Eternity (v5) Page 16

  The remnants of adrenaline coursed through me. I al owed the remaining momentum to carry me away from the commercial thoroughfare into the far reaches of the campus. The crowds thinned as the students raced into classes, and I found myself in a little brick courtyard bordered by ivy-covered wal s. It was straight from a campus movie set, picture perfect—almost too perfect.

  The spot looked so inviting. A wrought-iron bench sat in one corner, under a weeping wil ow tree. I hadn’t slept the night before, and nothing in the world looked more enticing than that courtyard and that bench. I slowed my pace even more, strol ed over to the bench, and sat down.

  For the first few minutes, I just breathed in the calmness of the place and watched the students trickle into class. They reminded me of the feeling of belonging I’d experienced just before I’d glimpsed the possible Ezekiel or Michael, the brief fantasy I’d had about actual y being a Harvard student. I realized that the fleeting playacting might be the closest I would ever come to being a col ege student. How could someone like me—

  whatever I was—hope to move past al this drama and strangeness and go to col ege?

  I started crying. Pretty quickly, the trickle of tears turned into a torrent, and I was sobbing. Al I wanted was a normal life—a high school boyfriend, a good col ege, supportive parents, and nice friends. Instead, here I was, a sixteen-year-old girl, total y on my own—no parents or friends that I could contact, and certainly no boyfriend to speak of—trying to figure out what I was.

  Out of nowhere, a sweet-looking blond girl wearing a Harvard sweatshirt stood before me. She asked, “Are you al right? Can I get you anything?”

  Through my tears, I answered. “No, I’m fine. Thanks for asking.”

  Before I could offer her a seat, she sat down beside me. She didn’t actual y touch me, but her presence felt comforting. Almost as if she’d hugged me.

  “You know, when you are looking for answers, it is always best to start with the questions.”

  “Pardon me?” Her advice seemed an odd choice to offer a sobbing stranger on a col ege campus, even though her demeanor was otherwise soothing.

  She laughed a delightful, tinkly-sounding giggle. “I’m sorry. My friends are always accusing me of being obscure. Al I meant was that you look like you are struggling with some big issues. I always return to the questions when looking for answers to a tough problem. Then I start my research.”

  “I’m sure you’re right.”

  The girl smiled serenely and then handed me a tissue. Abruptly, she stood up and said, “Wel , I better run. I’m real y late for class.”

  After wiping away the rest of my tears so I appeared somewhat presentable, I looked up to thank her. But the girl had disappeared into the thicket of sidewalks and buildings surrounding the courtyard.

  Her words lingered, as did her pervading sense of calm. Maybe she was right. Maybe the answers lay in the questions themselves—in part, anyway. And maybe I should start researching the answers to those questions. After al , I was at Harvard, one of the research capitals of the world.

  I stopped the pity party, and real y homed in on my questions, the ones I’d scribbled down on the train ride. More than anything, I wanted to know who I was. I didn’t know whether I was a fal en angel, one of these Nephilim beings, or some creature related to the biblical stories. But I did know that I was important enough that two “good” fal en angels sacrificed their own immortality to raise me as their own daughter. I also knew that one of the “bad” fal en angels—Ezekiel—said that I was destined to rule at his side. I didn’t think his words were mere flattery; given his advanced gifts, Ezekiel could lure any number of people to join his ranks without hyperbole. Whatever I was, the stakes were high. And I needed to find out, to deal with Ezekiel.

  Only six hours left until I met Professor McMaster again. I would use the time to prepare—even arm myself—for the coming days.

  I left my peaceful little courtyard with reluctance, even though I welcomed the safety of the student crowds. When I final y reached the throngs in Harvard Square, I felt like I’d been tossed a life preserver.

  But then I saw that distinctive flash of platinum again. And I knew that evil lurked in the masses as wel as on deserted streets. Ezekiel was here, and he was taunting me.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  After consulting a guidebook, I decided to visit the Andover-Harvard Theological Library, on the northeast part of the campus. The guide described the library as containing a preeminent col ection of biblical research materials, one of the largest in the United States. If I was going to find helpful information on angels or other biblical creatures, I guessed the Andover-Harvard Theological Library would be the place.

  The directions from Harvard Square to the library were a little complicated, and I was more than a little distracted by any blond passersby. So it took me half an hour to get there, rather than the estimated fifteen minutes. I got more and more anxious with each step; the clock was ticking.

  Final y, I spotted the stone gothic building described in the guide: Andover Hal . The hal connected to a building of more modern design, and the library nestled between the two. Fol owing the map, I entered the hal through a center entrance under the gothic tower. I then started down a long hal way cal ed the cloister walk, which was lined in old stones and what looked like discarded church pews.

  At the very end of the cloister walk waited a closed door—the library entrance. I opened it with a deafening creak, and then busied myself with a lobby display while I waited for the circulation desk to become busy so I could sneak in. I had read that the library was used primarily by masters’

  and doctoral students and, while I might pass as a col ege freshman, posing as a graduate student was a major stretch.

  After skirting past the circulation desk and racing up a flight of stairs, I headed into the Houghton Reference Room. I sat at a computer dedicated to searching the library col ections, and placed my fingers on the keyboard. Where should I even begin? I typed in “fal en angels,” but got thousands of hits. So I narrowed my search to the unusual word my dad mentioned: Nephilim.

  A few matches flashed on the screen. Other than the Book of Genesis from the Bible—which I had expected—I saw entries for the Book of Enoch. What was that?

  I quickly scribbled down the reference number for the Book of Enoch and headed into the stacks. Along the way, I grabbed a copy of the Bible—

  an easy matter in a theological library—so I could look at that Genesis quote again. But finding the Book of Enoch was another matter altogether.

  The stacks were endless. And overwhelming. How would I ever find this crazy book and read it in my dwindling time?

  I must have looked lost, because a nice, but seriously nerdy-looking, student approached me. “Do you need some help?”

  I almost said no, but the passing of time nagged at me. I smiled at the bespectacled student, and said, “Thanks so much. I’m looking for a copy of the Book of Enoch. Do you have any idea where one might be?”

  “Al too wel . Fol ow me.”

  Silently, he led me down two flights of stairs. We entered the labyrinth of a different, larger set of stacks. Fol owing his lead, I turned right and left and right again. Until he came to dead halt. He reached up to a high shelf, plucked down a book, and handed it to me.

  The guy knew the book’s location so wel that I figured he must know something about its content. So I thanked him and whispered, “You certainly seem familiar with the Book of Enoch.”

  “I better be. Apocryphal Gospels are my area of focus.”

  “Apocryphal Gospels?”

  He looked at me a bit askance but answered cordial y enough. “Biblical books that were considered for inclusion in the Old or New Testament, but that never made it, never became part of the accepted canon. You’re not a divinity student, are you?”

  “No. Is it that obvious?”

  “Just a little.” He smiled.

  I smiled back. “Can you tel m
e anything about this Book of Enoch?”

  “Wel , it’s an apocryphal gospel that was written between 300 B.C. and the first century B.C. It is not part of the canon for most Christian churches, except the Ethiopian Christian Church. But many of the New Testament writers were familiar with it, and it is quoted in the New Testament Letter of Jude. These facts have given it some credence in certain experts’ minds.”

  “What’s it about?”

  “It’s about many things.”

  “Anything in particular?”

  “The Book elaborates on a passage from Genesis that deals with angels and Noah’s flood. It discusses the creation of the Nephilim, as they are sometimes cal ed—half angel and half man—and their destruction at the hands of a very angry God. Some say that their destruction was the impetus for Noah’s flood.” He pointed to a carrel jam-packed with books nearby. “I’m sitting just over there. Once you’ve read it, I’d be happy to try to answer any questions you have.”

  After thanking him profusely, I sat down in an empty carrel not too far away. I opened up the Bible and read the section of Genesis that my father had summarized. Although the language was dense, it told basical y the same story as my dad. I was just about to close the Bible up and open the Book of Enoch when I noticed a footnote at the end of the relevant Genesis section. It read, “The Nephilim were thought to have been a race of giants, whose superhuman strength was attributed to semi-divine origin. They were the legendary worthies of ancient mythology.” That sounded eerily familiar.

  Then I started on the Book of Enoch. Although most of the language was old-fashioned and real y hard to fol ow, one line toward the beginning was very clear:

  The fallen angels were in all two hundred, who descended . . . and these are the names of their leaders: Samyaza, Arakiba, Sariel, Rameel, Armaros, Kokabiel, Tamiel, Ramiel, Baraqijal, Azael, Daniel, Hananel, and Ezekiel.

  I froze at the sight of my parents’ names—and Ezekiel’s. This ancient biblical story was becoming more and more real.

  Tearing my eyes away from the list of fal en angels, I turned back to the story. In time, I got its archaic rhythm and began to parse together its tale.

  The Book told of al the wrong things the fal en angels did, the fury of God at the angels’ creation of the Nephilim, and God’s decision to bind the fal en angels to earth until the day of judgment. It sounded like the story my dad had told me, just a lot longer and lot harder to comprehend.

  Certain passages jumped out at me. For example, I kept noticing that the Book of Enoch sometimes cal ed the fal en angels “Watchers.” I remembered that my mom had cal ed Michael’s mom a “former watcher.” Were Michael’s parents fal en angels too?

  But I stil wasn’t sure what I was. The Book of Enoch bolstered my parents’ statements that I wasn’t a fal en angel; after al , they were fixed in number and listed right there in the text. The book also rejected the notion that I was a Nephilim; they’d al been kil ed in Noah’s flood from what I could tel . So the book hadn’t answered my core question. Maybe there was a whole other category of biblical creatures that I’d overlooked.

  I stopped by the carrel of the nice student who’d helped me. We chatted for a few minutes about the density of the ancient texts, and I thanked him again. I nearly reached the stairway when I thought of one last question and turned back.

  “Assuming that the creatures described in the Bible real y exist, would the Nephilim be around today? Or were they al kil ed in the flood?”

  He paused for a moment, and then said, “Actual y, at least one biblical expert maintains that a Nephilim wil return at a critical point in mankind’s existence—the end days.”

  “The end days?”

  “Yeah, the end days—or Judgment Day, as the concept is sometimes cal ed. They’re a turbulent time preceding the return of a Messianic figure who’l judge al earthbound creatures and shepherd in a heavenly reign. Al three of the Abrahamic religions—Christianity, Judaism, and Islam—

  contain this notion in some form.” He talked as if he were reading from a textbook.

  “And this expert thinks at least one Nephilim wil emerge around these end days?”

  “Yes. In fact, he believes the Nephilim is the creature referred to in the Book of Enoch as the ‘Elect One.’”

  Suddenly I remembered the predominance of that phrase throughout the book. And I also recal ed one of the last lines of the Book of Enoch. It stated that the Elect One wil lead at the end of time.

  I felt goose bumps on my arms.

  “Can you tel me the name of the expert who believes that the Nephilim wil return?”

  “Sure. His name is Professor Barr, and he’s a professor of Biblical Studies at Oxford University in England.”

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  The campus was growing dark, surprisingly dark for the time of day and the time of year. Almost as if the mere specter of Ezekiel cast a shadow on the whole of Harvard, blackening out any remaining daylight or the glow of the sunset. Or maybe it was just an il usion performed by Ezekiel for my benefit, like a storm cloud fol owing me wherever I went.

  As I approached Professor McMaster’s building, I scanned it and determined that it was largely empty. Classes were over for the day, so I guessed the malingerers were stray students and obsessed professors. I found the same staircase I’d taken that morning and walked up the two flights to the professor’s floor.

  Pushing open the heavy staircase door, I stepped out into the darkened hal way. The secretaries’ desk lights were off, and most of the professors’ offices were closed for the day. The walk down the corridor to Professor McMaster’s office seemed long, and I was relieved to see light peering out from under his closed door.

  I knocked on the door, al too aware of the tangle of locks that lay on the other side and al too cognizant of the unpleasantness of my earlier greeting. I got no response.

  The lights were on, but it was silent. I waited what seemed like an eternity. Had the professor had second thoughts?

  Bracing myself to knock again, I final y heard the unfastening of locks accompanied by an unexpectedly cheerful reception: “Please come in, Miss Faneuil.”

  The door creaked open, and Professor McMaster’s grinning face welcomed me in. His expression restored my hope. The thought fortified me. I smiled back and fol owed him inside.

  But what I saw when I stepped inside wiped the smile off my face. In the battered wooden guest chair sat a man with white-blond hair and piercing blue eyes: Ezekiel.

  No matter my horrified expression, Professor McMaster had smiles to spare. “Miss Faneuil, I have just been having the most intriguing conversation with your friend, Mister Ezekiel.”

  So, it was “my friend, Mister Ezekiel” now, was it? I had sensed him and Michael in Harvard Square, but I didn’t expect to see him here. After al , he had instructed Michael to wait until I came to them. Why I had any faith in the assurances of evil itself, I don’t know.

  Ezekiel gave me his sickening smile. Using his most polite tone, he said, “Hel o, El speth. We’ve been looking forward to your arrival.”

  “I wish I could say the same.”

  Ezekiel ignored my snide remark, and the professor seemed not to hear it at al . He was too fixated on Ezekiel, who said, “I’ve been tel ing Professor McMaster al about the interesting link between the fal en angels mentioned in Genesis and the birth of the vampire mythology.”

  Turning away from Ezekiel in disgust and fear, I caught a glimpse of the professor’s face. His eyes positively shined with excitement at the prospect of studying the true origins of the vampire legend and sharing his discovery with the world; it would be the pinnacle of his life’s work. At that moment, I saw in the professor the same unquenchable thirst for knowledge that I’d seen in the young Istvan Laszlof’s face, a thirst that caused him to take enormous risks then with his life. And now, he was unwittingly risking his soul, as Ezekiel was determined to turn him toward the darkness.

  I stared over at Ezekiel,
who smirked knowingly behind the professor’s back. He had no intention of ever al owing the professor to divulge the truth behind the vampire legends; keeping the myth alive was one of his most useful weapons. But Ezekiel needed the professor, and he knew that this link between vampires and angels—paired with his formidable powers of persuasion—would sway Professor McMaster toward the darkness.

  And away from the light of helping me.

  As I stood by helplessly, Ezekiel continued with his campaign to procure the professor.

  “As I was saying, a most fascinating case presented itself in Til inghast, Maine. One winter in the late 1800s, five of the fourteen children of a prominent farming family, the Stuckleys, suffered from tuberculosis. The family patriarch, Ezra, witnessed strange beings hovering around the first four of these five children on the eves of their deaths. So he watched over his pitiable fifth child, determined that these beings would not torment his sweet Honour. Unfortunately, one evening, he fel asleep during his vigil. He awoke to the horrific sight of a winged being drinking from the neck of his poor dying Honour—drinking her blood, that is. The creature fled when Ezra discovered him, but it was too late for Honour. You see, Professor, the creature was no vampire. It was one of the fal en angels I mentioned, cal ed Daniel. But even angels have an insatiable thirst for blood. Hence, the legend.”

  I felt sick. My parents had mentioned an earlier visit to Til inghast. Could they have been involved in this Stuckley incident? I knew firsthand the powerful lure of blood. Or was Ezekiel just baiting me? More than likely, my parents had been there, trying to help bring the dying over to God.

  As Professor McMaster listened to this nugget of history, his expression changed from mere excitement to utter devotion, and I knew Ezekiel had him. Watching as Ezekiel utilized his skil s on the professor made me unexpectedly sympathetic to Michael. Ezekiel’s talents were almost irresistible—to anyone but me, it seemed. Maybe Michael was more susceptible than I. Maybe his betrayal of me wasn’t a matter of free wil .