Ancient Inheritance

by Rita Vetere

Genres: Thrillers; Supernatural suspense; Paranormal

Synopsis

Evil is real, and it's coming. . .unless one woman can learn a secret buried in her family's past. On a quest to rule the world, the demon Sammael will stop at nothing to unlock his powers. . .even enter the physical plane. Catherine Caldwell has unwittingly come into possession of the item Sammael has sought for over two millennia. Her education into the conflict of dark and light is a trial by fire. Guided by prophetic dreams and aided by family, a Creole psychic and a homicide detective, she struggles to learn her role in an age-old war, and elude the demon hunting her. The secret Catherine uncovers will trigger a battle that could alter the course of mankind forever. 34,000 Words

Release date: November 17, 2008

Publisher: Lyrical Press

Print pages: 304

Sample

 

Prologue

Rome, Italy – Present Day

 

Giorgio worked quickly, but meticulously, in his frescoed office on the top floor of the centuries-old bank, going over last-minute paperwork from one of the many stacks of documents covering his elaborate mahogany desk.

Disgruntled, he pulled the next pile towards him. The deal was an important one, and the Spanish clients were scheduled to sign up at commencement of business next week. Still, if his assistant had not come down with the flu, the tedious task of proofing the voluminous documents would have fallen to her, and he would be at home now preparing to enjoy a fine seafood dinner on this Good Friday holiday.

He alone occupied the ancient building and the silence of the place, usually such a hub of activity, unnerved him. The vaulted ceiling and stone walls amplified even the slightest sound. The din of traffic from the street below reminded him there were other places he’d rather be. Shaking off the solitary feeling that had come over him, he returned his attention to the documents.

A rush of air from the open window behind him sent papers fluttering about in disarray. Annoyed, he turned around just in time to see a dark blur streak toward him, a cloud of black particles spinning and churning in the moving air. It was the last thing he saw. He slammed back into his leather chair once, and it was over.

Sammael was in. In spirit form, he was quick as lightning, as the banker had just learned in a fatal lesson. The entry had been straightforward, without physical damage to his host as sometimes happened. He sat in the chair for a moment, acquainting himself with his new body, bringing it under control, while he looked around the office through the banker’s eyes.

He was more or less trapped in the physical plane now, bound by corporeal limitations for as long as he remained in the body, but he had business to conduct on earth and needed to remain inconspicuous. Besides, he would not have to suffer such restrictions for much longer. Even the powers of Lucifer himself would be no match for his own once he got his hands on what he had come for.

Moving to the oversized gilt-framed mirror on the opposite wall, he fingered the lapel of the fine Italian suit, studying his reflection. The banker kept himself fit. He admired his new tall, brawny build. Not bad. He combed his fingers through the dark, neatly trimmed hair to give it a less formal look. Faded blue eyes stared back at him—a pleasant surprise, contrasting as they did with the Mediterranean complexion. Sammael thought the overall look was sensuous, mysterious. Just his style. Not bad at all.

Sammael spent the next few minutes rummaging through the man’s desk and cabinets. He found a security box containing a passport, which he pocketed, and a copy of a Last Will and Testament, which he unceremoniously tossed aside, chuckling. In the inside pocket of his suit jacket, he located a kid-skin wallet containing credit cards and a wad of cash. Grabbing the man’s cellphone from the desk, Sammael strode briskly out of the office and exited the building.

 

 

Chapter 1

New York City – Present Day

 

Catherine Caldwell concentrated on applying a rich shade of ochre paint to the damaged portion of an eighteenth century oil portrait using deft, tiny strokes. As she worked, a picture of last night’s lovemaking flitted across her mind, distracting her. Tiny butterflies fluttered against her stomach as she remembered the way Matthew looked, naked above her on the large cast-iron framed bed, both of them surrounded by soft white cotton sheets, the pleasing sensation of his tongue on her nipple, her hands tangled in the waves of his thick, blond hair as he entered her.

“Catherine.”

Startled, she looked up to see her boss, Henry Rathburn of Rathburn and Sons, standing in the doorway, and felt her cheeks burn with embarrassment. It’s not as if he can read my mind.

He walked around to her side of the easel to inspect her handiwork. “You’ve made good progress with this. Mr. Robinson was just on the phone. He was hoping to have the restoration done in time for his mother’s seventy-fifth birthday next week.”

“Oh, it’ll be ready,” she told him. “I’ve only got these two small areas left to work on,” she said, pointing with her brush to a spot on the subject’s forearm and another above the right eyebrow.

“You’ve done a good job of it,” Rathburn said. “He’ll be pleased. I’m not sure if I mentioned it, but Robinson’s a friend of mine.”

Catherine smiled. “Thanks,” she said, inwardly beaming. Her boss was not a man who was prone to handing out compliments unnecessarily.

Rathburn checked his watch. “Remind me to speak to you tomorrow about the oil landscape that came in today. I’d like you to start on it next.”

“Sure, I’ll be happy to,” she told him.

He raised a hand in acknowledgment as he turned and left her to her work.

After he was gone, she finished in-painting the area she’d begun, a portion of the subject’s silk dress, then started her clean up. As she washed out her brushes, Catherine’s thoughts returned to Matthew. He was far and away the best lover she’d ever had. Not that there had been that many, three had gone before him. But none of them had even come close to understanding her like Matthew did. And lovemaking aside, there were so many other things about Matthew that endeared him to her, his understated sense of humor and quick wit, for instance. He could always find a way to make her laugh, even on her worst day. And he was considerate of others in a way that made Cat think that his own life had not always been easy. It was nothing he’d ever voiced, just a sense she had. She was happy when she was with him, lonely for him when she wasn’t.

She had a decision to make, and soon. Tomorrow was her birthday, and she was convinced Matthew was going to ask her to marry him. As of this moment, she had not made up her mind what her answer would be.

What’s wrong with me? I love him. Why not just say yes?

She tried telling herself that the reason for her hesitation in committing to Matthew was she cherished her independence and was reluctant to hand over her power to someone else. But that wasn’t completely true. She did enjoy her freedom, but Matthew, in the more than two years they had dated, had never infringed upon it, and had always respected her boundaries.

The real reason for her indecision, she knew, was the voice, or more precisely, the absence of the voice, which had remained curiously silent on the subject of Matthew.

For as long as Catherine could remember, whenever she felt troubled or unsure, she found if she became quiet and stilled her thoughts, sooner or later, a tiny voice would pipe up, guiding her, telling her what to do. In adulthood, she came to think of the voice within as her ‘higher self’—at least that’s what most people called it. Granddad had always told her the voice belonged to her Guardian Angel, and she should always pay attention to it. She always had. Yet, here she was with the most important decision in her life so far looming before her, and the little voice she had come to rely upon would not speak to her. She kept waiting, hoping for affirmation, but the voice had so far remained stubbornly silent on the subject of Matthew.

So, I’m supposed to turn him away because the voice won’t talk to me? And yet she trusted the voice. It had never let her down before.

I’ll ask him to come with me on the weekend when I go home, to meet Granddad. Then I’ll decide.

Even as she determined this, she listened inside herself for confirmation but, once again, the voice responded with silence.

* * * *

“I’ll have the shrimp stir fry please, to go,” she told the clerk at the take-out counter of Ho Min’s, where she stopped in to pick up dinner on the walk home from work. After paying, she stepped out onto the busy Soho street, carrying her take-out bag. She moved with natural feline grace, weaving her way among the pedestrians, unconscious of the stares she garnered from the men who passed her. The oversized black leather jacket and snug-fitting low-rider jeans she wore emphasized her slender, petite form, giving her a waif-like appearance. At intervals, she brushed aside the long bangs of her otherwise short black hair.

At the intersection of Grand and Wooster, she turned right and headed for her apartment, a classic five-story stone and cast iron building that had originally been a warehouse, and converted to lofts in the sixties.

“Hi, Jimmy.” She flashed the concierge a smile as she entered the backlit foyer of her building.

“Evening, Miss Caldwell. All done for the day?”

“Uh-huh. Finished up early. Have a good night,” she said on her way to the keyed elevator.

It was a short ride to the top floor, and when the doors opened, she stepped off the lift directly into the high-ceilinged, enormous open space of her apartment. The long wall facing her was made up entirely of leaded windows that ran almost from floor to ceiling. The spectacular view still awed her.

Cat always felt a secret pleasure when the elevator doors closed behind her, as if she were entering a private sanctuary; a peaceful place surrounded by feverish activity. Her home was a fortress, impenetrable.

She would never have been able to afford such a place on her own, real estate in Soho being what it was. The apartment, in fact, had been a gift from her grandfather. Eleven years ago, when she approached him about moving to New York from Louisiana, telling him her heart was set on living in the Big Apple, not only had Granddad acquiesced, he had presented her with a set of keys. He owned a large apartment there, he told her, an investment facilitated years ago through his old war-buddy Joe, who had worked as a real estate agent in New York. She would be comfortable there, he said, and it was close to NYU, where she would be working towards a fine arts degree. The news had come as a thrilling surprise, and when she first saw the place on her arrival in the city, she could barely contain her excitement at having such a magnificent place to call her own.

She kicked off her boots and walked the length of the open living area toward the bedroom, dropping the bag of take-out on the kitchen counter in passing.

She got out of her clothes and slipped into a soft terry robe. Back in the kitchen, she decanted a generous amount of Pinot Grigio into a long-stemmed glass and carried it with her to the Zen-like atmosphere of her bathroom, where she drew water for a bath in the rectangular soaking tub. The scent of lavender filled the room as she stepped into the deep tub and ensconced herself in the silky water. This after-work ritual was her way of putting the day behind her.

Afterwards, she heated up her take-out dinner in the microwave and brought it with her to the low, rectangular modern couch. Famished, she dug into the food, balancing the plate on her lap as she ate. By the time she was done, she still had not decided what her answer would be if Matthew popped the question tomorrow.

“Give it a rest,” she muttered to herself. “He hasn’t even asked yet.” She picked up the remote control and flicked on the television. The national weather forecast came on. A smiling woman with impossibly long eyelashes spoke with false solemnity: “…severe storm warnings in effect for parts of the southern states. Louisiana and Missouri looking to be hardest hit by the heavy line of thunderstorms moving across the region.”

Catherine frowned, thinking of Granddad. He was all the family she had left and was getting on in years. She hated the idea of him alone in the old house back home with bad weather approaching. The bayou region of Louisiana where she’d grown up was isolated, no one around for miles.

The news of impending bad weather made her uneasy, and she picked up the phone to dial his number. Catherine exhaled in relief when he answered after the third ring, not even aware she’d been holding her breath.

“Hi, Granddad, it’s Cat. I heard on the news you might be getting some weather and just wanted to make sure you’re all right.”

“Hello, sweet pea. Yes, I’m fine, don’t worry. They’re calling for thunderstorms, but nothing too serious from what I can tell. How have you been? Are you planning to visit soon for your birthday?”

The booming sound of thunder traveled through the phone line from half-way across the country, followed by static. “Yes, I—”

The line went dead. “Hello? Granddad?” She redialed the number and heard the blat-blat-blat that signaled a disruption in service. Storm must have knocked the power out.

Disappointed, she hung up, consoling herself with the fact that, even though he was old and arthritic, Granddad was the smartest man she knew and could take care of himself better than most people half his age. Perhaps Evangeline had decided to stay over with him. The old Creole woman who had helped raise Catherine took good care of her grandfather.

The thought did nothing to dispel her apprehension; the disquieting feeling remained. She would have to wait. Hopefully, phone service would be restored soon.

 

 

Chapter 2

Terrebonne Parish, Louisiana – Present Day

 

Alan Fairfield, seated in his favorite reading chair in the library of the old, plantation style house, looked out the window at the menacing storm. Lightning flashed nearby, blurred by sheets of heavy rain, and followed immediately by a crash of thunder that shook the house. He replaced the receiver, his connection with his granddaughter lost. The power was out.

Scudding, black clouds extinguished the remaining daylight, and Alan got up from his chair, intending to light the candles he kept handy on the mantle. He tried to ignore the throbbing pain in his joints as he made his way to the marble fireplace. “Guess I should be thankful I can move at all at my age,” he muttered to himself. Wish I’d taken Evangeline up on her offer to stay over. A wave of loneliness washed over him.

After lighting the candles, he picked up the framed black-and-white photo of his wife, Kate, from the mantle, the one he had taken of her at the lake the summer before he enlisted, in 1942. He’d captured her sitting on a sandy beach, her slim legs tucked off to one side. Long waves of raven-black hair cascaded around her bare shoulders while the lake shimmered behind her. He thought, as he always did when he studied it, that she looked like a mysterious mermaid washed up to shore by the ocean. It was this snapshot of her he had carried with him into battle every day in Germany during World War II. The picture, creased and folded now, remained his favorite. He ran his finger across her image and placed it back on the mantle, next to the other two.

One of the remaining photos was of him and his old army buddy Joe, taken on V-Day. What an odd-looking pair we made back then. The thought brought forth a wry smile. In the picture, a very young Alan, tall, fair-haired and neat-looking, stood in stark contrast next to short and stocky Joe, with his thick shock of unruly black hair and a feisty look about him. Their arms are slung around each other.

The last photo was of his daughter, Erin, standing tall and statuesque, her wild, fair hair streaming out behind her, all smiles and holding baby Catherine in her arms.

Catherine. Fear for the girl washed over him.

He shivered, remembering it all again, and returned to his chair by the window to look out at the bruised and angry sky.

A deep sense of foreboding fell over him like a shadow. Something about the storm felt ominous. It reminded him of that other storm, the one that had presaged the blackest day of his life. The passage of almost thirty years had done nothing to erase the pain. The memory of what had happened in 1980 still felt like an open wound. Before that October day, he’d been happy, his family still intact.

Consumed by the recollection, he saw not the storm but the images from that day while tears coursed down his face. As he sat, unmoving, the clock ticked off the minutes and the lengthening shadows stretched to darkness.

 

 

Chapter 3

Rome, Italy – Present Day

 

Sammael headed north along the Via de San Gregorio towards the Coliseum, his new good looks and immaculate attire, compliments of the banker, attracting admiring glances from many of the pedestrians. Others, however, hastened their step and averted their gaze as they passed close to him, instinctively having picked up his malevolent scent.

Rome. How he adored the timeless place, a place where dark and savage passions lurked just below the surface of refinement, a city marked with a history of lust and violence. A history almost as turbulent as his own.

At the Coliseum, crowds had gathered for the Good Friday torch lit procession up the Monte Palatino to re-enact the Way of the Cross. Moving through the throng to get a closer look at the pageant, Sammael was disappointed to see the man chosen to wear the crown of thorns did not even vaguely resemble the original cross-bearer. Once again, Christ was being portrayed as a meek-looking savior, a weakling. In reality, the Creator’s son had been strong and muscular, square-jawed and with dark eyes that blazed with passionate fire when he addressed his followers.

On the anniversary of Christ’s death, as the procession commenced, Sammael evoked the memory of the original Way of the Cross to Golgotha over two thousand years ago, when he had attended the crucifixion of Jesus. He remembered…

…a parching sun bearing down on the crowd gathered at the fortress. The gates open and the soldiers appear, followed by the condemned prisoners. When Jesus stumbles out carrying his cross, weak and barely able to stand, the mob lets out a mighty roar. Sammael, triumphant, joins in. Turning the rabble against Jesus was nearly effortless, the time ripe.

He pushes his way through the laughing faces at the roadside to get a better look. Jesus meets his gaze, but looks straight through him, giving no sign of recognition, vexing him. He wants the Son of God to know who is responsible for his suffering.

Passing outside of the city gates, Jesus travels along the muddy road, carrying his heavy cross, rivulets of blood and sweat coursing down his face. Then, exhausted and trembling under the weight of his burden, he falls face-down into the mud, opening the wounds on his back. The soldiers pull him up roughly and send him on his way again. Jesus stops before a woman in the crowd, but is not given a chance to speak before he is pushed forward once more.

Sammael recognizes the woman—Jesus’s mother. He passes close beside her, savoring the image of her sorrowful countenance. Then, Jesus falls a second time, and a third.

A large crowd has already gathered, waiting, at the desolate hilltop known as the Place of Skulls. Jesus walks the final few steps and the soldiers remove his clothes. Sammael hears the pounding of hammers, banging on nails. He watches as the sharp metal enters the flesh of Jesus’s wrists. At last, the sound he has been waiting for—the piercing scream that echoes through the air.

The cross is hoisted up. Soldiers hurry to nail Jesus’s legs. His mother moves forward to stand at the foot of the cross, and Sammael moves alongside her, again hoping to make his presence known to the Son of God. When Jesus thirsts, it is Sammael who offers up the vinegar-soaked sponge on the tip of an olive branch. And then Jesus does see him, his eyes widening in surprise.

Having gained his attention, Sammael locks eyes with the dying Son of the Creator. “Tell your father it was Sammael who turned the mob.”

Immediately after he utters the words, the Son of God takes his last, ragged breath and expires. The oldest of the Roman soldiers, carrying a spear, pushes Sammael aside. Seeing Jesus is already dead, he does not break his legs as he has done with the other two. Instead, the soldier thrusts his spear into the side of Jesus. As it exits the wound, the blood on the spearhead glows like fire.

Moments pass. The sky rumbles and darkness falls. The earth trembles violently. The

throng flees, Sammael along with them. Only Jesus’s mother remains behind. The Son of God is de. . .