Forbidden (30 page)

S
aric Cerelia,
son of Vorrin of the house of Greater Europa, stood before the mirror in his darkened chamber, trembling. The image that faced him was finally unmasked, and his mind could not hold its darkness.

He lifted his fingers to his neck and raked the blackened veins that stood against pale flesh. Like roots from a forbidden tree they had worked their way deep into his mind, his flesh, his heart, infusing him with their poison until the black ink of evil itself swam through him.

His nails dug into his skin. He shrugged out of his robe and let it fall to the ground. A pathetic and seething form stared back. Vile. Inhuman.

His veins writhed beneath his skin like vipers. This serum of the alchemists wasn’t an elixir from the gods but the poison of Hades itself. He was no longer a man but an animal possessed. There were indeed demons in this world. They stared out of his own eyes. They tore at his skin, ripping at the black roots of that thing beneath it.

His hatred for the boy spread through his flesh like an electrical charge. But not nearly as powerfully as his hatred for himself, for this wretched skeleton padded with flesh.

Saric’s face twisted with rage. With bitterness. With a beggar’s desire to die. Tears flooded his eyes and ran down his cheeks. His shoulders began to shake.

A shadow appeared over his shoulder in the mirror.

Pravus had come for him.

Saric spread his arms and wept.

T
hey stood
among the ruins, framed by tall columns hewn straight from the rock face.

Nine nomads had joined them, warriors all, horsemen dressed in leather, wielding weapons forbidden by Order—scimitars, knives, and bows. In a world that outlawed violence, they were rebels who’d broken away from society to follow a call of their own, hunted for defying the world’s dead Order.

Neah had reportedly taken her life. Besides the boy, only Rom and Triphon were alive in all the world.

They were the keepers now, led by the Book. This was now their new Order of Mortals, born of blood and fully human.

Jonathan sat on a rock to their right, legs hanging over the edge. Rom caught his eye and winked. The boy grinned and returned the wink.

The keeper approached the boy. “We’re packed, Jonathan.” A smile tugged at the old man’s mouth. “Or should I call you
sire
?”

The term was used by the nomads when addressing the boy. “I would think you, being my elder, would want to be called that,” the boy said with a wry smile.

“Only if you insist.”

Rom chuckled and looked over the loaded horses. The canyonlands with their ruins were too close to Byzantium to offer them safety for long. They would travel north, into Greater Europa, and join the nomads there in more distant, barren lands. There would be no more Order for them now. The boy’s safety was their only concern.

As for the rest of the world, already there were whispered questions and mounting fears. As acting Sovereign for the next nine years, Rowan would have more than his share of challenges. He would rule as he saw fit, leaving Jonathan in the keeper’s care, and had agreed to periodic updates. Rowan wasn’t fully satisfied in the arrangement, nor the keeper fully trusting of his loyalties, but at least they had Jonathan—the Book wasn’t about to risk any danger to the boy’s life. Ascendancy was no longer the issue, but the elements working with Saric would have no love for the boy.

He must be sequestered.

Rom wondered what Avra might think of Feyn’s death. To be sure, there was a certain mystery surrounding its nature. The keeper had vanished with her body that day and refused to speak of where or how he’d disposed of it.

“She can’t be buried by the Order of death. She had tasted life,” he had said upon returning to them. “The dead can bury the dead.”

And they had, with an empty coffin, as was the custom.

Now they would leave the canyonlands where Avra was buried. But she would be with them, Rom thought, not in the Hades she had feared.

Jonathan had said no more about his dreams, only that there would be war, a statement that he’d made to Rom that first day. After the inauguration he refused to speak of his dreams anymore.

Their talk around the fire when Rom told them of the boy’s mention of war still rung in his ears.

“War? Against what?” Triphon asked. “Saric’s rumored dead. They have no army.”

The keeper had looked into the darkness beyond the fire. “He wasn’t alone. The alchemists have the serum. They’ll come.”

“Then they’ll never find us.”

“Elements within the Order won’t rest while we’re alive. Not even Rowan can hold them back. And they have time on their side.”

“We’ll slather the canyons with their corpses!” Triphon cried. “From now on I dub them
corpses
. May they rest in peace.”

“Corpses, yes. But we will offer them
life
, not peace.”

“And what does that make us?”

The keeper dug into his cloak and pulled out something wrapped in his ancient fingers. “The keepers have used many terms to speak of the living, but now I see there is only one that rings true. Because in life we risk death.” His eyes shifted to Rom. “The heart can bleed. And it will.”

He opened his hand. Nestled there in the deep crags of his palm was a rectangular pendant tied to a leather strap. It was a piece of flat stone, with a bleeding heart carved into its face and the word
Mortal
etched beneath it.

“Mortal,” Triphon said.

“Take it, Rom. This is for you.”

Rom picked up the pendant. Avra’s heart. “Mortals,” he said.

“Take off your amulets,” the keeper said. “Throw them into the fire. We are officially no longer part of the Order. We are now
out of Order
.”

And so they had, sending sparks to the sky.

“Out of Order, fully human,” Rom muttered, and strapped the pendant around his neck.

“
Fully
human?” The keeper poked the fire with a long stick. “Yes, perhaps.” His eyes flashed. “But don’t think that what you’ve tasted is all there is to be had by the blood. You’ve been brought to life, primarily your emotions, but it’s only the beginning. I think what awaits you—what awaits us all—will make this seem pale by comparison.”

“More?” Rom asked. “What more could there be?”

The keeper’s mouth had twisted with a knowing grin. “Call it a hunch, but I think Jonathan’s blood will blow the mind. What you tasted was only that: a taste. There’s so much more to humanity.”

They all stared at him, then followed his gaze over to the boy, who was seated with legs crossed, talking to one of the nomads at the firelight’s farthest reaches. So much was unknown about him. Rom could only imagine what might happen to them all when he stepped out of the shadow into the light.

“There sits the first true mortal,” the keeper said.

“So then, we will call ourselves mortals,” Rom said. “Let’s only hope we can keep him safe from the dead until that day.”

It was true, the Order had time on its side. Jonathan’s blood was still at war with his own weakened body, not yet sufficient to bring any life. The keeper had drawn a portion and tested it himself. Rom knew nothing of alchemy, but the keeper’s verdict was sure: The boy’s blood could not bring any more to life, not yet. He’d suffered as a child and he would suffer even more as the virus fought to eradicate the pure blood in his body. But the day would come when the battle in his body would end, and he’d emerge the victor and restore life to full humanity.

Whatever that might mean.

For now, they would build a new order with the nomads and ensure the boy’s safety until his day came. And then? And then, if the boy’s dreams proved true, there would be war.

War, and more life than any of them yet knew.

“We’re ready,” Rom said, gazing about the gathering who waited for his word. He turned to the nomads who sat on their horses.

“Take us north.”

S
aric’s dungeons
were no more. Rowan, regent to the Sovereign, had cleansed them of their inhabitants and destroyed every known trace of the dark science that had so nearly delivered humanity into Saric’s hands.

The cage that had housed the Book was now only a dusty cell with its gated door welded shut, sealed on Rowan’s order. The steel doors leading down to the dungeons were all locked, their passages forbidden to any living soul. The High Peers of Alchemy had been purged and its members scattered. Saric, who had left a bloody trail through his apartments, was never found.

But hidden deep beneath them all in a sealed crypt, there remained one soul who defied all earthly order.

She lay in a sepulcher of stone where the keeper had placed her as agreed. Her body had been sewn by the most experienced hand. Tubes flowing with nutrients and the mere spark of chemical life fed her unmoving, breathless form. They would sustain her deep stasis for as long as was required.

On her finger, a pale moonstone ring.

Her name was Feyn.

Pravus made his way to the vast lab beneath his estate, followed dutifully by Corban. The sound of their boots echoed on the stone floor.

“They know nothing, sire, I can assure you,” Corban said.

Pravus did not bother with an answer. He unlocked the gate that led into his deepest chamber and stepped into the vast laboratory that hummed and blinked with electric light.

The rows of upright glass cylinders stretched deep into the mountain, 121 at last count.

He walked to the newest addition and stood before it. The naked form inside was as familiar to him as his own child might have been.

“How long?” Corban asked.

“Nine years.”

Pravus tapped his nail on the cylinder, and the eyes of the corpse suspended in the liquid snapped wide. Saric, brother to Feyn, stared unseeing, subhuman as before, flesh filled with the blackness of Hades.

“And then?”

Pravus turned from Saric’s morbid form.

“And then we will crush the boy.”

TED DEKKER is a
New York Times
bestselling author with more than five million books in print. He is known for stories that combine adrenaline-laced plots with incredible confrontations between unforgettable characters. He lives in Austin with his wife and children.

TOSCA LEE left her position working with Fortune 500 Companies as a Senior Consultant for the Gallup Organization to pursue her first love: writing. She is the critically acclaimed author of
Demon
and
Havah
and is best known for her humanizing portraits of maligned characters. She makes her home in the Midwest. 

“If you’ve never visited Ted Dekker’s world, do it. Beguiling, compelling, challenging, and riveting—fantastic gimmick-free storytelling—that’s what you get with Ted Dekker.”

—Steve Berry,
New York Times
bestselling author

“
Forbidden: The Books of Mortals
rocks with the same level of intensity and brilliance as Dekker’s
Circle Series
. Riveting, resounding, and a magnificent blend of Dekker’s and Lee’s styles. I devoured
Forbidden
.”

—James L. Rubart, bestselling author

“Dekker’s new thriller is skillfully written, surprising, and impossible to put down. A daring and completely riveting thriller.”

—
Booklist
on
The Priest’s Graveyard

“A passionate and riveting story…Lee’s superior storytelling will have readers weeping.”

—
Publishers Weekly
Starred Review of Tosca Lee’s
Havah