The other two nodded, then all three raised their hands.
“A posse ad esse.”
40
CHIANG MAI, THAILAND
Seven missing pages.
The key to the Telum. The sacred traveler.
In order to protect her, the guardians had to protect her secret-a secret that had been removed from the Codex Gigas centuries ago, only to fall into the hands of Galileo Galilei-if Brother Philip was to be believed.
The curse on those pages had driven Galileo blind. And Milton after him.
But if Milton had burned them for fear of what they might do, then how and why had they wound up in the manuscript for Paradise Lost?
And, for that matter, who or what exactly was the sacred traveler?
A wandering soul, Philip had said, but what was her purpose? It sounded as if Michael was the one in charge of finding her, but once he did, what did that mean?
Was she a weapon of some kind?
Two many questions, Batty thought. Too many unanswered fucking questions.
And with the fourth moon of the tetrad coming, what were the chances of answering those questions before it was too late? What were the chances of finding those pages-the key to whatever Michael was looking for-before the gates of hell sprang open and all of humanity was destroyed?
It wasn’t looking good.
It was looking even worse when they got back to the heart of Chiang Mai.
The streets were filled with angry protestors, police in riot gear trying to control the crowd with fire hoses and batons. But the police seemed overwhelmed, and it looked as if the crowd was winning.
“Jesus,” Callahan said. “It’s already started. Just like Philip warned us. It happened so fast.”
“He said it would.”
They found refuge in a bookstore, several blocks away from the action. The place was practically deserted, and the guy behind the register looked visibly nervous, as if he’d be all too happy to close up and get to the safety of his home.
The few customers who were in here didn’t seem to be all that interested in the books surrounding them. They huddled together on the sofa and chairs at the center of the room, fugitives from the chaos.
Batty and Callahan found a grouping of chairs in back and as they settled in, Callahan reached for her cell phone. “I need to call Section again. Get them to listen to me.”
“If they didn’t listen before, I doubt they’ll listen now. For whatever reason, they’re letting us handle this on our own. But where do we take it from here? We’re running out of guardians.”
“London,” Callahan said. “That’s all we’ve got left.”
“London was a pretty big place the last time I looked.”
“We start with Ozan’s e-mail. Go to the Internet cafe where it was downloaded, then work from there. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
Batty didn’t have much faith in locating whoever had received the e-mail, but they had to try. Still, he wondered if there was another way to ferret out the truth about all this. There had to be some way to…
Then it struck Batty.
The Vision. Maybe he could use The Vision.
One thing he’d learned over the years was that his vision worked best when there was a lingering darkness in the room. That it was strongest when he encountered death or pain or destruction of some kind. So it didn’t immediately occur to him to try to use it on something good.
Something divine.
Reaching into the book bag, he took out the Milton manuscript. He’d already discovered on the plane that it truly was inspired by God, but he’d never thought to try to tap into its energy.
“What are you doing?” Callahan asked.
“Looking for the missing pages.”
“What?”
Batty opened the book and quickly flipped to the last page. He stared at the imperfect binding, the faintly ragged edges where the seven pages had been removed. If they’d been torn out after Milton died, then the history here was centuries old, and it wouldn’t be easy to grab hold of. He’d have to concentrate harder than he’d ever concentrated before, and there was no telling what it would do to him.
Bracing himself, he took a deep breath, then put his palm against those edges and closed his eyes.
But nothing happened.
He stopped. Centered himself. Tried again.
Concentrate, Batty. Concentrate.
He wasn’t getting anything.
Desperate, he grabbed the Saint Christopher medal and hung it around his neck.
He turned back to the manuscript. And then he felt it. Heat radiating up his arm and into his brain. The medal had been the key. And instead of the usual dark tunnel, he was assaulted by an explosion of light, like fireworks inside his head. Then the light seemed to consume him, to suck him in-
– and he was gone.
When he opened his eyes he was standing. But as he realized this, he wasn’t quite sure where. All he saw was a wash of colors, vibrant blues and greens and yellows so bright that they hurt to look at.
He squinted against them, willing them to come into focus, shielding his eyes with a cupped hand as they slowly adjusted to the light. And then he saw before him a place more beautiful than any he could ever have imagined.
Rolling hills. Blue, cloudless sky. Fields of yellow flowers so far and so wide they seemed to go on forever. And trees. Trees bearing flawless fruit-reminding him, oddly enough, of the bowl of plastic apples and pears on his mother’s dining table.
This world vibrated against him, seeping into his skin, releasing some kind of drug into his system, a drug that produced a pleasure so intense that he wondered if he could remain standing.
“This is the world as it could have been,” a voice behind him said. Male. British. Refined.
Batty turned and saw a shimmering, ghostlike image walking toward him, moving with a graceful fluidity. And as the image came into focus, he saw that the man wore his hair long, in a style from another time, his suit and collar from another century.
His eyes clouded over by cataracts.
The man-who Batty now knew was the poet-turned to the tree beside him and plucked a bright red pomegranate. “But because of the frailty of mankind,” he continued, “our world will soon be this.”
He bit into the fruit and the moment he did, the tree beside him caught fire and began to melt. Batty turned and saw that all the trees were on fire, their fruit withering. Then the sky darkened, the flowers beneath it wilting and dying as the hills grew barren. And soon everything around him was the color of slate, as a dark, cold wind kicked up and blew through him, rattling his soul.
Within seconds he was caught in the center of a black tornado, a cacophony of sounds rising in his mind as the wind whirled around him growing tighter and denser with each revolution. Batty opened his mouth to scream, but nothing came out, as the tornado gathered speed, the growing darkness threatening to swallow him whole…
Then abruptly it was gone.
He stood on a hilltop overlooking a small, crumbling villa, the poet beside him. Below, a young man exited the front door, moved quickly across the courtyard and mounted a horse.
“When he first told me about the Devil’s Bible,” the poet said, “I thought poor Galileo has lost his senses. A dark, pernicious toxicant seemed to have spread throughout that place, making it impossible for me to breathe.”
The young man rode his horse to the front gates, signaling for the guard to open it.
“The astronomer had wanted to use me as his eyes, now that his own were gone. He had thought I would understand, but I saw him only as a feeble old man whose wild imagination had taken possession of him.”