Chloe's Guardian (The Nephilim Redemption Series Book 1) (8 page)

She wiped her eyes and nose. “I suppose I’d better get to the airport. Thanks for all your help. You’ve been wonderful to me.”

“I’ll say some prayers for you. It sounds like you could use a little help from a higher power than me.”

Chloe gave him a quick hug. “Thank you.”

“That's all right. I’ll see if Mrs. Henderson can’t drive you to the airport.”

CHAPTER
11

Horatius would have to try to heal Angus MacKay all on his own. The act would deplete him greatly, but he had to save him. If it was not too late already. If it was too late, only
They
could heal him, and Horatius was
not
in a position to petition for that!

Horatius bent over Angus, which sent pounding pain into his smashed nose. It felt as though his brain would rupture. But in spite of the agony, his fury evaporated. Too much was at stake.
What if I can’t save him? Will any hope for my own redemption remain?
Everything in him wanted to cry out to the heavens to restore the man, but he clamped his jaw tight. It might save Angus, but then Satarel could attack and behead him so fast, what would it matter anyway? Horatius would die unredeemed and all would be for naught.

The impulse to listen in on the Chatter was another thing to quash. He so wanted to know how close an Escort was to claiming Angus’ spirit. But he needed to just stop worrying about the details and get on with healing him. If it was too late, it was too late. But if there was any chance, he needed to act now. So much blood was on the ground it seemed impossible for any to be left in Angus. The hemorrhage no longer pulsed out. It just drained onto the stones, collecting in the seams between the cobbles. If Angus was still in there, he would not be for long.

Horatius placed one hand over Angus’ chest, and one over his face. He fixed his attention to the cells of Angus’ broken body. Then he pulled energy out of his own body and directed it through his hands and into Angus. Mitochondria regenerated, electrolytes reacted, corpuscles started moving again. The chest below his hands expanded back into its normal shape. The blood stopped leaking and his skin regenerated.

Horatius could not breathe life back into an empty shell. His healing would only work if the body’s own spirit was still present. He watched and waited. He almost prayed, but again, he stopped himself in time. He was on his own. Again.

Did his lips just quiver? His nostrils twitch?
Horatius lifted Angus’ eyelid to check his pupillary response. Just as he bent closer to see around his own swelling face, Angus sucked in a deep breath and jerked his head away from Horatius’ touch.

Horatius backed away and Angus shot up to his feet. The blood covering him left him looking quite frightful, especially with his wide open eyes gleaming as they did.

“Wha’ did you do to me?”

“I am sorry. For everything.” Remorse hit Horatius anew. If he had not interfered in Angus’ life before with his betrothed, his whole life could have taken a different path. Now the pathetic results of his frivolous indiscretion stood before him in all the pain and agony of a wasted life. “Truly. I am sorry.”

“Stay away from me,” Angus shouted. “Just dinna touch me again.” He gazed down at himself, inspecting his bloodied hands and torso, and he ran away, disappearing down the street.

Horatius dropped onto the ground, exhausted, defeated. So much energy had gone into healing Angus, he could not even walk. He needed to transfigure and heal his face, and reenergize. But not without first getting to Sanctuary and listening into the Chatter to safely ascertain Satarel’s location. The number of near calamities lately were unacceptable.

It took an eternity before Horatius finally found the will and power to stagger to his feet. The cracked bones of his face shot convulsing pains through his head. After his first three unsteady steps, he had to stop and lean against a building.

While he collected enough strength to attempt another three steps, he looked up and down the street—which was difficult for all the swelling in his face and eyes. For a Friday, it was abnormally quiet. Maybe everyone had closed up shop to attend the wedding festivities. He pulled himself away from the wall and went forward, determinedly aiming for Saint Giles church. His feet stumbled and his vision blurred.
I better make it before I drop unconscious.

He timed each shaky step with the rhythm of breathing, concentrating on moving forward and staying upright. Striving to not look drunk did no good with all his staggering. Changing the millions of cells and chemical processes in Angus had depleted him far worse than any simple transmutation of basic elements. In addition, he could not help but fear he was in shock for the injury to his head.

Every few steps he stopped to catch his breath, huffing through his teeth since his nose was of no use. His limbs trembled beyond control. When he passed the only two other people on the street, the one young child cried out and ran to his mother. She grabbed the boy and quickly crossed to the other side of the lane.

When he finally arrived at Saint Giles, he nearly fell inside the giant rib cage of stone archways and pillars to sink down onto a bench.
I made it
. And without his brain rupturing.

Only after plenty of time was he able to turn his mind from his exhaustion and pain. Once he could concentrate, he lingered in silence, thinking.

He thought of Angus, his wasted life. His life squandered because of Satarel’s desire to destroy Horatius. For no other reason than to do it. Because Satarel hated him.
Because Satarel hates everyone.
And he’d used Horatius in the process.

He thought of his own existence and how difficult Satarel had made it, ever since Horatius realized he wanted more than a fleeting time of exotic debauchery before the Day of Reckoning. The Fallen did not think of that day. That day did not bode well for them. And that was why Horatius had left the Brethren.

He wanted more. He wanted to have companionship. He wanted life. And to be able to dwell in ecstasy with
They.
He didn’t want to be condemned with his father and the others. But he didn’t know if he could avoid it.

Could it be possible to win the redemption available to humans? He was half human after all. Or at least his mother had been human. He was something else entirely, something unique.  Nephilim—a new race. He didn’t know if it was possible, but he was taking the gamble he could be saved. For years now, he’d been trying to live a life worthy of saving. But so far, all he had done was fail. Time and time again.

But he would keep trying.
I can’t live with the alternative.

A hand on his shoulder pulled him from his reflection.

The long beak of John Knox looked down at him.

John jerked with revulsion. “What in the name of God happened to you?” The slate colored beard down the front of his frock bounced with his jaw as he spoke.

“I ran into something.”

“Something even harder than your own thick head, I would say. And moving with a great force.”

“It looks worse than it is.”

Horatius hoped that was true. He didn’t want it to be as bad as it seemed. His fingers came back covered with blood when he dabbed his upper lip.

“I imagine by your difficult speech and the pain you must be in—by the Saints, you look awful!—you surely are not interested in our usual discourse. I shall miss it. No one has ever argued theology with me as you. Your ludicrous ideas fascinate me, if not infuriate me.” He laughed and then snapped to a look of seriousness. “I saw you at the wedding yesterday conversing with that
woman
.”

Among many different things, Knox was also a misogynist. “Yes, just when you thought to be rid of your despised papist Mary of Guise, her daughter returns from France with the vigor of youth.” Horatius chuckled but stopped short for the pain it caused.

Knox hissed through clenched teeth. “Mary of Scots,” he said with disgust, “is no better than was that wicked Jezebel of England. Over three years since that wench died, and Bloody Mary can still make my bowels clench.”

“Her sister Elizabeth is an improvement.”

“Women!” Knox shouted with vehemence. “They were never meant to open their mouths, let alone rule a country.”

Horatius blinked away the dizziness. He wasn’t in the mood to argue with Knox. “I just came to pray today. I don’t have it in me to discuss your wrong thinking just now.”

Knox grumbled and said, “Have it your way then. You would waste your breath anyway. I have much to do myself. And keep your blood from dripping on my bench,” and he left him alone.

Horatius blew out a deep breath while his spine wilted and he shrunk several inches. He calmed his thoughts and centered on his plan. Although he was in Sanctuary at Saint Giles, he still could not just transfigure. That would be too risky, even with the Pure standing guard at the four corners of the holy ground. He would only be able to briefly tap into the network to listen, and only when he knew for certain that Satarel was not anywhere near the sector, could he think about transfiguring.

Horatius bowed his head, but the movement was torment and he whipped it back up in a wave of dizziness. With his head held up, he ignored the pain and willed his mind to shift, to enter into the realm of the Celestials. The Chatter was filled with static and broke up like a bad connection. The blow to his head must have left his perception compromised. After several garbled blurbs of sound, the Chatter was finally perceivable, though scratchy. It grew in strength as he waited and concentrated.

From Sanctuary, he could not see as though he were actually in the Corridor, but in his mind’s eye, the energy fields of the Celestials glowed as if he looked through infrared goggles. The Pure burned several colors brighter than the Fallen, but the Fallen still carried a residual of Shekinah Glory from the beginning, before time when all Celestials dwelled with
They
.

He focused on certain voices of the Chatter and eliminated others from his attention. The energy fields that belonged to each individual pulsed white hot. He scoured the different entities in his sector, hoping to hear a clue about the whereabouts of Satarel.

Voices surged from some of his former companions—celestial peers of his father’s with whom he used to pursue corruption, lechery, and other vile enterprises. Hearing their schemes again brought on shame and remorse, as well as twinges of excitement and temptation.

He did not want to stay in their thoughts. He flash-scanned the entire sector, but found no evidence that Satarel was even in the Corridor.

Before leaving, Horatius skimmed the thoughts and communications among the Pure. Angus MacKay was a topic of discussion. A group who were all Guardians of different Keith members spoke of MacKay and his slide from virtue and how no one offered prayers on his behalf, even at this crucial time in his life.

Horatius transferred into a Communication Mode.

Mebahel, I will intercede for him
, Horatius thought.
He needs help. I did not mean to hurt him. At least not so badly. I mean, I did not even know it was Angus.

“Hello, Horatius. So you nearly kill him, and now you want to save him?”

If I had been thinking, I never would have hurt him. He attacked me. It was a reflex. It is just—
He realized he better stop making excuses.
I am sorry. I failed. Again. In spite of everything, I beg that you help him. I did what I could, but his spirit is in great need. I want to make things right.

“You think you can make things right?” another Celestial named Jabamiah said.

I hope so. I am working to. Please help him.

One of the other Pure snorted.

“He may be sincere, Leviah,” Mebahel said.

“But is he is too corrupted to be virtuous?” Jabamiah said.

“No one is beyond hope,” Mebahel answered.

“He is
Nephilim
,” Laviah, the third Celestial, scoffed. “What hope can there even be for one of
those
? Nephilim were born out of evil, conceived in sin, corrupted from the earliest of times.”

“Perhaps he is different,” Mebahel said. “Perhaps we should test him.”

“He could not possibly succeed. Remember who he is, what he has done,” Leviah said.

Horatius cringed being reminded that they knew all about his every vice and wicked behavior.

“I am beginning to think this might be something to consider,” Jabamiah said.

“What if we give him a chance, Laviah? His offenses have decreased of late. Believe it or not.”

“Decreased?” Laviah screeched. “But from
what
?
A serial killer refraining one week from taking another victim is still a murderer. A liar telling the truth once does not erase all his deceit. A pedophile offering a kind smile to a child—”

“Yes, yes, Laviah, we get your point,” Mebahel said. “But his mother was human. Perhaps
They
will allow him a second chance.”

“
Second chance
?” Horatius hated hearing Laviah yell so, and with such doubt and disdain. “There will be no
second chance
for one such as he!”

“I say we ask,” said Mebahel.

“Second chance?” said Jabamiah. “Yes, that would be in
They’s
nature to allow it.”

“Never. It will not happen.”

“Let us see. Horatius? We will consult
They
and return.”