon over the page. ‘Do you think it’s possible that there’s a connection between one of the early Dukes of Albion and the Emperor Hadrian?’ she asked.

  Caravaggio lifted his head. ‘The Duke of Albion?’

  Em took out her sketchpad. She pressed a blank page over the thistle etching and rubbed her charcoal crayon over the page. She looked at the transfer.

  ‘The Dukes of Albion were all powerful Guardians. The seventeeth-century one founded Orion,’ she said, taking another rubbing, pressing harder to be sure to capture the details on the etching. ‘The family has ancient roots in Scotland.’

  Caravaggio jumped to his feet. ‘What did your seventeenth-century Duke of Albion look like?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Good-looking. Rugged. A lot of hair. They all looked kind of the same.’ She shrugged. ‘We have a portrait of him at the church, but it’s a bit romanticized.’ Em looked at Caravaggio curiously. ‘Why? What do you know?’

  ‘Please,’ said the artist. ‘Try to remember the details.’

  Em sensed Caravaggio’s mind was racing. It felt like she’d just drunk two Red Bulls and a pot of coffee. ‘In the portrait, he’s wearing a brooch shaped like a peryton at his collar.’ Em paused, then added, ‘A peryton is—’

  ‘I know what it is,’ he said, brushing plaster dust from his trousers. ‘And I think I knew your seventeenth-century duke.’

  Caravaggio offered Em his hand. She let him help her to her feet. ‘I think that duke was my Highlander, the Guardian who saved me from Luca the day I was meant to have died.’

  Em’s face lit up. ‘That means there is a connection between this place and Scotland.’

  ‘And,’ added Caravaggio, ‘I think, perhaps, a connection between your boyfriend—’

  ‘Ex-boyfriend.’

  ‘—and this vault.’

  71.

  CROSSING THE TIBER

  Another explosive thunder crack shook the foundations of the castle. Matt burst through the narrow tunnel from the stairs.

  ‘We need to get out of here,’ he gasped. ‘Luca manifested on the roof and almost got me. This entire fortress is stuck in a cloud of his making, like a force field. No one can get in.’ He looked at both of them. ‘Or out.’

  ‘The rats,’ said Caravaggio.

  ‘What about them?’ Matt’s anxiety was as palpable to Em as if she was wearing a wet wool sweater.

  ‘During my century,’ said Caravaggio, ‘there was a tunnel running beneath the Tiber that connected this fortress to St Peter’s Basilica. For a pope’s … private use.’

  The castle shook again. This time the thunderous roar lingered, gradually becoming the warning cry of a raptor to its prey.

  ‘We really are trapped,’ Em said, pointing to the passageway. It was completely blocked where a section of the ceiling h
ad collapsed. Plumes of tile dust billowed into the vault. ‘It may slow Luca down.’

  Matt took out his pad. ‘That tunnel better be there, Caravaggio,’ he warned, ‘because I don’t think a pile of rubble is going to stop him.’

  Matt drew a big hole in the wall. They all sagged with relief. The hole revealed a long straight vaulted-arch tunnel that looked like the aisle of a church, ankle-deep in standing water, with a lot of wet rats crawling in and out of crevices in the foundations.

  The screeching reverberated off the walls as the three of them climbed through into the murky water.

  ‘We have a lot to tell you, Matt,’ said Em. ‘But first you’d better close up the wall. For old times’ sake.’

  They smiled at each other. The last time Matt had filled in a wall, the head of the European Council of Guardians’ arm had been caught inside it.

  In a sizzle of light the wall returned to its original state, with only a faint circle of bluish green remaining where the hole had been. Matt shoved his shredded drawing into his pocket.

  Em drew the next animation, creating torches as they jogged through the water. Each step sent dozens of fat rats scattering against the curved walls.

  ‘I hate rats,’ muttered Matt, keeping his stride in the middle of the tunnel as much as possible.

  They moved as quietly as they could, keen not to broadcast their arrival. The nephilim’s screeching grew more muted, but the passageway still shook with each cry.

  The water underfoot was turning pink. It was also getting shallower, no longer slopping over their boots.

  ‘Nasty,’ said Matt, stopping abruptly.

  A mound of half-chewed, dead rats was damming the water. They looked like a recent kill.

  ‘Keep moving,’ advised Caravaggio. ‘We’re getting close to St Peter’s.’

  They heard music. Rich, round sounds of a violin and a high-pitched reedy instrument in a haze of silver light swirled towards them from a curtain of blackness beneath a carved and vaulted arch up ahead.

  ‘That’s Rémy,’ said Matt suddenly. ‘Conjuring.’

  The music was getting faster, more frenetic, full of discord. The haze was hitting the walls around them and breaking the masonry into pieces. The music carried so much pain and anguish and cruelty, it was hard to keep moving.

  Em turned to the others, tears filling her eyes.

  ‘Rémy’s dying,’ she choked.

  72.

  THE GODS ARE CRAZY

  Apollo set Minerva’s pipes down, just out of Rémy’s reach. The trees rustled with applause. Shouts of acclaim rose up from everyone in the tableau, except the young woman in pink, who looked grief-stricken. Rémy hoped it wasn’t because she had any genuine insight into the outcome. He knew full well that in the myths, the gods always won.

  ‘Are you ready to perform?’ asked Apollo.

  Rémy accepted the pipes. With a great deal of pain and difficulty, he lifted the instrument to his mouth. He wasn’t sure he had enough breath to make any noise, never mind play any notes. He thought he knew what he needed to play, but when he felt the cold bone of the pipes against his chapped lips he changed his mind.

  The first notes were weak and dissonant, scratchy and raw. Rémy dropped the pipes. Apollo went to grab them, but Rémy managed to get his foot on them and snatch them up again. The crushing pain in his chest was making it even more difficult to breathe.

  He would not be lost to the world this way. With every muscle screaming at him and every breath precious, he put his lips to the pipes again and played a series of chords.

  Nothing happened.

  Everyone stilled. Apollo leaned forward, the gleam of triumph in his eyes. Then, miraculously, Rémy heard a violin. He turned his head enough to see the young woman in pink had returned her instrument to her chin, and was accompanying him. He followed her lead, catching her melody and mimicking it.

  The more he played, the stronger he felt, the more solid his sound, the easier his breathing. The blood dripping to the bucket from Marsyas’ body overflowed on to the ground, rushing in rivulets to a river beyond the canvas.

  Suddenly he could see outside the painting. Rémy quickened the tempo until he was soaring above the tableau and its terrible cruelty, the thick brushstrokes of the forest and the figures blending together in time with the music. The violin was no longer leading; he was. His tempo grew faster and faster, his pitch rising higher and higher, the painting breaking into fragments of light.

  Rémy smelled ammonia and turpentine and blood. Smoke drifted up his nose, his eyes watered and he coughed. The red-hot pipes dropped from his lips and his world faded to black.

  73.

  FIRE IN THE HOLE

  Matt, Em and Caravaggio quickened their pace, trying to reach the mysterious vaulted arch with its silvery haze of music. But their movements felt impeded. They were moving forward, but they weren’t getting closer.

  ‘Do you guys feel like we’re running into a wind?’ Em gasped.

  ‘Or slogging through mud,’ said Matt, struggling to lift his feet.

  ‘The darkness,’ said Caravaggio. ‘I think it’s trying to repel us.’

  They pushed on, their muscles screaming in pain. The shimmering haze of music was soaring to the curvature of the ceiling, where it blended with the faint echo of the nephilim’s screeching. The final two or three steps took them almost as long as the first hundred.

  A Latin inscription was carved into the arch.

  Matt turned to Em, who was leaning forward, catching her breath. ‘Please tell me this doesn’t read, “Abandon All Hope Ye Who Enter Here”,’ he said.

  ‘“Behold the Way to the Kingdom”,’ Em translated. ‘“Through Darkness to the Light.”’

  The darkness reached for them as Rémy’s music turned to silence. The silver haze reddened and dissipated, dropping like bloody tears into the water. Em shoved past Matt. He grabbed her arm and pulled her back before she disappeared through the darkness beneath the arch.

  ‘Em,’ he said. ‘The nephilim’s screeching has stopped too.’

  ‘Silence is often not a portent of good,’ Caravaggio said.

  Em looked desperately at the artist. ‘Do you think Luca’s given up the chase?’

  ‘Luca Ferrante has been tracking me for centuries,’ said Caravaggio. He glanced back down the long tunnel. ‘He’s not given up.’

  Em shivered. ‘At least when we could hear him, we knew where he was.’

  Matt gestured at the arch. ‘We’ve got to go through it,’ he said. ‘There’s no other way.’

  The three of them stared hopelessly into the blackness. It had weight and depth, and undulated in the damp air. Milton’s ‘darkness visible’: an absence of light.

  ‘Maybe I can see more if I take off my shades,’ said Matt.

  A deafening whoosh roared behind them. They turned together. The murky water at the far end of the tunnel was rising up into flames, surging towards them. Waves of charred, blackened, screaming rats spewed to the surface.

  Caravaggio shoved Matt and Em hard, through the arch and into the dark.

  74.

  PAINT IT BLACK

  ‘Em? Where are you?’ cried Matt, crashing through the sheer unfathomable darkness.

  She touched his arm. ‘I’m here.’

  ‘Did that bastard just throw us to the wolves?’

  A rush of warm air and a surge of limbs slammed Matt from behind, knocking him into a narrow gutter that bordered the bottom of the space. He didn’t have enough room to pull himself upright, his hips stuck in the thin trench.

  ‘No, that bastard did not,’ said Caravaggio, sounding put out. ‘Sometimes you two need encouragement, and those flames were coming fast at us. No one move until we figure out where we are.’

  ‘I’m stuck anyway,’ said Matt, taking off his shades and looking at Caravaggio and Em. Caravaggio was to his left and Em was on his right. They both had a thin line of grey silhouetting them, as if the darkness didn’t dare come closer.r />
  ‘The darkness is lighter around your bodies,’ he said. ‘It’s as if you’re repelling it.’

  ‘What if this is a trap?’ asked Em.

  ‘It doesn’t feel like one,’ said Matt. ‘It just feels … old and hollow.’ The darkness waved like silk around his skin. ‘It’s like we’re in a painted space, but we’re not. It’s empty inside.’

  Caravaggio lifted his boots one at a time out of the gutter next to Matt’s legs. When he did, Matt could see the surface stretch like gum on his boot.

  ‘I’ve never been in a space like this before,’ said Matt. ‘I can see some indentations in front of us.’

  ‘How do we get out of here?’ Em demanded.

  Matt could hear his sister’s breath getting shallower. ‘Calm down,’ he advised, squeezing her ankle. ‘Do you still have your torch?’

  ‘I dropped it.’

  ‘I dropped mine too,’ said Caravaggio. ‘But I think I know what we need to do.’

  Matt could see the artist gesturing, stretching the silhouette of grey surrounding them all. Matt observed the darkness shifting, the lighter air replacing it.

  ‘I can’t see what you’re doing!’

  Matt took Em’s hands and moved them in the same way as his and Caravaggio’s. Their gestures lightened the darkness, allowing them to see more clearly the indentations, the dips and dimples in the surface in front of them. They scanned the space, saying nothing.

  ‘It’s narrow,’ said Em at last. ‘But rounded.’

  ‘Sort of oval in shape,’ said Matt. He shifted slightly to see the surface in front of him. ‘The indentations look like we’re in a jelly mould.’

  There was a scratching sound, like nails on a chalkboard. Or a knife on plastic.

  Or claws on marble.