Dominion - A Twist in the Serpent's Tale Except

Excerpt from Dominion Book 1 – A Twist in the Serpent’s Tail by Jason Fité

Excerpt from the Book of the Sages

Before the Fall all was still and silent in the Garden.

It was the hottest time of the day and all living creatures sought the sanctuary of the shade hiding from the suns and finding relief from the Light that saw all, the Light that shone with such power that it threatened to consume All.

The Woman, as she did every day, set the dove cage beside her in the shade of a tree. The doves cooed with contentment and the Woman watched them as they nestled together and drifted into sleep. Soon, she too would fall asleep as she did every day beneath the same tree, knowing that she was safe in the Garden and that those that dwelt beyond the Wall could not enter. This was a Sacred Place and it had been given to the Woman and the Man to live in for evermore. He had promised them, and He did not lie, though neither the Man nor the Woman knew what it was to lie.

Beyond the unknown distance of the Garden Wall, thunder briefly filled the sky and the air was alive with lightning. The Woman did not notice. She slept and dreamt the strangest dream.

She dreamt she heard a voice, but it was a voice she had never heard before. It was not the voice of her Lord and it was not the voice of her Man. The voice asked her who she was. “I am Woman,” she murmured in her sleep.

“Do you live here alone?” the voice asked.

“I live here with my Man. He is away gathering fruit. He will return soon and we shall eat the fruit and then we shall sleep in the shade together until the Light is not so bright.”

“Then we are alone?” the voice asked.

She opened her eyes and gazed up at the Stranger who stood before her. He was tall – as tall as the Lord. The suns shone brightly on his skin and she shielded her eyes.

He smiled at her. “Do not be afraid.”

“I am not,” she replied truthfully. She had never been taught what it was to fear, though she knew the word and understood that it was a thing which belonged beyond the Wall and not within the Garden.

“Do you mind if I sit beside you? I have travelled a long way and I would like to rest a while.”

The Stranger did not wait for an answer. He sat close to the Woman in the shade of the tree. He gazed at her and she gazed back at him. “Where have you come from?” she asked, marvelling at how closely the Stranger looked like her Lord.

The Stranger smiled and gazed upwards through the trees. She followed his gaze to the endless sky above them.

“I have not seen you before. You are like the Lord but not so. Are there many like you?”

“Yes, there are many like me. The Lord you speak of - is he like me?”

“Yes, but your hair is golden like the suns and his hair is black like the darkness. Do you know the Lord?”

The Stranger smiled again, though to the Woman it seemed like an unnatural smile. “Yes. He is my brother, though sometimes he wishes it were not so.”

She touched his arm. “Your skin is cold like that of the serpent.”

The Stranger laughed. “It is not my skin.” As she watched, he stood and removed his clothing so that he was as naked as she. She noticed that blood was dripping from a hole in his side. He sat beside her once more. “You see, we are the same,” he said. “Did my brother not give you clothing to wear?” He showed her the clothing he had taken off so she would understand. She felt the cold, hard material in wonder.

“He does not wear any so I did not know what it is. Does it hurt?” she asked, gently touching the Stranger’s wound with a fingertip.

“Yes, it hurts very much, but it will heal in time. What has my brother told you about who you are?”

“We are Man and Woman and he is the Lord. If we are good we may live in the Garden for evermore, and if we are bad we must leave the Garden and our Lord will not protect us for evermore.”

The Stranger smiled again. “And how are you to be good?”

“We must tend the Garden and we must worship the Lord.”

“Have you ever questioned why your Lord wishes you to worship him?”

“No. It is just the way of things.”

“And he has told you that you will not survive outside the Garden. That you will die?”

“Die?”

The Stranger paused, momentarily astounded by the Woman’s innocence. Many years would pass before the Woman would understand why he had told her of death.

“You will no longer be. You will be nothing. Do you understand?”

The Woman struggled to find meaning in his words. “I do not understand.”

“The animals you tend, do they sometimes stop moving?”

“One of my birds lost the breath of life. We left him beneath a tree and in the morning he was gone.”

“That is death.”

The Woman began to weep. “I do not want to die.”

“But you will.”

“I do not believe you. The Lord would not allow it. He loves us.”

“Your Lord will also die one day. We all must die. That is the way of all life.”

The Stranger put his arm around the Woman’s shoulder and they sat in silence together as she wondered at all he had told her.

At length he spoke again. “Did my brother tell you of the war?”

“No, is it something from beyond the Wall?”

“Yes, it is the cause of much death. I have escaped it for a while, though I must return before the night descends. Would you like to come with me?”

“This is my home. The Lord told us so.”

The Stranger laughed and the sound was harsh and cruel. “Your Lord keeps you as pets. Pets that he has taught to speak and perform tricks, but you are still no more than pets to him, no more free than the doves in your cage.”

Pain covered the Stranger’s face before his smile returned. “I am sorry. I did not mean to make you afraid.”

The Woman had stopped crying.

The Stranger looked around him and smiled. “It is very peaceful here. Almost paradise. How do you and your Man pass your days?

The Woman had quickly forgotten the doubts that the Stranger’s words had caused her to feel moments before. “In the morning we tend the animals and then before the suns are too high, my Man goes to the orchard to pick the fruits we will eat for the day. When he returns he lies with me and then we sleep until the stars come out.”

“Have you never found yourself with child?”

“No. The Lord has commanded that my Man may not seed a child.”

“Has the Lord commanded that you cannot bear a child?”

“No.”

And in the Garden the Stranger lay with the Woman and planted his seed within her. When the seed gave forth to new life, the Lord was greatly angered and banished the Man and the Woman from the Garden for all their days and for all the days of their children.

Jack Marin did his best to ignore the persistent ringing of his mobile phone. He had a natural talent for avoiding distractions and focussing on the immediate task before him, even if, as was now the case, the task was something as mundane as digging a four-foot drainage ditch.

He and the other workers had been digging this ditch for three days now, and while the others all seemed to hate doing it, and couldn’t wait to end their laborious task, he found the monotonous digging oddly relaxing. He didn’t have to think when he was digging. It was a purely physical experience, and all he felt was glad that he could focus his attention on the strains of his body rather than on any concerns of his mind.

It was him against the elements, and even though he knew nature could be cruelly indifferent, he still found it easier to deal with nature than with the human race, whose cruelty he found deliberate, seemingly random and often unbearable.

His mobile buzzed in his pocket again. In exasperation he pulled it out and glared at the screen.

“Are you going to answer the call?” asked Dimitri, who was digging next to him.

Jack returned the phone to his pocket and resumed his digging. “It’s my brother.”

Dimitri leant on his pickaxe and wiped the sweat from his brow. “You don’t want to speak to your own brother?” Trying not to think about his phone, Jack gazed at the young man standing before him who was watching him with innocent curiosity. Despite Dimitri’s insistent questioning about every aspect of his life over the course of the few days they had been working together, Jack found himself actually quite liking the young man.

“We haven’t spoken in five years,” Jack replied, hoping that would be enough explanation.

“I don’t get you, Jack. Why are you working here with us – you have a British passport, yes, so why do you choose to be a slave? For us there is no choice, but you could go anywhere, do anything.”

Jack shrugged. “I choose to be here.”

“But why? You have a degree, yes?”

“Yes.”

“You were an archaeologist, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Then why are you digging ditches and not for treasure?”

The phone buzzed again. Before Jack could stop him, Dimitri had whipped the phone from Jack’s pocket. “Hello. Yes, he is right here, digging ditches.”

Jack glared at the grinning man who was passing him the phone. “It’s always good to talk to family,” Dimitri said with a smile.

“You obviously haven’t met my brother,” replied Jack as he took the phone with a grimace.

Dimitri gave a small laugh and returned to his digging.

“Hello, David.”

“Jack, it’s good to hear your voice again. I can’t really talk now, but I need you to meet me at the British Museum as soon as possible.” The sound of his brother’s voice, even after all this time, still made the hackles on the back of Jack’s neck rise.

“Why?” Jack didn’t bother to hide the hostility and suspicion in his voice.

“I can’t tell you over the phone - it’s too important. I mean world-shattering important.” Jack rolled his eyes, remembering his brother’s tendency to exaggerate and over-dramatize every minor crisis.

“No,” he replied simply, hoping to end the conversation as quickly as possible.

“Please, you are the only one I can trust.”

Jack found this statement profoundly ironic, “I tried to kill you last time we met!” he reminded his brother.

“I know. Please, this is extraordinarily important. I need you… I have found something so extraordinary… you’re the only one that can possibly…”

With shock, Jack realised he was listening to the sound of his brother crying on the other end of the phone. Maybe this was something genuinely serious.

“You don’t understand, Jack she’s so beautiful. Please come as quickly as you can before they find us.”

Jack hung up. He couldn’t believe that after all these years his brother had dared to ring him up to tell him he had found another woman.

“What did he want?” Dimitri asked with his seemingly irrepressible curiosity.

“No idea,” Jack replied, which was not a complete lie.

“Don’t you get on with your brother?”

“He’s the reason I’m digging ditches.”

Jack’s mobile started to ring again. He switched it to silent and slipped it back in his pocket. He wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his sleeve and started digging again.

He attempted to focus on the work in hand, willing himself to dig faster, dig deeper, escape further from the unwelcome memories that his brother’s unexpected call had forced to the surface.

His brother! Always there had been his brother - born two years before him, David had been officially classified as a genius at the age of four, and the adulation and the attention had continued ever since. At the age of six David had been enrolled at a school for the exceptionally gifted. His art was exhibited at galleries. At the age of nine he had passed his A ‘Levels. He started his brilliant university career at Oxford at the precocious age of fourteen. His life to date had been one of constant achievement and acclaim. Great things had always been expected of him and he had delivered far beyond anyone’s expectation.

The world, so dazzled by the light of David’s brilliance, had barely noticed Jack as he grew up in his brother’s shadow. Jack was regarded as decidedly average – clever yes, but not enough to be extraordinary. David was the star and Jack was the disappointment.

The odd thing was, Jack reflected, is that this was never the problem. The problem was David himself. He was unbearable – whereas many geniuses or prodigies downplayed their talents or at least resisted flaunting them, David did the exact opposite. He genuinely believed himself to be the world’s greatest man and he wanted to make damned sure that everyone else was aware of the fact. Anyone who met him for the first time would very quickly hear of all his academic achievements, of his social successes, of his immense popularity and of the great future that inevitably awaited him.

And then, six years ago, something very odd had happened.

David had disappeared for three months and no one, to Jack’s knowledge, had ever discovered where or why. At the time Jack had presumed that there had been a woman involved. David was extremely promiscuous and very few women could resist his myriad charms. Jack was not overtly concerned – he somehow knew his brother was still alive and would eventually reappear.

Strange rumours began to circulate – people whispered that David had been recruited into a secret society - that he had been dabbling with the occult and associating with sinister figures from the underworld.

Three months passed and even Jack wondered if his brother would ever reappear.

And then one morning, David walked casually back into his office and informed everyone that he was quitting his highly paid finance job in the City as a Hedge Fund Manager. Instead, he found himself a relatively lowly position as Head of Middle Eastern Acquisitions at the British Museum. At the time Jack had been convinced that his brother had taken the job simply to spite him, as he had also worked there over several summers and considered it his refuge from the world – a fact which his brother must have known.

Concerned about his brother’s disappearance and erratic behaviour, Jack paid him a visit at his new office in the Museum.

He had hoped that whatever David had been doing it might have tamed his overbearing nature, but he was soon to discover that exactly the opposite had happened.

Standing in the open doorway, Jack had gazed at his brother who sat at his desk, seemingly ignoring him, despite obviously being aware of his presence.

“Hello, David,” said Jack, annoyed at his brother’s lack of acknowledgement.

Without looking up, David pointed to a chair opposite his desk. “Sit,” he commanded with all the disdain of a feudal king forced to give an audience to a despised subject.

Jack did not move from his position in the doorway. “I won’t stay. I just wanted to make sure that you really were still alive.”

Again, his brother did not condescend to look up. “I am very much alive. More alive than someone like you can even begin to comprehend.”

Jack forced himself not to retort and instead turned to leave.

“I’m going to make our family name famous. The Marins are going to be up there with the immortals - the Medicis, the Huguenots and the Rockefellers. Those frivolous little people will be nothing compared to us.”

Jack was already halfway down the corridor when he was surprised to hear his brother running after him. He stopped in astonishment and turned round – David, never chased after anyone, he always made it a point that everyone would have to revolve around him as though they were mere satellites to his blazing sun. David stopped just in front of Jack and studying him up close for the first time since his mysterious disappearance, Jack realised that his brother was indeed profoundly changed. While the old smug superiority and condescension remained, there was a new element discernible in his expression. Jack struggled to pinpoint it and then he realised what it was – obsession. Whatever had happened to his brother in the missing three months had fundamentally changed him. David’s next words confirmed the fact. “You have to believe me, Jack. I have found my true destiny. I understand now why I was put here.”

Jack tried not to laugh. He couldn’t help but feel amused by the idea that his brother had found some form of religion. David had always been highly contemptuous of religion, mysticism or any notion of a higher power. He had claimed once to rapturous applause that he was the ‘last true scientist’, and Jack knew that the only thing his brother would ever truly worship was his own monstrous ego.

David quickly recognised the scepticism in his brother’s expression. “You don’t believe me, do you? Maybe you are too ignorant to perceive the truth of my illumination. It is a shame, I had hoped you could have aided me on my great quest, as we have the same blood lineage, but I see now that you are not worthy to be chosen. I’m truly sorry, Jack, but history will only remember you as being my insignificant younger brother – a mere biographical footnote.”

“Only time will tell.” replied Jack and turned away from his brother.

It would be more than two years before Jack would see him again and that would be the time he would try to kill him.

The phone beeped again in Jack’s pocket, interrupting his memories.

“You have a text message,” Dimitri informed him with a pretence of innocent helpfulness. “Aren’t you going to read it?”

“No.”

“It might be important,” Dimitri insisted.

“It’s my brother. He can be very persistent when he doesn’t get what he wants.

“So, what is it he wants?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why don’t you read the text and find out?”

“If I read it will you stop asking questions?”

Dimitri shrugged and smiled. “It’s unlikely, but I will only ask more questions if you don’t read it. I have a very inquisitive nature.”

Defeated, Jack pulled out his phone and read the message.

“So, what does it say?”

Jack did not seem to have heard him. He stood absolutely still staring at the text message.

Dimitri shook him gently by the arm. “Jack? You okay?”

“I’ve got to go.”

“I was having such wonderful dreams, but, still, what a remarkably exultant day it is to be alive!” exclaimed Felix as he pulled back the curtains and luxuriated in the sunshine that streamed in through the open window. “And look at the city! It’s magnificent! The last time I saw it, it was in ruins. The human race’s ingenuity and ability to rebuild from the ashes is extremely impressive.”

He turned to regard the man who stood patiently by the bed and who had awoken him only minutes before. The man was in his late sixties though he looked older. He possessed painfully thinning hair and a dry, almost withered and impassive face which Felix quickly surmised did not hide any deeper emotional life, but rather showed that this man was exactly as he presented himself to the world – cold, efficient and reliably dull; the ultimate servant, willing to carry out any disagreeable order as long as he was rewarded with the required amount of titles and financial security. He was someone who knew with absolute certainty what his exact position was in any situation or group. He was dressed in a nondescript but very expensive tailored suit and still wore the tie he had worn at Eton. Felix smiled at him. “How long have I been absent?”

“The last time I saw you, “replied the man, “I was a young boy. Sixty-one years ago, to be precise.”

“Yes, I remember. I used to call you little Hermes because you were so good at delivering messages. And I am deducing that, as you are here now, that is still the case.” Felix crossed the room and carefully scrutinised the face of the man who had awakened him. “And now you are a man and a very important man by the looks of you. I’m guessing you have your own messengers now, so I will have to call you something else.”

“My name is Sir Reginald Preston,” replied the man with all the dignity his title afforded.

Felix continued to gaze at his face. “A knight of the realm, no less. Your parents must be very proud. Are they still alive?”

“No, they died several years ago.” There was no sense of regret or loss in Sir Preston’s voice.

“That’s a shame I was very fond of them both.” Felix crossed the room and stood in front of the full-length mirror and carefully studied his own face. He was surprisingly impressed by what he saw. “The extended rest has evidently done me a lot of good. I am almost reborn. Almost younger, though I know I’m not. Though I do feel it.” He remembered how fatigued and distraught he had felt the last time he had looked in the mirror – his blonde hair had hung, loosely upon his head punctuated by small patches of white, his blue eyes dark and dulled with defeat, his face haggard and lined with the despair that had dominated the previous few years of his life. But that was the past. It was gone and though the damage could never be fully undone he was experienced enough to understand that if he wanted to find some form of redemption he would need to come to terms with what had happened.

He turned back to Sir Preston. “So, would you like to tell me why I am here?”

“The Omega Temple have convened a special meeting and you are invited. They will undoubtedly reveal their purpose to you.”

“But I presume that you are a member of the Temple, and you could tell me something of their purpose?”

There was a slightly mocking tone in Felix’s voice which Sir Preston remembered from his boyhood. At the time he had been in awe of Felix, but now he had grown to be a powerful man in his own right – one of the most powerful men in the world and he had little patience for flippancy or idle banter. He knew he was far too important for that. “Let’s just say that we live in interesting times and that your rather special talents are required.”

“And so, it continues,” remarked Felix, betraying a moment’s melancholy. “You may be too young to remember, but the last time I was employed by the Temple, the results were disastrous, and I swore that I would never allow myself to commit such harm again.”

“Yes,” argued Sir Preston, marvelling at his own rhetorical cleverness, “but I also remember a very inspiring speech in which you stated that the only species which could accurately be classed as vermin was humanity as we are the only race whose population growth and expansion are not limited by the laws of nature, and that we are also the only species that wilfully destroys its own habitat and the habitat of other species. You believed that the human race was a virus, a plague and that the only solution was a mass cull.”

An expression of pure violent rage flashed momentarily across Felix’s face before he quickly resumed his normal calm demeanour. “I was wrong.”

“Nonetheless,” continued Sir Preston smugly, “the Temple now believes that your predictions have been proved correct and that a cull is now more necessary than ever. In fact, it is widely considered to be our only hope of survival.”

Felix’s expression reflected his regret at the words he had spoken so long ago, even though the greater part of him still believed them to be true. “What is the current global population?” he asked.

“Almost eight billion.”

“So many,” Felix whispered to himself.

“Too many,” Sir Preston stated, as though commenting on a minor fluctuation in the stock market, and not the potential fate of billions of human lives. “The Temple will fill in you in on all the details. The meeting is being held at Lord Julius’ country estate. He has arranged transportation which will be here shortly.”

“Lord Julius is still alive? How is that possible?

“Lord Julius is a very tenacious and formidable individual,” Sir Preston replied, the slight uplift in his voice revealing his almost worshipful reverence for his superior.

“Yes, I remember. Do you have any history books so that I can read up on recent events?”

“We have something much better.” Sir Preston pulled out a laptop from his briefcase, placed it on the desk and switched it on. Felix regarded it with mild curiosity as it flickered into life. “You certainly have made progress in my absence.”

“Would you like me to find someone to show you how to use it?” There was a hint of smug condescension in Sir Preston’s voice.

“No need,” replied Felix, expertly tapping at several keys. “It’s somewhat primitive and crude, but I’m sure I’ll work it out.”

As Jack dashed through the London streets he quickly glanced down at his mobile and reread the text message.

I’m sorry for everything. I hope one day you can forgive me for all the pain I have caused you.

Your Brother.

Though the message would have seemed ordinary for anyone else, coming from his brother it was beyond extraordinary. David had never apologised for anything in his life. The text had been sent nearly an hour ago and Jack realised that his brother was in genuinely desperate trouble.

It was nearly eight, dusk was beginning to descend upon the city and the streets were quiet now apart from a few late working office drones heading towards Tottenham Court Road Underground Station. Jack had tried repeatedly to ring David back, but each time the phone had rung five times before going to voicemail.

He was just a couple of minutes away from the Museum now, and this walk, which he had done so many times, so many years before, evoked many fond memories of his undergraduate years as a research archaeologist at the nearby University of London

He had been idealistic then - passionate about his chosen subject and determined to carve a career for himself as the world’s greatest archaeologist. It was embarrassing to think of it now, but he remembered how, as a young child, his father had taken him and David to see Raiders of the Lost Ark. Even before the end titles came up, Jack had known what he wanted to do with the rest of his life. David had been very dismissive of the film and of the ‘clownish’ Indiana Jones. He considered action films and popular entertainment as intellectually beneath him. How ironic, Jack thought ruefully, that all these years later it should now be David who had become the celebrated archaeologist, while he now earned his living as an unskilled labourer.

The Museum loomed in front of him, the deepening darkness shrouding it in an unnatural eerie gloom. Jack tried David’s phone again and again it went to voicemail. He gazed up at the building, remembering the last time he had been there – the day, five years ago when he had tried to murder his own brother. He forced himself to dismiss the memory from his mind and instead thought back to the summer he had spent working at the museum, and the joy he had felt at being able to roam the building after closing hours, utterly alone with thousands of years of history. He would allow his imagination to romp - visions of the long-lost past flashing before his mind’s eye like a film, as he strolled through the centuries and across the globe.

He remembered Professor Weaver, his university mentor showing him the building’s secrets late one August night - the artefacts and objects which were hidden from public view, left to languish beneath decades of dust. It had been Jack’s job to update the catalogue of these forgotten echoes of the past, and some of the happiest days of his life had been spent exploring the seemingly endless rooms that housed the Museum’s historical curios. And one night, quite by accident, he had discovered the entrance to the secret passage which led beneath the Museum and emerged some two hundred metres later in Russell Square, just behind the statue of the Duke of Bedford. After the find he had diligently informed Professor Weaver of his discovery. The Professor had given his customary conspiratorial smile. “It was built for emergencies,” he explained.

“Emergencies?” Jack had asked, wondering what emergencies could possibly befall a museum.

“The history of civilisation is housed within these walls,” Professor Weaver explained. “If anything were to happen to the contents of this building the loss would be… I can’t even think of a word to describe just how devastatingly terrible that loss would be.” Jack was startled to observe the expression of extreme horror which seemed to have gripped the usually genial and extremely relaxed Professor. “The builders created five escape routes known only to a select few, so that if there should be a fire, flood, terrorist attack, nuclear strike, random apocalyptical act of God, we would still be able to save many important pieces, though unfortunately, not all. Congratulations! Now that you have discovered one of the secret escape passages, you have the honour of making a most vitally important decision…” He left the thought dangling tantalisingly in the air.

Jack, well used to the Professor’s love of theatricality, was more than happy to oblige him. Besides, he really did want to know more about the secret passages. “And what decision would that be?”

“You must decide which objects you would save.”

“Well…” Jack began to reply.

“Don’t decide just now. Take your time. Remember your decision will define the essence of who you are.”

Jack thought this was a massive exaggeration but knew better than to argue the point. “So, where are the other secret doors?”

“I can’t tell you. They’re secret,” Professor Weaver replied with a mischievous smile.

The memory almost made Jack forget his current urgent mission but as he arrived in Bedford Square he forced himself to refocus on the present moment. After making sure no one was around to see him, Jack carefully lifted the loose paving stone behind the statue and clambered down into the dimly lit passageway and quietly pulled the slab close again.

Jack had never managed to decide what to save, or rather he had decided and then changed his mind, and then changed it again countless times. It was, he realised, an almost impossible decision to make, but he knew now that it was being made for him – he was going to save his brother.

Stephen Griffith tried hard to ignore what he perceived to be the sad squalor of his mother’s home and the memories of his unhappy childhood and miserable adolescence which it triggered in him - the greying net curtains, the fading pattern of the carpet, the endless shelves packed with cheap ornaments from charity shops. The smell of mustiness and quiet despair – the scent of the past he was finally going to escape for good.

His elderly mother smiled up at him adoringly – the prodigal son had returned and nothing could dampen her day. “It’s been so long. I used to really look forward to your postcards. Why did you stop sending them?”

Stephen shrugged and took a biscuit from the pile his mother offered him. “The army didn’t want anyone to know our location.”

His mother smiled. “I understand. Top secret missions and things like that, I suppose?” Stephen nodded, glad that she hadn’t realised the truth.

“And the medal you sent me – it’s my most treasured possession.” She opened the drawer in her nest of tables and pulled out a battered biscuit tin. She carefully opened it and showed him the medal inside. “I polish it every day. My little Stevie – a hero, who could ever have believed it? I remember. It seemed just like yesterday that you and little Mickey Doolan were out in the back garden playing soldiers. He joined up the year after you, didn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“Are you still in touch? It would be nice to see him again, though I suppose I would hardly know him now he’s all grown-up?”

“He was killed last March. His unit was ambushed.”

Stephen’s mother watched her son’s face carefully. He betrayed hardly any emotion in either his voice or his expression, but she had always prided herself on knowing when her little boy was hiding the truth. “That’s a real shame. He was always such a lively little lad – always dashing all over the place, pretending to have adventures. What a terrible way to go. Well at least he didn’t suffer.”

“It was better than to live his life as a cripple,” Stephen replied bitterly, the memory of that afternoon flooding back into his mind.

He could see it now – almost as though he was watching a film. The explosion that took them all by surprise, the sensation of flying as he was hurled through the air in what seemed like slow motion, the endless blue of the sky so far above him, and the sudden realisation that behind the blue veil there existed an eternity of stars – he reached out his hand, oblivious, for that one tiny moment, of everything except the inexplicable urge to reach out and touch whatever it was that lay beyond the horizon, the air was silent now except for the music – that sweet, gentle music that played beyond the sky…

And then the hard earth punching into his back as he crashed into the hard ground – pain suddenly flooding his body and the screams of his comrades filling his head. He crawled through the dust and the mayhem, forcing his agonised body to move despite all its protests. Mickey sprawled a few feet in front of him, a pool of blood spreading out beneath him. Their eyes met. “I can’t feel anything! I can’t feel anything!” Mickey screamed.

Stephen was aware that all around him chaos had erupted in what had only a moment before been a quiet village street. Bullets streamed through the air above him and ricocheted into the sand. The bodies of his brothers-in-arms lay all around him. He and Mickey were the only two of his unit left alive. He inched closer to Mickey, his only thought to save his childhood friend.

A bullet smashed into the ground just next to his head. His vision now covered by a dark red film, he continued crawling towards Mickey. Ahead of him he could make out a Military Rescue Unit behind the shelter of the wall. He could hear the instructions of a Unit Commander urging him to reach the armoured vehicle. He could see the soldiers up ahead. They were engaged in gunfire with his attackers who were proving no match for their superior weaponry.

At last he reached Mickey. His friend was breathing deeply, struggling for breath through the pain. Instinctively, and ignoring his own agony, Stephen lifted his friend into his arms and began to carry him towards the armoured car as the bullets flew through the air around him.

He felt a sudden pain in his left calf. His leg buckled and he fell forward onto his knees. He had been shot. The pain was excruciating. He still held Mickey in his arms. Slowly, very slowly he stood and started to walk forward again, carrying his friend to safety.

He heard a voice yelling in Arabic. The firing from behind him ceased. They were going to let him walk to safety. His enemies – the ones he had been trained to kill without hesitation were allowing him to live - allowing him to save Mickey.

His vision was blurring now as he slowly stumbled forward, the pain where the bullet had torn into his flesh was almost unbearable. But he would have to bear it. He had to keep moving forward. That was all he ever had to do. That is what his life was for - to move forward and save his friend. He understood now that this was his purpose – that this is why he existed.

And then he heard a sound like beating wings far above him. He looked upwards into the searing sky expecting to see a host of angels coming to his rescue.

Instead he saw a large black metallic dragon hovering above them – its wings beating with such speed and fury they tore apart the very substance of the air. And then the dragon breathed fire upon them all – upon the screaming Arab enemies that had spared his life, upon the villagers as they cowered in their doorways, and upon Stephen and his friend.

As the flames engulfed him, Stephen wondered if he was in hell. Then the darkness covered him.

“Make sure your tea doesn’t get cold,” his mother reminded him.

Dazed, Stephen looked up at his mother. Instinctively, he lifted the cracked teacup to his mouth and drank the strong, bitter liquid.

“I’ll make up your room,” his mother continued, “and I’ll pop down the shops and get you a nice piece of steak for your tea. Then we can have a proper catch up.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t stay for long.”

The disappointment on his mother’s face was obvious. “Have they posted you back overseas already?”

“No. I’ve left the military. I have joined another group. I can’t really talk about it.”

“Is it a government group?” she asked, ignoring the hint.

Stephen hesitated, wondering how much he could tell her and then realised that it didn’t matter what he told her. “Yes. The government. They chose me for my loyalty. I just need to pass one more test to prove my dedication.”

He opened up his rucksack and carefully pulled out the gun. When his mother saw it she flinched and then quickly regained her composure. With shaking hands, she lifted the teacup to her mouth and finished the last of her tea.

“It sounds very exciting. Imagine that, my boy, working for the government. You’re becoming a very important person. I always knew you would go far. I have to admit I never always understood you, but as I always say, a mother’s job is not to understand, a mother’s job is to love… and to forgive.”

Afterwards, he had marvelled at how easy it had been. He had pulled the trigger and she had died instantly. Using a bottle of lighter fluid, he had quickly been able to turn the room into an inferno. He had stood in the hallway watching as his past, the home he had grown up in, and the only woman who had ever truly loved him, were engulfed in flames, wiped out forever in a matter of minutes.

He was free to begin again. Soon his past would cease to exist except in ashes and memories.

He had proven himself. He would no longer be a mere initiate. With this one terrible act he had become a disciple – a chosen one.

Jack quickly and carefully weaved his way through the network of small corridors which constituted the working part of the British Museum until he reached the door of David’s office. Light filtered out from under the door.

He paused and listened for a moment almost hoping to hear the sound of his brother’s snoring. He wondered at how foolish he would feel if he had broken into the British Museum only to find his brother drunk and asleep at his desk, but there was only silence. He turned the handle and gently pushed open the door.

The first thing he noticed was the dark red liquid which had spread across the floor. With a trembling right hand, he leant down and pressed his finger into the puddle – if it was blood it had not congealed yet and that would mean that if his brother had been injured it would only have been recently. He sighed with relief – it was not blood. It was red wine.

The last time he had seen David’s office it had been meticulous. His brother had always lectured anyone who would listen on the importance of order. “Great men are those that build order out of chaos – Julius Caesar, Constantine, T.E. Lawrence - they put order before all else.” Jack had wanted to point out that all these great men had also been responsible for creating a huge amount of disorder in their time, however orderly they may have been in their daily lives, but he knew better than to invite a protracted argument with his brother.

The office he now viewed was very far from orderly. It looked like it had been hit by a tornado – books and papers lay strewn all over the floor, pictures had been knocked off the wall and the glass from a broken wine bottle covered the floor. If anything had been stolen it would be almost impossible to tell. David was nowhere to be seen. Jack noticed all this with growing alarm and then focused upon the two half-filled wine glasses on the desk. His brother had been entertaining.

A strong mixture of scents filled the air – a potent mix of perfume and gunpowder. Jack scanned the room again, and this time noticed the bullet lodged in the wall directly behind his brother’s chair.

With a rising sense of panic and concern, Jack turned and headed back down the corridor. He needed to contact the police. He pulled out his phone, his brother’s last text still visible on the screen. On an impulse he rang his brother’s phone again.

It rang twice and then Jack realised that he could hear it ringing somewhere in the building – somewhere near the Main Atrium. Quickly redialling, Jack sprinted down the corridor and into the darkened atrium. He could hear his brother’s distinctive ring tone emanating from one of the side rooms. Slowing to a walk, he passed between the statues of ancient gods and into the gloom of the Babylonian Room. He redialled and advanced slowly through the darkness. At the far end of the room was a table upon which lay a huge marble sarcophagus. The ringing was coming from inside. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness Jack could see that there was a large slab of stone on top of the sarcophagus holding it shut. In desperation he heaved the stone slab aside, flinching at the enormous crashing sound it made as it smashed upon the floor. His hands shaking, Jack quickly lifted open the lid of the sarcophagus.

His brother lay inside the sarcophagus, his eyes gazing up at Jack.

Time ceased to pass. Jack reached down and touched his brother’s face. The skin still felt warm. He felt for a pulse. There was none. His brother was dead. Clasped in his hands which lay crossed upon his chest, was a stone tablet. Almost involuntarily, Jack carefully prised the plaque from his brother’s hands and examined it. He had seen it countless times before. At one time it had even been the artefact he had decided to save from the Museum – it was a picture of an ancient Babylonian goddess and was popularly known as the ‘Queen of the Night’. The corner of the slab was stained a dark crimson. He had found the murder weapon. ‘The Queen of the Night’ was one of the most famous pieces in the British Museum’s extensive collection. It was a twenty by fifteen-inch stone plaque which depicted a dynamic and mysterious female figure with wings and bird’s feet. The origins of the plaque were unknown and there had been a great deal of speculation about who created the image and who it depicted. The consensus was that she was some form of Babylonian goddess, but many people, including Jack, who had their own theories.

There were no visible marks of violence upon his brother’s body but a small pool of dark red liquid behind David’s head betrayed the fact that he had been violently bludgeoned on the back of the skull. Jack gazed down at the stone tablet aware that he was holding in his hands the weapon that had been used to murder his brother. Jack’s first reaction was one of complete disbelief. His brother could not be dead – he had always believed himself virtually immortal and indestructible, existing beyond the daily ills and human agonies of normal people, and he had somehow convinced those around him of his immortality - his indestructible greatness.

Jack’s thoughts were interrupted by the harsh sound of breaking glass and a cacophony of shouts and distorted voices. Still holding the Queen of the Night plaque, he ran back towards the Main Atrium but stopped dead when he saw the incredible sight before him.

Several of the immense glass panels which comprised the ceiling of the Main Atrium had been smashed through and a dozen or so black clad figures were descending from ropes into the building. Jack, despite his shock, quickly realised that this was no ordinary police team or even a military unit. This was a group of trained assassins. His fears were quickly confirmed. A museum security guard, presumably responding to the great commotion, ran into the centre of the atrium, his flashlight momentarily illuminating the shadowy figures as they descended into the museum. A second later, the guard was dead – as a single bullet pierced between his eyes. He crumpled to the floor.

Jack considered his options for survival. If he ran for the secret passage he would likely be gunned down in seconds. The mysterious invaders had all completed their descent, were fanning out across the atrium floor, and had begun searching for whatever it was they were here for. His only option was to hide. He quickly looked round for a suitable hiding place but no obvious opportunity for concealment presented itself. He could hear the figures moving closer.

In desperation he used the one hiding place available. Within seconds, he had climbed into the sarcophagus on top of his brother’s body and pulled the lid shut, allowing the utter blackness to swallow him whole. He could hear footsteps and whispered voices growing louder as the intruders approached.

The footsteps ceased and he held his breath.

“Room thirty-three, clear,” a man’s voice announced, its tone gruff and efficient. The footsteps began again, moving away. Jack breathed a sigh of relief.

“Wait a moment,” instructed a young female voice. “Check inside the coffin.”

Then the silence was shattered by the sound of approaching sirens.

“We have to go. He’s not here.”

Jack could hear the sound of running footsteps. He waited a few seconds. The sirens had stopped and the world was silent again.

Jack now became aware of the full horror of his current situation. He was sharing a tomb with his dead brother. He reached out his hand in the darkness and touched his brother’s lifeless face. He could imagine David’s eyes boring into him, taunting him, accusing him. His brother was dead because he had refused to answer his calls when there was possibly still time to save him. His brother had reached out to him in his moment of greatest need and desperation and Jack had denied him.

With great care and slowness Jack lifted the sarcophagus lid and climbed out. The intruders had gone. He was alone in the building with the bodies of the dead guard and his brother and the accumulated ghosts of the centuries. He shivered and turned back to look at his brother, marvelling at how peaceful he looked as he lay in his tomb.

All the lights in the building flashed into life and Jack froze.

“Police! Put your hands behind your head and turn round slowly.”

Jack suddenly realised how the situation must seem to an outsider. Here he was standing next to the body of his dead brother, the same brother he had very publicly attempted to kill in the very same building several years before. As he slowly raised his hands he realised that he was still clutching the unlikely murder weapon.

He was momentarily blinded by the flashlights of the five police officers who were approaching him. The first police officer stopped in front of him and shone her flashlight directly in his face.

“Jack?” she asked in disbelief.

He recognised her voice immediately even though he had not heard it for several years.

“Hello, Kate.”

_____________________

Excerpted from Dominion Book 1 – A Twist in the Serpent’s Tail by Jason Fité

eprinted without the permission of the publisher.