Shadow Train (19 page)

Raphael was still, too, except for his chest, which was heaving with exertion and fear. Then the wind shifted, the fog swept fast across the valley, and his enemies vanished. For a moment, there was nothing but the roiling mist. Then, through the fog, he heard footsteps, and he saw the silhouette of a tall, thin man approaching through the eerie half-light. It was the Magician.

At the sight of him, all the weariness Raphael had somehow miraculously held at bay during his battles hit him at once with such crushing force he could hardly stand upright or keep his eyes open. He had no energy and no patience for the Magician's mockery now.

“All I wanted was to get back to Middleburg,” Raphael said.

The Magician nodded approvingly. “But now you understand.”

“Yeah, I think so,” Raph replied. “If I keep fighting, it'll never stop. It's like a cycle. Like . . . a wheel. I attack them, they attack me, I attack them. It just keeps going around and around. The only way to stop it is to quit fighting. Is that what I was supposed to figure out?”

“There is no ‘
supposed to,
'” the Magician said, his voice deep and strangely grating. “You either learn, or you do not learn.” He turned and inhaled, as if sniffing the damp, slightly acerbic scent of the fog. “Some have spent eons lost here on the battlefields that border the Dark Territory. And you are correct; you can remain here fighting for all of eternity. Or you can simply . . . stop.”

The thought of being damned to an eternity of fighting terrified Raphael. He wondered how much time he had already wasted. “So what now?” he asked.

“What is it that you want?” asked the Magician. “You can go to any time and place you wish, now that you've learned what you needed to know.”

“I want to go home—to Middleburg. I've got to get back to Aimee.”

“Ah, yes—Aimee. Are you sure?”

“I'm sure. How do I get to her from here?”

“The journey will be arduous and fraught with danger,” the Magician warned.

“Fine,” Raph said. “Been there, done that. Bring it on.”

“Reach into your right pocket and take out that piece of crystal.”

Raphael took out the ring shard and held it in the palm of his hand. At first nothing happened. Then, after a moment, the shard began to glow. He stared down at it, mesmerized by the depth of its brilliance. When he looked closely, he saw that it was not just a glowing piece of crystal. The light inside it looked like photos he'd seen of nebulae in space, vast, multicolored, many-faceted clouds of swirling illumination, infinitely beautiful.

When he looked up, the train had appeared behind the Magician. The fog that haunted the landscape seemed to be pouring from its high, broad smoke stack. The door to its cab stood open, waiting for him, and the Magician gestured toward it.

Raphael closed his hand on the ring shard.

“Can the train take me anywhere I want to go? Any time, any place?” he asked.

The Magician smiled. For once, his expression wasn't mocking or creepy, but kind. “Some say that if you board the train with an open heart, it will take you not where you want to go, but where you
need
to go. Do you have the faith to try it?”

Raphael looked at the Magician, then at the glowing piece of the ring in his hand, then at the waiting train. “Go ahead,” the Magician told him. “Make your wish. It will take you where you want to go . . . eventually.”

“What do you mean by that?” Raph asked suspiciously.

Again, the Magician smiled his mysterious, enigmatic smile. “Only that you may have other stops to make along the way.”

Chapter 13

Standing behind Rick and Bran
as they waited for Violet Anderson to come to the door, Orias noticed what a nice day it was. It was unseasonably pleasant for this time of year and the steel-gray skies of winter had given way to a pale blue that was filled with the twitter of robins and sparrows. Though he usually dreaded the whiplash of endless adjustments that marked his life of near immortality, this time he would welcome the change of seasons. Because, he knew, the changes coming to Middleburg with the arrival of spring would be more than warmer days, tender new buds and flower blossoms. If all went well, this would be the season he and Aimee would be bound together forever.

But there were still hurdles to overcome. Aimee's sleepwalking incident had made that clear. If she had twisted that doorknob a little further she would have released Orias's father, and once freed, Oberon would first vent his rage on his traitorous son and send him to a place worse than hell. After that, who could guess where his vengeance would end? He might very well decide to destroy all of Middleburg, or all of humankind. Even in the Dark Territory, there were few who understood the full extent of Oberon's power. Before Orias had locked his father in the tower room, he'd done his research, and he knew that releasing Oberon now would have devastating repercussions.

Aimee's dreams were proof that despite the protections Orias had put in place, his father's power was beginning to seep out. She was probably susceptible to his psychic pleas because she was close by, and because the Lethe tea had weakened her judgment. Orias should have realized long before that Aimee would have the power to break the imprisoning spell he had cast on the tower room.

Something had to be done. He had to silence his father completely, forever, and he knew that Uphir was the only one who might know how to make that happen. He had to contact the doctor, but to venture below before he had the shards of the crystal ring in his possession was too risky. Oberon's Irin brothers despised those like Orias. They considered the race of half-human, half-angel Nephilim lower than mongrels—and if any of the Fallen spotted him, they would make him pay. They would imprison him and torture him for eons, simply for being what he was.

He needed a messenger, and who could be better than Rick? Anyway, it was about time Rick started getting acquainted with the Dark Territory.

At last, they heard the sound of footsteps from inside and then, within the tiny, convex window of the peephole, the light changed almost imperceptibly.

“Hi, Mrs. Anderson,” Rick called out. “It's Rick.”

There was a slight pause, and then, “What do you want?”

“I called,” Rick said pleasantly. “Remember—about the stuff for the rummage sale.”

Another pause. “Who are those people with you?”

“My friend, Bran—he's on the team, too. And Orias. He's a friend of my dad's. They're in business together. He'd like to meet you, if that's okay.”

Silence. Orias repressed a sigh and summoned his patience.

“Why?” asked the voice.

Orias pushed past Rick and said through the closed door, “Because I'm a great admirer of art, and I've heard about your wonderful tapestries. I'd love to see them.”

“Who told you about them?”

“We have the same framer,” Orias told her. Of course they did—Vivian Gonzalez was the only framer in town, and in truth, she'd told Orias about Violet's unusual designs weeks ago, when Orias had shipped some of his paintings from New York to hang in Elixir. But Orias didn't have time to go into all that now. He needed her to open the door. He would do it himself but that was impossible. The magic that protected this place was more powerful even than the spell he'd placed on the tower room. There was no way that any Irin, Nephilim, or demon could penetrate it unless its owner invited him in.

He focused all his powers of persuasion on her, bringing his energy into a fine point, like the focus of a flashlight beam shining through the little peephole and into Violet Anderson's brain. He felt his skin begin to warm up, almost igniting with the heat of the energy coursing through his veins. “Please,” he entreated gently. “Let me come in.”

He held his breath, waiting, and then he heard the sounds of locks being released and bolts sliding back. He sighed in relief as Violet opened the door. For a moment, she eyed him warily, but when her gaze moved to Rick and Bran a big smile lit her face, recapturing for a moment the great beauty she'd once had.

“Rick . . . so good to see you,” she said, opening the door a little wider and standing aside so they could enter. “Sorry for the delay. I don't get many visitors these days. One can't be too careful, you know. Come in, boys, come in.” After Rick introduced her to Orias she said, “So nice to meet you. You're a friend of Jack's?”

“I am,” Orias replied, noticing that the color rose in her cheeks a little as she said Jack's name, and he knew that they'd once been sweethearts. “He sends his regards.”

A dreamy look came into her eyes for a moment. “He was my escort the last year I was Middleburg High's homecoming queen. Did you know I was homecoming queen for three years in a row?” She took them into the sitting room, invited them to sit, and offered them coffee. “It's all ready,” she said. “I got it all ready—with some cookies too—right after Rick called. They're store bought, but they're really good. I don't do much baking anymore.”

“No thanks, Mrs. A,” said Rick. “We're kind of in a hurry. Got to get the stuff back to the school. If you don't mind, we'll just let ourselves out the back door, grab it, and be on our way.”

“Oh . . . I guess that's all right,” said Violet.

“You guys go ahead,” Orias told Rick. “I'll catch up with you later.” He turned to Violet. “I'd love a cup of coffee,” he said. “And those cookies look delicious. Chocolate chip?”

While Orias continued charming Violet, Rick and Bran left and quietly made their way down the hall. Violet poured the coffee and put two cookies on a little plate that she passed to Orias.

“It has been so long since I've entertained a handsome young man in my living room,” she said. “Do you know my daughter, Maggie?”

“We've met,” said Orias. “She's a lovely girl.”

After he'd suffered through half an hour listening to Violet's insipid stories of her glory days at Middleburg High, she finally said, “All right. You can see the tapestries. Come right this way.” She led him through the little foyer and into a long hallway with an impossibly high ceiling. Huge, colorful tapestries hung on the walls on both sides.

Slowly, he walked the length of the gallery, gazing at each one in turn. When the framer had told him about them and she'd mentioned that their creator had been homecoming queen three times, Orias had known exactly what they were—the prophetic works he'd read about in his mother's books.

It was fascinating now for Orias to see them for himself. They were more engaging and interesting than he'd imagined them. The figures depicted in them seemed almost alive and several times, when he looked away, his peripheral vision caught movement within the scenes, as if they were changing all the time—but in a way that was difficult to perceive if he was looking directly at them.

As he walked down the hall, the story of Middleburg played out before his eyes. It was a tale that few living mortals would understand, but it was one Orias knew well, not from his father who shared almost nothing with him, but from the secret books his mother had hidden away in the basement of their home in Manhattan before she did.

He saw the founding of Middleburg by the Order of the All, in a time now forgotten by human history. He witnessed an ancient queen's coronation, when the Harvest Crown, now Middleburg High's homecoming crown, was first placed upon her head. He saw the construction of the Wheel of Illusion, a massive undertaking completed by the angels, when they were all exalted, before any of them fell.

In the beginning, there had been four Wheels of Illusion, created by the All so that humans, when they were ready, could move forward in their spiritual journey and join the glory of the Light. During the most recent celestial war the fallen angels had battled against those that remained in the service of the All—and the spoils were the souls of humans. The exalted angels had prevailed in that last final battle and the fallen ones had gone into hiding. During the fighting, three of the Wheels—those located in what were now China, Israel, and Ireland—were destroyed, and the four staircases that led from the Wheels up into the heavenly realms were sealed to prevent the fallen from ascending to conquer the Heavens.

Now that the ring had been destroyed and the Wheel in Middleburg was inert, that portal, too, had closed, and Orias's dream of leading the Irin out of their underground stronghold had been shattered. If the story the tapestry told was true, he saw, the Wheel was destined to be opened again—and perhaps the staircase, too. But in what way, at what cost, and with what result? All these things were unclear.

The only thing he saw clearly in the tapestries was strife. He saw two boys he recognized as Zhai Shao and Raphael Kain, and the war between their two factions. High up, in one corner, almost at the edge of the cloth were the figures of five women inside the tunnel gazing at the Wheel of Illusion.

He saw himself, depicted shirtless and with a black halo, and the image sent a shock through him. In the tapestry, he had one hand reaching upward and the other downward, as demons and Irin below and exalted angels above clambered for him, threatening to tear him in two. He turned quickly away from the sight.

“They're magnificent,” he said at last. “Are there any more?”

“Yes . . .” Violet replied slowly, glancing toward her workroom. “But it's not finished.”

“May I see it?”

Silently, she led him into her little studio. The last tapestry was larger than the others and contained a number of scenes that all blended together. Instinctively, Orias realized that the proper way to view it was not to look at each element separately, but to take them all in and let them soak into his subconscious all at once. As he did, the various images seemed to wash over him—the spiritual brothers, Raphael and Zhai, the rival armies with their clacking swords and fluttering banners, and the Wheel. There was one element that Orias recognized—it was repeated from one of the tapestries hanging in the hall outside—and he knew it was gravely important. It was an image of a beautiful young woman, who the tapestry labeled “the Princess of the Wind.”

He recognized this blond-haired beauty instantly as Aimee, and his mind snapped back to a piece of text, the ancient scroll his father had preserved in his study all these years: the Scroll of the Wheel. In it, there was a passage about a princess who had ne'er lain with a man and who walks with the winds, transcending the bonds of the earth. This, he knew, was
La Princesa del Viento,
the Princess of the Wind.

Aimee.

That's why he'd instinctively known to be careful with her—and it had not been easy. He had merely desired her at first but as he fell in love with her, that desire increased to a level he'd found difficult to control. But he'd had no choice. He'd known that to take her, even if she wanted him to, would weaken her powers or destroy them altogether. Now, because of Violet's tapestry, he saw that his instinct had been right. Her unusual abilities were connected to—no, they actually depended on—her purity. He had to protect her until his work in Middleburg was complete, and they could be married. Then, the future he envisioned for them would become a glorious reality.

All else in the tapestry confirmed what he'd suspected: war was coming, and it would be truly horrific. He also saw in it the image of the crystal ring, the cracks in its surface clearly visible. Orias couldn't tell if it was still broken or if it had been repaired—but it sent a startling jolt of hope through his mind.

He was about to turn away when something at the very top of the image gave him pause. There, Violet Anderson had stitched the figure of a dark angel. He was flying upward as powerful shafts of black radiance flowed from him, and broken shackles and chains fell from his wrists. It was an imprisoned Irin, breaking free.

Orias stared at the image for a full minute, until he felt sick. This was the one prophecy he couldn't allow to come true.

“Well,” Violet broke into his thoughts. “Now you've seen everything. What do you think?”

“I think . . . you are very gifted, Mrs. Anderson. What you have here are masterpieces.” He wondered if she had any idea what they meant. Her reaction to his next statement told him she did. “They should be hanging in a big gallery for the world to enjoy.”

“Oh, no,” she said. “They have to stay right here in Middleburg. I . . . I wouldn't want that kind of attention.” She turned pale and fear crept into her eyes. “I'm sorry—I feel a headache coming on. This has been lovely. Let me show you out.”