After the brazen attack on Israel, the Antichrist’s shadow grows.
Emery Merrick stands horrified as the Antichrist launches an international coup that will change the course of humanity forever. Rhyme Carter faces the fight of her life to escape the clutches of her evil husband, the FBI, and a secret society hellbent on world domination.
In a race against time, Book III in the superlative, multi-award winning, Ages of Malice series continues the saga of a downtrodden journalist enlisted to write the biography of a madman.
What Emery and Rhyme have failed to stop now grows unchecked as Cain threatens to solidify his dominance for all time.
From BookLife Elite author, Lloyd Jeffries, Embers of Shadow will keep you on the edge of your seat long after the incredible, mind-blowing climax.
Can mere mortals outwit the Antichrist to stop the coming apocalypse?
Can Rhyme Carter escape her pursuers and enlist the aid of surprising allies?
Can Emery break free from an evil that predicts every turn?
Embers of Shadow: What hath God wrought?
Experience the epic you won't soon forget!
“The entire Ages of Malice series is worth devouring every word...will send shocks…unpredictable and gape-worthy.” – Rachel Dehning, Reader Views
Maryland, United States
Bill nods and stifles a yawn.
The pastor’s face is red; spit flies as he shouts.
Bill likes church. The dynamics, the music, the things he learns. The problem with church is you can only take so much.
The dude’s mostly wrong about everything.
“The end is coming!” the preacher screams.
Comments follow. “Amen!” “Preach!”
Then dude asks for money, lists a litany of reasons to give. “It’s your duty as a Christian.” “God’s work costs.” “Cast your bread upon the water. Soon it will come back with every wave.”
Bill thinks of bread, thinks of seagulls, thinks of PB&J’s. The offering plate comes and he passes it along. He has no need for money and carries none. He doesn’t notice the looks from those around him.
Finally, the service ends, and Bill moves through the parishioners. “Hi, Bill,” a man says. “Come for dinner?” Bill shakes his head, anxious to be home with his books. The sanctuary is hot from the relentless heat of the past week. He unbuttons his suit, runs a hand through shoulder-length hair.
He squeezes through parishioners. Hears talk about pies baked, prayers granted.
Wishes, he thinks, supplications. Foolishness.
Do these people know anything about God?
Have they ever considered their fates lie in their own hands?
Have they taken the time to research, to gain knowledge, to learn what exists is based on everything that existed prior? “No man is an island,” Hemingway said, “but a part of the main.”
People think history started the day they were born but give no consideration to its end. Never a thought to the vastness of time, the fullness of humanity and its time on this planet. No thought given to what’s come before, how that shapes events today.
Too self-centered, he thinks. Too interested in pie and supplication.
Outside, he turns from the concrete walkway, then moves across a quaint, manicured lawn. Children play here, try to climb a broad oak while boosting each other and chasing in circles.
“Hi, Bill.” Priscilla, a tiny girl with dark curls, smiles as other children gather behind her. “Can you do your trick?”
Bill rubs a dry eye. “Does anyone else want to see it?”
“Yes!” they cry.
“I haven’t done it in a while,” he says. “Hope it works.”
Kneeling by the tree, he holds out his hand and makes kissing sounds. He spins a walnut, glances up as children beam with expectation.
A squirrel chatters, then scampers down the tree and up his arm. Its tail swishes like a feather as it snatches the nut. Shell shavings fall as it gnaws.
The children cheer, move close.
“Careful,” he says. “Don’t scare him.”
They quiet, move around the tree, take turns stroking the rodent’s ample fur.
The squirrel gnaws unphased. It swishes its tail, makes a small squeak. Another scampers down and soon four squirrels happily munch walnuts while kids pet and coo.
“How many nuts do you have?” Priscilla asks.
“None.”
“How many did you bring?”
“None.”
She looks at him for a long moment, then something dawns in her eyes. “You’re a nut, Bill.”
Bill leans close and whispers, “We all are, sweet Priscilla.”
A drop of sweat drips from his forehead. Then, the toot of a horn as a limo pulls in front of the broad, white church.
“Be nice to these animals or next week they won’t come back.”
The children nod, solemn expressions on innocent faces.
Priscilla gives him a hug. “See you next week?”
“Of course.”
He moves through the grass, down a sidewalk to the waiting car.
The driver smiles and hands him a joint. “We have to go, Bill. Cain called, said it’s urgent. Said no stops, no lunch. Said, ‘Just get him here ASAP.’”
Bill sparks the joint, then puffs a white cloud into the day’s sun. “May as well,” he says, then snickers. “That dude’s always panicking about something.”
As the limo pulls off, he doesn’t notice the contemptuous stares from the gathered parishioners
***
Near Washington, D.C.
Incoming…
The word blinks as electric turquoise floods his wrinkled face in a dusky jade glow. Above, a fluorescent light flickers, makes his head ache.
This contract should provide the money to disappear forever.
On the screen, pixelated letters: high priority. Female, 34, murder, treason, espionage. Last seen heading northwest from D.C. Approach with caution. Armed and extremely dangerous. Apprehend alive.
An icon appears, gets clicked. Then, an image starts to form.
He props his feet on the cheap desk, feels it shift under the weight. Panel walls surround, an arsenal on dust-covered ivory. Three Glocks, two shotguns, assault rifles, flashbangs, hand grenades, knives, tactical flashlights, body armor.
Think I’ll take the big boy.
The rifle feels heavy, solid, deadly. He pulls the bolt; clean, dry and serviceable. Smooth. Ready. The sniper’s choice, Barrett M82, made to reach out and ruin your day.
This should be fun, if the demons stay away.
Let’s see: ammo, cold weather gear, silencer, poncho, double Glocks, MRE’s; what the hell, a shotgun never hurts. His chuckle sounds joyless. His mouth feels dry. The computer’s fan thrums at high speed. The room’s hot. Need to install that vent. He sighs, glances at the computer.
Her image fills the outdated screen.
Auburn hair cascades. Her smile twinkles like she’s up to something.
And those eyes. Like a cat’s, glowing, feminine emeralds holding a tint of mischief, a touch of mystery.
High priority.
Apprehend alive.
This will be fun.
***
16 A.D.
Misthli (Modern Day Turkey)
He races the wind, sweat streaming from dark locks.
She wasn’t home, wasn’t in the marketplace.
She’d never leave without saying goodbye.
He thinks of his father as strong legs propel him up the winding road. The glade is the only place left. Their secret, the only other place he can think of.
He veers down a rugged path through tall grasslands.
A spear whistles by, misses by a foot. He twists his head to find his pursuers. Gwenna’s father, Dorman. His own father, Archelaus. Sephus, the miserable liar and his sly deeds, never good with a spear or at pankration.
Longinus pushes beyond his limit, forces his body forward, past exhaustion, head spinning as the sun scorches.
Galloping horses grow close.
He plunges into the wood, too thick for the horses. They’ll have to dismount to catch him. Doesn’t matter now that they’ll know of the secret glade.
All that matters is Gwenna.
Branches scratch as sunlight splinters maple, sycamore, laurel.
Then, the broad trunk with the dark knot, as big as his torso.
Glancing over his shoulder, he stoops, stumbles through thorny branch and bramble.
Gwenna lies waiting.
He races to her, lifts her head, feels something tickle his skin.
“Gwenna! Gwenna?”
Blood covers his arm.
A dagger drops from her hand.
Lifeless eyes bore into him.
His head buzzes. Breath catches as he presses lips to her forehead. “No, no, no.” The word drips from his mouth, razes heart and hopes to burnt husks.
His father moves close, then kneels beside him and lays a hand on his shoulder. “She’s taken her own life.”
Dorman, her father, drops beside, pries her from Longinus’s grip. Eyes flare rage as a dark beard twitches. “This was you!”
Longinus stands, faces them, fists clenched.
Then Sephus stands before him, sixteen years old, same as Longinus.
A spear presses Longinus’s chest. “It be the gallows for ye.”
Despair rends his heart. He moves without thought.
Then Sephus lies, spear rising from his chest.
Dorman lunges, is intercepted by Archelaus.
The grunts of struggle, prized bulls doing battle.
Then Dorman lies, huge hands having choked his life.
Archelaus spins and grasps his shoulders. “Run, boy! Toward Rome. To return is death!”
He hears the sounds, other pursuers searching the wood.
Strong arms enwrap and hold him close. “You’re strong and brave. I’ll find you in Rome. Go now!”
Longinus glances toward the wood, hears voices close.
“Go!” Archelaus whispers. “Be silent. Don’t come back. I’ll find you.”
Their eyes meet, then his father slips a dagger from his sheath and kneels beside the dead men.
Longinus stalks away. He knows these woods like his father’s face.
Tears flow. Hands tremble.
Gwenna.
My love.
Chapter One
Church of the Transfiguration
Mount Tabor, Israel
As Longinus sleeps, I take the time to explore the grounds. And fix up, of course. The church seems no worse for wear as I stare from an ancient stone sidewalk and relive the prior day’s events.
Even if I wrote an article for the Times, no one would believe me. A junkie reporter has-been making up stories to garner the good graces of the HR department and notoriously picky editors.
But the events happened, and I was at their center.
I just can’t wrap my mind around them.
To my left, tall trees offer charred trunks and crackled leaves to the burning sun as if hoping to gain a semblance of healing.
What happened here was epic, lending new meaning to the term of biblical proportions.
Longinus was transformed before my eyes. Or, to stick with the theme of this place, he’d transfigured. Had become his giant self to wield the spear and decimate an army the likes of which, I’m certain, has never before been seen on the planet. Enormous, fantastical, awesome.
Again, I think biblical.
The use of such cliches sends my mind wandering, the familiar struggle to find the right word and express that which I witnessed and survived. Only cliches remain these days, language kidnapped by younger generations, then beaten into the ground like the proverbial plowshare. Now, all words are overused, lack impact. No longer have the ability to describe a scene that’s truly awe inspiring.
But at least the rain’s stopped, replaced by a sweltering heat uncommon for this time of year. Sweat drips from my hair, makes my shirt sticky and transparent. White’s a bad color for days like this.
I move toward the church, look for someone from the Franciscan order. I’d seen one of them earlier, moving quickly, too far away to catch. I try to think of the appropriate term. Father, padre, senõr, brother, all equal possibilities, and all probably wrong. I hope not to offend when I finally gain an audience.
It’s not like they can be that busy today. The road up here has been sealed off by Israeli security forces, and if I have to guess, I’d say Cain is probably responsible for the whole debacle. I’ll wager he probably put the wheels in motion in order to bring some plan to fruition.
But why the attack? The airplanes bore emblems of different nations, only one of which I recognized: Russia.
I’m sure once I speak to Cain, all these things will be explained as he’s too vain to not take credit. Too vain to not tell me how he’s engineered it all.
All serve at the pleasure of the gloved man, words truer now than when I’d first heard them.
I close my eyes, inhale, try to will my body cool. A voice behind me breaks my thoughts. “Hot today.”
I turn to find the subject of my search, Father Papadopoulos, the priest we’d encountered when we’d first set foot up here. The padre that seemed so bothered by my inability to become a mountain goat and traverse the church’s roof.
Intelligence burns through blue eyes, portrays depths of thought both wise and inquisitive. Long brown robes flow to the ground as open-toed sandals jut from beneath.
“Too hot for me.” I shake his hand. “I thought I was in Israel, not Africa.”
He laughs, glances around the place. “How are you feeling after all of that?”
I consider the question, survey my mind and body. “No worse for wear it seems. Mostly lucky to be alive.”
He steps close, lowers his head. “You think luck had some sway in your fate. Interesting.” He casts a glance to the sky as if expecting another swarm of enemy aircraft. Then, he chuckles as if I don’t get something. “I fear you’re mixed up in an apocalypse,” he says. “Thought I’d ask if you know that already.”
I try to look pleasant as his gaze burns into me, as I try to guess his connection to Cain. “I’m starting to get a clue,” I say. “If you have the time, Father, I have a few questions.”
“Friar,” he says, “or Brother, whichever you prefer. Although I’m called Father frequently, I’m not. Well, anymore.”
I like the man, straightforward, his tone gentle, as if speaking to a child and guiding them to enlightenment.
“Of course,” I say, “my apologies.”
He waves a hand. “Come, let’s get out of the heat. Beneath these robes is a tsunami of sweat, and I fear if we tarry, we’ll both be swept away.”
I laugh, then follow as he turns down the path toward the L-shaped building to my right. I remember passing this building on my way to the church, remember thinking it probably held dorm rooms or offices.
A painted door opens on greased hinges, and he motions me through. The place is shielded from the day’s heat but only partially. There’s no cool caress of conditioned air as we enter. The place seems to lack such an appliance, or it was destroyed in the attack. Still, it’s cooler in here and feels good.
He moves up a long hall adorned with crucifixes and pictures of the members of his order. Beneath each is a caption announcing their names and from where they hail.
“We’ll talk in my quarters,” he says. “I hope that’s comfortable for you.” He opens another door, and we enter a small room, void of décor. A single cot presses against a whitewashed wall. A pitcher of water drips condensation on a small end stand. Next to that, a small white basin made of some sort of metal, chipped in places, well-used. There’s a single chair to my left. Nothing fancy, just four legs and a back rest, no cushion.
He moves to the cot, sits, slides his sandals off. “I hope you don’t mind. Lately, they’ve been a nuisance.”
I grin. “How does one pronounce your name again?”
Eyes twinkle as he regards me. “It doesn’t matter. Most people just call me Pappy.”
“Pappy?”
“Yes, short for Papadopoulos. Greek. You’d think I’d be Greek orthodox.” He chuckles, runs a hand over the sweat on his temple, through thinning salt-and-pepper hair. He holds my eyes, examines them for a moment, then rises and moves to the pitcher where he pours water into a red plastic cup and offers it to me. “Thirsty?”
“Yes, thank you.” I accept the liquid, feel the coolness slide over my tongue and down my throat. It’s as if I can feel the furnace in my body lower a few degrees. “I really needed that.”
“My pleasure,” he says. “You’ve been through a lot.”
I glance out the room’s lone window. It’s small, rectangular, makes the room appear more prison cell than the living quarters of a holy man. “Father,” I say, “er, I mean, Brother, um, Pappy, I was hoping perhaps you could explain to me just what the…” I start to say hell but correct myself. “What in the world happened? I can’t wrap my mind around it. It’s just, it’s just too, um, superhero. Too action movie. Too hyperbolic, I guess, to really absorb with any type of intelligent thought.”
“Yes, my son, a lot to digest.” He raises a finger, then glances at the room’s small window. “I’m reminded of a saying: There’s no such thing as extraordinary men. Only ordinary men, made extraordinary by circumstance. Have you ever heard that?”
I glance at my empty cup. “I haven’t.”
“It’s been on my mind the last few weeks as I see God’s hand in recent events. The times are hardly normal, and I fear extraordinary people are needed.” He stares at his bare feet. “But for what purpose? That’s the real mystery. It’s obvious God’s with us in a special way. There’s no greater evidence than your friend, who not only saved all of us, but the entire country. If Cain wouldn’t have sent him, I’m afraid we’d all be dead.”
“About that,” I say, “what’s your relationship to Cain? How do you know him?”
“He’s a parishioner, one of my flock. Comes here quite often and sits in the third row. Just shows up, sits in quiet meditation. Never attends services, though. No matter how many times I ask, his response is always the same…”
“That is well beneath me.”
His laugh reminds me of Santa Claus, hearty, full, loud. “Exactly!” He points a finger at me. “That’s what he always says. I see you know him quite well.”
It’s my turn to laugh. “I’m afraid I don’t. He’s the original enigma. Just when you think you know him, he changes to something else.”
I think to tell him my true thoughts. Think to speak my belief that Cain is evil incarnate. That the malice dwelling in his soul can’t be contained or channeled. That the man cares nothing for anyone. Has proven time and again that he cares not at all for humanity or its plight, cares very little for Earth’s inhabitants whether human, animal, or plant. I think to tell him how the man has his own agenda and works for nothing save that.
Brother Pappy regards me patiently, so unlike the man I’d first encountered up here.
“In truth,” I finally say, “I’ve concluded nothing about Cain.”
Pappy leans forward and props his elbows on his knees. “He’s been a generous benefactor for our order, but I get the feeling he’s a man with other, let’s say, frustrations. Like he carries a weight far greater than what an ordinary man can manage. My instincts tell me he has an important role to play. One I fear will be to the detriment of the faithful and to the world as a whole.”
I press my lips shut. I’ve barely met this friar and have no idea if I’m being baited or if what I say will return to Cain’s ears.
He doesn’t seem to notice as he rises, refills my cup, and returns to the cot where he leans back and clasps his hands behind his head. His next words are spoken in a sigh, spoken with a detached tone as if just an off-hand statement. “I fear the end times have found us.”
His eyes flick up, a look that says he’s assessing my current level of sanity.
“You don’t seem surprised?” he says.
“I’ve heard worse,” I say. Unlike Pappy, I have the advantage of knowing his reasoning is completely accurate. That Cain is, indeed, singularly focused on clanging the chimes that call the apocalypse to dinner. I’m hit by an urge to tell him the truth, seized with the notion to just spill my guts and tell all I know.
The man before me is pious. Judging by the way he lives, the way he serves, the possessions in his room: Bible, water pitcher, ewer, plastic cups, robes and sandals. The man certainly lives his oath of poverty.
He grasps his Bible from the small table, caresses it with his hand, then opens and flips through the pages.
“You mentioned you have a theory,” I say. “Care to share?”
He searches my eyes once more, his face solemn, sizing me up, probably making the same calculations about how much he can say and what I’ll tell Cain. He glances toward the door, then the window, and I wonder if he thinks Spiderman’s out there eavesdropping.
He waves a hand. “You’re just humoring an old man.”
“No sir. I’m a reporter. Asking questions and exploring people’s thoughts are part of my DNA.”
His expression is serious as he considers my words. “You might not be able to handle it,” he says. “But I have compelling evidence.”
“Do tell.”
He waits a few seconds, glances at his Bible, then sighs. “As you wish.”
He clears his throat before he starts, slides a hand through thinning hair. “I believe the attack your friend repelled is the opening of Revelation’s second seal.” He speaks like telling a secret, hushed and low. “This belief is not popular with my order.”
What his order considers popular is the least of my concerns. The words he’d just spoke, the second seal of Revelation, has my mind spinning. I feel a bit embarrassed as I realize I know very little about Revelation and its interpretations, despite having actually met the work’s author, John the Apostle.
“What?” is all I can manage. Not very reporter-like, but as always, my brain’s a bit distracted by the chemicals I’d injected earlier.
“I can prove it,” he whispers and leans forward. “Revelation speaks of the opening of the second seal. Something John saw while exiled on Patmos. A divine vision, inspired, prophetic.” He holds up the Bible. “This is a road map. Look no further than this and it’s all right in front of you. For centuries people have guessed at it, assigned certain major world events as the start of the end times. The Black Plague, the World Wars, Hiroshima. Fact is, they’ve made mistakes and, to a person, have been wrong. You see, they’ve always taken things literally or failed to connect clues in a sensible way. Throughout history a dizzying number of men have been called the Antichrist. Endless volumes exist on Revelation’s interpretation and true meaning.” He nods as he talks, becomes animated, voice rising above a whisper. “Fools, the lot of them. They read the work and see only the words but never consider the mind of God, God’s true intent. Hmm? It’s not so difficult to comprehend if one’s willing to spend the thought energy.”
“Know the mind of God,” I say. “So, you must have it figured out?”
“Hardly!” His laughter rises to a drop ceiling flecked with red. “But when you think about it, I think it comes into view. Just as God intended.
“He created us, knows what we’re capable of understanding, what we’re capable of working out. He also knows that people will claim some divine knowledge of His plan for no other reason than to gain glory for themselves. I mean, who could know human nature better than the creator of humans?”
He looks at me for two ticks, then stands and starts to pace, talking to himself, expressing thoughts as they go through his head. “I saw the army attack, grander than anything I’ve ever seen. Today should be Israel’s first day in history’s waste basket. Another failed civilization wiped away by its enemies. Yet, here we are. Yet, standing we remain. Our attackers are decimated, utterly defeated. By your friend. Using a relic of Biblical power. Don’t you see the miracle? The road sign pointing to the next destination? It’s so obvious, it might as well be flashing neon. No other explanation is possible. The second seal has been opened in accordance with Revelation’s sixth chapter. Peace will be taken from the Earth. The red horse of the apocalypse.” He raises a finger. “People think an actual red horse is going to gallop through the heavens, shouting words to all on the Earth.
“But they’re wrong. You see, John saw the vision in a certain way. God used symbolism John could understand to make His point. I mean, can you imagine looking up and seeing a huge red horse sprinting across the sky, its rider waving a giant sword in the air? Does anyone believe God works like that? We were made in God’s image, an intelligent creation. Oh, what a piece of work is man. How noble in reason, how infinite in faculty. Shakespeare got it, wrote it down. That’s how God made us, smart enough to put two and two together.” Bright eyes regard me and flare beneath unkempt eyebrows. “No, yesterday was more than an attack, my boy, and if I’m right, and the second seal is opened, we’re all in big trouble.”
I watch the friar. Each sentence causes a torrent of questions to flood my mind, scores of them. I start to speak, but become tongue tied as my brain struggles between the effects of my drugs and which question to ask first.
Then my vision fills with the friar’s face, six inches from mine. Bright eyes gleam beneath a hedge of eyebrow. Passionate eyes, full of knowledge, worry, even indignation. They radiate intelligence, decry the speed at which Brother Pappy’s intellect operates.
His next words halt the tumult in my head, render me silent as if I’ve lost my voice box.
“I believe our friend Cain is the Antichrist.”