The Jealous God Page 21

  “You know our dear Brother,” Lucio said and smiled almost sadly. “He was always full of surprises.”

  Louis smiled broadly at him, and then hugged him tightly.

  “You did right to wait, Brother.” Louis let go of him and stood up. “The Hand of God is truly upon you, and it is His Will you obey.”

  Lucio watched as Louis picked up the box very carefully and walked toward the doors leading inside the palace.

  Chapter Nine of Fifteen

  It is better to go to the house of mourning, than to go to the house of feasting

  Mark Andrew stormed up the stairs from his laboratory and slammed the heavy door open against the wall. The old cook jumped out of his skin and shrieked as the Knight of Death raged through the kitchen and down the hall to the library. The general was sprawled on the sofa asleep. Mark Andrew kicked the sofa, and the ‘man’ fell on the floor.

  Mark picked him up by his collar before he could react and slammed him against the television set, sending the lightweight screen skittering and tottering against the wall. Several ceramic pots fell from a shelf and crashed to the floor.

  “Damn you!” he shouted in his face. “You said my brother would be here by noon!”

  Schweikert glanced at his watch and blinked at him in surprise.

  “Get your hands off me!” he snapped when he had regained his composure.

  Mark Andrew stepped back, and the general pulled a phone from his pocket. He tapped the screen quickly and spoke briefly at the device.

  “He is on his way.” Abaddon smiled at him as the sound of a helicopter drifted through the open windows. “You see?”

  Mark crossed the cluttered library, kicking aside a stack of old newspapers, magazines and trash on his way to the window and pulled back the black-out draperies. A sleek turquoise helicopter was setting down in the meadow beyond the stables.

  “This had better not be another trick, Abaddon!” Mark Andrew told him as he left the library on his way out to meet the aircraft.

  Mark had delivered on his promise. Four hundred pounds of solid gold for the release of his brother. It had been quite a task given the time constraints and the pressure of the situation. Jozsef Daniel had betrayed him once already. The original agreement had been two hundred pounds. Luke Matthew would be released to Mark’s custody in Lothian, and a new agreement would be negotiated.

  Mark Andrew had two aims in mind. One was, of course, to keep Luke Matthew’s head on his body, and the second, was to buy time until John Paul could return with a plan to defeat the Ancient One. He fully realized time itself, which seemed to be dragging on here, was passing much slower in the Abyss and the underworld. They might not hear from John for years. He was sorely tempted to go into the Abyss looking for him, but Abaddon had stayed with him day and night, barely allowing him out of sight for more than a few hours at a time. And Abaddon was the perfect chaperone. He knew very well, he could not risk going into the warped time of the underworld with any hope of estimating how long he would be gone. They had made it perfectly clear if he were to do anything without permission, his brother would die. Plain and simple.

  Mark had not thought it possible he could be so utterly helpless, but his brother was simply not expendable. For whatever reason, he could not conceive of causing Luke's death. Not now. Not after all this time. He had not been allowed to contact New Babylon, and he recognized the strategy behind this move. If he did not contact the Grand Master, it was possible he might be convinced to send someone searching for them and thus; put more Council members or apprentices at risk of being captured or killed. Mark was sure King William Henry was playing the innocent and most likely encouraging them to send someone to search. He could only hope d’Brouchart could see through the ruse and not be convinced by Lucio or Luke Andrew to act otherwise.

  There were no phones in the house, and the computer sat on the desk lifeless, no wi-fi, no satellite, no cable; it was nothing more than an elaborate calculator/word processor. They still had running water, gas and electricity, but that was about it. The only vehicle in the drive was a white ATV emblazoned with the Royal Coat of Arms of the King of England. An official vehicle demanded respect, wherever it went and the only reason a precious electrical power line had been run to the estate at all. The boundaries of the property were patrolled by members of the King’s Royal Guard, and they were quartered in the old apprentice barracks on the other side of the empty administration building.

  They made free and easy use of everything on the estate from the pool to the horses in the stable. Only Gil Pairaud, Stephano Clementi and Planxty Grine remained on the estate with him. Everyone else was either in New Babylon or on the islands in the Irish Sea. Stephano and Planxty were both old men. They were still full of fire and vinegar mentally, but physically, they were not much help other than to shuffle about the house, trying to keep some semblance of cleanliness, putting out a fair meal at least once a day and keeping him company in his misery. Planxty was as clumsy as ever, if not worse, at working in the lab since developing a tremor in his left hand and Mark Andrew had firmly, but tactfully declined his help after two near disasters. The presence of Planxty was a constant reminder of Meredith, and the old fellow often spoke of her as if she had simply stepped out of the room or had gone into town adding to Mark’s general misery. Planxty's mind was sharp in many repects, but in some ways, he seemed to be living in the past.

  Every night at supper Planxty told them of the faeries he had seen in the gardens, but no one of consequence had come to the house since his arrival some three weeks earlier. Only the mundane elementals tended the plants and animals of the Scottish countryside. The more sentient faery creatures were either staying away on purpose or could not come. Mark had fully expected to see one or another of his offspring here at some point, but now he was feeling greatly disappointed. The very absence of the Mighty Djinni told him his presence here was concealed quite well. Jozsef Daniel’s powers could not be disregarded or underestimated.

  Spring was progressing gloriously, and Simon’s flowers were in full bloom. The two ex-apprentices passed their days working in the flower beds and talking about what should have been, and what might have been, and what might yet be. Mark did not spend much time with them other than meals when he invariably asked about the faeries. He dared not try to summon any of them to Scotland. If Abaddon gave the word, Luke would pay the price. In fact, Mark Andrew was relieved in a way none of them had come here to complicate things, but he still wondered where they might be and what they might be doing. He often wondered about Merry Ramsay and Simon’s sons and Michael Ian and the rest of them. He worried about Catharine de Goth and her brother. He worried about Bari Kadif. He had nightmares about Ruth, even though Luke Andrew had delivered him from the dubious honor of performing the Rite of Death for her, and they had laid her to rest in her family’s plot in the bright Sicilian sunshine.

  It would be up to Omar to go back and see that her bones were removed and placed in the crypts beneath the small cemetery at the proper time, and he did not envy his grandson’s obligation in that regard. He had never liked the idea of disturbing the graves of the dead, but space was a premium and traditions were traditions. Still, he had nightmares in which he was there when they exhumed her body to begin the process of cleaning her bones for permanent interment. In his dreams, her decomposed corpse had become animated and she had held a decomposed baby in her arms, nestled against her bony chest as if she was breast-feeding it. Then she had pointed one finger at him and said 'By your wicked magic has this child been born'. These, and worse grisly scenes, only dissipated with the coming of day, and he had taken, more and more, to working at night and sleeping during the day.

  Luke Matthew walked across the grass toward him when he passed the corner of the stables. He wore shackles on his feet and his hands were chained in front of him. The Knight of Death’s temper flared immediately when he observed this indignity, but his joy at seeing him alive and well overruled his anger, and
he ran to him and grabbed in a tight hug, almost bowling him over.

  “Brother” was all he could say. Luke looked terrible on closer inspection. His hair was long and shaggy and his beard had not been cut or trimmed in weeks. He had several fresh cuts and bruises on his face and a large bump on his forehead. It was quite obvious Luke had not been a model prisoner.

  When he had mastered control of himself, he turned to Abaddon who had followed more slowly.

  “Unchain him,” Mark Andrew told him.

  “He is dangerous. I think…” One of the soldiers shook his head.

  “I dunna give a damn wot ye think.” Mark spun on the man.

  “Let him go.” Schweikert nodded to the soldier. “If he does anything, shoot him.”

  One of the soldiers unslung his rife and leveled the barrel at Luke, while the other worked on the chains and cuffs nervously. Luke said nothing, but stood patiently waiting to be released. The chains fell to the ground, and the soldier jumped back from him. They were, apparently, well acquainted with the Knight of the Orient. Luke smiled at them wickedly and then returned his attention to his brother.

  “Come on.” Mark took his brother’s arm and walked him rapidly toward the house with the General and the soldiers tagging along after him.

  When they reached the front door, they discovered two more cars were parked in front of the house and an armored troop carrier had also arrived.

  “Wot’s this?” Mark Andrew drew up short at the sight of the soldiers on his steps.

  “Visitors,” Abaddon told him.

  Mark’s heart fell. He should have known they would not let him go. Nor were they likely to allow Luke to stay. This was just a show of force and a reminder Luke Matthew was still alive.

  Planxty and Stephano stood in the entry hall. They greeted Luke warmly and were then sent rudely on their way while the two Knights were ushered into the parlor. Jozsef Daniel and the King, himself, sat on Mark’s green velvet furniture, already holding crystal glasses of his dwindling supply of Scotch in their hands.

  Two of the ornate chairs had been set side by side in front of the fireplace.

  “Sir Ramsay, so good to see you well and dapper!” the King greeted him and crossed his legs casually when he sat down beside Luke.

  “Your Highness, welcome to Lothian,” Mark answered tightly. “To what do I owe this honor?”

  “Your work is excellent,” the King told him. “I am surprised. And you made it within the time allotted. Another surprise.”

  “We aim to please,” Mark said.

  “What would you suggest we do now?” the King asked him.

  “I would expect His Highness to keep his agreement with me.”

  “And I intend to do that. I believe we agreed on four hundred pounds to start and then renegotiation after the release of your brother. Correct?”

  “We agreed on two hundred pounds, but you changed your mind.”

  The King waved one hand languidly. “I underestimated my immediate needs. Unfortunate, but necessary. It doesn’t seem to have proven much of an inconvenience.”

  Mark did not respond, but glanced at Luke who sat almost immobile.

  “His Excellency has told me your brother possesses quite a bit of power in his own right. He has told me your brother aspires to the throne of England, and he has been… quite naughty during his incarceration. You have run up quite a bill, Sir Ramsay,” Joszef Daniel informed him.

  The king cast a disgusted look at Luke, and the Knight raised both eyebrows expectantly. “You will pay for the damages, Sir Ramsay. They were extensive. He is very clever. But tell me why would a sorcerer aspire to usurp my throne? Is it true you brought him back here to unseat me?”

  “No, Your Highness, it is not true.” Mark Andrew could see another problem arising here. Jozsef merely smiled at him. “My brother is not a contender. How could that be so?”

  “I have no idea, but I can tell you it is a dangerous aspiration. It seems, oddly enough, he is not your brother at all, but your son.”

  “Preposterous.” Mark Andrew shook his head, and then frowned at Jozsef Daniel. “But no more so than the idea His Excellency is my grandson.”

  The King jerked his head toward Jozsef and frowned. “Is that so?”

  “It is,” Jozsef shrugged. “In fact, I am not related to them at all. In spite of our physical resemblance, I am not a member of this exalted clan. My father is not of this earth and his father, who would be my grandfather, cannot be known. My physical form is of very little consequence, and these men who sit before you have made use of their resemblance to me to their own great advantage. How is the priest’s son doing? Have you heard from Father Levi lately? And your lovely daughter? Have you seen her?” Jozsef directed his question to Mark.

  “You know very well, I have heard from no one.”

  “Too bad.”

  “What do you want?” Luke Matthew asked them, speaking for the first time. His voice was raspy as if he had been choked.

  “I believe his Highness would like to learn something of the Mysteries, you so selfishly refuse to share with mankind.”

  Jozsef raised one hand and snapped his fingers. A soldier stepped inside the room and placed a metal box on the mahogany table, scratching the surface in his haste. Jozsef leaned forward and raised the lid. It was lined with red velvet, and in the velvet was a glittering skull.

  Jozsef cradled the crystal in his hands and raised it up for them to see.

  “This is the head of Bran the Blessed. It was taken from the White Tower, and the act ultimately resulted in the destruction of the Tower and almost brought London to her knees.”

  Mark raised both eyebrows. The skull was slightly bluish overall with one startling difference that set it apart from the rest of the skulls he had seen. A band of gold embedded in the crystal encircled the bald pate much like a crown.

  “This skull belongs to England,” Jozsef told them. “Bran the Blessed has protected England for centuries. But Bran is much more than what history makes of him. You know the significance of these artifacts, Sir Ramsay. In short, the King wishes to own the entire collection. Bran will be reunited with his sisters.”

  “Not possible.” Mark Andrew shook his head.

  “You have these… other artifacts?” the King asked in surprise.

  “I did not say that,” Mark Andrew answered.

  “There is no need to keep up the pretense, Sir Ramsay.” Jozsef shook his head. “You may not have them here, but you have them in your possession.”

  “Now who is hiding behind pretenses?” Mark Andrew asked him. “Did His Excellency tell you, he wants the skulls himself? Did he tell you, he intends to use them to destroy the entire world? I’m sorry, Your Grace, but you are being greatly deceived, and I cannot give you what I do not have, and I do not have the skulls.”

  “I have seen them,” Jozsef went on, undaunted by Mark’s outburst. “Strangely enough, they would seem to have been in this very house, but not this house exactly. More like this house might have appeared in ages past. I understand you have experimented with time travel, Sir Ramsay?”

  “I never experiment.” Mark Andrew closed his eyes and swallowed hard. So his chickens had come home to roost… again.

  “Ah. Then you actually accomplished the feat?” he revised the question.

  “It has nothing to do with the skulls.”

  “Time travel?” Again, the King was astounded. “Time travel. Gold from lead? What other little tricks do you know?”

  “I know how to kill a man, before he knows I am there, and I can hold his heart in my hand before it stops beating.” Mark Andrew lost his composure. “Would you care for a demonstration, Your Highness?”

  The King’s mouth fell open. Apparently, no one had ever spoken to him in such a manner.

  “Are you threatening the Crown, Sir?!” The King stood up.

  “You asked for tricks.” Mark Andrew smiled slightly.

  “Abaddon!” Jozsef called to his minion.
“Did Sir Ramsay make it home with his sword?”

  “He did at your bidding, Your Grace.” Schweikert stiffened at the mention of the sword. He had thought it great folly to allow the Knight to keep it.

  “Bring out your sword, Prince of the Grave.” Jozsef’s eyes crinkled. “Give the King a demonstration.”

  Mark frowned at him, and the King started from his chair. Jozsef laid his gloved hand on the King’s arm.

  “Go on!” Jozsef waved one hand toward the door, and then jerked his head at the soldier standing behind Luke. The soldier stepped forward and grasped Luke’s hair in his hand. He pressed the blade of a rather sizable utility knife against his throat. “Now do what I said. It was your idea after all. The King would require a demonstration of your prowess with the famous sword.”

  Mark Andrew got up very slowly. Who was he expected to kill? Perhaps, the time had come for drastic measures. He had no doubt, he could most likely dispatch all of the guardsmen in the house and even the King before they could bring him down. With Luke’s help, he might be able to gain the upper hand, but then what?

  He walked out of the room, and they allowed him to go upstairs alone in search of the sword. He could think of nothing to do other than follow these instructions.

  When he returned with the sword, he found Luke still in the same precarious position as before. Jozsef was up, refilling the King’s glass and his own from a fresh bottle of Scotch.

  Jozsef took the sword from him and handed it over to the King. William Henry set his glass down and examined the twisted blade with great wonder.

  “I have never seen such a magnificent piece.” The King was truly impressed. “I must have one like it for my collection.”

  “Oh, I’m afraid that won’t be possible unless you can convince Sir Ramsay to give you this one. It is quite unique. One of a kind… or should I say two? There is another. Perhaps, he could be convinced to give one to the Royal Treasury as a gift of good will.”

  “Hmmm.” The King handed the blade back to Jozsef and he presented it hilt-first to Mark Andrew. His overwhelming confidence and arrogance combined, with the powerful force emanating from the skull on the coffee table, caused Mark Andrew’s vision to blur slightly around the edges. He wanted to thrust the blade through Jozsef and take the King’s head. It would have been so easy.