Sword- Part One

by D B Nielsen

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ‘But, of course, this is all purely academic.’

  Isabella’s final, dismissive pronouncement had me blinking in confusion – the image returning to dormancy – as if I’d witnessed a magician’s sleight of hand, a hypnotist’s trance-like induction. But if this was a performance, I was too stunned to applaud.

  An uncomfortable silence fell between us, broken only by the continued drumming of St. John’s fingers upon the reading room table, as if he alone remained unaffected by our talk – even though I knew this was not the case. Unsettled still, I was immensely grateful for St. John’s protective presence, his solidity, and his warmth, where he stood behind me.

  Again, a faint floral scent infused the air in the private reading room. It infected the liminal spaces where thought and form were alchemised into another. There was an anomaly in the room – felt rather than seen. I wasn’t certain but it felt like nothing was real in that moment. It was difficult to comprehend – it would have been far more difficult to put into words, to articulate precisely what I thought I knew.

  And then Isabella smiled.

  My heart stopped beating for a fraction of a second. This was not the polite, condescending smile with which I was now familiar. There was a feral pleasure and possessiveness in the manner in which she looked upon St. John. Her face was positively radiant, sparklingly seductively; so much so that even I was slightly dazzled by it.

  Glancing up at St. John, who had suddenly stopped his rhythmic drumming on the tabletop, I was disturbed by the suddenly cold, blank remoteness in his expression, a stiffness in the way he now held himself against me. It was as if he was fortifying some part of himself against an unexpected breach. Since I was pressed back up against him, I couldn’t fail to notice the unnatural pallor of his skin and the darkness within his eyes; his pupils dilated wide and so black against the jade green of his irises that they held a preternatural look.

  A very long moment passed in silence as I looked on in shock and confusion. I felt when his body shook against mine, the way he seemed to struggle within himself, against something unseen, something overpowering, until he managed to master it.

  Seeing Isabella and St. John together was not unlike viewing a shadow play – aspects would settle temporarily into place like silhouettes on a scrim and then vanish into filtered light and distorted shadow once more, never remaining solid for more than a moment. It was a scattering of the lamplight, a sense of wild energy and motion, an aura of dark intent.

  Something had been let loose within the bindings of the manuscript – defying the restraints of warding. I was uncertain whether the unsettled feeling came from the sacred text, RSPA 230, or from the Ice Queen, or from my overwrought senses. Maybe it was a combination of all these things placed in close proximity at once. This experience was unlike the time when I had been attacked in the British Museum; then, I had felt my conjoined awareness with the Seed. Then, I had felt a surge of great power, a quickening of my blood – not this murky contagion like the foul spill of crude oil blanketing the atmosphere of the reading room.

  The heady scent of flowers in their last bloom assailed my nostrils as if I was trapped and suffocating within glass-encased parchment and ink. The British Library shifted around me, as fluid as a conjurer’s trick.

  I could take it no longer. Holding my breath as I reached out, I did what I had been adamant I would not do – I grasped the ancient manuscript with both hands and, ignoring my burning fingertips and palms, forcefully slammed the book shut.

  For a split second, the image of the Faravahar flared golden and the air around the manuscript shimmered, causing me to shudder involuntarily and raising the tiny hairs at the back of my neck. Yet, almost immediately, the unsettled feeling of disease withdrew. I wondered briefly if I was losing my mind. But, despite this, I remained in wary watchfulness.

  And then the moment broke apart as my mobile phone rang shrilly, slicing the suddenly still and silent air of the private reading room.

  ‘Uffa!’ Isabella jumped back in surprise, looking at me aghast. There was no hint of guile or malice in her bright blue eyes. Strangely, it was as if the charged moment had never been. Or perhaps I was the only one who had noticed it. ‘How could you have forgotten to turn off your phone, Sage?’

  Her tone was critical as she voiced her accusation. Floundering, I didn’t know how to answer her; I thought I had turned it off before we’d entered the British Library but, obviously, I’d forgotten. I flushed with embarrassed guilt but Isabella didn’t require an answer nor an apology; not waiting for a reply as she turned back to St. John to ask him his thoughts on his supervisor’s religious interpretation of RSPA 230. It was like an elastic band had stretched to breaking point then snapped back time. They spoke with the familiarity of colleagues and old friends. If anything, their conversation was prosaic, academic, confusing me all the more.

  Not knowing what to think about the situation but anticipating the persistence of my caller, I quietly excused myself from their presence and journeyed outside into the fresh spring air of the British Library’s courtyard. The exterior, near St. Pancras Station, was more than familiar to me. But, suddenly, it felt like a temporary space. A symbol of impermanence – despite the size and sturdiness and permanence of the surrounding sculptures and buildings – a place of comings and goings, arrivals and departures, a constant stream of visitors, and busloads of tourists and travellers on their way to other locations and destinations. And in the centre of it all, I felt like a ship that had suddenly drifted too far away from its mooring and out to sea.

  Stridently, my phone rang again. Looking down at the caller ID displayed on the screen, I noted that it was Fi insistently calling, not willing to give up and just text or leave a message like everyone else, and swiped the touch screen to receive the call.

  ‘I’ve been waiting for your call back,’ were the first words I heard. Fi sounded grumpy on the other end and I realised that her impatience was caused by the fact that I hadn’t picked up the phone the first time.

  I sighed. ‘I was busy.’

  ‘Yeah?’ Petulance laced her voice.

  ‘Yeah, Fi. I’m with St. John and Isabella Donnatelli at the British Library.’ I sounded harassed. ‘I’ve been investigating the Zoroastrian sacred text for any clues it might hold about you know what.’

  ‘Well, I’ve been listening to voices in my head for the past hour,’ she said sharply, ‘so it was either call you or end up in a psych ward for the certifiably insane. I believe there’s a padded cell with my name on it at Summer Fields.’

  ‘Rubbish. Don’t exaggerate.’ I rolled my eyes even though my sister couldn’t see it. ‘Besides, that’s a boy’s prep school, Fi. Not an insane asylum.’

  ‘Are you certain? ‘Cos I’m pretty sure I’ve heard Alex complain about Mum’s threats to commit him to Summer Fields if he doesn’t behave.’

  ‘Pretty sure. It’s an all boy’s boarding school in Oxford,’ I observed.

  ‘That’s too bad.’ Fi’s voice dripped sarcasm. ‘Alex needs some rehabilitating. He could do with a stint in therapy – the little monster.’

  ‘He’s a child, Fi!’ I protested automatically.

  ‘Pl-uh-lease, that child has been using my electric toothbrush to clean Indy’s teeth – and I didn’t find out about it until I caught him in the act! Defend him all you want, but he gets away with murder just because he’s the youngest!’

  I couldn’t help myself. I burst out laughing. ‘Has he? Ha! I’m sorry, but that’s just too funny!’

  But her next words had me quickly sobering up. ‘Oh yeah? Well, then, I guess you don’t want to know what he’s been doing with that Speech and Drama trophy you won when you were twelve. You know, the one that’s shaped like a pair of–’

  ‘Okay! No! I do not want to know!’ It was Fi’s turn to laugh now. Seated in the middle of the concourse, I looked over to the bronze statue of Newton towering above me and let out another sigh of exasper
ation. ‘I will deal with Alex when I get home. So, tell me, what’s with the voices?’

  ‘What happened to you in that library, Sage?’ Fi countered, her reply slightly muffled. I could hear a lot of noise in the background distorting her words. ‘Be honest. It almost felt like the voices were warning me of some danger you were in. And where the hell was St. John? Or was he prepared to sacrifice you too?’

  As usual, Fi wasn’t going to pull any punches. She went straight for the jugular. ‘I’m fine. I had an unexpected vision in the library today, that’s all. And St. John was there watching over me the whole time.’ I paused, frowning, as the sound of a public announcement echoed in my ear. ‘What are you doing? Where the hell are you anyway, Fi?’

  ‘I’m on my way to the British Library. Should be there in less than ten minutes.’

  ‘You’re what?’ I shouted into the phone.

  ‘You heard me,’ she said tartly. ‘I was given a warning by the voices. I was hardly going to ignore them, was I now? Not that I could ignore them, even if I wanted to – especially as they’re in my head. It’s a little like Castiel listening to angel radio on Supernatural, but I don’t have the luxury of turning it off.’

  ‘I’m still here, Fi! Stop whining!’ I called into the phone, interrupting her tirade. ‘I get it!’

  There was silence on Fi’s end as another public announcement was made. This one louder than the first, suggesting Fi had arrived at St. Pancras Station and was now on foot.

  ‘Anyway, I’ve got other news for you. I think I’ve worked out the key to the Scroll. But I need St. John’s and Gabriel’s help, which is why I’m also coming to meet up with you guys,’ she said tightly.

  ‘You worked it out?’ I exclaimed incredulously, voice rising. ‘Really? But that’s brilliant! How–’

  ‘Meet you near that statue that looks like that robot from Metropolis – except that it’s male,’ she said before the phone went dead in my ear.

  Gritting my teeth in frustration, I pocketed my phone, knowing that it would be useless trying to call my sister back. I knew better than to talk to her when she was in one of her moods. I looked up at the statue of Newton again and had to acknowledge that it did kind of look like a male version of the robot Maria from Fritz Lang’s masterpiece, which made me briefly wonder when Fi was here last. Libraries weren’t really her thing – unless there was a guy involved – though, perhaps, since being tasked to decipher the Scroll, she had come to the British Library to do some research. Whatever the case, she seemed to know how to get to the British Library at least.

  Sunlight streamed down and warmed the red brick of the library concourse. I closed my eyes and breathed in the spring air, willing the events of the morning to fade into insignificance. The sounds of the traffic on the street, the train station and crowded boutiques nearby made little impression as I kept my eyes shut during those blissful moments of peace and solitude. I felt suspended in time and space. Darkened spots of purple, orange and black danced behind closed lids but, too soon, they imitated the eyes peering out from the caverns of the Underworld and I surged upright to draw in a shuddering breath.

  The sky darkened overhead as the sun went behind the clouds. At the same time, an icy patch bloomed between my shoulder blades. My head swivelled over my shoulder, whipping around to find the source of my discomfort.

  A tall figure stood on the other side of the concourse, his long, fur-trimmed overcoat flapping around his knees then fanning out behind him, giving the impression of bat’s wings as the fleeting rough wind brought an arctic chill. I shivered in my white muslin frill dress, even though the day was warm – far too warm for the thick overcoat that the man was wearing. My mind was shrieking all kinds of warnings but, for some inexplicable reason, I simply stood there, watching him as he watched me.

  If I believed in vampires, I would have superstitiously crossed myself as the dark figure did not move a muscle, did not even twitch or blink, barely seemed to breathe. His unnatural stillness was the more remarkable as a group of local students walked right past him without taking any notice, their bright chatter echoing off the red brick concourse walls.

  The sun finally came out from behind the clouds and I carefully observed that, although he was standing in direct sunlight, he cast no shadow. It was as if he was both there and not there at the same time. The merest hint of a smile flickered across his expression, but it never reached his eyes.

  For a single instant, every detail of that bright afternoon was etched indelibly onto my mind, and I instinctively knew that I had seen this man before. Even though I could not see the colour of his eyes from where I stood, I knew that they were as black and as hard as coals, a dark abyss. Yet it was as if red hot embers were lit within them, flickering and smouldering like the flames of hell in sudden acknowledgement at our momentary eye contact. There was in that silent scrutiny, in those black eyes, a cold animosity, an implacable will.

  Inside my mind, a key began to turn, opening a locked memory or nightmare. I could almost feel it, like the cranking of industrial cogs and wheels in an abandoned factory. Slowly ... so slowly ... turning ...

  ‘Sage! There you are!’

  Surprised, I turned to see St. John and Isabella swiftly approaching; walking towards me from the library’s entrance. Isabella’s stiletto heels tapped imperiously on the red pavers, highlighting her impatience with a withering glance.

  ‘We wondered where you’d gone. What are you doing out here on your own?’ There was a trace of concern and admonishment in St. John’s tone as his jade green eyes scanned the now empty concourse.

  I opened my mouth to reply ... and found myself at a loss. I wasn’t quite sure what I had been about to say. Perplexed, I looked around, pausing briefly to focus on a spot across the concourse, directly opposite to where I was standing. For some reason, it seemed oddly important ... but I didn’t quite know why.

  ‘I ... ah ... came out to take a phone call from Fi,’ I admitted hesitantly, twirling my engagement ring around my ring finger.

  ‘And?’ St. John prompted.

  I couldn’t help but act slightly flustered, unusually distracted. ‘Yeah ... er ... sorry. She said she would be joining us for lunch as she’s got some stuff to do in town. I hope you don’t mind.’

  ‘I’m afraid I won’t be able to join you,’ the Ice Queen said coolly in reply. ‘I have a standing appointment to do my hair with Andrew Barton every fortnight and it won’t do to cancel; he’s sought after by all the top celebrities.’

  I tucked a stray lock of chestnut hair behind my ear self-consciously as I looked upon the immaculately groomed young woman, resisting the urge to pat my hair down as it frizzed in the humidity. Enviously, I couldn’t imagine that even one of her platinum blonde strands would dare to be out of place. But I guessed that such flawless beauty came at a high price.

  The three of us stood about awkwardly.

  Stuck for words, I fell back on insincere platitudes. ‘It’s a pity you can’t join us. You haven’t met my sister yet. But I’m sure we’ll be able to have lunch another time.’

  ‘Of course. I would love to meet another member of the Woods family. You are all so colourful.’ She made meeting my sister sound anything but a pleasant experience – or, at least, that was how it sounded to me. And her backhanded compliment about my family made me grind my teeth as I made an effort to smile. It was insincere and savage.

  Isabella Donnatelli eyed me coldly. It took considerable effort but I refrained from being downright rude to her.

  But St. John came to the rescue. His deep, low voice held us in check; all graciousness and diplomacy. ‘That, they are. But I’m certain, as you’ll come to know yourself, there will be many more occasions for a close tête-à-tête.’ He smiled warmly at the striking Italian historian. ‘I cannot thank you enough for accompanying us today on our excursion, Isabella. Your knowledge was invaluable.’

  A flash of genuine warmth lit Isabella’s fair face. ‘You’re most welcome. I
enjoyed it very much.’

  It was astonishing how intensely attractive her face became when that hard, cold look was replaced by warmth. The change was brief, however, and as she made ready to leave the concourse, I was once more confronted by her chill, pale profile.

  Making her farewells to us – the customary exchange with St. John of a close embrace, terribly European – I briefly turned away as, in the periphery of my vision, I could see Fi approaching, still yet some distance away but closing in fast.

  ‘Oh wait–’ I hurriedly spun back to catch Isabella before she left in order to make a brief introduction, but she was already moving speedily in the opposite direction. She made no effort to disguise her swift, sure movements. Her steps were decisive, bearing her away from our location.

  Frowning, I was slightly put out, as I had not yet thanked nor said goodbye to her. It would have been only polite, as my parents had taught me. But there was nothing to be done, short of running after her – and I wasn’t about to do that. It was easier, I decided, to thank her the next time I saw her.

  ‘Hey!’ Fi’s voice penetrated my thoughts as she appeared at my shoulder, staring in the direction of the departing figure of Isabella Donnatelli.

  ‘Hey there,’ I responded, still frowning at Isabella’s retreating back.

  ‘Who was that?’

  ‘The Ice Queen. Isabella Donnatelli.’ I was sure my twin sister could hear the jealousy pervading my terse reply.

  ‘That’s Isabella Donnatelli? I thought she was much older from the way that Mum described her.’ Fi paused, staring after Isabella until she was lost to view. ‘You know ... she kind of reminds me of someone. There’s something about her ...’

  ‘Oh, there’s definitely something about her, all right!’ I turned my glittering gaze to face my sister.

  Fi smirked as she directed a spiteful cat sound towards me. ‘Bitchy, aren’t we? I did not know you had that in you! Good for you, Sage!’ Then, looking around pointedly, asked, ‘So, where’s your knight in shining armour? I thought I saw him as I was walking up ...’