Michael: The Mark (Airel Saga Book Four)

Chapter XVIII

Cape Town, South Africa—Present Day

THEY CALLED HIM MR. Emmanuel. It was the perfect moniker for him. It spoke to his penchant for self-important sacrilege, his megalomania, his fervent belief that all roads led to him sooner or later. Wearing a stylish white fedora made of straw, he leaned against the wall in the international arrivals terminal and waited for the mark.

It had been boring, really. He had known Harry would fail. Like a tool, he had served his purpose and then outlived his usefulness. And that was perfectly fine. It was the same with Apartheid, for instance. It had served its purpose well enough for him and his associates. And sure, it was dead, but mostly just on paper. Blacks and whites and coloreds still distrusted one another, still collected in their ethnic cliques. In that sense it was more alive than ever, and the people now carried the walls with them wherever they went. Success.

Mr. Emmanuel suffered himself to yawn openly, to check his wristwatch. He knew few men wore them anymore; they had become redundant with the advent of the mobile phone, but that was precisely what had brought them back into fashion as far as he was concerned. He noted the time. Any minute now.

His mind wandered, as it did habitually. Perhaps he would change his fashions and use a pocket watch instead. But that would require that he wear a waistcoat, which would necessitate a change of his personal style. Waistcoats weren't worn with jeans. Not by him, at any rate. And then there would be the question of comfortable shoes. If he had to wear a suit everywhere he went, he would not be able to get away with comfortable shoes any longer, and that would inhibit performance. Perhaps he would have to change his car, maybe even his house as a result. No, the pocket watch was not pragmatic.

And Mr. Emmanuel was deeply pragmatic. He knew the old schools of classical philosophy, and he picked and chose what he would adhere to. Was that not pragmatic? And after all, he was a god, so whom should he fear? At least he believed he was. And if he believed, was he not a god? Who could say otherwise? Who would dare correct him?

Except the master.

Yes, but that went without saying. As a matter of fact, he preferred it went unsaid.

To all who resided on the downwind slope of his affectations, he was and would be a god. And that was enough.

His nostrils flared.

Here comes the mark.

Mr. Emmanuel allowed him to pass him by and then followed nonchalantly at a discreet distance.

The mark didn't know it, but he was completely caged. Mr. Emmanuel flicked a finger and the teeming crowd swerved, carrying the mark toward the mouth of a corridor where he was quickly and inconspicuously tased and then snatched by three strong men. Mr. Emmanuel smirked. A taste of your own medicine, John.

The three thugs were faithful servants. They would bundle John, the mark, into the back of a Kombi and deliver him, as ordered, to the building.

And Mr. Emmanuel would take the helo to the top of the city tonight, in the same building, the skyscraper his petrol company owned. It was all a shell game; it was delicious.

Sure, sometimes it bored him, but did not the gods suffer boredom from time to time? It was no matter. He would smite someone from his Olympus and then he would feel better. Sleep like a child.

***

AIREL'S FATHER NEVER SAW it coming. He should have, if he really knew what he was up against. But he couldn't dream of the wickedness arrayed against him.

The crowd in the international terminal was close, and like a mob at a sports event, one simply went with the flow. When the flow forced him toward the mouth of a nearby hallway, three goons came out of nowhere and tased him. His body went limp; they gagged him, bagged him, and snatched him up. Then they stuffed him into the back of a van.

Very professional. But now he was at the mercy of some real baddies, and he knew it. What was more, he probably knew them. He could recognize the effects of the weapons he sold. Which client had turned on him? He had some ideas.

But then he felt the prick of what could only have been a hypodermic syringe. Great, John. Now what? Everything went dark.

***

Arabia—1232 B.C.

KREIOS HAD BEEN PREPARING a lecture for her in his mind as he killed the last few members of Subedei's stupid entourage. Of course he had known; what father would release his as-yet unformed adult daughter into the wilds without at least watching over her? He had known she was headstrong, even stubborn, but this ... this had been a surprise.

Had he not tried to instill more sense into her? Had he not spent himself in her childhood, trying his utmost to raise her to be prudent and wise? What she had done this night felt like betrayal.

He swooped upward toward the treetops, thinking on all she had done. She deserved a stern word or two, and he would not fail to deliver. But as he approached the bough where he had left her, he knew she had gone. He cursed himself. He had placed her there in the hope she would be both safe and unable to flee easily from him. But she had found a way.

How had she managed that?

Unless she had been taken. His heart suffered the pang of anxiety as he circled the treetops in the vicinity, double- and triple-checking that she was indeed not there. He descended to the path below, where the leaders had circled to discuss the incident.

Yamanu was among them. "Have you seen Eriel?" Kreios grabbed his tunic gruffly.

Yamanu turned to him, surprise and concern showing on his features in the darkness. "Is she not safe?" he asked.

"I do not know," Kreios said, panting a little. "I thought I had left her in a safe place during the skirmish."

"The one called Subedei escaped," Yamanu said. "That was the one Eriel had come out to meet ..."

As he said the words, Kreios knew in his heart what had happened. "What are you not telling me?"

Yamanu did not speak immediately, and still more angels gathered roundabout, awaiting further orders, further action.

Kreios extended a hand and placed it on his shoulder. "Tell me, friend."

Yamanu shook his head. "I am afraid, Kreios, that I am responsible for this debacle."

"Why do you say such a thing?"

"Because, friend, I had been teaching her how to use the gift of the Shadowers. Perhaps before she was yet ready." His face was downcast. "I could not help but see a predilection in her for the gift. She has much potential, Kreios; you should be very proud of your daughter. After one lesson, she escaped through the defenses of the great city and found her way to liberty."

"Are you telling me that she is still somewhere near? Perhaps hiding from us even now?"

Yamanu's face betrayed the deep fear and pain he felt in regard to Eriel. "My friend Kreios, there is more that remains to be revealed to us. I am sorry. I started her training too soon. She was not ready. She does not yet understand the purpose of the gift; she cannot properly bear its attendant burden."

Kreios grasped Yam by both shoulders and looked deep into his eyes, his own eyes begging without words for a morsel of bare truth.

"I am afraid she could be anywhere, Kreios."

"We must find her." Kreios turned to bolt; he wanted to begin the search and make sure she was not taken by the boy.

"Kreios," Yamanu said, touching his arm from behind, "we cannot."

"What do you mean?" Kreios asked him incredulously. "This is absurd. We cannot?"

Yamanu nodded quietly.

"Why?"

Yamanu paused before answering. "Because, friend, she does not want to be found." He waited yet another moment for this new and profound information to settle.

Kreios slumped.

Yamanu grasped his shoulder. "She is that good. Until she wants to be found, we will never find her."