Chapter 56
Chapter Fifty-Six
JADEON
Unbearable, this weight of leaving him behind in that perilous place. In the hands of the most dangerous vampire. The guilt pressed into me like a blade.
Trying to confront the dreadful truth that I had failed Catherine terribly.
Shame sank deep into my bones, a sorrow so vast, it eclipsed reason. This dreadful waking nightmare seemed endless, each moment steeped in a grief I couldn’t outrun.
In the stillness, a question burned in me like poison, why Orpheus didn’t just end me.
I wanted to burn Belshazzar’s to the ground.
Not an option.
I lingered on a nearby roof and examined the ring that Alex had secretly passed to me.
Around the band were engraved strange symbols.
Catherine had mentioned the Alchemist, but I had no time to explore her words.
This ring, with its inscription, must be a message from Catherine via Alex.
I placed it on my small finger, pleased with its snug fit.
I struggled to understand why he would remain. Although he had once been infatuated with Orpheus, his behavior now was out of character. Perhaps it was his way of saving Catherine. I had to believe that.
Fraught at leaving him behind, I considered returning to drag Alex out of there.
It would only make things worse if such a thing were even possible.
Moreover, Alex was right. After all this time, I had finally been reunited with Catherine, and I had left without her.
I faced Belshazzar’s and considered returning.
I must find the Alchemist.
I needed a place of shelter, familiar and safe. I couldn’t return to St. Michaels. I wanted to be closer to the club. I flew into the air and headed toward the welcoming towers of Salisbury Cathedral.
On my arrival, a sense of calm came over me, as though this place of God had an aura of healing. The magnificent church had sheltered me unquestioningly, protecting me as a fledgling vampire; it was here I would find the quiet to think.
That familiar scent of incense and unanswered prayers clung to the air like a memory that refused to fade, sacred and sorrowful all at once.
God had not left me, I was certain of it.
I entered the hallowed ground, making my way up the grand aisle of the cathedral and admired the large ornate cross behind the altar, fascinated with the myth that vampires were fearful of such religious artifacts.
Such a cross only provided comfort. I sat down, resting in the front wooden pew, and gazed up in awe at the elaborately decorated nave.
I buttoned my jacket concealing my crumpled shirt, the only indication of my recent tussle.
Splintered memories of my childhood flashed through my mind, and I remembered my mother, her gentle nature and kind spirit.
I recalled fondly my nightly swims with Catherine and Alex, and my father’s approval when I succeeded in my lessons.
Such sacred ruminations helped me to cling to my humanity.
My thoughts kept returning to Catherine, whose beauty was still captivating.
Thank God I had seen her and she was alive.
I would return for her and Alex as soon as my strategy was refined.
“Good evening,” a stranger’s voice greeted me.
I had failed to notice the priest within the otherwise-empty cathedral.
The aroma of incense was so potent that it had shrouded the scent of this mortal’s blood, a man in his thirties, his skin a light brown indicating Mediterranean descent.
His familiar black priestly robes were creaseless, and he wore the familiar sacerdotal white collar of the Christian order.
“I am sorry. Do you wish to be alone to pray?” he asked.
“Please join me,” I said, desperate for spiritual solace.
“I’m Father Jake. How are you?”
I am in hell, but otherwise fine.
“Jadeon. I am well, thank you. And you?” I took in the full presence of the spiritual man, enjoying the serenity he emanated.
He was tall, with a face that caught the candlelight just right, dark eyes that seemed to know too much, and a lean strength that didn’t need to prove itself.
“Where are you from?” the priest asked.
“Cornwall.”
“Ah, God’s country.”
“Yes, they do call it that.” I smiled.
“Yes, but He is everywhere.”
“I hope so,” I said.
“You’re troubled, I can tell. Perhaps if you were to talk about it . . .”
“It’s a long story . . . a very—”
“I have the time.”
“Father, you are too kind, but . . .”
“Why put a lit candle in an already-lit place?”
“It’s easy to forget the light,” I said.
“When you find yourself in darkness, consider that you are there to guide the others out!”
I contemplated his words. The priest, like me, was a man of philosophy, and it was comforting to hear.
“That’s an interesting ring you’re wearing,” he said.
I removed it and showed it to him.
He peered down at it. “Well, I haven’t seen that for a while.”
“You know what those symbols mean?”
“Sumerian, an ancient written language, cuneiform. It is actually the oldest form of writing known to man.”
“But how?”
“It’s ancient pre-biblical text,” he replied.
“Have you any idea what it says?” I was hopeful.
“I’m afraid not. The symbols are complex.”
“I see.”
“And for a minute there, I thought the Stone Masons were alive and well.”
“What did you just say?” I asked.
“That once-secret fraternity. They are one of the few who still use this writing to communicate, in code.”
My heart pounded. “Stone Masons?”
“An ancient society. An interesting history, really. Hundreds, no thousands, of years ago, there was a band of men, men who called themselves Masters of the Stones.”
I knew he meant the Stone Masters, yet I dared not voice their name, not only to conceal my knowledge, but because it would have been sacrilege to as I now was, despite my birth as the son of the last Stone Master.
I nodded. “Go on.”
“Well, history books reflect an ancient heritage led by lords of vast areas of land, hundreds of miles. These men believed in what we understand as legends and myths today—witches, trolls, vampires, and the like. They burned the suspected villains. Terrible way to die, don’t you think?
The rituals were carried out at Stonehenge.
They were called blood rituals, sacrifices to God.
They took these poor mortals and burned them.
One day, they made a fatal mistake, around about 1700, I believe. ”
“Mistake?”
“They performed a blood ritual on the bride of one of their own—Jacob Roch, a newlywed and a seasoned member of the Keepers of the Stones. He was away, abroad on business. On his return he learned that his wife had been accused of witchcraft and taken to Stonehenge for her final punishment. He never forgave them and sought revenge. Their activities were documented and published by one F. A. Snowstorm.”
“Snowstrom?” I corrected.
“Perhaps that was it. You’re familiar with his writings?”
“Well, I might have come across some text once—”
“Anyway, they reportedly had the most spectacular rituals, and it was recorded in his memoirs how they separated the ashes of their victims and poured them into the tops of the stones.
They held the belief that if the ashes of the evil ones were given time to merge—or should we say converge—they would return to their former selves.
“Jacob was sly, taking his revenge upon the secret society he had once been a loyal member of.”
“What happened?”
“Apparently, Snowstrom offered Jacob shelter and helped him through his grief. Jacob Roch was rumored to have lived out the last part of his life at Leeds Castle. Eventually the secret order died out, their rulers taken by disease. With no one to succeed and inherit the legacy, their extinction became inevitable.”
“How did Jacob seek revenge?” I said.
“You’ll have to buy the book. It’s probably well out of print by now.
Fascinating theory, offering an explanation for the construction of Stonehenge.
The most likely motivator to drag those rocks over thousands of miles, a timekeeping structure, or even more compelling, as Snowstrom scribes it, ‘a sacred circle’ that ensures the demise of man’s one true enemy. ”
I bowed my head.
“A splinter of the fraternity continues to flourish today,” he said.
“The Catholic Church has spoken out on how it disapproves of their activities, but this does not deter members or prevent others from joining. The society is made up of businessmen, men of law, doctors and the like. It’s men only, you understand. ”
I was speechless.
“I am sorry. You are here to find solace, and all I’ve done is provide you with a history lesson.”
“The truth will out,” I said.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“Nothing, just something . . .”
“I must admit I’m as excited by the ring as you are,” Father Jake said. “Let me copy down the markings. I will be delighted to investigate it for you. You never know, this ring may actually be an antique. It’s probably worth something.”
“Thank you Father,” I said.
“Come into the vestry. I’ll copy down the inscription off the ring, and you can give me your contact phone number and I can give you mine.”
I followed the priest.
“How exciting,” Father Jake said. “You never know where these things may lead.”