Sword- Part One

by D B Nielsen

  Recalling Ellen Jacobi’s words, I tried and failed to hide my distress. ‘But that isn’t–’

  His eyes dropped to my mouth and he lifted a hand to brush a silencing finger along my trembling lips. ‘Darkness does not exist; it only appears to exist. In truth, it is only the visual absence of light. But the light is still there. It is always present. And that is why, no matter how hard you try, you cannot rid the world of darkness. You cannot erase something that is not there. You cannot remove it from anything. In order to affect darkness, you must do something to the light; because the light is the only thing that actually exists.’

  In the shadows of the private garden, I realised that St. John was right. Half-concealed from him, though ever under his watchful, hawklike gaze, I felt the intimacy of our situation. Fire seemed to rush through my veins and I murmured, ‘St. John ...’

  His kiss was infinitely gentle, infinitely precious – or perhaps that was the way he treated me, as a gift too precious to take for granted – and I revelled in his kiss that was an affirmation and a homecoming.

  ‘St. John,’ I moaned for the sheer pleasure of his name, his touch, his scent, which consumed me under the velvet starlight.

  With a muffled groan, he slid one strong hand around my neck to draw me towards him and deepened the kiss. I could taste him. I could taste his passion, rising like a wave, longing and frantic, and I surrendered as it broke over our heads and pulled me down into his currents. I abandoned all thought, all control, didn’t even try to reason or keep my head. I abandoned myself to feeling, to the moment, and slid my hands under his tight t-shirt and up his taut back where my fingers met hot skin and tense muscle.

  Every nerve ending tingled in response. Under my questing fingertips, I felt where the smoothness of skin met puckered scars, drifting down, tracing towards the contours of his ribcage and smooth stomach. I read his body like a book in Braille. Like a mapmaker, I charted the stars, feeling my way across the universe, moving from the known world into undiscovered and uncharted territory.

  I had always been restrained before, always holding back, listening to some hesitant, virginal voice inside my head which cautioned reason. But now – now I let my lips part under his, now I let my hands roam at will; and I revelled in his arousal, shocked and empowered by how much pleasure it gave me to incite his ardour.

  St. John gasped deep in his throat so that it sounded like the breaking of thunderclouds upon a mountaintop, emitting a string of broken invective in French as he suddenly wrenched himself away from my embrace.

  ‘Zut alors!’ he said on a fierce gasp, as he rose and walked away a few steps from the bench where I remained seated, perplexed at the tension evident in every line of his body.

  ‘St. John? What’s wrong?’

  St. John turned at the confusion in my voice and whatever he saw on my face, hidden under the soft blush of the moon, made him utter an oath and return to take my hands in his.

  He explained patiently, ‘Sage, despite the circumstances, I’m not aiming for end-of-the-world sex.’

  My brows contracted in a frown and I said, mystified, ‘I don’t understand.’

  He smiled with a ferocity at odds with the calmness of his tone. ‘Mon cœur. I am prepared to wait until you are ready. There is no pressure – certainly, not from me. And I would hate for you to pressure yourself into an act that holds for us the very essence of what it is; making love.’

  I understood what he was saying but my raw emotions were running high along with my desire. ‘But all we have are these moments. You’re–’ I couldn’t bring myself to voice the words, so instead, I said, ‘–in danger.

  He raised a hand and touched my face, his eyes burning in the shadows. ‘Not now. Not in this moment. Not from you. Listen to me, dear heart. Fear, despair, heartache appear with the darkness – but these, too, do not exist unless you manifest them. You must always try to hold onto the beauty, happiness and love, Sage.’

  St. John was my happiness ... my love ... my everything.

  Energy suddenly infused the atmosphere – not just my fear and desperation – but an elemental, fiercely sensual, strikingly erotic energy. Underneath the tide of uncertainty and fear, I became aware of the heat shimmering to life inside me. I flattened my palms against his chest. The sleek, toned muscles beneath the t-shirt felt so good. And I was assaulted by fierce longing, trying hard to ignore the sensation so I could convince my beloved that he was being overprotective again.

  ‘St. John. It is you who does not need to fear–’

  But he refused to let me speak. ‘That’s where you’re wrong, Sage. I always get the feeling that I’m overwhelming you. Dominating you. Crushing you with my needs.’ I sank my fingers a little deeper into his t-shirt, feeling the tension within him. St. John seemed unaware of my growing frustration. ‘Trust me, Sage. I have always understood that you needed time. Time to understand what you want ... the touches that say more than words can mean. And, to be frank, I have always felt that you are – were – as unawakened as if you were in the first bloom of youth, so that it shamed me that I desired you as I did ... as I do.’

  His words lapsed into a brief silence and I opened my mouth to voice a protest, but he was not done and the tormented look on his face gave me pause. His expression was stark. He drew a deep, unsteady breath.

  I searched his face as he continued with bitter self-reproach, ‘Worse still, since I came into your life, I have felt responsible for removing the innocence and wonder that used to be present in your eyes and replaced it with the burden of knowledge.’

  He met my eyes; his own were clouded with pain. A little silence fell between us as I contemplated his words.

  So this was the cause of the secrets, the emotional distance and overprotectiveness that had always lain between us, I thought. This sense of his own unworthiness.

  I felt the cold go through to my marrow as St. John raked damp hair from his temples, confessing, ‘Believe me, Sage ... I have thought long about this and I would not have you bound to a shell of a man for all eternity – but, as God is my witness, I have struggled ... and I have meditated and prayed ... and I am not my brother, Sage – because I cannot reconcile myself to such loss and, as much as I should prove how much I love you by letting you find someone else, someone who is more of a man than I can ever be – I cannot. God help me, I cannot.’

  I grabbed at his wrists to pull his hands from his face so he could look me in the eye as I told him, ‘St. John, stop this! Even God allowed for the precious freedom of choice! You are not responsible for my actions – nor for how I feel – then or now!’

  His frame seemed to shake from within where his heart resided. At my stern tone, he looked at me incredulously.

  Then he groaned, ‘Sage. Oh God, Sage. I have felt so desperate. I have wanted you so badly ...’ He cradled my face gently in his hands, looking deeply into my eyes with intense longing. I felt the full force of his passionate conflict and loved him more in that moment than I ever had, as he yielded to his humanity. ‘Give me a moment to explain – you need to understand ... When I ask whether you are ready to make love, I am prepared to wait as long as it takes for you to feel comfortable with the idea ... with the knowledge of us ... and to desire my touch as much as I desire yours. But I would not, in all conscience, deprive you of your choice – especially as I am flawed beyond redemption.’

  At his words, I felt humbled.

  My smile was all knowing, all temptation, as old as Eve. It was my turn to reach up to lay a finger gently on his lips, tracing their fullness and silencing him. Blushing hotly, I said, ‘But I have made my choice. I’m no longer afraid. I may have been ... once ... but I was being cautious ... foolish ... because I’ve always felt that I wasn’t enough for you. In truth, I’ve done nothing to deserve you or your love.’

  He meant to protest, but I stopped him with a soft kiss. ‘Maybe we’ve both been foolish. But St. John, I know what I want. I’ve always known, deep down.’

&n
bsp; St. John’s eyes lit with a fire to molten gold and emerald. ‘And what is it that you want, Sage?’

  ‘Well, it isn’t end-of-the-world sex either,’ I teased, leaning into him to plant another gentle kiss on his lips. Feeling the yearning again, I knew it would always be this way for us. ‘It’s more than that ... it’s the beginning of something ... the beginning of our eternity ... All I want is you, St. John.’

  ‘Sage,’ he said.

  That was all he said. Just my name. But the tone of his voice was rough and urgent. Hunger flared in his eyes. The raw power of his kiss created a tempest in the private garden’s small space. Desire burned savagely hot and deep inside me, incinerating the last vestiges of virginal caution.

  I knew that if I did not seize this moment with this man, I would regret it for the rest of my existence. I groaned an affirmation, ‘All my tomorrows are you. And there is a tomorrow ... for us.’

  SCHEMES, INTRIGUES AND MACHINATIONS

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  But the appointed tomorrow didn’t come.

  By the end of the week, I was no closer to speaking to Ellen Jacobi to find out what she knew than before. The Anakim protecting her delivered all sorts of excuses to keep her from me or, perhaps, they wanted to keep me from her – ‘She’s sleeping; come back later’, ‘She’s too tired to see you today’, ‘The obstetrician is examining her now’ – but, whatever the reason, it would have been far easier to get an appointment with the Queen than with this frail, pregnant woman.

  Finally, refusing to take it any longer, I demanded that the Anakim take me to see her. I was adamant and used my weight as the Wise One, willing to stand my ground. But, instead of trying to dissuade me, Anak brought me to the safe house himself.

  The sun’s rays that morning were perversely hot and Kent shimmered in the spring climate as the early morning dew evaporated. And in the sunlight, the safe house was altogether demystified – just another unexciting, nondescript, small dwelling on a quiet, suburban street.

  No one answered the front door when I knocked so I let myself inside – the handsome, bronze Nephilim leader waited in the car for my return. I called out to make my entrance known, but the house remained silent and still, as if it was empty and abandoned, though I knew this wasn’t the case.

  Feeling the sharp edge of anxiety, I approached Ellen’s room cautiously. Her door was slightly ajar and I paused. But I didn’t need to announce my presence as Barak admitted me, hearing my voice and the sound of my footsteps down the corridor.

  ‘I don’t know how much you’ll get out of her today. We’ve had to increase her meds, upped her painkillers because she’s ... well ... you’ll see.’ He gave me a kind, sympathetic smile, displaying a row of straight, white teeth that stood out brightly against his warm brown skin and dark eyes, making me realise just how attractive he was, and left me alone in the room with her.

  Even the room looked different; the thin palings of sunlight radiantly marked the carpet where it shone through the plantation window shutters, illuminating the interior. The merest light brought warmth. And hope.

  ‘Ellen? Dr. Jacobi? You said that there was something you knew that might help me ... you told me to come back ... so I have.’ The hesitant words spilt out; there was a plea in my voice that even I heard.

  When there was no answer, I stepped forward. But, as I drew closer, I heard the laboured breathing, slow and rhythmic, and knew she was asleep.

  Wasted moments twisted my gut with anguish but, as she moaned in distress in her sleep, uttering vague protestations, I forced myself to check on her. Avoiding looking at her grotesquely protruding belly, I stroked her cheek and forehead. Her dark eyelashes fluttered against bruised skin, but her eyes didn’t open. The blotchy, papery flesh beneath my hand felt dry and extremely warm.

  She moaned again and muttered something low and indistinct.

  ‘Shhh.’ I tried to calm her, feeling once more that wellspring of pity.

  I realised with a sudden fear that she was dying. Really dying. Not some time in the future, but soon. Too soon. Even now.

  Her chest rose and fell with the rasp of each inhaled breath and, as I looked down – irresistibly drawn to the thing growing inside her – I flinched as I saw it move, kick, underneath the thin layer of her pale nightgown.

  Then Barak returned with a carafe of water, which he placed beside the bed.

  ‘How long has she got?’ I whispered.

  Barak shrugged. ‘We don’t know for certain. Weeks maybe. Possibly less. Days.’

  He looked at me almost apologetically, realising my helplessness and frustration, and I felt a huge abyss yawn inside of me. But there was nothing to be done and no satisfaction would be gained from me loitering longer.

  So I left. Retreated. And hoped to return another day – as much as I hoped Ellen Jacobi would have another day.

  And my frustration continued to grow – exacerbated by the fact that St. John and Dad were spending every waking hour at the museum as part of a team effort working to repair the winged bull monumental sculptures which had been broken during the attack by the Fravashi. Though there were major cracks in their foundations, which they feared might be irreparable, the team was exploring every possibility to preserve the artefacts for centuries to come. I felt that I should have been there too – at least doing my job; guiding the school groups around the museum, even though part of it was closed for maintenance of the damaged area of the Great Court – but I was still on “sick leave” and wasn’t permitted to return until my father deemed I was fit and no longer traumatised by the attacks. But as much as I pleaded with him to let me return, Dad remained adamant, using the argument that I hated the most: ‘Sage, it’s for your own good.’ And deep in my heart I knew it was because of the second attack – the one on Isabella – that made him hesitate.

  I was also frustrated that St. John and I hadn’t yet seized the “moment” we had planned on and, worse still, there was an increased security presence about the Manor House and surrounding Fi and me, so that I felt as stifled and as trapped as a celebrity stalked by the paparazzi. Again.

  But I had promised myself that I wouldn’t give up and I was determined to stick to that. With Anak assuring me that Semyaza would not strike any time soon – given their intel – I tried to set my mind to working things out and not feeling so useless; so removed or protected from the ongoing war. But dreadful thoughts kept intruding and I conceded that I was my own worst enemy at the moment.

  Feeling at a loose end and in an attempt to settle myself, I decided to do something totally ordinary for a change and bake hot cross buns, suddenly recognising that Easter was fast approaching as everywhere I went there were chocolate Easter eggs and bunnies on sale, and the local parishes kept dropping leaflets into our letterbox with pithy religious sayings about death and resurrection, which my pious grandmother – had she still been alive and alert, and convinced as she was of her own sainthood – would have loved.

  I didn’t even have Fi’s company – she was closeted away with Gabriel at ITB working on the Scroll. And, as Mum had made a full recovery and was already back on her feet, she was busily transporting Jasmine and Alex to school and to their dance classes, cricket games and swimming lessons, in between meeting with her agent and manager and coffee “catch ups” with the school mums, and conferring with her trusted landscaper to do something about the wasteland in our backyard – it meant that I was well and truly on my own, home alone.

  But I found that there was something almost therapeutic about baking. Kneading the dough until it was smooth relieved some of my tension as I was able to ram the heel of my hand and pound the ball of my fist into the soft mixture repeatedly. Finally satisfied with my efforts, and far less irritated than before, as I piped the flour paste over the buns to make crosses, I heard the car as it gently rumbled down the driveway like a prowling tiger, coming to a halt behind the Manor House and, within minutes, the back door was thrust upon its hinges as Fi entered.
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br />   ‘Traffic’s a bitch,’ she muttered, dropping a large pile of mail upon the breakfast table to remove the denim jacket she was wearing – the one she’d borrowed and failed to return to my wardrobe. After me asking. Repeatedly.

  Stirring the glaze in a small saucepan on the stove, my lips twitched into a small smile. ‘The translation not going well?’

  Her tanned shoulders raised in a shrug from behind as her head bent low to peruse the contents of the fridge, extracting a can of Sprite and turning to face me. ‘Nah, that’s going fine. It’s Gabriel.’

  ‘What about Gabriel?’ I asked, concerned that something new had arisen.

  Popping the tab and slowly sipping at her soft drink, Fi said, ‘Gabriel Chevalier is a dictator. Worse than Hitler and Stalin and that guy in Iraq ... and ... well, you get the idea. He’s making me do training exercises. Military training. Thinks I need to be prepared for battle or the apocalypse or something.’

  I blinked, bewildered. St. John had never given me martial training exercises. ‘What do you mean?’

  She frowned, moving to take a seat at the kitchen counter. ‘He claims he might not always be around to protect me when I’m in danger. As if I need some knight in shining armour! Men! Nephilim! They’re all the same!’ Her disgust was obvious, written all over her face. Sylvia Plath’s feminist mushrooms were growing and Fi was suitably offended by Gabriel’s gallantry, priding herself on being fearless and bold. I smothered another smile. ‘So he’s forcing me to gain combat skills like I’m supposed to be Katniss or Buffy but without the archer’s bow or pointy stakes, which personally would have been way cooler than training with punching bags and weights and some purpose-built Anakim military obstacle course in the basement of ITB. It would be cool – if he wasn’t a commando and I wasn’t being treated like The Biggest Loser.’