Reckoning (28 page)

Chapter 31

Malachi eases his office door closed.
 
He winces as the clicking lock echoes loudly in the silent house.
 
He moves around the side of his desk, sinking back into his chair as he retrieves his cell phone.
 
He shifts to turn on the radio, dialing it down low so as not to disturb Roseline’s rest.

Classical music pours through his speakers.
 
He leans back in his chair, his silky raven hair falling around his shoulders as he closes his eyes.
 
He does not want to make this call.

Sighing heavily, Malachi blindly types in the familiar numbers.
 
He presses the phone to his ear and waits.
 
The dial tone rings in his ear.
 
His heart patters in his chest and a slight dampness clings under his arms.
 

“Hello?”

Malachi takes a deep breath.
 
“I need to speak with him.”

No response, but none is needed.
 
There is no question of whom he speaks.
 

He waits, tethered to the silent connection.
 
Sometimes the answer comes swiftly, other times it seems to drag on.
 
The wait is always unbearable.
 

His fingers tap against the rich mahogany desk.
 
Its top is meticulously clean.
 
Not one item is out of place, apart from the cylindrical object lying in the middle - the object he has yet to open.

“Do you have something to report?” The voice on the other end of the line is clipped, harsh.
 
Obviously, they are going to skip over any pleasantries.
 
Not that this has ever been a part of their business deals.
 

Malachi grips his phone.
 
The stretched skin over his knuckles fades to white.
 
“She lives.”

“That is very good, for your sake.”
 
The venom in the man’s voice chills Malachi’s blood.
 
He knows all too well what happens to those who fail his boss.

“She took on ten of the Elder’s Eltat by herself,” he protests. “It wasn’t my fault.”

“You should have stopped her,” the man hisses, silencing Malachi.
 
“It is your job to protect her.”

Malachi hangs his head.
 
He knows there is nothing he could have done to prevent Roseline’s attack.
 
Even if he had not had his hands full fighting his own battle, Roseline had not have given him any time to react.
 

He had to admit, her precision strikes on the Eltat had been very impressive.
 
He doubted he could have done better.

“Do you have the scroll?” his boss snaps into the phone.

“Yes.”
 
He glances down at the aged document before him.
 
As silly as it sounds, the small object terrifies him.
 
Once he breaks the seal, there is no going back.

“Make sure you help her translate it…
properly
.”
 
Malachi frowns at the emphasis placed on the last word.
 
What is that supposed to mean?

“What of the other two?” His boss presses.
 

“They are on their way to Dublin to search for the prophecy,” Malachi says.

“Excellent.”
 
The man’s tone tilts upward with his unseen smile.
 
“Keep her busy, but keep her safe.
 
She is far more important than you realize.”

“I will,” he vows.
 
There is no way he will let Roseline out of his sight now.

The line falls silent.
 
He leans forward, straining to hear.
 
When the voice returns, it startles him.
 
“Do not fail me again, Malachi.”

The deep, raspy voice cuts off as the line disconnects.
 
Malachi sinks back into his chair.
 
“I’m a dead man.”

Chapter 32

Roseline slips out from under the covers and treads lightly across the room.
 
Her bare feet are silent against the rug.
 
The cold bathroom tile brings a sigh of relief from her parted lips as she searches for her crimson corset and pants.
 
They are missing.

“Darn it,” she grunts, twirling in the dark.
 
The bathroom is in pristine condition.
 
Someone came in and cleaned while she was asleep.
 
Her stomach twists at the thought of Matis entering her room.
 
Surely, Malachi would not have allowed that.

A shiver races down her spine.
 
Malachi is the only one left that could have cleaned her room.
 
He must have come in while she was sleeping.
 
Roseline wraps her bare arms around herself, feeling exposed.
 

Tiptoeing back across her room, Roseline pokes her head into the closet, an enormous waste of space in her opinion.
 
Two rows of wooden rods run along the walls, empty of clothing.
 
A floor to ceiling cabinet houses two black shirts and jeans.
 
Roseline snatches one of each and hurries out of her robe.

A small part of her winces at the fact that the clothes are an exact fit.
 
Malachi has paid very close attention to her body size.

Casting aside that disturbing thought, Roseline searches for her boots and finds them missing as well.
 
Annoyed, she slips from her room and plods down the hall barefoot.
 
Her hand trails along the curving bannister to the bottom of the staircase.

The house is silent and clothed with shadow.
 
Roseline glances out of the windows over the arched doors and realizes it’s nighttime. How long did she sleep?

Candlelight flickers at the end of a long corridor in a part of the house that Roseline has yet to explore.
 
She silently moves down the hall, casting a glance over her shoulder from time to time.
 
Music wafts from a room, a classical piece that she instantly recognizes as Mozart’s Requiem Mass.
 
Somber.
 
Passionate.
 
Hauntingly beautiful.

“I love that song,” she says as she enters the room.

Malachi smiles, glancing up from a stack of papers.
 
“I was among the few fortunate enough to attend the private concert for Mozart’s lovely wife, Constanze, after she died.
 
I believe that was sometime around the early 1790’s.
 
I’m afraid my memory has a failed a bit in my old age, though.” He smiles, motioning for her to sit.
   

Roseline lowers into a hard backed chair, facing him from across the desk.
 
He closes his eyes, allowing the music carry him away.
 
She turns her head as the beautiful Latin floods her mind.

“Righteous judge of vengeance, grant me the gift of absolution before the day of retribution,” she translates.

Malachi opens his eyes.
 
“Fitting words, don’t you think?”

“Perhaps.” She dips her head in agreement.
 
Her eyes travel over the papers layering his desk.
 
“Can’t sleep?”

Malachi rises to turn down the music.
 
“I’m afraid I must ask your forgiveness.
 
I wasn’t entirely forthcoming with details earlier.”

Shifting onto the edge of her seat, Roseline waits.

“I didn’t just find a clue at the caves-” he pauses.
 
The chair creaks as he sits back down.
 
“I found one half of the prophecy.”

“What?” Roseline leaps to her feet.
 
Her fingers latch around the edge of the desk.
 
The wood groans in protest of her vice-like grip.
 
“How could you keep this from me?
 
I had a right to know!”

“Please, sit.
 
Let me explain.”
 
Malachi motions for her to return to her seat.
 
She does so reluctantly, but not without a cold glare.

“If I had informed you of its presence, would you not have fought me over it?”

“Yes,” she grumbles, impatient to see the document.

“And how do you think Fane and Nicolae would have reacted as soon as you refused to remain in bed?”

Her shoulders slump.
 
“They would have refused to leave my side.”

“Precisely.”
 
He grins.
 
“And now, you are free to refuse medical treatment, against doctors’ orders, and down every cup of coffee I own while you dig into this document.”
 
He holds the scroll aloft.

A smile alights on her lips.
 
“Very sneaky.
 
I like.”

Malachi laughs, pushing the unrolled document toward her.
 
“I thought you might.
 
Take a look.”

Leaning over her edge of the desk, Roseline takes in the slightly yellowed paper.
 
The edges curl from centuries trapped within a tight spiral.
 
Her fingertips spread along the curl as her eyes sweep over the ink.

“I can’t read this.” She glances up.
 
Her brow crumples with frustration.
 
“I am fluent in many languages but I have never seen this one before.
 
Is it the same one you showed us before?”

Nodding, Malachi rounds the edge of the desk and comes to rest at her side.
 
He stares down at the scrolled markings.
 
“This is not a human language.”

He falls silent, letting her connect the dots.
 
When she rises to meet his gaze, understanding smoothes the crinkles around her eyes.
 
“Angels wrote this.”

“Originally, yes, but, as I told you, this is a copy.
 
Even if we did manage to translate this prophecy, we cannot be guaranteed of its genuine nature.
 
One incorrect stroke of the pen could change an entirely new word.”

Roseline groans, dropping back into her seat.
 
“This is hopeless.
 
Every time I feel like I’m taking a step toward Gabriel, I’m actually sliding back three.”

Malachi sinks to his knees before her.
 
“You can’t give up.”

“What’s the point?” she cries, throwing her hands up into the air.
 
“Even if Fane and Nicolae do find the prophecy, it won’t do us any good if we can’t read it.”

His hand grasps hers.
 
“I may not be fluent in this language, but I know a few words.
 
And, what I do not know, we might be able to piece together from some of the texts from my library.
 
This language is not limited to this one text.”

Malachi draws her chin up to meet his gaze.
 
“I’m not giving up and I won’t let you either.”

***

Head bowed, Malachi’s hair falls like a gossamer veil over his face.
 
Roseline watches him, marveling at the blue-black highlights the candlelight brings out in his hair.
 

Black metal frames perch atop his nose, magnifying his eyes as he shifts to study the page before him.
 
She muses that the glasses are used for visual appeal alone.
 
If so, it is working.
 
It is easy to see how any girl could get lost in their smoky depths.
 

A silver serpent ring coils around his middle finger.
 
Its red eyes glare at her.
 
Each scale has been expertly etched into the pliable metal.

“Find something of interest?” He smirks without glancing up.
 
His finger grazes over a large scroll spread across his desk.
 
Stacks of papers and musty books pile around the room, creating a towering maze of ancient knowledge.
 

Roseline does not look away.
 
“Just curious.”

Malachi sits back, stretching his arms high overhead.
 
He rolls his neck from side to side, realigning his upper spine.
 
They have been at this for far too long.
 
Two days straight and they are no closer to finding the answer.
 
“And what would you like to know?”

“Many things,” she says, sweeping back a dusty tendril from her face.
 
Every inch of her feels soiled by the age-old filth that hangs over the room. “You are a mystery to me, Malachi.”

He smiles, warming to the subject.
 
“I do love a good mystery.”

Roseline proceeds, ignoring his quip.
 
“Who are you really?”

It might just be her imagination, but she would swear that she saw a flicker of alarm pass through him before he stuffed it away, along with his other emotions.
 
All that remains is the usual stoic smile.
 
“We have already been over this,” he reminds her, turning back to his work.
 

“No.” Roseline pushes the large leather bound book from her lap.
 
She folds her legs under her.
 
“You have avoided answering any of my questions.”

Malachi laughs.
 
“You make it sound as if I am hiding something from you.”

“Aren’t you?” She presses.
 

Her eyes are crossed from countless hours digging through books by candle light. She honestly cannot remember that last time she ate.
 
Her nerves are frayed.
 
Her back hunches with exhaustion, but she refuses to back down this time.
 
Deep in her soul, she knows there is something off about Malachi.
 

“It is a dull story.”
 
He sighs, removing his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose.
 
“I was created thousands of years ago.
 
I am as old as dirt.”
 
His laugh is sharp, filled with bitterness.
 
When she does not share in his laugh, he clears his throat and continues.

“I have wandered the earth with no real purpose.
 
I have no family, no one to care for…until you came along.”

“Why me?” she frowns, hugging her knees to her chest.
 
Her cheek presses to her arms as she watches Malachi.

“Because you gave me a purpose.
 
A reason to live.
 
I have spent centuries doing odd jobs for my boss.
 
Most of which I am not proud of, but I didn’t care until now.”
 
His response is soft, plucked from the recesses of his heart.

Roseline contemplates his response.
 
Something in the back of her mind triggers an alarm system.
 
She bolts upright.
 
“You’re one of them!”

Malachi frowns.
 
“What are you talking about?”

She stares back at him, unsure if she should be terrified or whooping with joy.
 
“You’re an angel.”