The Djinn Read online

  The baron weighed his next few words carefully. After all, despair was a powerful motivator. If the Essene discovered that Gregory’s assault on his village had been unsuccessful…if he learned that his people were still safe and that he’d been unable to acquire Solomon’s ring…well, Gregory could not allow that to happen.

  The baron cleared his throat. “Tell me…these golems that I’ve discovered. They’re inert. Inanimate. If someone were to stumble upon them without the Seal, would there be any way to activate them? To bind them to their will?”

  The nomad pondered this for several seconds in silence. He shifted his weight to one leg, then back to the other in a futile attempt to make himself more comfortable.

  “That would be a very difficult thing to do indeed,” Ibrihim finally spoke. Gregory thought he caught the slightest trace of a smile play across his lips and he wondered if he’d revealed too much with his question. “Granted, the ring itself isn’t essential to reviving these creatures. After all, the Breath of God was sent into them by the power of the ring when they were first created. So on the one hand, a person wouldn’t need it to animate them. They’d simply need to wake them up.” The nomad coughed and a gelatinous string of blood spewed from his lips. “I thirst.”

  Gregory forced the irritation at the interruption away and nodded to Gerard. The mercenary strode across the cell, plunged a wooden cup into a vat of water and brought it over to their prisoner.

  “You may quench your thirst after.”

  Ibrihim nodded his understanding and continued with a dry, ragged voice. “Your issue with the existing golems is not bringing them back to life, but rather wresting control from their creator.”

  “But the wife of Solomon has been dead thousands of years. Surely her influence on them is no more.”

  The Essene shook his head. “It matters not how long she’s lain in the grave. She created them and gave them instructions they never fulfilled. The moment they are raised, they will resume their dark task with dispassionate efficiency.” He paused again for another coughing fit, then continued. “It won’t matter that you are the one who revived them. They recognize only one voice. Rakeesha’s. As far as I know, there is only one way to establish your control over them.”

  “The ring?”

  “The Seal is only needed to create new golems. It cannot establish control over the golems already created.” The prisoner shook his head once more. “No, if that was the case, would Solomon himself not have used it to bring their reign of terror to an end?”

  “Then how?”

  “As I said before, it’s no easy matter. The way to revive them into your own mastery is a dark path. One that Solomon himself refused to take, though he no doubt knew he could do it.”

  Gregory growled with frustration. “Just spit it out, man!”

  “Blood.” The nomad bowed his head as he said the word, as if resigning himself to a nightmarish fate. “The creatures will awaken to the blood of a sacrifice. A human sacrifice.”

  The room was silent for several heartbeats until Gerard spoke up.

  “Then we have no problem. We can easily sacrifice the prisoner. Kill two birds with one stone, so to speak,” he said with a hyena-like grin.

  “And you will doom yourselves,” the nomad said stoically. “True, my blood would awaken them, but it wouldn’t give you power over them. For that, the sacrifice would have to be special. Dangerous.”

  “What do you mean? Dangerous?” Gregory asked, a lump swelling in his throat.

  “The sacrifice would have to be a true gamble. High risk,” Ibrihim said, a slight smile returning to his nightmarish face. “If you want to have power over the golems, then you must first sacrifice a person who has power over you.”

  The baron stared at Ibrihim for several seconds, unsure of what to say or do next. The revelation had nearly knocked the wind from his lungs. There were not many within the Outremer who could claim authority over him. Not many to choose for this sacrifice as the Essene described. And no matter who he chose, it would indeed be a most dangerous affair. If the ritual did not work, he would be left impotent…defenseless. If he chose to go down this path, there truly could be no turning back.

  Gregory looked over at Gerard and nodded. “Loosen our guest’s bindings. See to it that he is fed and comfortable for his service to us this day.”

  The mercenary gave him a puzzled expression. “Sir? I don’t understand.”

  “It’s simple, Captain. Our friend Ibrihim will need his strength if he’s going to help us with the rites necessary to awaken the golems. I want him as content as we can possibly make him.”

  The nomad looked up at his captor, his eyes wide. “Help you? With the ritual? I never said anything about helping you kill another man.”

  The baron, who had already decided on the perfect candidate for the sacrifice, smiled broadly. “Of course,” he said, as turned around and headed toward the cell doors. He had many preparations to make before his dinner meeting with Monsignor Tertius and Al-Dula later that evening. “It is, after all, the means to your own freedom.”

  ****

  “Enough, Gregory!” The Vatican priest slammed his fist against Gregory’s oak dining table. Mugs of wine and ale tumbled over, their contents cascading over the edge. If Gregory had been a superstitious man, or even remotely religious, he would have believed Monsignor Tertius capable of bringing down fire from heaven to consume him. As it was, the little priest’s outrage was a mere tickle in the back of the baron’s throat. “His Grace will not stand for it. It’s witchcraft of the highest order. You cannot seriously be contemplating this.”

  “Don’t listen to him!” shouted Al-Dula, equally enraged. “We had a deal, Baron De L’Ombre. Do not forget it. Those creatures in that vault would give me the edge I need to overthrow Saladin once and for all…to establish my caliphate as is my birthright. I don’t care how much your Pontiff will disapprove!”

  “Blasphemy!” Tertius roared. “Lord Gregory, do you hear the foul poison your heathen guest is spewing?”

  Gregory’s smile never faded as he sauntered through his dining hall, hands clasped behind his back, as if in deep thought. The fools. How simple minded…how short sighted were these men he’d invited into his confidence. Actually, neither would be pleased with what he truly planned for Solomon’s golems. He would undoubtedly be betraying both men before this affair was over.

  The Holy See had commissioned this entire expedition. The Pope, seeking a means to increase his own floundering influence among the nobles, had nearly tripped on his own robes to provide the finances for Gregory’s excavation when he’d heard those silly stones he was so obsessed with might still be underneath Jerusalem.

  Al-Dula, likewise, had been only too eager to lend his own unique resources to the venture.

  Neither, of course, would receive what had been promised. Once Gregory came into the possession of the book and reacquired Solomon’s elusive ring, he would no longer have need of these contemptuous alliances he’d forged. He’d have little need of anything else from that point on, actually. After all, with an entire army of clay automatons at his beck and call, no one on earth would be able to oppose him—lose one soldier, and he need only sculpt another from the dirt of the ground.

  Of course, for now, it was essential he keep at least one of his allies happy. The other would not leave this dining hall a happy man in the slightest, but nothing could be done about it. In order for his plans to succeed, he would need to sever all ties to one of them. The other would soon join his predecessor and Gregory would finally be able to savor the sweet fragrance of ultimate victory.

  Spinning around to face his challengers, his smile broadened. “Gentlemen, gentlemen…I assure you…I have considered every possibility in this matter. It is the only way for his Grace and for you, Al-Dula, to embrace what has been sought for so long. Security here in the Outremer.”

  “His Holiness couldn’t care less about this wretched wasteland or its security, Gregor
y,” said Tertius. “He sent you here for one purpose. To find the holy relics that would establish his own security among the gentry. You have failed him miserably and you try to make up for it by bringing me these…these abominations?”

  “Abominations? Abominations! Oh, trust me Tertius, these creatures represent the true nature of the gods,” Gregory said, his smile suddenly wavering with irritation. “Mankind finally breaking away from the shackles of religion and realizing their own, true potential. The creation of life itself!”

  The priest moved around the table and squared up against Gregory. One long, thin finger prodded the baron against his chest.

  “You dare to blaspheme against your God? Such words could have you excommunicated from the Church. We’ve long known about, and consequentially, tolerated your atheism. But make no mistake…we have the power to strip you of your title, land, and influence. Be mindful of your next few words, Baron.”

  Gregory looked down at the priest’s finger, still pressed against his chest, then gently brushed it aside with a smile.

  “Very well. Let me try to choose my next few words as carefully as I can, then,” he said, his face suddenly turning frigid. “Guards. Arrest him.”

  Instantly, the six mercenaries hovering in each corner of the room converged on Tertius and threw him to the floor. Iron shackles appeared as if from nowhere and slid over the priest’s wrists in a frenzy of motion.

  “What? What is the meaning of this?” Monsignor Tertius howled, his face planted firmly on the stone floor. “Release me at once!”

  The baron’s smug grin returned as he crouched down to meet the baffled priest’s gaze. “I’m sorry, Tertius. I’m afraid I’m going to have forego our rather tenuous partnership. But have no fear. Your role in this historic endeavor isn’t over…and to be honest, it is one of the greatest importance. Trust me. You’ll be remembered for years to come for the…sacrifice…you’re about to make.” He stood up, dusted his robes off, then looked at Gerard. “You can’t take him to the dungeon. No one must know what we’ve done until the rites are performed.”

  “I’ll take him to the safehouse near the Jaffa Gate. He should be safe from prying eyes there,” the mercenary captain said. And without another word, the priest was led from the room.

  Al-Dula stared in disbelief at his host. “What is going on?”

  The baron waved the question off with the flick of the wrist. “Nothing for you to worry about. A necessary evil, I assure you. And one that benefits you greatly, I might add.”

  The Saracen glanced over at his hashshashin cleric, who stood motionless against the southern wall of the room, then turned back to Gregory. His thick, dark fingers stroked the course hairs of his beard nervously. “I’m not sure I like that answer very much. You betray the Vatican now. How do I know I can trust you not to do the same with me when it is convenient?”

  Gregory was growing weary of the entire discussion. If not for the silent figure of Emir, the baron would have physically removed the obstinate Saracen from his presence. As things were, Lord Gregory forced on the best smile he could muster and walked over to Al-Dula.

  “My dear friend, the truth of the matter is…you can’t. But the other side of that same truth is that you really have no choice. Soon, a golem army will be mine to command and I will use them how I see fit. If you wish to benefit from this, you will simply have to learn to trust me.”

  The Saracen’s scowl was sharper than any sword. He hadn’t liked that answer at all. Good. Let him fret. He was right not to trust the baron. After all, Gregory De L’Ombre had no intention of allowing any Caliph to rule once he had his army.

  11

  Al-Dula’s feet crunched on the pebbled walkway that led from Gregory’s chateau; his face a mask of stoic calm despite the rage simmering inside from the meeting he’d just had with the baron.

  “So, Emir, do you know what you must do?” asked the Saracen to his silent companion as they strode onto the darkened streets of the northern sector of Jerusalem.

  “Of course, my lord.”

  “The Westerner cannot be allowed to have his army.”

  The hashshashin, arms folded in front of him, looked up into the night sky. There was no moon. No source of light at all, but Al-Dula could swear that Emir’s lithe frame cast a dark shadow along the ground. A shiver rippled down his back.

  “As I said…I know what must be done,” Emir said.

  “Good. Very good.”

  Gregory was a fool among Western fools. His ambitions ate away at the veneer he worked so tirelessly to project—he was as transparent as Spanish glass. Al-Dula had no intentions of keeping his end of the bargain with the baron. He’d rather die than to allow that pompous jackal to succeed with his schemes.

  “And what of this djinn, Emir? What shall we do about this?”

  The hashshashin stopped walking and turned to Abdul ibn Al-Dula. His eyes burned with savage intensity.

  “Be careful, my lord,” Emir hissed, “of speaking of this creature so freely. The djinni are not to be taken lightly. They are spirits—both good and evil—with powers beyond anything we can comprehend.”

  “Surely, you don’t believe such tales? You’re a holy man.”

  “It is because I am a ‘holy man,’ as you say, that I do take such stories seriously.”

  The Saracen had to admit the tales of this djinn’s exploits had rattled him. Such myths were engrained in the minds of all those who follow the Prophet. The djinni and their kin had been around for as long as there was life—intervening in the history of mankind for better or ill. As Al-Dula had grown up, such stories were forgotten or discounted as legends. But now he wasn’t so sure. The things they said about the creature…he shuddered at the thought.

  “Still,” Al-Dula continued, “if this spirit creature interferes, what can be done?”

  The hashshashin continued walking, moving in front of the Saracen. It was his way of showing the warlord that he was by no means Emir’s superior.

  “There are ways…ways of dealing with such creatures.”

  “Like?”

  “The Ring of Aandaleeb is said to have the power to bind a spirit to the wearer’s will.”

  “The same ring that Gregory is even now searching for? The one with Solomon’s Seal embossed on it?”

  Emir simply nodded in answer.

  “Good. Then we know where to begin,” the would-be Caliph said with a smile. “We must discover—”

  Al-Dula’s words were cut short when the hashshashin came to an abrupt halt, his eyes locking on something unseen above them. He sniffed twice, as if tasting the wind. The Saracen followed his gaze up into the sky, but saw nothing that would elicit such a reaction from—

  Wait! What was that?

  From the corner of his eye, Al-Dula caught movement of something dark flitting from one rooftop to another…heading in the direction of the baron’s home.

  Had it been his imagination? It had happened so quickly. It had moved with a speed that Al-Dula had never seen before.

  “Was…was that it?” he asked Emir quietly.

  Without responding, the hashshashin bolted silently into the darkness and was gone. The Saracen nobleman exhaled slowly. Whatever it was, his companion would find it and would deal with it before it became a problem.

  The holy man is a fortuitous ally, Al-Dula thought, but could not suppress the shiver at the thought of the man as an enemy.

  Yes, he would praise Allah for the man’s friendship. But he would continue to keep a watchful eye on him as well.

  ****

  Gregory dreamed of nothing. For the first time in nearly two months, he had managed to climb into his bed, pull the covers up to his chin, and drift off to sleep without any problems. Ever since that infernal Djinn creature first began its rampage, the baron had experienced nothing but nightmares whenever he closed his eyes. His physicians had warned him that if his sleep patterns continued on their course, he would undoubtedly become too ill from exhaustion to c
ontinue in his current office. So, he’d moved his bedchambers to the uppermost floor of the tallest parapet in his chateau—where even the Djinn would be unable to reach him—and had found the added security helped ease the tensions that haunted his nights.

  His slumber now brought oblivion to the entire world. All thoughts of his current plague of complications—thanks to the Djinn—as well as the preparations for the monsignor’s upcoming sacrifice were completely eradicated and now Gregory nestled his head into the plush pillow with a smile on his face. For the moment, all was right with the world and soon, even the Djinn would have no power over his dreams.

  A flutter in his room drew Gregory to the brink of semi-consciousness. Movement. An image of feathers fluttering in the wind cascaded through his mind’s eye.

  What was that? The baron’s eyelids remained shut. He didn’t want to open them. He was sleeping too well. So what if a stray thrush had flown into his bedroom through the veranda door. It could find its own way out. He rolled over onto his left side, pulling his sheets around his shoulder.

  The flapping of wings jostled him even more to the waking world. Irritation grew. He could not believe his misfortune.

  “Shut…” Gregory sat up to throw his pillow at the bird, only to feel his insides churn in despair at the sight that greeted him. “…up.”

  An ebon shadow, in human form, sat on the edge of the bed. Arms folded, legs crossed indifferently, the shrouded figure stared at the baron’s shuddering form. A falcon, as dark as midnight, resting on the creature’s shoulders, preened its feathers.

  Lord Gregory had never seen the Djinn before. Of course, he’d heard the rumors. He’d listened to the nonsensical ramblings of cowardly knights, foot soldiers, and mercenaries. But he’d never been prepared for the horrible blackness that sat mere inches away from him in his own bed. It was as if all light was inexplicably sucked into a void shaped like a man—a hollow space carved out of some tangible darkness. Only the otherworldly green glow about the creature’s eyes gave any indication that the figure was more than a shadow in his room.