The Nephelium Page 2

  Cyrus spun around, eyeing the corners of the torch-lit throne room, probing the shadows for the owner of the voice that broke his moment of silent victory.

  “Show yourself before your new king, or I will tell you that tomorrow will never come for you!”

  “Ah, but what makes you, Cyrus the Great, believe that tomorrow actually is something that you can control?” The voice rang out as if it emanated from every shadow. Whoever spoke was not teasing him, but, instead, was matter-of-fact and certain in his tone.

  “I have heard that Babylon is known for its sorcery; and it would be wise for you, Sorcerer, to stop with your unexplained tricks and to reveal yourself. I have no desire to war with those I have conquered, but I also do not pleasure those who hide within the shadows.”

  A figure stepped out at the end of the hall directly in line with the throne. Cyrus stood in front of the throne, tall and undaunted. He was not just a king by right, but everything about him demanded respect and called out authority. His armor was strong and polished, emblazoned with his crest. A long, red cape draped over his back and fell in folds behind him. His bracers were made of solid brass and accented strong, muscular arms. Even though the sight of the great king would make most strong men tremble, this strange and lone figure seemed unfazed.

  Cyrus discerned that this figure was also tall and muscular, but he still stood well within the shadows, so the details of his features could not be made out. The king ordinarily feared no one; therefore, he could not understand the apprehension that was creeping up within him or the tingling that was spreading beneath his armor.

  “I demand you to reveal your identity and to state why you are here,” the king demanded.

  Did his voice crack? No, there is no way; he was Cyrus the Great, the king of Persia and conqueror of Babylon.

  “You demand? You demand?” The figure stated so strongly and with confidence beyond anything Cyrus could muster at this moment that the king actually felt his knees go weak, and he fell back onto the throne.

  “You, oh mortal king, will fade away, and the one I call King will still reign within every realm. Leave your demanding for those who tremble in your shadow, for I do NOT!”

  With the last word reverberating off the marble columns, the figure leaped into the air and, with supernatural prowess, was face to face with the now terrified conqueror. Cyrus could not breathe. He could not think. He could only shake and stare. Inches from him stood a being--man, spirit, or animal, he wasn’t sure who embodied this essence of a Warrior of Warriors. He stood well over ten cubits, and his bronze skin was chiseled with sinews of rippling portions. His chest, which was massive and bare, had a long scar traveling from his right shoulder toward his left hip; his arms were wrapped in bands of leather, and in his hands this undismayed warrior held a sword, the size of which would cause most men to think twice of even drawing theirs. The eyes of the warrior flashed radiantly blue as he watched whom his subjects viewed as a strong man to melt with fear in front of him.

  “What’s wrong, oh Great One? Don’t tell me that you have already acquired some rare Babylonian plague? You are shaking,” the warrior said with mock worry.

  “Who are you? I am a worshiper of Marduk; he should know this! Are you one of his minions?”

  With that, the figure laughed--actually laughed aloud.

  “Marduk? That measly demon? Now, do you think that your god would destroy such a devout follower?”

  “Then you are here to destroy me? Are you a warrior of Tammuz?”

  Cyrus was not sure, but he thought that this supernatural warrior essentially smirked at these last questions, as well.

  “Tammuz? Tammuz’ own followers don’t even know that Marduk vanquished him years ago, so their worship is even more hollow than anyone of them could expect.”

  The figure could see that Cyrus was not planning on making a move, so he dropped his sword to his side.

  “My name is Aaron, and I am a warrior of Jah.”

  “Jah? Isn’t He the God that the Israelites worship? I don’t have any bitterness or strife toward their God--or them,” Cyrus stammered out.

  “Then you will have nothing against the message I bring you,” Aaron directed quietly. “You are to let them go. There are many who were brought into captivity when they were conquered by Babylon. Let them return to their homeland.”

  Cyrus sighed a breath of relief and looked downward in contemplation. He still wasn’t quite sure about this manifestation of a supernatural warrior in front of him, but he had no desire to quarrel with any foreigners that resided in the land. If they wanted to go back to their homeland, then so be it. In fact, it would make less with which he would have to deal.

  “Then I will let them go.”

  “Let whom go, Your Majesty?” The voice of one of Cyrus’ generals broke in.

  Cyrus shifted his feet nervously and looked up. There was no supernatural being or warrior in sight! It was as if the air had swallowed him up and, in his place, stood the general who had just returned with news about the temples.

  “Umm, the Israelites . . . my first decree here in the city will be that all those who do not wish to call Babylon their home are free to return to the lands they call home.”

  The general looked a little confused, not sure from where such a decree arose. He shook his head in disbelief, but knowing better than to question his ruler, he left, looking to find a scribe to write down the new decree. Tonight, truly, many strange things were taking place.

  The city streets had units of soldiers securing different sectors, and most of the citizens of the city had been instructed to stay within their homes, that further information would be given to them in the morning. They were told not to worry, for their lives were not in danger.

  Aaron did his best to stay outside the circles of light cast by the city watchfires as he made his way out from the palace and toward a clay-brick house near the eastern wall.

  “Hey, you there,” a Persian soldier called out. “There is a curfew tonight. You are supposed to be inside.”

  “I am headed to my home, sir,” Aaron stated calmly.

  The soldier watched him for a few more steps and then waved his hand at him as if to say that he had no time to waste on him.

  Aaron came upon the home and entered. It was a one-room building with a stair over to the right that led up to an entrance to the roof where the family would surely be attempting to sleep. Aaron knew that, even though it seemed empty of people, it was far from that. This was the house of a Watcher, so it was a safe house. Aaron had only been here once before, but the glowing, blue hand upon the door, which could only be seen by supernatural eyes, signified that this house was well fortified and guarded and that within its walls any warrior of Jah would find safety.

  “Were you successful, Aaron?”

  Aaron grinned as his mentor appeared before him.

  “Of course, Ezekiel. Did you doubt me?”

  Not much for jest, Ezekiel just rolled his eyes and turned toward a small sitting mat by a fire pit. He sat down, even though there were only embers within the pit.

  “Is everything in place? Is there any sign that Marduk has caught onto what is actually taking place? Where is the child?”

  Aaron unstrapped his belt from his waist and leaned his sword against the wall. He ran his hand through his thick, black, wavy hair and stretched his tall frame out on the floor opposite Ezekiel.

  “I was able to penetrate the temple tonight just as the first wave of Persians entered. Marduk was there, and from what I could gather, he believes that we are the ones in the dark about what is taking place. He has no idea of the magnitude of what is happening behind the scenes. Who knows? It could take him another few millenniums to recover from this one, and by that time we can only hope that our forces have not dwindled.”

  “But what about the child, Aaron. Was Leah successful?”

  “She was,” answered Aaron. “When the Persians entered into the palace, Leah made sure the Jewess
servant saw the boy, who was terrified and hiding in a corner. The servant grabbed him, and he is currently at the servant’s home. Leah is guarding him as we speak, making sure that none of Marduk’s minions discover his whereabouts. Tomorrow, even before the decree of Cyrus is announced, the servant, the boy, and her family will be slipping out of the city and heading to Jerusalem.”

  Ezekiel sat, staring into the embers. If all went well, then the young Nephelium would soon be in Jerusalem under the protection of the Watchers. There he would have a choice to make; and if he chose rightly, then this world, both physical and spiritual, mortal and immortal, would never be the same.

  Ezekiel looked up at Aaron. “Only the history of humankind will record the outcome of what we have done today. I can only hope that they are ready.”

  “Jah’s will be done.”

  “Yes, Jah’s will be done.”

  A Letter to the Jewish Historian Josephus from the Apostle John, the Beloved

  Kept within the archives of the Watchers, the only known letter or reference to a connection to what has been referred to as The Revelations, the Clans of the Fallen, and the Alliance

  Many have questioned the letter’s authenticity, and even some Watchers have suggested that John had become delirious from his time on Patmos and was not present at the Council of Shammah.

  Greetings and Peace to you, Josephus,

  I am afraid that this letter is received within your hands with not much joy. I wonder how close you still remain to the cause of the Watchers. I understand that during my exile you fought for the release of many of our brothers and even gained some, but at what cost?

  Mortal man believes what they will believe, but we cannot deny what we know to be true. Lucifer was alive and well within Titus, and we must mark the fall of the temple as a victory for the Fallen.

  It is understood that you were able to procure the records of the Brotherhood and also the written lineage of the Jerusalem Breed. Were you able to hide the vial? Neither it nor the records of the Jerusalem Breed must fall in their hands. I know that I need not remind you of your duties, even if you have fallen away from the true faith.

  There are signs that have been given since the War of the Serpents on what choices may be made and what the consequences of those choices would be. Where immortals have fallen short is in understanding the free will of man that could set everything into motion or change the course of it all. Where mortals have fallen short is in the belief that all can be reasoned, understood, and discovered, and that the course has been set in stone. They argue over the trivial details as if their mortal understanding has discovered and figured all that is to be figured out. They fall short.

  If one piece of a puzzle is not understood, then the whole picture can never be understood. Mortals have put pieces of the picture together here and there, but all have been distorted by their own prejudice, thirst for power, internal struggles, and different cultures to the point that the complete picture has been blurred.

  During my exile, I was taken up out of my body into the halls of the Arch Council, and there I was told to keep record at the Conference of Shammah. I must tell you that mortals will not fully understand the revelation that I have been asked to record as one of the Watchers; but I must tell you, Josephus, the battle for mortals has just begun. If certain choices are made and history is not changed, then there will be a battle for eternity that mortals will not understand nor will they survive--a battle made from the thirst for blood and power, a battle of what mortals will call vampires. It will be a clan war, and all I can say for now is that it will come down to the choice of one. The Jerusalem Breed will be more vital than any could have imagined. The choice of one marks us all.

  Another Watcher,

  John

  Chapter One

  The nights were actually the days to so many of the city’s residents. Eve had often considered having The Broken Tear, her small, but well-visited, tattoo parlor, open throughout the night. She was sure that it would bring a completely new face to her customers; but then, again, she wasn’t willing to work those hours.

  It had been raining earlier, but now the dark cover of clouds overhead had given up its last sorrowful droplets of liquid and left, instead, small mirrors for those whose heads hung low enough to look down into them. With all the potholes, the puddles were not hard to find.

  This was her city, and Eve loved it. She loved the “caverns and valleys” of it all. To outsiders, it may seem overwhelming; but to those who had been born here, grown up here, and most likely one day would die here, it was home. One carved out their small niche in it all and never worried about the rest.

  The nights here were truly different from the days. In the evenings, many feared walking the streets. It was true that shadows could hold unwanted dangers, but it was part of the territory, and one lived or one didn’t--it was their choice.

  The lights from all the night diners, clubs, and retail stores offering things of lesser moral value all blended together for an iridescent glow that lit her path through the maze. A taxi would honk here and there; however, she paid no attention. Tonight she really was enjoying the walk, and she wasn’t even sure yet where she was going.

  She wouldn’t say that her soul was troubled tonight, but tonight . . . well, she could say that tonight was just one of those nights when she really could go for a corner booth at Alfonso’s Café and some strong coffee, topped off with solitude. Demons haunted her mind, and she needed to discover some peace before she would even consider going home and turning in.

  At 27, Eve was a strong and independent woman. Beautiful? Well, she knew she was eye-catching, but she was far from conceited; popularity was something she never found time to pursue. Of course, growing up as an orphan, one didn’t worry about frivolous things such as who was popular and who wasn’t; if one was an orphan, they weren’t popular. No, instead, they were only a quick welfare check for someone in authority who was considered fit to be their foster parent. Who cared what happened to the child behind closed doors? Whoever compared it to hell . . . well, there was nothing to really think about. That was all locked into its own filing cabinet, and the lock didn’t need to be broken into. One learned very quickly how to survive and how to live by instinct.

  Alfonso’s Café was on the corner, coming up on her right; and she felt a slight sense of peace as she caught sight of the familiar neon glow of the steaming cup-of-joe sign that hung in the large window. It wasn’t a yuppie coffee joint or even a trendy chain café. It was . . . well, it was Alfonso’s. The inside of the café was decorated with raw, red brick walls and small lights placed here and there, accentuating small, Italian, café-style tables and chairs. There were one or two booths toward the back out of the soft glow of the lights, which allowed a simple solitude of sorts.

  In fact, this had been where the now graying Alfonso found a younger Eve hiding one night at closing. Instead of reprimanding her or sternly insisting for her to leave, he simply smiled and brought a mug of hot chocolate to her. He didn’t bombard her with a whole bunch of questions that night, but had simply gone about his business of closing the place down and letting her be. He had allowed the scared, but strong-willed, little girl to stay as long as she wanted that night. He had acted as though he had many other things to do, giving Eve the time to muster the needed courage to face the darkness that awaited her at home. Finally, she got up and walked out. They had not exchanged a single word that night, but that would change over the years. Now, almost 20 years later, he was the closest thing she had ever had to a real, caring father. He still knew enough to discern when she needed to be left alone and was wise enough to say just the right thing when she needed that word of encouragement.

  Tonight the place actually had several customers, and not too many of them Eve recognized. She nodded at Maria as she headed to her back corner. Maria started working at Alfonso’s not too long after Eve had wandered in. She was not as old as Alfonso, but was old enough to be Eve’s mother. She had
never taken up as much of a position in Eve’s life as the elderly proprietor had, but she did care very much for the young woman. Fortunately, the place may have many unusual patrons tonight; but her normal haven of escape was not filled, so she quietly slipped into the familiarity of her surroundings.

  “The usual tonight, Eve?” Maria called out from behind the counter.

  “No, I don’t feel like hot chocolate tonight. Let’s make it a double espresso.”

  Maria gave out a long whistle as she went to work on the order.

  “Not planning on getting any sleep tonight, I take it,” a fellow at a small table to her left stated.

  Eve was cordial with a weak smile, but in her eyes a message flashed that stated, “This is not your lucky night, Man. Find someone else.”

  She looked around at her “safe haven.” A young couple who looked to be on a date were sitting near the front window, a business man with a magazine sat toward the middle of the store, and then there was her “would-be” acquaintance sitting just a couple of feet away from her. A few others dotted throughout the café looked to be finishing up.

  She leaned her head back and looked up at the old photographs from Italy that she had blown up and framed for Alfonso. She would always cherish the day that she surprised him with these gifts. He loved Italy, and he would always bring out old photographs and talk long into the night about the past and the things that meant so much to him. It had taken careful planning by her, Maria, and Megan, another castaway of sorts whom Alfonso had unofficially adopted, to get the photos carefully out of the albums and to a special frame shop. They had chosen old-style frames and had even gotten an electrician all lined up to come in after hours one night, once Alfonso was gone, to hang the special lighting. Alfonso had wept.

  Eve smiled at the thought. The photos now embraced her when she needed an escape. She would leave the little café behind in her mind and travel to the streets pictured within the photos.