Uriel: The Inheritance (Airel Saga Book Five)

Chapter XI

Glasgow, Scotland—Present Day

JORDAN WESTON CALLED THE boardroom to order, motioning to the others to sit.

Rain fell outside. It was a thoroughly Scottish December day, which wasn't surprising at all.

The modern and thick floor-to-ceiling panes of glass that separated the Glaswegian weather from the boardroom and its sharp-edged wood slab conference table were also normal, unsurprising.

The gathering of the board of directors too was de rigeur.

What was surprising, though, in extremis, was the packet of papers Jordan held in his good hand. Rather, the information they contained that had precipitated the meeting. That was what was surprising.

Why? It was obvious.

Jordan felt the dull, aching pain in his un-good hand, the left one, and thought for the millionth time how ironic it was that he had to headquarter here in Glasgow, with the precise variety of prevailing atmospheric conditions that produced pain in the withered hand. Nature had a sense of humor, and it was wicked. But it was Glasgow or nothing. Of all the thin places in the world under the sun, this one was perhaps the thinnest and therefore one of the most powerful. Celts and Stonehenge and ... and on and on, that's why.

He rubbed his left hand with his right and thought absently of healing as he spoke. "Blaise, kindly shut the doors."

A pear-shaped bespectacled man in tweed near the doors rose and closed them.

Jordan—this was the name by which he was known here—leaned back in his executive chair, a sleek thing made of polished aluminum and woven black fibers and plastics that were better than the finest steel. He looked out at the rain from five floors up, over the roofs of most neighboring buildings, into the fog.

Blaise sat at the table again.

"News from South Africa," Jordan said, taking up the packet of papers. "The Nri have been scattered." He assessed the reaction around the table. It was considerable. "Quite possibly, they have fallen altogether. Nwaba has been eternally bound."

Megan Combes, a fiftyish matronly woman in a suit as gray as the average leaded Scottish day, spoke. "The second death." She sounded as if someone had ruined her home-baked cake.

Old red-faced Charles Brant, an aristocratic throwback whose head was crowned with an unattractive and unruly explosion of brown hair, said as much to her as to anybody else, "It's not possible."

Others around the table spoke, saying, "Vicious lies," and "But the Nri are one of the Original Clans," and so on. Disbelief was the tying thread.

"Believe it," Jordan said. He raised the papers up. "Pass this packet around. All the information is here." He pushed back from the table, stood, and walked to the glass wall, looking out, watching the raindrops as they beaded on the other side of the glass, running downward. "Some of you may need to renew your reading of the Book of the Brotherhood, refresh your knowledge of the angel Kreios. The angel of El."

"Cursed," the group said as one, pronouncing the word in two syllables.

"Kreios has reappeared." The board was silent, and he assumed their silence signified shock and surprise, if not at least healthy respect for their mutual foe. "But that is not all. There have been other developments."

Jordan Weston turned to face them. "The heir, the Alexander, is lost. Perhaps temporarily, perhaps irrevocably—it will depend upon his choices now. The Stone is therefore loose; it seeks the final line. And more. There is ... There has occurred an unforeseen event. There is another immortal, freshly activated. A girl. Her name is Airel. She possesses power unlike we have seen since the first age, our Dawning, and it grows daily. It is suspected that she will surpass even Kreios." His eyes widened and then he revised his statement. "If she has not already."

It took a moment for the import of this statement to sink in.

Charles spoke once more. "What shall we do?"

Jordan clasped his un-good hand in his good hand behind him and rocked forward and back, flexing his calves. "I feel we should discuss strategy. That is why we're assembled in this capacity—talking of the Real, and not our cover business."

"Very well," Blaise said. "I propose we send you," he looked at Jordan, "to consult with the Infernals."

"I've already taken the liberty," Jordan replied, "given the seriousness of the situation. I should like to do you one better, though." The tone around the table was as if they were merely discussing the results of an election for town council. "I should like to inquire in regard to the insertion of a specialist."

"Speak clearly now," Megan said. "Do you mean to call up one from the Garrison of the Offspring?"

"It would be a similar billet to that of Kasdeja," Jordan said.

"An infiltrator," Charles said, and then fell silent in thought for a moment. "Would it work as well the second time round?"

Jordan smiled. "They call him Valac," he corrected. "And yes. This one is very, very good. But not just good—smart. In the past, we have put too much stock in raw talent. One needs hunger, a drive, a taste for this sort of thing. And besides, not all signs point to the Alexander as the rightful heir. I believe there is another."

It was a rare thing indeed to be able to find one of the Brotherhood who did not drain the cursed. The one defense they had was that they could feel danger before it got close enough to strike, but not this time. This time, the girl Airel would not escape so easily.