PROLOGUE
“Petre? What was that? Did you see it?” The detective froze beside his partner, pressing his back against the wall of the ancient cathedral. Both were breathing hard. Both had their weapons drawn. “I know I saw ... something.”
“Take it easy, Demetri,” Petre said calmly. He put a hand on his partner’s arm. “I saw something, too.”
“But what was it?”
“I’m going to find out,” he said. “Cover me.”
Petre slid along the stone wall, making his way to the gate that led to a courtyard where a statue of the Virgin Mary glowed in the moon-kissed fog. The night had gone cold. Reports of a break-in at the Church of Our Holy Lady, the Victorious, had gone out shortly after midnight. The two detectives had been the closest.
It wasn’t normal for detectives to follow up on a simple break-in, but at such an historic site, Petre had insisted on responding. He had been baptized in this very cathedral, as had his father, grandfather and great-grandfather. His great-aunt had chosen the consecrated life of a Carmelite Nun and had lived in the monastery here until her ascension to grace earlier this spring, at the age of 106.
Petre had spent many hours here at the ancient gothic cathedral. This was where he learned to pray. He had served as an altar boy as a child, and a torch bearer in his teen years. He had even been chosen to aid the priests in the preparation of the Holy Sacrament on Palm Sunday, the same day he turned eighteen.
At that time he had considered the priesthood, but then he met a girl, and he chose another path. He didn’t marry her, but she was the one who nudged him to pursue law enforcement. He joined the police academy because she did. While she washed out early in the process, he thrived. He discovered a love for law enforcement and felt called to protect and serve. His own teenage son was now on course to take up the Mantle of the Lord and would begin his studies in the seminary soon.
“Petre,” his partner called in a high whisper.
“Shh!” Petre whispered back, watching over his shoulder as he found the gate unlocked. He eased it open, but the ancient wrought iron groaned and creaked as he slipped into the garden and secured the latch.
He herd footfalls behind him, knowing his partner would reposition to keep his back protected. The experienced detective did his best to keep to the shadows as he made his way through the courtyard. He paused and genuflected in reverence to the image of the Holy Virgin. A quick Hail, Mary ran through his head and found its way to his lips, despite the urgency of his task. Hail Mary, full of grace. Pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death...
This was one of his favorite images of the Madonna. He’d prayed to her when his wife was ill with childbed fever after the birth of his son. She had been brought to full health as if by some miracle, the doctors had said. If he had time, he might have stopped here to pray a while longer, but now wasn’t the time.
As his knee straightened and his eye lifted, he saw something move in his peripheral vision. The door at the end of the long pathway to his left rattled as it latched. He turned and signaled his partner. Even though he couldn’t see him, he knew he was there. He pointed towards the entryway before quickly making his way to the door.
This door, he knew, lead to the apse of the cathedral. He waited, listening for sounds of shoes on the marble floor, but only silence came from within. With a nod to his partner, he pressed the door open and slipped inside. The apse stood opposite the main entrance of the cathedral, leading to the ambulatory and on to the quire. He moved silently, aware of the whisper of his own leather-soled shoes on the white marble. Half-tempted to remove them, he found his way to the nave and skirted along the side where the hidden buttresses projected into the room. Each provided a shadow in which to hide, and he had to suspect if someone were inside, they would make use of these shadows, too.
As he neared the altar where a single candle burned, he observed it illuminated the Holy Sacrament. His eye scanned the rows of pews. A priest sat in the third row, with his head down. At this hour of night, he could be praying, but he may have also fallen asleep on his watch. He knew no one would leave the Sacrament unattended. Priests would take an hour’s watch at all hours of the day and night to guard the Blood and the Body of the Lord Jesus Christ. But to fall asleep on watch was highly frowned upon. There was a shuffle at the back of the nave, but the priest never moved.
The hair on Petre’s neck rose. He came to kneel at the priest’s knee and put his hand on the man’s arm as it rested in his lap. His rosary hung loosely from unmoving fingers. Petre recognized him by his rusty red hair.
“Father Jerome?” He spoke softly. The priest’s hand was cool beneath his own. “Father ...” he moved to lift the man’s head but fell back with a gasp. The front of his plain black cassock was drenched in something dark. It was sticky to the touch but gleamed in the candle light. The echo of a drip on the floor beneath his feet resonated in that quiet hour. The same dark, sticky fluid trickled down his hand and dripped off the rosary. The puddle that formed on the floor behind the priest’s feet reminded Petre of chocolate syrup, and his stomach churned. Upon closer inspection, he observed the man’s throat had been cut. The wound was deep, nearly to the spine; ear-to-ear.
Petre didn’t have time to mourn. This was no longer just a simple break-in. A killer was on the loose.
He rushed to the vestibule where he’d heard the door slam but found nothing. There was no one on the streets outside the cathedral. The fog was growing thicker. The full harvest moon was obscured behind glowing cloud-cover, which gave the night an eerie glow.
“Petre?” The radio on his belt squelched. He turned down the volume before unclipping it from his belt. “Where’d you go?”
Something moved in the shadow beside him as he lifted the mic to his lips. He froze. A man stepped out of the darkness beside the stairs. He had a scroll tucked under his arm; his fingers clutched the document. Petre recognized it immediately.
The church housed a large collection of sacred documents, but it also protected what were considered apocryphal texts. These scrolls were stored in an alcove behind a tapestry near the quire. He had only found them himself while playing as a child, hiding from the older altar boys between their lessons. The one he had taken down and opened had been hand written, in a language he didn’t understand. What he remembered most was the sketch of what he could only describe as a demon; an effigy of Old Nick himself.
“Drop your weapon,” Petre said, leveling his own gun at the killer.
“You have no authority over me,” the man said, his accent different from anything Petre had heard. Swiss? Italian? He couldn’t be sure. “I am an Agent of The One True God himself.”
“No Agent of God would take the life of a priest in his prayers, not in God’s House.” Petre felt sweat build on his brow, despite the falling temperatures.
“I did what I was called to do,” he said.
Petre considered this man as a shaft of moonlight broke the clouds. He was young, maybe the same age as his own son. His eyes, as blue as the fog-shaded moon, glowed eerily, as if illuminated by his own internal fire. His blond hair was cropped short in the back, but hung over one side of his face. The hand holding the gun trembled.
“You’re too young to ruin your life like this.” Petre started toward him. Somehow he felt sorry for the boy who’d lost his way so young. Maybe it wasn’t too late for him. Petre wanted to help.
The echo of gunfire broke the uncomfortable silence of the night. It resonated off the tall stone walls, crackling into an echo as it was carried on the still night air. Petre saw the flash of the discharge from the weapon in the man’s hand. It blinded him for a moment. He had not felt the bullet pierce his flesh. He staggered back a step before regaining his balance. It never occurred to him to pull his own trigger.
The young thief stepped closer. “Go with God,” he said and fired his gun a second time at point-blank range.
The cop crumpled, falling into the thief’s arms. The boy caught him and lowered him to the ground, gazing into his eyes. He knew now he had been shot; knew it was a fatal wound. “No.” He reached up and caught the scroll, pulling it from the man’s hand as he sank to the stone stairs.
The thief snatched it back and tucked it under his arm, freeing himself from the detective’s death grip.
“Petre! Petre!” The radio squawked. “Where are you? I’m coming!”
A moment later, the front door flew open. Demetri dropped at Petre’s side. The detective clutched a hand to the wound in his abdomen, but his blood flowed freely from beneath this fingers. “He ...” Petre grabbed Demetri’s arm. “He ... took ... a ... scroll ...”
“Who?” Demetri was busy trying to staunch the flow of blood from his partner’s body. He took out his radio. “Officer down, repeat, officer down...”
“Just ... a boy ...” Petre fought for breath. It gurgled in his chest as Demetri found the second bullet wound, just beneath his breast. There was a sick sucking noise as he tried to breathe.
“Officer down!” Demetri screamed into the walkie talkie, tears pouring from his face. “Officer down! I need an ambulance!”
CHAPTER 1
The Ancient Gods would be angry. The Great Deceiver had been at his old tricks, and the infant godchild was in peril. The High Priest of the Serpent King had been listening to the whispers the Dark One had been spreading in the hopes that the priest would become afraid. The Deceiver was good at putting doubt into the hearts of those whose spirits were weak.
“It’s a monster.” The Deceiver planted a seed. “You can’t trust those who call themselves gods. They’re trying to trick you; so they can destroy you.”
At first the priest didn’t believe him, but the Deceiver was patient. He was good at growing deceit and patiently tended it as it grew. “It will destroy you,” the Deceiver said.
“But it’s a ... child,” the priest said. “Hardly more than an infant.”
“An infant who will grow in size, and power,” the Deceiver insisted.
“It is of no threat to us.”
“It will be.”
The priest initially refused to act, protesting. “But it was ... a gift ...”
“Meant to destroy you.”
“How could an innocent child destroy us?” The priest cried.
“Children grow.”
“But the gods will be angry if we act.”
“The gods will never know,” the Deceiver insisted. “I will show you the way.”
“Tell me what I should do.”
The Deceiver had the priest beneath his thumb at that point. “When the moon is dark, you must take the child deep into the cavern below the city, where the water collects and where you may purify yourself. Use an obsidian blade. Take off the child’s head and leave the body deep beneath the ground. Cleanse yourself, and wrap the head in straw and mud, place it in a basket and take it to the temple. Bury it beneath the altar and tell no one.” The priest paused to study the child who watched the Serpent King’s armies as they trained for battle, enraptured at the concept of war.
* * *
War was an alien concept to the godchild, yet the ancient memories of its people – carried in the child’s DNA – included memories of an ancient war between the great forces of the universe. The All-Father had wept as brother fought brother and the concept of war spread to the creatures Enlil created ... creatures whom the godchild had been sent here to save.
The All-Father had given his own son to protect these creatures. The humans might not be worthy of such a gift, but it was not the godchild’s place to decide that. He was made to be a teacher of men; a bringer of peace. Before he could bring peace, he had to learn the concept of war, and it made the godchild tremble to watch even the simulated conflict meant to prepare men to fight.
The godchild languished in the company of these barbarians. Few had true compassion in their hearts and most knew only hate. The priest bore the most hate of all. The godchild could feel the man’s disdain growing each day. When the All-Father returned, the godchild would have little good to say about the hearts of these people. As it was, the gods had already sensed the pervasive wickedness and were prepared to deliver their retribution. When their wrath was complete, rain would not come. Crops would not grow. Children would starve at their mother’s breasts. Only when they allowed their hearts to find goodness would the godchild be able to teach them what the All-Father wanted them to know.
This was not the first time the All-Father had tried to teach goodness to mankind. The gods had tried before and failed. In retribution, the highest of all gods sent an abundance of rain, so much that the world was consumed by water and many – nearly all – died. The All-Father was not without mercy. One worthy man was compelled to save the animals and his family. His descendants now faced the great and terrible wrath of the gods.
It was part of the cycle of the universe. Chaos, creation, existence, destruction, and regrowth made up all aspects of the galactic circle of life. Life in general mimicked this cycle. From the smallest atom to the largest constellation, the universe ebbed and flowed; beat in the same rhythm as the human heart. The magnitude of the great cosmic processes was more than these mere mortals could comprehend. Even a teacher as small as the godchild knew that. There was no one here worthy of the gods’ mercy, and the godchild would tell The All-Father as much when the gods returned.
* * *
The godchild was always watching with those large black-green eyes that rarely blinked. The alien being was barely bigger than a human infant, but it already was growing in wisdom and power. It had raised an injured feral dog from the dead, a dog that now lay at its feet, guarding it from anyone who approached too closely. When it lifted its hands to the sky, the clouds gathered, and rain came. When it touched fertile ground, crops sprang from the ground and grew lush in a matter of days. It healed the sick and the lame. When angered, its touch could wound. Destroying it would not be easy.
The priest had been entrusted as its care-giver; its protector. It followed the priest wherever he went. The godchild seemed happiest when they were outside. The priest would notice its eyes lifting to the heavens; its eye drawn to the morning star. When it wasn’t visible, the godchild was often left searching the sky as if it were lost and seeking a landmark.
Soon, the people would celebrate the Festival of Q’ollort’i, the Return of the Stars. They would go to Apu, the sacred mountain, where the air was thin, and the gods closest. There, at the foot of a huge glacier, they would commune with the heavens. By the thousands they would come, from hundreds of miles, to welcome the Seven Sisters as they returned to the skies above. The Sisters would bring with them, the Sun Beyond The Sun and they could find the road to the sky that led to the umbilicus of the universe, a luminous chord that connected the solar plexus to the sky.
It was at this time of the year that The People were closest to their gods. The gods would bring the Light of wisdom and higher consciousness to them. Through the gods they would learn the forbidden arts, such as math, art, astronomy, astrology and even healing.
The Deceiver continued to whisper in the ear of the priest, chanting a curse upon the godchild. The priest knew he could do nothing about the godchild before the Festival. The gods would need to see their child, and know it safely protected by The People. However, once the Seven Sisters left the sky, the gods would not be able to find the child and they would not return again for another cycle, and by then, he’d figure out how to explain the godchild’s absence.
Children died all the time. They fell from trees. They ran out in front of armies. They choked on food or died of disease. Children rarely lost their heads unless they were sacrificed to the gods ... he could explain away a death in such a manner, but his orders were not so simple and there would be repercussions if he was not careful.
No. He couldn’t do it. The godchild was a gift from the gods. The priest was charged with protecting it, that it might become a teacher of the ancient mysteries; the gods’ ambassador on earth. He couldn’t do it.
“You must,” the Deceiver whispered in his ear as his gaze returned to the godchild. “But yes, timing is everything, or the gods will be angry. You will not be punished. I will protect you.”
* * *
The priest carried the child in a basket on his shoulders as he made his way to the top of the Sacred Mountain. The moon shone brightly, casting a brilliant blue-white pallor on the landscape below. The gods had been welcomed and worshiped and all the rituals were completed as required.
The priest stood at the foot of the great glacier, his alpaca serape wrapped around his shoulders to warm himself and the godchild as he told the story of the gods’ promise to the multitudes. His voice rose strong and deep over the valley.
“In ancient days, before the reign of the Serpent King, the world was made of darkness. There was no light or warmth; no land nor sea. The world was without form and The People were cast adrift into a void of nothingness. There was no hope; no peace.” He spoke with authority, having received the story from his own grandfather’s father, who was the High Priest before him. “Then the gods spoke the world into being, and made a place for mankind, for plants and for animals. He made mankind cunning and strong so that they could take their place of dominion over the fish of the sea, and the animals of the land, and even the birds of the heavens above. And when mankind grew lonely, and cried out to the gods why have you left us incomplete? The gods realized they had made man with no soul – no heart. The gods split the ancient men in half and gave a heart to one half and a soul to the other. Man was commanded to find his matching heart, now in the form of woman, so that when man found what was split from him, he would be happy. He would be complete.”
The People listened intently, even though most had heard the story before. “But man was foolish and impatient. Some men could not find their matching half, so they settled and took the woman meant for another. For a time, they might be happy, but a mismatched pair would eventually grow dissatisfied, disgruntled. Some men would take another man’s woman hoping it was his other half. Women would bicker and argue with men who did not match them, and discord entered the world. As the world became full of the offspring of these unhappy, unnatural unions, war came into the world. Men killed men. Women killed women. Children fell at the hands of parents, and even siblings. It was something the gods had never intended, but by the time they returned, it was too late to repair.”
The People cried out. “No! The gods can bring us peace!”
“Yes,” the priest answered. “But man must be patient. Man must find the one woman that is meant for him; is made for him ... made from him. This is the secret to man’s happiness and to a lasting peace in the world.”
“But how will we know? How will we find our split-apart?”
“A wise man will know,” the priest assured the multitudes. “A wise woman will give herself to him and their union will be blessed. Their offspring will be the most useful of peacemakers, teachers, and healers. This is the will of the gods.”
“Glory be given to the gods.”
“So it is written.” The priest nodded. “So it is done.”
“We pray to the gods for peace!”
“So the gods have answered,” the priest said. “The gods have sent us their child. He comes to be a teacher to us all. The godchild will bring peace to the world if we believe, and if we can show we are worthy.”
The women called out, “Let us be worthy!”
“Let us give thanks to the gods!” The men answered.
“We must give to the gods what belongs to the gods.” The words came unbidden to the priest’s lips, before he even knew where they had come from. “Man is made from corn and blood. Our sacrifice will appease the gods.”
A man brought a basket of dried corn in its husks and lay it at the priest’s feet. He knelt before him and held out his arms. “May the gods have mercy upon us all.” He bowed before the priest, taking the obsidian blade from his belt. He slashed his own arm, then drug the razor-sharp blade across his chest. Blood ran freely from the wounds and the man held his arm over the basket of corn, letting it drip from his body.
The priest turned and took a twist of herbs and held it into the fire, then brought the flaming punk to the basket of corn and held it to the dried fibers until smoke arose. The basket erupted into flames and the aroma of burning corn and singed blood filled the star-dappled sky.
“May the gods have mercy upon us all,” the priest repeated. “Your sacrifice will be known to the gods. May they smile upon you and bring you peace.”
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