December 18, 3:26 A.M. EST
Dr. Stankevi
ius sat upright behind his desk, his palms placed flat so that he could press against the blotter to keep his fingers from trembling. “You asked to see me, Nicodemus?”
Nicodemus stood between the towering guards, a man who was a dichotomy in flesh. His small stature and frail bones suggested weakness and vulnerability, and yet his personality and charisma were like a dark tower of steel and cold stone. He dominated the room and he hadn’t yet spoken a single word.
“Please have a seat,” said the doctor.
Nicodemus’s lips writhed as he sat and there was the gleam of spittle at the corners of his mouth. “Thank you for taking time from your busy day, Doctor,” he said softly.
“It is the middle of the night. What is it you wanted to see me about? Was there something you forgot to tell me yesterday?”
“I have had a dream.”
“A dream?”
“Some would call it a vision.” His eyes were half-hidden by the shadows cast by the bony overhang of his brow.
“What was the nature of this vision?”
“Revelatory. It is a time of great discovery, Doctor. The Imperial Eye has opened and the Eye sees what the Elders see, and it is well pleased. The Eye can see into the minds of the Elders and what it sees is deemed good.”
“I—”
“Plagues will be visited upon the lands of Empire—and upon those who have broken faith with the Sons of Moses.”
“What does all of this mean?”
“The voice you hear is mine, but the servant is a vessel through which the Goddess speaks for all to hear. It is the time for all who believe to rise and be counted. False prophets have been heard throughout the land, but paradise does not wait for the bringers of small fire. The true face of the All shines not on those who use the sickle to hew down the wheat staffs that grow in the field of the Goddess. The true face of the All shines upon those who have never strayed from the winding path that leads through the desert.”
Dr. Stankeviius sighed and leaned back. “Nicodemus, I’m sorry but I’m not in the mood for this. You said that you had important information for me. If you have information regarding the murder of Jesus Santiago, then—”
Nicodemus suddenly leaned forward. The guards jumped in surprise and almost—almost—made a grab for him, but neither of them seemed capable or willing to lay hands upon the little man. Dr. Stankeviius recoiled from the wild look in Nicodemus’s eyes. His eyes flared wide so that the whites could be seen all around the irises, but those irises seemed to have darkened from a mottled green-brown to a black as dark as midnight. It was a trick of the light, Stankeviius told himself.
A trick of the light.
“They are coming,” whispered Nicodemus in a voice that was unrecognizable as his own and barely recognizable as human. It passed through the doctor’s mind like a cold wind.
The room went still.
“How will you be judged when the Sons of the Goddess sit on their thrones? When the Elders reclaim what is theirs and the Goddess reaches out her dark and shining hand across the face of this world, will you stand with the wicked and be cast into everlasting perdition? Or … will you stand with the Chosen and be counted as a warrior of heaven?”
Stankeviius felt his skin crawl. When he exhaled he could see the vapor of his own breath. But that was impossible; the thermostat was permanently set at sixty-eight.
Nicodemus bent forward another inch so that now his eyes were completely hidden by the shadows of his pale, craggy brow.
“The Elders have appealed to the Goddess and she has sent her judgment.”
“Wh-what judgment, Nicodemus?” stammered the doctor, his body suddenly wracked by a shiver. It was so cold in the room that his teeth hurt.
Nicodemus smiled so that his full lips were stretched thin over wet teeth. “She has sent Ten Plagues, just as the God sent Ten Plagues in His turn. The first was a rain of fire and ash that filled the streets of the new city. Woe to the children of the wicked that they did not listen, that their hearts were hardened as the Pharaoh’s heart was hardened. But the Goddess did not harden the hearts of the wicked. Anyone who says that she did is a liar and blasphemer. The wicked need no help in hardening their own hearts. They are defiant in their iniquity.”
“What are you talking about? What are these plagues?”
The guards edged away from him, their hands on the riot sticks hanging from belt loops. Neither of them looked at each other or to Dr. Stankeviius. Each was locked in his own private moment, each caught up in his own damaged reaction to this man.
Nicodemus sat straight, bringing his face down toward Dr. Stankeviius. He opened his eyes and for a moment—for a terrible single moment—his eyes were completely black. No iris, no sclera.
“Lo! And behold the rise of the Seven Kings. All shall fall before them!”
He blinked and his eyes were normal again.
A trick of the light, Dr. Stankeviius told himself. Just a trick of that damned light.
Nicodemus sat still and did not say another word.
After a few minutes Dr. Stankeviius ordered the guards to take Nicodemus back to his cell. When the door was closed and the sounds of their footsteps faded, Dr. Stankeviius rose and tottered toward his bathroom. He stared for a long minute into his own bloodshot and haunted eyes. He sank to his knees as a wave of nausea slammed into him; then he flipped up the lip of the toilet and vomited into it. Again and again until his stomach churned and twisted on nothing.
Only a trick of the light.
Except that he was sure that it wasn’t.
Chapter Eighteen
Whitechapel, London
December 18, 7:29 A.M. GMT
Next morning I caught two chilly hours’ sleep in the back of a police car while Ghost kept watch, and then shambled to a pub for a late breakfast. Eggs, sausage, bacon, toast, and jam. I’m a big believer in the adage of eating breakfast like a king, lunch like a prince, and dinner like a pauper. Except that I tended to eat lunch and dinner like a king, too. That way there were plenty of leftovers for the mouth-on-legs that was Ghost.
I called Rudy, who was on the plane to America, and I woke him up. You’d never think that a civilized, cultured, and educated medical man like him could curse worse than Amy Winehouse on a bender.
“You kiss your mother with that mouth?”
“Where do you think I learned to curse?” he growled.
I’d met his mother and I could see his point.
“Why am I awake and talking to you?” he asked after a yawn so loud that I could hear his jaw pop over the cell phone.
“You hear about what happened yesterday?”
“Yes,” he said, and that fast I could hear that he’d shifted gears. “Mr. Church said that you weren’t injured. But … how are you feeling?”
“Paranoid, scared, angry, and frustrated.”
“I can imagine,” he said. “There’s a lot of that going around these days.”
“We’re chasing phantoms.”
“What?”
“Oh, it’s just the feeling that keeps popping into my head. Trying to fight back against the Seven Kings is like trying to grab shadows. You can never put your hands on them.”
“If I said, ‘That’s part of the spy game,’ how much of a beating would you give me?”