Judgment Stone (9781401687359) Page 6

  “Why would they be? How would they even know about her?”

  Nevaeh put on a smile and turned toward the patio again. Vasco was not in his chair or anywhere on the patio. Yellow lights mounted toward the top of each column came on, and the old man appeared in the doorway, stepping out with a bottle of wine and two glasses. She closed her eyes.

  “Okay, listen,” she said. “We’re on our way. It’ll be a few hours before I can get the others, then a few more to reach you. We’ll be there in the morning sometime. If it looks like someone’s trying to take Beth, stop them.”

  “Stop them?” he said. “How?”

  “Figure it out.”

  “These guys have machine guns, and somebody down there has a rocket launcher!”

  If she pushed, Toby would try. She pictured him rushing the helicopter, getting cut down by bullets or blown up. She said, “You’re right, you’re right. Don’t do anything. Stay safe. Can you get the tail number?”

  “Yeah, sure,” Toby said, sounding relieved.

  He may have been 3,500 years old, but he had the mind of a fifteen-year-old. She had to remember that sometimes. “Toby,” she said, “good job. Thanks for trying so hard to reach me.”

  “Yeah. When you didn’t answer, I called Sebastian. Elias answered, said Sebastian had gone shark fishing. He said he was going to call you, but I thought—”

  “Toby, I have to go. Good job.” She ended the call and slipped the phone into her pocket. She watched Vasco finish pouring her drink, then glance up at her. She went to him and said, “Vasco . . . son, I have to go. An emergency.”

  Gesturing to the wine, he said, “I thought we could . . .” His voice trailed off. “I understand,” he said and stood.

  “I’m sorry.” Nevaeh wrapped her arms around him and held him close. She felt his spindly arms encircle her, and they stayed that way for a while. When they parted, she said, “I’ll try . . .”

  He was trembling again, his lips especially. His eyes were glistening with tears.

  She continued: “I really will try to visit you again.”

  He nodded. “I wish you could have met them,” he said. “My Maria, the kids. All gone now. I’ve had a full, good life.” He paused. “But I’m ready, ready to join them.” He blinked, sending the tears into his wrinkles. “I don’t know how you do it. I don’t know how you do forever.”

  “I don’t have a choice,” she said, feeling her face muscles tighten, unable to conceal her anger and frustration.

  He took her hand. “Don’t you realize how patient God is being with you?”

  She smiled, sure it appeared more sad than reassuring. She ran her fingers down his cheek and headed for the beach. At the hedge she turned and walked back. “Would you mind,” she said, “if I took some of those pastéis de nata with me?”

  She thought she would always remember the smile he gave her.

  [ 12 ]

  Jagger stared at the spot where the man had crouched, helping Mattieu aim his pistol. Mattieu was watching him with concern. Jagger glanced around. Blue lights streaked straight up into the dark sky from the roofs of the basilica and apartment building, nothing to explain them. He thought: Gotta be a concussion, but did I really hit my head that hard? That, or Steampunk was the Houdini of hallucinogens, able to administer it without seeming to.

  “Jagger . . . ?”

  He sat back on his heels, rubbed his hand over his face, and said, “I . . . hit my head . . .”

  “Stay there.” Mattieu began pulling himself onto the porch’s sloping roof.

  Outside the compound someone yelled and the helicopter’s engine started, rising in pitch like a tortured scream. Jagger crawled toward the outside edge of the wall. He felt dizzy and paused to close his eyes. He had been knocked silly—or drugged—splayed before a crossbow-wielding psychopath: How had he survived? Who was the man who’d saved him? Was he a man? If not, what was he? Assuming he’d hallucinated the whole thing seemed easier than pursuing that line of questioning. He had banged his head, seen stars, and Steampunk’s crossbow had broken a string, causing the arrow to miss. That’s all.

  But he didn’t think so.

  He shook his head, trying to dislodge all the questions. Right now all he wanted was to know what was going on: were the attackers leaving, and did they get what they came for? He thought of the stone shard Steampunk had been holding; it’d appeared “archeological” to Jagger, a relic or an artifact.

  He continued along the rooftop toward a big grappling hook biting the edge. A black nylon rope trailed from it down the front wall. Edging up beside it, he saw the attackers on the valley floor below, caught in the illumination of the bright lamps mounted to the outside wall. They were heading for the helicopter, walking, talking to each other, in no hurry.

  All around them chaos whirled like a wildfire as two groups engaged in combat. Eight or ten were monsters like the ones he’d seen with Steampunk. They were obviously protecting the humans who’d attacked the monastery, keeping their backs to them, moving slowly toward the helicopter as they fought.

  Some of them were tall and lanky, others muscular and bulky, all of them with hideously misshapen faces, monster faces. The beast from the wall was among them, snarling and swinging that guillotine blade—which was nearly lost among the many flashes of slicing swords, knives, and axes aimed at an advancing horde of warriors.

  These other combatants were like the men he’d seen, though he realized now they were taller and more muscular than humans. Their toga-like gowns fluttered around them, blurring their bodies. They were so brightly white they appeared to be caught in the radiance of theatrical spotlights. Glowing embers swirled around them, forming shields just in time to parry a blow or converging into swords even as they struck at an opponent. The pulsing orange bits would swoop back, becoming wings that lifted them off the ground, propelling them away from a lunging enemy and shooting them forward to strike from an elevated position.

  The monsters they fought were engulfed by a black cloud of . . . something. At first Jagger thought they were flies, swarming as they do around rotting meat. But they were flakier, billowing away before whirling into tighter formations to become swords and weapons. They seemed a counterpart to the glowing embers whirling around the bright creatures, as though they’d once been bright and alive but were now only ashes, black and gray, not quite as quick.

  As he watched, a cloud of ashes billowing around a monstrosity coalesced behind the creature, becoming fluttering bat wings. The thing propelled itself into the air, then crashed down into one of the ember-men, crushing him to the ground. Glowing embers snapped and slapped at the attacker. Another ember-man flashed over, kicked the enemy off, hacking at it with a sword. He helped his comrade up, and they both spun back into battle. Their weapons struck sword and shield, kicking up eruptions of sparks and ashes. The violent scene could have been taking place on the floor of a foundry, for all the exploding sparks that filled the air.

  The battle went on, and Jagger realized the combatants were becoming harder to see as the seconds passed; it was as though each shadow they moved through stole a little of their bodies, so when an arm, a leg, a torso reappeared in the moonlight or lamplight, less of it was there to see. The sound, too, began fading away, the clanging blades barely audible now.

  Jagger noticed the movie-star-looking guy on the slope at the bottom of the opposite mountain, still there, watching his team retreat to the helicopter, his arms now crossed over his chest. Something was moving on his back. It showed its face over his shoulder: a lizard-like creature, blacker than the night. It pressed a reptilian hand on the side of the man’s face, looked around. Ashy wings fluttered behind it, occasionally wrapping one around the man’s arm, as if hugging him. The lizard-beast looked straight at Jagger, then the man also turned his gaze on Jagger and smiled.

  A hand grabbed Jagger’s calf, and he jumped, pivoting onto a hip, ready to kick.

  “It’s me,” Mattieu whispered. He crawled along the
rooftop to the edge. “What’s happening?”

  “They’re—” Jagger started, then changed course. “What do you see?”

  Mattieu said, “They’re all on the helicopter, but they haven’t closed the side door yet. I see . . . they’re waiting for that guy.” He nodded toward Mr. Movie Star, now walking in and out of the shadows toward the copter, walking through the fading combatants. Jagger saw Mattieu’s eyes tracking the man, clearly not seeing anything else but him.

  Mattieu brought his pistol forward and braced it with his other hand. He dipped his head to sight over the barrel. He closed one eye and squeezed off two quick shots.

  A monster—a skeletal-looking thing with papery flesh peeling away from its bones—jumped and stretched out a sword. Moving almost too fast for Jagger to see, it deflected the bullets, which kicked up little plumes of dust five feet beyond the target.

  The man glanced up at them and continued striding toward the helicopter.

  An ember-enshrouded warrior looked over his shoulder at Jagger and Mattieu, then spiraled into the air, zipping toward them as a streak of light. In an instant he was on the wall, crouching beside Mattieu. He gripped the pistol, leaned in, and whispered: “Again.”

  Mattieu took aim and pulled the trigger.

  As the monster moved to block the bullet, an ember-man tackled it in midair. They spun and crashed to the ground. The man’s left shoulder jerked forward, and he grabbed it. He stumbled sideways and dropped to one knee.

  Commotion at the helicopter: the commando with war paint jumped out with his .50-cal machine gun. Right behind him came the rock-star woman. She darted toward the injured man, who was standing now, walking again. The fingers of the hand clutching his shoulder were smeared with blood. The commando pointed the muzzle at Jagger and Mattieu, and the machine gun began rattling, flames sputtering out of its barrel. Embers sailed over the warrior beside Mattieu and shrouding them in a dome of sparking translucence. Chunks of the wall exploded in front of them.

  Both men pushed back from the edge, rolled, and converged at the opposite, inside edge of the wall, their faces nearly touching. Mattieu was smiling. “I got him.”

  Jagger looked back where they’d lain, the edge coming apart under a barrage of bullets.

  The man with the sparkling aura had vanished.

  [ 13 ]

  Jagger swung down off the porch’s roof onto the railing, then onto the porch itself. He helped Mattieu climb down, and as they descended the stairs he heard the helicopter wind up and take off.

  “Guess they’re not coming back for revenge,” Mattieu said, trying to see the departing aircraft; the wall was too high and too close.

  “They got their blood,” Jagger said, thinking of the three monks cut down by the unmanned ground combat vehicles. “What about the other Cobras?”

  “We jammed their ejector ports, like you said.”

  Jagger stopped to look at him. “With what?”

  Mattieu smiled. “What do monks always have with them?”

  Jagger thought. “Crosses,” he said, noticing Mattieu was missing his.

  “Then Leo shoved a broom handle into their barrels, and we carried them to the well.”

  “They’re in the Well of Moses?”

  “Soaking,” the monk confirmed.

  Jagger reached the bottom and picked up the defective gun he’d thrown down. He said, “The guy I chased, he came from the direction of the apartments. Antoine went to check it out. Has he—?” He couldn’t finish. Dizziness engulfed him, and he pressed a hand against the wall to steady himself. Shadows shifted everywhere, as if moving of their own accord, adjusting themselves into different positions.

  His eyes settled on the basilica across a small courtyard, past a storage building and the mosque. Bright threads of blue light rose from its roof into the sky. As they climbed they came together, twisting into a thicker beam that went deep into the dark sky, seemingly forever.

  He started walking toward the basilica—officially, the Church of the Transfiguration—and Mattieu stopped him. “Jagger, are you all right? What is it?”

  He couldn’t take his eyes off the glowing threads. “Do you see them, the lights?”

  “Jag, I think you better—”

  “I have to see.” He pushed past Mattieu’s hand and continued toward the church.

  He didn’t know what was going on inside his head, whether cracking it against the roof had given him a concussion or he was caught in some tide of chemicals Steampunk had administered. But he didn’t believe the warriors he saw were real. It was all too dream-like: the over-bright, too-close stars, the colors in the sky, the way the ember-men became more and more see-through.

  And he didn’t believe these lights coming out of the basilica were real either. Something, however, drew him to them, and he couldn’t let go of the idea that everything he’d witnessed—hallucinations or not—meant something. A premonition, maybe? An important but long-lost memory? Had he fought here at the monastery before, ages ago, and forgotten? Were the translucent warriors people he’d known then? Why were they coming back now? He was vaguely aware of the absurdity of his conviction that the hallucinations had meaning: didn’t every LSD-tripping addict feel the same thing about their talking dogs, Salvador Dali surroundings, morphing body parts? But he was also aware that even hallucinations drew from the well of an individual’s experiences, memories, fears. If he was hallucinating, he wanted to know not only how it came about but why his mind was showing him these particular things.

  He walked, aware of the mechanical quality of his movements, his trance-like fixation on the lights, his need to know more. Mattieu was following close, probably afraid Jagger would faint or fall. As he drew near, the basilica’s facade cut off his view of the lights, and he faltered. Mattieu gripped his shoulder, said nothing. Jagger felt the desire to step backward so he could see them again, something about them beautiful, enticing. He reminded himself of his mission to find their source, and he climbed the stairs to the basilica’s big wooden doors, above which was the Greek inscription Tyler recited in English whenever he entered: “This is the gate to the Lord; the righteous shall enter into it.”

  Jagger pulled open a door and stepped inside.

  Immediately he sensed an urgency to turn and bolt from this place—and an equally strong, conflicting desire to be embraced by it. On each side of the nave was a row of granite-columned arches, beyond which were doors to small chapels. Between these arches, the nave itself: ancient tiles turning its floor into patterns of geometric art; overhead, a hanging forest of golden, ornamental chandeliers sparkling with each flutter of flame from the candles they held; short pews, each a king’s throne, lining one side. At the front, past a huge crucifix mounted high on a beam, a gilded screen—an iconostasis—was decorated with priceless art and artifacts and separated the main body of the church from the altar. If the best that man could do to honor God—outside of his own desire to love Him and keep His commandments—was to expend his talents and time, his worldly wealth, into a palace of worship, this place represented man’s best.

  Yet all of it dimmed, became insignificant, compared to what Jagger saw on the nave floor before him: seven monks on their knees, facing the crucifix, heads bowed or lifted in prayer. Extending from their heads, rising to and through the flat, beamed ceiling high above, were the glowing threads of blue light. Several disappeared into the ornamental limbs of chandeliers, then continued on the other side.

  Beside each monk stood or knelt a warrior, his hands clasped in prayer. Bright embers swirled around them, forming on each an arm-like appendage that embraced the monk or a shroud over him. Each ember pulsed brightly, dimmed, brightened again. It seemed to Jagger that the rhythm was familiar, everyone knew it: the beating of a human heart. He wondered if it was the heartbeats of the monks. Though earlier it had crossed his mind, there and gone, he could no longer deny it—these beings were angels. Whether it was their presence in this holy place or their postures of humilit
y, worship, and protection, or simply their ember-cloaked forms outside the context of battle, he didn’t know, but he was suddenly certain. They were semitransparent, and through their bodies he could see the patterned floor in front of them, the iconostasis, the monks they embraced.

  An angel turned his head and gazed over his shoulder at Jagger. His face at first appeared tanned, then Jagger amended that thought: it was as though a soft light was shining on it, like reflected gold. It was as flawless as the Carrara marble from which Michelangelo had chiseled his David. In fact, this being reminded him of the statue in other ways: the wavy hair, the strong brow and nose, the youthfulness and confident stature. His irises were blue sapphires.

  He realized that from the angel’s body came an undulating white light, so bright, even in its semitransparent state, it was hard to look at. What he thought was a flowing white garment could be the pulsing of this light, and he wondered if the angels were clothed at all. But he could see how anyone who saw them would think they were—and with the Roman-era garments so many angels were depicted wearing.

  Jagger’s gaze returned to the angel’s eyes, and he saw recognition there, and compassion. It was the way a loving father looked upon his child. Jagger understood the angel was mirroring the feelings of his Creator, perhaps the way humans were meant to do but rarely did. He felt a calm penetrate him, a sense of peace he hadn’t felt since the crash that had taken the Bransfords, his arm, and his faith—if he’d ever really experienced peace like this at all. As a fire warms the flesh, the angel’s gaze soothed his soul.

  But I’m cursed, he thought, and felt again the conflicting urges to flee and to fall before this being and ask God to take away his confusion, his sins, his curse.

  Then someone beside him spoke. The words didn’t register, but the human voice seemed foreign and wrong in this place of quiet prayer and miraculous wonder. Intuitively, Jagger knew this vision before him was fragile, hard to find and easily lost. He was gazing into a bubble reflecting God’s world—and the voice was the finger that would rupture it.