The Keys of Solomon (14 page)

He scoped the dozen or so sheets of paper from the catch tray and looked at the first cover sheet. The transmission had come from the Lord Protector. Enrique sat down at his desk and quickly read through the report. Then he read it a second time. And a third. Each time, the knot in his stomach grew exponentially.
My God. This can't be true. It can't.

A murder inside the Holy See was shocking enough. And worse, oh, so very much worse, the “deep cover” Watcher operative, assigned to the Vatican and working for the Gendarmes, had discovered a journal inside the apartments of the killer. The contents of that journal would cast doubt and raise suspicion across the planet.…
turning cardinal against cardinal, bishop against bishop …
Public discovery of this journal would be catastrophic, destroying the faith of millions and undoing the work of centuries.

It could result in the eventual fall of the world's largest and most influential religious institution, undoing fragile, centuries-old political alliances. Social upheaval and economic collapse of Church-supported third-world causes and agendas were all critical, though secondary, concerns. The greatest devastation would result from the disaffected masses. Protestant and Catholic alike, numbering in the hundreds of millions, lost in a spiritual tempest without a rudder. A world suddenly dominated by a faithless humanity was surely hell on earth. New religious denominations would appear overnight, offering renewed hope. A perfect opportunity for the Enemy to claim the hearts, minds, and souls of a disenfranchised people. The final stage for the emergence of the Antichrist.

A lone tear formed in the corner of Enrique's eye and trailed down his check before dropping on the pages in his hand. He flipped open his cell phone and hit the speed dial function. After a couple of rings, a recording politely informed him the party he sought was unavailable. Enrique tried a second number, and this time, he was rewarded by the sound of a tired and familiar voice.

“Hello?”

“Your Grace? Enrique DeLorenzo. I'm sorry to disturb you at this hour.”

“Nonsense, Enrique,” said Bishop Gilbert. “I haven't been to bed yet. In fact, I thought you might be Malcolm Reading calling about the situation in Phoenix, or the fax from this morning. I still can't…” The voice trailed off.

“I understand, Your Grace. It's quite a shock. And that's the reason I'm calling. I'll be catching a plane in a couple of hours and won't have an opportunity to speak with Malcolm until I reach Phoenix. I assumed he would be in contact with you this morning. Do you think you might give him a message for me? I wouldn't impose, but it's urgent that he receives my instructions.”

The old man sighed into the receiver. “Everything is urgent these days, and more so by the hour, it seems. Yes, of course, I'll relay your message. You know he's likely conducting surveillance on the hotel, so it may take some time to track him down. I keep telling him to let the younger operatives do the grunt work, but do you think that old fool listens to me? Now, what would you have me tell Malcolm?”

Enrique smiled despite the desperate circumstances. It was impossible not to love Bishop Gilbert. “I need Malcolm's team to pick up a package for me in Sun City, Arizona. It's imperative that we have the package in our possession no later than this afternoon. Do you have a pen and paper? Ah, good. Now, the package is named Kathleen Conner.”

Two hours and twenty minutes later, Enrique boarded a plane for Arizona.

CHAPTER 10

Mississippi Delta, a forest near Sanctuary

Kiel, one of the most powerful angels in all of Creation, watched from the shade-covered banks of the bayou as a red fox busied himself with tearing small chunks of flesh from a plump, freshly killed swamp rabbit. After the rabbit was neatly sectioned, the fox made several trips around its den in a wide arc, burying the pieces beneath bark, twigs, and leaves. Once the task was complete, the fox approached its den and yipped softly to his young.

A chubby kit tentatively poked her head out of the hollowed cypress. Upon seeing her sire, the kit bounced out into the open, followed closely by a pair of slightly larger sibling males.

Kiel chuckled softly at the adult fox as it lay on its stomach and allowed the kits to maul him in playful greeting. After several minutes, the fox shook the kits from his back and began the day's lesson, that of foraging for food. Before long, the kits were sniffing out the hidden meals of fresh rabbit while the sire fed his mate, then took a well-earned rest.

Kiel extended his arms toward the heavens and closed his eyes.
Thank you, Father, for this day and this gift. I do so love this world Your hands have made.
Still smiling, he slipped away from the bank beneath the cover of late afternoon shadows. As he made the short trip back to the old monastery, he wished Nathan had come with him to watch the foxes. Nathan, moody during the best of times, had been depressed since the loss of Baraniel, two years earlier.

Baraniel, one of the few remaining Cherubim on earth, had long been a bastion of strength and inspiration, rallying the earthbound Host time and again against the combined armies of fallen angels and Legion.

Two years ago, the wretched Theo, second only to Lucifer among the Brethren, had threatened to loose his thralls and the demons of Legion upon an unsuspecting church congregation in Philadelphia unless Baraniel appeared. The Cherubim answered the challenge, knowing Theo had stacked the odds. Unwilling to risk more of the Host, Baraniel came to the church alone, and confronted the Enemy. The outcome was inevitable, and Baraniel's death dealt a terrible blow to the already decimated numbers of the Host. Since then, the war between the Host and the Brethren had escalated, and additional losses in recent months had driven Nathan deeper into despondency.

The loss had also affected Kiel, but in a different manner. Although the two angels shared several commonalities, their coping mechanisms were vastly different. Whereas Nathan grew moody and introspective at the loss of another Host, Kiel's grief manifested in the form of uncharacteristic anger that flashed like webbed lightning, and subsided just as quickly.

Arriving at the ancient, lichen-covered monastery, Kiel removed his muddy boots, left them beside the door, and entered. Centuries earlier, the three-story building, made of native stone, had provided sanctuary for the descendants of an outlaw Templar society, the Order of Watchers. Established in the early 1200s, and comprised of survivors of the Third Crusade, the Watchers were a small, select sect devoted to the preservation of the Templar ideals, those of the Christian warrior monk.

After a greedy King Philip IV, goaded by an equally greedy Pope Clement V, finally outlawed the Templars, he also ordered the Watchers and other Templar-supported sects to stand trial for bogus offenses against the crown and Church. Dozens of knights were taken into custody, stripped of titles and lands, and forced into confessions or renunciations. Those who refused were most often executed.

However, a great many managed to purchase safe passage out of France, seeking refuge in distant lands. While many of the warrior monk sects faded from memory, the Watchers managed to survive centuries of persecution. Eventually, members could be found on nearly every continent, including America. Of course, the French monarchy had a long memory, and an even longer reach. As France expanded its holdings in the Caribbean and costal regions of the New World, it was only a matter of time before authorities discovered small numbers of Watchers already entrenched. Such was the case in this very monastery. Though both King Philip and Pope Clement had long since died, the order to disband and surrender was still very much in effect. In the Year of Our Lord 1588, a French company of soldiers led by a Captain De Moiré attempted to arrest twelve monks, each a direct descendant of members of the original Order. The result was the subject of much lingering discussion among local mystics and romanticists. That the monks benefited from some sort of angelic intervention seemed to be the only point of consensus.

Nathan and Kiel had made a home of the old building, in part because they loved the surreal beauty and quiet solitude of the Mississippi River Delta. It was also their way of honoring the monks who died rather than surrender to a corrupt king and Church.

Kiel found Nathan sitting at the table, sharpening the onyx blade of his Kiv on a fine-grained whetstone. Known as
Kinslayer
in the elder tongue, the Kiv was a terrible weapon in the hands of any angelic warrior. In the hands of one such as Nathaniel, the Kinslayer could wipe stars from the sky. Kiel had prayed that Nathan might find some cause to embrace, some passion that would restore his spirit. Apparently, Nathan had decided upon a cause.
I, above all, should have known to take care in what I pray for.

Kiel placed his leather pouch of herbs on the table and walked to the hearth where aluminum kettle hung above glowing embers. Though needing neither food nor drink as sustenance, both Kiel and Nathan had developed a fondness for coffee. Nathan fetched two mugs and filled one for Nathan, then one for himself. Nathan accepted the mug with a nod but said nothing. His eyes were red, the color of misery, and both cheeks glistened with tears. Stroke after long stroke, he pulled the stone against the razor-edge of the Kiv.

“You should've visited the den with me this afternoon,” said Kiel. “The old fox is teaching the young to hunt now.”

Kiel knew the folly of his comment as soon as the words left his mouth.

Nathan set aside the stone and tested the edge of the Kiv with his thumb. Without looking up, he said, “Hunting is a useful skill, Kiel. Perhaps the most useful of all.”

He seeks vengeance with no thought of consequences.
“Nathan, you can't do this. I'll beg if I must, but you can't go looking for the Brethren. Not now.”

Nathan sheathed the Kiv and looked across the table at Kiel. His skin glowed with a soft purple hue as the intricate sigils that covered his body came to life. “And when would be the right time to hunt them? Tomorrow? Next week? Or perhaps next millennium? Maybe you'd prefer that we sit here in this stinking tomb until they come for us? It wouldn't be the first time predators came sniffing at this door, would it?”

Kiel met his brother's glower with a steady gaze. “I don't know the when, or even the how, Nathan. But I
do
know we don't have the numbers to mount an offensive. Not now. Patience, brother. The Father will give us guidance. He—”

“Hold!” shouted Nathan as he slammed a fist down upon the table. Kiel heard the
pop
of splintered wood above the impact.

“Guidance? What guidance? When was the last time He spoke to you? Or any of us? When, Kiel!?” Nathan stood up and leaned across the table, the massive muscles in his neck and shoulders bulging like steel cables. “Half the Host destroyed, the other half scattered to the four corners of the earth. Tell me what terrible sin we've committed that He abandons us at the hour of our greatest need! And don't tell me that He's busy dealing with the Usurper. The Father could lift this burden from us with a thought! Listen well, little brother, I tell you He has left us to our own!”

Kiel ground his teeth and the fierce light within his eyes flared like sunspots. Nathan's words bordered on blasphemy, an unpardonable offense for those in service to the Creator.

“You forget your station, Nathan! Grief has hardened your heart. Careful that it doesn't become a permanent condition.”

Nathan's voice dropped an octave, but the anger was still very much in evidence. “My station. And just what is my station, Kiel? What exactly
is
our purpose? Weren't we placed here to protect humanity, and ultimately, fulfill His will? If that's so, we've failed miserably. Without assistance, the combined numbers of Legion and the Brethren will grind us to dust. Of course, if it's His will that we sacrifice ourselves in a hopeless war, we stand poised for success!”

“Enough, Nathan! You can allow despair and misplaced resentment to destroy your faith if you like, but I won't be witness or party to such blasphemy!”

The indigo sigils covering Nathan's naked torso flared in the dim light of the room. For several long seconds the two angelic entities glared at each other across the fractured table. After a moment, Kiel's anger subsided to a point just below boiling. He started an apology when Nathan abruptly cut him off with a raised hand.

Rising slowly from the table, Nathan's eyes remained trained on the front door as he pulled the Kiv from its sheath. Alarmed, Kiel cast a questioning glance in Nathan's direction, and started up from his chair. His supernatural senses screamed out an alarm, and Kiel knew.
A solitary Brethren, just beyond the clearing
.

“I detect only the one, Nathan. You?”

Nathan nodded. “Just the one. It makes no sense. Not even the Runner would risk a confrontation with both of us. Not on consecrated ground. A trap?”

Before Kiel could respond, a vaguely familiar voice filled his mind.

I'm alone. Will you grant me temporary sanctuary?

Knowing Nathan had also heard the request, Kiel looked at him. Nathan vehemently shook his head from side to side and mouthed the word
trap
. Again the voice entered Kiel's mind, uninvited.

You've checked the area by now, and you know there's no one in hiding. You also know I'm no match for either, much less both, of you. Grant me sanctuary and some of your time, and I'll state my business and leave in peace
.

Still suspicious, Nathan called out, “I think you should leave while you still can, Orus. You stand too near consecrated ground. Another step and the stench of seared flesh will ruin my supper.”

This time, Orus spoke aloud. “Reconsider, Nathan. Please. I … I have information that might be of assistance to the Host.”