Covered with demon's ichor, Self sealed his mouth over the infant's. He was careful, so cautious in how he worked on her tiny dead form.
Save her!
I'm trying!
I went to my knees beside them and kept my hand on her tiny chest, holding in her ghost. Nip took Eddie's hand.
Don't stop, I ordered.
She's dead.
Keep at it.
He continued mouth-to-mouth resuscitation just as I'd been taught in the Boy Scouts. Her soul, already maimed by the force of Elijah's frenzy, fought to be liberated. It tried to find solace in a place that couldn't be called the afterlife, since she'd never lived.
It's not working.
Stop arguing with me!
I'm not! I'm just telling you!
I kept my burning hand on her cooling chest, the black crackling motes writhing around us. I could understand why she wouldn't want to live if this was a sample of what the world had to offer. Her flowing essence tried to drain through my fingers. Self breathed for her. Gawain took a step forward, drawn by purity.
My father-the lunatic murdered clown-had the respect not to laugh, though he smiled. Once he'd been proud of me, and himself, before his vanity kept him from bending his knee. He too had loved my Danielle, and talked of grandchildren. We'd planned for so long and had been so close to realizing our happiness.
This could have been my daughter if only I'd moved an inch to the right, awoken an hour earlier, not read a book, stayed a minute longer in confession, loved my woman a little more or perhaps a heartbeat less.
I was the Master Summoner, to the bone. If I could not invoke life, I could beckon hope.
The baby's fingers curled around mine.
"Praise be to God," Uriel said, and he sounded so sincere I wanted to break his spine. Self and I both dropped back gasping. The Nephilim's eyes flooded with Elijah, the empty windows of a vacant host suddenly welling with all his hatred.
Too fat from the richness of others' regrets, he had trouble sitting up. He had more occult might than ever before, but like a true newborn had virtually no control over himself.
His desire to kill me flared off him, superheating the cavern floor and turning the silicate to black glass. He still couldn't talk to me or express his love for Danielle, not with a Seraph tongue designed for timelessness. He remained trapped in his own way, and I couldn't help chuckling at that.
"Thy will be done, oh Lord," Uriel said. Elijah managed to turn over in his new form. His loathing and unending wrath were finally alive with him again. He roared with his rigid throat, crawled into the grotto, and allowed the waters to swallow him. He was still human enough to want to see Danielle raised on Oimelc, during the Feast of Lights, and Jebediah would promise him anything to ensure his service.
Elijah fell deeper and deeper into the muddy lake, giving me one last scornful leer before going to meet with his new coven to prepare for the second coming.
The baby cried and took in breath. Dad danced.
Gawain didn't come back with us through the dark. He sat in the dirt beside the body of Aaron, where the rock had been littered with playing cards and still glistened with the slithery viscera of Lowly Grillot Holt.
I kept staring at Uriel wondering if I should kill him, and do it with Aaron's sword. It might prove fitting. But it would be pointless. His role in these schemes and designs had finished playing out.
Instead I threw him down on Aaron's chest until his hands were covered with the blood of his brother.
Self had fun chasing down the plastic saints and stomping them flat.
Nip and Eddie still held hands. Eddie kept repeating, "I forget. I forget." The kid had been caught up in the maelstrom of confused men and even more confused gods, with his guts spilled out for everyone to poke through. I didn't know how to put him together again, but Nip and Abbot John would help.
I pulled the boy with no heart up from the murder hole, and Self followed cuddling the infant and singing French lullabies. My father stood at the pulpit and brayed like an animal or just a vicious sinner.
Abbot John had hanged himself in the chapel and swayed in the draft. He wasn't dead although he'd really been trying to kill himself this time. He just didn't have the affirmation for it.
I said, "Get off the rope, John. Your children need you. You'll like it in Cincinnati. Fane is going to show you how to sell shoes."
I helped him down from the noose and watched him shudder as he bowed in the pew. I handed him the jar with Eddie's heart and released the seven locks. He saw Uriel's wet hands.
When I told him the mount no longer had a reason to stand, he hissed with his ruined voice, "So now it begins."
I didn't want to hear a discourse on the conflicts of my life or his interpretation of events. My punctured lung grew worse until every breath rattled deep in my chest, exactly the same as when I'd arrived here seeking recovery. I slumped beside him into the pew and kicked up the kneeling rail.
"Meet him in the hills of Meggido," Abbot John whispered. "I saw it in a dream. Bring your armies."
"I have no armies. Neither does Jebediah. We're not the kings of the earth."
"Of course you are."
Of course we are, Self said. Jerusalem calls. And Golgotha.
It wasn't the truth-couldn't be the truth-but Jebediah believed it. Elijah and the new coven would reinforce his will and lend credence to his doctrine. He would not turn back for the sake of his rationality, not even on behalf of the world.
He'd drawn me into this war, and neither of us could carry on until our purpose was proven to be righteous or false. I sat thinking about Palestine and Mount Carmel, the ancient highways where invaders passed into the high point of the valley, built up over periods by the destruction and rebuilding of cities.
Self practiced his Hebrew, sounding almost happy. HarMeggidon.
Har Meggidon.
The mountains of Meggido, where the kings of the earth would meet.
Armageddon.
Part Three
Chapter Thirteen
Like all wars, this one began with sacrifice.
Here, in a land of grudges and blood, Abraham had set out to murder his child. According to the Jews, the boy's name is Isaac. To the Muslims, it is Ishmael.
Untold thousands have died over such devotion to minor details and metaphor. Explosive devices are hidden under seat cushions because of mispronunciations. Entire families are poisoned for square inches at the back of a shrine or church. The Palestinians and Israelis fought over lines drawn in the dirt. Symbolism leads to suicidal missions inside wired trucks and boats. Women are stabbed for singing praises to a different god on a crooked street in the wrong quarter.
Where there is sanctity, there is Satan.
It's an ancient adage that fits the wide range of awe-inspiring faith and petty madness that is Jerusalem. It was easy to get preachy here.
The pink-haired lady, Betty Verfenstein, put it another way when she saw that I was watching the Muslims spitting on the Jews in the narrow alleys and labyrinthine bazaars of the OldCity. The Jews were throwing rocks and everybody was screaming while the Israeli border guards hung back with their machine guns pointed down at the street.
"I couldn't care less what these fanatics do to each other," she said. "Except when I see children getting involved. They shouldn't have to grow up in this turmoil, all in the name of God. This isn't religion. I don't know what it is. I've never seen anything like it in my life." She planted her meaty fists on her thick hips and looked ready to outwrestle any of the squabbling well-dressed men. "All I'm sure of is that I wouldn't want any of them in my home during Passover."