Chapter 10
Cave of Whispers
Slowly Faruz descended into the blackness. With his foot wedged into the tow hook and holding tightly to the steel cable, he swung his flashlight in a wide arc. The darkness sucked up the light like a black hole. Once the beam was a meter away, it was gone as though it had never existed.
He glanced up at the small circle of light above. If he listened very hard he could still hear the winch's engine as it chugged away lowering him into the abyss. A few meters more dropped Faruz into utter silence. He wished he had not volunteered for this. The blackness was becoming suffocating. It felt like being wound in a shroud made of the black wool the nomads wove for their tents.
Suddenly there was a soft tickle against his hair. A spider's web? Then the touch of a hand caressed his cheek and traced a line down to his chest. Gooseflesh awakened. He dropped the flashlight, but never heard it hit bottom. In his ear he felt warm breath and the murmur of song... the melodic chant of a thousand voices... of one voice. He couldn't make out the words, which carried an accent of unknown, forbidden sweetness, but his heart knew what they said... "Be mine," they pleaded.
Faruz lost his grip and started to fall, but the blackness caught him in its web, caressed him, absorbed him just as it had the light. He felt the warm touch on his chest begin to burn. His skin burned... his heart burned... his spine burned. Never had he known such searing pain, or such flaming ecstacy.
"Your soul to mine,"
the one voice whispered. "Your heart to mine, your life to mine, your blood to mine, your hatred to mine."In his last moment of individuality his mind heard a joyous, laugh..."So young with hatred so pure... and conscience so clean! My first in two thousand twenty-nine years. The blackness breathed with the euphoria of fulfillment. Soon I will have the truly pure... their blood... their souls will nourish my becoming."
Another voice echoed through the chamber, "Then you shall have the one destined for you."
< < + > >
San Francisco Legacy House
Ever since the events at San Juan Bautista, Kymberlee had been uneasy, strangely anxious whenever she didn't know exactly where her husband was and what he was doing. Sometimes she caught herself spying on him... just checking to make sure he was OK, she told herself. After all, he had spent a day in the hospital after that frightening episode, and then had taken a couple more days to recuperate once they had gotten back to Angel Island.
This afternoon, Derek had complained of a headache and had lain down on the couch in the library for a brief nap, which had turned into a sleep that so far had lasted nearly three hours. Kym had inexplicably found herself peeking in on him every fifteen minutes. She would stand just outside the library door to listen intently for his breathing or she would find an excuse to search for a book to double check a reference.
Finally, she had given up and had climbed the spiral staircase to the mezzanine on the pretext of using the small desk up there to document some class notes. From there she could look down on the bay window where Derek lay sleeping. She spread her index cards and notes out, but did little else until she noticed that Johnny was staring at her from the doorway. Since San Juan Bautista, she had increasingly detected an aura of disapproval from him. Though he had never been overly friendly with her, Kym had never felt uncomfortable in his presence. Now, however, she sensed a wariness and growing hostility from her husband's security chief.
She knew, in her heart, that Boyle didn't want her on Angel Island, or in Derek's life. Well, too bad, she thought. I'm here to stay. She paused... Johnny was openly looking at her... with hard, cold eyes. Kym dipped her head to let her hair fall in front of her eyes. Lord, how she hated to be studied. Her father used to do that, but she knew that he had been appraising her, assessing her character, her worth. However, despite the ever controlled expression on Johnny's face, she glimpsed, through strands of red hair, a flicker of loathing.
Pretending that she was unaware of the major's presence, she picked up one of her cards and casually strolled along the stacks. She selected a book, whose title was unimportant, and carried it over to the desk, sat down, and proceeded to copy random sentences from it. A few moments later, Kym ran her hand through her hair and shook her head. From the corner of her eye she could see that Johnny had gone. She gazed down at Derek, listened, stretched her senses out to touch him... he was still in a relaxed, deep sleep.
Kym returned the book to its place, but as she did so, she noted a small brass ring inlaid into the bottom of the shelf above. She pulled on the metal circle, which popped down. She tugged again, and the whole section of shelves began to swing outward. Kym peered behind to see a second tier of books. Odd that Derek had never told her that the bookcases were double. Without opening the crack further, Kym reached in to pull out one of the thin, leather bound books. It was a Legacy journal, like the ones her father and the members of his house kept, but this one's cover had the embossed Gothic L with the sword... the Luna Foundation's seal. She fanned the pages and realized it was in Derek's handwriting. As she walked back to the desk, she opened the book to the first page. There, in a flourishing, elegant script, she read:
Legacy Journal begun Saturday, 1 January 1977
Derek Rayne, member, San Francisco House.
She began to read. The first few months were uneventful, other than occasional arguments with his precept, William Sloan. She smiled at the thought. It hadn't occurred on her that Sloan had preceded Derek as precept here. In fact, she had wondered at his toast, when he had mentioned "his room." Through the spring, Derek had been concentrating on research for his doctoral dissertation and on a few minor Legacy cases that seemed to involve nothing more than authenticating a couple of documents and an artifact or two. As she scanned, she sensed that, like herself, he had difficulty balancing his studies with his Legacy duties and his responsibilities to the Luna Foundation.
In May his tone had changed. The Rome house had requested assistance in locating the ossuary of a child martyr. The young girl, Aurelia Flavia, had held steadfastly to her Christian beliefs and had been crucified along with her mentor, St. Peter. The box containing her bones had been concealed somewhere within the labyrinthine Roman catacombs.
On May 14th, Derek had written:
William believes that my "Sight" and my anthropological expertise might be of help to him in Rome. However, London has expressed a rather strong opinion that I should not interrupt my studies. It seems odd, since this investigation falls clearly within the parameters of my discipline. Though they held Randolph primarily responsible for Alicia's death, I fear that it will be some time before the council feels that I am suitable for field work. At least, they did not expressly forbid my participation. Last night I dreamed of Alicia.
Kym continued to read. She had the distinct feeling that she had hit upon something of no trivial importance. She gazed down at her husband, who was still fast asleep, and wondered how much longer she had before he awakened. Did he still dream of Alicia Summers? He said he did that morning in Sedona.
Friday, 20 May 1977, Rome
William and I are not staying at the Legacy House--- he felt it would be inadvisable to blatantly advertize my presence. Tomorrow, starting near the Vatican and St. Peter's crypt, we shall try our first foray into the catacombs. There are five areas within a two mile radius that bear some resemblance to the map provided by Giovanni Vitali, the Roman precept. He has not seen fit to say how he came to be in possession of the map.
* * *
21 May
Nothing. I get no impression of Aurelia. However, I have the odd sensation that we are being watched, though I sense no physical presence. Am filthy from today's excursion.
* * *
Sunday, 26 June 1977, San Francisco
Have been neglectful of my journal entries - catching up on studies had to prevail. In Rome, William and I found the ossuary on our third day in the catacombs. We had taken a wrong turn and had gone further out than planned - I sensed an odd combination of terror and bliss. Not exactly emotions that go together. I also continued to feel that we were being observed, but this time there was a physical presence... more than one.
Dr. Vitali had failed to tell us, wrongly, in my opinion, that a witches' coven was also in search of the child's bones. It seemed that they believed that if the bones of this martyred innocent were ground to powder and used in some black ritual that they could call forth Leviathan, the third fallen seraph, who rules over heretics and all that is repugnant.
A few minutes after we located the box and I had ascertained that it did, indeed, contain the bones of a prepubescent, aristocratic girl, the coven found us. Forsaking the black arts, they were not above using thoroughly mundane methods to lay their hands upon Aurelia, but William and I managed to escape, not much the worse for wear, with our prize.
After the proper tests have been conducted, the Legacy plans to place Aurelia Flavia in the hands of the Church for reburial near her mentor, St. Peter. I know Our Savior has granted her grace.
Kym reread the passage. It was strange that it had taken Derek over a month to make the entry. He always found time to make his journal entries... no matter what. Suddenly, a chill touched Kym's shoulders. She clasped the book to her chest... all around her faded. She walked alone through the darkness, yet she could see clearly. She heard voices and continued toward the sound, somehow knowing that she walked within a vision... of the past?
"Master... they have found what we seek," said one voice.
"We must have the bones... they must die," replied the other in a deep, hoarse tone that vibrated with malignancy.
Although Kym could hear them distinctly and see all else around her clearly, the figures before her were dim and indistinct. She tried to focus, but felt as though she was being pulled in another direction. As she turned toward the invisible line that seemed to reel her in, she listened to the voices over her shoulder.
"What spell shall we cast, Master?"
"Why use so much energy, when a bullet will work just as well?"
Kym heard a clip being rammed home into an automatic weapon. Those voices became ever more indistinct and another set became clearer. Immediately, she recognized Derek's Dutch lilt.
"The pelvis is definitely that of a prepubescent girl.... wealthy.... no signs of malnutrition or hard labor on the radius," he said. "Does the ossuary have any significant inscriptions?"
Kym walked around the corner into a small chamber to see a younger version of her husband standing, shining a flashlight on one or two whitish objects he held in his hand. His back was to her, but she would know that straight back anywhere at any age. She saw William Sloan on his knees examining a metal container about two feet in length. It glinted like silver... she wondered if it was.
"See what you make of this," said William, rising to step out of the way. As Derek replaced him on the ground beside the ossuary, Sloan aimed his light at the left corner of the box.
"At least it has handles," said Derek. "It'll make it a lot easier to carry out." Her husband crouched closer to the corner that William had indicated. "Most certainly Christian," he commented, "but I can't make much more out in this light."
Kym watched as Sloan wandered around the small chamber, shining his flashlight in each open recess, many were empty, some contained bare bones, others held small stone or metal boxes like which Derek was examining. At one particular niche, he removed several bricks to widen the opening. He leaned in and shone the light each way. "This one seems to be larger," he said, "and has graffiti and several Christian symbols incised on the back and sides."
Behind her, Kym heard the crunch of a shoe on gravel, then the metallic click of gun's safety being flicked off. "Derek!" she cried. She saw him raise his head to look toward her. "You can hear me?" she asked, but realized he had not heard her warning, but the footstep.
She glanced over her shoulder... the dark figures approached... still as foggy and indistinct as before. Kym couldn't understand why she could see Derek and William and her surroundings so cleanly, but not these cloaked shadows behind her. As she tried to block their way, she saw Derek launch himself at Sloan, who was still engrossed in his examination of the rock cut cubicle.
"William!" he shouted.
Bullets tore through Kym's chest. Though she knew she was in the midst of vision, she more than half expected to feel them, but did not. In such a small space, the shattering echo of gunfire was deafening. Oddly, she could smell the stench of the cordite. Kym had never experienced anything like this. Her panic rose even as she told herself, "This is five years ago... William and Derek are alive and well in December 1982. This is a dream... this is not real."
She saw Derek tackle his friend. They both slammed into the ground behind the pile of rubble from the niche above. Sloan's flashlight went flying and she heard its glass break as it smashed against the rock wall. Within a second, William was returning fire. His own bullets passed through her body as she ran forward to see what had become of her husband. Behind Sloan, Derek had rolled partway into one of the floor level nooks. She saw him touch his left shoulder as he opened his leather jacket to pull out a pistol of his own. She had never seen Derek with a gun.
"You OK?" Sloan asked over his shoulder as he waited for another shot. "Can't see the bastards at all."
"Then they can't see us," Derek replied. He stretched out on the ground and began to pull himself along the wall toward the metal box with its cargo of bones.
"Derek!" William shouted in a whisper.
She saw Derek reach out, his fingertips searching in the blackness for the small container. At last he touched the corner. He grasped the handle and pulled the box toward him. With an issue of sparks, bullets struck the wall above his body. Sloan fired toward the muzzle flashes and was gratified to hear a grunt and the sound of an Italian obscenity.
Derek rolled toward a low opening in the stone wall, then pulled the box after him.
"Derek!" Sloan called.
"I'm almost there," the younger man whispered back. "Then I'll cover you."
Kym sighed with relief as she saw him haul himself through the hole to what she thought must be another passage. She heard him groan as he landed on the other side with a thud.
"I'm through," he said softly. "Grab my pack! It's to the right of the opening... it's got the spare flashlight." As Derek heard William make his move, he opened fire, but none was returned. Surprised, and pleased, Sloan scrambled for the narrow gap in the wall.
"I don't think they're gone," Derek said, "but they're not where they were... they're on the move. They must know another way."
Suddenly, at only a thought, Kym found herself in the passageway beside her husband. It was lower than the chamber from which they escaped, and as Sloan tumbled in he bumped the younger man against the wall. Derek grunted to suppress a groan.
"I asked you if you were all right. Are you?" William demanded.
"I'm OK," Derek answered.
Kym watched... helplessly.... She felt as though she was watching a movie, but one the actors here was the man she loved and the situation, though past, had been quite real... of that she was certain.
Sloan pulled the spare light and a map from Derek's pack. "OK," he said. "If we go left... we need to keep turning left ... we'll come out near the Tiber about three kilometers from here. If we go right... we go right... right... up... left... right... and surface in about three-quarters of a mile. Which way?"
Kym could sense a strange energy, like nothing she'd ever felt before, when Derek reached out, as if to listen with his mind.
"Left," he answered. "They've gone the other way... thinking we'll take the shorter way out." Derek tucked his pistol in his belt and bent to pick up one end of the receptacle.
Sloan slung the canvas pack over his shoulder, grasped the other handle, and hoisted the ossuary. "Left it is," he said.
Guided by the narrow beam, the pair set out at a fast walk that occasionally turned into a trot. Sometimes Kym followed them, sometimes she went ahead. She tried reaching out with her own senses, as her husband had done, but she felt nothing.
After about twenty minutes, Derek suddenly stopped. He set his end of the box down and seemed to listen. "They've turned back," he said. "They're in this tunnel now, but at the other entrance. They're confused and one is in great pain... but he's the one reaching out to find us... he's having difficulty... the pain is distracting him."
As Derek bent to retrieve his end of the ossuary, he swayed and would have fallen against the wall if Sloan hadn't steadied him by grasping his left shoulder. Derek cried out and swayed again.
William immediately braced his friend against the stone wall and helped him to slide down to the floor. "Dammit Derek! Were you hit?" he questioned with anger overlaying concern. He pulled Derek's pistol from his belt and slipped it into his jacket pocket. Then he shone the flashlight in the younger man's face, which was white. Sweat glistened on his forehead and dampened his hair. "Where?" he demanded, yanking the pack to his side.
"Left armpit," Derek replied, gritting his teeth as Sloan stripped away his jacket. "A ricochet or rock fragment hit me when I dove at you. If it had been a direct shot, I think it would have broken everything. I feel something grinding next to the joint."
William raised Derek's arm slightly to probe with his fingers. The young man felt consciousness slide and groaned as he fought against the internal darkness.
"I feel it all right," Sloan said. He picked up the flashlight and focused it at the injured shoulder. "And you're bleeding like a stuck pig. Son-of-a-bitch, Derek... sometimes... I swear to God, I ought to shoot you myself and put you out of my misery." Kym could tell that it worried Sloan that Derek had no retort for him. He turned to rummage in the canvas bag and emerged with a small plastic box and the map. "Remind me next time to pack a decent first aid kit.... This one isn't even fit for splinters."
Having rubbed the map together several times to soften the paper, William wadded it up, then wrapped it in whatever gauze he could find. He opened his Swiss Army knife and cut the sleeve from Derek's shirt. Next he searched for a gauze pad and a packet of antiseptic, which he poured over the three inch square.
"Can you raise your arm?"
Derek succeeded, but it hurt like hell. With the torn sleeve, Sloan carefully wiped the blood from around the wound, then placed the small gauze pad over the hole. "This isn't going to do a hell of a lot of good," he said. Blood was already soaking the little square. William took the sleeve, then the wad of gauze wrapped paper and pressed both into his friend's armpit. He slipped Derek's coat back up over his shoulder and pulled the young man's arm down to his side. "Keep it there," he instructed as he cut the straps from the pack and tied them together.
Though terror had surged through Kym, it was curiously remote, leaving her with the ability to admire William Sloan's calm efficiency in a crisis. Standing over her husband and his friend, she watched as William removed his belt, then unbuckled Derek's.
"Lean up a bit," he said, "I need your belt."
"I certainly hope you don't need that map," Derek said, groggily, as Sloan lifted his back to pull the belt off.
William lightly slapped the younger man's cheek. "Derek, stay awake... focus," he ordered as he pressed the wadding into the wound as tightly as he dared and strapped Derek's upper arm to his side to hold it in place. "I've got to hide the box," he said. Sloan rose to shine the light around the corridor, which was bare and without promise of a cubbyhole.
"Take it and go," said Derek. "Leave me... I'll find someplace before they get here."
"No," replied William, firmly putting an end to that option.
"William," Derek said after a moment, "shine the light up there." He pointed to a small crevice in the upper wall that looked just about the right size for the ossuary.
"I'll never get it up there," said William. "That's got to be nine or ten feet up."
"You could stand on my back," suggested Derek, "if you don't take too long."
"Like hell," Sloan retorted.
"We have to... no choice."
As much as he disliked the idea, the precept had to admit that his friend was right. He helped Derek up and over to the other side of the tunnel, where the young man knelt on his good hand and knees. He braced his injured shoulder against the wall for additional support. Knowing that, even with Derek's help, it was going to take all his strength to push the small lead coffer that high, William lifted the box to shoulder level, then stepped onto his friend's back.
"You OK?" he asked as he felt Derek tremble and sway.
"Ummm... ummm," he groaned. "Hurry."
With his position in a bind and his balance shaky, it took all the strength Sloan possessed to push the box up and into the hole. As soon as it was safely in, Derek collapsed beneath him. Sloan tumbled. Kym watched as he rolled over and crawled to her husband.
"Derek!" He grabbed the flashlight and shone it on his friend's face. Derek was unconscious... his skin was clammy. William slid his hand beneath the coat. It came back bloody. "Christ," he murmured. "Hold on, kid," said the precept, hefting the younger man over his shoulder. "Just hang in there... I'll get you out of here," he promised.
It surprised Kym and struck her as slightly amusing to hear Derek Rayne, even an unconscious, twenty-three-year-old Derek Rayne, addressed as "kid." Abruptly, the entire image was gone. Kym found herself seated at the mezzanine desk with Derek's journal still clasped to her chest. Feeling as if she hadn't breathed in an hour, she inhaled deeply, then released it slowly. Below, on the couch, Derek was stirring. That must have been why she had emerged so suddenly from her vision. Quickly, she replaced the journal on its hidden shelf and hurried down the stairs to awaken her husband with a kiss.
Gently she ran her finger along his straight nose, then brushed a wavy, brown lock from his forehead. "Hello, Sleeping Beauty," she said as his hazel eyes crept open.
< < + > >
Temple of Fire
Through the darkness came the resonant chant of two score male voices, "Tanith pene Ba'al-Hammon... Tanith pene Ba'al-Hammon." The blackness reverberated with the sound.
One by one, each bearing a torch, they entered the chamber. The first turned left, the next right, and so on until the circle was closed on the opposite side. All stepped forward to dip their flames toward the pool of black water revealed by the flickering light. The center of the cavern became a coronet of blinding fire. "Soon," the waters murmured. Brilliance throbbed from rocky walls, overlaid with gilt. A dozen great golden pillars encircled the burning pool, over which a bridge arced toward an island. There a low altar of pure gold stood.
"Tanith pene Ba'al-Hammon," the men intoned. All were bare chested and bore over their hearts a brand of charred flesh... a horned triangle. "Tanith pene Ba'al-Hammon."
A lone man, clothed in a white caftan, stepped from the dark entrance. In his arms he bore an infant. Slowly, he walked forward, hesitated at the foot of the bridge, but continued to the crest, where he stopped.
Patrick Murphy heard the sweet whispers in his mind."Come... be mine.... Your soul to mine.... Your heart to mine.... Your life to mine." He continued toward the altar, upon which he placed the child.
"Tanith pene Ba'al-Hamon," the Irishman said. "Accept this offering... Tanit, face of Baal." He stepped back, spread wide his arms, and dropped to his knees.
A gentle breath swirled around the chamber. The torches flickered. A whisper grew into a murmur, which grew into a roar as the breath grew into a cyclone. The baby, lying upon the altar, wailed and wriggled in its blanket, as the maelstrom lifted it high into the air. Suddenly, a prism of flame erupted from the center of the altar to lance the screaming child, who vanished in a firestorm of radiance.
There, floating in the incandescent column, the men now saw the figure of a woman, a golden woman... golden skin, golden eyes, long golden hair swirling upward in the vortex. So beautiful was she that the eyes could not bear to look upon her for more than an instant. Writhing with ecstacy in the flaming pillar, she sang with a voice so sweet that she possessed the souls of all who heard.
"I am Tanit, face of Baal... feed me, nourish me, warm me," she sang, "and I will give you enough blood to slake your thirst. You shall have the blood of your enemies until your enemies have no more blood to shed."
< < + > >
Angel Island
Kym couldn't sleep. Derek's journal entry and the vision that had accompanied it kept replaying in her mind. She knew what she had seen was true, but....
She reached over to touch her husband. His deep, soft breaths told her that his sleep was heavy and very sound. Derek was on his right side, facing away from her. Quietly, she rolled over to slide open the top drawer of the night stand. Her hand found the flashlight. Kym rolled back over to face her husband, pushed herself up on her elbow, and shone the light across his skin. She gently caressed his neck, then his shoulder and his arm. He moaned lightly and rolled onto his back, but his sleep was profound.
Softly, Kym cooed, "Shhhh... I'm sorry, sweetheart. Shhhh... I don't want to disturb you, but I have to do this while you're asleep. No more Derek-games." Was it that he loved the game... or that he cherished that "no trespassing" sign he seemed to wave in her face? Gingerly, she raised his left arm. There it was... a neat round scar. With a trembling finger, Kym touched the white circle and knew without a doubt that it had almost killed him. She shivered.
Kym returned the flashlight to the drawer and laid back down. Snuggling against Derek's body, she placed her head on his shoulder and tenderly stroked his chest. She loved this man so much... she wanted to be a part of his very essence, but he frightened her. Tears ran down her nose and dripped on his skin. Suddenly, she knew it wasn't a game... he doesn't want to let me in... he doesn't want to let anyone in. Her fear for him was becoming enmeshed in her love for him. They were becoming one and the same, and she was helpless to stop it.
| CHAPTER 11 |
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