Dark Rising
Page 27
I looked behind me. The street was empty. Somewhere, I could hear a radio or television blasting into an alley, its sounds staving off someone’s loneliness.
I stepped over the chain. Then, I grasped the iron railing and began the climb, knowing I had no time to spare.
I moved quickly, the rough stone wall to my right giving me some sense of security as I climbed higher and higher into the night. I avoided looking over the edge toward the town. I avoided doing anything at all, focusing instead on the sound of my breathing, getting heavier and heavier, as I counted each step.
One hundred and one.
One hundred and two.
One hundred and three.
The light reflecting off the church itself was dim, but the steps were smooth. I focused on the cracks between the stones and imagined the men who labored to lay each one, forging a path to the sacred site above, so they could, in turn, carry other burdens of stone to build the church.
One hundred ninety.
The buzzing in the back of my head was getting stronger.
I kept climbing, ignoring the inviting rest stops with their picturesque views. My thighs screamed in protest, but I just gripped the smooth railing tighter, pulling myself up each step, never slowing down.
Two hundred and twenty-five.
I looked up and could see the rocky walls of the chapel. My heart, already racing from the climb, skipped a beat.
I began running, desperate to get there now that I was so close.
Two hundred forty.
Two hundred forty-one.
Two hundred forty-two.
My backpack hit me with every stride, reminding me of the punishing pace. I gulped at the cold air, my lungs aching as I raced ahead.
The staircase widened, and I threw myself forward, abandoning the twisting iron rail in my rush to the top. I ran headlong up the remaining steps, hurtling over the stone walkway to the base of the chapel. I leaned forward, palms against the rocks, heaving to catch my breath.
I turned around and pressed my back against the rough-hewn walls, only then bothering to look at my surroundings.
Beyond the stone walls, Le Puy-en-Velay spread out below me, its lights twinkling in the dark, individual buildings and streets lost in the embrace of night. Across town, the statue of the Virgin Mary glowed, a silent observer of my fevered climb. From here, I could not see the expression on her face as she stared across the chasm toward me. Was it placid and loving, thinking of the babe in her arms? Or had grief stolen into her eyes, the aftermath of an angel’s whispered foretelling of the fate of her son?
I didn’t have time to think about it. I couldn’t think about it. I had to keep moving.
A sudden fluttering echoed across the pavement, and I looked about wildly, shrinking against the walls of the church.
Nothing. There was nothing there.
Nothing but the wind.
I moved along the outer walls, trailing a hand behind me, looking over my shoulder to be sure I was still alone. I barely registered the outward bulge of the walls, round instead of straight, or the way laid stone merged into natural rock, paper-thin tufts of grass forcing their way through the masonry.
Another climb lay before me—the final stairs up to the chapel’s door.
I took each step slowly, no longer eager to gain my prize. From here I could see the ornateness of the chapel: red, black, and white mosaics, intricately carved stone arches gracing the portal. I paused at the top, taking in the detail, the rush of imagery confirming that this was, indeed, the place.
At the very top of the wall, five niches filled with statues stood guard. At the center was a figure I recognized as Christ Triumphant, with the Alpha and the Omega. To one side, veiled, stood his mother. To the other, a winged angel—Michael. The triple arch above the door centered on a bas-relief carving of the Lamb of God, the words Agnus Dei confirming the image. At the base of the arch, the stone faces of men opened their mouths wide and spewed forth rich vines and foliage that became a tangle of carving spreading like a rainbow over the door. Hidden in the foliage, birds plucked at seeds. Other men, entangled in more leaves, stood to the right and left of the Lamb of God.
“Green men,” I murmured, straining hard to remember the term from my art history class. A symbol of rebirth, a sign of the cycle of life turning to spring.
I looked more closely at the capitals atop the pillars on either side of the door. Another green man graced the one to the right. On the left, a bird spread its wings, recalling the phoenix emerging from the ashes.
Death and resurrection, everywhere I looked.
I registered the sirens over the door, their naked bodies seeming out of place. I didn’t have time to puzzle over them, though. I leaned on the door and, finding it open, walked in.
Immediately, I was plunged into darkness. I fumbled in my backpack and pulled out the iPod that Enoch had left with me during our days in Istanbul. I pressed it on and used the glow from its tiny screen to light my way.
I was making my way through a corridor, headed into the church. The floor was uneven. I reached ahead of me, blindly, touching the cold walls for reassurance. My shuffling footsteps echoed through the church, bouncing off stone and returning to me, magnified.
I kept walking until I emerged into a narrow space punctuated by slender stone columns. I brandished my iPod up to the ceiling, trying to make sense of the space. The columns’ capitals were covered with carvings of animals and more foliage, giving way to a barrel-vaulted ceiling. Instead of soaring, though, the ceiling felt close and claustrophobic. I glimpsed snatches of fresco here and there. I turned my light to the walls and saw I was in an irregular walkway that had nine bays at intervals around the church. Its walls curved away—the slight round shape I’d observed outside, an accommodation to the unusual restrictions of the site, no doubt. Scattered benches sat alone, waiting for a penitent. For the most part, the entire chapel was empty, solitude etched in stone.
The tiny windows in the outer walls let a little of the exterior floodlight into the church. Grey rock, worn smooth by centuries of pilgrims treading its surface, lay like a carpet below my feet. My eyes followed the cracked and pitted surface of the floor up to a short series of steps that gave way to a smaller space.
The sanctuary.
I moved instinctively toward it, the humming inside my brain turning into a full roar as I navigated the uneven floor and mounted the steps.
It was a tiny, square space, its low walls moving into a pyramid-shaped vault. The light was even dimmer here, but in the reflection from my screen I could make out faint frescoes, richly colored. Christ in Majesty, flanked by the sun and moon, was arrayed to fill the shrine’s ceiling. Above him, this time, was Michael, depicted in full Archangel regalia and attended by seraphim. Medallions of saints and angels finished the corners. Man and angel, joined as one in worship of the two who would sacrifice everything to redeem those who had failed.
I glanced around quickly at the walls of the sanctuary, the light flickering off the paintings. Images of the resurrection of the dead, Heaven and Hell, angels and saints stared back at me, wide-eyed, the flatness of their medieval likenesses seeming even odder in the half-light. I scanned quickly, knowing what I was looking for.
There, in the right wall of the sanctuary, was the niche.
It had no door or cabinet; it was really just a gaping hole in the dark.
The roaring in my head was overwhelming now, urging me on.
I moved across the stone floor, unable to hear the echoes of my footsteps any longer, until I was standing directly in front of the opening.
I lifted a hand and noticed that my fingers were trembling. I closed my eyes and thrust my hand into the niche, feeling around inside until I felt something rough. I wrapped my fingers around it and lifted. Instantly, the images I’d seen before in my dreams—the man’s hand gripping the stone, its surface dripping with blood, came racing back to me.
“Hope! What are you doing?”
He looked at me in the face, his eyes searching, before letting his glance drift down to my hand. He stopped, eyes widening.
I looked down and saw that I had it.
In my hand, I had the Key.
It was smaller, somehow, than I’d expected. I ran my thumb over an edge and felt the sharpness of it, how easy it would be for flesh to give way under its violence.
“Don’t come any closer!” I shouted, pulling the rock behind my back and backing up to the niche. I glanced over Michael’s shoulder, looking for Enoch, but he wasn’t there. Michael was alone.
“Hope.” Michael’s voice was like a caress, bridging the space between us. “You can’t do this,” he reasoned, his voice utterly calm as he inched toward the first step. “It’s not the way it’s supposed to happen.”
“You don’t know that,” I pleaded, the rock feeling heavy in my hand.
“We both know it,” he said, taking another step toward me.
“Don’t come any closer,” I warned, moving away from the niche toward the altar in the middle of the sanctuary.
“Carmichael,” he whispered, and I gave a little sob to hear the way he said my name, the tenderness in his voice. He stretched his hand out to me. “Don’t make this any harder than it already is.”
I shook my head, biting my lip to hold back the tears.
“Please,” he said, his voice hoarse, as he reached one trembling hand out to me.
Go to him.
Henri. Good old Henri.
“Always there for the drama,” I whispered to myself, wiping my face.
I took a step toward Michael, then another. I began to run to him, my eyes never leaving his.
But then, out of nowhere, I felt a push, hard, in my back.
My ankle twisted, and I fell down the steps. I hit the rough stone, my hands splayed out to break my fall, and the rock flew from my hand. I watched, shocked, as it skidded across the floor before coming to land at the base of a column.
Michael moved swiftly to my side.
“Are you okay?” he asked, crouching down beside me. I looked up at him and saw something I hadn’t expected to see in his eyes—disappointment.
Confused, I nodded, pushing myself up.
He offered me his hand and helped me sit. Sadly, he tucked a piece of hair behind my ear, his fingers lingering against the skin of my neck. I closed my eyes, letting the familiar warmth of his touch flood my senses once again as he kissed the top of my head.
“You should have told me Henri was still here with you.” His voice held the slightest hint of reproach.
My eyes flew open wide. He was looking at me, his gray eyes serious.
I opened my mouth to deny his accusation but stopped, unsure of myself.
Michael’s eyes were wistful but kind, his voice laden with regret. “Only a guardian angel can break the plane between Heaven and Earth to interfere in the physical world. Only guardians and Archangels,” he added. “He pushed you down the stairs, Hope. He’s been tricking you all along, waiting for you to lead him here. He must be working with the Fallen. I’m guessing the others will be here shortly.”
His words were like blows to my middle, stealing my breath.
Betrayal.
Gabrielle had warned me. It is by your hand that Michael will feel love and loss, betrayal and death.
“No!” I shouted, pushing Michael away to scramble on my knees over the rough stone floor after the rock. I grasped it in my hand and then backed up, propping myself up against a column, clutching the rock to my chest. I remembered how puzzled Michael had been that the Fallen had let us escape in Las Vegas, how worried he’d been that our journey to chase the Key had been too easy. His bewilderment when we’d been tracked so quickly in Istanbul. Now it all made sense.
They hadn’t needed to chase us; they’d had one of their own in our midst.
“I trusted you!” I shouted into the air, squeezing the rock even tighter in my hands.
Then you chose poorly, Henri whispered into my mind, the venom in his voice unmistakable. And he should have known better than to challenge the order of things. I had to punish him for his interference. He thought it was so easy to dismiss me, didn’t he? Now he’ll see.
I sobbed in frustration. All this time, I’d been leading them straight to us. All because I hadn’t believed in Michael.
“You didn’t know what you were doing,” Michael soothed, as if he could read my mind. He moved toward me, then stopped, frowning, to peer into the corners of the church.
“They’re here,” he said.
There was a rushing sound. The tiny windows of the chapel were suddenly filled with dark writhing shapes, plunging us into complete darkness.
“Michael!” I screamed, but I couldn’t see him, couldn’t hear him above the mounting roar.
The shapes darted about; they floated like smoke, wrapping themselves around stone and mortar, settling into the far corners of the church. The sickening stench of sulfur wafted across the room in their wake, confirming what I already knew.
I was too late.
In the corners, the shapes began to solidify, taking form. Slowly, they emerged from the shadows, almost seeming to emanate their own dark light.
One. Two. Ten. Twenty.
More Fallen Angels than I had ever seen before, dressed in armor as if for battle. Their black wings seemed alive, coiling and burning like molten lava as they unfurled, shimmering like broken glass, the edge of every feather crisp and sharp.
I cringed, pushing myself up against the stone, looking wildly about for my escape. But there was nowhere for me to go. They were everywhere, the darkness of the night seeming to disgorge them from every corner, their bodies multiplying before my very eyes.
One of them emerged from the pack, his dark wings spread majestically as he strode toward me. His eyes were hard, and he looked at me with disdain, his lips curled in disgust as if I were mere refuse, as he stretched out his palm.
“There’s no point in resisting us. Hand over the Key, daughter of Eve. It is written.”
I looked up to where he towered above me. Defiantly, I lifted my chin. “I won’t give it to you.”
My voice was shaky, but even as I said the words, I grew more confident. I pushed myself up, using the column for support, and stood gingerly on my hurt ankle. From across the gallery, Michael frowned and shook his head slightly.
The Fallen Angel smiled, his lips morphing into a sinister grin.
“Then we shall have to take it from you.”
Flames burst around the edges of the church—ancient torches, hung intermittently on the stone walls, bid to life by the Fallen. As their tongues of fire danced, the torches cast strange shadows among the pillars of stone.
Knowing the theatrics were meant to scare me didn’t make them any less frightening.
The dark angel moved toward me, circling as he approached as if hunting his prey, when we heard an unexpected voice.
“Don’t you think you should pick on someone your own size?”
The angel spun around. Swiftly, the tip of a cane stabbed him in the middle of his chest.
“Enoch!” I gasped, relief flooding my body as he emerged from the darkness of the ramp, walking the angel, who now appeared less confident, away from me.
Enoch looked smug behind his sunglasses, moving with assurance even without the assistance of his cane. He looked for all the world to me like a misfit musketeer, brandishing his walking stick like a sword, jabbing the angel’s armored chest as he forced him back, back, ever back from where I stood, speechless.
Of course, I realized, in his aged and out-of-shape condition, Enoch had been slower to climb the stairs than Michael. But he’d kept climbing, never giving up. Even in the dim light I could see the sheen of sweat on his face and detect the heaviness of his breathing. He may have been slow, but his timing was impeccable.
; Carefully, he forced the Fallen Angel up against a stone wall.
“Unsheath your weapon. Drop it on the floor—here, at my feet.”
The angel stood over a head taller than Enoch. I could see his face contort with contempt, then rage, then disbelief as he realized none of his comrades were coming to his aid. Petulantly, he opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Enoch slid the tip of his cane against his throat.
“Now. I mean it.”
The angel glowered and clamped his mouth shut. He grabbed the hilt of his sword and withdrew it from its scabbard. Angrily, he threw it down upon the stone floor. The clang of metal against rock echoed around the chapel.
“That’s better,” Enoch said with a harrumph. “Don’t make me use this on you,” he warned his captive as he half-turned to face the crowd, keeping a watchful eye on the angel. “That goes for all of you.”
The Fallen Ones shifted uneasily.
“You gave us a good chase, missy,” Enoch chided me, giving me his full attention. In the shadowy corner where he stood, I couldn’t really make out his face, just the slight glint of light bouncing off his sunglasses. “See all the trouble you’ve caused.”
I gulped back my tears, confused. “But, Enoch, you—” His curt shake of the head cut me short. He didn’t want Michael to know we’d conspired. “I was only trying to get the Key before anyone else could.”
“I figured as much,” he answered, thrusting the point of his cane a little harder against his prisoner’s neck as he spoke, lest the angel get any ideas. “Still, it was a foolish thing to do. Brave, but foolish. And now you and Michael are in a pickle. Lucky I turned up when I did, hmm?”
“We can’t fight them, Enoch,” I said, looking about the church at the throng of dark angels. They were hesitant, but I knew it wouldn’t last for long. They’d been taken by surprise, but once they recovered we would be no better off than before. “There are too many of them.”