CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Two uneventful days and uneventful nights had the danger of lulling the team into a false sense of normalcy. Floors had been bluing washed and blessed again. Rugs had been cleaned and anointed to make up for the team's initial invasion of the house while wearing battle boots. Shoes now came off respectfully at the door. Clothing had been purchased the old-fashioned way. Guardians ate on the back deck and front porch, playing cards and kicking it with the north-central team.
But the overall mood remained somber. A funeral was looming and the loss was visceral. The cardinal had sent black funeral limousines, which everyone agreed was best-there was no need to make a fold-away entrance that would completely freak out the unaware powers that be.
Damali looked at her husband, who had barely said two words during the uneventful wait for the funeral. She watched him deliberately fold his white, pressed handkerchief into the breast pocket of his black Armani suit so that only a quarter-inch hint of it showed. He'd worked on polishing his shoes himself, laboring over every detail until they shone like glass. And now he stood there in the mirror adjusting his tie, his expression stone, only the muscle in his jawpulsing.
Although she wanted to reach out to him, she also knew that now was just not the time. Hurt radiated off his aura in waves so profound that she could almost see them suffocating him. Yet she also knew that if she went to him right now, he'd shatter-and that would wound him even more deeply.
Right now, he needed to keep his game face on. Needed that steel grit to get through whatever he had to endure today. So she gave him his man-space, and had refused to wear black, knowing there was life on the other side of the earth plane.
Later she'd remind him that this was a homecoming. Later she'd explain why every female on the team had intuitively chosen a chakra color to wear, rather than black . . . and why she'd chosen green-the color of healing, of new life, and the heart bridge chakra.Later. All of that could be discussed later.
Right now, they needed to all go outside and get into the limos. Because, right now as he turned his back to her and walked out of the room, she could feel the black-box in his head quavering, melting, accidentally allowing her to see inside the pain he'd sworn to himself he'd never allow her to witness . . . letting her see the sacrifice that Father Patrick had made for them to hide their child.
Damali hugged herself for a moment and closed her eyes. Carlos yelling her name up the steps in a harsh tone jerked her attention to the door.
"The limo is here!" he yelled up the steps. "We gotta go, D."
She walked out of the room quickly and stopped at the top of the landing. Guardians were filtering out of the door, but she held Carlos's gaze as she descended the stairs. Silvery tears glittered in his eyes, wetting his lashes, but they wouldn't fall. His Adam's apple bobbed in his throat like a man drowning, but his mouth was tightly sealed against the urge to gasp and set hard like his knit brows.
"I'm coming," she said softly, allowing her tears to fall for Father Patrick, to fall instead of Carlos's for him. "I'm sorry."
He wiped her face with his thumbs and gave her a salty kiss when she reached the bottom of the steps. "Me, too-I didn't mean to yell at you." He then gave her a quick hug, lifting his chin high above her head. "It'll be all right," he said, giving her back a quick pat. "We gotta go."
She just nodded and swallowed hard, letting him pretend to himself that he was comforting her, was being the rock . . . she would be his shock absorber, would channel his pain, would wail and cry for him so that he didn't have to, so that he could pull her away from the grave site, could be the one to remain stoic-whatever it took to release the burden from his heart while protecting his dignity as head of household, because as neighbors came out on porches and Guardians climbed into the long, black vehicles that was the greatest gift she could give her husband right now.
"Ashes to ashes . . . dust to dust . . ."
Damali heard the final words of the service being spoken in a very remote part of her mind as she stared out over the rolling green hills of Westminster Cemetery that overlooked Belmont Avenue and the peaceful valley beyond where the Schuylkill River flowed. Members of the seminary stepped forward and handed Carlos a silver urn. She wanted to tell them so badly that the angels had come to collect his father-seer at the moment of impact and that his body was just a shell that had housed a bright, shining spirit that the darkside never got to claim. The man had been consecrated by the Light and what had been burned to ash and bits of bone was the least of who Father Patrick had been.
But bagpipes interrupted those thoughts.
Her hand went to Carlos's back. He glanced at Rabbi Zeitloff, who was shaking with grief and had begun to wail. Imam Asula, Monk Lin, and Dan went to the elderly cleric's aid as he beat his chest yelling, "Why!" She felt Carlos take a deep, laboring breath and she knew what was next.
Carlos simply opened the urn as he stared out at the horizon. His voice was quiet and gravelly, but contained inner strength. "Thank you for being my father for as long as you did. Enjoy going home."
Ashes funneled out of the urn in a furious spiral away from the small assembly. The cardinal seemed like he was about to pass out, but no one challenged Carlos for disposing of the ashes on hallowed ground without a permit. He then dropped the urn without even looking at it, and it bounced and rolled near the small grave marker that gave Father Patrick's birth and death dates. Damali stooped and placed a single red rose on the marker, but left the urn where it lay as Carlos walked off. Guardian eyes sought hers with a silent question in them, but she shook her head. The man still needed his space.
He couldn't breathe. Rabbi Zeitloff's wails rang in his ears. No matter what Adam had told him, the loss still burned like a hot poker through his chest. But he'd done all the mourning he was gonna do, had shed tears. Now it was time to redress this bullshit, even if it had purpose-even if it had duped the dark-side.
A quiet presence that stepped out from behind a mausoleum vault made him start and take a fighter's stance to face it.
"I come with a message," a slightly built, now very pale priest said. His dark eyes held fear as he made the sign of the cross over his chest. "Please, in the name of God, don't hurt me."
Carlos studied the man hard and then realized he'd accidentally dropped fang on a civilian. Running his tongue over his incisors, he also willed his eyes to normalize. Only fangs and a silver glare could have stricken the baby-faced priest so badly.
"Are you a . . . the demon assassin we seek?"
"Depends on which side is seeking, but yeah, I'm definitely an assassin."
The cleric nervously raked his fingers through his mussed brunet hair. "The Templars told me to give you this on consecrated ground and nowhere else. I didn't know how to find you again-not even the cardinal did. But we prayed you'd come to the service."
Carlos waited as the cleric extracted a piece of folded-up paper from his vestment pocket and offered it to him with a shaking hand. The moment Carlos touchedit, the man snatched his hand back and crossed himself again.
"Your eyes . . . your teeth . . . I saw your size change right before my eyes."
Carlos rubbed his palm over his jaw and glanced up at the priest as he opened the paper. "I'm not the undead-anymore."
"Anymore," the young cleric whispered in a strangled squeak.
"I got a reprieve from the Light, so I'm definitely the man for this job."
The cleric stepped back and crossedhimself again when Carlos looked up with a frown from the paper he held.
"What the hell is this?" Carlos said, brandishing the paper. "What side do you workfor! "
"The church, of course," the priest said, backing away.
"Then what's the church doing handing me a map of Washington, D.C., with a pentagram on it? You know who uses this symbol-and in the end of days that rat bastard is able to walk on befouled sacred ground! You better talk to me and talk to me fast, priest. Today is the last day you want to get on my bad side, playing games."
"I'm not playing games. This came from the Templar who left it under my door. I'm an empath . . . he sent a mental dart that pierced my mind and then I got a vision of Father Patrick." The young cleric backed up until his thighs collided with a headstone, and he covered his face and throat with his forearms as he began to weep. "Save me, Christ, from this abomination!"
"Oh, put your arms down," Carlos muttered. "I'm not about to rip your throat out. I just needed to know you weren't an agent for the darkside." He studied the map as the hysterical cleric slowly lowered his arms, panting. "What message did Father Patrick bring from the other side?"
"He showed me the Scottish Rite Temple," the priest said, winded and now leaning on a headstone.
"Why didn't he come to me directly?" Carlos said, eyeing the priest with suspicion.
"Because you were in too much pain," the priest said quietly. "I can still feel it . . . and I am sorry for your loss."
"De nada,"Carlos muttered, returning his attention to the map, somewhat mollified by the priest's explanation. "But, I don't understand." He looked at the map that seemed as though it had been printed off an Internet driving directions Web site, containing local streets of Washington, D.C., yet with a thick, hand-drawn pen line creating a pentagram on it.
"Look carefully," the priest said. "Massachusetts Avenue intersects with Rhode Island Avenue, Connecticut Avenue, Vermont Avenue, and K Street to form the five-pointed star immediately north of the White House . . . and remember the prophecy-they will come from the north to conquer." The cleric wiped a new sheen of sweat from his brow. "Then look at the positioning of the Capitol, Jefferson Memorial, and Washington Monument, which form a Mason's compass and a pyramid to the left of that. Even Metatron's Cube can be seen in all this. I'm not a Templar; I don't know what any of this means to your quest. This is all I know, I swear to you. But our dearly departed brother seemed urgent in the vision that he wanted you to push forward to Washington, D.C. Maybe there is more for you at the Scottish Rite Temple?"
"Metatron's Cube?"Carlos said, studying the map with new eyes. He suddenly jerked his head up. "Where's Rabbi Zeitloff?"
"Somewhat overcome and waiting in the cars."
"Thanks."
Carlos took off in a dash across the cemetery grass. He could see the cars and people milling about in the distance. The rabbi sat in the backseat of one of the black sedans with his head leaned back against the headrest. His eyes were closed and tears stained his cheeks, but he had considerably calmed. Dan moved aside as Carlos approached the vehicle as did Imam Asula and Monk Lin.
"He took it really hard," Dan said quietly as Carlos slowed to a trot and then finally stopped beside him. "We sent Bobby and J.L. to go get him some water."
Monk Lin bowed slightly and let out a weary breath. "These are hard times for us all."
"Persevere, young brother," Imam Asula said, and then swallowed hard as he stepped away from the car.
Carlos bent and peered in the door, and then slid into the backseat with the elderly rabbi.
"Hey . . . Rabbi," Carlos said in a gentle tone. "I know how you feel."
"Carlos, Carlos, Carlos," the rabbi said, shaking his head and slowly pounding on his chest with his fist.He opened his bloodshot eyes and stared at Carlos. "He was like my own brother. That crotchety old priest and I would debate till the wee hours . . . he was my friend. I have lost my dear friend. I am an old man; friends don't come easy now . . . who will I fight with?" He released a sad chuckle as new tears filled his eyes. "I should complain to Patrick for allowing this to happen to himself."
"I know," Carlos said, a sad smile tugging at his mouth. "He used to give me the blues and stayed on my case. I'm gonna miss that tough old man, too. So, maybe you and I can fight about philosophy sometimes, huh? How about it? I give asgood as I get."
Zeitloff wiped his eyes with a shaking hand and then patted Carlos's cheek. "I should love to argue with you." He fell quiet and stared at Carlos, new tears rising. "I see now why he loved you so."
Carlos glanced away and took in a deep breath, needing a moment to regain his voice. He slowly extracted the map from his pocket and held it for a moment before showing it to the rabbi.
"The young priest said a Templar gave him this . . . our team has to go to D.C. It's part of a clue as to where we might be able to get a jump on the enemy. But he also said Metatron's Cube can be seen in this map. My Kabbalah facts are rusty, I admit, but I do know that Metatron is an archangel."
Rabbi Zeitloff sat forward quickly, adjusting his glasses on his nose with agitation. He spoke in short, excited bursts in hushed tones, constantly looking around him as he did so. "Enoch was swept away to Heaven and for his loyal service he sits at the right hand of Jehovah, Yahveh,as the archangel, Metatron -who was the one that transmitted the secrets of the Kabbalah to humanity to use to protectthemselves from evil. Kabbalah by definition means, transmission and preservation of knowledge . . . to receive. A Kabbalistic message is one coming from the highest realms of On High, Carlos."
"Enoch also became an archangel?" Carlos said, eyes growing wide. "Damali's oracle used Enoch's name in the first metaphor-the first clue she gave us about things to come-when we got to Detroit."
"Then the pearl was giving you much more than you know," Rabbi Zeitloff said, leaning even closer.
"We thought it was a link to the Archangel Uriel," Carlos whispered. "So there were two of them guarding us. . . . Whoa."
"It was linked to Uriel . . . but look deeper, and understand the Enoch connection to your mission," the rabbi said in a conspiratorial murmur. "Enoch was the grandfather of Noah, and Yahveh forewarned him of the great flood. Yahveh told Enoch to inscribe all that is known on two huge pillars-the sum total of all human knowledge-so it would be preserved. Therefore," he added, pointing to the map, "Enoch is also our metaphor for symbolic architecture-messages hidden in the stone-just as the pyramids are Egypt's stone libraries. Something you seek or need to know is in the stones . . . in Metatron'sCube, that surrounds this deadly pentagram . . . perhaps only Templars or Masons that founded this country would know?"
The two men stared at each other for a moment.
"When Damali first went through her Neteru enlightening, part of her journey took her through a Masonic temple in Philadelphia," Carlos said, intermittently staring at the map and then Rabbi Zeitloff.
"Our friend, Father Patrick, was killed trying to get information from his Templar brotherhood for the cardinal," the rabbi said, now gazing out of the sedan window. "It's gotta be in the stone. The pentagram has always been there in the street layout, but someone also came behind it and encased it in Metatron's Cube, and that sits to the left of the Masonic compass and pyramid that is in the street grid, too . . . somebody knew. Somebody wanted to seal in whatever could emerge from that pentagram in the future."
"Yeah, and we've now got a pretty good idea how bad that thing is." Carlos stared at Rabbi Zeitloff for a moment. "What if something disturbed the lines on Metatron's Cube . . . wouldn't that allow the unspeakable to get out of the pentagram?"
"Yes," the rabbi whispered. "And it's right in front of the White House, in direct alignment."
"Then we've definitely gotta head to D.C. now."
The rabbi held Carlos's arm to stay his leave. "Ride the train. Preserve your strength. You must be careful and save your energy for emergency escapes from human and supernatural predators alike . . . you could be accidentally hunted down and shot by human forces who think you're a national threat carrying concealed weapons into the nation's capital. One false move and you could be caught and land in prison where they'll throw away the key, or worse, you could impugn your soul by having to kill a human lest you be killed-then what?"
His grip tightened on Carlos's arm, beseeching Carlos to listen. "Both you and Damali, as well as your team, are battle weary-if not in body, then in spirit-especially you, son. The stress that prevails upon your spirit is incalculable."
"What else is new?" Carlos said with a sad smile. "Stress is our way of life."
"Take the train. Dresslike normal people on tour . . . and visit where you must, but looking like civilians."
"We'll take the train," Carlos promised him. "Maybe you guys from the Covenant could arrange for us to ride a small tour bus, get us some brochures and cameras, and maybe have some ammo hidden in the floorboards of the vehicle and taped under the seats that I can transport in fast if we get in a firefight?"
"I think we could do something of that nature," Rabbi Zeitloff said with a droll smile. "And maybe an old rabbi could come to help avenge the death of his dear friend?"
Carlos patted the elderly cleric on his shoulder, gently declining the offer of a suicide mission. "Maybe a good rabbi might best help this go-round by sending up prayers with his remaining dear friends, Monk Lin and Imam Asula-because this battle might get messy. We might need someone alive on the outside to post bail or to send lawyers, or maybe raise a protest march to free the Neterus and their team. We could definitely use a safe house location down in the District." Carlos smiled as Rabbi Zeitloff clucked his tongue in annoyance. "And we might need someone to come home to, if we make it." His last statement mellowed the old man considerably.
"I hadn't thought of that." Rabbi Zeitloff let out a weary breath. "We have a house for you in Georgetown."
"I don't wanna come home tonobody being there from the old original family," Carlos said quietly, looking Rabbi Zeitloff in the eyes.
"I understand, son," the rabbi said with a gentle tone. "We old men will stay alive to give you young ones something to hope for."
"You've gotta be here to bless babies in the future and to do Bas Mitzvahs and Bar Mitzvahs and to make sure we're doing what we should . . . you know?"
Rabbi Zeitloff nodded. "We'll do our part-you just make sure you do yours." He looked at Carlos and then suddenly hugged him. "You come home so you don't break an old man's heart.All of you. Not a single loss. You promise me."
When they got into the limo, Carlos turned to her. She'd watched everything transpire at a distance, but wasn't sure what all was happening. He didn't say a word, just cradled the sides of her face with his hands and slowly allowed his fingers to slide up and into her hair. He closed his eyes, and then gently rested his forehead against hers and simply opened up his mind's eye to her. It all poured into her brain so quickly and with such haunting thrust that at moments she gasped. When he was done, he was winded, she was panting. Without telling him, she'd pulled as much of the pain away from him as she could with the information. She touched his cheek with trembling fingers, never divulging that small detail. To battle this ultimate evil, he needed to be whole.
"How will we keep the public from recognizing us if we get on the Acela train?" she asked quietly. "To the general public, we're still the Warriors of Light band . . . and autograph seekers and whatnot could be an issue. Just sitting on the porch back on Haines Street got us enough looks to almost blow our cover."
"We're gonna have to slightly mind-stun 'em and hope for the best."