Multas

Lawrence stared up at the towering stone walls of the empty monastery. It seemed cavernous now that everyone had finally evacuated the grounds. Dylan Weaver and the surveillance team had left with General Khalid over an hour ago. All staff, Jordanian military, and the museum’s artifacts had been evacuated forty minutes before that. Every inhabitant of the monastery of Alexandria was now safely on the way to Jordan, two miles below the surface of Egypt, traveling by rail at the speed of sound.

Lawrence walked slowly through the shaded olive grove, past the monastery’s olive press. He unfastened a small iron gate that opened onto the eastern gardens. He had received word that Nick and Alex had arrived safely in Damman, Saudi Arabia. Jason had just taken off on his way to Julia in New York. Only he was left.

He looked up into the sunlight, then passed his hand over the Egyptian skies. A hooded rider wielding a scythe galloped through the heavens.

Lawrence walked along the path under rows of cypress trees on either side, until he reached a small stone chapel.

Slowly he pushed open the heavy carved cedar doors, then walked up the nave. He closed his eyes, his head bowed in reverence to the figure of Christ above the exquisitely carved altar, and breathed in the fragrant aroma of the burning aromatic gums and spices that rose from the golden censer standing on the altar.

He smelled spikenard. A memorial to her. He knelt in reverence to the slain lamb. Tears welled up in his eyes. Then he froze, sensing an unwelcome presence.

“My, my.” The familiar chilling tones, today adopting a distinctly Deep Southern accent, pierced the silence.

Lucifer stood at the entrance to the chapel, in the center of the open doorway.

He took a step forward.

“My, my, my! Ah do declare . . . ” He lifted his hands dramatically. “If it isn’t my old mentor, Jether the Just —or should I say, the esteemed Professor Lawrence St. Cartier.”

He surveyed Lawrence.

“Mm-m-m, that cravat is just darlin,’ Professor. I’ll answer your question. I’m doin’ fair to middlin’—thanks for askin’. But, Professor, the air here is just riddled with black plague.

Oh, my, my, that’s right. It slipped mah mind—you’re immortal, just like me!”

He leaned over and idly picked up the Book of Common Prayer.

Lawrence stood silently, his gaze never leaving the statue of Christ.

“All over the world, they chant it, sing it. Bored out of their tiny little minds, they go through the motions, their thoughts on the Sunday roast, online shopping . . . ” He snickered. “ . . . getting in the vicar’s wife’s knickers.”

He raised his hands. “Oh my, my! Ah am just downright sorry! You look just about as happy as a dead hog in the sunshine, Professor. Forgive me for that profanity. I clean lost mah manners!”

He tossed the prayer book aside, grinned, and reverted to his precise British accent with its exotic inflection.

“Anglicans.” He took a step up the aisle.

“Methodists.” He took a second step.

“The Catholics.” Lucifer grinned. “Lots of Catholics. Just love their rituals. Quite transfixing. All

that money on vestments and gold icons that could surely be put in the Vatican bank with its other laundered billions.

“You must admit, Professor. All that money. All in His name. Billions of dollars, pounds . . . ”

“Y’all”—switching back into his Southern accent—“even I never dreamed I would win on such a colossal scale. Miss Scarlett, it’s a complete travesty!”

He turned to Jether.

“What in the Sam Hill is going on?”

Jether stood, his back still to Lucifer. “Not all merely go through the motions,” he said very softly.

“There are still those who believe. Those whose faith is in Him, not in the ritual but in the relationship.”

“The church is weak,” Lucifer hissed.

Jether raised his eyes, blazing with a holy fire, to Lucifer’s. “Then why do you fear them so much, Lucifer? Why does every fiber of your soul tremble when those who bear the Nazarene’s seal come near?”

Lucifer’s face contorted in rage. “If they only knew. If they even guessed the power within them.

But that, of course, remains my greatest victory of all.”

“Times change,” Jether said. “His army is rising. Even out of their weakness, their humanity, there is a clarion call to arms. You have been exposed. Identified. Many heed you no longer.”

“Yes,” retorted Lucifer. “And they suffer greatly at my hands. I have trained the demonic realm meticulously. We, the Fallen, bring about their suffering, then lay the blame at His feet. Our whispered voices torment them in their dreams.

“‘You follow Him. You serve Him faithfully,’ we whisper,” Lucifer hissed. “‘And yet, Yehovah abandons you. He allows you to suffer. What manner of God do you serve?’

“Oh, yes, Jether, they shall feel as I felt. They know how it feels to be abandoned by Him. I target his ‘pets.’ Those He comes to in their dreams. His earthly visitations. Those who have usurped me,

“Oh, Lucifer, light bearer, you who were once so filled with wisdom and beauty.”

“Those days are long gone,” railed Lucifer.

“Yes,” Jether whispered. “Long gone.”

“Hell, that could even depress the devil.” Lucifer swung around dramatically. “Oh, wait, that’s me.”

He grinned malevolently.

“Now to the point.”

He moved his palm, and the roof of the chapel disappeared. He stared up at the form of a hooded rider on a pale horse crossing the Kármán Line of the earth’s atmosphere.

“Nisroc rides. The Nazarene comes to rescue his mewling pets. The brilliance of my plan is unparalleled. The sensational disappearance of millions of ‘Christians’ buried in the outbreak of a global pandemic. Good riddance. This is the way the world ends: not with a bang but a whimper.”

Slowly Jether lifted the wooden cross that rested on top of the altar. “How thou art fallen, son of the morning.”

Lucifer stared, silent. Transfixed. The skin on his forehead started to blister. He stumbled backward, hiding his face with his hands.

“The King of Lies will always be slave to the King of Truth.” Jether stepped toward him. “You are His puppet, Lucifer. You reign a king without a kingdom. Ultimately, even your evil will serve to

fulfill his omniscient plan.” Jether looked at him grimly.

Lucifer backed down the aisle, blinded by the radiance emanating from the cross. “And yet,” he screamed, his face bubbling with consuming fire, “He still created me-e-e-e-e!”

He pushed open the chapel doors, gasping for breath, and stumbled into the gardens, then slowly raised his blistered face to the Egyptian skies.

“That is the unanswered question in the Race of Men,” he spat. “The answer to that question consumes me. It has become my obsession.”

“As He is mine,” said another voice.

Lucifer slowly removed his hand from his eyes. A lean, muscular form stood under the cypress trees.

Lucifer studied the stranger’s chiseled features. “Michael.” A slow smile spread across his lips.

“My brother.” Lucifer’s hands went to his face. He threw his hood over his head, hiding his blistered features.

Michael bowed his head in deference. “Lucifer.”

Lucifer strode across the grass, his cloak billowing out behind him.

Jether walked up behind Michael, his hand on his shoulder.

“Lucifer!” Michael’s voice echoed across the gardens. “May Yehovah have mercy on your soul!”

Lucifer turned. “Frankly, my dear . . . ” He stared contemptuously at Michael.

“I don’t give a damn.”

He bowed dramatically, then saluted Michael. And vanished in the air.

Jether and Michael exchanged a glance.

“As always, he overplays his hand,” Jether murmured.

“The excitement in the High Courts is unparalleled,” Michael said. “The elders and angelic host are gathered at the Gates of the First Heaven. They await Christos’s return.

“With His subjects.” He gazed up in wonder at a white form high in the heavens.

“Those who have longed and yearned their entire earthly life for His appearing, those who have faithfully served Him even through their frailties and weaknesses—they shall finally see Him face to face. “They shall see their redeemer.” Jether looked at Michael in wonder. “They shall see their King.”