“Paili told me that you promised to send someone to search for her. Who will that be?”
“I made that promise in haste.” Patrick’s voice trembled. “I have no idea what to do. I am confused, and I cannot think straight. I am lost in a wilderness, and darkness has enclosed me. There is no hope at all. None.”
Elam pulled a flashlight from his belt and turned it on. Aiming the beam in the direction of Patrick’s voice, he searched the wall until he found his old friend sitting on the floor next to a cross mounted on a stand. Elam strode up to him and set the beam just under Patrick’s eyes. “Send Sapphira and me,” Elam said. “We’ll find her.”
Patrick squinted at the light. “How? Won’t she be hidden?”
“I’ve been in Morgan’s prisons. I know how to get to them.”
Patrick picked up a lantern and climbed to his feet. Striking a match, he lit the lantern’s wick. “Where are they?”
“You have to go through portals, but I’m not sure which ones lead where anymore.” Elam turned off his flashlight. “We’ll have to experiment.”
“I will go.” Patrick’s tears glistened, reflecting the lantern’s flaming wick. “Just show me what to do.”
Elam shook his head. “It’s too dangerous.”
“I don’t care about danger!” Patrick clenched Elam’s shoulder. “This is my daughter we’re talking about. She’s my only child, a child of prophecy.”
Elam laid his hand on Patrick’s and gently loosened the former dragon’s grip. “If she’s a child of prophecy, she’ll be protected. That’s why I’m more concerned about your safety than about hers.” He lowered Patrick’s hand. “Let me do it. I have a lot of experience.”
A loud grunt sounded from behind Elam. He spun around and caught a glimpse of a female stumbling through the portal window’s drapes. As she pulled the curtain aside, an eerie glow brightened her outline. She carried a fiery torch and waved her hand at it. “Lights out!” she commanded, and the fire disappeared.
Elam relit his flashlight and pointed it at her. The beam illuminated her white hair, and her eyes reflected the beam, bouncing it back with a blue tint. She lifted her hand, shielding her face.
“Sapphira!” Elam redirected his flashlight and strode toward her. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m not ” She winced at the glow from Patrick’s lantern as he walked up to her.
Elam stepped in front of the lantern, casting a shadow across her face. “Why were you in there?”
“First of all, I’m not Sapphira. I’m Acacia. Second” she pulled up her pant leg, revealing a red, oozing wound on her ankle “I’m hurt, so I’d like to sit.”
“By all means.” Patrick helped her down to the floor. “I’ll fetch Paili and our medical bag.”
She sat cross-legged, obviously favoring one of her ankles. “I hope he hurries. I have something important to ask him.”
Elam stooped next to her. “Ask me. Maybe I know.”
“A tragedy is imminent. Do you know of anyone besides Shiloh who might be in danger?”
“No . . . No, I don’t.” Elam sat down and gazed at Acacia. In the glow of the portal, her white hair shimmered, and her eyes sparkled bluer than even Sapphira’s. “So,” Elam began, “uh . . . do you know where Sapphira is?”
“Sapphira and I were trying to find Shiloh.” She extended her wounded leg and rolled up her pant cuff. “One of Morgan’s serpents bit me, so Sapphira had to clean out the wound and send me home.”
“That looks nasty! You’re lucky to be alive!”
Loud footsteps closed in, followed by rapid breathing. Patrick rushed through the doorway, his lantern swinging in one hand and a medical bag dangling from the other. “To be visited by one oracle of fire is amazing enough,” he said, “but two in the same evening is quite a surprise.”
Acacia squinted at him. “Two?”
“That’s why Paili is delayed.” Patrick nodded toward the hallway. “She is speaking with Sapphira in the front den. Sapphira was just leaving, so Paili will be along shortly.”
“Sapphira? How can that be?”
“She said she heard about Shiloh being kidnapped, so she baked some fig cakes for Paili. Apparently they were her favorite treat many years ago.”
Acacia’s eyes flashed. “Don’t let her eat them!”
“What? Why?”
“That couldn’t have been Sapphira! She was with me! She didn’t bake any fig cakes!”
Elam leaped up and grabbed Patrick’s arms. “Paili’s in the front den?”
“Yes! Hurry!”
Elam sprinted from the room, his legs pumping so fast, he felt like he was flying. Careening around corners, he dashed down one hall, then another. Finally reaching the front of the house, he threw open the door to the den. There was Paili! Sitting by the fireplace! He lunged across the hardwood floor and slid on his knees up to her side.
He scanned her body. No sign of the fig cakes. Trying to slow his breathing, he gazed into her eyes. “Paili . . . I mean, Mrs. Nathanson. Are you all right?”
Tear tracks smudged her cheeks. She drooped her chin to her chest and shook her head. “Not all right,” she said, her voice low and thin. “Shiloh gone.”
“I know. I don’t mean that. I mean . . .” He lifted her chin. “What did you say?”
A new tear trickled down her cheek. “Shiloh . . . gone.”
Elam covered his face with his hands. “No! Tell me you didn’t eat the fig cakes!”
She raised a finger. “Only one. But I sick now.” Her eyes closed and her head lolled to the side.
Elam lowered his head to the floor and banged it against the wood as he let out a mournful wail. “Noooo!” He nuzzled her limp hand and kissed her fingers tenderly.
“Paili!” Patrick called.
Elam jerked his head around. Patrick stormed in and scooped Paili’s limp body into his arms. “Come, Elam!” he said as he headed toward the door. “There is still hope!”
Blinded by tears, Elam leaped to his feet and stumbled behind Patrick.
“I’m taking her to the ancient chamber,” Patrick said, grunting as he struggled along the corridor. “Acacia said she might be able to save her.”
“I left my flashlight in the chamber.” Elam surged in front of Patrick. “I’ll get another lantern!” After sprinting down the hall again, he stopped at a table that held two lanterns. He snatched one up, lit it, and waited for Patrick. When he came in sight, his cheeks puffing in time with his grunts, Elam strode ahead, adjusting the wick to provide a strong, vibrant glow.
When they arrived at the chamber, Acacia pushed up from the floor and held out her arms. “Give her to me.”
“Are you sure you can carry her?” Patrick asked as he transferred Paili’s body to Acacia.
Acacia groaned under Paili’s weight. “I’ll do whatever I have to do.” She limped toward the portal window. The glow bathed the two female forms, dissolving their bodies, and absorbed them into the ghostly wash.
The portal suddenly darkened, leaving Elam’s lantern as the only light in the room. He fell to his seat and covered his face with his hands. “Why is this happening?” he cried. “Why would God allow Morgan to kill someone as innocent as Paili?”
Patrick’s trembling grip massaged Elam’s shoulder. His voice quaked. “I . . . don’t know. . . . I just . . . don’t know.”
Elam lowered his hands and looked up at Patrick, who was now sitting on the floor. “I feel like the whole world is coming to an end,” Elam said. “Is Morgan going to win this war?”
Patrick’s face, now as pale as Sapphira’s, seemed old and worn out, like a ghost weary of haunting a troubled home. He firmed his chin, pain and determination stretching his words. “She . . . will . . . not . . . prevail!”
Chapter 7
Sapphira threw an empty crate to the side. Nothing behind that one, either. Setting her hands on her hips, she surveyed the stacks of crates that lined the alley, groaning at the number. Searching every one of them would be a huge pain, and, besides, Shiloh wouldn’t have any reason to conceal herself, would she? Then again, fear of being alone in the sixth circle might drive a teenager into hiding. The eerie remnants of Shinar could give anyone an urge to cower in the shadows.
She sauntered back to the deserted road, shuffling her tired feet. When she reached the middle of the cobblestone paving, she cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted, “Shiiilohhh!” She waited a few seconds. A distant echo responded, but no other sound interrupted the quiet evening.
Sighing loudly, she hopped up to a raised, planked sidewalk and forced her legs into a trot. “Shiiilohhh!” She repeated her name over and over as her bare feet slapped the boards.
Stopping at the center of town in the shadow of a clock tower, she gazed at a tall statue in the main square a sculpture of a man riding a horse. As she crossed the street and approached the statue, she blew a low whistle. The village had changed so much! Makaidos and the other dragons, working in another dimension, had altered every building and garden in Shinar. But, of course, they weren’t around for her to congratulate. Still, she might see some of them, as she had seen the images of Makaidos and Roxil the last time she visited.
Sapphira followed the berm that formed the perimeter of the village’s central garden until she came upon a pitcher pump. With its spout poised over a patch of bare dirt at the edge of the street, it seemed a likely place for anyone in town to come for water.
Cinching up her loose jeans, she sat on the berm and worked the handle. After several repetitions, a stream of water trickled out, then a gush. She thrust her hands under the flow and splashed her face, gasping in the chilling refreshment.
After slinging the droplets from her fingers, she sat with her elbows on her knees and gazed at the deserted town. Maybe Shiloh wasn’t here after all. Or maybe she was delayed. Since Morgan wanted Shiloh to live, she couldn’t just dump her in Hades without making sure she would survive the snake bite.
Sapphira looked up into the gray sky. “Elohim?” she whispered. “If you’re keeping an eye on things here, I could use some help. I have no idea what to do.”
As she wiggled her feet in a little puddle, she rubbed the outside of her pocket. At one time, the Ovulum used to warm up when she was going in the right direction or sting her thigh when danger was near. Now that she needed help more than ever, the strange egg wasn’t around to give her guidance.
Her fingers passed across a tiny lump. She stood and dug out the bead she had plucked from the fruit and laid it in her palm. Gazing up into the sky again, she half closed one eye. “What do you expect me to do? Plant it somewhere? It took a thousand years to get fruit down below.” A new trickle of water dripped from the pump’s spout and splashed over her toes. She scooped up a handful of the muddy water. If Shiloh ever came to the circle, she would eventually find the water supply and use it, wouldn’t she?
Sapphira let the water spill between her fingers. What could it hurt? She knelt and dug into the mire with her fingers, gouging a two-inch-deep hole in just a few seconds. After dropping the seed inside, she breathed a quick prayer and covered it up, patting the mud firmly with her hand.
She pushed the pump’s handle again until a turbid puddle swirled over her tiny garden. Then, straightening her body, she wiped her hands on her already-filthy jeans and turned to leave. Shiloh might take days to arrive, so why stick around? Finding a way out made more sense than waiting. She could always come back once she found an exit.
Too tired to run, she strolled back to the spot where she had landed. After finding the scuff marks in the dirt where she had touched down, she set her feet over her prints and gazed into the sky, hoping to find the entry hole high above. Her vision remained normal, providing no obvious sign of a portal. Still, it was worth a try, and maybe she was close enough to the old portal to create a new one at this spot, but would it lift her back to Morgan’s dungeon and its three doors, or would it lead somewhere else?
She ignited her cross and swirled it over her head, faster and faster until the wall of fire crawled down and surrounded her with its usual blanket of warmth. When the wall touched the ground, she began to float and rise slowly into the sky. After a few seconds, the air thinned and grew cold, very cold. Now barely able to breathe, she tilted her head upward and caught a glimpse of light.
Gasping for breath, she swirled her cross even faster, hoping it would propel her upward, but her speed stayed constant. Her lungs ached. Her head pounded. The light above drew nearer and crystallized into the shape of her entry hole. She stretched her neck, hoping to draw in the first hint of oxygen. Finally, a breeze flowed from above, and her lungs greedily drank the delicious air. When she emerged in the dungeon, her momentum carried her at least three feet above the hole before dumping her into a headlong fall. As she tumbled and rolled, her wall of fire dwindled away.
She pushed up to her hands and knees and stared at the gate in the distance. The lanterns on each side began winking out, one by one. Within seconds, half of the lights had darkened. She scrambled to her feet and jumped through the doorway. The three doors simultaneously slammed and began to warp and swell. Tongues of fire licked through the cracks at every side.
She ran to the gate, finding it unlocked, as she had left it, but as soon as she passed by the iron bars, the gate slapped closed and latched. Two more lanterns blinked off, and their glass containers shattered. The three doors, now dim in the distance, suddenly burst open and spewed fountains of lava. Three flaming rivers rampaged toward her.
Sapphira tucked her cross away and sprinted. Reaching the stairs, she leaped over three steps, but her foot slipped, and she sprawled over the steps, banging her shins and forearms. Rolling face up, she pushed with her hands and clambered backwards, stair by stair. The rivers of fire surged against the stairway, sloshing around the base and spitting globules of magma that spattered over the first step, then the second.
Her shins aching, Sapphira pushed herself higher. The step above the magma burst into flames. Snaking tongues of fire crawled toward her, bending and cracking the wooden stairway.
Finally, ignoring the pain, she turned and ran, the blistering fire licking at her heels. When she reached the top step, she lurched into the upper corridor and slammed the door.
Breathless, she sagged against the wall, barely able to stand on her throbbing legs. She paused and listened to the sounds of splintering wood. After a few seconds of quiet, she laid her palm on the door. Cool. Not a hint of fire. She opened the door a crack and peeked through. The stairway had collapsed, piled in a burning heap at least a dozen feet below. The fiery river seemed to be receding, but it still covered the stony floor.
After latching the door, she leaned against the wall and closed her eyes. The only way to the sixth circle was gone. How could she get Shiloh out now? How could the tree possibly grow quickly enough to do any good? Was there any other way to help her?
Sapphira blew out a long sigh. Staying in Morgan’s house to ponder everything didn’t make any sense. Acacia was hurt, and she needed someone to look after her. That wound could get infected. Maybe she was already home and waiting for help.
She withdrew her cross, grasping it in a tight fist. It was time to fight the snakes again.
Patrick knelt at the side of a bent oak tree. With a miniature tombstone cradled in his hands, he gazed up into the branches. The knobby limbs seemed to invite him into their embrace, calling for him to journey upward, just as he had done so many times with Shiloh. He turned away from the trunk. There was no joy remaining in that old tree, only painful memories of carefree, girlish shouts that teased his tortured mind.
“Come, Daddy. Let’s climb higher! One branch higher!”
He plunged a trowel into the frozen ground and unearthed a wedge of leaf-rich soil. As he let the dirt spill, he noticed a tiny white button and plucked it with his fingertips. The smooth ivory coating sparked a stream of memories, an Easter bonnet on a towheaded Shiloh, tree climbing after church, and a lost button that brought tears from the little angel’s eyes. Could this be the same button, now drawing tears from his own eyes?
A voice drifted into his ears. “Oh, Paaaatriiick!”
He swiveled his head. Sashaying toward him, a slender woman dressed in black sighed with exaggerated sympathy. “Does a ghost from the past haunt your memories?”
He thumped the tombstone into the divot and squeezed the trowel. Redness blurred his vision. “Morgan! How dare you come to this place!”
She stood two arms’ lengths away. “Just as I dare many bold steps, my old friend. I fear no one.”
Patrick hurled the trowel at her. The sharp edge pierced her chest for a moment, but then eased back out and fell to the ground. She picked it up and shook off the remaining dirt. “I have come to see if you have changed your mind about Shiloh.”
“Never, you foul witch!” He stood and faced her toe-to-toe. “When you burn in hell, I will laugh at your torment!”
“I prefer to laugh now, for your promised dreams of heavenly bliss are merely words uttered by dead prophets . . . like Merlin.” She tickled Patrick’s chin. “And where is Merlin? Where is his wife? Both swept away in the wind. Still, they are likely not suffering as much as Shiloh is suffering now.”
He knocked her hand away. “Begone, devil! I will never give you Shiloh. It would be better for her to die a miserable death than to live in torture as your hostiam.”
“As you wish.” She handed him the trowel. “But remember that I am quite capable of taking away everyone you have ever loved. Until you give me Shiloh, you will never have a moment’s rest.”
“There isn’t anyone else!” Patrick roared.
“Oh, no? How about young Markus? Or should I say, Elam? Without him, you would truly be friendless.”
Patrick clenched his teeth. A dozen retorts popped into his head, but any one of them could bring more danger to Elam. He pointed at the tor with his trowel. “Just . . . leave . . . me!”
“I’m going, but I’ll be back again with a report on Shiloh’s suffering. I’m sure you’ll want to hear all about it.” Morgan transformed into a raven and flew away, croaking as she circled overhead. “Your little tombstone will do no good, Valcor. The memory of Paili and Shiloh will fade into oblivion. They were little sparrows that no one cared for. . . . Just little sparrows.” The raven straightened its course and flew away.
He dropped to his knees again and dug frantically around the concrete marker. He sank it deep and packed dirt tightly around it. “Someone will remember Shiloh,” he said, grunting with every shove into the earth. “This stone will see to that.”
When he patted down the final clump, he read the inscription out loud. “Shiloh Nathanson, beloved daughter of Patrick and Paili Nathanson. Born 1948. Last seen at this tree on October 31, 1964.” He squinted at the carved numerals. “Nineteen forty-eight?” Moaning softly, he rolled his eyes upward. “The engravers got it wrong,” he whispered, shaking his head. “They got it wrong.”
Patrick laid a trembling hand on the tombstone. Hot tears welled in his eyes. Rubbing them away with a grimy knuckle, he sniffed hard and gritted his teeth. He couldn’t cry. Not yet. The battle for Shiloh had just begun.
Circa AD 1986
Gabriel glided through the maternity ward, eyeing the numbers on the doors as he passed. Finding room 1545, he slid under the door and re-expanded. With the lights dimmed, shadows obscured the faces of the two adults in the room, but it didn’t matter. Gabriel knew them immediately. Hannah and Timothy. Mother and Father. Twenty years of searching had led him to this hospital, and the computer in the basement pinpointed the room and included details about their baby Ashley, a daughter of dragons, a chance to redeem himself as a guardian.
He drifted toward his parents. Hannah lay in bed, nuzzling a swaddled infant with her smooth, ageless cheek. It made sense that her dragon genetics would keep her young. Easing closer to his father, Gabriel studied his wrinkle-free face. How had he maintained his youth? Becoming fully human should have started a normal aging process, but he didn’t look a day older than when he left for the States almost forty years ago.
Timothy leaned over the railing and gently pulled the baby’s slender arm from underneath her pink blanket. Cooing at his daughter, he placed his finger in her grasp. “Ashley!” he cried in mock pain. “What a strong grip you have!”
Lifting his energy field, Gabriel glided over the bed and gazed down at his new sister. “Ashley,” he said in his electrostatic voice. “I’m glad to meet you.”
Ashley’s eyes locked on his. Gabriel drew back. Did she hear his greeting? Could she see him now? No one but Sapphira had been able to see or hear him before. He floated to one side of the bed. Ashley’s gaze followed. He floated to the other side. Ashley followed him again.
Timothy cocked his head upward. “Is she looking at something?”
Gabriel shrank his energy field to the size of a baseball and drifted higher.
“That fly on the ceiling is all I can see,” Hannah said.
“Isn’t that unusual?” Timothy asked. “I thought babies couldn’t see so far away. Gabriel didn’t follow objects with his eyes until much later.”
Hannah sighed. “No . . . he didn’t.”
“I’m sorry.” Timothy shook his head. “I’ll try to remember.”
“It’s okay. Hearing his name doesn’t hurt quite as badly as it used to.” Hannah turned Ashley’s face toward her and chirped in a suddenly cheerful voice. “You’re just a smart little girl, aren’t you?”
“Smart, yes,” Timothy said. “But . . .” His voice faded away.
Hannah took Timothy’s hand in hers. “Say what is on your mind, my husband. I will not be angry.”