In the Shadow of Lions: A Novel of Anne Boleyn (Chronicles of the Scribe #1)(3)

“She’s crazy. But she can see us.”

He arrived at the nurses’ station.

Mariskka was there, her tone sharp as she argued with someone on the phone. “I said no. It’s against our policy here, David. I refuse to give her hope when we both know she’s going to die.”

Mariskka didn’t miss anything, especially when wealthy patients were nearing death but still lucid enough to update their wills. When she finally whirled around in her chair, she would faint from shock to see me up and walking, never mind with a Jolly Black Giant.

He leaned down behind Marisska. I covered my mouth with my hands and held my breath.

Resting his hands on her shoulders, he whispered into her ear, “You need chocolate. Right now. There’s some in the kitchen.”

“If you show up here, I’ll call the cops,” Mariskka spat as she slammed down the phone. “I think there’s some chocolate calling me.” She kicked back her chair and stomped off, in the direction of the kitchen.

“What are you doing?” I hissed at him, watching him remove her Mac and tuck it under his beefy arm. It was barely visibly in between folds of bicep and elbow.

“Borrowing her laptop. You need it.”

There were so many reasons this night was all wrong. I could only come up with one to say. “That’s a Mac. I don’t use Macs.”

“Macs don’t need as many miracles,” he said. “I’m an angel, not a genie.”

I stood there, my mouth opening and closing again, trying to say something cruel or anything at all. The jolly freakish giant took off, with strides that outreached mine three to one, heading back to my room.

I should have been out of breath by the time we reached my room, but I was feeling stronger. I was stronger when he was near. When he exhaled it entered my body as a second wind. I edged closer and inhaled as we crossed through the threshold to my room. He turned and smiled, the first smile I had seen. I had almost rather he not do it again. His face was so big that even a smile made me edgy. I’d prefer for a man of this size to have as few emotions as possible.

He went to work plugging the Mac in, moving my bed to find the closest outlet. When it was plugged in, he set it on the edge of the bed and turned to me. My body went bloodless, like fish diving to the deepest refuge, all of my extremities going pale and limp, abandoned. He walked toward me, and my mouth stayed open, with not even the strength to close it. He reached out and took my arm. His warming touch did not hurt, though if I had tried to resist him he could have snapped my arm like a twig. He ran his finger down my arm, resting it on the IV line. Closing his eyes, he opened his hand and gently wiped my arm. The IV line fell to the floor, my arm whole and without a mark.

“It will be easier to work without that,” he said.

Blood began to flow back into my arms and legs, and I made my way to the bed as he propped up a few pillows for me. I climbed in, and he handed me the laptop. I began to type, just to feel the keys under my fingertips. It was like coming home.

I’m dying in the middle of the wildest dream! I typed.

He crossed his arms. I could see his jaw shift and set.

Another voice growled. “You wanted the heir.”

“She’s difficult,” the Scribe replied. He didn’t turn his head to any direction, and I couldn’t tell where the voice came from. “Writing her story for years was easier than living with her for a few minutes.”

“She is the heir,” the voice replied.

“I’m the heir of what?” I asked. There was a sound like wind, but nothing moved in the room. The Scribe shook his head and looked for a place to sit. The steel-armed chair wasn’t large enough. He ran his hands along its frame and it groaned, stretching in all directions until he could comfortably sit. He opened his palms and a book appeared in them, a book bound in black frayed leather, with gold dust along the edges and thick iron locks keeping the pages sealed tight.

“The Tablets of Destiny,” he said. “It was last seen in the days of ancient Mesopotamia. It is referenced in the Bible, though never by its name.”

My fingers were raised above the keypad but didn’t move.

“Names have power,” he said. “The past has power. The two meet in this book. No one among you will be allowed to know its full contents until the Day.”

My fingers were still immobile.

“Two thousand years ago, on an island infested with fleas and thieves and the condemned,” he said, “a dying man was allowed to see the invisible world. He recorded this vision in the book that came to be called The Revelation. He saw that every church has an angel, every nation has an angel, and every child has an angel.”

My fingers had begun to move.

“But there was one class of angels he could not see. There are archangels, the strangest and fiercest of us who remain always near the women. Every bloodline of women has been followed by the same archangel since the beginning of the line. The angel of your line has watched you grow from a child into a woman, and he knows your past far beyond what is told to you by your mother and aunts. He knows who your women were, and who you can become.”

He stroked the book lovingly and its hinges sprang open, the pages fluttering and turning, settling at last on a dark page. It looked brown from age or heat, its edges crumbling and flaking onto his leg. The ink was faded, almost to the color of the page, and I couldn’t make out the words or language, though it was ornately drawn.