If anything ever happened to her, air would cease to fill his lungs. If anything evil broke her heart and took their child again, his hands would be useless in picking up the shattered pieces of her. But he would try. He would bloody himself to make it right, even knowing that it wouldn't help. What did a man do who had the entire world trying to destroy his heart?
Didn't she understand that after all they'd witnessed, and for all his strength and all his power, he was helpless when it came to her . . . and perhaps more than anything, having that Achilles' heel mirrored and magnified times six Guardian brothers . . . watching them also struggle with their new weaknesses, with their eyes looking to him as a squad leader, made any vulnerability within him all the more intolerable.
People had died on his watch. Clerics had succumbed-- hadn't made it to the end. Men of faith; men of valor. Guardians had been ground to dust. Innocent humans had been collateral damage in Detroit and DC. There were families in mourning, people's lives irrevocably changed by monstrous injuries. Hellish diseases now swept the land. Fear permeated every living thing. And he and his squad had been helpless to avert this catastrophe when the Unnamed One came to call. What would he do when the Unnamed One came for his wife?
Heaven help him; Carlos looked out at the pews where his fellow team brothers waited for word of the next move with their heads bowed. It was no act. He knew each man, no matter what his faith, was deep in prayer--each praying the same thing, God, don't let anything happen to my pregnant wife. God, what do you want from me? God, how can I protect my family and do your will at the same time, be a warrior, when the world is coming to an end?
Carlos lent his own prayers to the collective, adding one more, God, please don't let me have to choose between saving my wife and child and that of another man . . . I am not that strong.
Montrose Sinclair simply stared at the screen in the empty confessional. There would be no tours, most likely no clerics. Everyone was holed up in their homes, hoping the Black Death never reached Bermuda's shores. This was nothing like what he'd planned for his life, nothing like what he'd thought his golden years would be.
He closed his eyes. First cancer had taken Eleanor, his beloved wife of thirty-five years. In hindsight, he would have gladly traded more time with her for the wealth he accumulated working like a fiend, only to have that wealth totally eviscerated on the London Exchange. It all seemed so pointless. All such a wickedly evil game. Then, again, what did it matter? The money was naught. There was no one to leave an inheritance to in order to give his life any semblance of meaning. If he died today, who would bury his remains? Like the old days of London, would the dead wagons come to fling his corpse in a mass rotting grave?
His son had lost his life in Iraq. His beautiful daughter gone at the hands of a panicked driver when the plagues began to hit.
A single tear slid down his weathered, brown face. God help him, grant him peace. Monty folded his hands tightly and bit his lip to hold back a sob. What was his purpose? Just show him a sign that his life had had some meaning.
An ex-patriot of Britain, what did he have left but a small house he'd saved and saved for but never had a chance to enjoy, and a boat that was way too big for a man without a family or surviving friends to enjoy it with. Everyone on the mainland was gone. The things being broadcasted on the news made his blood run cold. If an angel of mercy would just set his direction, he would never question God again.
"Mr. Sinclair," a soft female voice murmured through the screen.
He jerked his attention toward the sound and pressed his hand against the carved wood. He'd thought he'd heard a slight rustling, but had been so absorbed in his own thoughts. "Yes," he said in a garbled voice, embarrassed that it hitched with raw emotion.
"You don't know me, sir ... but I heard your prayer."
He pressed his fist to his mouth and dragged in a deep breath.
"We need your help . . . and your life has meaning. I asked if you were the one who would help us, and if I had the right to approach you like this, and I received word that I could. All is in divine order, sir. I'm not here to mock your pain, just to give you some comfort and possibly a new start. Please hear me out."
"Who are you?" he whispered, shaking.
"I am a Neteru."
Lilith waited at the entrance of her husband's war room, watching him sit on his dark throne in quiet contemplation, staring at the globe. As it turned slowly on its axis before him, a blue marble hovering in midair, he made a tent before his mouth with his fingers. The look on his face was one of calm confidence.
But still she hesitated, never sure of what a summons by her Dark Lord could bring.
"You sent for me," she said as evenly as possible, waiting for him to invite her over the threshold.
"I did," he said quietly, not looking up. "We have made progress. I want your opinion."
Lilith didn't move. He looked up with a smile. "My apologies. I should have said that to you in Dananu." He allowed his seductive gaze to rake her and then chuckled as she gasped from the pleasure jolt he gave her.
"My opinion?" She stepped forward, her eyes never leaving his.
"Yes," he said in Dananu, issuing her a slightly fanged smile. "You have been in touch with the female Neteru's weaknesses from the beginning. . . which led to the creation of our heir. You knew she'd attempt to save the host in Nod and have earned my respect. Therefore, now that we are in the final, delicate stages of the game, I would be remiss to overlook your input." He rubbed his handsome jaw and stood, allowing his raven-black wings to unfold to their full thirteen-foot span as he walked.
"I am at your service, as always," Lilith replied in Dananu with a slight bow, but still on guard for entrapment. To ask her opinion in the language of barter meant that he was unsure of his next move. If she chose wrong, his full wrath would fall on her--but if she chose correctly, her power would increase exponentially.
He chuckled, having read her conflict within her dark eyes. "There are always consequences, darling," he said in a mellow tone. "Care to wager on a strategy?"
"What's your dilemma?" she replied with a sly smile, pressing a forefinger to her lips, waiting.
He let out a long sigh. "After seventeen hundred years, the humans found the Coptic version of the Gospel of Judas. Of course I did everything I could to play a shell game once raiders lifted it from an Egyptian tomb in the seventies ... it went to Switzerland, then the United States in the early eighties--greed is a marvelous thing. It sat in a bank vault until the late eighties, and finally got sold in ninety-nine," he added, walking around the globe as he mused. "But I broke up that sale--checks bounced," he said, chuckling. "The books were broken up, and finally given to a credible source, but I tampered with the translation, completely reversing the meaning."
Lilith cocked her head to the side and frowned. "I fail to see your dilemma then. You were successful in making the humans think there was a possibility that Judas was a hero. And?"
"Those who see through it will know the true name of my most cherished and powerful demon. The Thirteenth. He is the one that the original Coptic text says held sway over Judas Is-cariot. In the bad translation, they call him by his origin, a daimon--but think it means spirit--albeit you and I are the wiser. It means what it means--demon--and he is the one who made Judas trade the one I refuse to name for a few pieces of silver."