The Thieves of Darkness (58 page)

KC fumbled for the flashlight on Michael’s belt.

“No lights,” Michael said as he stayed her hand.

“But—”

“Hold on to me,” Michael whispered in her ear.

“Why?” KC said.

“Don’t listen to the voices.”

“What …?” KC’s whisper was filled with confusion.

A
S MUCH AS
KC tried to hide her childhood phobia, her fear of the dark, the fear she had felt back in the cistern in Istanbul was back. She buried her head in Michael’s shoulder and wrapped her arms about him.

As the darkness swallowed KC, her mind lost focus. The voices whispered in her ear; they were primal, filled with malice. The dark that she had always feared in her childhood, that she had struggled to overcome, had returned with a vengeance. But this time, it wasn’t her imagination that was running; it was the shadows, the darkness, that was alive.

Michael could feel her beginning to tremble.

“Oh, God,” KC said, her voice quivering in fear.

Michael knew the feeling of madness that was upon her.

“KC, don’t listen with your mind, listen with your heart,” Michael whispered. “You are what saved me, and I promise I will save you.”

And then the voices started in Michael’s head, and he could hear them himself. They began as a hiss, breathy and biting, like nails on a chalkboard. They filled his mind as he fought to hold on to KC, as he buried his head in her hair, her smell filling him with calm, and the voices began to fade. He could feel their hearts beating as one.

But then the voices became shouts, cries for mercy, cries of delusional rage brought on by terror. But these screams weren’t imagined, they weren’t in Michael’s mind; they were real, coming from the guards, who were dealing with their own fragile sanity.

Suddenly gunfire erupted, deafening in the confined space. Michael rolled atop KC, shielding her, pressing her against the wall, his body tense, waiting to absorb the bullets.

The shots were followed by the sickening sound of bullets hitting flesh, wet and muffled, in quick succession, ending with bodies hitting the ground.

KC pulled the flashlight from Michael’s hip and flipped it on to see the two guards lying dead in pools of blood, each having killed the other. She scrambled to her feet and grabbed a pistol off one of the guards’ bodies. She spun about, gun at the ready, flashlight glowing, looking for her father. He hadn’t made a sound; no fear had erupted from his lips as it had from the guards’. She found him lying atop the books, protecting them from the gunfire as if they were children.

KC grabbed a dagger from the pile of gold and sliced the restraints from Michael’s wrists. Michael stood up, flicked the Bic, and relit the torch. The room slipped back into focus.

Michael and KC took a moment, gathering their wits. Michael took the guns off the dead guards and passed one to KC as he took back his flashlight, affixing it to his belt.

“What do you want to do with him?” Michael said, pointing at Venue.

“I’d like to kill him,” KC said, “but then I’d truly be him.”

“You already are me,” Venue sneered. “I live inside you, KC. You said it, my blood runs through your veins.”

KC eyes burned bright with rage as she stared at him.

Michael finally laid a hand on her shoulder. “Whatever you choose, I’m with you.”

“He killed Cindy,”

“I know; I’m sorry,” Michael said softly. “And he tried to kill you.”

“She’d be alive now, KC,” Venue said, “if you’d just stayed away.”

“Don’t listen to him,” Michael said. “He can’t face the fact that he has lost everything; he’s nothing but a worthless street hood who failed at everything he’s ever touched.” Michael’s voice grew accusatory. “Thrown out of the Church, thrown in jail. Fools the world building up an empire only to lose it; finds the location of one of history’s greatest places and chooses to ignore it in favor of all this,” Michael said as he pointed at the gold and books. “Let him die down here, alone, in the dark, with his precious gold and books.”

KC nodded at Michael. She turned to Venue, her father, her last living relative, sitting there, his bald head shining in the glow of firelight.
He was everything she hated in the world: greed and avarice, malice and hate. He held no respect for human life; his heart was dark and without love. In this godforsaken crack in the earth, he was truly where he belonged.

Venue stared back at her, defiant and angry, their eyes locked in mutual revulsion and disgust.

“He wanted this,” KC said to Michael, though her eyes remained fixed on Venue. “Let’s just leave him here.”

Michael removed his flashlight from his belt, flicked it on, and handed it to KC. They both walked out the door toward the stairs.

“Wait here a second,” Michael said as he turned and walked back into the chamber.

Michael briefly looked at Venue, who sat by his precious books and parchments with rage-filled eyes, refusing to acknowledge defeat, refusing to plead for his life.

Michael lifted the torch out of the wall sconce, the shadows seeming to jump with renewed life. “I need a little extra light.”

Michael looked about the cavern at the empty sconces high on the walls. He crouched to the pile of Kemal Reis’s sails and tore off a jagged section.

“Between you and me, and as much as KC hates you, I don’t want to leave you all alone in the dark,” Michael said as he pulled out Silviu’s lighter. He wrapped the gray sailcloth around it several times, dropped it on the floor, and crushed it with his foot.

“My advice; use whatever you have to keep the room lit, because once the lights go out…”

Michael picked up the crushed lighter; the smell of leaking butane filled his nostrils as it soaked into the cotton sailcloth. Without hesitation, Michael touched it to the torch, igniting a fireball, and tossed the makeshift torch high in the air.

Venue watched, confused, as it soared over his head, missing his precious books, which were as dry as a desert wind and as flammable as tinder, landing ten feet behind them in a glow of orange flame. The
parchment, paper, and skins had survived the ages in this airtight room that lacked the moisture of the main chamber. They had been blessed by the absence of bugs and insects, rats and mice, vermin that would have decimated this evil library centuries ago.

From beyond the documents, Michael’s ball of flame cast a new light about the room, a growing light of intense orange. Venue stared, confused, and then his eyes ran to the walls, the empty sconces … And he realized.

The pitch-soaked torches lay scattered beyond the piles of parchment and books, the scrolls, animal skins, and hides. The ancient torches were as flammable as the day they were made and instantly caught. Their flame quickly spread, running along the floor. Venue stood and saw that Michael had laid a section of sailcloth along the floor, spread out behind and under his precious find. The dry cotton material encouraged a conflagration, and within seconds the fire jumped to the first scroll, a two-thousand-year-old prayer to Satan.

Venue scrambled about like a confused child as his world began to burn around him; flares and sparks leaped to the more recent texts and to thousand-year-old parchments. Flames licked the air as black and gray smoke curled up into thick clouds that hugged the ceiling. Venue slapped the dancing fire, pulling away as many books as he could before they were all lost.

Michael took one last look at the room, at the piles of gold and precious gems, the ingots, the golden artwork, artifacts, and treasure, their bright metal aglow in firelight. It was a treasure that would never again see the light of day. A hoard worth billions, amassed through history by nameless men and stolen to end up on the high seas. Kemal Reis, a feared corsair, a renowned admiral of the Turkish navy, gave his life in returning it and many of the dark texts that sat within the growing flame; Michael would make sure his sacrifice was not a wasted one.

As Michael looked about, he suddenly realized something was missing. He quickly ran from the room and closed the door on Venue. He grabbed KC by the hand and charged up the stairs.

* * *

M
ICHAEL AND
KC emerged through the dark doorway winded and gasping from the three-minute climb. They took hold of the enormous black door and, putting all of their weight into it, shoved it closed. It hit the frame with a deep, slow thud, sealing Venue and this dark part of the world away.

Michael grabbed the snake-wrapped shaft that sat in the center of the door, the sultan’s staff, and pulled on it until it finally tore free in his hands. As the locks fell into place, the door hissed with a mechanical rasp and then fell into a deathly silence. Michael looked at the door, at its hideous depiction of death and of man at his worst, of dark-shadowed beasts and of the suffering of the people who lay in its depths. And he finally understood the door was not a glorification of evil and death, but a warning of what lay beyond.

Michael grabbed the leather tube off the ground where he had left it and stuffed the rod back inside, turning the hasp and sealing it up. He took KC by the hand. They climbed the stairs to the mandala room to find Busch at the top, his gun propped up in his lap and aimed at any intruder, his face awash in sudden relief.

“Thank God. Are you guys all right?”

They both nodded as their minds struggled to cope with their ordeal.

“Venue?” Busch asked.

Michael shook his head, not wanting to speak of the end of KC’s father. Though she hated him, though he deserved his fate, he didn’t want to refer to Venue’s demise in front of her.

“What about Iblis?” Busch said as they began walking down the corridor.

“Dead,” KC said, but didn’t continue.

Michael knew her thoughts had shifted to her sister, to her death and the emptiness it would fill her with. He briefly turned to Busch and slowed as KC headed out of the corridor. “Did you see anyone come out of here, out of there?” Michael pointed back at the stairs that went down.

“No,” Busch said, tilting his head in confusion. “Who are we talking about?”

Michael shook his head.

Michael had seen him hit the floor, had seen the bullet wound as it blossomed red on his chest, had watched as Venue poured the boiling mud upon his face. Michael had seen the small dark man’s body spasm in death.

But as Michael had turned to leave the room filled with gold, as he had lit the books and parchment on fire, there was no sign of him.

Iblis’s body was gone.

M
ICHAEL AND
KC walked up the hallway with Busch to see Kunchen and Sonam standing with rifles, guarding the door, making sure no one went in … or out. The monks were inside, milling about the room, their arms free of their restraints but unable to leave.

“Paul?” Michael looked at him with questioning eyes.

“Everything’s fine now.” Busch nodded to the Sherpas, who laid their guns down and walked back into the room.

KC followed them in. There was a group of monks, ten of them, their eyes soft and wise; their countenances gave the impression they were the senior of the group of forty. Three were crouched on the floor as seven stood over them.

As KC approached, they parted to reveal Cindy lying upon several prayer rugs. Scores of small candles were strewn around her and incense burned upon small hollowed stones, its tranquil odor heavy in the air.

KC crouched next to her sister’s body, her eyes filling with tears.

Michael took a step toward her—

“Wait,” Busch whispered, placing his hand on his chest, holding him back.

KC brushed the auburn hair off Cindy’s childlike face, so innocent and pure. She lay there covered in a blanket, the monks kneeling at her side. A stillness, a peace floated about. It was the antithesis of what she had felt in the cavern deep below this place. It filled her with a warmth
and serenity such as she had never known, feelings incompatible with the death of a loved one.

She looked at the three kneeling monks; their faces were calm and ageless. They were the essence of peace, their legs tucked under them, their hands folded upon their laps. They looked upon her without emotion, without sympathy, holding her eyes for the longest of moments before they turned their gaze upon her sister.

And as KC followed their look, to her shock and utter joy, Cindy opened her eyes and smiled.

Michael looked at Busch.

“Seems these guys know more than just gods and religion,” Busch said with a smile.

Venue sat on the floor, much of his collection destroyed, lying in piles of smoldering ash. He had managed to save fourteen pieces in addition to the stone tablets, which were thick with scorch marks.

Venue read as fast as he could, lost in the Latin text, the book bound in skin upon his lap under the lone torch. He read as if seeking the answer to survival, as if the words before him would somehow set him free. The wealth of kings lay behind him and the knowledge of darkness before him. He knew he would somehow escape the confines of this place. He had ventured up the stairs to find the door secured, but he knew there were always alternatives; he had never known failure, he had never feared it. He would find a way to survive and he knew the answer lay in the books before him.

But then the firelight of the torch began to fade, its pitch exhausted. The other torches had long since burned out. There was nothing that could be used as fuel. The sails would burn quickly and be devoured in minutes without the sustenance of a thick fuel upon them.

As the flame fell to but a wisp, the shadows grew longer and deeper, darting in and out at him, flitting about as if alive. There was a subtle sound, muddled and distant, as if from the corner of his mind. It was scratching, its pitch modulating from high to low like the Doppler effect of a passing train. Its volume grew distracting, pulling him from
his reading, from his concentration.

The sounds began to grow distinct, separating into voices, voices that he knew, voices that erupted in pain and rage, stabbing at his mind in anger: Jennifer Ryan, the woman whose love he had exploited, who had borne KC and Cindy, the woman he viciously threw from a rooftop; Jean-Paul, the young employee whom he had so ruthlessly murdered. All the people he had killed directly or indirectly: Father Oswyn and the six priests who had excommunicated him, his competitors in business, his underlings who underperformed. Each of the people whom he had destroyed railed against him, chipping away at his sanity until he saw their faces in the shadows, waiting, watching…