Stealing Sacred Fire (6 page)

‘Go right on up, Ms Maynard.’
He spoke in a Brooklyn drawl.

She nodded curtly, did not
smile, and walked to the elevators. The guards did not know where
she was going. It was doubtful operatives employed on the ground
were even aware of the secret floor high above their heads. There
were so many storeys to the building, each a squirming hive of
labour and commerce, that one so near the clouds could easily be
missed.

There was a line of elevator
doors — like the portals to temples, vaguely art-deco — and
Melandra halted before the one farthest from the entrance. She did
not have to summon the elevator herself. Presently, its polished
doors slid open of their own accord and she entered it alone. The
doors whispered shut and encased her in a micro-world of darkened
mirrors, lustrous brass and soft, almost sinister, music. She
pressed the button for the top floor. Her mouth was dry. She wanted
to reach into her pocket for a mint candy, but felt it would not be
approved of if she arrived at her destination with something in her
mouth. Breathing shallow, she watched the indicator above the door
as the floor numbers lit up in succession. Twelfth: Lamech
Communications; fourteenth: Lamech Hydro-Power; twenty: Lamech
Investments. She had forgotten all but a few of the companies
housed within the building. They did not concern her.

Up, up and up. She felt as if
she was flying towards the stratosphere.

The intercom emitted a chime to
indicate she had reached the top floor. All was quiet for a moment,
but for the low intrusion of the piped music. Then, without a
shudder, and only the faintest of mechanical hums, the elevator
began to move again, obeying the injunctions of a primed
receptionist on the restricted floor above all the others.

The doors slid open onto muted
splendour. The light was greenish and people moved slowly within
it. Melandra stepped onto the thick teal carpet. It was as if she’d
entered the lobby of a high class hotel. The people around her did
not look like office personnel, but guests. They sat round low
tables, on plush sofas, reading sheaves of papers or talking softly
together, elegant coffee cups and cafetieres on designer trays
beside them. Others strolled languidly across the expanse of carpet
as if going nowhere. They inclined their heads politely to
Melandra, and she returned the gesture.

She approached the reception
desk — vast and greenish marble — behind which sat three women, all
of them groomed to perfection. They looked like models or actresses
and perhaps were. Behind them, on the wall, was a huge carved
banner in gold and green: it proclaimed ‘The Children of Lamech’.
This was the heart of the corporation; its ruling cabal was hidden
here. Melandra knew it must have little to do with commerce, for
all that was attended to lower down in the building. Lamech House
was like a representation of heaven; angels worked on the lower
levels; seraphim and thrones as the sidewalk diminished in
perspective; but here the splendour of God, incomprehensible and
remote, reigned supreme.

‘Good afternoon,’ Melandra
said, putting down her briefcase. ‘Melandra Maynard. I’m
expected.’

The nearest receptionist smiled
widely. She wore an identification tag that named her as Natasha.
‘Hi there. Good to see you.’ She stood up. ‘I’m to take you right
in. Just sign here first.’

She pushed a thick,
leather-bound book towards her.

Melandra was conscious of her
damp palms as she lifted the gold-nibbed fountain pen and signed
her name in the space on the creamy page next to where the
receptionist’s long, ochre-lacquered fingernail rested.

‘Great!’ said the receptionist
and came out from behind the desk. She indicated Melandra’s
briefcase. ‘Allow me?’

Melandra nodded. ‘Yes.
Thanks.’

The receptionist picked up the
brief-case, plucked Melandra’s coat from her arm and sashayed
across the room. ‘This way, ma’am.’

Melandra felt as if she’d
stepped into a different reality as she followed the receptionist
through gliding double doors into a vast room. A reception or party
was going on. The room was panelled in dark, lustrous wood and
ponderous classical music played, louder than in the elevator.
People milled around; some in evening dress, others in what
appeared to be traditional costume from far lands. Green-and-gold
liveried waiters hovered among them, bearing trays of drinks and
canapés. In a corner of the room, next to a palm tree, a
photographer was taking carefully posed pictures of some of the
participants. Surreal. Melandra wanted to smile, but she felt
unnerved. All through her childhood and her teenage years, even
beyond it during her training, she’d been unable to dismiss the
anxiety that her purpose in life would also be her curse. She did
not want to discover it, for then it might be that her remaining
life-time would be measurable, like visiting a fortune-teller and
learning the day of your death. Yet she’d been told how important
she was, how special and how needed.

She had never disobeyed anyone
openly, ever, but she had thought about doing so, and they had
known.

Now, she stood at the
threshold, fearing the unknown. The receptionist had glided over to
a tall, handsome man with steel grey hair, who looked to be in his
fifties. He stood within a group of people, all of whom were
smaller than him, and he held a glass in his hand. As he leaned
down to listen to the receptionist, his eyes flicked upwards in
their sockets and fixed upon Melandra. Grey eyes. Metal eyes.
Unyielding. Melandra did not smile. He would not approve of that.
Not yet.

She watched him excuse himself
from his companions and then saunter across the room towards her.
He wore an immaculate tuxedo and gold glinted at his wrist. ‘Hello,
Melandra Maynard,’ he said, and held out a large, tanned hand. ‘I’m
Nathaniel Fox. Pleased you could make it.’

She took the hand, felt its dry
heat engulf her. ‘Glad to be here.’ As if she’d had a choice.

‘Drink?’ He put proprietorial
fingers beneath her elbow and began to lead her into the crowd.

‘Yeah, thanks. The driest white
wine you have.’

Fox smiled. ‘A white drink, a
glacier drink. Of course.’

She knew she had passed a test
and, absurdly, relaxed. The receptionist had disappeared — with her
briefcase and coat.

They paused at a vast,
linen-snowed table while Fox ordered her drink. Accepting it,
Melandra risked a brittle laugh. ‘This wasn’t quite what I was
expecting.’ She put the glass to her lips, tongued the cold
liquor.

Nathaniel Fox ignored her
remark. ‘The meeting will take place in seven minutes. There are a
couple of people who want to be introduced to you first.’

She downed her drink. ‘OK.’

They were just faces, people
who seemed to be impressed by her. A couple of them were senators,
she knew, but they failed to make an impression on her. In no time
at all, Fox was ushering her through another set of doors, and the
soft babble of the party was cut off as if it had never
existed.

The room before her now was
long, silent and dimly-lit. A slim, gleaming road of executive
table lay before her. Around it sat a group of formally-dressed,
middle-aged men. No women: she was the only one. The walls were
swathed in dark-grey curtains, and if there were any windows, they
were obscured.

Fox came into the room behind
her and put his hands upon her shoulders. ‘Gentlemen, this is the
young lady we’ve been waiting to meet.’

All eyes were upon her. She
both hated and feared them. They were rigid, merciless beings. She
wanted to please them. It was instinctive. They were her masters.
‘Good afternoon.’ She inclined her head.

‘Here, sit down, sit down.’ Fox
pressed her into a vacant seat next to the head of the table, where
he himself sat down. Beside his right hand was a console covered in
numbered pressure pads that looked like an enormous remote control.
Fox drew in a great breath, then threw his head backwards,
exhaling. ‘Let us pray, brothers.’

Around the table, the delegates
of the cabal bowed their heads. Melandra did likewise, although she
could not close her eyes.

‘Dear Lord!’ cried Nathaniel
Fox. ‘We are your humble servants, bound to do your duty and honour
your causes. We meet here today to discuss a matter of grave
importance, for the time has come. Your bond-woman, Melandra,
awaits the touch of your spirit. Grant her this, oh Lord: your
strength and your purpose. May she be our tool to accomplish your
great design, for she herself is willing to sacrifice her very
being upon the altar of this holy conflict.’

Am I? thought Melandra. She
remained silent, conscious of the slight pull of a frown across her
forehead.

‘The evil ones mass in the
filthiest corners of the earth,’ Fox continued, his voice filling
out with a greedy relish for the words. ‘Even now, they speak their
blasphemies and call upon He Who Walks the Deserts. The Scapegoat
shall come forth from the bowels of the earth, shaking curses from
his hair. His breath shall be poisonous fire, his words the foul
stink of hell!’

Fox uttered a shuddering sigh.
‘Prepare us, oh Lord, for what is to come. Arm us with your
spiritual weapons.’ He reached out blindly and placed his hand
heavily on Melandra’s head. Her neck jerked. ‘Bless your
bond-woman, and protect her from the ancient, blaspheming memories
of the weaker sex. It is by your will that the Scapegoat shall be
purged by the hand of a woman, one of the creatures whom he
corrupted in sin. Amen.’

‘Amen,’ echoed the
assembly.

Nathaniel took his hand from
Melandra’s head and she felt dizzy from the sudden lifting of the
weight.

Fox laced his hands before him
on the table. ‘Shall we begin, gentlemen?’ He touched a pad on the
console beside him.

The curtains that covered the
left hand wall glided open. Banks of television screens or monitors
were revealed. There must have been over a hundred of them. At
another command from Fox, the screens flickered into life; they
showed news reports from around the world: war, famine, political
summits.

‘What do you see, Melandra
Maynard?’ Fox enquired.

Melandra shrugged. ‘Reality.
Not a pretty sight.’

Fox sucked his upper lip,
nodding. ‘Yes. But reality as you see it is the work of devils.
This, if you like, is the entr’acte before their grand performance,
and the finale will be the end of the world.’

‘Devils,’ said Melandra. She
presumed he meant some rival cartel, who dealt in arms or
drugs.

‘That is one word for them.
Others are Nephilim, Watchers and Grigori. Fallen angels. Just look
upon their filthy work, my sister.’

Melandra glanced at him
sharply, then back at the screens. She knew what Fox was talking
about. Once, when she was very young, she had found a book on her
Sunday school teacher’s desk. It had been old and frayed; well
thumbed. Her teacher had come into the room and had snatched the
book from her hands with a sharp rebuke. ‘You mustn’t look at
that,’ she had been told. ‘You are not old enough.’ Like any child,
Melandra had been curious about knowledge that was forbidden and
had asked awkward questions. Patiently, the teacher had explained
that the book contained stories about the Fallen Ones, the rebel
Sons of God, who in the distant past, before the Great Flood, had
come down from heaven and corrupted human women. Her teacher had
refrained from explaining in detail the fallen angels’ unholy
behaviour. Melandra had been told it was sinful even to think of
them now. They were God’s enemies, for they had disobeyed him and
revelled in sin. For that, they had been punished, utterly
destroyed, but their spirits might live on to tempt the weak. Good
girls would certainly not want to read about them.

Over the years, in her isolated
boarding school and college, Melandra had learned to regard the
Grigori as a spiritual evil, like having bad thoughts about a
friend or a teacher. Now, the suspicion stirred within her that Fox
and his colleagues believed they might be something more.

Fox turned in his seat. His
voice was laconic. ‘The ancient leader of the Grigori, Azazel,
walks the earth again, Melandra. He is the anti-Christ, the Satan,
the Adversary. He gathers his people beneath a banner of blood.
When the millennium turns, he plans to cast a pestilence of war and
ravagement upon the earth. Only his debased followers will survive
it, into the darkest centuries mankind will ever know. He must be
stopped. He must be destroyed. All your life, you, Melandra, have
been trained for this divine purpose. God has deemed it shall be
you who will destroy Azazel.’

Melandra’s mouth dropped open
involuntarily, and she had to shut it again quickly. ‘Excuse me?
I... how?’

Fox smiled. ‘You are horrified,
and no-one could blame you for that! How will you do it? Well, that
is simple. You have your gender on your side. All women have ever
been followers of the Scapegoat. He is the great seducer, after
all. In the days before Abraham, the wife of our founder, Lamech,
gave birth to a monstrous child, spawned of a fallen angel.
Although she denied it, Lamech knew the truth and began the holy
war to root out and destroy the tainted blood of these unholy
unions.’

‘Where is this written?’
Melandra asked. She could not help but take his remarks about women
personally.

‘In the Book of Enoch,’ Fox
replied. ‘It was a book that was excluded from the Old Testament,
for the terrible history it contained was not for the eyes and ears
of common Christians. The time has come for you to learn its
contents. I will give you a copy to read while you journey to your
appointed duty. Azazel will not expect the fatal thrust to come
from a woman. Remember your Bible history, Melandra. Remember
Judith. “Praise God, for he hath not taken away his mercy from the
house of Israel, but hath destroyed our enemies by mine hands this
night.”’