by D B Nielsen
No, I could do this on my own! I could do this!
Climbing up on the bed, I knelt behind Gabriel, willing my fingers to stop trembling. Even folded against his toned back, the impressive wings looked otherworldly, sprouting from his shoulder blades to curve down in a perfect arch mirroring the flying buttresses of medieval cathedrals. Their beauty and strength were undeniable, even when matted with blood; yet they managed to also look delicate too, exhibiting the fragility of crystal. Powerful, muscular, visceral, I had never seen anything quite so fascinating in my life and longed to touch them. If I had my camera at hand, I would have taken some photos. But, instead, I had a duty to perform, recognising the urgency of his need, and no time to waste.
Removing the cork stopper from the unopened, sixteen-year-old bottle of Lagavulin, I took a deep, steadying breath. The heady, peaty smell of the whisky filled the air, drowning out the metallic stench of blood.
‘Merci, Saffron, I could do with a drink,’ Gabriel slurred, rousing briefly to reach round, hand unsteady, for the bottle in my grip.
But I pulled it away and, without giving myself time to think about what I was about to do, I poured my father’s single malt scotch whisky upon Gabriel’s wound.
He flinched in response, his body tensing, but apart from a deep, resonant groan, he didn’t cry out – and I was grateful for it.
I didn’t even want to speculate on what my parents might think I was doing in Gabriel’s room, especially with him half-naked, if they found me in here.
I soaked up the excess alcohol and blood spilling from the wound with the cottonwool balls. Then I placed a gauze bandage over the deep gash to assist it to heal, not feeling quite capable of stitching the wound myself. Sitting back on my heels, I looked at my handiwork proudly.
Perhaps, all would have gone well even then, if I hadn’t decided to clean the congealed blood from Gabriel’s wing.
Using the bottled water beside the bed provided by my mother in case Gabriel got thirsty during the night, I wet more cottonwool balls and gently began to wipe away the jellied dark red blood matting his plumage, which made the feathers stick together like they’d been glued. But as soon as my fingers tentatively touched their sable silkiness, he reacted.
One moment, I was sitting back on my haunches behind Gabriel, the next I was under him, knocked breathless and lying on the carpeted floor. I took a few gulps of air and stared into the eyes of a Nephilim driven half-mad with pain and fever and arousal, who was completely unpredictable. His hands were wrapped around my wrists and I was pinned to the floor under his long, lean body. But he didn’t seem intent on harming me, content to merely watch me out of unfocused silver-grey eyes.
I’d done more than simply startle him, I realised. I had unleashed something within him. Having forgotten what Finn had told me about the Nephilim’s wings and their extraordinary sensitivity, I’d blundered badly.
‘You’re playing with fire, Saffron.’
His voice startled me. I hadn’t expected him to speak – at least, not lucidly. But there was a dark edge to his voice now, a darkness within him that seemed wild and untamed.
Speechless, I merely stared up at him, unknowing what to do next.
‘I like Tweety Pie too, but you know how much of a temptation that little yellow canary was for Sylvester, don’t you?’ he taunted me, referring to the pyjamas I wore, sporting Tweety Pie on my purple tank top above flannel pyjama pants.
‘Please, Gabriel...’ My voice petered out as I felt his raw masculinity and the spark of sexual attraction flowing between us.
‘“Please, Gabriel”, what?’ he mimicked, leaning down towards me, so close that damp tendrils of his hair trailed against my face.
I had to remember he was not himself.
Gabriel’s colour was high and the heat oozed off him like waves in a desert, like a barely visible mirage rising from the hot sands. He was burning up, the darkness seething within him – lust and desire, pain and hatred fuelled his actions. He was close enough for his mouth to capture mine if he moved ever so slightly. I wondered later what would have happened if I had given him the chance.
Instead, logic prevailed.
‘Gabriel, you’re unwell,’ I reasoned with him, trying to diffuse the sexual tension in the air without resorting to hurting him. I had learnt all manner of self-defence techniques in my kickboxing classes which I could have put into practice. But Gabriel was my friend, my protector, who needed protecting too.
‘Seriously, Gabriel, let me up!’
I might have said more, but that was when St. John hefted his brother off me and I was freed.
Gabriel didn’t even put up a struggle, collapsing with the pain that brought him up sharply, eyes rolling back into his head. St. John effortlessly picked him up, a deadweight draped over his shoulder.
‘Is he all right?’ Sage asked, peering over St. John’s shoulder. ‘He isn’t dead, is he?’
‘Of course, he isn’t dead! He’s a Nephilim! Bloody hell! Where have you guys been?’ I exclaimed.
Jumping up from the floor, I rubbed my wrists, feeling carpet-burn and further bruises appearing next to the ones I’d gained from my ordeal in the Underworld and from when we were hunted by the Rephaim. I glared at St. John and Sage – whether it was because I felt I could have handled the situation myself and wasn’t given the opportunity or because I wanted to know how far things might have gone, I didn’t know, but gave them both the evil eye for their trouble.
But looking hard at my sister, I wondered if all the sexual tension in the air had yet to be diffused. Well, well, what had they been up to? Sage had the decency to blush, hiding her flushed face behind a curtain of chestnut hair. But St. John remained insouciant, as arrogant as ever. He laid Gabriel gently down on the bed where the bottled water had soaked into the bed sheets, not bothering to cover him. Turning back to me, he appeared calm and level-headed, seemingly unruffled by the events of the past few minutes.
As if he had heard my thought, St. John explained.
‘We’ve been busy. Gabriel, Louis and several others were injured in the melee, and the Rephaim retreated once their leader was hurt, but we managed to capture two of them, which could be considered a stroke of luck for our side under the circumstances,’ St. John replied simply. ‘We returned to the Manor House as planned, though a little later than I’d hoped. I left Gabriel here to rest, while Sage and I drove to London to place the Scroll in a vault which belongs to the brotherhood.’
Looking at Sage’s expression, I thought there was a little more to it than that, but didn’t get an opportunity to venture an opinion as St. John continued, ‘I didn’t think Gabriel was badly hurt. He assured me that it was only a scratch.’
‘Well, I think it’s a little more serious than that,’ I retorted, ‘It’s quite deep. I’ve cleaned the wound, but I think he might need to see a doctor and have it checked properly.’
‘Do not concern yourself overmuch. I will tend to him. We’ve been in many a battle together and, out of necessity, have tended each other’s wounds and ailments.’ St. John gave me a wistful smile. ‘It seems I owe you some thanks, Fi. You’ve managed admirably. You faced the journey into the Underworld to retrieve the Scroll; something that would have struck fear into the stoutest heart. You were able to rescue both yourself and Sage, escaping from the Rephaim. And now you have also aided Gabriel.’
I should have felt flattered under St. John’s admiration but, instead, looking down at the unconscious Anakim, I felt an immense sorrow.
‘Are you all right, Fi?’ Sage asked worriedly. ‘I mean, Gabriel wasn’t ... um ... he didn’t–’
‘I’m fine,’ I dismissed, shrugging my shoulders. ‘And no, he wasn’t, and he didn’t. He was, however, pretty much out of his mind.’
St. John hesitated, as if he feared giving away Gabriel’s secrets, as if he feared to say too much. But I think he realised we’d shared more today than those who might have known him for longer, and a trust had built up be
tween us, a bond of knowing too much and of keeping all sorts of secrets.
‘Gabriel has his own demons to fight. As long as I’ve ever known him, he’s been at war within himself. Things have happened to us both – things that have left us scarred and disillusioned. There have been too many times when trust has been betrayed and others have failed us. And too many deaths, both mortal and of our kind, of those we have claimed as friends and those we have come to love.’
We were quiet a moment, each of us caught up in our own thoughts – mine wholly unpleasant ones. Gabriel had confided as much when he’d empathised with my experience in the Underworld. I wished there was some way I could help him. But there seemed to be nothing I could do except play the role fate had given to me, and the helplessness and sense of inevitability frustrated me.
St. John cleared his throat, breaking the tension. ‘It’s late. We have a big day ahead of us if we’re planning on journeying to Oxford.’
He was right. I felt dead on my feet and would be in no fit state to travel anywhere without some decent hours of sleep.
Wishing the others a good night, I was about to exit the room, when a thought struck me.
‘St. John,’ I turned back to ask, concerned, ‘was Finn one of those caught or injured?’
St. John smiled ruefully. ‘No, Fi. As promised, Phoenix was unharmed. But remember what I told you on New Year’s Eve; not everyone can be trusted.’ I sighed wearily, as St. John added on a final note of warning, ‘Not even those who have saved your life.’
PALIMPSEST
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Perhaps it was St. John’s ominous words or because my mind wouldn’t stop racing from all the events of the previous day that led to a tempestuous, restless night. The next morning, with barely three hours of sleep, in the upstairs seclusion of my bedroom, the mullion windows stood open to let in the light as I stood looking down on the debris spread across the Manor’s manicured lawns caused by the Nephilim’s battle. Morning breezes carried the floral scent of early spring in bud, still sharp with the icy scent of melting snow. The clarity of air brought with it the sound of bird calls and the sounds of the forest, cut by the distant rumble of traffic.
I was waiting for the others to awaken as I’d been outside once that morning already. At first light, I had dashed to the garden to check on the Ducati, regretful at my folly at leaving such a precision machine exposed to the elements all night. A fine layer of dew blanketed the lawn, giving off a crisp, freshly-mown fragrance. The chill early morning air slapped at me forcefully as soon as I stepped out, lending a blush to my cheeks whilst I closed the back door quietly behind me. The sky was silvery-violet; the forest shimmering in the dewy mist vaporising into nothingness.
I trudged across the expanse of open lawn, the snow curds and wet grass slippery beneath my UGG boots. Skirting terracotta pots and statuary figures, I made my way towards Mum’s studio.
And did a double-take. To my horror, the Ducati was gone.
At first, I thought it had been stolen and, panicked, felt my heartbeat accelerate in shock, chased by my second thought and fear of facing Finn, at being the one to tell him that his beloved motorcycle was missing. But then I saw the pile of clothes, neatly folded and stacked beside the corner of the studio, sitting atop the wooden wheelbarrow which Mum intended to use to plant herbs later in the spring. Breathing a sigh of relief, I looked around for any sign of Finn or the Ducati but, realising they were long gone, collected the freshly-laundered clothes, and went back inside the house.
It was only later when I stared out across the debris-strewn lawn and the forest shrouded in mist from my window that I realised that Finn might have arrived at the Manor House sometime in the middle of the night, perhaps even while I had been attending to Gabriel. I felt absurdly cold and numb at the thought, as if I’d been caught cheating on a boyfriend or lover, which was just plain stupid because, firstly, I was caring for Gabriel, not attempting to seduce him and, secondly, Finn wasn’t even my boyfriend. But even that thought didn’t ease my sense of shame, and I wished I’d known he was there.
I was brought out of my deep reverie as I heard my sister’s tread on the back stairs, heavier and quicker than usual. Shutting the mullioned windows, I made my way downstairs to the kitchen, listening out for familiar voices.
I found Sage at the kitchen counter, brooding over the kettle as it boiled. She looked startled at my appearance; my shiny, clean hair neatly tied back in a ponytail, scrubbed face, stone-washed jeans and denim jacket.
‘You’re up early!’ she exclaimed, and I gathered by that comment, she meant before noon.
Shrugging dismissively, I pulled out a chair at the breakfast table and sat down. ‘Couldn’t sleep. So how’s Gabriel doing? Is St. John with him?’
‘I don’t know.’ She shook her head, pausing in the act of pouring herself a cup of tea. ‘St. John and Gabriel were gone when I woke up.’
I blinked, staring hard at her. ‘What? Where?’
‘I don’t know. St. John didn’t tell me that they would be leaving.’ It must have pained her to admit it. ‘I went to bed just after you. I couldn’t think straight, and there was nothing else I could do–’
The back door opened abruptly cutting off her explanation. St. John strode in, with Gabriel close behind him. I stared hard at Gabriel who returned my look as if to say that he had never been injured, as if he did not recall what happened between us last night. The two men didn’t even bother to take off their jackets; their faces wore identical expressions, stern and determined.
‘Mes chéris, it seems we have a decision to make. And we’d better make it fast.’
Sage frowned. ‘What’s going on, St. John?’
But it was Gabriel who replied. ‘We have it on good authority that the Grigori are planning an operation to retrieve the Scroll.’
‘The Grigori!’ I exclaimed.
Sage looked sceptical. ‘Are you certain? But why? Why are they so interested in the Scroll and not the Seed? It doesn’t make any sense. They can’t even read it.’
Gabriel gave a wave of disgust. ‘Bah, not true, ma copine. It seems Saffron was right, in a manner of speaking – both Semyaza and his direct offspring may well be able to read the Scroll. This is because one of Semyaza’s many duties before he fell and was cast down into Tartaros was as the Guardian of Hidden Treasures.’
‘What does that mean?’ I asked, sitting upright in my chair.
‘The Hidden Treasures are, what you would call, religious artefacts. Artefacts of enormous power.’
Still unsure what this meant, I sensed in St. John’s patient smile that he empathised with our confusion, and yet his gaze remained earnest. ‘Once Semyaza was beloved of the Creator, conferred with the title “One whom God strengthens”. He was so mighty that he even held the knowledge of the Explicit Name of the Creator.’
‘Semyaza knows the true name of God?’ Sage gasped.
‘So we’re given to understand,’ he affirmed. ‘As you can see, the Scroll falling into the hands of the Grigori is extremely dangerous.’
‘That’s because while he covets the Seed, perhaps even stole it from the Garden of Eden, it is as useless to him as a stone statue. The Seed is a fragment of Adam’s altar, not made by human hands, but the Scroll was made by man for man,’ Gabriel continued, ‘We suspect, however, that it may have been one of the many Hidden Treasures – along with Moses’ staff, the sword of the Archangel Michael, the Ark of the Covenant, to name but a few – allowing humankind to find a path back to Paradise and, ultimately, to the Creator. It would have been in Semyaza’s safekeeping when he was amongst the Creator’s elite, but taken away and hidden from him after the Fall. He must have been searching for it since he escaped from Tartaros.’
We’re so screwed! I thought.
‘So what must we do?’ Sage sombrely enquired of the two Nephilim.
‘We must decide whether we should continue with our plans or not,’ St. John declared, his green eyes grave.
‘Should we still travel to Oxford to spectral-image the Scroll?’
I felt my muscles tighten, stiffening in response.
‘What other choice do we have?’
Gabriel waved a hand in disgust. ‘We can wait for the Grigori to make the first move, leaving the Scroll where it is for the moment. This is what Anak would prefer us to do.’
Frowning, I stated, ‘You don’t sound like you care much for that plan.’
‘C’est des conneries! And, no, I don’t,’ he said simply. ‘I had rather be on the attack than on the defensive.’
Staring down at her cold tea as if she could divine the future, Sage gave a heavy sigh. Then, looking St. John directly in the eye, she asked quietly, ‘And what’s your view?’
St. John’s expression was as inscrutable as ever. ‘I think it only right that you and Saffron decide what should be done. You are, after all, the Wise Ones.’
Sage looked stunned.
‘What if we make the wrong decision?’ I demanded.
‘There is no wrong decision,’ Gabriel said, his silver-grey eyes sincere. ‘There is only providence.’
Sage and I exchanged a significant look but, as was often the way between twins, we had already made up our minds. We were going to Oxford to look at the message the Scroll hid under infrared.
It took us a little over two and a half hours, journeying along the M25 in St. John’s black Audi, stopping only briefly as we made a detour through London to pick up the Scroll from the vault, to get to Oxfordshire from Kent. The traffic flowed well and we made good time.
We were headed to the UK’s national synchrotron facility, Diamond Light Source, which was located at the Harwell Science and Innovation Campus. Approaching the facility, the distinct and vast architecture announced its scientific purpose clearly. The design of the facility looked like a spaceship had landed in the middle of a barren field, quite like what I imagined an alien aircraft landing in Roswell, New Mexico to look like.
Arriving at Diamond Light Source just before noon, we were greeted at the entrance by a young man with strong Bengali features; flawless dark skin, jet-black eyes, wiry dark hair. He was as tall and as beautiful as St. John and Gabriel, making me suspect he was also Nephilim in origin. Reminding me of a stereotypical scientific geek, he wore a white lab coat over jeans and sneakers, and a pair of plastic goggles dangled from his neck. St. John introduced him as Karim, a scientist at the institute. Remaining formal in his greeting to Sage and me, he refrained from touching us, merely inclining his head slightly, but he allowed Gabriel to greet him in the usual French manner like that of old friends who shared a long history.