Phantom Warriors: Linx (18 page)

* * * * *

“You’ve
done it, Paul,”
Gedeon
said. A smile split his
handsome face as he grabbed him by the shoulders and clapped him on the back.
“You’ve cracked the angelic language code.”

“I
have, haven’t I?” Dr. Paul Druthers grinned.
He had done it. He’d
finally done it. After years of toiling in obscurity, he’d made a discovery
that would put him in the annals of archeological history. No, more than that,
his discovery was about to change the world.

“They won’t call you ‘Mad Dog Druthers’
anymore,”
Gedeon
said.

Paul grimaced. “No, they won’t.” He sat
back down in his Aeron chair as reality set in. His colleagues had thought him
insane when he’d gone on the dig at Qumran. They’d said that everything on the
West Bank worth uncovering had already been discovered, but he’d proven them
wrong when he’d found the scrolls containing a previously unknown language and
several Greek
pithos
containers a year ago.

It was an odd combination. One not easily
explained. Everyone had a theory as to why, but Paul didn’t care. His only
interest was with the scrolls. When tests determined that they pre-dated
Sanskrit, those same colleagues descended upon him, begging to be part of his
research, but Paul had steadfastly refused.

Instead, he’d hired
Gedeon
Collins, an Irish post grad student who seemed to have an uncanny ability to
piece together the symbols. And now, Paul had cracked what he and
Gedeon
had coined ‘the Angelic Language Code’. And that was
exactly what he planned to call it at the press conference scheduled for
tomorrow afternoon.

Several of his colleagues had laughed at
him when he’d theorized that an angelic language existed. Even amateur
theologian scholars had expressed skepticism, until Paul had released the
carbon dating results and his initial findings.

If what he’d discovered was true—and
he knew it was—it would provide definitive proof that angels existed, had
their own unique language, and might very well walk among them. Of course, the
latter was only a theory.

Paul still hadn’t finished deciphering all
the scrolls, but his discoveries thus far could realistically change the face
of religion.

A chill swept up his body, settling its
icy fingers around his neck. Paul shivered, despite the warmth of the room. He
glanced at
Gedeon
, who was still grinning at him.

“What’s wrong?”
Gedeon’s
smile faded.

“Nothing. Nothing at all.” No need to ruin
the mood. “I think this calls for a celebration.” Paul hopped up from his
chair.

Gedeon
watched him for a moment more, his all too knowing gaze assessing him,
then
nodded. Paul waited until his assistant’s attention
shifted back to the scrolls, before letting his smile drop. He desperately
needed a drink.

“Are you coming?” he asked.

Gedeon
glanced up. His piercing green eyes peeked out behind a curtain of ebony hair
to spear him in place. “Yes, I’ll be right there. I just want to go over our
findings one more time. It doesn’t hurt to triple check.”

“We already have.” Paul slapped him on the
shoulder, causing his own fingers to sting. He casually shook off the pain. For
someone who hardly left the lab,
Gedeon
seemed
remarkably fit. “You’re too young to worry so much. You should come out and
celebrate with me.”

Amusement sparked in the depths of
Gedeon’s
eyes. “You heading off to the pub?”

“Where else?” Paul laughed.

Gedeon’s
attention strayed once more to their work.

Paul shook his head and grabbed his suit
jacket. “Don’t take too long. It’s no fun to drink alone.”

“I’ll be right behind you,” he said
absently.

* * * * *

Gedeon
watched Druthers amble out the door, whistling Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah as he strolled
down the hall. He grinned. Let him have his moment. He’d worked hard enough for
this achievement. Only
Gedeon
knew it wouldn’t last.

Paul’s footfalls faded.
Gedeon’s
shoulders slumped and he took a long shuddering
breath as he dropped into the chair to study the symbols and letters,
painstakingly piecing them together like a child first learning to read.

There was a time when he’d been able to
read this text easily, but that was before the
Fall
,
before his own language had been viciously plucked from his mind. Erased as
thoroughly as sponge to chalk on slate.

Bitterness welled and he crushed it. There
was no time to wallow over ancient hurts.
Gedeon
had
no doubt the
Above
was already aware of their
discovery. He had to act fast before the Winged ones descended.

What he was about to do was a long shot.
Gedeon
knew that...just like he knew it would attract some
very unwanted attention, but what choice did he have? The Winged ones—or
angels as the humans called them—had decimated the
Nephilim’s
numbers. To protect their offspring, the
Nephilim
had
given their children up for adoption.

They’d hoped to reunite with them after a
few years, but the war raged on longer than anyone anticipated. Eventually, the
remaining
Nephilim
hid and the angels declared
victory.

In their arrogance, it never occurred to
them that they’d actually
failed
, but
by then the
Nephilim
children and their descendants
had been lost in time. There weren’t enough full-blooded
Nephilim
remaining to rebuild their numbers. Without their children, one more attack by
the Winged ones might succeed in eradicating them for good.

As leader of the
Nephilim
,
Gedeon
couldn’t allow that to happen. Not if there
was a way to stop them. He opened his inbox and clicked on the email button. A
new window opened. He minimized it,
then
clicked on
the file of email addresses he’d been gathering over the years.

He blind carbon copied them into the slot
and began the painstaking process of composing the ‘joke’. Given the speed at
which these types of emails circled the globe, he should be able to reach
thousands of people, perhaps hundreds of thousands within a week.

The embedded angelic code coupled with his
gifts would hopefully be enough to trigger the children’s latent powers. When
it did, he and his remaining brethren would sense them, and hopefully find most
of them before the Winged ones.

Worst case, the email would do nothing and
he would have to find some other way to locate them. Even as the thought
crossed his mind,
Gedeon
knew this was their last
chance.

He finished typing the email and read it
once more. His finger hovered above the mouse.
Gedeon
took a deep breath and clicked send. It was done. The only thing to do now was
wait.

He glanced at his watch. An hour had
passed. Paul would be deep in his cups by the time
Gedeon
reached the pub. He grinned to himself and shut down the computer. Now it was
time to celebrate.

Gedeon
gathered his things and made his way toward the door. He was flipping off the
lights and preparing to lock up behind him, when the first ripple of power hit.
It was quickly followed by another burst, this time much closer and far
stronger.

“Paul,”
Gedeon
gasped, clutching his chest, then reached for his cellphone and dialed 911.

The Winged ones had arrived.

* * * * *

Chapter Two

Dr. Paul Druthers sat at the bar of his
favorite Welsh pub in the Central West End, a trendy upscale part of St. Louis
filled with turn of the century mansions that still managed to maintain a cozy
neighborhood feel.

Full of rich wood paneling, deep comfy
booths, and imported beer, the pub was the closest you could get to the United
Kingdom without having to leave the states. Not that Paul planned to stay in
the states for long. His travel schedule was about to get extremely busy thanks
to his new discovery.

Paul giggled, grinning down at the drink
in front of him, his third. What better place to celebrate his accomplishments
than here? There’d be time enough for parties and professional gatherings
later. Tonight was his and
Gedeon’s
alone. He glanced
at his watch. What was keeping his assistant? He should’ve been here by now.

He'd just finished enjoying the sweet burn
of his third glass of scotch whiskey, when the sense of unease returned,
settling uncomfortably between his shoulder blades. It was the same sensation
he'd gotten the second he’d broken the code. He’d blamed it on exhaustion.

After all he’d been pulling hours that
would shame a college freshman during fraternity rush week. But he wasn’t
exhausted now. In fact, he was still riding high from the adrenaline rush of
success. So why was he finding it darn near impossible to shake the feeling
that something was very wrong?

Thunder cracked the sky, shaking the
bottles behind the bar. Paul set his empty glass down and glanced out the
window. Bright sunlight filtered inside.
Odd, that.

His gaze slid around the room. Familiar
faces stared back at him from the booths and nearby bar stools. Locals one and
all that he recognized, knew, said hello to on occasion.

Paul liked this place because the drinks
were good and the company even better. Best of all, he didn't have to drive to
get here. All he had to do was step out his lab and walk across Forest Park.

Normally the walk relieved the tension
from work, but it hadn’t needed to this evening. No, this evening was for
celebrating. And he was determined to enjoy himself.

He’d accomplished what he’d set out to do.
There was no cause for concern. It was natural to worry that he might have made
a mistake in his translations, but he knew that wasn’t the case. Everything had
been triple checked for accuracy.

Paul rolled his tense shoulders and tried
to ignore the growing sense of dread creeping through him, attempting to snatch
his jubilation like a thief in the night.

The sound of thunder came again, this time
closer. Paul jumped,
then
nodded to the bartender.
Another whiskey appeared before him with a glass of water on the side. Paul
took a sip, welcoming the fire that followed. He’d never been one for liquid
courage, but today he needed it.

A breeze blew in from the open door,
bringing with it the smell of flowering
heather
.
Paul frowned. Heather didn’t grow in the area and it certainly didn’t bloom in
early June. He glanced at his whiskey, eyeing the dark amber liquid
suspiciously, before taking another sip.

As he put his glass down, Paul caught his
rosy-cheeked reflection in the brewery mirrors hanging behind the beer taps. It
was the face of a happy man.

The reflection slowly changed into a
nightmare. Glowing blue eyes, the color of glaciers and just as cold stared
back at him from a face so austere that it could've been found carved on a
mausoleum.

Paul spun around so fast that he nearly toppled
off his stool, but there was no one there. His hands shook as he tossed back
the rest of the whiskey. He was imagining things. He had to be. No matter
what
his colleagues thought, he was
not
insane.

He pulled out fifty dollars and slapped it
onto the bar, then gathered his suit jacket. Paul reached the door of the pub
and paused to look around one more time, taking in the dark wood and crowded
booths. The warmth and familiarity did little to comfort him.

He couldn't seem to shake the feeling that
this would be the last time he'd ever see the place. And that made him sad. Paul
shook his head in disgust. He wasn’t the type of man to allow his imagination
to get the best of him and he certainly didn’t hallucinate. He obviously just
needed some rest.

Yes, that must be it
, he thought.

The sun dipped behind the trees as Paul
scurried down the sidewalk. He wanted to get through the park before dark.
Despite its gently rolling hills and lush welcoming trees that sheltered people
during the day, Forest Park could be dangerous to cross at night.

St. Louis hadn't earned the reputation for
being one of the highest murder capitals in the country for nothing. Paul
hurried through the park as the shadows from the trees stretched across the
grass. Bushes and plants that appeared inviting during the day took on a
sinister bent as darkness descended.

Paul heard the flap of wings a second
before a shadow glided over him. There were eagles in the area, but he'd never
seen one in the city. Fear spiked at the same time as adrenaline kicked in.
Despite his age and portly size, he began to sprint home.