The Black Madonna (The Mystique Trilogy) (4 page)

I nodded and placed the tip of my index finger on his third eye. His eyes closed in rapture and he grinned intently until I withdrew my contact, whereby all expression dropped from his face. When he opened his eyes once more, he was disorientated.

‘What happened?’ He clambered up from the pool of black slime he was lying in, repulsed by the smell.

‘You were sick,’ I told him, and winked at Emmett who was watching the situation with great interest and amazement.

‘Sick!’ echoed André, observing the black bile all over his clothes.

‘What the hell have I been eating?’

‘How do you feel now?’ I asked.

He ceased being revolted long enough to consider this. ‘Why, I feel…
fantastique
!’ he cried, throwing his arms wide, then wincing. ‘On the inside.’

The Orme he had ingested had extended his youth somewhat, but time had caught up with him now. The spiritual cleansing inflicted upon him by the liquid-light pellet had returned him to his true age and physique. He was clearly surprised by how his limbs ached, for he had no memory of his previous addiction.

‘I should go take a shower,’ he said, moaning as he stretched his sore body. ‘Emmett, could you—’

‘I’ll clean up,’ Emmett cut in, pre-empting André’s request.

André smiled. ‘You’re a good lad,’ he said, and wandered towards the door in a daze. ‘Remind me to give you a raise,’ he added.

‘I will,’ Emmett assured him, suppressing his shock. André was usually a miser with funding.

When we were alone, Emmett looked at me in wonder. ‘That was
really
amazing.’

I folded my arms and tapped my fingers. ‘What to do about you?’ I thought aloud.

‘Please don’t do the finger thing on me,’ he pleaded, obviously realising I had tampered with André’s memory of events. ‘I can help you.’

‘I don’t need help,’ I said. ‘It’s safer for you if you’re ignorant.’

Emmett didn’t bother trying to escape—he knew resistance was futile. His adoring gaze touched my frosty heart with its sincerity; it wasn’t how I looked that attracted his admiration, but who I was.

‘Well,’ he said as I came closer, resigned to his fate, ‘it was nice meeting you.’ Then he delayed my finger gently. ‘Wait. Who are you really?’

He was going to forget in a moment anyway so I decided to indulge his wish. I whispered my true name in his ear. As he gasped in astonishment, I pressed my finger on his brow and willed him to forget.

Emmett opened his eyes and looked completely bemused. ‘What the…?’ He observed the mess on the floor.

‘Looking at it won’t get it cleaned up,’ I said.

‘Pardon?’ He looked at me, puzzled.

‘You promised André, remember?’ I prompted. ‘He’s going to give you a raise.’

Emmett did have a vague memory of this and nodded. ‘It had better be a big raise,’ he said, considering the task ahead with disdain.

‘Later,’ I said, and headed back through the common room. I wanted to find my parents and tell them about the sale of the ringstone, but as I reached the door, Killian Labontè entered.

‘Wow!’ He looked me up and down and laughed. ‘Are you trying to get me arrested?’

‘From what I’ve read, you don’t need any help with that,’ I said, and moved past him.

‘Very true,’ he conceded. ‘Shall we go?’

‘I just need to see my mother for a second—’

‘Your parents are down the hole,’ he said, sounding a little put out at the delay. ‘Why don’t you call them on the mobile in my car?’

He led me towards a brand-new Porsche Sportec Turbo in gunmetal grey.

I shook my head. ‘It’ll keep.’ I had my own means of getting my message across to my mother that didn’t involve sharing our private affairs on the open airwaves.

The conversation en route to the club in Bordeaux was a little stilted at first. Killian was all riled up about his parents arriving on site unannounced, and was struggling to suppress his anger so as not to bore me with it. He spoke of his wish to be anybody but who he was, and of his utter disdain for his family.

‘Your life appears charmed to me,’ I said, wanting him to reveal what was so detestable about his parents. Could it be that he knew what they truly were?

‘Looks can be deceiving.’

I tried a more leading question. ‘Have your parents abused you in some way?’

‘No,’ he said, glancing at me and then back to the road. ‘But they intend to.’

‘How do you know that?’ Was he aware that he was destined to share the same fate as his parents—was this the pending abuse he referred to?

He grinned at the question. ‘No offence, but I don’t know you well enough…I’d hate to scare you off.’

‘I don’t scare as easily as you might imagine,’ I said, but he shook his head and remained silent.

‘So many mysteries,’ I teased, letting him know how intrigued I was.

‘Not so many really.’

‘Well,’ I said, grinning in challenge, ‘if you won’t confide in me about your private life, perhaps you’ll tell me what you expect to find beneath Montségur?’

‘I expect to find some answers,’ he said, then, seeing I wasn’t satisfied, he added, ‘to an old family mystery.’

‘The Grail family?’

He looked startled by my frankness.

‘I just co-wrote a novel on the subject,’ I said, easing his suspicion.

‘Then you know about the Rod of Power?’

I nodded. ‘But I don’t think it was ever kept here for any length of time.’

‘Ah,’ he said, ‘but the rod is somehow connected to our mount. There are depictions of it in the labyrinth we’ve unearthed.’

‘But the Grail family have many amazing treasures connected to their legend—what fascinates you about the Rod of Power in particular?’

‘It has the power to defy the gods,’ he stated.

Perhaps he intended to use the staff to protect himself from his formidable parents? ‘You plan to defy the gods, do you?’ I asked.

‘Only if provoked.’ He downplayed his conviction, but beneath the flippant comment I sensed a great severity.

‘I want to be on your team then,’ I said with an equal amount of humour and assurance.

He gave a half-laugh, amused. ‘Not even I want to be on my team. But I’ll be thankful for any support you may want to give.’

The paparazzi went into a frenzy when we arrived at the nightclub. We hit the red carpet that led straight inside—as opposed to the other entrance, where hopeful patrons were lined up for miles. When the press asked who I was, Killian replied, ‘Isn’t it obvious? Tamar is the most beautiful woman on Earth.’

I could already see the headlines in the papers the following morning. My mother would be livid.

‘Are you dating?’ several reporters were quick to ask.

‘We’re business associates,’ Killian teased them, then escorted me inside, leaving a barrage of questions in our wake.

I turned back to the press and made a peace sign. ‘Keep it green,’ I said, one of Killian’s signature sayings.

It delighted him. ‘I didn’t think you knew that much about me.’

‘I’d have to be from
another planet
not to know about you,’ I chided and he forced a laugh.

‘Do you believe in other planets, in the existence of extraterrestrials?’ he asked, trying not to sound as interested as he was.

I didn’t reply, distracted by the prickly, uneasy feeling that crept over my body as we approached the bouncers at the front door. Their auras showed the telltale signs of Orme abuse, and beneath their human guise I spied Dracon.

The Anunnaki souls who had been on Tara at the time of the explosion had also been cast into this universe. As the Anunnaki were not human, they could not be allowed to evolve through the Amenti system as they would have caused a mutation in the human blueprint. It was hoped that the lost Anunnaki would incarnate into the Anu, who were already on Earth, but the devolution of this race into the Nefilim had made this impossible. Thus, with nowhere else to go, the lost Anunnaki incarnated into the Dracon, the race of lizard drones created by the Nefilim to mine the gold required to feed their Orme addictions. They were enslaved by the Nefilim for a long time, but eventually some suppressed soul minds within the lizard people began to become self-aware—and resentful of the Nefilim’s favouritism for the human race. There was an uprising, the lizard warriors overpowered the Nefilim and killed every human they could lay their hands on. The Nefilim fled Earth for thousands of years, sure that as the Dracon were all male, the race would die off.

They did not die, however, and have thrived to this day, becoming one of the primary threats to the Amenti Project. Some of the Dracon formed alliances with the Nefilim, who have long since returned to Earth and re-established themselves in very high places in government, religion and society. Others formed their own hunting packs and based themselves in third world countries, where large numbers of humans could vanish and never be missed. But others became enlightened to their dormant souls within and slowly began transforming back into Anu, physically, emotionally, mentally and spiritually.

Killian acknowledged the tall, muscular bouncers, who knew him by sight and cleared a path for us, no questions asked.

Inside the club my foreboding trebled. There were Orme-addicted Dracon in disguise everywhere! They all appeared beautiful on the
outside—trim, tanned and highly fashionable—but on the inside they were hideous. How had my people become so lost?

‘These are your friends?’ I asked Killian, who was waving and blowing kisses at various people, human and Dracon alike.

‘Just social acquaintances really,’ he said. ‘My friends will be upstairs, in the VIP area.’

‘Of course,’ I pretended to hit myself in the head, ‘what was I thinking—you down here among the commoners?’

Tonight was an invitation-only event. There was an all-girl early-century revival band on stage, pumping out a song that had been written before I was born; and on the dance floor I recognised a heap of faces from the tabloids—a good number of whom were Dracon, or dating one.

Killian grinned. ‘I warrant you’ll be thankful to escape to the VIP area before long.’ He cast his eyes around the club, having noted that every eye in the room, male and female, was on me. ‘It seems I’m not your only admirer,’ he whispered.

I smiled at his flattery, but on the inside I was concerned about the company Killian kept. Was he leading me up the garden path, or was he blissfully unaware that his social circle was filled with the same body-snatching beings that had taken over his parents?

I strode, head high, through the ranks of my fallen subjects, unafraid of a confrontation. They weren’t sufficiently psychically adept to see through my luscious disguise to who I really was—their judge and redeemer.

At the side of the stage was a staircase guarded by more Dracon, who welcomed my date and me as if we were royalty.

‘I want to introduce you to my band,’ Killian shouted to me as we scaled the stairs. ‘We might play tonight, if we get the urge.’

‘Cool,’ I replied over the din.

Killian and his band, Daddy’s Bitch, didn’t seem to take their music career very seriously, but because they were the famous progeny of the social elite they were a charting success worldwide. They never toured, but did surprise gigs, which they streamed to their fans over the net for free. I’d never really listened to their music as it was rather dark and heavy, but it looked as if that blissful oversight was about to be corrected.

The VIP lounge was sparsely populated and it was easy to spot the company Killian sought. The members of Daddy’s Bitch and their sycophants were gathered around a lounge setting by the large Gothic fireplace, fiddling with their instruments, drinking and smoking dope. There were three others in the band that Killian fronted. The only female, Co-co Yamamoto, was the daughter of the Japanese banking tycoon, Taro Yamamoto. Co-co played bass guitar but was more famous for beating unwanted reporters to a pulp, as she was a triple black belt in karate.

Jeb Savage, the lead guitarist, was the son of the American politician Bob Savage, who was set to run for the Republicans in the forthcoming American presidential election. Jeb and Killian had been best friends since junior high and had endured many public debacles together. Jeb and Co-co had been an item since the band formed three years before.

The drummer, Steve Marx, was nicknamed ‘Wildcat’ for two reasons. The first was that it described his general personality and behaviour to a T. The second reason was that, as the son of the English multimedia magnate James Marx, none of Wildcat’s outrageous exploits ever made it into the tabloids or TV news. His father had a strong monopoly on and extensive influence over the European press, and thus the infamous drummer loved to emphasise the fact that, just like a wildcat, he was a protected species in Europe.

I stood back as Killian greeted his best friends warmly and they responded with an equal amount of enthusiasm. I knew the band members by sight—their faces were as familiar to the world as those of their powerful parents. But upon this personal viewing, I learned much more about them than the press ever had. Obviously Killian didn’t realise that his close-knit group of rebellious rockers had already joined the ranks of the Nefilim and were his true friends no longer.

I needed to get the band alone if I wished to expose these impostors for who they were. My reasoning was, the faster I took Killian into my confidence, the faster I could discover how much he really knew. He was surrounded by his enemies, who would lead him straight to the same damning fate that had befallen them. And if, as I suspected,
Mathu’s soul mind was buried in Killian’s psyche somewhere, I might lose my prince to the ranks of the fallen if I didn’t take action soon.

‘Rrraaaw,’ purred Wildcat as he turned his attention to me. ‘Who’s the giant chicky-babe?’ He approached me, confident that I’d be flattered by his interest. ‘You’ve been window-shopping in Milan again, haven’t you, Kill, my boy?’ The big, brawny skinhead circled me, looking me up and down.

‘Not at all,’ Killian replied, assuring me in an aside that he never hunted for girlfriends on the catwalk—his friend was just trying to make him look bad. ‘Tamar’s the daughter of the linguist on my excavation project, and she’s just co-authored a novel about the Grail bloodline.’