Author: David Niall Wilson
Date: 2014-03-13T04:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Historical Fiction; TODO
Description: First published in 1999, This is My Blood is David Niall Wilson’s first and most important novel. It is a retelling of the gospel from a very different perspective. When Jesus goes into the desert and is tempted by the devil, there is one temptation added. One of the fallen is raised as a woman to tempt him with the flesh. Instead, the woman, named Mary of Magdalene, falls in love with Jesus and his promise of returning her to Heaven. Cursed to follow him and drink the blood of his followers, Mary walks a fine line between her desire to love and support the Christ, and her burning need to retu
Publisher: A Macabre Ink Book from Crossroad Press

THIS IS MY BLOOD

By DAVID NIALL WILSON

A Macabre Ink Production

Macabre Ink is an imprint of Crossroad Press

Digital Edition published by Crossroad Press

Digital Edition Copyright 2013 by David Niall Wilson

LICENSE NOTES

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only.  This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people.  If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with.  If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to the vendor of your choice and purchase your own copy.  Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Meet the Author

David Niall Wilson has been writing and publishing horror, dark fantasy, and science fiction since the mid-eighties. An ordained minister, once President of the Horror Writer 's Association and multiple recipient of the Bram Stoker Award.  He lives outside Hertford, NC with the love of his life, Patricia Lee Macomber, His children Zane and Katie, occasionally their older siblings, Stephanie, who is in college, and Bill and Zach who are in the Navy, and an ever-changing assortment of pets.

David can be found at:

http://www.davidniallwilson.com

Or Connect on  Facebook at http://www.facebook.com/David.Niall.Wilson

OTHER CROSSROAD TITLES BY DAVID NIALL WILSON:

Novels:

Nevermore, a Novel of Love, Loss, & Edgar Allan Poe

Ancient Eyes

Deep Blue

Sins of the Flash

The Orffyreus Wheel

Darkness Falling

The Mote in Andrea's Eye

On the Third Day

The Second Veil

The Parting – An O.C.L.T. Novel

Stargate Atlantis – SGA-15 – Brimstone (With Patricia Lee Macomber)

The DeChance Chronicles:

Heart of a Dragon

Vintage Soul

My Soul to Keep – The Origin of Donovan DeChance

Kali's Tale

Novellas:

Roll Them Bones

The Preacher's Marsh

The Not Quite Right Reverend Cletus J. Diggs & The Currently Accepted Habits of Nature

'Scuse Me, While I Kiss the Sky

Cockroach Suckers

Collections:

The Fall of the House of Escher & Other Illusions

Defining Moments

A Taste of Blood & Roses

Spinning Webs & Telling Lies

The Whirling Man& Other Tales of Pain, Blood, and Madness

Etched Deep & Other Dark Impressions

The Call of Distant Shores

Intermusings

Non Fiction:  American Pies – Baking With Dave the Pie Guy

DISCOVER CROSSROAD PRESS

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CONTENTS:

Author's Introduction to This is My Blood

This is My Blood

Special Sneak Preview of On the Third Day

Special Sneak Preview of Nevermore, A Novel of Love, Loss & Edgar Allan Poe

Dedication

This book is dedicated to the Electronics Technicians of the USS Guadalcanal, The Writer's Group that met long ago in a small library in Virginia Beach, Richard Rowand, John B. Rosenman, Pam, and the rest.  It's dedicated to the Church of Christ in Charleston Illinois where I decided I might study to be a minister, and to the Waukegan branch of that same church, where I attended when I grew up and started believing in myself, and not ancient myths.  It's dedicated to men who do the best they can, and women who have woven the fabric of our world, despite our (men) best efforts to tear it apart.  This one is for Judas, and for Mary Magdalene.

Author's Introduction

This is My Blood was the first novel I ever sold.  In the end, my Star Trek Voyager novel, Chrysalis, came out before this one, but that was only due to the failure of the original publisher to actually – well – publish the book.  The journey to publication would make a story unto itself, but I’m not going to cover it at this point.

One day, in the middle of the ocean, a group of us were sitting around, playing music, drinking coffee, and working on the various creative endeavors that kept us sane.  Out of the blue, someone said: “What if Jesus was a vampire?”  There are a lot of flaws in such a story – though others have tried to write it – and I was quick to point them out.  I was, after all, not that far past the period of my life where Christianity and I parted ways.  I had studied with an eye toward the ministry at one point, and I’d read the book – several times.

What I proposed, eventually, was that it made much more sense if someone close to Jesus was a vampire.  Someone he trusted.  Someone who could account for the rising of the dead in three days without it actually being the man himself behind it all.  I didn’t write about it then, I thought about it, and I filed it away with a lot of other ideas.  Eventually I wrote a novelette – A Candle in the Sun – that was published in
Starshore Magazine, reprinted in Year’s Best Horror XIX, edited by Karl Edward Wagner, and has since been reprinted nearly a half dozen more times.  It was good – everyone agreed that it was good, but I knew that it wasn’t complete.  I just wasn’t ready to do the thing justice.

Then, on a completely different cruise, locked in a transmitter room with a 386 computer, a Deskjet 500 inkjet printer, and a CD Player loaded with Concrete Blonde & Depeche Mode, I realized it was time.  I had a marked up, four inch tall copy of the New Testament that the Gideon Society had presented the ship with, and I had notes.  I started out, jumping from gospel to gospel when some part of the story either had a hole or was missing something important.  As I went, I crafted large chunks of The Gospel According to Judas Iscariot, because I’d always thought he got a raw deal in the original mix, and I wanted him for a hero.

This is My Blood is a different telling of a very old story.  I changed none of the order of things, nor did I change the outcome – only the road to reach that outcome.  You will find the king’s daughter, raised from the dead, Lazarus, all the apostles in their flawed faith, and a narrator – in Mary, my protagonist – who does not depend on faith, but sees with the eyes of one who KNOWS what is truth, and is not impressed with the spirituality of men.  Lilith also plays a sizeable part in this book.

All that I learned, figured out on my own, and wanted to repeat of The Bible, Christianity, faith, and – I suppose – of shadows – was tied up in this early work of mine.  I have since come to believe that ancient myths should be left to the ancient societies who created them, and that we should worry more over our own self-worth than that of others.  I don’t believe there are any spiritual rules laid down in the words of long dead men that I should follow, but I do believe that men know, inherently, the difference between right, and wrong, and that all choices made in that area are their own.  No free ticket out for asking forgiveness, and no pit of fire for failures.

You’ll find that, I think, in the pages of This is My Blood. You’ll also find fantasy, vampires, and a lot more.  I hope you’ll read it, and that you’ll like it as much as others have.

David Niall Wilson

North Carolina – 2014

PROLOGUE

I suppose that I still love him, but not as I did. He fell from grace, burning and beautiful — defiant, but that falling chained his spirit. He chose to rail against the heavens, gnashing his teeth in futile anger at his imprisonment.

My own dreams, which may be empty, are of being free.

Lucifer would see it too, if he would but look. It has been promised to all of God's creatures, great and small. I am one such creature, and I burn to claim my birthright.

When the kingdom men named Hell was born, many of us followed him there to lick our wounds and recover from the war. Whatever the religious leaders might tell you, whatever you might believe, it was war. The angel of light did not depart as an ember, but as a brilliant star, a power to singe even the hands of God.

It has been eons since I walked that tortured road, but it is there that my story begins. Perhaps, when the day of reconciliation arrives, it shall end there as well. That is not for me to judge. I know only this; it was through a man, and through Christ in the guise of a man, that I found hope. For this hope, if for nothing else, I inscribe this history.

It is possible that nothing shall ever be the same when my soul is bared, that I will be consumed in fire for my impudence. It does not matter. The weight of this story is too much to bear, and the only other who shares it has chosen silence.

We have drifted apart. Most of his time is spent in solitude, but he has left his mark. It is no wonder; he is half-crazed with boredom and lost to despair. His road and mine are not the same. He is born of man, of the earth, I of the heavens. Though we share a curse, we cannot long abide one another's company.

I dream for him as well, for I was created to greater strength. His own dreams too often fall to despair.

The apostles who told this tale before me had their own interests in mind when they recorded certain events. Much was left to the winds and drifting sands, forgotten. Only one among them ever penned the truth; only one among them had a great enough heart and the enduring love to care. That was Judas, named the betrayer.

He paid an awful price for a truer faith than most men will ever know.  The Book of The Gospel, According to Judas, was burned on the second day after Jesus rose from his grave. There was only a single, hand-scribed copy, and he had failed to conceal it well. He never bothered to recreate it.

The others were jealous and afraid. They never trusted their own faith, knowing from the example of their master's death how men would see them, and fearing how it would mark them in the eyes of God.

It was Peter, possessed of Lucifer himself, who set the blame for their Lord's death on Judas' shoulders. He felt it necessary to discredit Judas, and to remove his testimony.

Such is the pride of men. Perhaps they are more like the fallen angel of light than they have let themselves believe. It has always amazed me how the glaring holes in the life of their savior, and in the teachings of His disciples, have been so carelessly and pointedly overlooked. Nothing is harder to believe than that which is not desired.

At the time of Christ's death, I was unable to explain why Lucifer did not seize the chance to have the truth recorded. Now, after watching the product of his intellect unfold, it has become obvious. He may be bitter, but he is brilliant.

Man might have reacted differently, had they known the truth. This senseless bending of facts and flailing of spiritual arms has brought centuries of amusement to those below. Entire lifetimes have been spent twisting ancient wisdom to serve the desires of mortals.

Though I see the weakness that is inherent in man, I am less vindictive than my former lord. I do not hate men for their gift of salvation, no matter how they might scorn or waste it. I do not hate the All-Father for my exile. In any case, few enough will listen to my story that it will not disrupt the general flow of humanity. As I have said, the thing least easy to believe is that which is not desired.

A great deal happened between the fall of light and the events of the gospel. The game of creation by one and corruption by the other began almost immediately, and Creation itself was batted about some, in the early stages. That fact alone has caused its own levels of chaos.

In some cases, the details of these conflicts were as minute and fragile as sub-atomic structures that developed flaws, or microorganisms that evolved in directions far from those originally planned. Lucifer was banned from Heaven, but his proximity to the Earthly works of his enemy gave him great freedom to annoy and antagonize.

While this was never directed at mankind, it has hewn a trail of pain that has led to the very brink of destruction. Games are not restricted to those of lower thought patterns, neither are the emotions of envy or greed.

Lucifer watched the arrival of the Christ upon the Earth with deep interest, and some concern. Well aware that he could not prevent it, and unwilling to forego the amusement, he set about sowing the seeds of jealousy, fear, and distrust that would later lead to the crucifixion.

A small mountain of dead children grew on Christ's birthday, sacrificed by those who feared the birth of a King. Satisfied with his handiwork, Lucifer sat back and watched.

Men are given to strange excesses. The dead children were a tragic example of this. I saw it as a shame. Lucifer saw the destruction not at all. His eyes were turned Heavenward, searching for a sign of the anger he knew his actions would spark. I walked the Earth in his shadow.

I will not apologize; I am not responsible. I will not dwell on the years prior to my tale, though certain events will require explanation. To avoid personal prejudice, to which I freely admit, I will use passages of The Book of Judas, which I hold embedded in my memory. I have walked the roads of both Heaven and Hell, seeing much. My memory will suffice.

In the Christ, Lucifer saw another part of his enemy, another work to corrupt. I saw beauty, a piece of what was forever lost to me. Perhaps even then, before his light had opened to me, I sought salvation.

Lucifer saw none of that; his hate had become too great. I saw, and I loved. The Christ, too, was very beautiful.

CHAPTER ONE

[Proverbs: 6:16 "These six things doth the lord hate ... 17 ... hands that shed innocent blood."]

Judas 1

And it came to pass that Jesus went alone into the desert to be tempted of the Devil. He remained there forty days and forty nights, fasting, and on the fortieth night, he hungered. The tempter came before him then, asking, "If you are truly the son of God, turn these stones to loaves of bread"

Jesus answered him, "It is written: 'man does not live on bread alone, but on every word that comes from the mouth of God.'"

Then the Tempter led him to the highest point of the temple.  "If you are truly the son of God, cast yourself down, for it is written:

'He will command his angels
concerning you,

And they will lift you up in their hands,

So that you will not strike your foot
against stone.'"

Jesus answered, "It is also written, 'do not put the Lord your God to the test.'"

The Devil took him to a very high mountain and showed him all of the kingdoms of the world in their splendor.  "Bow down and worship me," he said, "and I will give them all to you."

Jesus replied, "Away from me, Satan, for it is written, 'Worship the Lord your God, and serve him only.'"

The devil laughed and gestured, raising from the sands a Temptress. "See here the things craved by man," he said, waving his arm to include the cities below. "You are Son of man, does she not please you?"

And Jesus, seeing that she was fallen from Heaven, and sorely used, beckoned to the temptress, saying, "For all who would follow me, there burns a light in my father's house."

And the Temptress fell to her knees, forsaking the Devil and his darkness. In an awful rage, Lucifer laid upon her a curse, bringing a great thirst which could be sated only by the blood of man, and saying, "Feast upon the fruits of his labor, for I say unto you, you shall be his undoing."

Then the devil left them, and angels came and attended Jesus.

Fleeing into the desert, the Temptress wept.

I was drawn up from Hell. I was not consulted, nor were my feelings taken into account. I was scooped up as a child might be, dragged from one level of existence to another and held there, immobile, as my master spoke.

Lucifer often walked the middle regions, which were closer to that which we had lost than those the rest of us inhabited. The Earth was a revelation to me. The first thing that met my eyes was beauty. I was dazzled by the light of the sun, struck speechless by the wonder of thousands of tiny glittering crystals that made up the sand. It was indeed a different world. After so many years of condemnation, I hoped, just for an instant, that a doorway had opened to Heaven.

Lucifer gestured at me, an object, not really seeing me at all. Then he turned to the Christ, and he smiled.

"You see her, Godson," he sneered, his words awash with the bitterness of his defeat. "You know what she is.

"You have taken the form of a man; I have brought her forth as a woman."

He released me then, and I fell to my knees, feeling the bite of the sand. The heat of the sun beat down on my back, and I felt the soft caress of a breeze across my skin. I felt no different, but I was. What I had been before, what I had been born to, was pure essence. What I had become was material.  I looked down at my body, my arms, the legs that folded beneath me.

The Christ watched me with His great sad eyes to see how I would react. Would I, too, sneer at Him, or would I try to seduce Him with the human flesh I'd been granted for that task? I found that I wanted to go to him, to hold him, but not to sneer. Never that.

"Is she not beautiful?" my master asked.  "Does she not make Your mortal loins burn . . . Your human heart flutter?"

Jesus looked at him, the sadness deepening, and then back to me. "There is a place for you still," He said softly. "If you but believe, I promise you, there is hope."

I felt a strange sensation building, a physical sensation — this part of my corporeal existence caught me completely unaware. I remained on my knees, taking in the extent of his promise, letting the thought of that which was forever lost wash through me and drain out into the burning floor of the desert beneath me. It was too much.

"You have no such power," Lucifer sneered again.  "Empty promises, lies, even, from one who names himself the Son of God. You cannot take her back with you; He will not have her."

I ignored these words, casting them from me in anguish, and I began to crawl forward. The sand burned me — scraped the skin of my legs — and yet I continued. I was lost in the Christ’s eyes, drawn to them, and I felt a great weight lifting from my heart.

It didn't matter if it were a lie. It didn't matter if He tried and failed. All that mattered at that moment was the sensation of liberation, the knowledge that I was loved. It filled the emptiness that had grown within me with dizzying swiftness, flowed through the veins of my new mortal frame, pulsed in my temples and blurred my sight. If all He could offer was that moment in time, I was His. If there were nothing more, so be it — there was nothing whence I had come to compare with it.

I crawled nearer. My hand — my human hand — reached out to meet the advance of His own. I was lost in His eyes, lost in His love. It shone from Him, as light and beauty had once radiated from Lucifer. I couldn't draw back, couldn't resist the chance. In the end, the choice was never mine.

Our skin was so close at last that I felt a tingling in the air, a bonding. There was light — such light as Lucifer himself could never have produced, even in the prime of his glory. It surrounded me, separated me from all else, and cleansed me. I wept. I leaned forward to take that hand, and to bow down in supplication.

Then the fire struck, and my mind grew dim.

There was pain. Such pain I had never experienced, even in the fall, for that was more the pain of loss and rending. This was the pain of man. A wall of fire, heat that would have melted the very sun from the sky, shot between us.

I sensed the Christ, but I could no longer see Him. I could still see the overwhelming light that was His essence, but I could not reach it. Perhaps He could have reached me. Perhaps He could have walked through the flame, pushed aside the pain, and stretched out His hand to claim me, but it was too late.

If I would not be Lucifer's vessel of temptation, I would become a sharper, more potent weapon. I became a curse. I did not hear the words Lucifer spoke. I did not see his eyes, or those of He whom I now loved, and yet I felt them. I felt the changes coursing through me, my spirit parting and re-forming once more.  Changing.

I screamed, pulling every bit of my essence free from the nether regions that still bound me and putting it behind my voice. The light vanished, the heat departed, but I continued to scream.

I was a shell, a shadow spirit with no hope. I was bereft of all that had been mine. I felt the subtle lines that bound me to them both becoming brittle, cracking and falling away.

It was a death, a rebirth. Death is the curse of mankind, but I knew it in that instant, and I cowered from it. I don't know, to this day, how men go on, knowing that one-day they will die. Even with the promise of salvation, it is terrifying. For me, it was without hope.

"If you love Him," Lucifer ground out, advancing on me with eyes of pure flame, his voice crackling like thunder across the desert, "go to Him. I free you of all things, save one. My curse."

"Look upon her, Son of Man," he cried, spinning madly and leaping to the top of a large stone to look down upon us. "Look at what Your 'love' has wrought. She will be Yours, and You hers, and I tell You now it will be Your undoing.

"I lay my curse upon her.  She will follow Your steps as long as You dwell upon the Earth. She, too, will have a place between man and the gods, and she will hunger!  She will hunger for that which you fight to preserve.  She will thirst for the blood of mankind — the lives, the very souls You seek to save will be her bread.

"She will see no sunrise, nor walk the roads of day; the shadows shall be her home. She will leap forth from those shadows, drawing the blood from Your 'flock', while magnifying the weight of her own sin.

"You may love her as you will, it will not matter. She will never be allowed beyond the realms of Earth. It is written; it is law. She is fallen, as I am fallen, and there will be no forgiveness for her."

I turned to the Christ in anguish, pleading with my eyes, but already the light of the sun was eating at my flesh, dissolving my body. I felt an emptiness stirring within me, becoming tangible, becoming a lust — a hunger that ate at my very being, maddening my thoughts and burning through the chill, bloodless veins of my body.

Perhaps He could have set me free, had I gone to Him then, but I could not. The anguish and the pain were too great. With the light of His love strobing in my mind, that last sight of His eyes snared in the tangling webs of my thoughts, I turned, and I fled. I fled Lucifer's blinding rage and his mocking laughter. I fled from the burning strength of the sun. I fled from the hunger, but not far enough. Not ever.

I flashed across the desert, the speed of my form rising from my need and the essence that was still mine, though dim and subdued, though cold and sealed from my sight. I was a flash of lightning, a drop of quicksilver slipping through the Earth.

Mountains rose before me, and I ran to them, scrabbling up the sides and searching, groping for any crevasse that might shield me from the sunlight that threatened to bring me to dust.

I was ashamed of what I'd become, appalled that I was so weak and powerless, so easily used, but I was not ready to surrender; to become one with the Earth; to await the coming judgment in torment. Not for Lucifer, not for the Christ. I would fight as long as there was hope.

I slid over the stone, ripping my flesh, which I found no longer felt the pain as it had, and slithered down into a ravine, where I finally found release.

There was an opening, barely large enough for me to enter lying on my belly, and I crawled into it without question. I sensed other presences there, sensed anger and fear on a very low level. I ignored them. The pain was like ice being hammered into my skin and forced through the veins. The shadows lessened the burden and made it possible to endure the discomfort.

There was a cost, of course. My master had been thorough in his curse. I no longer felt the burning pain of the sun's embrace, but was consumed by the hunger. As my flesh mended itself and my strength and sanity returned, the hunger grew incrementally.

It was no less painful, no less horrifying, and I knew I would not be able to hold out against it for long. I would have to feed, and I knew the words he'd spoken would prove true.

Nothing but the blood of those who walked this plane of existence would satisfy me. Nothing would save me from the fate of the dust but the warm, flowing nectar that pulsed from their hearts, and slid beneath their skin. I thought of the Christ, and I thought of His offer. I dreamed of His love.

Now I was an abomination, a creature of shadow and darkness, a lesser being even than I had been in Hell — beneath Him. My hope was shattered, lost in the utter blackness of that small cave, and I screamed again, the sound ripping from my throat, blasting through the mountain and shaking its very roots.  I sensed the lower presence that I'd felt before entering the tunnels cowering, backing away from me, and I tasted the warm, rich blood that flowed through its veins in the dank air, but still I ignored it. It was not the answer, not the sustenance I craved. It would never do. Whatever it was, it was safe with me — safer than I if I didn't find my way out of those mountains and into the world of man that very night.

I felt my spirit slipping levels — draining down toward the base existence of the creatures in the shadows — and I fought it. I would feed, and I would walk in shadows as a mortal, whatever it took to survive, but I would not become like them. I would not become an animal, moving from one kill to the next, from meal to meal without regard to past or future. The animals were put upon the Earth to serve, clothe, and feed mankind. Mankind would be the same to me.

I was never the burning star that Lucifer had been, but I had walked the roads of Heaven and Hell, and I would not bow down — not to any but the lord who'd offered me hope. Not until the light He'd shown me was extinguished altogether, until His love was proven to be the empty lie that Lucifer claimed it to be. Perhaps not even then. As I have said, the Christ was very beautiful.

I sensed Him nearby, walking the Earth, and Lucifer as well. It was beyond my former master to forego any chance to attack, or to warp that which came from above. I knew he would fail — as he knew — and I knew the anger, the frustrated, bitter rage that would follow. It no longer mattered, as long as I remained shielded from his eyes, as long as I was less than nothing in his thoughts. His anger would not be for me.

I crept deeper into the mountain.  Somehow, in that cramped space, I found a way to turn myself toward the opening.  I lay still in the cool damp earth. I did not want to call attention to myself, not on this world or the next. I wanted to lie there until the sun died for the day, to crawl out into this new world I would call my own, and to feed.

Beyond that, I had no plan, and no strength to map one out. I would do as I was cursed. I would follow where the footsteps of the man they called Jesus led me, the man that was a God, and I would pray, throwing myself at His feet, doing what He bid even unto physical death in the hope of salvation.

The night would call to me soon enough, and the hunger had me dazed. As the sun burned above, I felt myself drift into darkness. I slept.

I crept from my cave as the sun fell beyond the horizon, slithering from the earth like the serpent, the image given to Lucifer in the first days. I felt the earth against my skin, and I knew an odd kinship with it. I knew it as a creation of a God whose grace I had forsaken, but in whom I had known my own birth.

The burning did not return. In the pale glow of the evening, the last fading illumination of the day, I felt renewed. If it had not been for the hunger, the driving madness of the lust that screamed through my being, I might have felt free.

I slipped off the small mountain and into the sands of the desert and crossed the Earth like a dark wind, an avenging spirit of the night. I sensed my goal, felt the pulse of it -- the heat it emanated. I could almost taste it, and that too was something to be marveled at and experienced.

The physical sensations were all new to me — taste — pain — hunger. There had been only emptiness before, voids I had scarcely understood, but that I now found that I yearned to fill. None of those yearnings could match the intensity — the purity of the physical reality that was now mine.

I was alone. I did not sense the Christ, not immediately, and to my relief; Lucifer was gone from the Earth as well. It was as though they had never been with me, had not promised and tormented and cursed.

I knew this was only a dream. It was I that might not have existed. I knew my insignificance in the scheme of the universe, in the great battle they prepared for. It angered me to be set aside, to be nothing more than a pawn in this cosmic game. I was darkness; I hungered. These were my truths.

There were men on the outskirts of the desert; a great city rose there. Its name, I later learned, was Galilee, and it was there that I first tasted the blood, the sacrament that renews me daily.

I slipped from the shadows of the desert into the larger, darker shadows of the city as a wraith, my eyes sweeping the deserted streets and my mind questing before me. I wore the form of a woman, but I was still more than a woman. My senses were keener, my strength remarkable. Their minds were open books to me, and I searched, not knowing truly what I sought, but certain that I had to find it soon, or perish; to perish was not an option.

I searched their human minds as I wandered, hiding myself from their sight, watching their movements as they readied themselves for the night, hiding their faces and looking over their shoulders as if they sensed my presence, or that of some other predator, hiding in the darkness. I searched their thoughts, their dreams, and their faith. I sought — something — something that would ease the guilt, the horror of what I was about to do.

My knowledge of their creation, of the wonder of their being — their essence — held me back as no will of my own could have done. They were not as I, but their form, their very existence sang of the lost realms, of the freedom and promise of all that had been taken from me.

Now I walked the night, bathed in moonlight and ready to steal from them as I had been stolen from, ready to end their days in their own world, banishing them to — where? To Hell? Surely not. To Heaven? I did not know. Perhaps to the Earth until the final battle was fought, until the doorway to Heaven was opened and the judgment came. Whatever the consequences, I would feed. It was inevitable. In making me human, then ripping that humanity free and raising me as one already dead, Lucifer had left me one thing truly of this plane. He had left me the will to survive.

Then I sensed her. She was young in years, but her heart was older — her mind darker. She hurried, her steps quick and light, but it was not joy that drove her onward. It was a feeling of imagined power.

She was married. Her husband and children were at home, and yet she was out. I picked the lie from her mind, the story of a sick friend that had freed her from her home, from the love and trust that waited there.

Her name was Sarah, and she sought a man — a younger man than her husband — young and wild.  She did not think of her home, but of herself, and in that instant I knew — knew what would save my sanity — knew what would be my argument when I stood before the judgment and spoke for the forgiveness of my sins.

I would drink their blood, but not those who were innocent. Not from one who truly loved — who truly followed the footsteps of the Christ on the Earth. I would not take a true believer, or a true follower. One like this woman, who caused sorrow, her I would feed upon. Perhaps, if suffering were the fate of those I took; she would have time to repent — to mend what was warped in her soul.

I snatched one thing further from her mind — her destination.  Slipping ahead into the shadows, I found a well along the way, deserted and silent, and there I waited in plain sight, letting the moonlight wash over me, letting my new form free to have what effect it might on those who saw me. I did not know then, but I have since been told that I, too, am beautiful among women.

She came stealthily, slipping over the stone as if her silence could hide her heart from judgment. I stood still, waiting for her eyes to pick me out of the shadows. She was almost upon me when she looked up from her private meditations and her lustful dreams.  She looked up, and her gaze fell full upon me.

She stopped. We stood, staring one at the other, watching and waiting. She moved first, her eyes unable to withstand whatever she saw in mine.

I was pale then, weak and trembling with need. The hunger filled me, and apparently this showed in my countenance.  She stepped forward, her hand coming to her lips, and she nearly cried out in her shock.

"My lady," she said, her voice barely above a whisper, "what is wrong? What has happened to you?"

I moved forward, my feet barely touching the stone beneath them, the wind pressing me onward, and suddenly I stood before her, holding her where she stood with the power of my gaze.  She did not look away; I did not allow it. In the same manner that I had picked her deceit from her heart, I allowed my need to seep into her mind, and my essence to invade her senses and hold her in thrall.

I circled her and she slowly followed my movements, whirling to face me each time I threatened to slide beyond the limits of her sight. Her breathing was labored and shallow, and I sensed the speeding of her heart.

I saw the subtle rise and fall of her throat, sensed the taste to come, the energy and the strength, the release. I nearly went mad with the sudden heat. I savored the moment, but I still could not free myself of the guilt.

I don’t know how long I circled her. Finally I moved closer, laying my hands on the soft skin of her shoulders, and I held her easily, fascinated by the quivering fear that coursed through her. I sensed the depth of her panic, struggling silently to break free of my control.

The first image that surfaced was that of the young man she sought in the shadows, but that image melted away. It was a transient hope, impotent in the face of my hunger. He would not help her, could not if he so desired. As the image faded, she fought me, grasping at the threads of her husband's love, crying out to him with her heart, begging for forgiveness he would never know was due.

I gripped her shoulders more tightly and pulled her close, and my control slipped. The blood was tantalizing.  It pressed against her skin from the inside and called to me, scraping along my flesh and clutching at my hunger. I could not release her, could not stop myself from drawing her into my dark embrace.

Our eyes nearly met — so close — so warm. I let her see me in those seconds, let her feel the weight of my pain, the intensity of my hunger.  She retreated within herself, but I drew her back, held her up to the mirror of my guilt and made her see.

Then I fed. The movement was instinctive, inevitable. I did not, until that moment, know how I would sate my thirst. The curse worked through me, molded my form. My teeth extended, my lips curled back like those of the beasts I'd scorned scant hours before. I was at her throat, sinking smooth ivory through soft flesh, puncturing her artery and letting the warm fountain of her being burst forth.

My eyes closed then. All but her blood, my hunger, and the sensations that followed their joining faded to a distant hum, as of a great swarm of insects, hovering in the background. The world did not exist. Nothing existed, save our melding — our blending.

It was in that moment that I understood her fate. I knew it as surely as I knew my own curse, and I wept as I fed, trying to pull free and to reverse what was already far beyond my control. I felt her flow into me, not just her blood, but also the essence draining from her soul. The life that had been hers became a part of me. Her memories, her loves, her sins and dreams, all of it entered and blended, mixed and sifted through what was mine, collecting in the empty cavities of my mind and lodging in the cracks in my heart.

Her sin was mine, the responsibility for her salvation as well.  She could not rise to a new life in the Heavens as long as I carried her within me, and I would never rise. Everything that had been Sarah was now a part of me; everything save her body, and that fell from my hands, dropping to the sand at the foot of the fountain. I staggered backwards, her screams echoing silently through my mind.

I turned then, and I saw him — the young man she sought. He had come for her after all, had come to see what kept her from their tryst. He stared now in morbid fascination — his gaze meeting mine across the small square and his head shaking in negation.

The blood of my feast still ran over my lips, draining down the front of my body and staining the white cotton of my clothing. I paid it no heed, reaching out to him with my eyes, trying to capture him as well, and to silence him.

He was too fast. The terror beat me to his heart, activated his feet and brought his voice to life. He screamed, screamed of murder and death, screamed of demons and cursed beings. He was gone in an instant, and I turned to follow, then stopped. I had fed, and I was sated. There was no need to pursue him — what I needed was to escape, to leave and not to be seen — and not to be reviled for what I was.

I had heard a name on his lips, a name I knew, but from where, or when, I could not remember.  "Lilith," he had said.  "Lilith has come."

I did not know who, or what Lilith was. I wanted to be free of that place, free of the new awareness of those around me that the blood had brought to me, free of the awareness of my own newborn evil.

From all sides their thoughts assaulted me and their lives flashed through my mind, deafening me.  They pressed me back into the stone of the fountain. I was as they, gorged on their blood.

They came then, perhaps a dozen of them, in answer to the one man's call. They gathered in the streets and alleys that entered into the small court in which I stood, leaning heavily on the fountain and watching them in return.  I stood over Sarah's chilling form.

They hated me. They feared me as they did not even fear their maker, and this both amazed and angered me. They did not know the gift that was theirs, the power that was offered them. They walked as fools into the mouth of the inferno, and below me I felt others laughing, goaded on by Lucifer himself, mocking and sneering, pointing and jeering. They knew, as I now knew, the small price it would take to buy a man from his salvation.

I was suddenly sickened by the taste of the blood, sweet and overpowering only moments before, it had faded to the flavor of death and decay. I was disgusted by the fear that was not for one of their own, now dead, but a selfish fear for their own blood — their own lives.

I turned, taking in their faces, taking in their spirits, vile and pure, innocent and lukewarm. I drank in their humanity, felt the different pulses, the different lines of power that bound each to his fate. I held them with my gaze as I searched. They dragged against my probing control in confusion, desperate for the safety of their homes, pressing against one another for support. Some among them tried to move forward, as well, wanting to attack, to kill me as I had killed.

I saw this, and I knew the weakness of their faith. I threw back my head and let the light of the moon bathe my features, highlighting the blood now dried and caked on my skin, and I laughed, as they could not. I felt as if I were being assaulted by some huge, cosmic joke. Regaining control, I leapt forward, clearing the first group before they had a chance to move and flashing into the darkness — back into the desert, though not too far.

I did not return to the small cavern. At first I ran, then I laughed, and cried, and ran again. I carried Sarah's spirit within me, its torment, the sense of loss and abandonment that accompanied her death. I could not reach her mind. She was trapped in a cage that was somehow a part of my existence, a prison within a prison.  She lashed out at me with talons no longer strung with the weight of substance, ripping at a prison she could not even comprehend.

I wept for her, and I wept for the world, for myself, and for the Christ, who I could now sense. With the sating of the hunger, my strength had returned, and with it, more of what I had once been was mine, a new form of torture. I could only maintain that strength of essence through the feeding, and I could only feed in guilt and anguish.

It would drive me mad; that I knew as well. I hadn't fully understood the emptiness within me. My former master had not taken what was mine, he had added to it. I had become a vessel, a private Hell, and he had insured that every pain, every bit of suffering I accounted for in my new existence would be with me for eternity.

Already the cries of she who had been Sarah were fading to a dull throb, but they were there. Her fate was now bound with mine, her destiny a part of my own. The shell that had been her body was just that — so much clay — so much matter. A piece of the Earth that was separate for the time being, but that would become one with the whole again in time.

So I believed. I passed into the desert, leaving the men and their cities, their dreams and their fragile hearts behind. I moved like a shadow, a plague, silent and swift, deadly and final. I felt the power that flowed through me, the renewal of my own strength that had flowed into me with the essence of the woman, Sarah. That power held wide the portal to my own spirit, allowing me the sensation, the subtle reality, of the being I had been.

Already I felt the hunger moving within me, but it was weaker — buried deep in the shadows of my mind. I did not believe I would need to feed again soon. Not every night as I'd feared.

There was but one hope, and that lay in the Christ's promise. I had to find Him, to track His footsteps and feel His love wash through me once more.

I feared that moment. I dreaded that He would look upon me with loathing, that He would see in me all that was vile upon the Earth and would strike me down, or turn me away.

I did not know what I expected of Him, perhaps nothing at all. I knew only one power that might help. I had to find Him — go to Him — entreat Him to grant me release.

I sensed the presence of other powers — powers I had no knowledge of, but these I avoided. For salvation or condemnation, I would live out the tenets of the curse. I would follow Him.

I moved across the sands of the desert, and slowly the cool, powerful light of the moon waned, giving way to the twilight that precedes the dawn. I knew I had to find a suitable place to lie, one that would shield me from the light, from the burning touch of the sun.

I did not want to rest in the tunnels beneath the Earth again — did not want to share shadows with vermin and lesser creatures.  So I went along the outskirts of civilization, and shortly before the first light of day, I came upon a small temple. Behind the temple were several graves.

I moved to the door of the largest mausoleum, obviously that of one very important in life, and I put my hand upon the door, pressing it aside. It was a great slab of stone, but it was nothing to my strength, and I opened it easily.

I caught the scent of decay, of decomposing flesh. It was the odor of eternity, the return of matter to the Earth, the release of the spirit. There was no lingering touch of humanity, no trapped essence to torment me, and the sun did not reach into that small, man-made pit at all.

As the sun rose, taking its throne in the face of the sky, I slipped into the tomb and pulled the stone fast behind me, sealing off the light. I lay down on the cool damp earth beside the remains of a long dead mortal I would never know, and I shut my earthly eyes, drawing inward upon myself and taking what rest I could.

Sarah's torment festered within me. The weight of her life and death had been added to the heaviness that pressed upon my heart. It was sufficient not to hunger, for the moment, and not to burn. At the next dark-dawn I would walk amongst them again, and I would learn. I would find and follow the trail left by the Son of Man, and I would seek His forgiveness.

In the darkness, I waited, as that wearisome nuisance men call time wore slowly on. I did not rest easy.

When I rose, I sensed a presence beyond the tomb, so I did not depart immediately. There was no wild rush of blood scent, nor was the hunger raging in my breast. I was under control, though the blood lust was beginning to itch at my senses. I was intrigued.   Someone was summoning me from beyond the stone.

When I could stand it no longer, I pushed the stone aside and slipped into the shadows. Whoever, or whatever waited, I felt confident that they had no match for my speed or strength. I felt no fear.

A shadowed form stood beside one of the other tombs, and I waited for whomever it was to move forward, or to acknowledge my presence. Finally, as if tearing herself from the very fabric of the shadow, she came to stand before me.

She was light of skin and dark of hair. Within the pits of those eyes, an odd light burned. I stared within, trying to understand and deny at the same instant, as the horror grew in my heart and the shuddering, backlash of my own pent up emotion threatened to double me over and render me helpless. There was nothing to read. There was nothing at all.

It was Sarah — and yet it was not. It was her shell — her husk. The flesh was dead, no less dead then when I had dropped it to the ground in the square, no less empty than when she had been swallowed by the chasm that had attached itself to my own soul

"Why?"

Only one word but filled with the venom and the hatred, of a lifetime.

"I did not know." I said, backing up a step.

"It would not have mattered." she said. "You would have done this anyway, would you not?"

I did not respond, but I knew in my heart it was true. I looked upon that ravaged, lifeless face, and I did not speak.

"I hunger," she said at last.

"You must feed," I said, knowing as I said it what it would mean, knowing that it was another part of my own damnation sin.  "You must feed. Avoid the light of the sun, walk in the shadows."

She stood looking at me for a long moment, and I saw my loss, and my hunger, reflected in the black mirrors of her eyes. Then she turned and was gone, like a wisp of dust in the wind, like a shadow that will not be pinned down. I watched the empty space where she had been for a long time, waiting, wondering if she would return, if my burden would include her company, but she was truly gone, and in the end, I turned away, taking my own path.

There was more to my damnation, more to the hunger and the burning than I had imagined. The intricacies of the curse, the subtleties of my bondage, were only just becoming clear.

I sensed a voice, deep within me, calling out to me in mocking laughter, and I tried to push it away, to deny it. I was not strong enough. Lucifer's laughter cut into my soul.

She was not innocent, he whispered, the words insinuating themselves between my thoughts, grabbing at my mind and holding me helpless as he ran his voice obscenely over my essence, violating me yet again, removing any pretense of control over my fate.

Only the innocent go to salvation — the rest are condemned — as you are condemned, and I.  They will walk the Earth as you — will await the final judgment in the manner that you leave them.

The shadows within you will grow very full if you choose no innocent blood. Now go — run along on your little human feet.  Go to Him, for I would see Him fall.

Then I was released, and I fell, laying my cheek against the cool ground for sustenance. I wept again, though there were no tears for my eyes to spill. I wept in my soul. I heard his laughter, ringing through my mind, adding to my torment, mocking.

I rose and moved on toward the center of the village, sending my mind out before me, casting among the shadows and alleys, sending my questing thoughts up streets and into homes. I sought one who knew, one who had seen the Christ in His passing, or had heard word of it. I sought any who could guide my footsteps and help me to return to the path I had been set.

Somewhere in the shadows, another hunted as I did. A small part of myself animated a soulless being, her essence trapped in a limbo that was uniquely my own, and hers at the same time. Somewhere innocent blood would spill, and I would be to blame — my own hunger, my own attempted grasping at honor — at salvation — was at fault.

I sought Him, but I felt nothing, and I passed on, following the call, following my senses. They weakened as I went, and I lost track of Him, but still I would not feed. I felt the hunger growing, knew it would rise to overwhelm me, that it would burn me as the sun had burnt me and that it would leave nothing of me, nothing of Sarah, but a blackened ash, and still I held out against it.

I could find Him, I thought, without the aid of more blood. I could find Him before it was too late, before I had to feed or cease to be, and I could ask forgiveness. He could release the curse, could help me before I broke the first vow I'd made on the Earth, before another — one with life ahead of them and a very real chance at salvation within their grasp — fell to my hunger.

I was still vain, in those days, still full of the memory of my essence, my former strength. I had no idea the depths of the hunger, the depths it could drive me to in panic, or in outright lust after the lifeblood I would have preserved.

As the hunger grew, my power, and my essence, grew dimmer. My mind regressed, and I knew that I was sinking, becoming a lesser and lesser creature, a predator. I felt the hunger overpowering my resistance, felt the call of the strength that could be mine again. I had had no idea how precious my own essence was to me. Despite my resolve, I would feed, laying waste to the struggles, the efforts I'd made to resist, and yet I held back.

I was vain, and I paid the price of my vanity.

On the third night I fed. He was young, strong and beautiful. I wept as his life poured through me, as I stole his dreams and swallowed his essence, only to feel it slip away. It was not as it had been with Sarah. I felt him being released through my skin as I fed.

It was an experience of unbelievable power — a glimpse of rapture — a touch of Heaven. It brought me to my knees, his cold, lifeless frame cradled in my arms like the body of a child.   I experienced the moment of his freedom, of his ascension, and the pain of this was much greater even than the weight Sarah's pain. It tore at my soul, and I went into a rage, maddened by the sight of my goal, by the taste of that which had been forbidden me. And his blood was stronger than Sarah's had been. My own senses peaked incredibly, nearing the levels of my former existence. It was not enough. It was a pale shadow of the gift he had received. I lusted after even that, would have grabbed it from him, clawing my way up the very tendrils that bound his soul to Heaven if the power to do so had been mine.

Then I heard the laughter bubbling up through the Earth to drown me in despair. I felt Lucifer's presence to the core of my being, plucking at the cords of my essence, fondling all that was mine almost absently.

You see what I have done, little fool? I have granted your wish. Now you have both your own private Hell to carry within you, and your own window opening onto Heaven.

Then I was alone again, only the trail of his laughter eating at my mind, gnawing away like some sort of spiritual vermin at the center of my existence.

I sent out my senses again, sent them questing to their very limits and beyond, and I found what I sought. Along the shores of the lake they called Gennesaret He walked, among fishermen and carpenters, workers and the families of the poor. He gathered them to Him, and He taught. I rose, leaving the body at my feet, and I flew across the miles — forgetting all but the need to be there, to be with Him. In Him lay the answer, and there could be no hope without Him.

I covered a great deal of ground that night, reaching the shore and secreting myself in a large cavern, far back away from the lapping of the waves and the burning of the sun. I could sense Him, so near that the touch melted the ice on my soul, released a tiny bit of the hunger and the pain. It returned my sanity, and I rested — waiting.  Soon I would see Him, and I would have my answer. Soon I would find release.

And He sensed me as well. He was reaching out to my mind, calling to me to come to Him, to not be afraid — even of the light. The fear and the pain bound me, holding me as their prisoner. I rested.

Soon, I answered with all the power remaining to me. Soon.

Judas 3

So it was, as the multitudes pressed about Him to hear the word of God, that He stood by the Lake of Gennesaret,

And there were two boats standing by the lake; but the fishermen had gone from them and were washing their nets.

Then He got entered into one of the boats, which was that of Simon, called Peter, and asked him to put out a little from the shore. And he sat down in the boat, teaching the multitudes from the boat.

When he had finished speaking, he said to Simon, "Launch out into the deep and let down your nets for a catch."

But Simon answered him, saying "Master, we have toiled all night and caught nothing; nevertheless at Your word I will let down the net.

I could not leave my bed within the Earth as the sun was in the sky, and yet I knew He was close. I sensed His movements nearby. He had moved from the temples of Galilee and walked now near the shores of the great lake Gennesaret, upon the shore of which I slept. The people moved with Him, great crowds of them, not willing to be parted from His wisdom.

I sensed their wonder and the all-consuming power of His love. I knew that love as well, and though I could not see Him, I sensed His awareness of me. I was included within the sphere of that love.

I let myself drift free of the confines of my body, the fresh blood of the previous night enhancing my sight, and I drifted into the thoughts of those who followed, watching through their eyes, living within their limited vision.

He had come to the shore of the lake, to the port of several poor fishermen, and He had launched into the lake with one of them. The fisherman’s name was Simon, but Jesus called him Peter. In Peter I experienced something more powerful than I had in any of the others I'd encountered. There was a power and nobility beyond the years of his mortal existence present in the man’s essence.

When the Christ looked upon him, when He spoke to him, he focused more intently, spoke like a master to an apprentice. Somehow, this man would be linked to all that was to come. I watched as they pulled away from the land, taking the boat first a little ways off shore, where all could still hear his words.

The emotions of those present were lifted beyond anything I had yet experienced; it seemed perhaps beyond anything they had experienced. I learned as I lay there, learned of men, and of the power the Christ could exert over them.  All of it was new to me — I had followed none of their history, knew nothing of their lives, their dreams.

The short span of their years horrified me. I tried to imagine measuring the days of my existence by their standard and failed. The magnitude of it was staggering. Those of us who had fallen, those of us bereft of the greatest gift in the universe, went on and on seemingly indefinitely. I could not imagine a time when Lucifer, or the Christ himself, had not existed.

Men were like small suns; burning so brightly, brilliant in their passions, colossal in their arrogance, and unparalleled in their ignorance. They fascinated me. It was more than just their blood calling to my hunger.

Perhaps it was the sharing of His love, of His emotions — a melding of souls. I do not know. I saw them as embryonic spirits, sparks against his flame, against the cool fire of Lucifer, even against the dark, shadowy flame that was now my own essence.

He taught them the most rudimentary of truths with infinite patience, repeated Himself over and over to the more contentious among them, those who thought they knew more than He. In their hearts, I felt, they knew they were wrong, but it is a very human fault to plow ahead anyway, banging one's head against stone walls until something gives.

He stood on the boat at last and beckoned to Simon, and the two of them moved out to the middle of the lake, followed by one other boat, that of two brothers, James and John. Simon watched every movement of the Christ's face; saw the play of light in His hair and the subtle motions of His arms as he spoke.

I say this because it sets the stage for my amazement. Seeing all that he could, feeling as he felt and knowing the Christ for who and what He was, Simon Peter doubted. When Jesus said to him, lower your nets to catch fish, he doubted. He did not want the image he held to shatter, did not trust the fish, or the lake, or the words of his "master" to bring him through the moment.

I sensed a great power in motion. The Christ reached out, sending the tendrils of his essence through the water, through the very Earth itself to where I lay, helpless and awaiting the coming of night. He called out to the fishes of the lake, and they answered. They came from the depths, from the shallow pools near the shore, from the inlets and outlets of the lake.

The nets filled quickly, sending the boat off balance, and Simon was so surprised, so delighted to be proven faithless — another human trait — that he nearly allowed it to capsize, spilling himself, the Christ, and all the fish back into the depths of the lake.

Then He called out to James and John, who were his partners, and asked them for aid. They came, bringing their own boat alongside, and they worked together, side by side with Jesus, hauling in the nets and releasing the catch into their boats.

On the shore, the multitudes looked on in amazement, full aware that Simon, James, and John had tried already that day to bring in a catch offish and had failed. They were in the presence of a miracle, and it was then that I discovered the overriding fault in the makeup of men. I felt it ripple through them, overwhelming their wonder, overwhelming the growing faith that was filling them all.

They were trying to figure out how this miracle worker could help them. Rather than seeing what He meant for their world, for the eternity they faced so blithely, they wanted to see what material things He might bring to them. They saw Him giving to the fishermen great piles of fresh fish, filling their boats as they had never been filled in all the days of the memories of their combined existence, and they wanted — each of them — something for themselves.

Not all the lessons I have learned of men are good. Their behavior sickened me, made me want to go among them, to scream at them, to bang their heads together and to make them see. They were being offered what I would have paid any price to return to me, and they were concerned with a boatload of fish.

His patience with them was incredible. He pulled back to the shore, leaving the boat with Peter and calling James and John to His side, as well. He spoke to them separately, away from the crowd, and these three listened. There were others. Somehow He was getting through, though to the few, not the many. He drew them to Him, those who could hear, those whose eyes were not completely blind, reaching out to them and tugging at their hearts.

There were twelve when He was done, and when He departed, they went as well, sending the multitudes back to their homes. These twelve, I knew then, were the chosen — were like I myself had been with Lucifer — blessed among their kind.

There was Thaddeus, the brothers, James and John, and their partner Simon, now called Peter, and his brother Andrew, Philip, and Thomas, in whom I sensed such purity that it made my hunger leap and burn, such light that I could scarce maintain my concentration, Matthew, he who would be one of those who would later conspire to warp the truth, Bartholomew, Simon (not Peter, but a Canaanite) and James, the son of a man named Alphaeus, and the last of them, Judas Iscariot.

Each of them was a flame — a candle among men to lead them through the darkness, and each moment they spent in the company of the Christ those flames grew. Apart, they shone brighter than their fellows, more pure, stronger in faith and love, but together they were as an army, their strength a hundred times that of the one.

He led them along the shores of the lake, and He led them away from the city of Galilee, teaching as He went, filling them with His spirt, His knowledge, protecting them and watching over their fears. I yearned to be among them, to feel His hand upon my own shoulder, to feel that light burning within me, but it was not yet time.

Even when the shadows returned, when the night was upon us, I could not go to Him, could not draw near His company. The temptation was too much — the draw of those twelve. My hunger was growing steadily, weakening my resolve and draining my strength, and I knew I could not be near them.

They were a part of something great, something beyond me, beyond Lucifer and his petty scheming, and I would not violate that. If there was any chance on Earth or in Heaven for me, it depended on my strength.  So I followed, lurking in the shadows, and I watched until a time should come that I could make myself known once more.

He knew that I followed, sending His compassion to me when He could, filling me with as much light as He could spare, but it could not offset the hunger, and I continued to feed — to sleep in shadowed crevasses and ancient tombs as I traced His progress across the land.

CHAPTER TWO

Proverbs 2:16-19

"16 To deliver thee from the strange woman, even from the stranger who flattereth with her words;

17 Which forsaketh the guide of her youth and forgetteth the covenant of her God.

18 For her house inclineth unto death, and her paths unto the dead. 19 None that go unto her return again, neither take they hold of the paths of life.

Judas 6

They crossed over the lake, and they came out from the boats into the lands of the Gadarenes. And when Jesus was come out of the ship, immediately there arose from the tombs a man bearing unclean spirits, who had his dwelling among the places of the dead; and no chains made of man could bind him.

Because he had been often bound with chains and had plucked the chains asunder, casting them off and had broken the fetters into pieces.

And no man could tame him.

Always, both night and day, he was in the mountains and among the tombs, crying out in a mighty voice and cutting himself with stones.

I felt the presence of the Son of Man through to the marrow of my bones. I knew the touch of His feet on the Earth, and I felt His spirit spreading throughout the land. I felt another presence, also, and I was curious — curious and for the first time since I was drawn up from Hell, I felt afraid.

There was something in the air that smelled of the Pit, of Lucifer himself. I had never known anything like it before, and yet I knew it as I knew my own essence. The Christ moved upon the shore, but He was not alone, and I spread out my senses to their fullest, letting the tendrils of my thought spread thinner and thinner, reaching out to Him so that I might understand what was taking place.

The bond between us strengthened, and eventually I wound my way through the thoughts of those surrounding Him to a clear vision of what transpired.

The Christ stood alone, His disciples and those gathered to hear Him teach had backed away a safe distance, leaving Him. He faced a single man, and it was from this man that the darkness leaked, that the uneasy twist at the bottom of my heart shied from.

The man's hair was wild, untamed and uncombed. It danced and played about the sides of his head like a nest of vipers. His clothes hung in tatters, and his eyes were bright — deep and glowing. They were not human eyes, and yet his body was that of a man.

The remnants of several chains and manacles hung from his wrists and ankles. They clanked as he walked and bounced up from the dirt to bang painfully into his limbs as he moved. He paid them no mind at all. His gaze was fixed on that of Jesus, and the expression on his face was full of loathing and hatred.

"So, God Son," he croaked. The chords that formed his voice were cracked, and he found difficulty in forming clear words, "You have come down from Your throne to taunt me, have You? Come to play a little game before the final judgment?"

Jesus only gazed at him in silence. The perpetual sadness in His eyes wrenched at my heart. My mind was blending the trailing bits of darkness with memory, sorting things out. I knew this essence. It was one of the things Lucifer had created in his failed attempts to chain spirit to flesh — his bitter imitations of man. In this instance, it seemed, what he had managed was to chain the body of a single man with his own twisted beings riding along as so much cargo. I wondered how many others like him might exist.

"You know I am not here for you," Jesus said at last. "Get you from this man, and leave him in peace."

"Oh, so simple to say," the demon cackled, dancing a macabre little jig in its shabby, ill-used human cage. "Just like that I am to fly back to the abyss, to His anger — just like that so the poor little man-thing can resume it's wretched existence. Is that what You would have of me, God Son?"

Jesus looked around, and to the side he saw a herd of pigs. There was a faint twist of amusement at the corners of His eyes, but His mouth was set in a grim line as He returned his gaze to the demon.

"How are you called, thing of darkness?" he said, and the authority in his voice was unmistakable.  "You know Me only too well, it seems. You will not speak again of what you know, if you would ask a boon of me."

The demon's eyes whirled, but it did not hesitate. "I am called Legion," it answered, twisting the man-mouth into a grin of impossible height and width.  "We are many."

"Then to many you shall disperse," Jesus said with a wave, gesturing toward the herd of swine.

The change that took place was instantaneous and complete. They were beings of considerable power, and yet He cast them free from the body with a casual flick of His wrist. They were there, then gone. The man stood before the Christ, blinking as if awakening from a long slumber, looking about himself in wonder and lifting up his arms to inspect the chains that hung there.

The pigs were a different matter. There was a high-pitched squeal that drove some of those present to their knees in its ferocity and volume. The animals reared and leapt about, cavorting as if involved in a grotesque dance. They turned in unison and stared back to where the Christ watched them stolidly, then spun on cloven hooves and dashed off madly toward the lake from which He'd arrived.

He reached out a hand after them, as if to call them back, but it was too late. They dove into the water and swam through the deepening waves, thrashing and squealing frantically until their mouths were filled and their breaths stilled. They sank beneath the waves slowly, and were gone.

All on the shore stood still as statues, watching the waves and wondering. Jesus turned back to the man He had freed. "Go," He told him, "Go to the temple and give thanks as you should for such release.  Say nothing of how you were freed, and sin no more."

Then He turned and walked away. It was several moments before the others noticed, but when they did, they hurried after Him, their voices an excited babble.

To them it was a miracle, for me, a lesson. I was not the only dark creature upon the land. I did not know what these others might mean to me, or, more importantly, what they might do to me. It would be necessary to learn these things, and soon. I did not yet know how long my stay on Earth might prove. It was knowledge I might need to survive, and that I knew I must do.

Judas 10

As he spoke, a ruler came to him and knelt before him, saying, "My daughter has died. Come and lay your hand upon her, and she shall live." Jesus rose and followed him, as did his disciples.

As he walked, a woman who had bled for twelve years reached out to touch his cloak. She said to herself, "If only I touch his cloak, then I shall be healed."

Turning, Jesus saw her and said, "Take heart, daughter, for your faith has healed you." And the woman was whole from that moment on.

When Jesus entered the ruler's house and saw the musicians and the noisy crowd, he moved them aside. Seeing that no color remained to the girl's cheeks, and seeing also the marks upon her throat, he said, "Go away, for the girl is not dead, but only sleeping." They laughed at him. After they had been put outside, Jesus closed the door behind himself, barring it from within. As darkness fell, a woman was seen to pass the window frame and to speak. Taking the girl by the hand, Jesus led her outside, and she lived, though no spark remained to her eyes—-except that of hunger-—and her pallor was that of death.

All stood in awe, and the news spread rapidly throughout the land. Ignoring her father and those about her, the girl walked into the desert and was seen no more.

As Jesus moved through the cities, through the squares and temples, He reached out to those in need. He filled some with His spirit, others with His wisdom, and I watched from afar, burning to be near Him, longing for his touch. I watched Him, and even beyond the death men fear, I felt His presence sway me.

It was a growing thing, an evolving need. I needed him on more levels than I had previously known, and this was confusing to my spirit. I wanted Him to forgive me, burned to return to the glory of the All-Father, and yet I also wanted Him near me on a more personal level . . . a human level. I wanted His hand on my brow, on my skin — wanted His eyes to look for just a moment into mine, and to be mine alone.

It clouded my senses. I forgot, at times, that my goal was Heaven, forgot the fall and all the years of torment, forgot even the hunger. My flesh ached for His, my eyes saw only Him.

It was not only spiritual, not only His essence that called to mine, but the burning needs of the parody of a woman that I had become — that drew me to Him. I watched the long, flowing locks of His hair, watched the way He moved, the way He spoke. His shoulders were broad and strong, and His eyes clear and bright. I felt things I did not understand, felt them reciprocated from afar, and I felt the anguish this brought to Him.

I would have left then, were it not for that need. If I had not sensed that the time was limited, that things were happening rapidly, I would have left Him, removing the temptation of my fate from His side. My presence and my suffering preyed upon His mind.

I knew all this, and yet I remained, in anguish and alone. I skirted the cities, but He knew I was there, and He wept for me. His pain was nearly more than I could bear.

And still, in my weakness, I fed. The hunger would madden me, remove my sight, cut me off from Him I sought, and I would take another victim, would move among men and choose, as I knew I must, from their pure, to sustain my form. Each time I did so, I felt His pain and heard the mocking laughter from below, and I retreated, sometimes for days, into the earth, trying to pull away from Him, trying to release myself from the curse.

It was after one such time that I found myself on the very brink of insanity, clawing my way into the shadows of early evening, even though the last dying rays of the sun burned me like a fire. I could not wait — the hunger would not be stilled.

I had remained separate from men for nearly five days, attempting to resist the pull of the thirst, but it had eaten at me like a cancer, drained me of both strength and will. I was a mindless thing, a beast of the night, and I burst free from the shadows.

I did not seek out innocent blood. I sought human blood. I did not seek to renew my sight, bringing Him closer to me and strengthening our growing bond, but to feed — to rend and tear and soak myself in the power of it.

My essence was cut off from me, and only that which had been recreated as human, or less than human, was my guide. I did not think of this, either. I thought of blood.

I moved nearer to the city, and the first structure I came upon was the home of a great man — a king. This did not matter to me; king or beggar, whoever I met would fall. What matters is what followed.

I slipped into the gardens near the building, sensing a presence there, a solitary heartbeat. It was a girl, a young woman barely into her fifteenth year, and yet there was already a great bitterness festering in her heart. She sat alone on a stone bench, pressing into the shadows as I did, trying to remain unseen, though I sensed no one there to seek her.

I melted from the darkness at her side, waiting for her to notice my presence.  She did not at first. I can move very silently, when I wish it, and in the grasp of the hunger I am like the breath of the wind. Still, she looked up at last and met my gaze with no fear.

"Who are you?" She asked boldly, sitting forward and gazing into my eyes.  "This is my father's garden — he will have you whipped for trespassing."

I moved forward. I do not know what stayed my hand, but I did not feed. I sat beside her, returning her gaze, and I smiled.

Her eyes widened as she took in my form, my darkness and my beauty.  She reached out tentatively, as if to touch the trailing tresses of my hair, but stopped short. Her mouth opened wide, and her eyes were full of curiosity. She did not scream.

"Who are you?" she repeated, but the connotation was different, subtler. She might have said, "What are you," with the same inflection.

My smile widened, and I answered. They were the first words I'd spoken to a human, the first true recognition I'd received from another being since the curse had been laid upon my shoulders. I quivered with the hunger, ached to feed, but I spoke instead, probing, taking in her essence and rolling it over my tongue.

"It does not matter who I am," I answered. "I am, that is enough. Are you not afraid of me?"

She nodded, then, but the fear did not rob her of her curiosity. As she gazed upon me, I looked within her as well, running the tendrils of my spirit through her thoughts and memories.

She was an unhappy girl. Her father, in her mind, was a tyrant, a slave driver who would marry her off, whether she liked the man or not, for his own gain.

She wanted to remain, wanted the large home and the servants for her own. She even thought of ending her own father's life to have these things, blaming it on a servant. All of this I read in an instant, all of this I pushed aside.

She was looking upon me in a way I was not used to, calling to me with her own small spirit. It was another revelation. She saw my beauty, and she was captivated, knowing it was mine alone, but wanting it for herself all the same. I felt thoughts running through her mind of crying out, of having me captured and bound as her servant.

She would possess me, if she could not steal my beauty. The thought amused me — and enraged me. I had been a slave for too many years to tolerate such thoughts from such as her for long.

"I would make a poor servant," I told her, plucking the thoughts from her mind and spitting them back at her. She pulled away, then, but I held her in place with my eyes and reached out a hand to caress her hair. "I am of the darkness, of the shadows. You are a lovely girl. Why do you covet what is mine?"

She tried to shake her head, to negate my words, but I let her know with my mind that it was useless.

"Wh...who are you?" she murmured, as I leaned in, pulling her young throat toward my lips and sensing the blood — tasting it even through the thin membrane of her skin.

I looked at her one last time, and I spoke words that tore at my own soul. "I do not know, young one ... I do not know."

Then I fed. I fell upon her and drew her close to me. I felt her head fall across my arm as her eyes closed. Her throat constricted to scream, but I did not allow it. I placed my hand across her lips, muffling any sound she might make, and I sank my teeth into the wellspring of her being, drew her forth, drop by drop.

Her life was short, but her blood was hot — full of potential — of life. I did not think of purity, nor did I think of the consequences of my actions, not until I felt her drawing within me, not until I heard her screams and realized that they had never passed her human lips.

She fell into me, joining Sarah's spirit to haunt me. As my senses returned and my head cleared, I cried out, and there were answering sounds from near the building. I staggered to my feet, let her body drop to the stone bench, and fled, banging through the trees and knocking over the beautiful pots and stonework in my path.

I burst from the garden like an avenging spirit, flew into the shadows on wings of anguish and pain. Behind me I heard them calling out to her, shouting to give chase, to take me.

It did not matter. Those from the tiny hell inside me drowned out their voices, and my solitary universe was more full by the weight of another lost child.

I stumbled and almost fell, caught my balance at the last moment and continued into the night. I ran, and wept, and ran some more. In the recesses of my mind I heard the mocking laughter and felt Lucifer reaching out to stroke the souls trapped within me, causing them to renew their cries of anguish, sending shock waves of pain through my being.

I ran, but I could not escape, and at last I stopped, falling on my face in the sand and laying very still. The darkness still ruled the sky, and I let myself drain downward, let my flesh fondle the earth and take what little comfort there was from it. I tried to blank my mind, but it was impossible.

I sensed the Christ, as well, felt His anguish as He reached out to me, shared my pain, shared the curse. I battered at His presence, beat upon it, trying to drive Him from me, to keep Him from things unclean. I was damned. I was beyond hope — beyond even His strength.

He would not be denied. His essence was with me, flowing through me, and even as I wept He drew me up, drew me back to my feet and pulled at my soul. I fought. I did not want to see Him, could not face Him at that moment. Not with the blood of one so young on my face, not renewed through the condemnation of another of His flock.

I took His gift of strength, and I ran again, away from Him, away from men. The morning was fast approaching, and I knew I had to get myself hidden, to find a shelter from the day and from my own growing madness. I had to lie within the earth and renew myself — to find a way and reason to continue.

Even as I pulled free the stone door of a great crypt, though, I was looking forward. I had waited long enough, had pushed Him aside for the final time. It was time. I could do nothing else. I would go to Him. When the darkness fell, I would seek Him out, wherever He might be, and I would throw myself at His feet — upon His mercy.

If I did not, I would truly become the demon men thought me; I would be a bringer of death until the day the Earth crumbled beneath my feet and cast me to eternal flame.

I lay down in the cool center of the vault, amid the remains of dead men and women — an entire generation of them — and I slept.

Daylight ruled the world above me, and yet I saw its life, the events that filled it, as clearly as if I had walked those roads myself. The girl's blood — the princess' blood, as I now knew it to be, had renewed me, had revitalized my vision, and my sight.

The Christ walked nearby, so close that the Earth separating us seemed the thinnest of veils, the weakest of barriers. It was as though His feet trod the soil and the soil caressed me in return, and even in my rest — in my sleep — my body burned to that touch, arched and moved with Him.

There was a great commotion, and I knew in my heart that I was the cause. The king had come to the apostles, had been brought before the Christ Himself, and he spoke of his daughter — of her attack and her death.

"They say," he cried in his anguish, "that You have great powers, Lord. They say You may cast aside even the angel of death. I pray to Thee, come to my daughter — see to her. She is so young, and ..."

"I will come." No promises, no sermons or empty words, only that statement.  "I will come."

I trembled within the tomb, wishing for anyone, anything to hold close to my flesh for comfort. I knew what had happened to the girl, and I knew what would happen to her, come the darkness — and I knew that He knew as well, through me. He did not know the full extent of it, had not looked into the undead eyes of what had once been Sarah, but somehow He knew.

He moved among His followers then, continuing His teaching and His miracles, continuing His destiny.  He went to the home of the king. Even from behind the sealed doors of my tomb I distracted Him. I was not a part of the formula, not a part of prophecy. I was the strange woman of the "Proverbs", and I called to Him in pain.

He came to the large home I had found the previous night, and He found there a great gathering of people. They celebrated the death and the ascension they believed in, though their faith was untried. There were dancers, musicians, and healers of every sort available in the nearby area, food and drink. He looked upon it all in sadness, and pulled the king to the side.

"You must allow Me to spend some time alone with her," He said softly, speaking for the king's ears only.  "If there is to be hope of her return, you must leave her to Me."

The king was torn by his loss of a daughter, of the marriage she was pledged to — the loss of a bit more of his faith. He nodded, turning instantly to clear the room, casting out all who were within the walls.

Again I was struck by the shallowness of their hearts. This man was willing to believe that there might be hope for his dead daughter, that there might be something this Man with the love of the world in His bearing could do against the ultimate darkness, and yet he was unwilling to believe it meant anything to him.

His faith would not alter. He would believe in the Christ as he would in a court magician, and he would offer sacrifices in the old manner, would proclaim his belief to the world. None of it would be true.

The truth was that he was already making plans for his daughter's return. He was already renewing the ties in his mind that he would make through marriage, spreading wide his hands to collect the gain she might bring to him. He would not fear God — would in fact no longer even fear death itself in the same manner, once it was done.

I yearned to be there, to speak with Jesus and to explain what I felt. I knew He must feel it too, and I wondered that He went to the girl anyway. The home had been cleared, everyone camping beyond the building in the late afternoon sun, and the Christ remained inside with the dead girl — alone.

He knelt at her side. His head was bowed in prayer The long golden locks of His hair fell across her slight frame as His forehead touched the stone of the bench upon which she lay. Her hands had been folded upon her breast, and a white flower had been placed within her grasp.

I do not know what He said, for I could not break through the barriers of His personal communion. He was in communication with the Heavens, was touched by the light that could set me free, and I found myself rising to my knees in the depths of the crypt, letting my hair fall forward to brush the bone and dirt of the floor.

I prayed my own prayers — for the girl, Sarah, for the princess who lay upon a bed of stone, about to rise into a world of shadow, for the Christ, who bore me like a ball and chain, dragging my guilt and my sin about the world with Him as if it were no burden at all.

I prayed for Lucifer, for his beauty and for a release of the rage and bitterness that bound him so surely. He sensed what I was doing, and he reached out to me to try and stifle that which flowed from my mind, from my soul, but I had just fed, and the Christ sustained me. Lucifer's grasp — for once — fell short.

As long as the sun was in the sky, I remained there in the dust, and when I rose, I went straight to Him — straight through the sands and the streets, making my way through the crowds at the home of the king without regard to their words, their admonishments and warnings.

At the very edge of the crowd, a man reached out and grasped my arm. The shock of his touch impeded my progress.

"Lady, do not go closer," he said, and I turned to him, gazing into his eyes in wonder. It was my first sight of Judas Iscariot, the first lingering touch of his essence upon mine. I burned him into my memory as I held his gaze with my own for just a moment. Then I shook free and continued toward the building before me as if he had not spoken.

He watched me in wonder, glancing down to where I had so easily broken his hold, and followed my progress with his eyes. I sensed a fear in him then, but for once the fear was not of his mortal life, or of the loss of anything physical. He was afraid of what I might be, what I might do.

Before he could call out, or any other could follow, I rounded the corner of the home and moved along its stone face until I reached a low window. Within, I could sense that Jesus sat — His prayers ended, but His mind focused. He was calling to me, and I let Him know in every way possible that I was drawing near.

My heart fluttered. I had never felt such wonder. The fallen are a solitary sort — not given to contact. Our grief is eternal, and we see no need to share it.

I now knew this as a weakness. I longed for comfort, and to be told that everything would be well. These thoughts enthralled me, for they were the thoughts of a woman, alien to me.

I stood at the window at last, looking in upon Him, and He lifted His head from His vigil over the girl, drawing me yet closer with the love in His eyes, the promises inherent in His essence. I felt the salvation, felt the message He poured out to those who followed Him, filled His disciples with.

In that instant I knew that they were bound to Him, each of them, as Sarah and this young girl were bound to me. They existed within Him, and He had released some of what was Himself into them, sustaining them, giving them the faith and strength to accomplish what man himself could never do, to believe in something beyond the physical — to yearn for freedom of the spirit.

All of this flashed through me, and yet it was not the message He sent to me. His summons was more intense, more focused. He wanted to take my pain. He wanted to end the curse and release those who believed in Him from the danger I represented.

His summons held a question, sadness and yearning, all at once.

"Why?" He asked, the same words as Sarah had spoken after she'd risen -- the same words I'd had no answer for the first time.

I tried. I opened myself to Him, allowing Him access I would never have willingly given any being, letting Him feel the spirits within me, the condemnation of their souls. I drew forth the image of Sarah as she had come to me in the graveyard, made Him see the emptiness of her eyes, made Him partner to the growing hunger in my soul.

He lowered His eyes again to those of the girl, and her eyes fluttered in response, then opened in amazement, and in torture. In that instant I felt her knowledge of both Heaven and Hell simultaneously, and I wept, leaning into the stone of the wall and bowing my head helplessly.

She sat up, looking about the empty room, looking down at her arms, her legs, realizing what she had become.

"I have gotten my wish, after all," she croaked, as her voice returned with the slowness of the grave. "I sought your beauty, and in part, it is now mine. I sought your power, and that I feel as well. I ask again, who are you?"

The Christ stood aside, allowing the exchange, watching in silence as my eyes rose to meet those of she who I'd forsaken. "I am no one," I told her. "I have no name, and my face is that of Lucifer's whim. I have been called Lilith, though I know nothing of that name. I am emptiness and shadow — I am death."

"No." He moved between us, and His eyes took on anger and an animation I had not yet seen within them. I backed up a step, but I did not move away from the window. His eyes were locked on mine, and He held me as easily as I had held the girl the night before.

"Lilith is a creature of Lucifer's creation," He said slowly, "and she has nothing to do with you. You are of the Heavens, of the Bringers of Light, not of their fallen prince. You possess a bit of the beauty of eternity. You have no name, and so I name you, giving you the name of she who brought me forth upon this world.

"From this day forth, you shall be called Mary, and I say to you now, I will take you home. There is hope where there is love, and God is love."

"And what of me?" the girl asked, her impudence not shackled by her death, her arrogance reminding me in that second of Lucifer's own.  "What shall You call me? Shall I be freed from — this, or shall I suffer? Who is to decide?"

He turned to her slowly, and moved to touch her brow, but she pushed away from Him, scuttling back across the bench and standing on the far side of it to glare at Him. Her hatred burned outward, flowed through the air that surrounded me and pummeled at me from within through the voice of her trapped spirit.

"I will not die." she said softly.  "You might release my flesh, but I know where my spirit lies, and there is another who speaks to me. He tells me that my essence, what is truly mine, is beyond even You. If You save me, You have to release me. This is what I am told. I will not crumble to the dust, and I will not be released to judgment at Your whim.

"I will walk as I am, taking my chances on the Day of Judgment."

I felt the truth behind her words — at least in that she heard a voice. I knew that my own bond with Lucifer had helped him to access her mind, to speak to her soul. Though she was trapped within my own shell of darkness, she was aware, and she was afraid to face eternity. He had grasped that fear, added to it with lies and embellishments as only he could, and had let her human nature do the rest.

She was lost to us. The Christ only nodded, not trying to force Himself, or His love, upon her, though the sadness in His eyes deepened noticeably as she turned from Him, facing the doorway.

He turned back to me and reached out to me with such compassion in his gaze that I could not bear it. I was tearing Him apart, ruining what He built even as He created it, and still He sorrowed for me — wanted me to remain near Him.

I felt His love wash over me in great torrents, and the unbelievable power of His spirit, and yet I fled. I pushed off from the wall, stumbled and almost fell to the sand, and I turned from Him, putting up such defenses against His call as I could muster and fleeing into the growing shadows of the night.

One man had broken free of the crowd in front of the building, to find a vantage point where he could watch me at the window. As I fled, he ran after me, calling out to me as I staggered into the night. I ignored him, for I would not have enough strength to escape if I lingered, but I wanted to warn him of what I was and what I was doing to His Lord.

The building, the crowds, all of it fell away behind me, and I sensed a release — as if He had turned His eyes elsewhere in resignation, and would no longer burden me with His need. It was then that I first knew my own selfishness. Perhaps I was not the only one facing darkness. Perhaps, even among men, He felt alone and abandoned. The thought was staggering. I turned, tracing my steps slowly back to the crowds beyond the home of the king.

I needed to know what He would do, what would happen. I wanted to be there for Him, even if I could not face Him, to bolster Him with my nearness. It didn't matter to me that I would have to go once more among men. They held no fear for me, and I was still strong from the girl's blood.

I came to the outskirts of the crowd once more, moving slowly this time and pulling my cloak up over my head to hide my long black hair and the intensity of my eyes. There was a great commotion ahead, and I ascertained through a couple of quick snatches at the minds around me that He was about to exit the house, that the king would learn the fate of his daughter.

There were many opinions floating among them, a myriad of beliefs and disbeliefs, minds awash with wonder, and with skepticism. I pushed my way slowly toward the front, trying not to attract any attention, but determined to see — to not miss a second of what was to come, of what I had wrought.

I did not notice where I came free of the crowd; if I had, I surely would have moved further away from them. I stood just to one side of the apostles, within an arm's reach of the one called Nathaniel. I sensed him — them — before I turned my head, and it was in that instant that Judas turned to me again, recognized me, and moved my way.

I was intent on the doorway of the huge home, trying to concentrate, attempting to regain the prayer — the communion with Him that had sustained me only hours before as I lay helpless in the crypt, but I could not. Then he was there, this man, concern and fear mingling in his eyes, and he was grabbing at the fabric of my dress, pressing for my attention with words.

I wanted to snarl at him, to shake him free, to make him understand that I had another purpose, but I did not. I felt his heart — felt his essence, and it was like a mirror, holding itself up to me in judgment.

He truly wanted to help. He thought he saw in me one in need, and he thought himself — empowered as he was with the light of the Christ and His teachings — enough to provide it. He was afraid of me, having experienced a glimpse into my eyes earlier in the evening, and the strength with which I'd ripped free of his grasp.

His fear did not stop him. He persisted, drawing me back from where I was shutting myself off inside, making me aware of his flesh, his presence, his blood.

"Lady," he spoke, and at last I turned to him, searching his eyes, beseeching him to turn away, to leave me to my torment.  "I have not seen you with us before. Have you a name, and are you known to my Lord?"

I gazed at him, and I spoke the name I had been given for the first time, watching to see if it had any effect on him, or if it would change anything in my existence.

"Mary," I breathed softly.  "I am called Mary."

"Mary," he repeated, rolling the syllables over his tongue.  "There are many Mary's among us," he continued, trying to draw me out — to search my mind.  "How shall we call you; from whence do you come?"

I had no answer ready for him, but I took a word from his mind. He thought my speech odd, and I caught the name of a city — Magdalene. It did not matter what they called me, so I spoke this.

"I will be Mary of Magdalene, then," I told him. I would have said more. I would have told him to avoid me, and to warn his master and his fellows of my darkness and my curse, but I was not granted the chance.

At that moment, as he stood there, the cloth of my garment still clutched in his hand and the proximity of his blood making my temples pound and my heart race, the doors swung wide on the home. The Christ came out first, and beckoned for all to stand back.

His face held no light, no joy. He moved aside, and she was there, staring about herself in detached curiosity. There was nothing of the young girl she had been in her eyes. An empty, cold light shone from within those vacant sockets, and brought a chill of fear to those in the front ranks of the crowd.

I felt Judas' fingers tighten about mine, and steadied my will, allowing him any comfort my nearness could provide. I wished that I could take comfort from him, but he was awed by the sight of the dead girl, who's body he'd witnessed short hours before — but who was now walking.

All about us the word was being whispered from lip to lip, passing among the crowd from group to group with the speed of lightning.

"She is risen. The king's daughter lives. It is a miracle, truly, a sign from God!"

No! I wanted to scream. No! It is not a sign, it is an abomination! I nearly fell to my knees at their ignorance, at their inability to see that which was before their own eyes.

Judas turned to me, my own shock mirrored in his eyes, and I knew he had felt my words, that the contact had been too close. I sent my apology to his heart — beseeched him not to cry out, not to make things worse than they were. He did not draw away, though he shuddered.

He was speaking to me, but the Christ had spotted me from where He stood, and His eyes spoke more loudly, more intimately. I saw no answers in those eyes. He was resigned to what was to come, and was prepared to face it and go on. He did not want to let her go, did not want to allow her to walk into the darkness without hope. Neither would He physically stop her, removing from her that choice.

The king lurched free of his advisors and stepped forward to stand before his daughter — or the shell that had been his daughter.  His eyes were bright and wet with tears and he stretched out his hands. I saw the hunger come alive in the daughter’s eyes at the nearness of him, at the scent of his blood, saw her reach out to return his embrace. They were but inches apart, inches from total disaster, when the Christ turned from me and laid His hand upon her shoulder.

She stopped, even backing away a step, and stared at Him in fury and hatred. He did not speak, but I felt his message, shared in it, re-enforced it with my own will. Not now. Not here. The shadows you have chosen shall be yours, but you will not consummate this hunger here.

She backed away from her father then, snarling like a cornered beast, and all who saw her drew back in fear. What they saw was not the young girl who had walked among them in days passed. This was an animal. The movements, the voice that called out from that slight frame belied the years of her life — belied her humanity.

With a great cry of hunger and solitude, she turned and lunged at the crowd, leaping across the first of the ranks and landing in their center, plowing through them as if they were insects, tossing them aside and crashing toward the deeper shadows beyond the torchlight.

The crowds scrambled to get out of her way, to get beyond her reach, and in only seconds she was gone — lost to the night — to the darkness.

Her father stood, just as he had moments before, his arms outstretched. The light in his eyes had dimmed from joy to shock, and his movements were jerky, as if controlled by hidden strings. He turned to face the crowd, his shoulders rising and falling again. Then he turned back to Jesus, his features awash with pain — with questions and recriminations.

He never got the chance to voice these. Feeling the confusion around us, feeling the waxing and waning of their faith, their willingness to be led, I cried out. I surprised myself, surprised even the Christ with my audacity.

"She is taken!" I cried, my voice louder than a woman's should have been, but nobody noticed. "She has risen from the dead, and she had been taken up to her place in the heavens!"

They grasped at my words, clutched them to their breasts and sang out their joy. It was what they wanted to hear, the answer that served them best. I had learned those first lessons of humanity well — people believe what is most convenient.

Before they could turn to me, I turned myself and became lost in the crowds.

His disciples crowded around Him, questioning Him and offering their support. Only Judas hung back. He searched the crowds, looking for a strange woman with deep-set black eyes and a long dress. He did not see me as I swept around the edge of the crowd and off into the night.

I was still alone, and yet I felt as if some of the weight had lifted from my shoulders. I had faced my Lord, and He did not hate me. If there was truly hope, it still burned somewhere deep within, and though these thoughts brought nothing to me but mocking laughter from the realms below, I clung to them.

Even the few short moments of comradeship I'd felt with the man, Judas, seemed to ease my burden. I was no longer completely unknown. He did not know me, yet he knew that I suffered, and that I knew his Lord. It was enough, somehow.

I'd fed the day before, and the hunger was not great within me, so I walked alone through the night and took in the beauty of the world and the stars in the sky. I felt the hearts and minds of those around me wandered vicariously through their lives and their dreams.

Once or twice I felt the touch of something beyond my experience, something inhuman, but of the Earth all the same. These I tried to grasp, to hold and to learn from, but they slipped away from me, eluding my sight. I wondered about them, but I did not pursue them.

I had enough on my mind. I needed no new entity to mock me, or to add to my sorrow. Besides, all the years until Judgment were stretched ahead. Our paths would surely cross before my curse was ended. Whatever there was on the Earth to know, I would know it. Whatever there was to fear, or hate, would be mine as well.

Men would see me, eventually, and come to know me, some in fear, and others in wonder. It could not be changed. It was the nature of my curse, to wander among them, to feed from them and learn from them, to watch as they ascended to glory and dove headfirst into the inferno. To cry and laugh with and at them.

I found a great temple as I wandered, and behind it were the graves I had come to know. I walked among them, letting the moonlight bathe me as I searched for a proper resting place. I was about to shift aside the seal of a great sepulcher, entering to avoid the approaching light of day, when I felt eyes upon my back.

I whirled, but there was nothing there, and I sent my senses shifting through the shadows, over the tombs and through the crude monuments. Whatever it was, whoever it was, moved more quickly than I could follow. Confusion filled my soul.

I was not afraid. What had I, who had walked both Heaven and Hell, who had risen to the flesh, died, and risen again, to fear? But I was curious, for this presence was different — more than human, but less than God.

What I felt, I knew, was the loneliness crashing in on me. I wanted to find this being, to search its thoughts and feel the light of its spirit. Perhaps the encounter would relieve the solitude of my existence. I could not.

It was there, and then it was gone. Just as quickly as I'd felt the tiny feather touches of its gaze upon my form, I felt the release of its leaving. I was alone, and the sun was rising fast. With my thoughts in turmoil and my heart heavy with guilt, I turned to the tomb and I entered, sealing it behind me.

The darkness enfolded me, and I slept. Whatever it had been, it would have to wait for the night.

CHAPTER THREE

The Christ traveled much in the days that followed, staying only a short time in any one place. There was a physical danger to Himself and to His disciples everywhere they went. The scribes and the Pharisees questioned His teachings and often attempted to stir the people against Him, while, had He allowed it, others among them would have made Him their King. That is not what is written, and so He continued to travel.

I followed as I could, but I did not allow myself to grow too close to Him. I had already caused Him danger, and had sown dissention among His followers. I needed to be near Him, but I would do nothing to hinder His work.

From time to time I felt the lingering touch of that other presence, skipping about the edges of my sight and probing me ever so lightly with mental fingers that I tried to grasp, but which always pulled free. It was frustrating and intriguing at the same time. I felt less alone somehow, though I was no less solitary in my wanderings.

In Jerusalem, I stood in the growing shadows of the evening as Christ walked among the sick and the lame. There was a well there, a magical place, where at certain times, so the story was told, an angel stirred the water. At these times, any disease or infirmity could be washed away. It was a place of miracles to those around me — I felt this in their hearts.

They watched, and they waited, and they expected to see that water heal. My heart saddened, as I perceived the truth behind it. As I watched them and read the hope and the pain in their eyes, I nearly wept in my shadowed alley, leaning my head weakly against the stone.

I knew only too well the touch of the angel in that water, and his light was anything but the brilliance of heaven. The water truly did perform healing, but the healing was not the well's purpose. The purpose was to deceive, to place false hope in the minds of hundreds of people for whom the miracle would not work.

It was a trick — a candy treat held before a wide-eyed pack of children. It was hurtful and cruel. The tears streaming down the Christ's cheeks would have been mirrored on mine were it still possible for me to weep.

Jesus went among them, and as He went, He healed many. Here a touch of His hand, here a withered limb reaching out to come in contact with His robe. He moved slowly, touching as many people as He could. Though He was a God, He was also a man, and His physical limitations weighted His heart. He would have healed them all, healed the world, if the power to do so had been granted to Him.

At the side of the fountain, He met a man so crippled in his legs that he had to carry himself along by the strength of his arms. The man lay at the foot of the well, unable to pull himself up and over the lip on his broken, worthless limbs. Jesus went to him immediately, leaning down to speak more easily.

"What is wrong, old one? Why do you lie so close to the healing waters, but do not enter in?"

"I would, Lord," the man croaked, half-dead from thirst and from the pounding heat of the dying day's sun, "but there is none who will help me up and into the water." the man's face became blank hatred then, and he continued, "they fear the healing will work on me, and there will be none left for themselves, or their families. I am denied."

Jesus held out His hand to the man, and I felt the energy flow between them from where I stood. It was thrilling. As their eyes locked, the man's features melted into such a smile of such rapture, such shocked joy, that he could not utter a sound.

"Rise," Jesus commanded him.  "Take your bed and your things, and be on your way."

And the man rose. His legs, which had been withered and twisted since the day of his birth, were long and lean — muscled as if from long days on the road, and he moved them easily. Even the ability to use them gracefully had been granted, and I sank to my knees in the dust of the alley. My own need radiated from me in waves of despair, even as my heart filled with the miracle of the man's healing.

I don't know why that particular miracle meant so much to me. I saw a man whose limits had been set as a child suddenly break forth into new freedom, and I saw myself mirrored in his plight. I knew that Jesus could sense me from where He stood, but He ignored me and continued through the crowd.

The joy of what He was doing was upon Him and in Him, as well as in those who watched, and those who were healed, and I and a great harmony was building. Their minds, their faith, all were linked one to the other, and I was drawn helplessly into that web.

He washed through me. The hunger lessened and the loneliness abated for a moment. It was ecstasy — the purest experience of existence I'd known since the fall.

Powers moved below, winding and twisting as sinuously as the serpent for which they'd been named, but the Christ moved through the crowd without hesitation. An aura of tension suffused the air, like the crackling energy in a storm-filled sky. I felt it, but I was trapped, too weak to call out to Him in warning, too weak to pull away from the rapture of His presence.

I need not have worried as I did. In the end, Lucifer did nothing more than draw upon his earthly influence. As Jesus went among the sick, helping and preaching, telling all of the news of their salvation and receiving, for the most part, blank stares and idolatrous worship in return, a group of priests drew near.

These were Jews of the old order, the Pharisees, who walked with all the pomp and authority of kings. They were not humble servants of the lord, but learned men who felt secure in their positions of temporal power. The expressions on their faces were both wondering and stern as they drew near.

"You!" the foremost of them called out, letting his hand fall to point at the Christ. "We would have a word with You, teacher."

The inflection of the man's voice was insulting — degrading — and yet Jesus went to them without hesitation, even bowing slightly as He approached.

"We have been at the temple," a second among them blurted out, "and there is a man there who spoke of You. He is a man known to us, a cripple since birth — and yet he walks!"

"He is healed," Jesus said.

"By whose authority does one heal on the Sabbath," a third spoke up.

I seethed with anger. The darkness of evening approached, and with it my strength increased. I could not believe what I was witnessing. These "learned men of God", spoke of what had happened by this fountain as if it were sin.   What had happened was so far beyond their faith, their own ability to heal, that simple acceptance was impossible for them. They spoke as if the healing were nothing, the interpretation of their laws everything. They traded words with the Son of God, who offered them the greatest gift in creation, and I could scarcely contain my anger.

His will moved within me, trying to soothe — to calm my ire — to keep me from bolting into the growing darkness. Inside, I raged, but I waited. There was plenty of night left, and I was contemplating, for the first time — but not the last — adding a few souls to the small hell that grew within me.

"I do my Father's work," the Christ told them.  "He is working, and I work as well."

Now the minds of the three whirled — angry and frightened at the same time. This man not only healed on the Sabbath, but also claimed to be a Son of God Himself, and He stood before them as if He had not condemned Himself, as if they would not punish His impudence. Such were their thoughts — these were their words.

"You boast of much, whoever You might be, but You blaspheme against all that is holy in Your actions. You work on the Sabbath; You perform miracles in the name of a God You also claim as father. These things are sin, and for them You must answer."

It was then that I first felt the Christ slide to anger. He spun on the three, and He spoke in a voice that flashed through the small square, spoke to their hearts. None among them moved until He was finished — none among them dared.

"My actions are those of My Father. A son can do no less, and no more, than that which He sees in His Father.

"For the Father loves the Son, and He shows him all things that He Himself does; both the way and the meaning of them. He has shown me great things, as you have witnessed, and He will show me greater before My days on this Earth have ended.

"For as the Father raises the dead and gives them life, so shall the Son give life to those He pleases."

His words were spoken to the multitude, but I felt them cutting into my heart. He was drawing me in, making promises with His words, even as He dealt with the mortals He faced. I saw then how insignificant they were, how their words — their actions — were manipulated by powers they didn't even understand. I saw that each and every word He spoke was prophesied to be spoken.

"The Father judges not, but has passed all judgment on to the Son. He has done these things that all who honor the Father, should honor the Son. He who does not honor the Son does not honor the Father who sent Him.

"I tell you, and you should believe, that the day will soon come when the dead will hear the voice of the Son of God, and those who hear that voice will live."

I pulled myself from the wall and lurched to the center of the shadowed alley and gasped at the power with which He called to me. I took a single step backward, then another, each bit of distance giving me a slight relief of the pressure that threatened to burst my heart with His light. He could not turn to me, and I was not prepared to face Him.

When I reached the next street, I turned and I ran. The stars had risen to claim the sky, and the shadows had given way to the ebony cloak of deepest night. I still sensed His words, but I blocked them from my mind as best I could, catching a final message meant for me, but spoken to the world.

"Do not marvel at My words, nor should you mock Me, because the hour is coming in which all who are in the graves will hear His voice. They shall come forth then, those who have done good to the resurrection of life, and those who have done evil to the resurrection of condemnation."

And that, I knew, was the tear in the fabric of His promise. My nature was to do evil. As one of the fallen and as a part of the very creation of evil, my nature condemned me. He might bring me forth and present me at the gates of Heaven, but I was not of the light. Not any longer. I was a creature of the night — a solitary angel of darkness -- condemned.

I did not let my mind wander too near to Him again because I doubted my ability to tear free if He concentrated on me. I did not want to be the object of His downfall. I searched the minds at the fringes, finding at last those of His disciples, and I watched what transpired through them.

He showed the Pharisees the words of their own holy books, the words of the prophets — showed Himself to them from every angle, even unto showing them miracles, but their hearts were like stone. The people gathered would not allow the Priests to take Jesus away with them, and He and His disciples left the city under the shadowy canopy of darkness — walking in my world for a time, where I could easily follow and be near them.

They left the city of Jerusalem, and they headed back toward the great city of Galilee. I moved ahead of them, being unhampered by their mortal speed and wishing time alone to think, and to feed. I wanted to be beyond the hunger when we met again, at the peak of my strength.

I covered the desert in less than a day's time, returning to the tomb I had used the night I created Sarah. There was a morbid curiosity upon me to see what I had created, and to know how she fared. I did not know if she still remained near her former home, or if she'd moved on. I doubted that the bite of the sun had sent her down into the sand. Her spirit dwelt within me.

It comforted me to return to a place I had known. The graveyard was on the outskirts of the city — well concealed and seldom visited. It was perfect for my needs. On the first night I slept; on the second I hunted, but I saw no sign of Sarah. I did not sense anything of her in those that I met or passed, no knowledge, and no fear. She had departed the city, as had I, like a shadow.

And as I hid in my grave, watching and wondering, Christ and His followers came into the city. They performed miracles, showing signs to all that they met. I felt a weariness growing in Him, a fatigue born of too many thick heads and too many eyes that could witness a miracle and pass it off as something else. The weariness did not diminish His light, but it made Him more human. As He drew His followers together to depart for the sea, I made up my mind to go to Him again, as soon as possible.

Judas 13

When Jesus heard of the beheading of John the Baptist, He withdrew to a solitary place by boat. Hearing this, a great crowd gathered and awaited His arrival, traveling there on foot.

Seeing them, Jesus had compassion on them and healed their sick.

As darkness began to fall, the disciples came to Him saying, "this is a remote place, and the hour is already late. Send the crowds away so that they can go the villages and buy something to eat."

Jesus replied, "There is no need for them to go away. You give them something to eat."

"We have only five loaves of bread and two fish," they replied.

"Bring them to me," He said. Jesus directed the people to sit in the grass, and breaking the loaves, raised His eyes to the heavens and gave thanks. Then He gave them to His disciples, who gave them to the people. They all ate, and were satisfied, and the disciples collected twelve basketfuls of pieces that were left over. The number of those who were fed was about five thousand men, besides women and children.

Immediately after, Jesus made the disciples get into the boat and go on ahead of Him to the other side, while He dismissed the crowd. After He dismissed them, one woman remained, Mary of Magdalene, and they spoke at length. Dismissing her, as well, Jesus climbed upon a mountainside by Himself to pray. All of this was visible from the boat as it departed, and the disciples were confused, believing the woman to have been one possessed by demons.

As Christ traveled, the multitudes continued to follow. Everywhere He spoke, more people joined the masses. When He made His way at last out of Galilee and on to the sea beyond, His entourage numbered in excess of five thousand. I blended easily with this crowd as the evening fell, and along with them I came to the foot of a great mountain.

He sat upon a stone, far above us, though we could hear His words as clearly as if He were standing at our sides. Many of those about me hungered, having been all day from their homes and the city, and being hungry, they grew uneasy. They had followed to hear the teachings of He they called the Christ, but they were unable to push aside the needs of their flesh to do so.

I watched them, wondering to what end such a thing would come, when I saw the disciples descending the mountain. All eyes turned to them, for they bore two baskets, one with a few fish and the other with a small portion of bread. I wondered at the sight, thinking that the crowds would in fact be angered, not appeased, by such an offering, but it was not so.

On all sides of me, the people's eyes grew slack. Their minds released the tension their hunger had brought them in a great wave of relief. I turned my eyes again to the mountain, but the disciples held the same, nearly empty baskets. It was my time to wonder.

I reached out with my senses, tried to penetrate that which held them. I finally managed to work my way into the mind of a young woman. I saw then what they saw, saw the baskets being passed and every man woman and child reaching within to pull free a loaf of bread, or a portion of fish. I saw them eat and reach in again, taking more, even, than they needed, and yet there was no lack. The baskets remained full — overflowing with food.

I cast myself free, returned to my own mind, and the baskets were empty again. He had them in thrall, had removed their hunger and substituted thin air. I was amazed at the scope of His power. When they were finished, I saw even the disciples, who's sight was much clearer than their fellows, moving about the grass and filling basket after basket with non-existent crumbs and remains.

Throughout this all, the Christ sat alone on the mountain, not speaking. There was sadness within Him, greater than any emotion I had yet felt save His love, and my heart went out to Him. He had done so much to try and end my suffering, any such pain that He felt tore at me like a knife.

Still I did not go to Him. I would not reveal myself within that crowd. There might be those there who would remember me from the day the king's daughter had risen. Judas, at the very least, would know my face — my essence. He feared me already; I would not make that void any greater if I could help it.

When all had sated their hunger on the spiritual bread He had provided, they sat again at His feet, but it was not in Him to teach at that moment. He rose and waved to them all to go, saying that they must return to their homes and their families. He urged them to remember what He had said, to think upon it and to believe.

Reluctantly at first, then in great waves, one following another, they moved off toward the city. There were a great number of them present, and it was no quick undertaking, this exodus.

I stood among them, letting them slide away at my sides, letting them leave me alone beneath the mountain. Letting them reveal me by their absence, rather than moving forward boldly. He knew I was there, had known all along, and as the crowds moved to leave the plain, He spoke quickly and quietly to His apostles.

They were distraught at His words, and I stretched my senses, wanting to know what bothered them, wanting to know that it was not I that caused contention. I caught the end of His words only, but it was enough.

"Go out onto the water in the boat," He said at last. "There is no time for argument, and I need to be alone. There is one I must see whose need is greater than yours."

"But Master," Judas prevailed upon Him, "she is dark. Her beauty is like that of the night itself, and I myself have seen the demon in her eyes. Do not stay alone, I pray of you."

"Go." This last was uttered with such authority that they bowed their heads in unison, backing away slowly and turning toward the boat and the water. Their movements were not swift in compliance, but they did as He bid. How could they not?

As they slipped out onto the waters and set out to sea, I moved forward at last, coming to stand at His side. I was so close that I could see the rise and fall of His chest as He breathed, and my nostrils were filled with the scent of Him.

He looked at me with such troubled, empty eyes, that I felt obliged to speak — to try and comfort Him.

"What is wrong?" I asked. "What is it that could trouble one such as you?"

"It is John," He said softly, turning away from the water and beginning to walk slowly toward the mountain. "They have beheaded John."

"John." I was not asking a question, but attempting to place a name where it belonged, filling another gap in my knowledge. His spirit spoke more eloquently to me than His voice, and I knew in an instant the wonder of the man they'd called John the Baptist, and the torture of his passing. The Christ loved all men, but His love for John had been especially deep and abiding. John had been very near to God Himself. The man had been John, but men knew the spirit as Elijah.

I felt the loss myself, then, knew an emptiness that I could not immediately explain.

"What is death," I asked, "to one who serves You? It is the victory in the greatest of battles. I wish death had come to me in such service. . . I hunger again."

I hadn't realized it until I spoke it, but the admission made me cringe. I wanted to turn and flee. I had fed that evening, but it had not been enough. His proximity brought the blood lust to my mind and battered aside the flimsy strength I'd built against the hunger.

With the greatest of sadness in His eyes, He came forward then, putting His hands gently on my shoulders. I felt a physical shock where our skin met, felt a glow that spread and tingled over every inch of my skin — a light that threatened to burn me to cinders with its intensity.

"You suffer because of Me," He said, "as did John. It is not for his ascension that I grieve, but for those he might have saved — for the ignorance that brought about his death.

"The time is not yet upon us when I can offer you peace. You must trust Me. Remain close to My side and let me sustain you. I tell you now, though I am but a man, the blood that flows in My veins is not that of an ordinary mortal.

"Though the touch of your skin sets Me on fire, and the pain in your eyes burns Me like a flame, I can withstand it. I ache to draw you near, to fill you with My light and send you home — all these things and more — but I cannot. I have a mission to fulfill, and My footsteps are carved into the very stone of creation.

"Feed from Me — for I will not die."

My knees nearly caved from under me, dropping me in shock. I searched the depths of His eyes, and I saw many things there, many things I could not understand, could not accept. I saw His love, saw His love for me. It was a glimmer in the light, and yet it was separate.

I saw His pain — His inability to break free of the structure of the prophecy. He walked the Earth as a man, but not freely. He walked a path set long ago, planned and set into motion in the fabric of creation itself. It was a burden as old as the fall — older — and it was not for Him to break it.

I saw these things, and I felt the conflict, and I dragged myself back. I pulled free of His hands, felt them slide like silk over my shoulders and shuddered at the need to return to them, at the magnetic pull of His flesh. I fought His eyes, and I won.

Turning, I fled into the night, the thought of what He had offered me filling my mind, the magnitude of what it might mean driving me into the shadows, driving me away. He could not know. I was no part of the prophecy, no chosen one to be saved and spared. I was evil — a weight upon His neck — a temptation even the prophets could not have foreseen.

The Christ was lonely upon the Earth, even as I. With John's passing, He felt that loneliness even more acutely. None that remained fully understood. None truly believed. All would, in the end, fall short of His glory, and He must face that path alone.

I fled because I knew that if He gave what He offered, He might not finish His task. If He did not walk every footstep, if anything stayed Him from the completion of His destiny, there was no way to know what might befall. If prophecy itself proved false, how great would the All-Father's anger be then? Would it be any less than at the fall? Would it matter that what happened was in love, not in pride?

The weight of it was too great for me to bear. I fled, and I did not look back, and though my mind was acutely aware of every thing that transpired after I left His side, I did not cease my running until I was on the very outskirts of Galilee. There, quivering in the shadows, I waited to see what would be next.

"Time to feed, little fool. " The words slammed into me, driving me to the ground.  "You have failed me again, but it does not matter.  You will feed.  You will hunger, and you will feed, and that hunger will drive you to your knees, begging for mercy.  Your hunger is my hunger, 'Mary,' and I will feed. "

I tried to fight Him, but his anger was too great, and I was weak from my flight, and from the new hunger that was growing, despite the blood I'd consumed already that night. I staggered into the streets, fighting my way down darkened streets weakly, searching for the blood I needed to sustain me.

I hunted, and I killed — and I fed. Even then, I was weak. I made my way to the tomb that was my refuge, and pulled the door shut behind me.  I dropped to the earth and wrapped myself in a deep blanket of sorrow. I sensed the movements of my Lord and the apostles, and I tried to concentrate on them in order to drive away my pain and my shame.

The agony was lessening. I felt it, but I did not, at first, understand. The relief flowed up into me and caressed me.  It emanated from the Earth itself, and I did not question it. I let my mind drift, seeking Judas, and Nathaniel, the others, seeking them and trying to follow their thoughts.

My mind was weakened by Lucifer's onslaught, by the cruel trick of the added hunger — my punishment for not feeding upon the Christ. Before I knew it, we were joined again, He and I, across the land and the night, through the shadows and beyond. He was with me as surely as if His hands still lingered on my shoulders, and I listened — allowing Him to speak.

He was not speaking to me. He had climbed that mountain, the rocks scraping at His skin and wearing away the soles of His feet and the palms of His hands. He had labored from bottom to top of that stony crag, and He sat there, deep in prayer, in communion with the Heavens so intimate and deep that I could not have distracted him had I had the notion.

He was gathering strength. He was communicating with the All-Father in ways I could not have, even before the fall, and He was sharing it with me, allowing me a bit of the light — of the strength. It filled me rapidly, driving away the chill of my bones and the weariness of my flesh, pressing the hunger itself so deep within me that it was but a shadow of itself, as I was of my former self.

He prayed, for John, for me, for Himself, prayed for the multitudes in their shallow ignorance, prayed for the apostles and then for me again. I felt this, felt Him pressing the question of my salvation, all but demanding an answer. He received His strength — His light. He received His communion with those above; He did not receive an answer.

As He ended His prayer, falling into a deep meditation, He spoke to me — spoke mind to mind, in the way most intimate to me, and in a voice I could not ignore.

"You must come to Me, Mary. It is the only way. I will do what I can. For now, this is My gift — a sign you may look upon in the days to come.

"You are returned to the sunlight. You may walk among men, though there will still be pain, and you will not be burned. You may follow openly, in the guise of a woman, and you may speak with Me openly, for there will be none there to tell you otherwise.

An aura of energy flowed about me, and a part of the shadows that bound me slipped free. At the same time I felt a great rage and heat from below. I cringed, expecting to be blasted — to feel the pain and the punishment again — to be slapped down by the wrath of Lucifer himself. It did not come. Though he raged, though I could feel the heat, it did not touch me.

Then I was alone again, and I rested. Beyond me, I could feel Him descending the mountain. He was no longer weary, but He was still sad. I traced His steps — shivering at the feel of the new light I possessed — wondering if I would dare to trust it — then wondering how I could dare to doubt. When morning came, I would follow. For the moment, I would watch, and I would rest.

Judas 13

During the fourth watch of the night, Jesus came to the boat, walking upon the lake. Seeing this, the disciples were terrified.  "It is a ghost," they said, crying out in fear.

But Jesus said to them: "Take courage, it is I! Do not be afraid."

"Lord," cried Peter, "If it is you, tell me to come to you on the water."

"Come," He said.

I followed the Christ as He approached the edge of the lake, and once again I expanded my senses, reaching out over the lake in search of His followers. The boat had traveled far, reaching very deep water, and a storm had risen that tossed the water, bringing the tops of the waves to white capped hills that cascaded down upon one another.

Jesus stood for a long moment on the shore, and then He set off, placing His feet upon the waves and walking on their surface as if it were land.

On the boat, the minds of His apostles were in turmoil. They were too far from the shore to make out His form as it crossed the waves, and they were saddened, thinking that He had abandoned them. They argued among themselves; their faith already flickering in the face of His absence. It angered me, but there was nothing I could do.

It was the fourth watch of the night when the waves parted on the horizon, and Nathaniel leaped to his feet, pointing out into the darkness and storm-tossed waters.

"It is He!" He cried. "It is the Master."

"He walks on the water," one of the others cried. "Has He died, so that only His ghost remains? How can a man walk upon the waves and live?"

They could not decide whether to rejoice or be frightened, and it was Peter, for whom the signs and portents held the most weight, that finally stood at the side of the boat calling into the night.

"Lord, is it you, or is it a ghost, announcing your death?"

And Jesus, realizing suddenly what His actions would mean to them, held up His arms in greeting, His mind snapping back to the present with amazing force.

"It is I," He said, speaking in a low voice. Despite the wind and the storm, they heard Him, and they were relieved.

Peter, unable to cope with the marvel he was witnessing, called out again; hanging over the edge of the boat so His voice might penetrate the howling of the wind.

"But Lord, if it is You, then this is the grandest of miracles. If it is truly You, tell me to come to You on the water, and I shall come!"

I felt a slight hardening of the Christ's heart at this. The Lord is not to be tested, and so it is with His son, but He acceded, waving His arms and calling out.

"Come to Me then, Peter, place your feet on the waves and come to Me."

And Peter, whose courage could not be questioned, lowered himself without thought over the side of the boat and, releasing the wooden rail, stood upon the waves. I felt a glow within him, a strengthening of what he was becoming, and my heartbeat sped. It was a magic moment for him, transcendence.

He took one step, then another, his eyes locked on those of the Christ and his mind whirling with the wonder of it. But the waves crashed around him, and the salt of their spray stung his eyes, half-blinding him. He reached up to wipe away the salt, and as he did so, he looked down — looked around himself at the physical reality of where he stood — the power that surrounded him.

It was too much. His concentration snapped and the waves snatched him up and swallowed him whole. A long, tense moment later, he surfaced, his eyes wild with terror. Swallowing water in careless gulps, he fought for air. He choked out the words, "Lord, save me," and went under again.

Jesus was at his side in an instant, grabbing His apostle's hand miraculously from the waves and raising Peter to his feet once more so that they stood side by side.

"You failed because your faith is too small," He said, chastising him. "Your belief must be complete, for it is the foundation of all that has meaning, and all that you will strive for. If you say to Me, 'Lord I believe,' while in your heart, you doubt, how can good come of it?"

Together they walked the remaining distance to the ship. The others hauled Peter's shivering form inside, wrapping him in dry blankets and giving him a glass of strong wine to fight off the chill. Jesus then walked on board, dry as when He'd descended the mountain, and the sight of Him drove them all to their knees in wonder.

I felt sadness, then, for though this miracle added to their faith, the wondrous bond between Jesus and His disciples was eroding. They saw more and more in the Christ that was not of Man, more and more proof that, no matter what He might say, He was more than a man — more than any being that had ever walked among men.

As He became more God-like to them, they became more overwhelmed by His presence. It was not what He sought, and I knew it angered and saddened Him as well to see it. As long as He was with them, they would expect these things, these signs and miracles, and they would not dig deeply into their own faith. They would rely on Him, as men and women had relied on the All-Father since the creation, rather than on the wondrous power, the undeniable light of their own hearts and minds.

They gathered around Him and questioned Him, asking why He had remained on the shore and what He had done on the mountain. Judas, very troubled in his heart, was the one to mention me first.

"Tell us why You speak with her lord.  She has the taint of death about her, and she frightens me."

Jesus gathered them closer about Him, that they might listen, and learn.

Judas 13

And when they climbed into the boat the wind died down. Then those who were in the boat worshiped Him saying, "Truly you are the son of God."

Then Judas, still confused over the woman, Mary, asked "Lord, why do you consort with a woman plagued by demons? Shall you not cleanse the world of darkness?"

Jesus looked at him and spoke a parable: "If you take a candle and light it in the darkness, it can be seen for many miles. Light the same candle in the sun's rays, and it pales to nothing. I am sent to show the path to my father's lost sheep, she is among them. I say to you, only in the last days shall evil and darkness be washed away, for they are the supports of the ladder of righteousness, and they glorify the light of the heavens."

At first they did not understand, but He was patient. It was a revelation to me as well. There is truly no light without a darkness to judge it against. I had seen both dark and light, and I could easily make that judgment, but without one or the other, how would it be possible for a man?

A candle in the sun. I vowed that I would be such a thing. I would walk in the sunlight, where my own light would be dimmest and I would most resemble the human woman Lucifer had made me, and I would follow Christ. I would do whatever He asked of me without question, and I would teach those who would listen.

If I could not be an apostle, I would find other ways to help. His path was set, but mine was not. I was an unknown factor in the game. Lucifer had said that I would be the Christ's undoing, and I had believed him. Now I saw who was the more powerful, and I wondered how I could ever have taken my dark Master's bitter pronouncements as superior to those of the Son of the very God I sought.

I would not make this mistake again. There would be time in the days to come to make up for my mistakes, and there would be time to do my part in the fight. All these things I vowed as I lay there, gathering my strength and plotting my fate.

I would walk in daylight as the woman, Mary Magdalene, and I would go to the Apostles with my knowledge, and my aid. I would go to the one called Judas, he who mistrusted me so, and I would win him over.

I was young to the world in those days. My heart was bigger then, and my knowledge less. In the days to come, I learned.

Before I could follow, no matter how my heart might have burned to do so, I had a responsibility. Another called to me, and I answered.

It was just before the dawn that I felt the tendrils of Sarah's thought reach out to me, wrapping about my senses and gripping me tightly. At first I thought she'd found a way to breach the boundaries within me, that she'd found a way to communicate from that small hell and was crying out to me for strength.

As I rose slowly, feeling the approach of the dawn with a dread that was becoming habitual, and I departed the tomb. I closed it carefully behind me, looking about as usual to be certain that I was alone.

What began as soft touches, mental tugs at the fringes of my consciousness, had become frantic.  She screamed in my mind, and I could not shut her out, no matter how I concentrated. Her hunger consumed me as well, and it was enormous. She was on the edge of sanity, fighting to claw her way back and failing.

I reached out, trying to ascertain what was the matter, trying to reach what remained of the hollow shell of her physical mind. I wanted to know what it was that I walked into, but it was not to be. I could not reach her, not in any coherent way. She was lost to me — even bonded as we were. All that remained was the hunger, and the pain — from a source I had yet to comprehend.

I moved across the Earth with the great speed that was granted me, tracing the trail of her silent screams as if they were beacons set for me in the fading darkness. I grew near quickly, and as I did so, I noticed the flame of a bonfire. I also heard the voices of a crowd, so I slowed myself, pulled the hood of my cloak over my head and moved in among the fringes of those gathered as soon as I was within sight.

Since Sarah's mind was lost to me, I sifted through the thoughts that surrounded me, trying to piece together a bit of truth from the wild imaginings of those furthest from the center of the crowd. They were frightened, but they were exhilarated at the same time — full of a lust for blood that was in no way similar to my own — a lust for blood that would serve no purpose.

I pushed my way closer, and the moment clarified. They believed they had caught a demon, and I wondered how far off from the truth their minds might be. What were demons but the fallen? Had I not created this one, in my own image, and did she not dwell within me?

It seemed that a young man had been walking, waiting for several friends to join him. The demon, and this confused me, because again and again my mind picked up that name again – Lilith -- had slipped from the shadows in the form of a young, beautiful girl. She had been very friendly, and he had been too impressed with his good fortune to question her motive.

By the time he knew what she truly wanted, it was too late, for she had fastened herself to his throat, drawing forth his blood in great heaving gulps. He went down easily, and she might have escaped, but for the young man’s friends.

I reached the front line of the crowd, and the sight that met my eyes brought me up short in outraged pain. At that same moment, the final bits of the story came to me in a flash — so brilliant and vivid that the woman might have been myself.

I saw the young man's eyes, glazing over as the last of his blood was leeched away, and saw Sarah raise her eyes to the moon, as the red wine of her feast dripped over her lips and ran down the sides of her cheeks.  Then there was only agony.

I felt her writhe. She ripped at the ground and clawed at the dead carcass in her hands.  I heard the first of the shouts, the rip of metal and stone through flesh. I felt her agony.

I drew back from these thoughts, and stared into the center of the gathered crowed.  The creature that had been Sarah knelt on the ground before me. There were two spears driven directly through her back. They pinned her to the earth, holding her in place though she still fought — raging first this way, then that, reaching out to claw at her captors and lunge at those standing nearest to her.

She sensed nothing but her hunger, and the bite of that pain drove in deeper and deeper as the blood leaked from her flesh. She could have healed, I knew. She could have scrabbled to her feet and rushed into the darkness, perhaps stopping to feed again before dragging herself into a grave to rest.

They would not allow it. Every time it looked as if she might win free, one of the men rushed forward and slammed his weight behind one of the spears or the other, driving it deeper into the Earth and pinning her more tightly. Each time she reached for them, swinging about with giddy speed, but too late. They leapt away, or were pulled free by their companions, and she could not reach them.

I wanted to go to her, to rip free the stakes and let her rise. It maddened me that they could do this; not that they could kill a demon. She had killed one of their neighbors, and they were afraid of her. That I could have understood. This, though, was something more. This was inhuman, reminding me of one of Lucifer's games. They were not trying to kill her; they were fascinated with her. They were torturing her, waiting for something, reveling in their control and her helplessness. I wasn't sure I was doing her any favors, but I could not let it go on, no matter the cost.

I rushed forward as she began to break free for a final time, and as I neared her, she looked up — at last sensing that there was something different happening, that things had somehow changed.

The men screamed at me to get back, that I would be caught and killed, but I ignored them, reaching for first one spear, and then for the other. These I gripped, and Sarah looked up at me, not clawing at me, but waiting, looking to see what I would do.

I cried out. I railed at them. "You are no better than she!" I told them. "She is possessed, can you not see? Are you all blind? Is this the act of human men — of creatures made at the hand of the One Holy God? You are like animals, toying with her as she fights for her very soul."

They backed away from me, captivated, and yet the blood lust was still in their eyes. They did not want reasons to stop; they wanted vengeance.

"Her soul will be on your hands, as well," I screamed, fighting to hold my emotions and the enormous volume of my own voice in check. I was in danger at that moment, as well as Sarah, for if they suspected the truth, a spear might pierce my own flesh at any moment.

I turned and yanked both of the spears free. I did so as smoothly and effortlessly as I could, making it seem as though some spirit had spit them from the Earth.

I did something then that I feared would fail. I reached out and I grasped the fraying strands of her mind with the strength of my own, and I held her. I did not let her speak. Instead, I went to her, helped her to her feet, and turned one last time to the multitudes.

"Leave us!" I cried. "I came here because I received a vision, and this woman is in great danger — greater still now that you have driven her so near death. It is only the demon that holds her to the thread of life, and that demon must be cast free. Leave us!"

They began to pull back, listening to me, but I knew they would not go. They were fascinated, captivated by the sight of a creature beyond their comprehension. I watched, and I waited, and as soon as there was a break large enough to force my way through, I lunged.

I picked Sarah's broken form up over my shoulder as if she were a small child, and I leaped to the side, clearing the first of them and landing amidst the crowd. They screamed and cursed, scurrying and leaping out of my way in terror.

In my arms, Sarah screamed again, and I knew that the sun was rising. There was so little time, so little shadow left to me. I ran, and I prayed, and I ran harder, leaving the screaming horde of men behind and winging across the sand as the first rays of daylight capped the mountains in the distance.

Somehow, I made it to the graveyard. Blessedly, there was no one in sight. I shifted the tomb door to the side, tossed Sarah inside, and followed, closing it behind us and shutting out the light.

She was weak — almost gone. She could neither sit up nor speak. All that was left was a mad craving in her eyes, a ripping, burning pain that whipped through her being and up through my own relentlessly. I sat beside her in the dirt, pulling her close and tilting my head, setting her lips to my own throat. I had fed recently, and I was strong.

She locked on in mindless greed, and I felt the hunger rising quickly as she fed, draining away that which I had stolen myself short hours before.

I pushed her away when the hunger began to overcome my own senses. I was dizzy, but at last the madness in her eyes abated and the chilly, cold emptiness returned. She scuttled to the far side of the tomb, her back against the wall, and she stared at me, the skin of her face peeling from the burning touch of the sun, but healing slowly before my eyes.

"Why?"  She asked me for the second time.

I shrugged.  "You are of me, now," I replied at last.  "You are within me, and I within you, and I will not see you suffer further."

"You, who have brought the greatest suffering of my existence, tell me this," she mocked. Her eyes were not as sure in their anger this time, and I insisted.

"I do tell you this. I am here no more by choice than you are. I am damned as surely as the world was created, but you have hope. I would not see you denied salvation. I would not see them make a mockery of you when I could help. I could not stand aside as they let the sun reduce you to ash."

She did not answer, but she no longer mocked me. She looked upon me with the cold indifference I'd seen in her eyes before.

"You must use greater care, sister," I said at last, turning away myself.  "I will not always be near, and they will hunt you now."

"Let them hunt," she whispered.  "I will hunt, as well, and now I know my enemy."

I lay back on the earth, and I rested. It was no use. All that remained was her shell.  All that mattered most was trapped within me. I wondered if I'd done the right thing, but it was too late to change my decision.

I lay there until the sun fell again, releasing all thought, and rose to find that Sarah was already gone. She had not chosen to wake me, and the door to the crypt was sealed again.

I left the tomb knowing that I must feed, and determined to begin the journey that I dared hope would lead me home. I would walk through the night, and then I would walk on through the day, and if the rays of the sun burned me to so much ash, if the Christ's promise was empty and false, so be it. It was better than the eternal darkness — it was hope, and that was all I had left.

CHAPTER FOUR

Judas 15

About eight days after saying this, Jesus took Judas, Peter, John, and James with Him and went onto a mountain to pray. As He prayed, the appearance of His face changed and His clothing became bright, like a flash of lightning. Peter and his companions were very sleepy, but when they became fully awake, they saw His glory, and the two men standing with Him. As the men were leaving Jesus, Peter said, "Lord, it is good for us to be here, let us put up three shelters, one for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah. (He knew not what he said)

The time had come that the Apostles must grow within themselves, to take up the word of God and spread it throughout the land. I watched as they grew, watched from the shadows and from the crowds. I mingled with the multitudes that followed the Christ's footsteps and dogged His movements. I drank in His words and His essence.

He was slowly filling the twelve with a measure of the wonder of what He was. He molded them gradually, letting them explore the limits of their new power, and He chastised them often when they misused it. They were not born to the light, and they were often like clumsy children who had come too soon to adulthood.

They were granted the power to heal, the ability to cast out demons, and to perform any number of other tasks that would appear to be miracles to their families, and to those they met. Though the power He granted them was virtually limitless, they but scraped its surface. Each time they reached out to clutch the light to themselves, they fell short, either in faith, or in purity.

It was a frustrating time, not only for Jesus, but also for me. I could feel that energy and power, and I knew much of its use. I could have worked such wonders that the rulers in the temples would have prostrated themselves at my feet, worshipping the God whose grace could make such miracles possible.

In the hands of the twelve, it was as troublesome as it was helpful. They would falter at the wrong moment, or take pride in actions that were not of themselves. They would fail to find the courage to face spirits that their power could easily banish, calling again and again on the Christ to pull them from the brink of the abyss when they came up short.

Finally, even He had had enough. He sent all but Judas, Peter, James and John to preach among the cities, and He took off to the heights of a great mountain to meditate, and to pray.

I followed easily, still sleeping by day when possible. He had granted me to walk in sunlight, but it was an incomplete gift. I had to hide as much as possible from the light, which burned my skin by day almost as badly as the hunger itself burned at my soul. When I moved about by day, my powers were next to nothing. It was then that I was most human, and most vulnerable. At first I had borne this in silence, walking the day-lit streets and learning what I could of the world I that was now my own. Since then I have taken once more to the shadows, but that is another tale.

I made my way up the mountain behind them, keeping enough distance between us to remain free of the questing eyes of the apostles, and of their awakening gifts, but close enough to allow the Christ's presence to bolster my strength. Throughout that climb, His light sustained me.

I'd fed at the foot of the mountain, a young shepherd who had wandered too far from flock and home, and my strength was good for the journey. I would not test myself with only Him and His followers within reach. I knew only too well the folly of resisting the hunger.

I flitted from stone to stone like a darker shadow against the ebony backdrop of night, and I reached the tree line of the clearing where they had made their camp soon after the final rays of sunlight had dropped beyond the horizon. I had started up the mountain as soon as the heat began to fade from the Earth, not wanting to be far from His side, and knowing somehow that something important was about to take place.

Christ often journeyed into the wilderness, or to the peaks of untamed mountains, to be alone with His thoughts. The weariness melted from Him as He climbed, and He grew stronger, even as those who accompanied Him seemed to flicker and weaken in their light.

It was the people. I knew it in that moment more clearly than in any other before or since.

He was like a great reservoir to them, a source of light and hope, an endless supply of power and wisdom. He was their redemption, and they drained Him dry.

I had often heard Him say that those who drank of His blood and ate of His flesh would not die. At first, I had selfishly believed that He was referring to His blood in the literal sense, and that it was yet another veiled message to me. Now, watching Him ascend into the empty reaches of the hills, even to the highest peak of the mountain, I felt the Glory of God becoming clear.

He spoke of His spirit. He spoke of the light that He left within each of them, the glimmer of His own power, His own strength that flowed into each of those He came into contact with. Among His disciples there was a positive donation to their own essence, a gift to strengthen them so that they might lessen the weight of His burden.

The others, those who crowded around Him and clutched at His robes as He passed on the street, those who lined the roads and temples with the sick, draining Him of His vitality with each touch, were the burden itself. They took, and they took, and only rarely did the relief His miracles granted them extend more than a day or a week into their lives before they began to slide away from the new faith He offered. It was a bottomless pit that He threw His spirit into.

And so He went into the wilderness, where there were no cities, no temples or tongue-wagging priests to hound His steps, where only the beauty of the creation of the All-Father surrounded Him and the channels were most clear to the Heavens. He came here to commune with a power and spirit infinitely greater than anything even I could comprehend, and the realization added lead to my footsteps, made each inch I moved closer more difficult.

It was not right for me to be there, and yet it was what He wanted. He knew, as I did, that it was not a part of that which was ordained, and yet He commanded me.

His mind found mine for a brief moment, and His words were both stern and determined. "He sent me here to save all of His lost children. You are one such, Mary, though His eyes are blinded to you. I will not forsake the purpose of my creation, and that is to save. If I turned from you, or allowed you to turn from Me, I would be compromising the very purity He created within Me. Stay."

What else was there to do? Our paths were bound together in ways that I could not comprehend, and He was the only thread of hope remaining to me. Grasping this thread might risk tearing the net that would pull all of humanity free from the grip of the abyss, and still I held fast. As I mentioned, one of the things remaining of my momentary humanity was the will to survive.

I found a crack in the great stones that made up the peak of the mountain, and huddled down into the shadows, watching to see what would take place. The four apostles had pulled themselves to one side. They complained of their weariness after the long climb, and wondered why Jesus had brought them along, rather than going off into the wilderness by Himself.

As usual, they talked until their words warped the importance of the moment, lingering finally upon the question of whether this journey meant that they were to be elevated above the other eight.

Already the miracles of the days they had spent at His side were becoming commonplace to them. Instead of glorifying these things, they coveted the power He gave them. Rather than falling at His feet in supplication and wondering at their great fortune, they plotted and sulked and thought on how they would best one another in the days to come, winning the more favored place at Jesus' side and a greater share of His power.

It was in the aftermath of such a whispered discussion, when their weariness overcame them and they had lain down to rest, that the air on the mountain changed. A great humming sound arose, and the air shimmered. It rippled across my skin; it was full of warmth, of the unutterable joy, that accompanied the light of the Heavens.

I fell to my knees in my hiding place and dropped my face to the Earth.  My hair fell forward and shielded me from the brilliance. I released my spirit and reached out to embrace the light as it surrounded the mountain, Jesus, the others and me.

"Rise," I heard Him say, and though I knew it was not to me alone He spoke, that the moment was one long ordained in the journey the All-Father had set for the Christ and those who followed Him, I rose. I took in a quick, deep breath, falling back again to the stone at the wonder of it.

He stood now before the four in robes of purest white. It was not any pigment known to the Earth, not any white of sheets of ancient hair, but pure light — that sought for so long in later years by the illuminist paintings of the masters — that which surrounds clouds in the deepest moment of sunset, or gilds their edges after a storm with burning silver.

He turned to where I knelt in the dirt and gravel and He smiled, holding out His hand, but I was rooted to the spot, speechless and powerless in the face of memories that screamed through my soul. He retained His human form, but the glowing vitality of His essence transcended that bond.

Judas 15:22

Two men, Elijah and Moses, appeared in glorious splendor, talking with Jesus. They spoke of His departure, which He was about to bring to fulfillment in Jerusalem. They spoke as well of the temptress, Mary, whose soul Jesus would save. There were looks of sadness on the faces of His companions, then, for they knew the father's heart was hardened to the fallen, and they feared now for His son. They had no answer for Him, though they bid Him not to fear.

Two other figures appeared suddenly at His side, and I stared at them as well. I could not place the sensation their presence created.  It was not until I heard Him speak their names; Elijah, and Moses, that I drew them forth from what I had learned of men. These were two prophets — two of the greatest of those created upon the Earth.

These were men already risen to the promise He now held forth for all, and their brilliance was blinding — as eternal as my own had been and as beautiful as Lucifer. The entire scene was one of purity and compassion beyond comprehension.

Although I had fed that day, and they were but a few yards from where I watched, they were shielded from me. I could not catch everything they said. I grasped at their thoughts, frantically chased their words and the meanings of each, trying to sort them within my mind, but each time I grew near to understanding, they would slip away from me.

Jesus spoke to them, baring the heaviness of His heart before their Earthly wisdom. He spoke of my plight, and they listened gravely, though the sadness that filled their eyes was a dark mirror of that I saw in His own whenever He looked too long at me. They could not guess what might happen if He continued as He planned, if He continued to insist upon my ascension.

I felt in them a love that was an extension of His own, felt the connection He had with them — with their humanity, which they had not cast down, but had drawn about them like mantles, setting them apart even among those in the Heavens — and with their souls. They were His people — His destiny.

I was a part of that destiny now, as well. I had been human, and He was the redeemer of all things human. I had died, but I walked the Earth, waiting.

Suddenly, the shrouds that bound my essence flaked away like old paint. I surged with new energy, and a great cleansing light engulfed my soul.

The apostles were dazed, standing still as stone statues, oblivious to the miracles that surrounded them. The Christ released me, and at the same time, He reached out with mental fingers to nudge the four He'd brought along, awakening them and sending them into a confused panic. They stumbled in small circles, and then fell to their knees before Him. It was a gift from the All-Father, a vision granted to less than a handful of men since the dawn of their time.

Peter, always the first to speak, the first to try and please, rose to his feet and bowed before the three of them, stammering a greeting.

"Lord, it is good that you have us here — the four of us — to minister to you. Let us set to work immediately and build for you a tabernacle and another for Moses and for Elijah ... we will…”

The look in Jesus' eyes was so captivating, so entrancing, that the apostle's words ceased in mid-sentence. It was needless babble, beneath the moment, and the silence spoke more eloquently than any speech or parable, the final branding into their minds of what their purpose would be, how great was the power that they had chosen to serve.

It was a glance into the world of their God, and it opened their human eyes further than a thousand healed lepers or a hundred blind men with sight could have done. I was mesmerized. My gaze locked on that of the Christ, on His beauty and the radiance of His spirit.

I watched, and I learned, soaking up what I could as my understanding gained clarity. The reason for the presence of these four was clear — it was a final lesson — a vision they could not deny, that would haunt them in indecision and glorify them in their teaching and their good works.

They had been brought to the mountain to solidify their faith. As I watched, their eyes gained new sight, their minds slipped a bit further from the mire of pride and greed in which they'd been so long immersed. It was as if a poorly knotted, tangled string had been carefully unraveled, then tied together once more in tighter, more efficient knots. Their hearts were emptied and refilled, reborn to the light that surrounded and filled them.

While He spoke, a cloud appeared, enveloping them all, and they were afraid. A voice came from the cloud, saying, "This is My Son, who I have chosen, heed His words."   When the voice had spoken, the cloud dispersed, and they were alone with Jesus, who had tears in His eyes.

The apostles told no one what they had seen, or heard, at that time.

Then there was a splintering crash, like lightning splitting a tree only a few feet away, or the rending of the Earth during a large quake. The Heavens drew aside and revealed the full glory that lay beyond them for the shortest of moments.  A voice of deafening volume, and at the same time tempered by soft, loving warmth, filled our ears.

"This is My Son," the voice whispered and thundered.  "Hear Him."

Six short words. They echoed through my thoughts, filling my mind and spreading out to insinuate themselves into every leaf on every tree that lined the mountaintop, vibrating through every stone and shimmering in every shadow.

The words were few, but the message — the meaning of it all — was inescapable, defined in the very creation of the world itself, in the patterns of breath and pulse, in the lines of mountain and river.

That voice, those words, they were all the meaning in the universe. If you believed them they were enough. If you did not believe them, nothing was enough. I felt the light, and I feared the light. It shone on a world of men, a world I had no real part in, and they were not spoken to me, though I had been granted to hear them.

I felt the touch of the All-Father's spirit. That ghost touch of perfection recoiled slightly as we melded, but not before I had warmed to it. Not before I had dropped once more to plant my face in the ground at my feet, pressing myself into His creation in supplication, willing my soul to reach out in helpless need.

I knew that He had felt that touch. I knew that it had displeased Him, but the light did not change. Nothing changed, except to grow dimmer, leaving the trees as silent, rigid sentinels, saluting the retreat of eternity.

Upon that highest peak, the Christ stood alone. The disciples had fallen to their knees as the All-Father's voice had drowned their thoughts, pressing their own eyes to the very ground that I had kissed. I was first to rise — I felt more easily than they the closing of the Heavens.

I came to the edge of the clearing and stared across it to where He stood. His eyes were locked on the Heavens, but slowly they lowered until His gaze met mine and held it. We stood like that for a long time, staring at one another as the apostles rose in bewilderment, speaking of me under their breath, wondering if I had angered their Lord by my presence.

At last I could stand it no more, and I turned, walked from the clearing and returned to the shadows, releasing Him for what was to come. I left them, and I did not look back.

He was to leave, and soon. That much I had grasped instantly. The reality of it imbedded itself in my heart like a sharp stake, raking at my spirit. He would ascend, and I would remain. That was what I believed.

That He would try and change this I did not doubt. That He would continue to reach out to me, might even twist my own heart to follow His madness. The best thing I could have done was to run, and to leave Him to the completion of His task.

My own salvation was a small price. Unfortunately, it was the only price I had, and I was unwilling to pay it. I had not asked to be teased and tormented with glimpses of that which I'd lost, nor had I asked for His love.

It was mine, and I coveted it. I clasped it to myself and held on with every spark of light I still possessed. That my actions were selfish I knew as well, but it no longer mattered. I was cursed, and I could not break that curse. Perhaps I had been a part of the pattern all along.

There is no way to tell whether Lucifer's machinations were actually his own, or if the All Father anticipated even these, planned even for the events that would follow. It was not for me to decide, and if I could not, then the Christ would have to. I was running out of time.

The Christ did not speak with the four until they had made their way down the mountain. I followed as closely as I dared, but I paid scant attention to their words. I had my own thoughts to weave.

As they approached the civilized road, nearing the outskirts of the villages and farms below, Jesus stopped often, gathering His disciples about Him and teaching them. He was preparing them to accept and understand all that they had heard and seen.

"You must tell no man what you have seen on the mountain," He told them, and I felt the urgency in His voice.  "You must not mention these things until the Son of Man has risen from the dead."

He walked on then, and they kept their silence, but it was far from clear in their minds. His words had chilled them, as the realization had already chilled my own heart, and in their unwillingness to accept the truth as it stood, they chose not to understand.

As soon as they believed that He was far enough ahead of them not to hear what they discussed, they began to whisper among themselves. To rise from the dead, He would have to die. He was going to leave them with His gifts and His light, with the message of His love and the road to salvation.

They moved up near to Him again, and Judas called out to Him, asking what they all wanted to know. "Lord," he said, "they have said that before the Son rises again, that Elijah must first rise. When will he come, that we may receive him as well?"

Jesus turned to them, and His expression bordered between exasperation and amusement. "You still do not see," He said.

"Elijah has risen and come among you already, and he received the same treatment that I will receive at the hands of men. They have done with Him as they will, and they will treat Me the same. That is why you must understand, and why you must be strong."

They would have questioned Him further, but they had come in sight of a crowd that awaited them at the foot of the mountain, and they did not want to be overheard. At the fringes of the crowd, they could make out the figures of the remaining eight apostles, who were arguing with a group of scribes.

The sun was rising to light the sky again, and I pulled my cloak up to cover my features more completely. Already the burning had begun, but I was curious. I felt something in the crowd ahead, something more than human, similar to the demon Legion, though not as powerful.

Jesus had reached the group, and He asked them what they argued about.

The scribes turned on Him, scorn in their eyes, and I felt the anger that rose in Him at the sight of it. Then He was calm again, and He heard their words.

"Lord," one of the disbelievers mocked Him, "we have been debating with Your followers over the boy You see in the crowd there." He pointed at a young man whose eyes were blank and who was foaming at the mouth, his tongue lolling like that of a dog. He sat on the ground, scratching himself like an animal, no more aware of those around him than an insect would be, or a bush.

"It is my son," one of the men spoke; hope returning to a voice that seemed long devoid of such.  "He is possessed by a spirit, and it torments him constantly.

"You see how he sits now, and it is always the same. He does not speak. He does not even recognize me. When the spirit takes him, he gnashes his teeth and utters sounds that are not human. He grunts like an animal and stumbles about.

"I have beseeched Your followers to cast the demon from him, but they were not able."

I moved closer as He spoke with them, reaching out with my mind to probe that of the boy, searching for the spirit. It had set up boundaries, and it resisted my intrusion, as well, but I demanded entry. The daylight was robbing my strength, and my senses were less acute than they would have been in darkness, but I probed stubbornly. It was a mistake.

As the Christ berated His apostles, chastising them for the lack of faith that had brought about their failure, the thing lashed out at me. It sensed that I was more than those around me, and that I was vulnerable. It groped at me with sudden strength and a hunger all its own that nearly matched mine. It wanted my flesh, wanted my ability to walk and to run, to think and to speak.

Its hold on the boy was tenuous at best, and this is all that saved me, from being imprisoned in the very Hell that held Sarah and the princess trapped within my essence. In the physical plane, it was weak. That was the reason it could not speak with the boy's tongue, or see with his eyes.

It was an incomplete thing, a barely cohesive mass of evil, held together by threads of malice. It reached for me, and I cried out, backed away and brought my hands to my head in sudden pain. I slammed the barriers that protected my mind into place, holding them together with all my strength.

I felt it scrabbling against my defenses, clawing at them like a spirit animal. There was no thought behind it. It was driven by its need, mindless and stagnant. I had almost become its chosen host. The sunlight had dimmed my powers so that I had very nearly lost control of my mind. Though I could now walk in daylight unharmed, the dangers of doing so were beginning to manifest themselves.

A man beside me reached out to steady me, and I stumbled against him, then away. I sensed, fleetingly, that he had been shocked at the feel of my skin, colder than any living flesh could be.

Even as he'd sensed this, I'd been rocked by the beating of his heart. His compassion had comforted me, but the heartbeat was mesmerizing. The rich, red blood flowed just beneath the surface of his skin, and I'd tasted its coppery warmth on the tip of my tongue for just that instant.

The Christ had turned back to the boy, sensing what had taken place. He was angered now, by the lack of faith His followers had once more shown in His gift, by the demon's imbecilic arrogance, and by my own lack of caution. He was frightened for me, and this thrilled me, this personal response. It angered me as well. If there were dangers for me in this world, how was I to know unless I faced them?

I needed to know. I had been foolish, but I had acted out of instinct. There was too much about this world that was strange, too much that was still beyond my comprehension, and I needed to understand it before He left — before I was abandoned to walk these streets alone.

He had laid His hands upon the shoulders of the boy, and as suddenly as I'd felt the spirit pressing at the limits of my mind, it was gone. He made a gesture as if physically flinging the creature away from Him, and the air cleared instantly.

The boy's eyes focused, and he reached up to wipe the drool from the corners of his mouth. He saw his father, and he turned to him slowly, shaking his head and looking about in fright. There were a great many people gathered around him, and it was more than he could comprehend.

I did not wait to see what would happen next. I had tasted what the daylight held for me, and for the moment I'd seen enough. The shadows had held me well enough thus far, and they involved fewer chances.  I decided to return to them. It was then that I heard Him call to me again, and though I was still vexed by His rebuke, I listened.

"There is one you must seek," He told me, and I felt the resignation in His words, the reluctance to speak them. "She is old as this Earth, powerful as no other woman, and if you go in my name, she will speak with you. Learn what you can, but hurry. Our time is limited, and you must return to Me before the end."

I did not like His speaking so often of His death as if we were all not to be affected by it, as if it didn't mean the end of light — of hope. I sent out my question quickly, eager to hear the answer. "What is her name, and where is she?"

"She is called Lilith," He answered. "Go to the desert, and call her by name. She will come."

Then I was truly alone again, and I left in search of a graveyard. My strength was still great enough, even in the burning of the sunlight, to open a suitable chamber, and I wanted only to rest, and to think, and to plan for what was to come. I thrilled at finally meeting this Lilith that I was so often mistaken for.

As the shadows of an ancient tomb slid about me like a shroud, I lay back and communed with the Earth.

I rose with the setting of the sun. It was not a true rest that bound me to the tomb, only a silence that both rejuvenated and calmed me. I was eager to be off; eager to do this thing He had set out for me. It was the first thing He had asked of me that I was able to bring myself to do, and that made it even more important to me.

I sensed no movement among the graves, nor did any living thing walk the dusty paths between the graves or near the church. I closed the door behind me, and I moved off down the street slowly. The hunger was not overpowering, but I determined that I would feed anyway. There was no way of knowing what I would face in the desert, or what would be expected of me when I faced it. I wanted every bit of energy, every spark of power that was mine to be ready and at my call.

It did not take me long to find a young girl walking alone on her way home from the market. I watched her for a moment, trailing her steps.  She looked back at me once, but I only smiled and continued on, as though her path and mine merely crossed by accident, and she turned away again, ignoring me.

Something troubled her. Her head was bowed, eyes pointed at the ground before her, and she was not hurrying. I reached out to her mind and plucked free the first thing that came to the surface. She did not want to go home.

Her father was there, her mother, and three brothers. Her mother — for whom I sensed only a melancholy sort of yearning, not the love I expected — would take the food she brought and make their meal of it. When this was done, there would be chores for all. The girl's work would be in the kitchen. Her name was Rebecca.

I delved a bit deeper, intrigued despite my eagerness to be back on the road. It was her father. That much was clear immediately. He would come to her, later in the night when the rest of the family was asleep, and he would take her to another building — the barn, I thought — to be alone with him.

The images that poured from her were dark, surreal and unbearable. The perversions she feared were beyond my experience, though there was a taste of the lower realms, and Lucifer, in the darkness of her fear. I had not yet encountered such evil in a human.

I hurried up behind her, called out, and she stopped, huddling against the wall as if afraid that she'd done something wrong, as if I might strike her. I held out a hand, smiling at her as warmly as I could through the pain that I'd stolen from her, the pain that was washing through me, calling to me, begging me for a release — for an ending.

She resisted. Her eyes shifted furtively, like those of a hare preparing to flee from a wolf, but she did not run. If she had, she might have escaped. I don't know if I could have followed. I called to her with my mind, turned her face back to mine and locked my eyes on hers.

She was trembling, but she was not afraid of me. She feared only her father, and she was happy for any delay, anything that would keep her from that house.

"Come to me, child," I said, and she held out her hand. "You need not fear him, not any more. I am here to set you free."

I saw the terror jumping in her eyes. I took her hand before she could flee, and I sent my thoughts to calm her. Her eyes widened further, but she believed, and she did not pull away. "I have nothing to do with him, Rebecca, I am here to set you free."

Jumbled images clouded her mind, bringing confusion to my own thoughts as well. Images of her father shifted through her mind, of me ending his life, of him going far, far away, or of her and her mother running away. I had promised freedom, and these were the freedoms she craved. I felt the pulse of her blood through her veins, felt the warmth of it and the hunger began to boil within me, but I hesitated.

If death and suffering were the gifts I was able to bring, let them come to some who deserved them, though it added to my own burden. Let one person be helped in life by my darkness.

I released her hand, and nodded in the direction she'd been heading. She looked at me gravely, trying to decide if she'd misjudged me, but I smiled at her again. She started back down the street, and I followed. It was not far to her home.

"I want you to go inside to your father," I told her, taking her hands again and leaning down to speak directly to her, "Tell him that someone important wants to talk with him. Tell him to come to the barn."

She twitched with indecision, and with the fear that was returning to her as we neared the man responsible for it. I reached out and did my best to calm her, implanting the image of a dinner set with her eldest brother in the place of her father and the man himself nowhere to be seen. I smiled at her one final time, and I pointed toward her door. I hoped she had the courage to go through with it.

I quickly hid in the barn. Two mules, a family of goats, and a couple of sheep occupied it. They paid me no more mind than they would have a passing sparrow, and I settled in to wait, seating myself on a bale of straw.

It did not have to wait for long. I heard shuffling footsteps and cursing, deep and guttural. He was talking to himself, anticipating the pain he would bring to that lying little bitch of a girl if she had sent him on a fool's errand, and wondering who might be waiting for him in his own barn that he could not see in the light of his home.

He entered quickly, startling the animals, which all moved away from him in fear. I rose from the shadows, coming to the center of the building where the waxing moon shone its rays through a crack in the roof. I stood there, smiling at him, and I held out my arms.

I stole his name, and I used it then. "Joseph. I have watched you daily, and I could not be without you."

His eyes widened in surprise, and then they narrowed in concentration. As he took in the supple curves of my body, they widened again in wonder. I could see that he was trying desperately to convince himself that I spoke the truth. It was understandable, of course, that a woman should want him — but such a woman!

It was the first time I'd experienced the rise of lust in a man. I had felt a similar thing, more a quick breath of heat, from the Christ, but nothing like this. It was my hunger, lesser in its pain, but nearly equal in its mind-numbing energy. He swelled up beneath his loose clothing, his penis gorging with blood, and he stepped forward, an evil leer planted on his face.  His dark eyes glittered.

I did not move, except to widen my arms yet further and to smile. It was exhilarating, the emotion I had generated in him so easily, and I saw myself for the first time through the eyes of one who desired me. In that moment, I was his God; I was all he would recognize as his world.

He stepped forward to smother me in his arms, and I did not hesitate. As they snaked about me and he tried to lift me and force me back against a wall or down onto the hay again, I leaned into him.  I placed my lips against the side of his throat and opened them to slide my tongue over his flesh. He fought me briefly; uncertainty momentarily clouding his desire, but it was far too late.

I bit down, driving my teeth through his flesh and into his artery so quickly that he drained into me like a flood. His darkness was greater than any I had fed upon. He shook in my grip, tried to scream, fought and clawed at me. He was still erect as he died. I held one hand over his mouth as I fed, not allowing a sound to escape, not wanting to lose a moment of the experience.

I countered his struggles and shared his pain, but it was different this time. It was not entirely for me that I fed. It was for Rebecca. It was for the woman, his wife. It was for the brothers. I felt the weight of his evil trapped within me, but it did not hinder my feast. I would have him all, and I would carry him away.

I sensed a presence at my back, and I turned quickly, dropping his dead form to the ground.  I crouched with his blood still wet on my lips and running down my cheeks. I was ready to fight, or to run, whatever was necessary.

It was Rebecca. She stood watching me, her eyes wide, but not in fright. She looked to the ground where her father lay and such an expression of hatred as I could not have fathomed on such a young face washed over her that I nearly stepped back myself. She stared at me one more time, something very akin to gratitude in her eyes, and then she turned back toward her house and walked away.  She did not hurry, and she did not cry out.

I slipped into the yard and off through the shadows, cleansing my face on a piece of cloth I'd found on my way out of the barn. There was no commotion behind me, and I knew there would not be until after dinner. I only hoped that the dark, empty look in the girl's eyes would fade, and that she would find a light of her own. I prayed for it.

The night was not as young as I had planned on for my journey, but there were enough hours remaining for my purposes. I moved swiftly as I passed from the streets of the city, leaving the world of men behind me, and it was barely the tenth hour when I found myself deep in the desert and ready to make myself known. I did not know how I was to accomplish this summoning, but I trusted the Christ to know that I was capable.

I stood alone in the sand.  The wind whipped around me and sent my hair dancing about my face like a dark wreath. I reached out with my mind and grasped the name I had been given.  I flung it into the shadows, crying out silently with all my being, and then I waited. When no one came to the call, I repeated it, doubling my efforts, blanking all else from my mind.

This time there was a response, but it was faint. I stood, and I felt the shadows shift about me. I watched them, but I did not bolt, nor did I concentrate on them.  Something, or someone, was approaching. I could sense that it was a woman, but not as other women. More akin to the demons, the spirits I'd seen cast from men.

The shadows took form then, becoming a small whirlwind of sand and darkness and glittering eyes. They swirled about me, becoming a blur that shut me off from the desert, from the moon above and even from the sand below. I was contained within the boundaries of their unceasing motion, and yet I felt no fear — no emotion at all. They were not threatening me, merely confusing my senses as their Mistress approached. Apparently, her whereabouts was a secret.

With a sudden lurch the motion stopped, and I staggered, nearly losing my feet as a lance of vertigo shot through me, then passed. The shadows were gone.

Directly in front of me stood a woman. Her hair was long and dark — darker even than my own — and it was tipped in silver that shone and glistened brightly. Her eyes were almond shaped and lovely, deepest green in color and bright with interest. She regarded me as I observed her long supple limbs and the dark robes she wore that fluttered about her like a swarm of bats. She looked down to where the blood stained my dress, and she smiled.

She had power. It surrounded her, pulsed through her, and a part of it was achingly familiar. It was Lucifer, and yet it was not. It was of him, and yet separate in a way that I could not fathom. She had some of the beauty he had lost in the fall — some of the light — and yet was what she appeared to be ... a woman.

"I am Lilith," she said, and her voice was like honey dripping over warm bread, soft and smooth.   She held out her hand to me. I moved forward as if in a dream, taking it and feeling the spark that jumped between us. Her eyes danced at that touch, and I found myself smiling.

"I am called Mary," I answered her, and her smile widened, as if at some private joke.

"Welcome," she said, and she turned and walked into the darkness, gesturing that I should follow. With a shrug, I did.

CHAPTER FIVE

We walked what seemed to be a great way through the desert, but it was probably not far. The short distance that separated the all-encompassing silence and us combined to form a barrier of such impenetrable density that I feared she would never speak to me. Her silent companionship was a welcome relief after all the cold nights I'd spent alone in the tombs of others.

Finally, she stopped, and so did I. She turned to face me, and she winked. I was shocked, and as she smiled at me the sand disappeared from beneath us and the world collapsed around me. Before I could react, I floated, and then I stood once more — but in a different place entirely.

Lilith stepped toward me, her smile wider and her eyes twinkling. I was not sure if I should be angry, run, or smile back. We were in a large chamber that was at once in the desert, and yet not. There were chairs, and a table, several divans and pillows lining the walls and the rugs on the floor.

"Welcome," she said again, and I knew that she meant it. It was a very emotional moment — the first acceptance I'd felt since the fall, and I felt myself moving toward her, holding out my own hands to take hers as she approached.

We stood like that for quite some time, eyes locked and our skin tingling to one another's touch — each of us vying for an opening in the other's mind and failing. I was far too suspicious to allow such intimacy.

"Strange," she murmured, and I asked the obvious question with my eyes.  "Oh," she smiled, "I'm sorry. I was talking to myself. I was thinking how odd it is that during the daylight one of the least of my children nearly bested you, but in the shadows, you are my equal. It is strange, is it not?"

I did not respond to this. During the daylight hours, I was much less than her equal. We would have to see where that inequity led. I was also not pleased that the mindless entity I'd escaped so narrowly had such a connection with her.

"You have nothing to fear from me," she said, turning and taking a seat at the small table, plucking my thoughts from my eyes since she could not from my mind. Cursing myself for being so transparent, I joined her, seating myself across the table and staring at her.

Her beauty drew me. It was not the same as the consuming fire the Christ brought to my flesh, nor did it bring about the fawning adoration I'd once paid to Lucifer. She was a dark star. Everything about her was in some way sensual and earthy.  She fairly glowed of fertility, and femininity.

It was in her hair, in the poise with which she held her head just so and smiled, and in the deep, ruby red of her lips. It was an indefinable quality, or a grouping of such, and all of it reached out to me in a kinship I could not deny. Who was she?

"I sense that you do not know me," she said, again guessing my thoughts, "and that makes us quite equal in that regard. Little sister, I'll tell you my story, and then you tell me yours. It has been a long time since I've encountered a story worthy of my time or curiosity.

"I'm going to take this a step further, though," she said, and I saw a slight hesitation flicker across her eyes, and then disappear. "I'm going to trust you. You may take the story from my mind — it is more complete that way — I want you to know it all."

I nodded. I had nothing at this point to bargain with but my own story. Not a very solid position. My only consolation was that, seeing that I was new to my human form, that I had not been long on the Earth, she believed herself my elder. I was there when the Earth was created — I fell with the Bearer of Light. I was far from her little sister.

"I have been mistaken for you," I told her, smiling myself. "If the resemblance is at all true, I am flattered."

"You do not know the power of your own form, the depth of your beauty?" she asked, truly intrigued now. "You are more of an enigma even than I had dreamed. This is perfect — a distraction after so many years of solitude.

"Take my story, little sister Mary. We have much to share. And you do, by the way, resemble me, but only in that your beauty is beyond the comprehension of mortals. We could have been born of the same mother, but I see that we are not — not truly.

"You are not of the Earth, this much I see — but I see the light of Lucifer within you, or something very near to it. I know that light very well, as you will see. It becomes you, that light. You are very beautiful."

I smiled — possibly shyly, because she laughed then — and the sound of her mirth was both pleasant and chilling. It trickled  through me, and I began to relax. That was where my trust lay. It had to be. The Christ would not have sent me if He thought there were truly danger here.

I reached out and touched her mind tentatively.  She caressed my thoughts in turn with her own, blending them smoothly.  Suddenly I was within her, seeing through her eyes for just an instant before the visions she conjured began to cloud my thoughts and take me far away and back through the years. I have the glitter of moonlight in my own hair, the soft blue of the sky at noon in my eyes, and pale, unearthly features that border on what men call elfin. I am tall and slender, willowy — and beautiful. It was a moment of revelation. I also felt her approval, and that meant more than any beauty could have.

Then her story began, and I lost myself within it.

The first two things I became aware of when Lilith opened herself to me were the touch of Lucifer, and the beauty of a man. The man was Adam, and Lucifer's hand rested on Lilith's shoulder. I saw this scene through her eyes, his skin upon hers, the sensations that rippled along her nerves, and yet there was an incredible sense of deja vu as I relived with her that single moment in time.

Her thoughts were young, naive and simple, yet very similar to those I'd first thought upon being raised to the Earth. The man she faced was beautiful, not in the way of Gods or angels, but in the way of the Earth itself. He was wild, untamed, and the light of curiosity and love that shone in his eyes was complete and overwhelming. She reached out her hands to him, and he took them without question.

Behind her, Lucifer watched. I wanted to pull free then, to be as far from his touch as possible, but I did not. I'm not certain, captured as I was in her vision that I could have. I knew that it was a vision — that he was not truly there, for I recognized a Lucifer of times passed, of times nearer to the fall when he was not crushed by bitterness and years of empty defeat. It did not stop the shudder from rushing through me, or my heart from quickening its beat.

It was a memory that I shared. I blended her memory of Lucifer with my own, mentally painting what I knew to be true over the canvas of her belief. It was a moment of bonding, and I knew that somehow Lilith could sense this as well.

Then Adam moved forward, running his eyes up and down her body, and Lilith turned with him, examining him in the same way. They were two from the same mold, though he held the light of the sun in his hair and golden skin, and she was paler — more luminous and shadowed. Where he was lean and muscled, she was lithe and curved. Where he was hard and strong, she was soft and supple. They were the perfect complements. The perfect couple.

I sensed Lucifer's pleasure at their meeting, and with sudden clarity the reason came clear. She was of him. He had made her from the very essence of the planet itself, dipping his hands into the still chaotic work of his lost master and playing at God once more.

Adam was created from the clay, but he was born of the spirit.  Lilith was of the Earth. They were truly made for one another. Though I knew that Lucifer had done was beyond his authority, that he had flaunted his arrogance in the face of his maker, I did not, at that second, detect the will of the All-Father. It seemed that Lucifer was to be allowed his moment.

I reached out — or Lilith did — and moved among the thoughts that swam through Adam's mind. He was curious, and elated, and bursting with a thousand questions and a thousand ideas. He had the world for a playground, and now he would have someone with which to share it. It was a wonderful moment, a magical blending.

They ran together through the trees, danced and sang, each delighting in the feel of the other's voice, in the pleasant touch of skin on skin. They moved through the gardens, through the forests, and as they went, Adam showed her new things, one after another, things he'd seen — things he'd named. He showed her the works of the All-Father, and she wondered at them, gasping and laughing and following him with her eyes when he was not watching.

A familiar fire burned within her.  His flesh drew hers with an undeniable attraction. I wondered at that, as well, but now that I've had time to think upon it, I know it for what it was. It was the call of the Earth to Man. It is the most natural thing in creation, and possibly the most powerful.

He stopped, finally, not truly tired, but ready for softer moments, ready for explorations of a more intimate kind. I had no knowledge of these things, had nothing to warn me as the fires rose, consuming the beauty, consuming the scents and sounds of the new world, fresh from creation. She was as naive as I, in those days, and it washed her mind away as well.

Adam’s eyes swam before hers — ours — and their arms wrapped about one another. He drew her closer, pulled her flesh against his own and held her there, marveling in the sensations each new touch brought. I had known of the heat, of the yearning, but now I learned of their completion.

Adam’s hands roved over her body, and hers over his, both of them gasping and groping, clumsily at first, then more rapidly, and with more success. They gauged their movements from one another's reactions, read pleasure and need from one another's eyes. He could not read her thoughts — he was not completely of the Earth, as she was, and he had been left to grow into the light of his essence. His was a physical world, and at that moment he was drawing her into it, sharing it with her in ways that left nothing to be imagined.

Lilith caressed him, then pushed him back and explored him with her lips, taking the salty taste of his perspiration and the strong musk of his lust onto her tongue.  She moved down him and he gasped as she used her mind, her ability to read his emotions and thoughts, to probe more quickly, to find those spots that would elicit the most pleasure. His reactions fueled her own fires; the more control she exerted over his strength by the touch of hands and mouth, the more she became his as well.

Then he grabbed her, pulled her up and with movements born of instinct and destiny, parted her legs, impaled her on his swollen erection, entered her and joined with her, parted and bound her. Her mind spiraled up, then crashed downward, then up again as he held her, moving within her, sliding her over himself effortlessly.

His mind filled with a dim haze, a molten pool that she dove into without thought, giving herself to the emotions, sinking herself in the fires and crying out in helpless pleasure. He held her tightly, pierced her being, cresting with her as they surged into a tidal wave of overwhelming desire. When they climaxed, reaching the peaks of fulfillment in one another's arms, he clasped her to his chest so strongly that she nearly lost her breath, so possessively that they became as one being.

Her arms still circled his neck, and she clawed him closer, grasped the smooth, muscled skin of his body and pressed herself into it with every ounce of her own strength. In that moment they experienced the closest thing to the joys of Heaven, the joy and light I had lost, that I have sensed upon the Earth. It was a perfect harmony, a union of beauty and need, and a completion.

They rolled apart, at last, but only so far as their arms could stretch to allow their grasping fingertips to meet, only so far that the heavy beating of their hearts could still call to one another as they calmed to a sultry, sensual beat. Their eyes were joined as their flesh had been moments before, and I felt the growing wonder in their hearts and in their minds.

It had become very still in the glade where they lay, no animals intruding, no whistling winds or buzzing insects. Nothing. It was Adam, more attuned to the ways of the world that surrounded them, that first became aware of the difference.

At first it was just confusion in his eyes, a disturbance of the joy he'd experienced that picked at the edges of his consciousness. Then it slowly grew to alarm as his senses expanded beyond the moment, and Lilith.  He became aware of the unnatural state of the air, of the world — even of the sky above them, which had darkened.  Something was very, very wrong.

Huge clouds had rolled in, covering the light of the sun and removing its warmth. Adam pulled Lilith close, and they huddled together, sharing the fading warmth of their bodies as the light receded. Whatever he might fear, it was not that he had done wrong. There was no way in physical creation that what I had shared with them could have been less, or more, than perfection.

On the edge of the clearing, I sensed — or Lilith sensed — Lucifer's return. His mind was in a turmoil, as well, caught between a nagging desire to please the Lord he'd angered, to show himself worthy once again, and the growing notion that it would be more fulfilling to anger him further. He had come back to the scene of his work to see how Lilith would fare in the eyes of the All-father.

For the first time, Lilith knew the reality of the distance between herself and her creator. She knew the vast emptiness, the void that had been his compassion, his ability to commune with others. There was one communion he sought, and only one, and barring that, his aim was to deny that communion to all others. He did not care for her, as he had not cared for me, in the end. He cared for himself, and even in that, his love was flawed. If he had truly cared, he would not have fallen.

Then there was another presence, and I dropped to my knees, though in Lilith's mind I jumped to my feet in fear. The heavens had opened slightly, leaking out just a trifle of the glory within, and the essence of the All-Father reached down toward us, toward Adam, and toward Lilith.

I sensed anger, and yet it was not complete. He searched the two of them, searched the bond that had been created, searched Lucifer's handiwork for the treachery He felt inherent in it. He did not find it.

Adam groveled.  He held his head to the Earth in supplication and his hands stretched out as if to ward off a blow. He had never felt such emotions from his creator, had never sensed the turmoil of another's anger, or the bitter tang of fear. It was as new to him as it was to Lilith; only their reactions differed.

I felt the conversation that went on then, between the All-Father and his fallen prince, His adversary. I felt the desire in Lucifer to please, the dream that it would be okay — that what he had done would not be undone, would not be blasted and condemned as he had been. Even then, he did not feel the flaw in what he asked, did not understand what was lacking.

Lilith was his creation, but her creation was not the end-all of the deed. He did not feel the responsibility, did not feel any sort of compassion toward her. He thought of her as a finished entity, beyond him and unimportant, and he believed Adam to be the same.

Perhaps it was because Adam was a part of the All-Father and His creation, and Lilith, formed of stolen essence from the Earth itself, was also of the All-Father, though indirectly. In any case, Lucifer did not understand.

He did not even feel the kinship between the Earth beneath their feet and the beauty he had wrought. I felt this, even as I felt the probing essence of the All-Father leaking through the clearing, through Lilith and Adam, into the very heart of Lucifer himself, who stood still and allowed it, arrogant and certain of his success, as always. I wanted to cry out to him, to share the understanding he ignored — to scream at him to look and to see before it was too late, but I could not.

I was not there. Lilith was there, and what she felt was anger. She felt betrayal at her own maker's hands, and she felt outrage at being subjected to the All-Father's scrutiny, though she felt the light of Him, the joy of the heavens, as strongly as I could have. She was grounded in His creation, a part of the Earth He had brought forth.

The All-Father turned to her at last; sending His essence into her, communing with what Lucifer had created.  She was a thing of beauty, brought forth from His own creation, drawn from the Earth and bonded to the man, Adam, in ways beyond the comprehension of any one being. He felt this, felt the loneliness, the void she had filled within Adam's heart and soul, and in the end He offered her a pact.

She was of His creation, but Adam was His creation. Adam had come into the Earth first, and he had come from the creator's hand. Lilith was the moon to Adam’s sun, the reflection of the glory that was his. If she would accept this; if she would bow down and worship Adam as the incarnation of God himself that he was, serving him in all things, she would remain, walking the Earth at his side and sharing in all that he did.

Lilith was a new creature to the Earth, new to all existence, and humility was not a part of her makeup. If Adam was God's creation, and the Earth as well, and the Earth had come before Adam, then the offer made no sense. She was of the Earth. She was of the elder creation, though not at His own whim, nor by His hand.  She did not bow down.

Lucifer, comprehending only that his own effort was being rebuffed, that his was the lesser — again — of their two creations, went into a titanic rage. He hurled insults heavenward, drove the winds into a frenzy that almost cloaked the light of the All-Father once more, but it was senseless.

His anger was impotent, unable to bridge the distance, only a pale shadow, even, of what it had been at the time of the fall. In the end, for his trouble, he slunk from the clearing in the form of the serpent. It was many years before he broke that bond, and it increased his bitterness a thousand fold.

Adam rose, then, standing by Lilith and holding her close to his side. He was fearful, but he stood with her, and he held her, and they were as one again. They stared together into the heavens, awaiting what would come as a single being, unwilling, even in the face of such overwhelming power, to be parted. Their bond was strong, and it was a bond in reality -- not a bond of spirit, dealt from afar. This was the first sign of the men who would follow, those for whom even a sign from Heaven was not enough to instill faith.

It set them apart, and though, in the end, it did not win them the Earth, it won Lilith her life. The All-Father was unwilling to be burdened with her spirit. Though she came from His creation, she was a dark part of it, an unruly, uncontrolled entity of Lucifer's whim, and He would not have her within the realms over which He ruled.

He did not end her existence — death was not a reality at that moment in creation — but He cast her forth from Eden, cast her forth into the shadows of the world to walk alone, and Lucifer only watched in anger as she went — uncaring — unmoved. Adam cried out, reaching after her and trying to follow, though he could not.

The wrenching sensation was horrible, the pain excruciating. There was no physical damage in the manner of her exile, but the spiritual agony was intense, overpowering. The bond between her and Adam had been sundered, not smoothly, but ripped apart. She was flung through space and time, through shadow and sun, over hills and across seas. When her eyes opened once more and she staggered to her feet, all there was to see was sand. No trees, no water, only sand.

The garden was not within her sight, nor was any familiar part of creation. There was no spirit touch of the All-Father here, though I felt the touch of His hand in the creation of the place. There was also no darkness within — no chilly light, such as Lucifer could emanate when he wished. There was nothing. She might as well have been condemned to the limits of space, so empty was that place.

Her tears burst forth, bitterly, and a horrible rage grew within her.  She fell to her knees, then to her face, burying it in the sand, in the embrace of the Earth from which she had sprung, and she wept. She did not weep for herself — not exactly. She wept for the world, for Adam, now alone again in his garden paradise, for her own creator who walked the Earth without a soul. She wept for the wonders she had never seen, for the unfairness of a creation she had never asked to be thrust into.

As her tears soaked into the sand of the desert, the scene shifted, years flashed past in a blur. The background had not changed noticeably, but I felt it was a different age, an age of men and cities, of growth and decadence in equal proportion. She granted me a new perspective of men, a contrast with that first man, Adam, whom she still loved, a contrast that did not speak well of the men who roamed the Earth at present.

The next vision was once again of Adam, but he was not alone, and it was not a vision of the garden. He stood beneath her, talking with another woman, a woman of light beauty, wispy features and passive eyes. He talked, and she listened with her head bowed low and her eyes upon the Earth. I sensed the irritation this brought to Lilith and felt her reaching out to Adam with her mind. The light haired woman had taken the path she had spurned, and Lilith hated her for it.

She stood on a hillside, cloaked from the sight of those below by the shadow of a huge stone, and yet when Adam left the other woman's side, he moved straight to where she stood, drawn by her mind — her essence. She smiled, but it was a bittersweet smile, still directed at the woman below, who watched him stride away from her with doe-eyed admiration and love.

Lilith reached out to the woman, and then felt her draw back as their minds touched. Eve was very beautiful, holding the wind and sun and jewel-glitter of mountain streams in her eyes. Her figure was slender, but muscled, and she stood nearly as tall as Adam. It was her essence that angered Lilith, the passivity of her nature. She was a different creature entirely — alien.

I saw in Eve a balance, a mirror of Adam's energy and vitality. There was perfection in their pairing, a bond as strong as that between Adam and Lilith had been, but different. Lilith had stood as partner and equal. Their joining had been a mutual thing, a blending of kindred spirits, and a partnership of many levels.

Adam and Eve were different. She was not a partner, not a separate entity to him, but a completion of him.  She was as a missing part of his own makeup, a part of his essence and spirit that was absent when they were apart. She was the Earth to his seed, the water to his fire. His balance. The difference was simple. Eve was of the perfection of the All-Father, Lilith of the light, beauty, and intemperate power of Lucifer.

Adam rounded the stone and stood, staring into Lilith's eyes with a yearning that burned through his being. It was base, full of promise and selfish need, but it was there, and she responded. He came to her, and they moved together into the mountains, finding a small cave and climbing within it, clawing and clutching at one another frantically.

They both wore clothing now, but it was off of them in seconds, giving way to the violence of their coupling, disappearing into the shadows as they moved together and joined. The fire was still there, the molten heat of desire and completion flowed through them still, but the difference was staggering, painful in its omissions. Where the All-Father had sundered their bonds, the frayed ends would never meet again.

When they were sated they rolled apart, and in shock I sensed a new emotion in him. Shame. He was ashamed of his need of her, ashamed of their love, their bond.

She was angry and hurt, not understanding his loyalty to another, but her love was no less strong for it, nor was his. Their love had become a prison, not a partnership, a painful thing that drew them further and further apart in their hearts, even as their bodies sought to cling together. It reminded me more of the people I'd already seen, the humans whose lives I'd read. It washed through me with a pain I will never quite shake free of — a pain that was even then all-too familiar; the pain of loneliness and abandonment.

Adam rolled away from her, clutching his clothes and putting them back on quickly, watching the shadows furtively as if expecting someone to burst forth from them and accuse him of — what, I didn't know. I couldn't understand his shame, his inability to give of himself freely. Already his mind was developing the concept of one man for one woman, while his heart was torn in two.

True, Lilith had been cast forth, and God had given him Eve, but that could not erase that which had been. No matter the creator, their hearts were bound beyond the spirit and flesh. There had been a moment in time, a single, precious moment, when they were one entity. This would always be true. It was inescapable.

The scene shifted again, and I saw that something new had been added to the world. There were smaller versions of Adam and Eve, children. They were tiny flames of spirit, growing, somewhat in the image of their parents, but separately as well — individuals. Lilith had conceived as well —  a son.

He walked at Adam's side, and I sensed the pain that his release had caused her. She wanted him to walk as a man, to live in the world of Adam and God's creatures. She also wanted him by her side. In the end, she chose for his sake. She chose to let him go.

He was more of the All-Father even than she, having come half from herself and half from Adam, and even Eve had accepted him, however reluctantly, at Adam's insistence. She did not understand, did not know how there could be a child that she had not conceived, but she did not question her husband. It was not her nature.

His name was Cain, and he was the age of Adam and Eve's own first born, Abel. The two were inseparable, contesting one another in all they did. Cain learned of the All-Father, not of Lucifer. He learned from his father, Adam, and he learned from Eve, but never once did Adam tell him of Lilith, or of whence he'd come. He grew to a knowledge and love of God, innocently believing himself one of that God's creatures.

In the end, it was another betrayal. When the time came for their separate sacrifices, when they placed their hearts and minds before the essence of the All-Father, Cain came up short. His offering was spurned in favor of that of his "brother's," and it was then that he showed that part of Lucifer he bore. It was then that he gave to mankind a gift from the angel of light himself, a new state of things to twist the heart of the creations of the All-Father.

He slew Abel. In his jealousy, in his rage, he spilled his brother's blood on the very ground that had brought forth his mother, onto the same Earth that his brother and father had plowed and sown with crops. He spilled that blood, letting it flow over his hands, dipping into it and offering it up as he had that of the animals, tasting of it himself and letting it run down his throat. He slew his brother, and he did not mourn him, but reveled in his "victory."

Lilith tasted that blood, as well, knowing it through her son's senses, sharing it through the bond that bridged their minds, mother and son.  She had felt it flowing through him, had known in that instant that it wasn’t just the bridge between the two of them, but was her link to the world of man as well, the difference between herself and Eve. That rich, red blood that could be spilled and lost was the price of Man's own fall.

Lucifer had fallen to the Earth, his wings clipped and his light consumed by shadow. Adam had fallen from the garden, from the perfection to which he'd been created. Lilith had fallen from the sight of the All-Father. It was a cycle that repeated itself, again and again, flowing throughout the years and centuries of the world.

As the others, Cain was now fallen. He was cast forth from Adam's house, sent to the furthest reaches of the world that stretched before him. No attempt was made at forgiveness — that would have to wait until the coming of the Christ. In any case, Cain was proud, and he did not desire forgiveness. He didn't know what he was giving up.

He was cast out, and the world turned in two distinct directions. He went, but he did not die, and his mother followed. Thus were born the children of darkness — thus were born both demons and men.

Cain did not leave alone. There were others, children of Adam, and children of Adam's children. Cain's wives, certain of his other brothers. It reminded me greatly of the fall, tore at my heart as I saw the beauty in his still young face harden to pain, then resentment, and then hatred. The cycle moved toward completion once again.

Lilith herself had gone to her son, and she had lain with him, as well. He had not known her at first, having never been told of her existence. To him she had been just an exceedingly beautiful and powerful woman.

From their union sprang forth the "demons". They were not evil — not in those early days — merely more powerful then other men. This caused them to be feared, to be shunned, and ultimately to draw apart. Lilith took them in, filled the awesome void of loneliness left by Adam with their presence, their dark dreams.

She became a nightmare figure, and as the generations faded to dust and new ones rose, the legends grew. She was the bringer of death, the avenging angel of night. She was the stealer of children, the stealer of souls. Tales of her were used to keep children indoors and close to home, but they were not true.

Her children, her "demons" had done their share of mischief. There are good and bad in every form of creation. Lilith had kept herself apart from the world for centuries, had not stepped foot from her sanctuary beneath the sand for generations of the lives of men, and still her legend grew, as is the way of legends.

She'd seen the coming and going of the great flood, but it had not touched her. She'd seen and walked the fabled streets of both Sodom and Gomorrah, had seen the mighty tower of Babel crash to the ground, confusing the tongues of every civilization.  She'd seen all the years of the Earth, and yet she mourned.

The one thing she'd wished, the one thing that had made her whole, had been Adam's love. He had gone to the heavens, his spirit one with that of the All-Father, and still she loved him. It was a powerful thing, an all-encompassing thing. As she released my mind, bringing me back to the present and watching me carefully for my reactions, I wept.

Without a word I rose, walked around the table to where she sat and wrapped my arms about her. At first she grew tense, pulling away, but then she melted to me, and in that moment I released the barriers of my own mind and let the reality of who and what I was flow forth, let her see what I had seen, even unto the roads and glory of Heaven itself.

She trembled and pressed into my embrace, returning it, and I let myself flow into her, let her feel the depths of my own loss, my own fall. I bared to her my love of the Christ, His feelings — those of the All-Father. I let her see Lucifer, her own God, in ways she'd never imagined, in glory beyond her comprehension.

At last we drew apart.  She released my mind quickly, shuddering at the impact of what she'd experienced, what she'd learned, shivering through to the core of her being. She trembled, still, and I knelt on the floor at her side, not releasing her fully.

Turning to meet my eyes, she drew me to herself and held me, and it was wonderful. All these things were beyond joy to me — beyond my ability, even now, to explain. We were as close as sisters from that moment on, and nothing in Heaven or Hell could change this.

She spoke then, switching easily to her voice for communication, and I felt her drawing back within herself, gently closing the doors of her mind. I did the same, and she smiled.

"Do not be alarmed," she said, "I only need time to sort my mind, to rework the boundaries of my world. You have given me more to think of, more to understand, than all the years of my existence have brought to me.

"We are so much the same. Yet how you could have suffered as you have, and could still love as you do, is beyond my understanding." Her smile widened at that, and I added my own.

"If we are twins, we are twins in exile," I said, rising and returning to my seat.  "The Christ has sent me to you to learn of the Earth, of the spirits of darkness and the ways of men. I think there are things, perhaps, that even He was not aware of Himself. Perhaps the All-Father has clouded your memory within Him, as well as your life."

She frowned at that, but remained silent, thinking. The shadows were scurrying about us again, and I watched them from the corners of my eyes. I sensed the shadow-touch of them, their curiosity, their hunger to be free — to wear flesh and walk the Earth, experiencing love and hunger, pain and hate. I felt their need, and I sorrowed for them, but I did not let them intrude closely upon my mind.

I still did not know what to do about my love of the Christ, or about my curse. I still hungered for the blood of His people, as I burned for the Heavens. I wanted to go home. Lilith did not understand that need, but in comparing it to her own love of Adam, she came close.

At last, turning to me with sad, tear-filled eyes, she opened her mind once more. Her warmth and love washed through me again.  She did not understand my desire to return to Heaven.  She knew only the Earth and the glory it presented.

All of this I read in her eyes, her thoughts, and her heart. She was as much a child of God as any, more so than many, and the yearning to see what the teachings of the Christ might mean for herself and her "children" was strong within her.

"I will guide you when I can," she told me then. "If you call, I will come.

"I will instruct my children to aid you if they can, but do not expect much of them. Their essence is hunger, their life is pain. You must avoid them in the daylight. It is all I can do."

"It is more than enough," I told her.  "You have given me already what no person on this Earth has even offered. You have given me your trust, and you have given me companionship and comfort. I do not deserve any of it. I am cursed."

"If such beauty as yours is a curse, and the ability to command such love from the very Son of God Himself is condemnation, I wish it were so of myself." she replied.  "Go in grace, Mary, daughter of the Heavens, and tell the Christ of me. Tell Him of my suffering, and of my children. Tell Him of my love, and ..."

She hesitated, but I plucked the final thought from her heart, and she did not shut me out. She wanted to know of Adam. She wanted to know if he still remembered. She wanted to know if he still loved.

We moved together once more, hugging so tightly that we breathed the same air, our hearts beating a tandem rhythm. The hunger rose within me, and I fought against it, but she pulled me even tighter, and, ignoring the danger, she whispered into my ear, nipping at my earlobe and pressing her flesh against mine.

"Lay with me, daughter of the Heavens," she said softly, pulling me down onto one of the rugs and caressing my flesh, drawing me after her and exploring my eyes with her own held very close.  "Feed from me, and I will taste your spirit.  We are more alike than you know."

A fire grew within me, transcending the pain and the longing. I was overwhelmed by the sudden desire to be close to another, to hold and to caress.

It was like the lust of the lovemaking I'd encountered within her mind, but softer, less rigorous. It was a flow of emotion, a spreading of heat that began at the extremities of my limbs and drove toward the center of my soul like spikes of molten metal.

I cupped the sides of her face, met her lips with my own and lost myself in the soft swirling of her hair as it danced over my shoulders, over my breasts. I had never felt such intimacy, such pleasure. I yearned to bring her the same, to be for her what she was for me in that moment.

Our garments flowed off of us, there one moment, not the next. She pressed me back, softly, at first, running the silken warmth of her tongue across my skin, and I lay there, unable to resist her, needing to grasp her, to pull her close.

She knew what to do, what to touch, where to caress and for just how long and I was helplessly in her control when she rose suddenly and pressed the softness of her throat to my lips. I latched on, felt the warm flow of her blood — tasted the sweetness of it, the power and the heat. I fought the hunger, feeding as gently as I could, taking only a sparing amount, and then forced my lips away.

She looked down at me, half-mockingly, half-reproachfully, and then smiled again.  She lowered herself to my throat, letting the perfume of her hair dance through my senses and tickle at my skin. The softest of pricks pierced my skin, the lightest of pain, and then I felt the draining.

It was not like the pain of when I'd fed Sarah, but more a joining, a sharing. She absorbed part of me, but for every drop she took, she replaced it with a part of herself. She stopped shortly and drew back, a look of wonder in her eyes.

Then she moved over me again, and she did not stop me when I moved to mirror her actions, gauging how she would react by the tingling of my own flesh, the heat of my own need. She was a good teacher, and I an avid student.

It was long after daylight when I awakened in her arms, to the sight of her eyes staring at me, watching over me.

"You are a miracle to me, little sister," she breathed. "You are like a gift from the All-Father."

I smiled at her, but I rose to a sitting position and looked about me. I could see more easily through the shroud that separated us from the world now — a gift I had gleaned from the taste of her blood. The stars were in the sky and the moon was full and bright, lighting the sands of the desert. It was her world, her place, and it was her vision with which I saw it.

In the distance, tugging at my soul like an insistent leash, I felt the Christ's heart calling. He walked among men, performing His miracles and healing those He found in need.

"You must go," Lilith said, and I detected such sadness in her voice that it tore at my heart.  "He is calling to you."

"My love is gone from the Earth, but maybe yours can set it right. Maybe there is hope. If nothing else, little sister, you have given me that again, and for that alone I would love you."

I knew the truth of her words. Our kinship was now deeper than anything I'd known upon the Earth, or beyond it. What Lilith offered was simple, open and freely given. I leaned toward her, pulling her close a last time before I rose to my feet.

"We are truly sisters now," I told her, placing one hand gently on each of her shoulders, "You have given me what even the All-Father has denied, and for that I will love you always.

"I do not know what lies ahead for me, but if you need me, if I can help or comfort, call. At the price of my own soul, I will come."

"If you see, or hear...”

"I will come to you and tell you of your love," I promised, wondering if it was an empty gesture. I did not want to leave her side.

"You will be a bit freer now," she told me, almost shyly.  "What I have given you is more than just my blood. It will help you to bridge the veil that shields you from your light. It will remain with you, reminding you of me. You will be a daughter of both Earth and the heavens."

We hugged a final time, and I turned, unable to meet her eyes any longer. I found myself alone, standing in the sand of the desert with the moon and the stars as my guides, the shadows my only companions.

In my mind, like the ghost of a whisper, I heard her voice.  "Go in love, little sister. Find our way."

I sent out a burst of pure emotion then, all the longing, the love, and the trust that was mine to offer. With a great sigh that shook me to my bones, I began walking into the distance, not hurrying as I had on my arrival, but shuffling along and thinking.

I would have a lot to mull over between then and my next meeting with the Christ. I, who had not wanted to burden Him with my own destiny, would have to ask Him for more. I would have to beg Him, if it came to that. Somehow, a weight had been lifted from my heart.

I stretched out my senses, seeking the Son of Man with my heart and my soul, and at last I felt the flutter of His presence.

He was near a city named Bethany; a place where I knew He'd spent a great deal of time before. I went there.   Something in His words on the mountain, in the jumbled thoughts I'd snatched from the two who'd joined Him there, had hammered home the reality of time, and little of it left. There was no more time for waiting, no time for worry or nightmares of salvation denied.  I returned my senses to the control of my earthly limbs, and I flew across the miles.

I did not pay heed to whether men noted my passing, nor did I stop along the way to feed, though the need was growing steadily. I passed on through the next day, bearing the pain of the sun and its dry, all-encompassing heat.

When darkness fell again, I redoubled my speed, and it was in the dark hours of that night that I came to the city of Bethany. I moved through the streets as a wraith, wondering how many would see me, and how many would think me Lilith. The thought no longer angered me, as it had.

I found what I sought in the home of two sisters, Mary and Martha, and their brother. It was late, but they were not yet asleep. There was a fire burning, and they were gathered around it, talking and laughing. I melted into the deepest shadows, waiting for my chance. They were talking of the Christ, of the wonder of His teaching and the light of His love.

As watched, I prayed that my control would be enough, that my patience would last until the time was right, that they would send for the Christ at once. I prayed that He would not be angered, would not lash out at me in fury for taking one so close. A thousand fears, a thousand prayers, and at last the brother stumbled into the shadows. He was moving about, tending to the animals and humming to himself, when I melted free of the darkness and called to him softly.

"Whaa..?" He did not cry out, but he was wary, watching me carefully and backing away. "Who are you, woman, and why are you out so late? The streets are not safe."

"I am just enjoying the night," I told him, moving closer slowly and snaring him.  "I was walking in the moonlight, watching the stars blink in the sky, and I saw you."

He stopped backing away, and I moved in quickly. I did not know how long he could be gone before the others would think his absence odd and come searching for him. I did not want to be seen.

"I am sorry," I whispered to him, taking him with speed and drawing forth his blood as quickly and completely as I could. I dropped him to the sand, and looked up. Mary, one of the sisters, was standing there, staring at me, on the verge of a scream.

I sent my mind flying across the space, sent my will into her throat to hold back the sound. I leapt off into the shadows with all my strength and speed. I was nearly half a mile away when I heard the sound finally burst free into the night, a scream of such utter desolation and terror that it ripped at the strings that bound me to my soul.

Cursing myself, I searched for a place to rest. It would be days before the Christ could return, and I needed to get out of sight. I had wanted to take the man in secrecy, to have him die mysteriously. Now there was no doubt He would come. They would tell Him of me. They would know of me.

Sliding into the first tomb I came to, I lay down on the Earth, and I closed my eyes, diving back into the moments I'd spent with Lilith, back to the pleasure and the warmth. I ignored the dead, rotting corpses who shared my bed. I ignored the essence of the Christ. It was a time for rest.

CHAPTER SIX

Proverbs, 9:17

17 Stolen waters are sweet, and bread eaten in secret is pleasant. 18 But he knoweth not that the dead are there; and that her guests are in the depths of hell.

Judas 17

A man named Lazarus was sick. He was from Bethany, the village of Mary and her sister Martha.   The sisters sent word to Jesus saying, "Lord, one you love is dying."

"This sickness shall not end in death," Jesus said, "No, it is for God's glory, so that God's son may be glorified by it."4 Jesus loved Mary, Martha, and Lazarus, yet upon hearing the nature of the illness, He waited two days before going to them.

There were reports that Lazarus bore strange punctures on his throat, and his pallor was deathly and pale.

Then He said to His disciples, "Let us go back to Judea."

But Rabbi," they said, "a short while ago the Jews tried to stone you, and yet you are going back there?"

"There are twelve hours of daylight." Jesus answered, "A man who walks by daylight will not stumble, for he sees by this world's light.   It is when he walks by night that he stumbles, for he has no light."

After saying this, He went on to explain.  "Our friend Lazarus has fallen asleep, I go to awaken him."

His disciples replied, "Lord, if he sleeps, he will get better." Jesus spoke of death, but they did not understand.

Then he said plainly, "Lazarus is dead, and for your sake, I am glad I was not there, so that your faith may grow. Let us go to him, for the darkness from which he must awaken is of my own creation, and there is another there whom I seek.

Then Thomas said, "Come, let us follow that we may die with Him."

As I lay in the tomb I had chosen, awaiting the coming of my Lord and His Apostles, I contemplated at my actions. Instead of coming to Him openly, I had chosen to test Him, purposely taking the lifeblood of one He held dear. I had told myself that this was because His time was short, and I needed to see Him soon, but this was not true. The truth was that I'd wanted to see if He would turn aside from all He had been set upon the Earth to accomplish to come to me. Once the deed was done, I felt very small, insignificant. At that moment, I felt that I was truly Lucifer's emissary, and that I deserved my curse.

The weight of the responsibility I now bore was my shield, my defense against the attacks of guilt my heart and mind battered me with. He had to listen, had to know what had come to pass in the desert. He had to see how it was for Lilith and her children. In my arrogance, I assumed that He did not already know.

They moved across the land, though they took their time about it. Jesus was heavy of heart, but there was no anger. He did not reach out to chastise me, as I expected. He did not reach out to me at all.

It might have been easier for me had He been full of righteous fury. I could have withstood that storm, knowing I deserved it, but the wash of uncompromising love He sent instead was more than I could bear. I was a bottomless pit, sucking Him dry of all that He had to offer and giving nothing but pain and suffering in return.

Those in Bethany had sent for Him immediately, but there was a great danger for Him there. The priests and the soldiers sought him; they would have killed Him by stoning if they could have gotten their hands on Him. I worried that I had called Him to His doom.

At night I left my bed of earth and ashes, bones and death, and I watched over them as best I could. He moved closer at His slow, man's pace, and my heart nearly burst with the desire to go to Him, to bare my soul, to confess my sin, though I understood that He knew it only too well. He waited for some moment, and His mind was set on what lay ahead of Him, in Bethany.

The apostles knew nothing of my presence. I was careful to remain beyond their sight. The Christ could go nowhere without being recognized and sought out. I did not want any among the crowds to pick me out, or to begin to ask who was this dark woman who watched His every step upon the earth so closely, but never came forward.

I waited in the shadows. I fed the night before they reached the city, wanting my strength, but I did not feed on one of the pure. I took a thief, stalking the shadows, and I bore the pain of his transfer to that darkest part of my soul that would be his prison.

Even as I felt my victim's soul slip from his earthly shell and twist into the abyss, I knew I had erred. His silent screams echoed through my mind, trying to win him free of his fate, trying not to be taken. I heard the laughter from below, deeper and more powerful than ever before, and it shook me to the core. Would I never be free?

It did not matter. I had to feed, and I could not take another of His children after what I had done; not so soon. If I had, I would never have been able to face Him. As it was, I trembled in fear, awaiting His judgment.

I had heard that in His words, even if the priests and Pharisees could not. The judgment had been passed to Him. All that was the All-Father's on the Earth was His as He wore His shell of flesh and blood and bone. He would judge me soon, as He would judge the world.

Despite all attempts at secrecy, the word of His coming spread far and fast. There was no hiding His light; He shone through the darkest of nights, the heaviest of fogs. He healed, He blessed, He taught all who would listen, and He made His way slowly into the city of Bethany as I anxiously awaited Him.

He was barely into the city when word reached the sisters, Mary and Martha. Mary had been sick since the night she saw me drop her brother, Lazarus, to the sand. She talked of demons, of devils with wild eyes and huge, slavering fangs. Her own eyes were grown wide with madness, and she would not be comforted. Her prayers flowed from her in an endless, mindless stream, and she swayed back and forth, pulling at her hair and at times screaming in her pain.

I longed to go to her, to explain myself and beg for her forgiveness, but I could no more appear to her now than I could return her brother to her as he had been. I did not want Him to return at all, but that was not mine to grant. His spirit had been pure, and he was dead — gone to a better world, a better place. I longed to tell her that, as well.

So much was denied me that could have helped to ease my torment. If only I could have explained my curse and lessened the guilt. I longed to make them see the terrible burden of my curse.

As the multitude approached, Mary's sister, Martha, ran to meet Jesus on the road as He neared their home. I waited in the city, watching through the eyes of the disciples, as was becoming my habit, seeing everything but remaining out of sight myself. First He would have to comfort those I had hurt, would have to set right that which I had cast asunder. I wanted to help Him, to be at His side through it all, but there was nothing I could do.

When Martha came within sight of the Christ, she burst into tears and ran to Him.  She threw herself at His feet, wrapping her hair around His ankles. He stopped, kneeled, and placed a hand atop her head, and when she had quieted, she began to speak in halting, gasping breaths.

"Lord, it has all gone wrong, everything. Lazarus is dead. He was attacked in the night, slain as he tended the animals. Mary has had a vision of a demon, standing over his body, and will not leave the house.

"She prays, day in and day out, and she cries out as if in pain. We fear she might have taken the demon within herself, Lord, for she will not be comforted.

"If You had been here, I know Lazarus would be alive." She looked up into His eyes, then, and said, "Even now, I know that God will give to You anything that You ask."

She waited, looking for something in His eyes, searching His heart for an answer. I briefly touched her thoughts, and I saw that she wanted a sign, an answer, something to return her life to sanity. What she truly wanted was for everything to be as it had been, for time to slip back and away and leave her life as it had been before I entered it.

Everything I did drew a cascade of consequences. The king's daughter, Sarah, and now Lazarus were a part of my guilt, and the legacy of each continued to spread. Sarah fed. The king's daughter fed. Lazarus was gone before his time, but his family suffered in his stead.

The Christ looked down upon her, taking in the tears and the pain in her heart, sharing her loss and mourning with her. He took her by the hand then, helping her back to her feet, and he spoke to her calmly.

"Your brother will rise again."

She looked at Him, unsure of His meaning, daring to hope He meant exactly what He said, but doubting it. I saw, in that moment, that though she did not yet believe fully that He was what he said He was, she would still have done anything, to the point of taking her own life, had He asked it. In that, her faith was true.

"I know that he will rise in the last days," she fumbled, fishing for hope — for clarity in His promise. "At the final judgment, all will rise, even the dead."

Jesus stopped walking then, taking both her hands in His own. The disciples and those of the village who were there stopped as well, drinking Him in as if He were the living wine He promised them and His words their sustenance.

"I am the resurrection, and the light." He said. "He who believes this, who truly believes in Me, will live. Whoever lives, and believes in Me, will never die. Do you believe this, Martha?"

"Yes Lord," she breathed, and in that instant it was true. She fell again to her knees, brushing His feet with her hair as she bowed before Him. "I believe that You are the Son of God, the Christ, who has come to walk the Earth as a man."

He lifted her to her feet once more, and a glow surrounded Him. Something was going to happen — it was in the air — something miraculous. I departed the city and lost myself, as always, among the tide of humanity that flooded along in His wake.

"Where is your sister, Mary?" He asked, and her face fell. "She will not leave the house, Lord."

"I will stay here. Send her to Me."

"I don't know if she will come, Lord," Martha hesitated.

Smiling sadly at her, He answered. "She will come. I will call, and she will come."

Martha spun on her heels and hurried off toward her home, hope blooming in her heart for the first time in days, and the weight bearing down on my shoulders lessened slightly. The disciples, walked among those gathered, answering questions and teaching those who would listen, and the Christ drew away, seating Himself on a stone and awaiting Mary.

There was something in His presence that gave me hope. It was always like that when He was near, but on that day it was doubled.

I felt Mary's approach before I saw her. She had snapped back to her mind at her sister's call, leapt up and run from their home so quickly that Martha had thought her totally mad at last. They believed that she was going to Lazarus' tomb, so that is where they went. Mary did not.

She felt the call, felt Him reaching out to her, and she ran to Him, grasping the sanity left to her and following the light that shone from His heart. I knew that call too well, and she had no such defenses, as I, to defend herself. She came into sight, and all eyes were on her, though none drew close. They still feared she was possessed.

As she came, running heedlessly over the sharp stones and gravel in bare feet, ignoring the blood that now flowed from many cuts and scrapes, she looked continuously over her shoulder. She seemed to fear that something would jump from one of the shadows to grasp her and pull her back, ending her life, as she believed had happened to her brother.

She saw the Christ, and she stumbled up to Him, falling at His feet and grasping His legs in fear.  "My brother, Lord. Lazarus has been killed by a demon!

"I saw her, standing over him, his blood dripping from her lips and her hair dancing about her in the moonlight. She was pale, like the face of the moon itself, and her eyes, Lord, they were deep — so deep. I fear for his soul!"

Jesus reached down, pulling her to her feet and taking her in His arms, and the disciples gasped as He held her, letting her head rest against His shoulder and her tears stain His robe. They had never seen their Lord so intimate with any but themselves, had never seen such a look of determined concentration in His eyes.

She shuddered, and He drew the fear from her, cleansing her with His light as she clung to Him. She shivered like a leaf in the wind.

It seemed like an eternity before she pulled away, realizing where she was, what she was doing. Her eyes were no longer fearful, but were awash with wonder and amazement. Her pain was lifted. In that moment, she was very beautiful, and all who saw her gasped in amazement.

Jesus turned her to face Him.  "Take me to where they have lain your brother. Take me to Lazarus."

I was sore in my heart. He would not be able to raise Lazarus as He had the king's daughter, who He had not raised at all. Lazarus was gone to his reward, departed to Glory. He had been pure — that much I had ascertained before taking Him.

The tomb was a cave. It was a cleft in a hillside, sealed by a stone of such size that I myself would have had difficulty in pushing it aside. Jesus stood in front of the cave, placing His hands on the stone, and He wept. He let His head fall forward against the huge boulder, let His tears wash down its face. No one approached Him, nor did any speak.

They believed that He cried for His dead friend, that He grieved at His loss. His tears were for us all. He wept for the unbelief of a sinful world, and for the shortness of His time to save it.

I hung at the back of the crowd, carefully wrapping my cloak about my face to shield myself from Mary's eyes, and those of the disciples. I needed to see, but it was imperative that I not be seen.

Finally His tears ran their course, and He stood back a bit, staring at the stone. A great energy suffused the air, and a pulsing glow emanated from His skin, pulsing with the beating of His heart and growing more brilliant with each passing moment.

His tears had emptied Him of thought, and He concentrated His mind and soul on the grave before Him. There was a thin strand of what might have been silken light drifting between His upraised eyes and the heavens. I gazed upon it in wonder.

The crowd drew together, and He drew from them, their budding faith and their combined essences. I let the power flow to Him, gladly granting Him all that was mine, opening my heart, though I could not be at His side. I did not see what good it could do, but I waited, as did the others, to see.

He stepped back from the stone, and His eyes blazed.  A brilliant light rose from within Him and spread throughout the clearing. He gestured to the tomb, and the thread of light separated from His fingertip and slid through cracks too small to be seen by the naked eye, gliding into the tomb. When it had dissipated and there was nothing left but a soft glow about the edges of the large stone, He turned to Mary again.

"Have them remove the stone, daughter."

"But Lord," she said, amazement filling her voice, and fear.  "He has lain within the Earth for more than four days — the rot will be upon his flesh. Why must we do this thing?"

Jesus’ voice bright with energy, and yet dripping with weariness from the combined weight of his task, their ignorance, and the responsibility of an entire world, He replied.

"Have I not promised you that if you believe, you will bear witness to My Father's glory? Why do you hesitate? Open the tomb, Mary. Open the tomb."

Judas 18:

So they took away the stone. Then Jesus looked up and said, "Father, in all things you hear me. I say this not for myself, but for those standing here, that they may believe you have sent me."

When He had said this, Jesus called out in a loud voice, "Lazarus, come forth." The dead man came out, his hands and feet wrapped in strips of linen, and a cloth binding his face.

Jesus said, "Take off the grave clothes, and let him go."

I felt no flicker of spirit or stir of breath, and my heart was heavy for my Lord. I knew only too well where Lazarus' spirit lay. Lazarus came staggering out from within his tomb. The wind billowed his stringy hair about his head, and his eyes glowed with the light of hunger, my hunger. He walked the Earth again, but he was not whole. Only his flesh had risen.

He turned to Jesus, removing the cloth from his face, and the white, pale skin beneath was revealed, already flaking under the assault of the sun. He smiled into the pain, into the burning death of the great orb's light, and all those present shuddered. His teeth were sharp, extended like those of a serpent and glistening in the sun's rays. He was poised to feed.

"Son of Man," he called out, his voice loud, booming through the crowd and echoing from the hills.  "You have brought me back from that which You promised. Why must I suffer so? Is this what comes of Your love?"

Again the question, "Why." My heart felt as if it would burst, and I nearly broke from my place in the crowd, going to them and falling down myself to pray. The curse was not supposed to take this one. In His attempt to raise one I had taken, the Christ had brought forth only more suffering, had added to the weight of my own curse, and His own pain. I did not feel Lazarus within me, but the end result was the same. The shadows would be his tomb.

The Christ spoke then, slowly and clearly, and there was no remorse in His words.  "When the last days are come unto the Earth, brother Lazarus, your soul shall not be forgotten. Know that I am with you, always. Go in peace."

Mary and Martha turned to Him quickly, mouths agape. They did not want Lazarus to go, even seeing how he had changed, the wildness in his eyes — the hunger. They had asked for their brother's life, but they were not ready for him to go away.

Lazarus stared straight into the eyes of the Christ, the unholy flame of his blood lust flickering in the depths of his own eyes. His hair was falling out now, and the skin was flaying on his skin from the light of the sun, but still he stood, rooted in place, staring. His courage and his spirit were great.

"I will go, Godson," he said at last, turning slowly and facing the crowd with a leer, "but in hunger, not in peace."

There was a flash, pungent with the cloying scent of graves, the wet, putrescence of death, and he was gone. Such was the speed of his passing that even I did not see him go. He was there, and then he was not. Only the gaping crowd and the empty tomb remained, a bleak reminder of he who had lain there only short moments before.

The glow had not left Jesus' body. His essence still pulsed through the crowd, bending their sight, calming their fear. In the face of His own pain, and the evil that had befallen one He loved, He thought of them all, of His destiny and His purpose. Not once did I see a glimpse of selfishness.

He drew the sisters, Mary and Martha, to His side, and He removed their terror and their pain with His touch, sending the disciples among the people to do likewise. They had seen His miracles, and they knew it was not always easy to comprehend what had happened. They trusted, and they waited, and they did His work.

None but those directly in front of the tomb had seen what happened, but already those in the middle and those toward the back, where I stood, spoke among themselves of the miracle, of the dead man brought back to life. How easily they were manipulated, how easily they were fooled. It was no wonder my former master walked the Earth with such arrogance.

And yet the Christ prevailed. His ability to turn their hearts, to win their trust and their faith was a miracle in itself. I was in agony. Somewhere in the desert, a man's body walked without a soul, anchoring him to a world he should be free of, anchoring him against the call of the greatest of gifts in a way that must have been tearing the very fabric of His being. He did not even have the understanding of those whose weight I bore within me. He was alone as I had been alone, condemned and on fire with a hunger that would never die.

The guilt was mine. The situation had gone horribly wrong, and I was powerless to do anything about it. The laughter from below rose about me, echoing through my being.

"... and I say to you, she will be your undoing."

I stumbled away from the empty tomb and into the desert. It was too much, more than I could bear alone, and I had none to share my pain. The Christ, too, left the tomb, but I did not follow him with my mind. I did not want to share His pain, and I would not burden Him with mine.

I could not shield myself against what came next. It grew steadily to fill my world, wore through my defenses and echoed within my thoughts. Jesus walked into the desert, and He called out for Lazarus, bidding him to come near, not to depart into the shadows in hatred or in anger.

He cast forth memories of earlier days the two had spent together. They were His siblings and His children, His wards among the throngs of men who'd followed and not believed.

He used these memories, dragging them forth from what remained of Lazarus the man, and dangling them before the creature's eyes. It was a compelling vision, powerful. I felt myself drawing nearer to where He walked, though it was the last place I wanted to be at that moment, felt myself joining with Him to call out. I sought the one I had wronged.

He was there, crouching in the shadows beneath a huge outcropping of stone, curled up beneath it like one of the vermin of the desert, secreted as far from the burning light of the sun as the crevasse would allow. He still worked frantically, digging himself to as much safety as the daylight hours could offer him.

He fought the call, but he was weak. He was newly risen, and he had not yet fed. The hunger gnawed at him almost as strongly as the sun. He had no defense against Jesus, against the images that were flashed into his mind. He had no way to escape the call.

He was angry. It shone from his eyes, glowing and bright. He had loved, once, but now he'd learned to hate. How could he not hate? He had been promised, and granted, the greatest of gifts, only to have it yanked from him cruelly and the remnant of his soul on Earth stuffed back into the undead frame that now imprisoned him. Torn free of the joy of Heaven, a world of hunger and darkness would be his home.

I wondered at it, as well. I did not know if the Christ had done this on purpose. I did not know if it was for my own benefit, or if I was the cause and this the summation of my folly.

Only the Christ knew, but He shielded it from me. I did not pry, though my heart cried out for the knowledge. If He did not want me to know, who was I to question Him?

He neared the stone beneath which Lazarus cowered. He stopped in the sunlight and waited. He used His voice, not His mind, letting the words ring out and echo through the stones -- resounding off the hillside that rose above them. He reached out and called to the husk of the man He had known as Lazarus, and for the second time since his death, Lazarus came forth.

Despite the burning of the sun, which seared him as he moved, draining his strength, he crawled out from the shadows. He was powered by hate. Deep inside, far beneath the level of darkness, there remained a part of the man who had been. There still rested within him, though everything that had been his life and love had been wrested from him, a spark of the faith that had ruled his mind in life. There was still a trace of love.

I marveled as the Christ reached out to that remnant of life, knowing it and caressing it, fanning it like a flame and drawing it forth. He knew it because He had nurtured it, and loved it.

"What, Godson?" the creature grated, staggering through the light and raising his hands to try and shield his face from the power of the sunlight. His skin smoked and crackled, and yet he stood his ground. "Have you come now to destroy me? Have You come to cleanse my evil from the earth? Tell me, please, for I need to know; was it only a show for their benefit, the casting aside of my soul?"

Jesus stood, the light of His love in His eyes and His hands outstretched. For an answer, He wept. Lazarus' words cut Him more deeply than I could have foreseen, impaling Him with their sharp edges and icy desolation. He agonized over the actions fate had appointed Him, and yet it was love that had driven Him. His heart was far away, drowning in a sorrow beyond the words of this world to describe. The consequences, the guilt, and the weight they brought, were His alone.

As the last of Lazarus' strength began to fail, his legs trembled, refusing to hold him any longer. "Come to me, Lazarus." Jesus’ head was tilted to one side, and He bared His throat, beckoning to Lazarus.

"I have promised you life everlasting, and I fulfill that promise. I know of the one who brought this upon you. You will not be forgotten. Feed from Me, Lazarus, and be healed, for I tell you now, I am not as other men. I will not die. My steps are carved in the stone of the desert, My way in the paths of the spirit."

Even though only seconds remained to him before he collapsed into the sand and fell away to dust, Lazarus hesitated.  He backed a few steps. He fought the sacrifice, realizing somewhere deep within himself that it was wrong, that he should not go forward.

Lazarus stepped forward so slowly he seemed to be walking through mud, fighting a war within his own heart. The hunger won. He caught the scent, the pulse and rhythm of the blood that pumped through the Christ's veins and his movements sped.

At the last, he leaped forward wildly, driving them both toward the ground with the ferocity of their meeting, and he sank his fangs deeply into Jesus' flesh.

The Christ staggered, then held, standing silently and with His arms spread open as if for an embrace, as the lifeblood was drained from His body.

I ripped myself free from their minds. It was too intimate, too powerful. I had tasted that blood, had known the warmth and the strength of it, the rich strength of it. I was meant to. It was another trap for my soul.

I saw the light grow around them, blending them, and I saw the frenzied movements of Lazarus' hunger grow quiet, then stop. He was sated, and yet the Christ stood firm, holding His friend so that he would not fall to the sand at His feet.

With a cry mixed of misery and joy, Lazarus staggered back. His eyes closed almost immediately, and his mind grew blessedly blank as he slipped away from consciousness, collapsing on the sand. At first I feared he was dead again, but he only slept.

There was more. As I traced the patterns of his dreams and moved through his thoughts, I realized with growing wonder that he was not as he had been. The hunger was not sated — it was vanquished. He was once again what he had been when I found him — a man. He was a sleeping, breathing, mortal man, and he would receive his salvation at the appointed time. It was a miracle. I had been the one to berate mankind for requiring such of the Heavens, and here was one designed specifically for my own needs.

All at once the implications of what I had just witnessed shattered me. The truth sang to me, dragged at the strings of my heart. I had been a mortal woman, if only for a brief second. I could be again. I could take up the promise of life everlasting, and I could ascend to the heavens, free of all sin.

He reached out to me, but at that moment it was more than I could bear. I withdrew further into the shadows, staying close enough to watch Him and letting the marvel of what I'd learned sink into the recesses of my mind, letting it soak through me and revitalize the hope that had been so long denied.

Jesus went to Lazarus, picked him up easily and started back across the desert toward the tomb. The others were still gathered there, awaiting His return. Their hunger for answers exceeded even mine.

Martha was doing her utmost to comfort her sister, Mary, and the disciples moved among the crowd, teaching any who would listen and proclaiming the miracle of the dead returning. It was not a joyful gathering, but subdued; they were all still awed by what they had witnessed.

None of those in the crowd had seen, none but the disciples, Mary, Martha, and the Christ. What they believed now was that Lazarus had risen, walked from the grave, and returned to them.

As Jesus trudged across the sand with His friend's body cradled in His arms, Jesus prayed. I experienced it, more than heard it, shared the sensation as the energy emanated from the pores of His skin and rose about Him like an invisible cloud. The punctures in His throat were healing, almost invisible already, and His steps strengthened steadily. He did not appear as weak as I knew He must be, and it was obvious that He was gathering the strength that would keep the knowledge of that weakness from His followers.

As He came into sight of the crowd at the tomb, He ceased His prayer. Many among them caught a quick glimpse of the radiance that surrounded Him, falling to their knees as Jesus approached. He ignored them.

"Martha," He called out, and she turned to Him, drawing her sister to her feet and tugging her forward, answering His call.

"I am here, Lord," she breathed. When she saw what He held in His arms, she let out a quick gasp and ran to His side. Jesus lowered Lazarus' sleeping form to the ground gently, and the two sisters kneeled at their brother's side.

They checked him over anxiously, but his breathing was smooth and regular. Mary, unable to resist the temptation, reached out quickly, lifting one corner of his lips away from his teeth.

When she saw that they were straight and human, and that he only slept, she drew back in a daze, confused to the very root of her heart. The Christ laid His hand upon her shoulder and comforted her, leaning so she alone could hear His words.

"The demon that was in him is gone, Mary," He told her quietly.  "Sometimes in death, they haunt the flesh that is left behind, but now only Lazarus resides within this form. He is your brother, back from death, as I have promised.

"There is no need to tell the others of this, for the danger is passed. Treat him well, sister, and rejoice."

She looked up at Him then, love glistening in her eyes, and He lifted her to her feet. I was jealous in that moment. I did not want her so close to Him when I myself could not be there. I did not want His hand on her shoulder, caressing her hair.

I knew that my thoughts were unworthy, knew as well that all her suffering was by my own hand, and yet I could not stop these emotions from rising to possess me. I had drawn Him here for myself, not for these people. He had made it a lesson for them all, given them a sign beyond anything He had yet performed, and He had given it to me as well, yet it was not enough. I had wanted Him to myself.

The multitudes milled about, waiting to see if He would speak, or if there would be further signs. Jesus was strangely silent. His disciples gathered about Him, sensing that He wished for solitude, and they brushed aside those who would draw near, doing what they could themselves for those who remained, but letting no one near too close to their master and teacher.

The Christ seated Himself on a stone, staring at the abyss that had held Lazarus' corpse in death and focusing inward upon Himself. I sensed a great weariness about Him, a redoubling of the weight He carried upon His shoulders. He did not call to me, and though I reached out tentatively, caressing the outer limits of His essence with my presence and letting Him know that I was near, He made no sign that He noticed.

The crowds dispersed soon after that. Seeing that the moment was not right to offer their thanks, the two sisters, Martha and Mary, organized a group of young men to carry their brother back to their home, where He could be put to bed and tended to. Others trailed after them, eager to hear what Lazarus might say if he awakened. Some went to the temple to give thanks, or to pray, most went to their own homes, overwhelmed by all they had seen.

Finally only Jesus and the disciples remained near the tomb, and I drew closer, wanting to be near them, and fearing that something must be wrong. The Christ still sat as He had, meditating upon the emptiness of the tomb, and I could not understand what fascinated Him so about it.

I need not have worried. When His mind finally awakened, it was as before, open and caring. In that second I realized He had been contemplating things that were to come, of the prophecy yet to be fulfilled. It was a heavy price that He would pay, a price beyond reckoning.

The death and rebirth of Lazarus had given Him cause for thought. The tomb had been too much a mirror of His own nightmares, and the strangeness I had felt, the emptiness I had seen in His stare, had only been a man, for once, thinking of His own future. It was the first hint that He was truly human, beneath the essence of a God, the first indication that He might share my own fear and fascination with physical death.

Rising, He summoned His disciples and followed after the sisters, moving slowly but steadily down the road. There would be food and wine and a place to lay their heads that night, then they would have to be up and gone again. If they delayed until the next day, word would reach the priests where He was and what He had done, and they would seek His life.

I could not understand this. The miracles He gave them were no oblique mysteries. A man had been dead, buried in his tomb, and now that man had risen and walked the Earth as if it had never happened.   Men and women, maimed and crippled, blind and dumb since their births, walked the land healed and whole. Prophecies were fulfilled with vivid clarity before everyone, and they saw nothing.

These things did not concern the priests at all.  They were unwilling to relinquish the old ways. I knew they would cast the world into a well of darkness, denying salvation to all, if it meant that they would not have to give up the false control that was already theirs. I was angered and saddened. What they didn't see was that their power was illusory, their goals vain and frivolous in the face of eternal life.

I wondered why. I wondered what it was in these people, these faithless, treacherous, selfish creatures that would draw the Christ to them. I wondered what had driven the All-Father to weave prophecy to save them, to send the Christ to walk the Earth and die in pain, all for the price of redeeming their sins.

They showed so little repentance. They were eager to compound their sins, desiring to dig their way into deeper depravities. They seemed bent on self-destruction, as long as there was the appearance of power to be gained and physical pleasure along the road.

Jesus and his apostles came to the home of Mary, Martha, and Lazarus, and Jesus stopped Judas before he could enter, pausing with him outside the door. Judas was the one among them who kept the purse, and it was for this reason that the Christ had chosen Him. Having had time now to contemplate this event, I see there was no other He could have sent.

"I need to be alone now, Judas," He said softly. "I am going to go into the desert again, to pray. I do not wish to be disturbed, for there is another I must see.

"I want you to go into the city. Get food for the others, but while you are there, I want you to find the woman, Mary of Magdalene, and bring her here to Me."

Judas' heart leaped in sudden fear, and he replied quickly, "But Lord, she has followed us on all our travels, and where she goes, evil follows. I fear that she is tormented by demons. Why must I bring her here?" His heart was full of fear, but not for Himself. He feared for the Christ, feared what I might do, what I might say. He did not understand the all-consuming essence of his master's love. His fear showed his love, but it showed also the weakness of his faith.

"It is true that she is not like you, Judas," the Christ said, choosing his words carefully, "and she is not a demon. She loves Me, even as do you, and it is enough. What you see as her evil is My own burden, and she suffers it for Me.

"Go quickly now, and do not tell the others. I must see her before this night is over. I do not want the others to worry."

Judas turned then, not trusting Himself to communicate what he felt in his heart. He did not question the Christ further. He still feared the outcome of such a meeting. Perhaps there was something in Him of the prophet.

He moved quickly, not even bothering to tell the others he was going. He did not want to disobey his master, did not want to show his lack of faith, but it was hard for Him. Fear is the most difficult of emotions to hide, and to be rid of, and his grew with every step, with every shifting shadow along the trail.

He moved as if he knew I followed, scanning the darkness about him and jumping at every sound. His muscles were tense, twitching this way and that as his eyes played tricks on him. I would have gone to him there, along the road, saving him a journey, but I was afraid that if I melted from the shadows with his mind in such a state, he would turn and flee.

I also did not want to slink out of the shadows like a dog to her master's call. I did not want this man, whom I respected, to know I had been standing near him through the entire day and evening. I wanted him to find me on my own terms.

This in mind, I went ahead and entered the village.  I blended in with those who were still awake, the few who moved about in the shadows without fear. A few passersby looked at me oddly, but nobody questioned me, and I found myself, at last, in a small garden that lay in the very heart of the city, the central square.

If Judas were to buy food along the way, he would have to come there. Every other shop in the city would be closed, and even here he would have to pray for the favor of those within closed doors.

I seated myself on a stone bench, directly in front of a well, and I waited. The moonlight brought a beautiful luminescence to the world, glistening on the surfaces of the stone buildings of the city and bringing the world to a life that existed only for one of my own singular awareness.

I had the promise of the miracle I had witnessed, one that only I could truly understand. It pulsed through me, brushing aside my doubts, silencing the arguments my guilt and the senses I'd been born to tried to force themselves back to the surface. My heart could have fled, to leave him to his task. My soul would have sacrificed itself in love of him.

My humanity, the selfish, inward-centered shell I now wore like a shroud would not listen. He had broken my defenses down, and he had entered within me, promising more than I could turn away. His earlier promises had been only strings of pretty words blended and bonded by His love and the conviction of His love. Though I'd believed that He would try to save me, I hadn't really believed He would be allowed the chance.

Now I knew it for truth. I had seen a curse the equal of my own shattered, seen a man walk away from where an undead demon had lain. I had seen a soul ripped from the very heavens, condemned and saved again in the span of a few mortal hours. I had seen the truth of His words. I had tasted, for only a second, but that like an eternity, the warmth of His blood. I had seen, and I believed.

Judas came from one of the shadowed streets into the garden, and he saw me immediately. He stopped and stood very still, staring at me.  The temptation of his wildly beating heart was strong. It called to me, singing to my hunger.

For just a fraction of a second, I thought I might yet escape and leave the Christ to His task. I thought I might take this man, this chosen of the Gods, and drink his blood, sending him to his reward early and casting myself even deeper into condemnation. I could run then, using the strength of Judas' blood to drive me on, and I could get so far from there, so far across the land and sea, that there would be no returning before the Christ was gone.

As he approached, my heart softened and weakened, and I knew I was beyond flight. I pushed those thoughts aside, not moving from my seat and trying to act as though I had not known he was coming. I did not want to frighten him.

Finally he began walking again, and as he drew near I saw the fear and courage battling in his eyes. He was a brave man, and his faith was stronger than any I'd come in contact with. He had much to learn, then, but he believed, and that is sufficient to overcome a world of ignorance.

"Hello, Judas," I said softly. "What are you doing so far from you Lord, and all alone? It is very late at night — has He no task for you?"

Judas squared his shoulders and stepped closer, though I saw that he was prepared to bolt at the first sign of danger. "He has sent me to you, Mary," he said at last, "though I know not why."

I felt the man in him reacting to me, the heat rushing to his cheeks as he caught himself staring a bit too long at my breasts. He brushed his eyes very quickly across my face, avoiding contact. He trembled, and I wanted very much to reach out t o him, to pull him close and to hold him. It was not to be.

"Do you fear me, Judas," I asked him.

"Mary, I do." he replied. He was so honest, so open and naive. I responded to this as well. This man believed with all his heart that he served the Son of God, and though there were flaws in that faith, though there were weaknesses in his heart, they were those of a man, and he could feel no less.

I was frightened by what was to come, too. I did not know what it would mean to be only a woman. I did not know what it would be to live within my own mind alone, to walk as this man walked, with only the promise and the faith to keep me sane. I wanted very much to be held. I longed for the ability to communicate this to him. All I could do was to try and lessen his fear, and to follow.

"If He calls, I will come," I said, rising with a sigh. The rustling of my clothes over my skin and the play of the muscles in my legs sent a jolt of excitement through him, and I sensed his need. It was his choice, and I left him to it.

"I will come," I continued, "but I tell you, Judas, for my sake, He risks everything, and I am saddened. Whatever you have seen, whatever you may believe, I too love Him."

"Then I beg you, Mary," Judas cried out, spinning to brave the depths of my eyes and using my name for the first time, "do not come. I have come for you, as I promised, but if you will not come, I cannot force you.

"Stay away from Him. I fear for Him, if you do not, and I fear for you."

As he gazed into my eyes, the misery flooded forth. The hunger beat at my thoughts, threatening to overcome my senses, and the loneliness of centuries weighed down upon me. I knew he saw this, that it was all battering at his mind, that it would be more than he could understand, more than he could possibly comprehend, but I could not hold it back.

What he asked was what my heart yearned for, but it was beyond me. It was denied me as surely as the heavens had been denied me, and he was asking me to give up the one chance that it might all work out, that it might be okay. He asked too much, and I saw the resignation flood his features as he realized I would not do as he asked.

"I am sorry," I said, but he was not listening. He was already turned and walking back toward the road out of the city. I wanted him to understand. I wanted to stop him, to spin him and grasp him with the power of my eyes and make him see what it was he asked, why I was helpless to comply. I did not.

From the desert, I felt the Christ calling to me, and I followed that call, walking in Judas' moon-shadow. I walked, and I hungered, and if I could have done so, I would have wept.

He was calling me home.

CHAPTER SEVEN

I did not hurry along the path to the Christ's side. Judas, who walked ahead of me, was even more reluctant than I. I did my best to keep my thoughts closed. I concentrated on Judas' mind, sent my thoughts questing through the nearby homes of those living on the outskirts of the city. I skimmed the hearts of the other disciples. I did not want the Christ to take control too soon. His call was too powerful to be denied, but I wanted the decision to come to Him to be as much my own as possible.

Judas' mind was a maelstrom of half-formed protests, fears, and desires. He feared me, and yet, he did not wish it so. It was infuriating. Though I would not burden him with knowledge he should not have, still I did not want his hatred. I knew no way I could communicate this to him, so I chose silence. He knew his Lord held no fear of me, that He, in fact, desired my company. Judas wanted to understand, but he would not ask me.

I had no intention of visiting the house of Lazarus that night, and I believe that Judas knew this. He may not have been aware that I was the direct cause of Lazarus' illness and death, but he suspected it. He had come to accept that where I showed my face, darkness was my companion.

He had heard Mary's stories of demons, had heard her description of my eyes, which he'd looked upon himself, and I suppose that he thought that she might recognize me, or that Lazarus himself might cry out if I were to approach. He took a less direct route back, slipping through the shadows beside the road and onto the open sands of the desert.

I used the time to familiarize myself with his mind. If I were to be their companion now, I would have to understand them better than I did.

I also knew this might be my last chance to truly understand this man, and I wanted to understand him before we faced the days to come. I wanted to know, while it was within my power to search his heart and mind, that he was one that I could trust. Without the special abilities of my mind, I would have to rely on what he told me, or what I could learn from his gestures, his attitudes — with the others, I would not get even this chance.

So I searched his heart as we went, discerned his fears, his dreams. He was a good man, strong and growing daily in his wisdom and faith. The light of the Christ was bright within him, bright and shining against the backdrop of his humanity. He did not believe himself favored among the apostles, and of all of them, he was the one who sought this least. I found myself liking him.

He did not speak as we walked, though a thousand questions roiled about in the chaos of his mind. He wanted to know who I was, where I came from. He wanted to know about the odd light he'd seen in my eyes and why, of all the women of the world, his master continually spent time on me. He wanted answers, and I would willingly have given them, but he did not ask. I didn't want to frighten him further by showing my ability to drag his thoughts from his mind.

Jesus' heart throbbed across the empty miles. I felt His breath, the rise and fall of His chest. The energy flowed in and out of Him, traveling on its gossamer thread to the heavens and back once more, renewing Him. He prayed, gathering strength to replace the energy He had given to Lazarus, gathering strength for what He planned to give to me. It was a thrilling sensation, intimate and intense, and yet I yearned to be free of it.

I wanted to tear away and run. I wanted to relieve Him of the weight on His heart, to let Him go about His destiny unhindered, but I could not. The only way to return Him to His path was to accede to His wishes, though they might bring about the destruction of us all. The Christ was very beautiful, but He was also stubborn, and it frustrated and angered me that I did not have the strength to resist Him. He offered too much, and He did not leave me to my own decision.

As we neared the place where He sat, alone and praying, Judas turned and stopped. He looked at me, and he searched my eyes, though I knew he feared to meet them. I allowed it, opening myself as fully to Him as I could. He seemed to find some part of what he sought, because he smiled grimly then, pointing into the shadows.

"He is there, Mary," he said.  "I do not know what there is between you, but I sense that you wish Him no harm, and that is enough for me.

"He says that you suffer. If this is true, and He can offer you peace, I pray that it will be so. For any who walk in His light, I will offer my love."

"Thank you," I said, placing my hands on his shoulders gently. He flinched slightly at the touch, but he did not back away. "You are a good man, Judas Iscariot, and your faith is strong. He is greater than any of us can imagine. In the face of chaos, He is our anchor. There is no reason for fear."

"Lady, He has taught us that without fear, there would be no peace — without darkness no light. I will believe, but I cannot promise that I will not fear."

Then he pulled away, turned, and took the bag of food he carried off through the shadows to where the others awaited him. He did not trust me, still, but he was easier in his heart.

I stood only a few yards from where the Christ sat, His legs crossed and His eyes closed. The energy flowed in and around Him, and the summons wound its way through my defenses and into my heart. I wished He would let me come to Him freely, of my own will, though I wasn't certain if I would have, given the choice. I wished for the strength to save Him from Himself.

Beneath me, in the lower regions, I sensed a tension — a gleeful, maniacal anticipation of what was to come, and I trembled. I knew that Jesus shared that sensation. I knew that He was aware of the dangers, of the pitfalls — the traps lain for Him by my old master and His enemy.

I was torn between joy at His confidence and surety and my own fear, which was born of understanding. I had spent a great part of my existence with Lucifer, had basked in his light in the heavens and trailed after him in his fall. I was not as certain as the Christ of the dark angel's defeat. Banished he might be, but banished and defeated are not necessarily one and the same.

Jesus lifted His head then, and His eyes caught mine. I took a step forward, then another, moving into the open, where the moonlight played over me, rather than the shadows. He smiled. In that smile I saw His love, saw that He was genuinely pleased that I had answered His call.

"I have come." I said simply, stopping a few feet from Him and waiting, unable to stop trembling.

"It is good." He replied. He rose slowly, easily, showing no signs of the fatigue that He had borne in secret suffering earlier. I was confused, still fighting a losing battle within myself for the strength to flee, to break away and flash across the sand, to throw myself from some high cliff in the face of the noon-day sun and hope it would be enough to end my existence on this plane, returning me to my damnation and Him to His destiny.

He saw all this, but He did not release me. His will was strong, stronger in that moment than I had ever felt it, and He would not be denied.

"The time is upon us, Mary, when I must begin to bear your burden for you. Your curse is Mine. Through you, I must defeat it. Come to Me."

I barely held my ground, begged Him with my eyes to think, to release me before it was too late. Already the hunger grew, rushed through my veins and fired my nerves.

"You cannot," I gasped, shaking my head back and forth, trying to burst the bonds that grasped me so firmly, so lovingly, so completely. "You do not know what might happen, what might be the cost. It is too much — too much guilt for me to bear if You are wrong."

"I was sent for one purpose, Mary," He said, moving slowly toward me, "and this body I wear was created for that purpose. It is written that a man shall know in his heart when a thing is right, or wrong. I walk as a man, and My heart sends Me to you.

"Whether it is the will of My father, or your former Lord, I must do what My heart directs. It is My nature, and it is My destiny. It is your destiny as well, Mary of My heart."

As He spoke He continued to move closer, and though I could hold myself from rushing toward Him, barely, I could not bring myself to move away. He closed the gap between us, and His control over me increased with every step. My will drained out of me into the desert at my feet, deserting me when I needed it most.

"Wait," I gasped, knowing I could not stop the inevitable at that point, "there is more. I... I have promised to speak with you of Lilith..."

He stopped, but He did not release me. "Lilith is a child of the Earth," He said, confusion masking His features for just a second. "What does she seek from Me? Though I walk the Earth, it is not My kingdom."

"She seeks, as I seek, to return to her Maker," I said, trying to keep my voice firm. The hunger ate at my sanity, at my ability to trace the trail from one thought to the next. "She is of the Earth, and the All-Father created the Earth. She did not ask to be ripped from that creation, but she asks to be returned to it.

There is one in the heavens that she loves, and she would go to Him. It is true that Lucifer formed her, but he formed her of that which was already here, of the beauty that is the All-Father's own."

He reached within me, and I thrilled to that touch. He saw the visions as I had seen them, through the eyes of the true first woman of Earth, saw the creation He had been a part of from a different perspective. It was almost as intimate, almost as overpowering this second time through as it had been as I shared with Lilith herself.

His heart went out to my dark sister in those moments, to Lilith, to Cain and his descendants, and I thought for a moment that He would release me in His shock, in His sudden sorrow. I saw then that there were secrets, even between Father and Son. There were barriers even the Christ had not broken through.

"I will do what I can do," He said, drawing His mind back to the present, "but first I will take your burden from you. Come to me, Mary. The others will not wait for long, and there is much to do while I am on the Earth."

He moved the last few steps forward then, cupping my face in His hands, and I was lost. I stared into the wonders that were His eyes, and I was drawn within Him, comforted and controlled at the same time. He drew me close, held me against the strength of His chest and let me feel the beating of His heart through the thin veil of skin and bones so that I could bask within the warmth of His essence.

I was lost in that touch, that incredibly wholesome embrace, and I wanted it to last forever. I pressed against Him, and His strong arms circled me, drawing me near and protecting me, only me, and I wanted them for my own. I wanted to feel His lips on mine, to share His flesh, but it was not allowed.

He leaned His head to one side then, as He had done for Lazarus, and He placed my lips against His throat. I tried to divert them to His lips, but He was firm, and I felt the hot flow of blood too strongly. I tasted the first bite of salt upon my tongue, felt the silken smoothness of His skin, and it was over. I fell on Him, wrapped my arms and my legs so tightly about His body that He nearly fell to the ground in surprise. My surrender was so total, so complete, that for that instant in time, I was the hunger. Mary did not exist; the world did not exist.

His blood flowed, strong and rich, cleansing and powerful, nearly causing me to faint, the ecstasy too much for my senses to comprehend. He lurched in pain, but He remained upright, holding my weight in His arms and closing His eyes against the agony as our souls meshed.

His essence filled me, changing me, and a bit of what had been mine, slipped away forever to imbed itself within His soul. I did not grasp at it, but wished it Godspeed, taking of His essence in return. I drew forth more and more of Him, until it seemed that He must be dry, that He must fall and die on the desert's floor, and still He stood, bearing both our weights, bearing my burden and that of the world.

Visions came to me, prophecies, knowledge of things that had long since crumbled to dust, all of them part of a grand design, a single whole. I saw His love from the inside out, felt the weight of the world upon His shoulders and the joy with which He bore it. I saw the salvation, as He knew it, a thing already complete, and a path being walked from present to present. It was spellbinding and incredible, and I fed on it greedily.

Then, as suddenly as it had come upon me that first moment in the desert, when our hands had been separated by an unholy wall of flames and our eyes had locked, and blended, across time and prophecy, the hunger was gone. I did not pull away from Him, not wanting to break the intimacy of the contact, but I did not remove more blood. His skin was punctured, ravaged and roughened where I'd fed.

As best I could, I used my tongue to staunch the flow, holding it in place as He drew upon His strength and healed the wound, pulling me away gently. He trembled, but He did not stagger, and His smile was firm and strong. Once again I had underestimated Him.

He placed me on the ground facing Him, and I looked down at my body in wonder, seeking within as well as without for the Mary that had been, and was no longer.

I was warm. My heart pumped soundly within my breast, and my breath moved in and out of me with unfamiliar clarity. The wind that caressed my cheeks was cool, and the warmth of the day's heat seeped up from where the desert had trapped it to warm my feet.

My senses were not what they had been, though I was still far from a human woman in that respect. I could still read beyond His eyes, but I could no longer hear the thoughts of the disciples. I was human.

A wisp of thought flashed through the edges of my mind, and I whipped my eyes free, turning to the shadows and searching them quickly.  Someone had been there — I stretched, just catching an image. Judas. Judas had come back, and he had seen, and now he was running away from us to where the others waited.

I wanted to call out to him, to calm him and tell him that everything was fine, that there was nothing to fear, but it was beyond me. Instead, I turned back to the Christ, and I pulled Him close. He did not resist me, wrapping me in His arms and pressing Himself firmly into the contours of my flesh.

The need that filled me then was not the hunger I'd known. It did not remove my ability to think, but it was powerful. I wanted to hold Him longer, to pull Him to the sand and to caress Him, to know Him more fully even than I had Lilith, but it was not for me . . . not though I yearned for it with every ounce of my soul. He wanted it, as well, in the part of Him that was a man, but the Christ was not mortal in every sense — His strength of will was limitless.

We both knew what would happen when Judas reached the others, and we both knew I could not be there when they returned. I could catch up with them later, could blend into those who followed His footsteps across the Earth, but I could not be with Him now. Judas would understand, but it would take time, time that we did not have at that moment.

"You must go," He whispered, pulling back reluctantly. I felt a flutter within me. It was the knowledge that He too wanted to remain close to me, filling me with things I could not explain, things I had no defense against. His love was directed at me, and me alone, just for that instant. This was my first true taste of the needs of a mortal woman — my first mirror glimpse of the same in a man.

I pulled away and dropped to my knees. His blood still covered my features, though it had dried and disappeared from His skin and the wound from where I'd bitten His throat had healed. I wiped myself as clean as I could on the hem of my robes, making the stains as inconspicuous as possible, and I looked up at Him a final time, embedding His image in my mind.

He stood, tall and splendid, the light of what He was shining forth from His eyes and washing over me. He was bigger than life, more powerful than I had imagined. I wanted to fall at His feet, but I could not. All I could do was to turn, and to run, and to disappear back into the shadows that would no longer be my home. I needed a place to stay, and I needed food, before the morning came.

Real hunger had come to me by then, and a thirst for other drink than blood, and for solid food. I knew I would have to obtain them soon. There was so much to learn and so little time to learn it.

There was a sound in the distance, shouting, and I knew that our time was at an end for the moment. I had had my moment in His light, but now the apostles were approaching, and I had to leave Him. It would have to be enough — it would have to see me through.

There was the bang and clash of weapons, and it gave strength to my legs as I took off across the sand, not looking back.

I didn't go far. I wanted to see what would happen, how they would react to His answers when they questioned Him, and I wanted to hear what those answers would be.

I realized with sudden clarity that I could be cut off from Him now. I could lose the whole group of them if I wasn't careful, and never find them again until it was too late and He was gone from the Earth. I nearly stopped in my tracks at the sudden fear that this brought, driving like an icicle through the center of my heart.

I was vulnerable in ways I'd never experienced before. I remembered only too well the chilly touch of death, and I was not eager to renew that acquaintance. The changes were overwhelming, and I had no time in which to accustom myself to them. He had said that there was much to do, and too little time for it.

They burst into the clearing, and I got fuzzy indications then of their thoughts, of their emotions. Judas and Peter led the way, the former's mind a whirling mist of guilt over disobeying the Christ, and fear over not having done so sooner.

Peter's mind was alight with righteous anger. He was always the first to act, to cast aside caution. He was ready to defend his master; ready to do battle with demons, and the sight of him that way both excited and angered me.

He was uncontrolled. He was looking for a chance to outshine the others, to be the instrument by which his Lord was delivered from evil and saved from the darkness. His first thought was of himself and his own gain, not that of his Lord or salvation. He would not have admitted this, even to himself.

Judas was guilty only of too much fear. He knew he should not have said anything. He had come back to the clearing, wanting to be certain his Lord was safe, and he had hidden in the shadows as Jesus had come to me, grabbing me and laying my lips against His throat.

He had been there when I began to feed, when the blood had flowed and the Christ had staggered back, and it had been all he could do not to leap into the clearing then, screaming and clawing at my back in his revulsion. He had thought his master was beset by a demon, and he had acted. How could he not?

He had run back to where the others waited, and he'd burst among them, searching frantically for his weapons. He had not said anything, even then. He would have acted on his own, but his plan had failed.

Seeing his agitation, Peter had cried out to him, asking where their master was and what was wrong, and in his fear, he had answered.

"He is in the desert, and He is beset by a demon."

And so they had come. When they burst into the clearing, Jesus sat as He had when I found Him, His legs crossed and His eyes closed, communing calmly with the heavens. There was no sign that I had ever been there, no evidence of a struggle, or of any injury.

Again, as He prayed, He was taking strength from above, but I sensed that it trickled down now, not pouring out in the flow that it had been. He did not get the chance, the time to make the contact full. His prayers were only half formed, and the effect was much weaker.

The apostles came to Him, kneeling in the sand beside Him in wonder. Judas was sick in his heart, and I wanted to go to him, to hold him and tell him that it was all right. He blamed himself for the intrusion, and he saw then that his fears were ungrounded, that he had been faithless.

"Master," Peter gasped, out of breath from running, "Judas came to us, and he said that You were beset by a demon. Where is this demon, that we might drive it out?"

Jesus looked at them, a great weariness in His eyes, and He said, "There is no demon here. I am weary, though, and it is good that you have come. Help Me to the camp, for I must rest before the morning. We must be gone from here before the priests question us."

They all exchanged glances, and Peter reached out a hand, helping his Lord to stand. They were unconvinced, having seen the terror in Judas' eyes, but they did not question Jesus further. They were very worried about Him, for they had never seen Him so weary, or so drained. He was nearly asleep on His feet, and His steps were uneven and weak. I worried about Him as well, for I knew that the energy He had spent on me had been meant for other things. Twice in one day He'd used what was His own to take upon Himself the burden of another. It was His own essence that carried Him now, His own strength of will. That which had been His right was now mine.

I stood for a while longer, after they had left, marveling at the new softness and warmth of my skin, taking in the sights and sounds of the desert through my heightened sense of the living world. Where my inner vision now failed, my other senses filled in. It was a revelation, an awakening like none other.

Not all of these sensations were pleasant. I was weary, and I knew that I must find a place to sleep quickly. I would have to follow them now, on foot and by the strength of my limbs, and I dared not let them out of my sight. I still did not know what would happen in the last days, but I knew they would come soon. My mind would never rest until I had witnessed them and learned my fate.

I slipped off toward the home of Martha and Mary, secreting myself in the barn and resting my head on a bale of straw. The animals sensed my presence, but they did not shy away. In their company, and for the first time breathing under the moon and sky as a human, I slept soundly. Even the depths of hell did not disturb my dreams.

Judas 20

"I have come as a light into the world that whosoever believeth in me shall not have to dwell in the darkness.

And if any creature of the Earth hear my words and believe them not, I shall not judge him. I have come to save the world, not to judge it."

I followed them for days, fighting the new feelings of weariness and hunger, finding food where I could and begging shelter when it was possible. I remained with the multitudes at first, not having the courage to make myself known to the apostles, though even with my lesser senses I knew that the Christ would have me near His side. It was fated. I was to follow His steps until the end.

When Lazarus was raised, it was nearly the time of the Passover. About a week remained before the celebration when we returned to Bethany. I feared, at first, that I would be recognized, but in the shadows created by the light of Jesus' presence, nobody paid me any mind. Without the otherworldly glimmer of my curse hanging about me, or the empty, hollow pits that had been my eyes to draw attention, I was easily hidden.

I stayed as close to them as I possibly could, catching sight of the Christ when it was possible and listening to every word that came forth from His lips. Many listened to Him, but among them, few but I heard what He said, or knew it for the truth.

He spoke constantly of defeating death, and that promise was mine as well. He spoke to the world, and I was of that world — human as He was human — going home. My joy knew no bounds in those short days, and my steps were light, despite the taxing pace He set as He moved from city to city, temple to temple, avoiding the priests and spreading His word. I was far too excited to worry.

With the approach of the Passover, and the lessening of their own power due to His presence, the Pharisees had redoubled their efforts to locate the Christ, offering rewards and threatening any who knew of His whereabouts, and yet would not speak. I avoided them. The responsibility was a heavy one, and I preferred to remain close at His side and share it with all who followed Him.

The danger to His life was becoming almost equal throughout the land, and the Christ had at last given up all pretenses of hiding Himself away. He was with His people, and the time that He could be with them was limited, lessening every day. He went among them, preaching and teaching, healing and spreading His promise.

When He came to the house of Lazarus for supper, I found myself seated not three places from His side. Martha, who had never seen me before, had been watching me, it seemed. She had heard me speaking to others, heard my faith in my words, and she had invited me in to her home to dine. I wondered briefly if she would have been so gracious, had she known the entire story.

I was not noticed among them, except that I was included in the talk at the table and the meal itself, which was very welcome at that point. I still had not become accustomed to the new rigors and ministrations my body required of me, and I had not eaten in over a day when she asked me in. The food was very good, and I was grateful.

It was strange for me to be among people, particularly these people, whose lives I'd touched so recently, and with such darkness. I saw Mary, and Lazarus, and they nodded to me without recognition. It was as if the darkness I had been, the cursed being that had brought death to their house had ceased to be. That Mary was gone. She was dead, and I was just a woman, come to worship their Lord and to eat at their table. It was a very warm feeling.

I was aware, though, of the differences among them, and that the rebirth of Lazarus had done much to bring those changes about. Everywhere the Christ went He was revered, worshipped and followed, but here the belief was very strong. These people had seen the very abyss of death, seen it turned aside as if it were nothing, and one among them had braved that chasm of death and made his way back. I made two.

The feast progressed, and near the end, Mary rose, taking a parcel from behind her and making her way to the head of the table. I watched, as did everyone in the room, as she knelt at Jesus' feet, slowly un-wrapping her package. It contained a full pound of an ointment that I heard whispered was called Spikenard. It was very valuable, difficult to come by, especially in such a quantity, and they all waited to see what she planned to do with it. It seemed obvious to me, but I had not always been human.

She took the ointment in her hands, never once raising her eyes from the floor, and she began, slowly and very gently, to rub it into the Christ's feet.  She worked meticulously, allowing nothing to disturb her concentration, and when she had anointed His feet, she began to wipe them clean again, rubbing the scented oil into His skin with her own hair.

As she worked, others at the table whispered among themselves. They did not understand, preferring to find fault, rather than to accept what was happening before their eyes. Mary knew what she did — she paid homage to that which was beyond her, to Him who would set her soul free, who had returned her brother from death. I sensed a great peace within her, a light beyond that of all the others present save the disciples alone.

Judas, questioning softly, asked Jesus, "Should not this ointment have been sold at the market, Lord, and the money gone to feed the poor? It is a very valuable thing."

"Leave her alone," Jesus commanded, and the light blazed forth from Him in that instant. The Son of God emerged. I wanted to leave my own seat and go to Him, to throw myself at His feet at the wonder of it all, of what He was and what He promised. I felt that urge within them all.

"You will bear the weight of the poor through all the years," He continued, "but Me you have for only a short time. Mary has kept this against the day of My death, which is drawing near."

Those who were there wondered at His words, and I could sense their confusion, their desire for a belief that they could not quite come to terms with. Many of them had not come to see Jesus alone, but had come also to see Lazarus, whom Jesus had raised from the dead.

What they did not see was that Jesus' gift was a personal one. He would not carry them to heaven; the burden was their own. What He taught them was the way to achieve this on their own, through their faith and their love. What they saw was a king, leading them as kings always led, and all they knew was to follow. He would have made them all kings, if they had listened.

The priests sought the Christ throughout the area, and we were forced to leave earlier than anyone would have desired. They knew Jesus was in the city, probably suspected where He was that evening, but they still plotted and lurked about the streets and the temples, trying to find a way to take Him and retain their power. Their fear gave us a little time to prepare.

They knew of the miracle of Lazarus' return from the dead, and if they could have found an excuse to do so, they would have put Him to death for it. They had no such miracles to show, so their reaction was to destroy what Jesus had wrought.

I slipped out of the house before the others, moving quickly to gather the things together that I had begun to accumulate to sustain me in my human form. I did not have much, for I had no family or occupation at which I was trained or experienced. I could have gone among them as an oracle, or a healer, I suppose, even as a prophet, but I would have risked losing the Christ and the disciples. There would be time enough, I knew, to pursue my own life once the prophecies were fulfilled.

As I walked alone in the shadowy evening, there was a tug at my senses, stronger than that of any man or woman I had met, and more familiar. It pulled at my heart, at the silver glow that was my essence. Before I stole off into the desert, I knew whom it was that called, and I both longed for and dreaded that call, because I had no answer.

It was Lilith, and when I was beyond sight of the home of Lazarus and his sisters, where they still sat and listened as the Christ spoke, she came to me.

As before, the shadows whirled, the desert hummed with energy. My human eyes and senses were blinded, and it was a long moment after it had all died away that I was able to blink and focus on her slender form, staring at me across the sand.

"You have changed, little sister," she said, and her eyes were filled with wonder, and with questions. "You are more like me, now, though most of what you are is denied to you. How can you stand it?"

"It is for but a short time, the span of a human life," I answered, "and the promise at the end would be worth a thousand such lifetimes. Don't you sense it?"

She moved closer, and reached out to my mind. I opened myself instantly, welcoming the touch of her essence, then of her hands as she rested them lightly on my shoulders. I showed her the days and hours since we'd parted, shared with her the promise and the gift I'd received. I shared also His words, that all who were of the Earth, and the Earth itself, was what He had been sent to save.

"I told Him of your love," I whispered; though I knew she'd already read it from my mind. "I shared everything. If He can, He will help. Do you believe that?"

"After so many years, little sister Mary, I do not believe anything. I believe in the shadows, and I believe in eternity. I believe in the power of Lucifer, because he brought me forth from the Earth, and I believe in the Heavens because you have shown them to me.

"Now I have one more thing to believe. You will leave me, too. All we have shared, all we have known, leads to this. When your short span here is over, you will go to His call. You will go, and if I cannot follow, you will go anyway. There is no way that you could refuse."

My heart caught in my throat, and I wrapped my arms about her. A thousand denials burst forth into my mind, but none of them made it to my lips.

"It does not lessen my love," I told her, letting the beats of our hearts pound together as one, holding her very, very close so that the wisps of her hair trailed down over my cheeks and I could smell the sweet scent of her breath as it washed over me.

My mind was open to her, and she knew the words I spoke were true, yet still she was hurt.  So much pain, so many betrayals over so many lifetimes.  She was caught in the grip of a sorrow beyond my comprehension, a loneliness I could neither assuage with words or the few hours of companionship I had left to share.    She loved me, as well, but her knowledge of that love was warped now, blending with the memories she held of Adam, and of her own people. She loved, and so she was denied.

I wanted to cry out that it was not set in stone, that she might yet come with me, walk the road I trod and return to all the loves she held within her heart, but she did not listen. Her mind was clouded, her heart already digging itself new trenches against the pain, against the weight of the years to come, years to be faced alone.

I wept then. It was the first time since my return to humanity that I had let the tears flow, and they poured from me, wracking me with sobs and wetting her skin, the trailing ends of her hair, soaking into her as I pulled her even more tightly into my embrace.

The unfairness of it shook me to my core and the pain was nearly impossible to bear.  She was the one being on the Earth, other than the Christ, who had welcomed me. She was the one bit of human flesh I might call, however remotely, my family. I would not have hurt her for anything, for any price, and yet I knew that I would go to my reward now — that I had already made the choice that would bring her pain, and was beyond redeeming it. I was helpless to prevent it.

We stood there, lost in one another's thoughts and washed by my tears, which she freely shared, blending in her own, and neither of us noticed His approach. I do not know how He managed to extricate Himself from the dinner, or how He slipped into the desert alone, but He was there — the Christ — His hands softly resting on my shoulders from behind, and when He spoke, we both listened in shocked silence.

"I see that all the light of beauty had not departed Lucifer before the fall," He said softly, looking directly into Lilith's eyes, seeing her for the first time.  "He has graced the Earth with a portion all its own."

She smiled at Him wistfully, drawn to the power of His eyes, seduced by the light that shone there. I could see the wonder on her face, the disbelief.  I knew He was letting her within Him, and that He was sharing His own light with her, and I rejoiced in it. My promise had been granted; I prayed that hers would follow.

"I have watched You upon the Earth," she murmured, drawing nearer to Him, "and yet it seems that I have seen nothing. I have listened to Mary, seen the joy You have brought her and Your light reflected in her heart, and still I was blind.

"Whatever You will have of me," she said, kneeling there in the sand, "I will grant. I would not worship Adam, for he was a man, my partner," she couldn't help the bitterness that tainted her voice as she spoke that word, but she went on without hesitation, "but I will worship a God, and truly You are both man, and God."

"I have come to bring the light of salvation to the Earth," He said, placing His hands on her shoulders, then taking her hands in His own and helping her to rise. "You are of the Earth, more so than any other being, and you have a place in My father's house.

"Your time is longer here than Mary's, though," He said, "and I am saddened that you must wait in solitude. I will depart, but I will walk this Earth again, and when I do, you will walk with those who share My path."

Her tears had continued throughout this, and her eyes had never left His. Her shoulders shook, her body trembling as if caught in a cold wind. My heart went out to her and my prayers and thanks to the Christ at the same time.

A bond grew in that moment between the three of us, a glow that emanated through the desert and into the heavens. The child of God, a lost child of Heaven, and the first of the mothers of the Earth stood as one, drenched in moonlight and bound by the light of the All-Father. It was a magical instant. It would be a memory beyond price, and it was over all too soon.

"I must get back," He told us both, "and you must follow quickly, Mary. We leave within the hour, for the priests have traced Me here, and they would put Me and Lazarus to death. They will not harm him if I am gone, so we must leave."

"I will watch over you," Lilith said softly, and I knew she was talking to me. The Christ walked silently away, leaving us alone in the moonlight, and I grabbed her again, embracing her tightly and burying my face in her breast.

"I will watch over you always, little sister. I should not have doubted." She breathed the words into my ear softly, caressing me.

"Faith is His burden," I agreed. "Even for one such as I, one who has walked through the promised glory and lost it, the temptation toward doubt is there. Faith is tenuous — it is not a strong bridge to eternity."

"And yet I will cross that bridge," she breathed, her eyes staring off into the sand where Jesus had disappeared. "We will both cross it, little sister."

She started then, and I felt a dark, chilling sensation that began at my toes and rippled through my being — a sense of wrongness. I looked anxiously into her eyes, but she evaded me.

She was listening to something, some inner voice that called to her.

My senses could no longer detect such things, but I knew in my heart who she heard, knew the mocking laughter that penetrated her mind and her essence.

"Do not listen, sister," I cried, shaking her and trying to bring her back.  "He is the greatest of liars; he lied about my salvation, and he will lie about yours. His world is one of hollow bitterness — he has not the power to overcome faith."

She shook her head, and her eyes cleared again, but they were less certain, less sincere. Something tugged at her still, something deep and dark and ancient, and I cried again. There was nothing I could do to help.

"Fight him," I told her fiercely. "Remember the promise that has been made, and remember it when you see me accept my reward. He does not lie. It is not within His nature. He saves."

She nodded, giving me a last quick hug, and nodding toward the home in the distance, and the Christ.  "You must go now," she told me quickly.  "Do not fear for me, little sister. I have dealt with the chill of Lucifer’s heart and the heat of his laughter for many years now — a bit longer will not kill me."

Some of the emptiness had returned to her voice, but there was nothing to be done. The way I must follow was already cast, and I dared not delay my departure for that path. I had only earthly legs with which to follow, and not being local, I would be the first the priests singled out if they came and the Christ was gone. I had to leave her.

"Remember me," I said, gripping her hands a last time in my own and letting the love pour from me in waves.  "Remember Him, and His promise. We will meet again."

"That I do not doubt," she smiled, and then she was gone. The sands swirled and the shadows shifted about oddly, but there was no other sign of her departure. Her absence left a void within me, a hollow space that I knew no number of days or years could fill. A part of me was hers. I was a puzzle formed of many lives and many loves.

I made my way back through the shadows, and I found the disciples and the others of the house preparing food and packing belongings quickly for the road. I joined them, my bag over my shoulder, and it was Judas who first noticed me. He was looking at me oddly, glanced self-consciously down at my clothing, at my limbs and the ground beneath my feet, wondering what it was he saw.

Walking quickly over to me, he said, "Mary? Is it possible? Is this you?" I had not realized how much Jesus' gift had changed me. I had assumed my appearance to be much the same as it had been before, though a bit less luminous and pale. The shock in his eyes showed me that I was wrong. I blushed, embarrassed by his scrutiny. It wasn't unpleasant, just unexpected.

"Yes, Judas," I answered, lowering my eyes from his, "it is I. Am I so changed? Is there something wrong, something displeasing?"

He smiled at me, and he shook his head, placing his hand gently on my arm.  "No, there is nothing displeasing, Mary, only very, very different. You look," his eyes grew confused and he concentrated, then continued, "more human -- brighter somehow. There is a light within you, much as there is within our Lord Himself. Before there was — shadow."

Other than Lilith, before my change, none had ever praised me. It was the first time any had noticed me in any positive way, and I felt myself near to tears for the second time in one night.

Mistaking my expression for one of anger, or pain, he moved even closer and cupped my chin, raising my eyes to meet his own.  "Will you be coming with us, Mary?" he asked, and I nodded, returning his gaze openly and with love.

"I will follow wherever He leads," I answered. "It is my path, as well as His now. I must see it through to the end. He has lifted my curse, and He bears my burden, and I will not leave His side while He is on this earth."

If he was surprised by the intensity behind my words, he did not show it. He only nodded, motioning to where Martha and Mary were busy packing a bag with leftover food from the supper.  "You must go and get provisions, then. Tell Martha I have sent you, and she will give you food. Our journey will last several days, and it will not be an easy one."

I moved quickly to do as he'd asked. I smiled as I went. He had spoken to me as if I were an equal, though I was no part of the disciples, and I appreciated that as well. Not for the first time, I found myself thinking that he was the best of the lot.

Martha gave me a small bag of food without question, and I thanked her, bowing low. She smiled at me, asking my name, and I gave it.

"Mary," she repeated, "just as my sister, and the mother of Him whom we serve. Go in love, Mary, and do what you can for Him. He has given us more than a lifetime could repay."

"His gifts are for us all," I told her, taking her hands and feeling the love that shone forth from her.  "He asks only that you spread His words, and His love. To you He returned a brother, to the world He gave a sign."

She looked at me strangely, and I could not tell if it was because she did not know me, and I spoke as one with authority, or if she saw something within me that I was not aware of. Her grip tightened for an instant, and her eyes shone.  She did not say any more, and I turned, packing the food away with my other few possessions and going to wait outside with the others.

Jesus said His farewells, and we turned out hearts and our minds toward Jerusalem. The Passover was almost upon us, and the steps of His journey grew shorter and fewer. I don't think any among the disciples truly believed this, but I knew it as truth, and my heart fluttered and banged about within me, clenched tight with tension and fear.

With the road ahead lit by the brightness of the nearly full moon, we departed, leaving behind Lazarus and his sisters, Lilith and her desert, and the last lingering memories of my curse. Already I was as one of them, a woman in love with life and her Lord, a lost sheep of Heaven on the journey home. It was a glorious moment, a glorious night, and as all such moments in His presence did, it ended all to soon.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Proverbs 6:27

Can a man take fire in his bosom and his clothes not be burned?

While the days and nights of my curse had seemed bleak, the days after that curse was lifted sped by in a haze. There was no time for rest; no time to contemplate all that had changed within me. We moved all the while toward Jerusalem, toward danger and death and prophecy.

The air about us buzzed with energy, a singularity of purpose that was breathtaking. All knew that great events were burgeoning, though none among them, I know, truly expected Him to leave us. It was too soon, they thought. He would leave, but not until they were ready. They listened neither to His words nor those of the prophets who came before Him. Their responsibility loomed heavy and ominous — too serious to contemplate in any real way.

I did what I could to clear their minds of these notions, but I did not want to be looked upon as a doomsayer. I quoted to them the words of their prophets. I spent a great deal of time on the road studying those words, listening to what the Christ said, and memorizing it all. It was a hectic time, but a happy one.

As we neared the holy city, the disciples wondered and muttered among themselves about the most suitable place to celebrate the Passover meal. The priests and Pharisees sought the Christ constantly; His life was in danger at every moment. Nowhere was truly safe, and there was no crowd, no gathering that did not hold in its depths a traitorous heart.

None of it mattered, in the end, as Jesus had known it would not. He continued on His journey, sharing as much of Himself as each day would allow, teaching and answering questions more openly than ever before. He did not walk as one condemned to death, nor did our party behave as if in mourning. It was as it had always been, just closer — more intense. People flocked to us like moths to a lantern, drawn by the light and the love, drawn by the Christ.

Before we reached the city, Jesus took aside two of the disciples and directed them to enter Jerusalem ahead of the rest of us. He had heard them discussing the place where they would celebrate the Passover, and this was something He already knew — another of the sets of steps carved for Him upon the earth. Another prophecy fulfilled.

"Go into the city," He told them.  "There you will be met by a man who will be waiting for you. He will be carrying a pitcher of water.

"Follow this man wherever he goes, and he will lead you to a large house. Inside you will find an upper room, large enough for our needs, and decorated and prepared for the Passover. It is there that we will go to celebrate."

They looked at Him oddly; still unable to take His prophetic announcements at face value, but to their credit they went as He directed them. I did not doubt that they would meet the man, or that the place would be just as He had said that it would. I did not doubt anything, anymore.

We followed the two into the city eventually, and the room was just as we had been told. I cast my limited senses about the crowds, searching for the agents of the priests, or any who might prove a danger to the Christ, or to any of us who followed, but I found nothing. I detected small wisps of anger at the Christ's presence, occasionally, a scattering of nervous, creeping souls, but nothing concrete. I don't know why I felt the need to be protective; in all I had done, He had watched over me — how was I to watch over one who knew His own fate?

As it turned out, though they wanted Him dead, the priests had decided to wait until after the Passover. They did not want to try and take Him on the day of the feast, knowing in their hearts that the people would never allow it. Their holy days were too sacred to be employed in persecution. They hoped He would sin at the Passover.

When we arrived, we found that the table in the upper room had been laid for Jesus and the twelve. Not wanting to be far from His side, I managed to win a place as a server, bringing them their wine. There were many present who vied for that task, but to my surprise, Judas came forth and offered me the wine jug, asking me if I would be a part of the dinner.

I thanked him quietly, saying more with my eyes than any words could have communicated to him. He seemed to consider himself my guardian, now that he no longer feared me. He paid more attention to my words than to those of the others who followed them, did everything in His power to include me in things that were reserved for the apostles alone. It was as if he sensed on some deeper level that I was more than I seemed, and that I had a greater stake in what was happening then could have been read from my countenance, or even my words.

There was still enough of what I had been before my change within me to tell me that his motives were pure. He knew that I meant something to his Lord, and he guessed how I felt in return. For him it was enough.

The meal was a simple one. Food had been brought from many households in His honor, and there were more than a few eager souls on the home's first level who hoped to get a glimpse of Him, or to hear Him speak, when it was all over. Jesus and the others had eaten; those few of us who were so honored served them and knelt in the corners when we were not needed.

There was a sense of inevitability in the air, of change — of great things and powerful moments. I sensed it, and I know the others did as well, though each in his own. I am certain that some of them twisted that knowledge personally, not accepting that He was important, that He was sitting there, eating bread and drinking wine, preparing the way for their salvation even as they twisted His words.

The Christ must have sensed that tension among them, for He hesitated before the meal began, and they all waited for His words. He looked at them in turn, meeting each set of eyes and dwelling upon their features, etching them into His memory. He was searching their souls a final time. Then He spoke, calmly and clearly, as if His words were not of more importance than any that had been spoken previously on the Earth. As if the world itself, and the lives of every one among the twelve, would not be irrevocably changed by them.

"I know that you love Me, each of you," He said.  "I can read it in your words, in your deeds, and it is good. I tell you now, though, one among you will betray Me."

They sat and stared at him in shock.  They were unwilling to comprehend what He was saying. Who deserved such an accusation? They looked covertly over their shoulders, scanning the eyes of their companions for a glimpse of the guilt that would set their minds at rest.

"Is it I, Lord?" Peter asked quickly, always the first to act.  "For if it is so, I will throw myself upon my own blade now, before such a thing can occur."

"Or I?" Andrew asked, the look on his face one of such pain that my heart nearly burst for Him. He could not have betrayed a fly — not to save his own life.

Each in their turn, they questioned Him, searching His eyes for accusation, and asking the same things. He only answered their stares with His own, studying them calmly, serene in the knowledge of His own death, and resurrection, a mystery they were not yet prepared to embrace.

"It is one of you twelve," He answered them at last, "who sit and break bread with Me now. I want you to know, it is not he himself, but the Prince of all traitors that will cause this to come to pass. None of you would betray Me in his heart, and that is the source of your salvation.

"I know that you will accuse the one," He said, letting his gaze sweep over them, resting a moment on each. "I say unto you, he is your brother. There is no salvation for one, or two, but for all. When this thing occurs, forgive him, as I have already done. None among you is more important than any other, and that is a lesson I fear you will never learn."

They continued to whisper and murmur among themselves, striving, as usual, to defend their own faith and purity. He had known all along that they would not listen, but He had needed to speak the words. He wanted them all, the one included, to know that he would not be excluded on the day when it mattered most. His betrayal and death were written in the prophecies.

He broke the bread, blessing it, and He passed it among them, saying "Take, eat. This is My body."

Then He took up his cup, blessing it as well, and He looked around at them solemnly, bringing it to his lips and taking a long, deep swallow of the wine. He then passed the cup to Judas, who drank as well, passing it down the line until they had all had a taste.

"This is my blood," He told them.  "This is the blood of the new Testament, which will be shed for many. I tell you now, I will not taste the fruit of the vine again until that day when I walk in the Kingdom of God and drink of it anew."

All of them experienced the strength of His will in those moments, and the power of His love. It was a moment of magic, and that spell extended to me as well, for I was close enough to join myself with them, and to rejoice.

It was not long after this that we moved out of the room, passing from the house and into the olive groves beyond, singing hymns of praise and basking in the warmth of one another's love. There was a great peace, and the true spirit of the Passover was upon them, bolstering their spirits and calming their fears. It would be a memory that could never be shaken.

Judas 21

When He had finished praying, Jesus left with His disciples and crossed the Kidron valley. On the other side was an olive grove, and Jesus and His disciples entered it.

Judas, sent to the village for food, met with the woman, Mary of Magdalene, and was delayed in coming to the grove. As He neared the place, He saw Peter in conference with several armed men.

As He walked through the olive trees, Jesus spoke to the twelve clearly, not in parables, as they were accustomed to.

"You will all be separated from Me this night," He told them, raising His hand to silence them while He finished. "The flock will be scattered, for it is written that the shepherd must die. I tell you now, so that you will know to follow, that on the day I am risen from My death, I shall go before you into Galilee."

"But Lord," Peter said insistently, ignoring his teacher's motions for silence, "I shall not betray You." I could see by the light in his eyes and the set of his jaw that he truly believed this. In his pride, he thought his strength of will beyond the power of the prophecy itself.

"I tell you, Simon Peter, that before the cock crows twice on this very night, you will deny Me three times."

"I would not call You a liar Lord. I would not deny Your wisdom," Peter returned hotly, "and yet I tell You, if I were to die with You this night, I would not betray You. There is no power on this Earth that could force me."

Jesus looked at him sadly then, and they all fell silent, though the others quietly added their own affirmations of faith quietly to Peter's. None among them believed that anything, including death, could change their hearts. I knew death better than they — it gave me understanding.

Jesus stopped, finally, in a small garden called Gethsemane, and He told us to stop as well.  "Wait for me here," He said, "for I must pray." He took Peter, John, and James with Him, and He walked off a distance from the others. As He went, I followed with my heart and mind as best I could. His spirit was weaker than I'd ever known it to be, His humanity stronger.

I learned more of Jesus the man in that short moment than I had in all the months of my time with Jesus the Christ. His burdens had not yet been laid upon His shoulders, but had existed only as words, prophecies of things yet to come. Their distance from the present had been a barrier of security, removing them from reality. Now the time was upon Him, and He faced the challenge for which He'd been brought upon the Earth, the culmination of all He'd done — the judgment for what He'd done on His own.

"Stay here and watch," He told the three, and He moved on beyond them into the shadows, throwing Himself prone on the ground and letting His soul reach to the heavens, letting the light flow over across and within Him, reaching out to His father — the All-Father — in supplication.

There was sadness in Him, resignation that I could not fathom. I knew that the sacrifice was great, but it should not have burdened Him as it did. It should have filled Him with an even more glorious light, should have filled Him with the light of completion and love. It was not so. His tears were human. He cried out to the heavens in fear, and I could not stand the weight of emotion His prayers placed on my mind — on my soul. It was my first taste of what the world would be like without His guidance, in the company of men alone.

Turning, I fled the garden, fled the trees and into the night. I ran until my legs burned from the effort and my lungs felt as if they were on fire, and still I did not stop. When I reached the center of the city, I took a moment to collect my thoughts and to stare about me wildly. I didn't know what, or how, but I knew that something was wrong, and I didn't know what to do about it.

I sensed that He did not know, either, that He was unsure. I sensed emptiness within Him, desperation and a void. Where there had been confidence, the rock-hewn solidarity of prophecy and assurance, there were questions, doubts. He was so human in those moments that it frightened me to the very depths of my soul. Faith in a God was one thing, faith in a man was something else altogether.

I sat on a stone bench in the square, and I lowered my head to my hands and wept. It was all that remained to me, all I had to offer. I would have gone to Him, but I feared I had done so once too often already. In my heart, though the words had not been spoken, I knew that I was the cause of all that was wrong. What else could it have been? My arrogance was no less than that of the apostles, it seemed, just focused with a darker lens. I had been so quick to judge them for their lack of faith, and yet I had allowed myself to endanger their salvation.

I sat there, unheeding and nearly lost to conscious thought, and I nearly leaped from my skin in fright when a hand came to rest gently on my shoulder. It was Judas, and he backed away a bit, seeing the wildness in my eyes, the fear and the confusion. He saw also that I trembled, and I sensed him, rather than saw him, moving forward again to put his arms around me and pull me close.

I did not push him away. Instead, I buried myself in his embrace and pressed my head into his shoulder, staining his robe with my tears. He pulled me even more tightly against him, brushing one hand down the length of my hair, and slowly I felt my anger and pain wash out of me. His heart beat against mine, and the love and concern that had birthed his gesture of comfort embraced me, calmed me.

"Walk with me," he said at last, drawing back, but leaving his arm about my shoulder. I did as he asked, and he continued. "I have been sent to bring food to the olive grove, but I am worried. Our Lord is not Himself this night. There is something very heavy on His heart."

"I know," I told him, leaning close and taking what comfort I could in his presence, in the warmth and nearness of his skin. "It may be that His burden weighs more heavily this night. It is, after all, the night of Passover."

"Let us pray that that is all," Judas answered, and I agreed with him, though I knew it fell horribly short of the truth.

Then he came to a sudden stop, drawing me closer as if the two of us might hide in an embrace. I could not see what he had seen, and I whispered in his ear.

"What is it?” I asked.

He turned slightly, pulling me back into the shadows at the same time, and I saw. It was Peter. He stood among a group of priests, talking vehemently and waving his arms. I strove to send my thoughts to him, to reach out and hear for myself of what they spoke, but I could not.

"You must go," I told Judas, pushing him urgently back the way he had come.  "I sense that our Lord's betrayal is at hand. Move quickly, for they will not hesitate once he tells them where."

Judas stood for a moment, his disbelief written clearly on his face. I believe, had I not been there at that moment, that he would have stepped forward and questioned his brother, putting his life in jeopardy. I did not allow it. I sensed that there was more to the scene before us than met the eye, danger greater than he was prepared to deal with alone.

"Go!" I said again, pushing him more violently. "Can't you see that they are already walking toward the grove?"

He hesitated no longer, but plunged off into the shadows, leaving me to follow as I might. I felt a presence nearby, much stronger than that of any human, but I could not break through its barriers. It was dark, malevolent. I shuddered and drew my robes close about me, shivering from the chill the presence brought to me.

It was not Lucifer, as I had first feared, but it was very powerful. I knew it then for one of Lilith's lost children, and I knew that Peter was in great danger. He was prideful, and arrogant, but he was one of the chosen — more of the light than of the world, and I wanted to go to him, to help him, but I was afraid. I had nothing left with which to set him free.

In any case, it was too late. They were already making their way hastily to the grove, where Jesus and the other disciples waited, and all that remained to me was to follow in their footsteps and pray that Judas would be swift, that he would reach our Lord before they could arrive.

I knew also that it was the night of prophecy, and that no action I might take could forestall that which was to come, though I had to try. I told myself that I would have given my own life to stop what was to come. I loved the Christ, but I also loved His gift of light and life. I was afraid.

Judas 21

The soldiers, accompanied by officials from the Priests and Pharisees, entered the grove just after Judas, who bore a message from Mary. Kissing his master on the cheek, he whispered the words he had been given. Then the soldiers stepped forward and the disciples grew silent.

"Who is it you seek?" Jesus asked, knowing all that would come to pass.

"Jesus of Nazareth," they replied.

"I am He," Jesus said.

Peter, attempting to hide his betrayal, drew his sword and struck the High Priest's servant, severing his ear. (The servants name was Malchus)

Jesus said, "Put that sword away.  Shall I deny the cup my father pours me?"

Turning to the Pharisees and soldiers, Jesus said, "Am I leading a rebellion, then, that you need come upon me by stealth, with swords and clubs? I sat teaching in your courtyards every day, yet you did not arrest me. This has come about that the prophecies may be fulfilled." Then all His disciples deserted Him and fled.

I entered the grove in time to see Peter raise his sword high, his eyes wild with an unearthly light, and bring it down, severing the ear of a man who was servant to one of the priests. He did not strike anyone of importance, and it was obvious to me that he was trying to divert blame from himself. I could not tell from where I stood if he were truly frightened, or if he were completely possessed.

I was cursing myself for my weakness, wondering how I could have left Him alone, knowing the danger, and how short the time remaining to the prophecies was. I had made myself the center of things, and neglected Him when He needed me most. Peter might deny Him thrice, but I had deserted Him, and my mind was my own.

I did not come forth from the shadows of the trees; there was nothing that could have been accomplished except to put myself in danger and remove any chance I might have of aiding Him later on. I hung back in the shadows, and I watched what came next with the tears pouring from my eyes and down my cheeks. I did not wipe them away, but allowed them to blur the scene before me, using my other senses as my sight faded slowly into a salty burning haze.

The Christ knew what it was that had taken Peter. He looked upon His disciple, and the love in His eyes was not lessened by the betrayal. If anything, there was more there than before — tinged by a sadness beyond words. He knew that the demon would depart His follower, and He knew as well the guilt and the pain that it would leave behind. He knew the scars that must remain, and the pain and suffering that would accompany their healing. There was nothing left He could do for Peter but to pray, the burden would have to pass to the other disciples.

The soldiers gathered around Him, and He allowed them to take Him, shielding Him from His followers quickly with the bulk of their numbers as they went. The apostles made no move to stop them. Their expressions combined downcast dismay, hatred, and confusion. They did not know what to do, where to turn for guidance. Their Lord was being led away from them, going of His own free will, and they did not know how to help. They slipped into shadows, hiding their faces with their cloaks and seeking what shelter they could find — abandoning the Christ to His fate.

Peter, seeing that he was not being watched for the moment, went off down the hill and away. He thought to slip out of the grove during the confusion brought about by Jesus' departure, so he could move silently and swiftly and be gone before anyone noticed. Judas and I saw, and as Judas followed his brother in the Lord, his heart filled with rage and burning questions I followed them both. If I could not help the Christ, I would do what I could for His followers.

I tried to catch up with Judas, for I sensed the intensity of his anger, and I wanted to try and calm him, to explain what I believed had happened. I did not possess the speed I once had, nor could I send my thoughts flying ahead as I had once been able to. I ran as fast as my mortal legs would carry me, but the two of them were too far ahead, and Judas caught up with Peter long before I could.

I came to the edge of a small garden further down the mountain, and there I saw Judas catch Peter, grab his shoulder and spin him about roughly. He did not even register what he saw, at first. His anger was so great that he shook, and his mind was clouded.

"What have you done, Peter?" he cried. Judas stood, staring into Peter's eyes, and he stopped cold. Peter faced him, grinning, his eyes deep and haunted, dancing wildly with a horrible madness. Judas took a step back, recoiling in horror, and I felt my heart drumming in my breast.

Peter spoke then, but the voice that came forth from his lips was not that of the apostle Simon Peter. It was cold, brittle and void of any emotion or warmth. It echoed forth through a great emptiness, the dismal, booming tones of a scream in the depths of a great cavern. "He looked well in chains; do you not think so?"

Peter's face was also not his own. The creature that spoke and acted through him had bent it, twisting it to impossible angles, perverse expressions. It moved, undulating and pulsing irregularly, never remaining fixed for more than a short moment. The impression was of huge worms burrowing beneath the skin, rippling across his skull obscenely.

"Who are you?" Judas asked. His voice seemed small and very far away, but he did not retreat.  "I do not know you, but I know that you are not Peter. I ask you again; who are you."

"I am nightmare. I am hell, come to greet you. I am more than your simple mind could possibly comprehend," the thing growled.  Saliva dripped in green waves from its maw and the fire in its eyes blazed and danced crazily where Peter's eyes should have been. "He that I serve is the true Lord, and he is more than your witless bastard of a Master knows, though I believe that even now He may be coming to some small knowledge of His error."

Judas stared at the creature for one more short moment, as though memorizing the features. Then he lowered his gaze to the earth, and without further acknowledgment of the thing he faced, he began to pray. The words came forth slowly at first, almost a mumble, but they did not falter, and they gained in strength as he went along.

"Go ahead, fool," the demon jeered, dancing a bit closer, but not reaching out, not daring to touch him.  "Pray to your flea-bitten Lord . . . pray to Him as He goes to His death. It matters not, and it will avail you nothing. The end is in sight, and you have lost."

Judas ignored it. I could sense that his legs were weakening in the fear he would not show, and I sent what comfort I could, kneeling in the shadows and lowering my head. He knelt as well, as if sensing my movements, and his trembling stilled somewhat.

"Our Father, who art in heaven," he said, beginning the prayer as Jesus had given it to them, reciting word for word, rather than improvising in adversity. He spoke the words from memory, calling on his Lord. I could feel his prayer gaining strength as energy coalesced in the air. It was enough to give him strength.

"Be with us Lord, Your servants, in this hour of need. Free my brother from this evil; return to us Simon Peter, for our Lord needs us now as He has never before. He is Your son, whom You have sent to save us from our sins, and unworthy as we are, the people of the world need us.

"I have not the strength alone, Lord, but You are with me. As I speak, You speak, as I pray, You hear me and I feel Your might."

Judas slowly rose to his feet again, and the light that grew about him was luminous and bright, shimmering against the darkness like a beacon to the heavens. I was lost in his words, joined with his faith. I saw, in that moment, through his eyes — shared his joy and triumph, his power and salvation. The Christ had given him more than I would have believed possible.

"You are too weak," the demon snarled, but its voice was not as strong, not as clear or menacing. The features that had rippled elusively only moments before flickered and wavered. "You will never be strong enough. Your own words proclaim it. You are unworthy."

Its arguments weakened, and its threats were full of false bravado. The demon weakened as well, and Judas sensed it. He continued his prayer, ignored the images of pain and suffering the thing summoned to torment and distract him. He was focused — concentrated and powerful. For that moment, his faith was complete, and he knew his salvation as never before.

Then the demon changed tactics, sending images of a different sort. I experienced them as Judas did, every detail. My mind and my spirit had been bound to his when I lent him my essence, and I could not have pulled away then had I tried. The images the demon now sent were clear and sharp, like daggers.

"You would have me gone from this pitiful shell?" the demon cackled, its strength diminished with each passing second.  "You shall have your wish, man-thing, though not from any effort of your own, or your bastard Lord's. I will leave of my own free will, but not without a price.

"Look upon your future, Apostle. Look at the world that will be your own, the history you will help to write.  See through the eyes of your brethren as they will know you from this day forth."

The laughter was maddening, mocking and nauseating. There was no trace of real humor in it, only a hunger for pain and suffering, only a thrust of vengeance. The thing was losing its grip on this world, slipping back to the abyss that would claim it for untold years — perhaps until the final judgment.

The visions were of the twelve. In the shadowy depths of the vision three crosses stood, and on the middle, unmistakable, was the form of the Christ.

"You will carry His burden for Him, fool," the demon hissed.  "You will be named traitor from this day forth, the king of traitors. The very word will be synonymous with your name. You will send me forth, but I will have my price."

Judas never flinched. Though the tears ran from his eyes and poured down his cheeks to drop unnoticed to the sand, he never hesitated. The words of his prayer flowed on, and the light of his faith only grew. He knew the demon did not lie, and yet he prayed. He took up the burden without question, sacrificing all that he was, all that he might have been, for his brother.

"Your kiss, Judas Iscariot," the thing whimpered at him, fighting with its last breath to distract him, trying to wrench free of his spirit — failing.  "Your kiss will be the symbol of your betrayal. May you rot..."

"Depart!" Judas cried, staggering forward, as if his physical presence alone could make the final difference, could intimidate the evil confronting him. Peter's features contorted a final time, wavering between despairing, imploring humanity and growling, snarling darkness.

Judas reached forth his hands, laying them on Peter's shoulders, and the two of them were rocked by a tremendous blast of power. They were knocked to the ground, and even I, as far back as I still stood, was knocked from my knees and tossed like a rag doll. The demon rose with a wail that grew to a scream, climbing octaves and decibels at an alarming rate until the air was filled sound, crashing into my senses and slicing at my ears with a burst of excruciating pain.

Then it passed. It left swirling pillars of sand in its wake and an echoing, empty void that surrounded the entire clearing. The two of them rose shakily to their knees, then stood slowly, brushing the sand from their clothing and checking their limbs for broken bones. Neither seemed harmed, but Peter was shaking his head in confusion, trying to clear an unwanted vision, or to sort out a tangled thought.

When his sight cleared, he stood in silence, staring at Judas. His expression, which had been confused and empty, was slipping to anger, even to hatred. Judas returned his gaze, but I knew the pain that was growing within him, sensed the emptiness.

"They have taken our Lord," he said softly. "We must follow them.

Peter did not answer. He only watched as Judas turned and walked slowly away. He did not follow, and the glare in his eyes, the accusation in his gaze, were more painful than the onslaught of the demon could have been, for they came from the man himself. They rose from the heart of a brother, and they would not be cast aside.

The words the thing had spoken to him rose to Judas' mind as he walked away. Your kiss will become the symbol of His betrayal.

Eventually, and with great hesitation, Peter followed him. A final thought passed from Judas' mind into my own then, as I picked myself up to follow at a distance. He was thinking that it was a small price to pay for his brother's soul. The ominous weight of Peter’s silence bore down on Judas like a smothering fog, and I shared it as it fell between the apostles like a wall. I wanted to go to them, to try and explain to Peter, and to comfort Judas, but I did not. I knew I would just become another part of the anger that festered in Peter's mind, another part of the treachery that had taken his Lord. I had already seen that it was beyond me to halt the prophecy.

When we reached the place where the soldiers and priests had taken the Christ, we found them gathered around Him in confusion. They did not hold Him tightly or chain Him, at first. Though the priests commanded them, they truly did not know what to do, and I felt that Jesus knew this. He did not chastise them, but He did speak to them.

"Why have you done this to Me?" He asked, directing His words at the priests. "I have come among you, speaking in the temples where you worship, performing miracles in My Father's name, and you did not take Me. I have walked the streets of the cities, taught in the gardens and by the lakes.

"Now you come, like thieves in the night, to steal Me away from those I love."

The disciples had long since dispersed, insinuating their way into the crowds. Only the ten remained. Peter and Judas hung back in the shadows. I waited, keeping myself hidden, and listened to what took place.

The Christ watched it all in silence, picking His followers from the crowd and following them with His great, sad eyes. The sorrow that emanated from those eyes widened from quiet pools to vast depths. He saw them slink away, saw the words of the prophets coming to pass before His eyes, but He did not speak. He did not point His finger after them, or call out their names. He let them go, as He had told them as they ate their last meal together would come to pass.

"It must be as prophesied," He said, turning from all that had been His family, all that had borne His light upon the Earth, and offering His wrists to be bound.  Soldiers slowly and reluctantly moved to do so, looking all the while to the priests for approval.

They turned as a group and moved off into the growing shadows of the evening. As the sun failed, so did the spirits of the last of those who had followed the Christ. To this end had come all the faith that had borne them up through the journey's that had passed.

We followed at a distance. Peter turned off to one side, though not so far away that he could lose sight of us, and I moved forward to walk by Judas' side. He glanced over at me; the pain in his eyes nearly matched that in those of the Christ Himself. I let my arm trail around his shoulders and pulled him closer for just an instant, letting him feel my support. I did not want him to think he was alone in his sacrifice.

Peter scowled at us both, and I knew that my place in history, my part in the myth that would symbolize the betrayal, was complete. Then he turned away, and his gaze focused intently on the back of the procession.

They marched straight to the palace of the Chief Priest, where they would hand Jesus over to be judged. Though they had followed their orders and taken Him prisoner, they were not ready to do Him harm.

In fact, what little remained of my abilities to read their emotions told me that there were those among the soldiers and priests who led Him forth from Gethsemane to His fate who wanted to believe. There were those who thought that the Christ would free Himself through some miracle.

When we reached the palace, they took the Christ inside the walls, and the bulk of those who had come with Him remained outside. They gathered around huge campfires, talking and whispering, wondering at what was to come. All among them had heard of the miracles, of the healing, of a demon cast forth, or a cripple that walked the Earth whole and healthy. All of them wanted to see the ascension of a holy king.

Peter moved away from us, taking a seat at one of the fires and even accepting food and drink from those gathered there. He pulled himself back into the shadows, shielding himself as best he could with among those who stood about him. No one questioned his presence, at first, and he brooded in silence, scanning the crowds for the others and waiting for a chance to go to his Lord.

Judas and I did not hesitate. We filed in at the end of those who entered the gates, carrying ourselves as though we belonged. No one looked at us with more than passing interest. When Jesus gave Himself over to the soldiers, we had not been among the faithful. Some might have remembered Judas as he who kissed the Christ just before He was taken, but this worked in our favor.

Just as the demon had promised, they all believed Judas to be the traitor. Despite this, they remembered Jesus' admonition at Passover, and they did not question his right to be present. The fact that he'd not been present to be at Jesus side allowed him to be near the Christ now. I knew that Judas did not regret the price he'd paid.

"What shall we do?" he asked me, turning and stopping at the back of the small crowd as they sent servants to summon the Chief Priest.  "How can we help Him?"

"This is all part of the prophecy," I reminded him gently.  "He has chosen this sacrifice, and there is nothing we can do. Would you give up your salvation, and that of the world?"

"If it were for Him?" he asked. I searched his eyes, and I saw the answer clearly. I gripped his hand tightly, turning back to listen.

The priest had arrived, and he called out for witnesses to approach him and the Christ. He wanted to hear from those who had witnessed blasphemy, followers who would seal this prisoner's doom. He did not want just to proclaim the Christ evil, or wrong. He wanted the people themselves to do it. His vision was corrupt, but he understood the nature of his power.

Many of his lesser priests came forward, and a few of the soldiers. These told fantastic tales of things that had never been. He listened to each of them gravely, but none of them were in agreement. Each was willing to swear that he told the truth, but none of their stories matched, not even after having heard the tales that preceded their own.

A force moved among them, the subtle touch of a presence beyond their own spirits. They were confused — something manipulated their words and thoughts, shifted their visions and memories so that they could not be certain what they had seen, or believed only moments before.

I looked about the courtyard at the priests, glanced into the eyes of the Christ Himself, but I found no answer. I searched wider, and in that instant, I knew. She did not call out to me. In no way did she acknowledge my presence, but I knew her. It was Lilith.  She was doing as she had promised, looking out for us — for Him.

The Chief Priest soon tired of the games. He listened as tale after confused tale, lie built on obvious lie were offered. Finally he raised his hands angrily above his head for silence. Turning to the Christ, he sought the answers from the source. If the people would not convict this man, then he would. All that remained was to note the exact crimes of which He was accused, and to pronounce the sentence.

The Christ Himself had not spoken a word. He watched, and He listened to each accusation, but He made no answer. He stood in silence, staring out at them as a parent might at recalcitrant children.

The Chief Priest asked Him at last, "Will you answer to nothing? Will you not even deny what is said against You? You tell me, then. What are You accused of? What is it that they are trying to say against You?"

Jesus' expression grew more serene. He answered with silence once more. The priest stared at Him in consternation for a long moment, measuring his adversary, then changed tactics.

"I will ask you in clear words, then. Perhaps You will answer me. Are You the Christ, the son of God on the Earth, come in answer to the prophets?"

Jesus looked up at him then, the dim light from the firelight catching His eyes, flashing brilliantly. Everyone's attention was fixed on His words as He finally spoke.

"I am He. And you shall see the Son of Man sitting at the right side of God in Heaven."

A wide smile split the priest's features, and he stepped forward suddenly, rending the fabric of the Christ's clothes loudly. As all stood looking on in shock, he turned to those gathered, and he said, "What testimony beyond this do we need? You have all heard His blasphemy. What do you say? What shall be His fate?"

What happened next was sudden, violent, and unexpected. I had experienced no such malevolent force since the day the Christ cast forth Legion into the herd of swine. The crowd rose up, anger and fear in their voices, and they called out for His death. They smelled His blood, and they wanted to see it spilled.

Where only a short hour they had been confused, separate and alone, they now combined their strength in hatred and violence. They had forgotten in an instant the promise of salvation, had cast aside without a thought the miracles and signs He had brought to them of His Father's power.

It was all the soldiers could do to hold the people back as they attempted to surge forward, throwing stones at Him and shouting obscenities.  Some of them hurled themselves against the wall of protectors and spit on His face, and they threw whatever they had within reach.

They were not individuals in that moment; they were a mob — a sentient force with a multitude of leering wicked faces. I could not find any coherence in it, no focal point. I couldn't even see the Christ's face from where we stood, and I was paralyzed by the overwhelming emotion of the moment.

Judas stood at my side, helpless as I was. He would have rushed forward, I think.  He would have tossed himself to his death at their hands, willingly taken a part of their rage and anger upon himself to divert it from his Lord had I not held him back. Already he was crushed inside, the terrible weight of the guilt the demon had cast upon him sapping at his will to go on.

"No," I said fiercely, pulling him back and away. "You must be silent. He is going to need us all in the days to come, all of us with the strength. You can't waste yourself on them now. It will pass."

As I spoke, the priests dragged Him away to be imprisoned, and the crowd backed off. They still called short charges after Him, calling out to Him to "prophesy" for them, or to summon an angel to bear Him away. They taunted Him with the fact of His helplessness, discarded all He had done because of what He did not do now.

In their minds, He was now a victim. I was sickened, and as He was taken from our sight, I turned away so they would not see the hatred and tears in my eyes.

Judas watched longer, leaned toward where they dragged his Lord to prison, yearned to go to Him and to comfort Him, but he could not. Finally, with a heavy sigh, he turned to me, then to the gates, and we left with the rest of the crowd. Neither of us trusted ourselves to speak or to look at those we passed. We were far into the shadows of the night before the fear and the horror of what we'd experienced released us from its icy grip. We sought sleep then; there was nothing more we could do. We huddled together in the shelter of a great boulder, and closed our eyes, letting oblivion envelop us and take us away, the night shrouding us from horror. It was a dark night, empty, and desolate, and I was glad of his company. As I slept, I dreamed, prayed, and dreamed again, of the coming light.

In my dreams, my spirit wandered. I was back at the clearing outside the gates of the Chief Priest's castle, and in the firelight across the way, just outside the gates, I saw Peter. He sat very still, unmoving and silent, and those who remained moved about him without notice, not acknowledging his presence.

I pitied him. His new hatred of his brother Judas was not born of any malice on his part, though his pride would not let him see what had happened, and he did not realize the guilt that would consume him. He wanted only to do what was right, despite his desire for personal glory. He was one of the chosen.

One of the maids stumbled slightly in the shadows and fell to one knee before him. Looking up quickly, she stared at him, then backed away confused and frightened.

"You are one of them?" She asked, but it was not a question. She recognized him from before, and the terror that rose instantly to his eyes was intense.

"I am not." he denied her flatly. "I have no idea what you are talking about. I saw the fire, and I came to it for warmth and food — nothing more."

She nodded her head, but the recognition in her eyes did not waver. She did not question him outright, but moved on about her duties before any of the priests could chastise her for dallying.

In the darkness a sound arose, a cock's crow. Normal as that sound was, it sent a shiver through me to the very base of my spine. It was too dark for such sounds . . . too early in the hours of morning.

A second maid came along a short time later, and she stopped a short distance away, studying Peter's face intently. I saw recognition flash in her eyes as well, and she stepped forward eagerly.

"It is you," she cried. "You were with Jesus of Nazareth."

Again Peter only looked annoyed.  "I do not know who you think I am," he told her, "but I say again that I know no Jesus of Nazareth. I am only passing through, and saw the fire."

She moved away, but only to consult with some of those who stood nearby. A few moments later they came forward as a group.

"We have seen you by His side," one of them insisted, "teaching in the street and following in His footsteps. You are from Galilee; your accent gives you away. You are one of those who came here with Him."

Peter jumped to his feet, his face livid with anger, and he began to cry out and to curse. "Cannot a man take the time to rest his bones and warm his hands?" he cried. "I am but a poor traveler, and I would have thought better of the hospitality in this city than to be harassed by serving girls and fools.

"I know no damnable Jesus of Nazareth, and I came here on my own!"

As the echoes of his angry words died away, the cock crowed a second time, and I saw a vision of sorrow sliding across his features, transforming him by his lack of faith. He remembered only too well his Lord's words, "Before the cock crows twice, you will deny Me three times."

"I am not he," he muttered, turning from them and disappearing into the shadows, "not he

I wanted to follow him, to tell him that it was all right, but I was dreaming. Beside me, Judas began to tremble and shake in his dreams, and the motion drew me back to my bed of sand and earth. I woke. There would be time enough to worry about Peter and the others later in the morning. Judas was there, and he needed me.

This time my sleep was silent and deep.

CHAPTER NINE

We were awake and at the gates of the castle the following morning, brushing the sleep from our eyes and returning to the horror of what was taking place. We hung back where we would not be easily recognized. I still remembered my vision of Peter the preceding night.

Though it was early, there was activity everywhere.  Serving women bustled about with food. Priests, scribes, and elders scuttled about with ponderous scrolls and busy faces. None of the other disciples was in evidence, as Jesus had prophesied. Peter, having been driven away the previous night by his own guilt and anger, had not returned. Judas and I took seats around what remained of the fire. We grabbed a bit of bread that we split and found a cup for water.

Our supplies were gone, left in the olive grove with those of the others. To go back for them would have been too dangerous, and neither of us wanted to move far from the Christ until we knew what would happen to Him.

We did not have long to wait. The Chief Priest had summoned all of his subordinates; the elders, other priest and scribes, and they had gone into consultation at first light. We arrived after they had been at it for some time.

They continued to argue back and forth for a while, but it seemed that they could not come to any sort of agreement, and their efforts had led nowhere. They broke council and had the Christ brought to them from His prison cell. I thought that they would question Him again, or attempt to get Him to convict Himself of some new blasphemy, but they did not.

Without a word, the soldiers who were on guard bound His arms. With Jesus safely in their midst, they started out for the city. We moved on the fringe of the crowd that gathered in their wake. Eventually I was able to pluck the information that we needed.

He was being delivered to Pilate. The priests had the impudence and ignorance to bind Him and detain Him, but they did not have the courage to condemn Him. Having taken Him into custody, they were moving Him by the most expedient method to the hands of another, relieving them of the responsibility for what was to come.

None of them doubted the outcome of the Christ's capture. They had no intention of allowing Him to be released. They did not fear His death, they feared what the people would do were they directly responsible. He had bested them on every occasion. They would not allow Him to make fools of them again.

We followed at a safe distance. It was not difficult to keep them in sight; the crowd had grown very large by that point, and the walk was not far. As we moved, the crowd thickened, but not entirely because of the Christ's presence. There was a great feast in progress, and the Palace of Pilate was brimming with revelers of all sorts, with finery and beads, the smell of fresh food and the cries of vendors.

It was like a surreal dream. Their savior was carted through their midst, passing by them like so much chattel. They ignored Him. They laughed, and they ate, and they flirted, but few found the time to see Jesus pass. Those who knew Him did not consider Him important enough to disturb their enjoyment of the day.

We were jostled and cajoled, hailed and laughed at as we went. I know we must have made an odd picture, me with my soiled and rumpled clothing and long hair blowing about me like a snarl of brush, and Judas, his eyes deep and empty and his shuffling steps those of a man already condemned. It did not matter. I truly believe we would have attacked anyone who came between our Lord and us.

I knew in my heart that all was unfolding according to plan. If there were no death, no spilling of the blood of the Christ, then there would be no salvation. My heart knew this, but it did not matter. On that walk from the palace of the priest to that of the Romans, I did not care. My salvation was, for once, not my primary concern. He had taught His lessons well ... I loved Him as myself.

I was worried about Judas, about the empty, lost look in his eyes, the pain and the suffering that were coming and how he would handle it. How I would manage to stand by, doing nothing and watching Him die. It was perhaps the greatest test of my faith since I was brought restored to the Earth and given hope.

When the soldiers of the priests reached the palace, they immediately contacted Pilate's guards and handed Jesus over to them. It was sickening the way they simply washed their hands of Him and rushed inside, eager to insure that others took care of their dark work.

None of them thought of the good in man, or the fulfillment of prophecy.   They thought of greed, and of power, and they thought of their own self-importance. They thought of a great man, broken and bent, returning to them the control that had been theirs for centuries. They dreamed of darkness, and they did not know it, hoped to extinguish the brightest light ever to touch the Earth.

The guards took Jesus without question, but they did not look happy about it. I could see them murmuring among themselves as they went forward, driving Jesus before them through the crowd, moving to where Pilate and his courtiers sat, presiding over the feast. The guards resented the intrusion, and they resented the responsibility.

As they marched Jesus through the crowd, the revelry slowly came to a stop. Silence fell over the gathering like a cloak. Even the musicians grasped the seriousness of the moment, for their melodies died off with a feeble burst of notes. The air crackled with energy — with destiny. Each person present experienced some of that energy, knowing the weight of great events as they shifted about and carved history into our lives.

Pilate stood when he caught sight of the guards and their prisoner, his brow furrowed by a deep frown and his hands upon his chest. He remained standing as they approached, scanning the crowd for the priests and their followers, those he knew were responsible, and cursing under his breath. I was still too far away to read his emotions, but he had the look of one bearing a great burden of anger, and my heart leaped in my breast. Perhaps there was hope.

I grabbed Judas and worked my way toward the front, pushing past feasters and priests alike, forcing us slowly forward. I needed to be closer, to know what they felt, both the Christ and Pilate, to learn what he would do. He was no Pharisee, nor was he a Jew. He had no concerns over ancient prophecy, or the struggle for power within a faith he did not share. His concerns were with the empire, and with its people.

We finally reached the third row of spectators, close enough to see what transpired clearly, close enough to see the way the bonds on the Christ's wrists, which had been pulled far too tight, chaffed and cut off the flow of blood to His hands. He stood His ground, His face serene, though there were grim lines about the corners of His eyes and mouth that spoke of pain unanswered.

His features seemed lit from within, his smile the embodiment of peace. His hair, though unruly and uncombed, flowed back over His shoulders. He was majestic. Standing bound and helpless before the multitude, He looked the part of a king.

Pilate stared at Him for a long time without speaking, and I saw that a deep wish blossomed within him, in that instant, to know Jesus. He wanted the time to speak with and understand this condemned man who stood before him. The weight of his office, and of the moment, weighed on him. He was a man torn, but he knew the will of his people. There was little he could do.

"Many charges are brought against You," he said finally, addressing Jesus directly. "But You do not speak. Have You nothing You can offer in Your own defense? Have You nothing to say to all they accuse You of?"

Jesus did not speak, but He answered the man's gaze openly and honestly. Pilate tried again.

"Are you the King of the Jews?"

"You have said that I am," Jesus replied.

It infuriated the priests who had brought Him that He continued to deny them the evidence they sought. He stood there as if nothing in the world were wrong. He stood there as if He were not defeated. Several of the priests came forward at that moment. Pilate fixed them with a stony gaze, warning them back as he might a pack of over-zealous dogs, but they did not heed him.

"You have blasphemed against the Lord!" one of them cried. "You have claimed authority granted to no man. You have driven out demons in the name of Satan himself!"

Before Pilate could stop them, they all began to hurl insults, to make fanciful claims and to agitate the crowd against Him again. The Christ only stood watching them. Their words were no more than droplets of rain, washing over Him but not serious enough to brush aside. Pilate stared at Him in wonder, ignoring the priests.

Now another buzz flickered through the mob, a pulsing chant that grew in strength and rose to drown out the priests and the catcalls of the crowd, they wanted Pilate to release the prisoner. My heart soared; hope blooming and wilting in the same moment. I had thought they meant my Lord. I let the true import of their words sink in; I knew the priests were behind it, and that there would be no mercy shown Jesus.

They were calling for a prompt decision. They were carefully manipulating the crowd to their own end. They wanted Pilate to follow custom. While my Lord stood in mockery before them, while He was reviled and attacked by priests and Pharisees alike, Pilate considered.

I saw that Pilate did not like it. He knew why Jesus was there. He had had more than one confrontation with these "holy men", debating heatedly over issues of state. They had brought the Christ to him out of envy, and though his prisoner was just a man to Pilate, to be such meant more to him than to the priests. A man did not deserve such treatment for his beliefs.

I also saw that there was nothing he could do. He turned to the crowd, raised his hands for silence, and after a few moments they quieted. He searched them with his eyes, and he waited. The emotional energy was intense, and he might have lost them then, but he did not.  Something in the way he stood told them his patience was near its end. He did not want to do what they asked, and if they continued, I do not believe he would have.0

"I will release one prisoner to you this day of feasting, as is the custom," he said finally. "I will give freedom to one who is imprisoned, but you must choose.

"Shall I release to you the King of the Jews?"

They did not begin at once to cry out, but there was a sudden burst of sound from the grouped priests, and moments later the revelers took up the chant. The priests were crying out in unison, chanting a name. It was not a name I was familiar with — Barrabas. I searched a nearby mind at random, and when I understood, I almost lost control.

Barrabas was a thief, not only a thief, but one who had attempted murder in the act of his thievery. He was sentenced to die for his crimes. I could not find a single sympathetic thought directed at him from the multitude, and yet they chanted his name. They wished him released, preferring to send their Lord to His death, He who had cleansed their spirits, driven out their demons and healed their sick.

This time it was Judas who dragged me back, I who could not bear the pain. I lurched forward and tried to make my way to Jesus' side. They would have taken me and stoned me, and it would have done the Christ no good, and yet I wanted to try. I wanted to be rid of them, to be free of their petty lies and their envy, free of their ridiculous struggles over power that had never actually been theirs. In that moment, death did not seem so empty. I would rather have died with my Lord than among such swine.

Judas did not allow it. He held me close, pulling me back and pushing our way out through the crowd. I cried out then, but he ignored me, and my protests were lost in the roar of the crowd. That name would not stop pulsing through my mind, pounding to the beat of my heart, and I could not stop screaming against it.

"Barrabas. Barrabas. Barrabas..."

"We must go," Judas whispered to me, trying to calm me as he dragged me along. "There is nothing more we can do in here. We have to keep together, Mary, or He is lost."

I knew he spoke the truth. I could no more afford the luxury of self-sacrifice than he could. We had a responsibility. Of all those who remained, we knew the truth of all that had happened. I knew the added danger the Christ had brought upon us all through love for me. It would have been so easy, and so much less painful; to turn away from life, but it would have been wrong.

The crowd quieted again as we passed through the gates, and I heard Pilate's voice ring out.  "What shall I do then," he asked them, with the King of the Jews?"

"Crucify Him!" The crowd took up the chant, the sound was deafening for a moment, driving us outward and ringing in my ears, pounding in my chest, a fatal pulse..

"Why?" It was Pilate again. Miraculously, they listened.  "What crime has this man committed? What has He done to make you hate Him so?"

For a reply, they took up their empty, soulless cry once more, "Crucify Him!  Crucify Him!"

Sobbing convulsively, I allowed Judas to escort me away from the gate and into the trees beyond where we would be out of sight. He was worried, letting his mind dwell on my pain, my needs, banishing what was happening behind us from his heart and soul by spending all his concentration on me. I accepted this, for I needed the comfort. I have never known such agony.

In the square behind us the roaring cries became louder, rising in strength and volume until the walls of the palace shook. I knew that a prisoner had been released. They chanted his name. The one they called Barrabas would not die.

What came next drove me closer than I've ever been to the far edge of sanity. I cannot be certain that I heard His cries. I know that Pilate, acquiescing to the wishes of the people, ordered the flogging. I know that a soldier of Rome, under orders from his own Lord, and under the angry, blood-drunk sway of the multitude who looked on, wielded the whip. Blood and tears blurred the images.

Pilate and the soldier were pawns. Nothing could change that which was written. And yet, for my sake, the Christ had tried to do so. There were extra pieces in the puzzle, subtle changes. How would those pieces fit?

If I did not hear those cries, I sensed them. The bond between us was still too great — the searing heat of our parting still too tender. Judas held me, and I cried, shivering in his arms, as each and every stroke of the lash fell. Searing heat burned across the nerves beneath my skin; welts raised on my back as my mind, unable to contain the intensity of the experience, forced the images of that torture, that blasphemy, to life upon my own flesh.

All thought ceased for me. The whip strokes were burning lines of fire, and I was tossed between them, buffeted and thrown from emotion to emotion. I could not grasp those twisting images, some of which were my own and some of which belonged to the Christ. He reached out to me, and I took Him in. His was drowning in pain, and His heart cried out, as the hungering, lost hearts of all the faithless in the world had called to His, and I answered. There was no one else.

I do not know how long I shared His pain. When I opened my eyes, the expression on Judas' face was so full of fear and dismay that I might have laughed if I'd had the strength. I did not move from his arms then, but my tears ceased and the pain slowly faded.

Jesus pulled away from me. I grasped at Him with my mind, tried to pull Him back, to hold onto some of His pain, to help Him in what was to come. He had already borne so much, so many pains and so many sins and nothing in return, and now He was pulling away as I tried to help. He disengaged Himself gently, leaving a warmth and intimacy behind that only made that parting more painful.

"Mary," Judas cried.  "Mary!"

I looked up into his eyes then, confused. I knew his arms circled me, could sense the pulse of his heart and the caring of his soul?

He shook me gently.  "Mary, we have to go!  They have taken Him to the Praetorium — He is to be crucified. We have to go, to be there with Him."

I reached out with mental fingers, pulling together what was left of my mind and my heart and patching them back into the framework of my body. I could not abandon Judas now, and I would not leave my Lord to suffer in solitude.

We rose, and he led me slowly from the trees. We had sat, unnoticed during the commotion of the feast celebrating the release of Barrabas. Nobody had time to search for Jesus' followers now. In the minds of the priests and those who followed them, He was dead already, had never walked among them, saved or healed or preached a word. Their hearts were closed, and their lusts leaked out to stain their features.

Here was a man, his eyes filled with a bright, burning glow. His mind relived the flogging, the cries of the "prisoner." He followed behind the soldiers in search of more such stimulation.

Here was a woman, her thighs damp from the excitement of the beating of a nearly naked man, the way the sun had played across his muscles, the way he'd twisted and struggled under the ministrations of the lash.

I nearly collapsed as it seeped through my senses and invaded my mind.  The mentality of the mob invaded my psyche. Judas was my strength, not letting me stumble or back away. His eyes were filled with a fire of their own, but it was not that of joy or the lust for blood. There was anger, righteous and blazing, and faith in the face of disaster. It was the light I had been so proud of in myself, and he shamed me into motion, into ordering my thoughts and controlling my pain.

When we came into the great court they called the Praetorium, the soldiers had begun to involve themselves. The priests had stirred up the crowd, and Roman soldiers had formed a large circle with the Christ in the center. Barely able to stand, He was caked in his own blood from the flogging. I knew the stories of the Roman's great cities, the gladiators and the games of blood and death. This would be nothing new to them.

The Christ's eyes were the only part of Him that had not surrendered. When I looked at His body, I saw a broken man, but if I gazed into those eyes, I knew peace. I knew the emotion, the spirit behind His grim smile, and I knew I was blessed. He stood there, when most men would have passed out from the pain or the degradation, and He did not flinch from those who jeered at Him. He did not berate them, nor did He beg. He stood, and He took what they gave out, and the prophecies unwound about us like twine from a ball.

Somewhere along the way they had seized a robe of deep purple, though it was tattered and soiled, and they wrapped it about His shoulders, laughing and cuffing Him if He did not move as they wished. The robe had belonged to an important man, now it was nothing but a rag.

Someone came out of the crowd holding a crown in his hands, woven of a thorny vine. The thorns were wicked and sharp, and the sight of it brought a shiver to my spine, reminding me of my fangs, of the curse He had taken from me.

Just for a moment, I remembered that moment of joining, the wonder of His blood and the strength He had bestowed upon me, Sarah, the king's daughter, the cruel father. Did He carry their burdens now? Did they cry out in His heart as they had cried out in mine, or had they been granted a part of his peace?

They placed the crown on his brow, not gently, but crushing it into place, imbedding the thorns in His skin so that fresh blood ran down the sides of His face, matting in His hair and dripping into the dried, crusted blood from His scourging in the square. My lust did not stir at the sight of that blood. I was shamed, for those who held Him were human, and I was now one of them.

Every single thing about the Christ that they should have honored, every bit of what He was to them, they ridiculed. They called out to Him, naming Him once more "King of the Jews." They called for Him to prophecy for them, and when He remained silent, only watching them tenderly with His great, sad eyes, they ran forward and struck Him with long, solid reed switches and spitting in his face.

They knelt before Him, one after another, their voices sickly sweet, cloying, and cried out to Him to show them a sign. They asked Him where was His father, the Lord God Almighty, who should be there, carrying His son away form them and seating Him upon the throne of the world.

If I had not seen them, had not smelled their sweat and sensed their spirits pressing about me, I would have sworn I heard the voice of Lucifer. There was no humanity in what they did, and nothing but humanity in it, at the same time. They were the chosen of the All-Father. They were destined for forgiveness, for glory beyond their comprehension, and yet they were beneath it.

Eventually they realized He would not put on a show for their entertainment, and the festivities ran their course.

The Romans stripped Jesus of His purple robe. They returned His clothes, and they pushed and buffeted Him about roughly as He sought to dress. They were not mocking now, but were impatient, and cruel. To them, He was nothing more than another Jewish prisoner, and His death was all that awaited Him.

Judas 25:17

The soldiers took Jesus into their charge. Carrying upon his shoulder his own cross, He went out to Golgotha (called the place of the skull) Here they crucified Him, along with two others-—one to each side, with Jesus in the middle.

Pilate had a notice prepared land fastened to the cross. It read: JESUS OF NAZARETH, THE KING OF THE JEWS. It was lettered in Aramaic, Latin, and Greek, and many Jews read the sign, for the place of crucifixion was near the city. The Chief Priests of the Jews protested, saying, "Do not write, 'The King of the Jews,' but instead that this man claimed to be the King of the Jews."

Pilate answered, "I have written what I have written."

When the soldiers had crucified Jesus, they took his clothes, dividing them into four equal shares, one for each of them, with the undergarment remaining. This remaining garment was without seams, woven in one piece.

"Let us not tear it," they said to one another. "Let us decide by lot who will get it."

This happened that the Scripture might be fulfilled which said,

'They divided my garments among them

And cast lots for my clothing.' So this is what the soldiers did.

Near the cross of Jesus stood his mother, his mother's sister, Mary, wife of Clopas, and Mary Magdalene.

The march to the cross was a nightmare. The Christ began that endless, painful journey with the great weight of His own death upon His shoulders, dragging the cross slowly down the street, through the jeering crowd, and over the sand toward the hill they named Golgotha, and still they ridiculed Him. He ignored them as best He could, rising again to His feet each time He slipped and fell, barely flinching as stones and other objects hurled at Him struck His skin, bruising and cutting His face and shoulders.

He moved on the great strength of his will alone. His body was weakening, and too much of His blood had been spilled during His torture. They had beaten Him, flogged Him, poked and cut Him, and yet He moved on. He staggered forward with excruciating slowness that nearly drove me mad, but move He did.

He had closed his mind to me. He could not afford to be distracted, and He had little strength to spare for anything beyond His pain. Had I shared that pain, I might have tried to interfere. The one thing I knew, the one thing that held my mind and heart in check was that He did not want me to come to Him. He walked the road set for Him, drank willingly of the cup His father offered. He still walked upon the earth, but He was already dead to me — to those who followed. It was His rebirth that He would share, not His death.

Finally He could move no further. He struggled against the blazing heat of the sun and the slow; debilitating heat of the sand ate at His feet. He sagged, the weight of the cross pressing Him inexorably down to the ground.

The soldiers had no patience for it. They pushed their way into the crowd and grabbed a large man roughly by his arm.  They dragged him into the street. He was very frightened, not knowing what was happening.   He was told to lift and carry the cross. He did this. His name was Simon, and he was a Cyrenian. His path and that of the Christ crossed by accident, but I sensed a communion between them that bound them.

A quick surge of light passed from Jesus and into Simon, and the man's heart lightened as he hefted the cross onto his shoulders. He waited while the Christ was dragged to His feet. Simon’s shoulders were broad, and his legs strong from long miles on the road, and he started off toward the hill in the distance at a steady pace.

Everything happened more swiftly after Simon took up the cross. The steps of that journey blurred in my mind. Judas and I had not eaten nor rested in over a day, and the heat of the sun drained our strength as well. We stumbled along together, mingling with the crowds and avoiding the stares of those who might recognize us.

We were so travel worn, so weary and caked with the dust of our journey that we looked very little like the apostle and the woman who had followed their savior. We were more like vagrants. My face was streaked where dust and tears had mingled over and over again and my skin dry and chapped from the sun.

As they came onto the hill of Golgotha, we halted at last.  Judas and I filed in behind the others, watching from a safe distance — watching because we could not turn aside our eyes, watching because there was nothing else in the world that we might do, and because we needed to know.

Regardless of the pain that would follow, regardless of the suffering they would put Him through, we needed to be there. We had been a part of its beginning, and we would be there until its end.   Perhaps we were just insignificant bits of the prophecy after all; we had no more command over our actions than the Christ did over His at that moment.

As they prepared to nail His flesh to the wood He had borne so far, and that others had borne for Him, one of the soldiers came forward. Jesus was nearly dead with thirst, and this man held wine in his hand, mixed with myrrh. The Christ pushed it away, shaking His head weakly, and my heart burned to go to Him, to offer Him water, to bathe his brow.

He had spoken the truth when He said He would not taste of the fruit of the vine again until He was raised from earthly death. This did not change the suffering remaining to Him in this life, and I felt the first stirrings of an anger I had known time and again in others, in the humans that surrounded me. It was an anger born of suffering, an anger that would have driven me forward to gouge that soldiers eyes from his head had Judas or the situation permitted it.

It grew like a fire, consuming me, giving me strength beyond what I'd thought possible. They were hateful, cruel creatures without a spark of light between them, and I wanted to tell them, to scream it at them, to rip it into their flesh with my fingers and to hammer it into their hearts with my fists. For perhaps the only time, I wished for my curse. But I was a woman, and my savior's time was near its end.

They spun Him first from one soldier, then to another, laughing as they ripped his robes from Him and forced Him to trip out of his sandals. Everything that was His they took from Him, dragging it from His skin, save His undergarment. This they drew from His body whole, and standing in front of Him as if He were no more than a goat or a pig, not worth their notice, they gambled for it, drawing lots to see who would own the undergarment of "The King of the Jews."

In the crucifixion itself the soldiers were thorough and efficient. It was not their first, or their last. They did not think of what it meant when they placed His pale, shaking hand on that cross of wood and raised their mallet high. The hammer rose and fell, rose and fell, and it was done.

First His wrists, then his feet, each time the flesh was rent, I screamed inside. I wanted to close my eyes, to run away crying out His name and bury myself in some shadowed niche until the end of the world might claim me. I wanted His freedom, His love. I wanted them all to understand, for God to take away this prophetic puzzle and make things right.

He did not cry out as they fixed Him to the cross.  He only grunted at each penetration of His flesh. He did not cry out when they raised the cross to implant it in the earth. He did not acknowledge them when they came to put the inscription on His cross, proclaiming "The King of the Jews."

His mind was slipping away. He reached to the heavens a final time, stretching His mind and spirit out to the light of the All-Father, drawing strength to Himself, preparing for His final sacrifice. Even in His pain, even in the face of the physical death that frightened me more than any possible eventuality in all of existence, He was calm, and He loved them all. Though they killed Him, He loved them.

Flanking him, on twin crosses, two others hung. These men were thieves, and yet in that moment, when their eyes met with those of the Christ they were better men than those below. Though they would leave the Earth, they would not die.

The soldiers and those gathered continued to revile Him. There was no mercy, even while He died.

"Hail, King of the Jews. Tear down the temple and build it again in three days. Show us how Your father will come from the heavens and bear You away."

They talked as though they were visiting at an exhibit or a booth in a market. "See how He is helpless? He claims to come to save the entire world, and yet He cannot even save Himself."

Such empty words.  Such empty hearts. I recognized some of those who had been healed among them. I recognized priests, people who had stood within the multitudes and seen the demons cast forth, seen the dead rise to walk the earth again and breath the same air they breathed. With them all it was the same.

He was no longer a savior or prophet who would free their souls. He was no longer the Son of God, He was a blasphemer, and He was dying.

Judas and I had found food and water nearby and had returned, taking up our vigil on a second hill not far from Golgotha, but covered in trees that made us less visible to those who passed by. If we were to remain with Him until the end, we could not let ourselves be seen.

There was no way to hide our emotions from them, no way to stand as they stood, pretending that every fiber in our being did not cry out to us to go to Him, to cut Him down and to heal Him. Eventually they would have seen that we did not revile Him, or would have caught me with the tears streaming down my face, and they would have known us for what we were.

Our deaths, though we would have offered them freely, would have served no purpose. As much as the thought tore at the threads of my very existence, the Christ's death would serve every purpose. He would not truly die. That was what I had to keep repeating to myself, pounding the message into my brain and repeating it to Judas so I could share my knowledge of the prophecy with him and he could share his strength with me.

Somewhere in all this he had found himself again. It was good that we separated from Peter and the others. The time alone, the time for realizing that his own faith was unshaken, and that the Christ, the only one to whom it mattered, would know what had truly happened, had made Judas whole again.

His own concerns had been swept aside by the enormity of what faced Jesus. When the Christ was gone, the world would depend on us. The apostles would have to become the masters, the teachers. If it was not so, the sacrifice would be wasted.

When the sixth hour arrived, it grew suddenly dark. The darkness was not natural, for it was still too early for sunset. It was like a shroud had fallen over the entire city.

We could still see the crosses. Their outlines were visible, stark and lonely, against the empty blackness of the sky. My heart grew light then, fluttering as if filled with the buzzing wings of insects, and my throat became tight and dry. I mourned the loss of our Lord, and I feared the moment to come.

This was the final judgment for me, and for the Christ. There was no time left for conjecture, no chance left to wonder what might have been. Jesus had given me His gift, trusting to His heart and the love of the All-Father to bring us through. He had given what was not His to give, salvation to one of the fallen, offering me freely what was never to have been mine.

The darkness thickened until it was hard to make out Judas at my side. We sat on the ground, our legs touching for comfort, and we prayed. We prayed, and we watched.  The only sight in that darkness, the only light in the world, was the cross that bore the Christ, and it was for Him we prayed. That image filled our minds, imbedded itself in our memories and our hearts.

We did not ask for our own salvation; it had been offered already. We did not ask to have our burdens lightened, or to have a sign of the All-Father's power or love. We asked for a lessening of Jesus' pain. We asked for a swift death, or a reprieve from it. We asked for anything that would ease His passing, anything that would lessen the crushing weight of pain and humiliation that had been placed upon His shoulders.

The darkness continued until the ninth hour, and we prayed silently all that empty, lonely time. What happened next took me so completely by surprise that I cried out in shock, jumping to my feet in fear.

The light was suddenly returned, the desert night, the stars and the brightness of the waxing moon glowed down from the heavens. It was like the flash of lightning — blinding and intense.

A voice, His voice, the voice of the Christ rang out across the land, loud enough to be heard clearly where we sat, though the distance was considerable — powerful enough to ring from the surrounding buildings and to echo through the empty streets of the city.

"Elijah! Elijah! Why? Why am I forsaken?"

I stood still as stone, staring across the void that separated us. Foresaken. I caught snatches of thought from those around me, from Judas as well. They believed He called to Elijah to come and carry Him to heaven.

One of those beneath Him, thinking it great fun that their victim was once more showing signs of life, put a sponge soaked in vinegar on the tip of a long reed and lifted it up, pressing it against the Christ's lips and trying to force Him to drink. Jesus turned His head weakly, ignoring the man, and I heard the others gathered there calling for the man to stop, to leave Jesus alone.

"Let us see," they cried to one another, "if Elijah will come to Him. Let us see this King ascend to His throne, a sign we can believe in!"

I alone, a mortal woman among the multitudes of Earth, sharing the heavens with one I loved and the Earth with others, one foot in each world, I alone knew what had happened. The Christ and I knew.

In the moments that followed, before I could run down the hill and go to Him, to try and cut Him down, or to tell Him I was sorry, it was over.

He cried out a final time, arched His back against the wood of the cross and tensed every muscle in His body. He was gone. His earthly body remained, but He was dead, lost.

At His last cry, there was a rending that reverberated through to the core of my being.

I could tell from the way he started, from the shocked look that washed over his face, that Judas had felt it too. It was as if a veil had been torn from our sight, lifted to let us nearer to the truth.

It radiated from those around us as well. It had clouded their minds, led them from the truth. While Jesus had lived, they had reviled Him, but in His death and the cry of His last moment, they knew the truth.

I became aware that there were others of the faithful present. There was Mary, mother of James, and a great number of other women, those who had been with us on the road, and those who had seen to Jesus' needs when there were no others about. They came out from shadowy corners where they had watched, came out from homes where they had taken shelter. The soldiers did not make any move to stop them, nor did the priests come forth to drive them away, and I walked forward as well, Judas at my side.

I turned to him, and I looked into his eyes, and I could not tell him what I knew. It was too much. He had lived his life, come to the realization of hope, light, and salvation, and I could not tell him that in my own selfishness for what He had already been offered, I had lost it for them all.

I looked a final time upon the body of the Christ, suspended in death, without any trace of the light or essence that had been His, and I wept. Tears flowed, washing over my skin and soaking my face. Judas tried to put his arm around my shoulder, to comfort me, but I shook him off, pushing him away roughly.

There was no comfort. There was nothing he could do, nothing I could say to him that would make him understand what I was experiencing. Where there had been hope and light, there was a void. Where there had been the promise of eternity, there were shadows and death — physical, mortal death with no redemption. I could barely breathe; so intense was my fear, so deep my sorrow.

For the first time since I'd been granted my humanity, I felt the mocking laughter of Lucifer rising within me, echoing through my mind and haunting my thoughts. I tried to deny him, but I had no strength for it. He who had shielded me was irrevocably gone, and I was alone.

Lucifer's words came back to me, and it was more than I could endure. With that hateful voice resonating within me, repeating endlessly, I say to you, you will be his undoing, I turned, and I ran. I ran with all the strength of my body, forced myself to my physical limits.

So short, the voice continued. So short, and so empty, mortal lives. Live well, Mary, live well, and goodbye.

He was gone, but his words had spewed their venom. I heard Judas calling out to me, heard the pounding of his feet as he tried to follow, but I ignored him. He was a man, and I was a woman, but I was — had been — so much more. I could not face him with the knowledge I held, and I could not face him without revealing it. I could not take the faith the Christ had given him, even though it meant I must live my days alone and suffering.

He followed, but I had started very suddenly, and the raw pain eating at my heart gave me speed. He lost me after a few moments, and he quit trying to find me shortly after that. I ran on, stopping only when my body collapsed and my lungs screamed for air. My heart thudded like a drum, pounding in my temples and confusing my balance. I tumbled headlong, barely able to raise my arms and break my fall, and when I came to rest in the cooling sand of the desert night, I lay there.

I tried to wash all thought from my mind, but it was impossible. I held one vision that would not be erased, that had haunted me every step I'd run and filled my sight as I lay weeping into the sand. It was the Christ, hanging limp and lifeless, blood clotting on his skin, already pale from His mistreatment at the hands of the soldiers. His eyes were dull and empty, glazed. Where His mind, His spirit, and His light had shone forth, there was nothing. He had become mankind's deepest fear. He had become their hope, and then He had ceased to exist.

I lay there, wailing and moaning, biting my flesh and pulling at my hair, on the brink of insanity. I don't know how long I remained that way. All I remember is the light. It rose about me, blocking out the world.

I sensed the warmth of it against my skin, and I opened my eyes, turned over and stared numbly up into a face painted with and expression of perfect serenity and calm, filled with light and love. I almost fainted, but he began to speak. It had become very important to my chaotically tumbling mind that I understand what it was he was trying to say to me.

As my eyes grew accustomed to the light, I saw that there were actually three of them, the one who spoke and the two at his sides, and I recognized them, though I had seen them but once before. The light was blinding, and I scrambled backward across the sand. I sensed what was behind the words, felt the lines of force that joined them all to my mind.

Elijah spoke — his companions were Moses and Adam. The latter I knew only from shared visions, from Lilith's memories. I was amazed afresh at his beauty.

"You must listen, Mary, and you must act." The words broke through the morass of grief holding me in thrall.

I did not want to listen. I wanted to cower like an animal and to shudder with the fear and self-revulsion that controlled me. I wanted to be left to my grief, to my terror, to hide and to grieve, but their presence was too strong, the light of their essence too brilliant and overpowering.

"What. . . what do you want?" I managed to ask. "Why have you come here ... to torment me?"

A hand fell softly onto my shoulder, and I flinched, but I did not move away. I sensed the love and the forgiveness that permeated the air. It was tender — all encompassing — it reminded me of The Christ.

"We have not come to condemn you, Mary, for you loved Him more than any other . . . and He loved you. There are prices to be paid for everything, and the price of breaking prophecy is great. For your love and salvation, He risked all, and because He loved you, we love you as well."

I could not believe what I was hearing. Were they going to offer me salvation, after all that had happened? Were humanity, Judas, and Lilith, to be denied?

"It is not that simple." Adam cut in, reading my mind.  "Were it up to any of us, or to the All-Father, it would be done. We are here, instead, to ask your help. It is on your shoulders, now. You are the only hope of mankind. The prophecy was undone by love.”

It was over. The Christ was dead, gone, and there was nothing anyone could do about it.

"Woman now called Mary," Moses spoke for the first time, stepping forward to offer me his hand. I took it, and I met his gaze, though I wanted to turn and run. "Would you truly bring back the light to the world?"

I returned his gaze, reaching deep within me for the truth, all that I still possessed, and I answered.  "I would give my heart, my soul, and all that is my existence on this Earth. I would be extinguished for Him, or burn in any fire."

The love that burst forth from them in that moment was beyond description. They joined hands and drew themselves into a circle closely about me. I could not run, nor could I shut their words from my mind or their love from my soul.

"Go to Judas, now called betrayer, and tell him your tale. Tell him of the tragedy that has befallen, and tell him that it was out of love. When he understands, you must return to your curse. You must willingly give back what was given to you, releasing the blood of the Christ to its task, and all shall be as it was.

"But you must hurry. It must take place before the moment of the third day when Jesus is to return to this life, or all is forfeit. That gift will never be offered again, Mary, you are the only hope."

With those final words, they were gone. Their departure left me in shadow that twisted at my senses and drove me to my knees. It was several moments before I could see, or trust my weakened limbs to lift and carry my weight.

I summoned my remaining strength, and rose shakily, looking about to gain my bearings, to begin the staggering, halting trek back to the cross, to where I'd left Judas. The moon was high and bright, and it beckoned me home.

My heart was both full, and empty at once. I could save Him — but I was lost. Now, more truly than any moment since my transformation to a woman, I knew His pain. I shared it gladly.

CHAPTER TEN

When I had made my way back to the hill of Golgotha I stood, out of breath, and stared about in confusion. I must have seemed like a madwoman, or a demon. Those I passed, those who were near enough to see beyond the matted, grimy mass of my hair into the bottomless intensity of my eyes, backed away.

Once or twice a soldier moved as if he intended to block my path, but at the last moment changed his mind. I know I looked as if I should be avoided, or worse. I did not care. I ignored them, and they let me continue in peace.

Almost at once I saw Judas on the fringe of those gathered near the cross, and I went to him, pushing my way through the crowd. I was moving on spirit alone, forcing myself not to think of what was coming. If I had allowed myself to dwell too long on the emptiness, or the pain, I might have faltered. Though I loved with all my soul, I feared death.

When Judas saw me, he came to my side. His eyes were filled with a strange mixture of pain, sympathy, and confusion. I guessed that this was partly due to my demeanor.

As I drew closer, I saw the looks being cast his way, felt the overwhelming pressure of the emotions of those surrounding us pounding at me like mallets upon stakes. They condemned him with their eyes — reviled him with their hearts and minds. The Christ's plea that His betrayer be forgiven was for naught — they hated him even as they loved the Christ.

Jealousy burned in their eyes, glowed from within them and surrounded both Judas and me with an unbearable heat. They were gathered together in the memory of their Lord, and the promise of His salvation. This alone allowed them to tolerate Judas' presence. He was with them, because he was one of the chosen, but he was denied their fellowship, respect, and the love that was his due. In my sorrow, I'd neglected his pain.

Without thought to how it would look, or to how he would take it, I threw myself into his arms and buried my head on his shoulder.  I shuddered under a sudden onslaught of weariness and pain, and he bore me up. My curse, my own burden filled my mind. I didn't even have the energy left to spare for anger, or frustration.

I was barely alive, hungry and thirsty to the depths of my soul. I knew only too well that this thirst was but a precursor. The one thing in creation that I truly thirsted for was to be taken from me yet again, denied me after all I had known and suffered.

"Mary," Judas said softly.  He pulled me close despite the grime, the disheveled filth of my appearance and the wildness in my eyes. The crowd stared at our open display of emotion, but they averted their eyes in either anger, or disgust, as he held me. He smoothed my hair as well as he could. He went through the motions of comforting me, but he was in need of something himself. The loneliness, the empty void that had been the light binding him to his brothers in the Lord, was overwhelming.

I wept.  The sobs tore through my soul and shivered through my body. He held me, letting my weight sag against the strength of his arms, letting his tender words and gentle caresses flow over and off of me without effect. Shamelessly, I fed off his love, knowing it might be my final taste and needing it more than I would ever have believed possible. I knew, in any case, that he needed to be needed — it was a mutual hunger.

Finally, when there was no more pain to wring from my heart and the limits of my physical strength had been reached, I raised my head and whispered into his ear, softly, low enough that no other could hear.  "We must go," I told him.  "There are things I have to tell you. Nothing is as it seems. We have no time to wait, no time for hesitation. You must trust me with all your heart."

"But," he turned to gaze at those who were cutting Jesus' body down from the cross, lowering Him gently and reverently, to where Mary, Jesus' mother stood with Peter and the rest. Joseph, a rich man from Aramathea, oversaw the proceedings with a quiet, stoic dignity, "what of our Lord? We cannot leave now, not with the fulfillment of His promise so close."

I followed his gaze briefly, and I saw the lifeless lump of flesh that had been the Christ. One of the soldiers, unable to believe He had died so soon after being crucified, stabbed Him in the side with a spear; blood and water flooded out. There was no color to His skin, no heat. It was an empty shell, in no way associated with the man — the God — I had known. I turned back and continued.

"We must!" I grated, the fire returning briefly to my eyes. I stepped back slightly so that Judas see it. "I have spoken with Elijah, Judas. We must leave now. There is still time before He will rise — time enough for many things — but only if we hurry."

Judas did not want to go. I saw it in his eyes and felt it in the tension of his muscles as he held me.  I tasted it in the faint wisps of emotion and thought that were still mine to sense. He did not want to leave our Lord, and I could not blame him for that, for it came from a deep, abiding love. I also could not allow him the luxury of that love — not then, not ever. I had to make him understand.

"It will not take long," I promised, and I saw in his eyes that I had won. Whatever bond had grown between us, whatever love we shared beyond what we shared with the others, that bond came to my aid in that moment. He might or might not have believed that the prophets had appeared to me, but he knew what I was — that I was more than the woman I seemed — and he was willing, even then, to give me the benefit of his doubt. In the face of the hatred that bombarded him from all sides, I loved him still, and that fact was like a hook, deeply imbedded in his heart, drawing him to me against his own wishes.

"I will come," he said, turning from the Christ's body and those he had lived with and loved. Holding me on my feet by putting one strong arm about my shoulder, he led me away, and I let him lead. It did not matter where we went, as long as it was away from that place, away from prying eyes. What was to happen was private.

We walked through the streets of the city, finally reaching a point far enough beyond those who surrounded Golgotha and those who wept among the streets of the city. Strange stories were on every tongue. The dead had walked, the saints had risen. I would linger, and hunger, and love. It was written.

We went beyond the city and into the desert, stopping only once for a handful of dates and a skin of cool water, both of which Judas forced upon me before he would continue. Now that he had committed himself to come with me, he was solicitous, pampering me. It was obvious that he feared for my health, perhaps for my sanity as well. His love shone forth from him as I had never seen it — perhaps it had only paled before that of the Christ when He was with us. I was grateful for it, ravished of mind and soul.

"You are half-dead," he said, worry thickening his voice.  "You will die without nourishment."

"I only wish it were that simple," I retorted, instantly regretting my outburst. He stared at me as if I were truly the madwoman I appeared to be then, and I nearly cried again. How could I do this? Where would I find the strength? I had not meant to snap at him, but my emotions were barely in check, my words only gray, smoky mirrors of what I tried to communicate.

When we were finally alone, darkness had fallen. I seated myself in the shadow of a large boulder and gestured for him to join me. The night breezes were cooling the sand and the stone, and the moon was rising to illuminate the scene with her eerie light.

When he had dropped to the sand at my side, gazing at me expectantly, I found that I had no words. As I'd made my way into the city to fetch Judas, I'd concocted all sorts of grand speeches, stories and parables to aid me. My mind was a blank. I tried to imagine how the Christ would handle it, making Judas understand, overcoming his fears and his doubts.

"I have undone everything." I said at last. "There is nothing left, Judas, nothing but death and dust."

"You are tired, Mary, and your mind is troubled." He admonished me.  "You heard His words. More than any other, you have known His love and His promise. He promised to return to us, and He could not lie."

"And He did not," I said, fighting off the tears that threatened to overcome me again. "He believed, at the moment of His death, that His promise was a true one.

"Judas, do you recall His last words, those He cried to the night as He died?"

"He called to Elijah," he answered promptly. "He called to Elijah to carry His spirit home."

"No." I did not let him interrupt.  "He said, ‘Elijah, why am I forsaken.'   Forsaken, Judas — not saved — not resurrected — forsaken. He is not going to rise. You, and all those around you, heard what you wanted to hear."

Judas was on his feet, anger clouding his features, and his finger was pointed at me in accusation.  "You lie," he cried.  "You are as mad as you look! Have you forgotten everything?"

Without meeting his eyes, I told him. I did not look up as I spoke, nor did I raise or lower the tones of my voice. I began at the beginning, sparing him nothing, forcing him to understand what had happened, to believe in my words.

He fought me. He did not want to hear it. He wanted to run, to return to the blissful ignorance of humanity, to know me as a woman, and only that, not one of the fallen, not an angel of the lord beyond redemption. He wanted even to deny the memories that I was at last forced to drag from him, memories of our first meetings, the depths of my eyes and the fear in his heart. I told him of Lazarus, of the truth in the other Mary's words when she spoke of fanged demons and flowing blood.

I feared that he would leave me, that I would face the ordeal alone, that I would be forced to bear the burden on my own shoulders, and that that weight would press me into the Earth and smother me, leaving me lifeless and empty of hope. I had supported him, but what I had placed on his shoulders was as far beyond any burden of guilt or loneliness the other apostles could concoct as the Christ was beyond me. I should not have doubted him. It seems I have made an existence based on doubts that shame me. He did not leave. He ranted at me. He paced in circles, flinging himself first to the sand in front of me, then back to his feet to pace some more.

I watched him with tears rolling down my cheeks. I answered every question he threw at me, destroyed his arguments — removed his doubts. He glared into my eyes first with hatred, then with disbelief, and finally with resignation. The one thing he did not do was to leave.

"The weight is too much, Mary," he said at last, dropping to the sand at my side.  "It is too much for only one — He would not have wanted that. How can you do this thing? How can you give up hope?"

"I do not give up the hope," I replied, moving closer and leaning my head on his shoulder tentatively. "I return it. It is better to wait here a thousand years with the promise of heaven than to live a single life in the fear of death.

"Besides, Judas, it is what He was put here to do. He died for us, and the fact that He would not wish me to take the burden from Him is exactly why I must. I love Him."

He turned to me and lifted my chin so that our eyes met.  He saw that I meant to go through with it. In that moment, we understood one another perfectly, and our bond was cemented. He pulled me close, his own tears finally bursting forth in a salty flood as the realization of what had befallen us became clear.

"How will you do this thing?" he whispered, pulling me close again and stroking my hair. "How will you give back what has been offered — what is the road back to darkness?"

"I don't know," I answered, though in my heart, I did.  "I think ... I think I would have to feed, as I did before, to take the blood of one of the living in replacement for what He gave me. They said that the blood of the Christ must be freed to do it's cleansing. It must be free of me."

He stiffened, and then he spoke again.  "I will not let you do this alone, Mary. If you are willing to give your life, your very soul, for the love of the Christ, and for the love of those who are not truly your own ... for the love of me — than how can I offer less and walk as a man?

"If you must have blood, and it must come from one of my race, let it be me, and let it be now. Together we will find our way home to Him."

I jerked away, retreating across the sand like a crab. "You don't know what you are saying!" I cried. "You don't know the price that is demanded!"

"I know it better than you believe, Mary," he said, rising and walking to where I now sat, offering me his hand. "I know that you will take the blood of a man to save the souls of a world. I know that you believe strongly enough to bear that weight until the day of final judgment. With the exception of the Christ Himself, no other can claim such love.

"I know also, that you hold a piece of me within you that I would be lost without. I will not let you pay this price alone. If we are to be cursed, then so be it."

I took his hand, and though my heart told me to spare Him, though his love meant more to me in that moment, his support more to my waning strength than even the memory of the Christ, I could not. He had offered, and there was no other way; how could I have thought it would be otherwise?

I let Him draw me close once more, and as he did so, I called out to the hunger and the shadows.

There was a spark remaining, only the tiniest, blood-red shade against the light of my soul, but I found it. I grasped it tightly, closed my eyes and not thinking of what was to come, I surrendered to it.

The curse slammed through me with staggering force. I pounced on Judas, knocked Him over backwards and clamped onto the soft skin of his throat with the fangs that extended suddenly from my jaw. Instinct took over — I knew the hunger intimately, remembered the pain and the curse, the ice and the emptiness.

He struggled, horrified by my sudden fury. He was no match for me. With the curse came my spirit -- my strength. I was once more one of the fallen, Mary the demon, Mary the cursed. He fell before me, weak as a child.

I could not stop myself. There was no barrier between the hunger and me. All the thirst and pain that the Christ had taken from me returned at once, multiplied by the nights without feeding, the days of freedom I'd been granted. I heard the cries of those I'd fed upon, returning to share my torment. I knew their moans and wails; their voices were as familiar as my own.  I sobbed as I fed, taking and taking and giving nothing but horror and emptiness in return. I tried to rip myself free of Judas, tried to fall back and away.

As one of the faithful, he should have been spared, going on to his reward as his body was drained, but he did not.

I beat futilely on the sand, unable to free myself, unable to deny the consummation of the hunger. I fed, and I wept, and from below I felt a growing sensation, first of dismay, then of anger, building and rushing outward from the nether regions, flying to where I lay, prone on the sand, Judas' limp body held tightly in my arms.

Lucifer was furious. I quivered in new fear. What would he do? I was cheating Him of his victory once again; I who had been his lover, his slave, was his undoing.

His approach was like the flash of lighting from the sky, or the rush of heat from a fire. His essence flew at us like a bolt of pure rage, an arrow of hatred aimed straight for our hearts.

He was too late. As his flames flowed over us, as I felt the icy-hot touch of his ire, it was done. The curse was mine. I was empty, and Judas lay beneath me, cold, dead and condemned — within me, crying out for mercy.

Judas 28

And Judas Iscariot, blamed of the betrayal, went into the desert with the temptress, she called Mary Magdalene, who had come upon Him, wild of eye. Her cheeks damp with tears, and she cried out, saying "Judas, beloved or our Lord, a great evil has come upon us."

"Lady," Judas replied, "in three days our Lord shall rise from His grave, redemption is at hand."

"He is dead," she told Him, seating herself, "of love for me, He sacrificed all. We bear the weight, you and I, for I have spoken with Elijah, and He has sent me to you."

And she spoke to Him of Lucifer, and of her curse, and of Jesus' gift of life, with its terrible price. They wept, clinging to one another, and Judas cried out, "The weight is too great on you, Mary, for He would not wish you to pay this price!"

"That," she replied, "is why I must pay it."

"Then take me," Judas laid back, baring his throat, tears in his own eyes, "for truly your love rivals even His, and His gift is too precious to lose."

Seeing the love in Judas' eyes, feeling the wrench of Satan's very claws as he leapt to prevent her, the woman, Mary, fell upon the body of Judas and fed, weeping, casting herself willingly to the darkness from which she'd been raised, feeling the awakening hunger that would once again consume her.

Then it was black, and they were smitten with the fire of Lucifer, losing all thought.

The darkness that followed was overwhelming. I knew that the blast of Lucifer's hatred must have charred us. No power on Earth, or in Heaven, could have diverted his rage.

But there was no pain. The fire did not reach us; we were not consumed. I almost wept when I realized this fully, because it would have been merciful. It would have been an ending to the pain, and to the hunger. Voices whispered all around us in the shadows, some chittering, some laughing, some somber and grave. I could not make out the words, only snippets of sound that reverberated through my mind and away. I knew Judas was still beside me because I could feel his hand, cold and still, in my own. He was within me, and I shared the anguish of his suffering.

Mary. I wasn't certain, at first that I heard the word, but it was repeated. Mary.

I sought within myself. I could make out nothing in the void. I did not recognize the voice; I only sensed the touch upon my mind and knew the words. Whoever it was, there was no malice in Him. I waited, answering with all the strength of my mind and soul, hoping there would be more.

Mary, you have given a gift greater than life itself. I recognized Him then, and my heart nearly burst as it opened to Him, searching and reaching desperately to grasp his spirit. It was Elijah, but though I could understand, I could not touch his light.

You cannot reach me now, he soothed, but I am with you. I shall always be with you, you and he who shares your curse.  There is little I can do.  The light is still yours; you will not be trapped by the shadows.  The dark one is cut off from your minds. He may hunt you, and he may hate you, but he cannot do you harm. He has no power to destroy that which he has not created, and he has created nothing.

I will return to Judas that which is his, his mind and power — that is a burden you are not meant to share.  Yours path will not always be his, though both will be long.

The Christ is with you too, and He still needs your love.  You must go to Him now, and you must remain near Him as long as He is upon the Earth. His heart will be heavy — He knows your pain.

The Earth, and the Heavens are grateful to you.

And then we were alone again, the moon high in the night sky above us, bathing the world in its familiar silver radiance. A breeze played with the strands of my hair, which were no longer dirty or matted, and my senses stretched out once more, freed of their mortal bonds. There was no mocking laughter in the background, no hollow emptiness within. I was as I had been, empty and condemned.

Judas sat beside me, looking about in wonder. I did not know if he'd heard the words of Elijah I did not know if he remembered the draining, the horrible sensation of losing all his being.

I did see the hunger that rose in his eyes, a hunger that reflected my own, and my smile was bittersweet. I reached out softly, caressing his chin, and I pulled him to his feet and into my arms.

He came haltingly at first, then faster, throwing himself against me in confusion and fear. "What has become of us, Mary?" he asked softly. "What will become of us?"

"That is not for us to decide," I answered. "He will guide us, as always. As He lives, there is hope, and now He lives forever. We must go to Him."

He hesitated, his hand on his throat.  "Mary, I hunger," he said.

"Come," I beckoned to him. "We will feed together, you and I, and then we will go to the tomb of our Lord. We will need our strength."

He nodded once more and followed me as I led the way swiftly across the sand. He was fascinated by our speed, by his new ability to read my mind. My lips had not moved, and yet he followed. There were many lessons to teach — we had nothing but time.

Nothing.

We reached the walls of the city, and I slowed our pace. Night was fading, and I knew we would need shadows for what was to come. We would also need a victim. I intended to share his first blood, to help him to come to terms with what he had become. It proved unnecessary. The curse was stronger than any resistance he might have mounted.

We came upon a young couple, slowly leading a donkey toward the city, talking and laughing. They walked very closely together, arm in arm. They seemed very happy. I would have passed them by, would have searched for someone more deserving, someone with less ahead in life, but it was not to be.

Judas sensed them as I did, and the blood-scent fixed in him with a force that brought a cry of dismay to his lips. The two turned, staring into the shadows to where we stood. There was no time for them to run, or to protect themselves. One moment Judas was at my side, the next he vanished. He moved like smoke, and he was upon the two before I could decide what to do.

He grabbed the girl, tossing the young man aside carelessly. He was at her throat in an instant, drinking down the blood in huge gulps, draining her quickly. I had to grab the boy, and once the sensation of his warm skin on mine possessed me, I was beyond control. We knelt like animals, glutting ourselves on the innocent blood that flowed into our veins.

When it was done, there was not a drop remaining in either of them. I gasped and stepped back, wiping my hand across my face in misery. I stared down at the torn, broken body at my feet, wanting to scream, to claw the hair from my head.

Judas had no such control. He stared at the limp, lifeless form of the girl, transfixed by the milky whiteness of her skin, the cruel punctures in her throat. He backed away slowly as his senses returned and shook his head.  He mumbled prayers that were as incoherent as they were feeble. His mind was going, and I felt the scream build within him as I rushed to his side, felt his soul rushing upward to try and burst free of the bonds of his existence.

His voice was the clap of thunder through the mountains, the gales of a desert storm, rasping and cutting everything in its path as if it were a geyser of sand. He clasped his hands to the sides of his head, shaking it violently in negation. He continued to back away from the girl's body. He screamed a single word, encompassing his curse, and his soul, within that utterance.

"No!"

I saw that he was going to run. I knew the emotions that gripped him only too well. I reached him just in time and wrapped him in my arms, holding him tightly as he began to shake. He screamed at me to let him free, to let him run — to let him die. If I could have offered death to him in that instant, I would have.

"Judas!" I screamed at him. He ignored me. I cuffed him on the side of his head with as much force as I could muster and sent him sprawling.

"Judas!" I repeated. "Look at me! Do you think this is any easier for me? Did you think this curse would just be another small human guilt? This is how we live. You took this on for His sake.

"You have no time for reviling yourself. You asked me this same question, now I ask it of you, have you forgotten everything? If you run now, you fail Him. It will be for nothing."

I do not know what he saw in that instant; probably a prancing, wild-haired demoness, screeching and swinging her arms about like a madwoman. It does not matter. He saw me — clearly — and he heard me. He rose to his knees; his eyes locked on mine in such pain as I'd never wanted to see in another's gaze, and he began to crawl forward.

I stood watching him as he came. His features were drenched in remorse, yet he could not weep. When he reached me, he wrapped his arms around my legs, laying his head against my thighs.

He sobbed, not with the salty moisture of tears, but with the racking, desolation of a dead soul. He shivered against me, and I knelt at his side, pulling him close, wondering how I could possibly have taken this good — great — man and brought him into the madness we now faced.

Eventually he quieted, but he did not move immediately. I held him close, my breasts pressed tightly against his chest, the blood of two innocent children, robbed of life and love, flowing through our veins. He pulled back and released me. I held onto his shoulders and searched his eyes. They were not empty, but they were sad — oh Lord in heaven, so sad.

He raised a hand and softly brushed my cheek, meeting my gaze openly. There was wonder in his eyes now, and a curiosity that burned like flame.

"Mary," he said, finding his voice at last, "how have you borne so much? How have you walked and loved and believed? How could I have been so blind?"

I turned my gaze to the desert beyond the shadows and us. "I have taken all that is meaningful from you."

"You have not taken my faith," he answered, reaching to turn my face back to his, "and you have given me back my Lord. I cannot let these gifts go unrequited, though the price is more than I could have known. We will go now, to be at His side, and we will face the judgment together."

I rose, taking his hands and lifting him with me, and we turned to the night. We did not look again at the bodies we'd left behind us. They would be in a better place, a land of love and light. They had been pure. The shadows swallowed us as surely as any grave, closing behind us.

We moved silently across the desert, skirted the edge of the town and came to the great stone that blocked the entrance to the tomb that held the body of the Christ. I sensed the eternal glory of His presence and it nearly caused me to faint. I had not known, until that moment, that it was true. He would rise — the gift would be as promised.

Judas sensed it too, and I saw that such intimate contact with the spirit that was his Lord had shaken him to the very roots of his soul. He stood, entranced, and stared at the huge boulder as if it were the Messiah.

I touched him lightly on the shoulder, gesturing at the grave, and he nodded. We stepped forward together and pressed against the stone with our combined strength. It rolled easily, sliding from in front of the grave to rest against the side of the rock into which the grave had been cut.

Any vision I might have pictured, any brilliance I might have foreseen, paled. He stood within, awaiting our coming. We fell to our knees in awe as He stepped slowly forward, capturing us in the warmth and love of His eyes. We saw them as if through brilliant prisms. He was alight from within, His radiance shone forth like a beacon. I feared that He would be seen, that others would come, but there was nothing I could do but kneel, and love, and worship Him all at once.

We had known Him as Jesus the Christ, and we had known Him, at the time of His death, as Jesus the man. Jesus the God stood before us, resplendent and heavenly.

There were so many things that I wanted to say to Him, so many things that I needed Him to know. Beyond my ability to speak — or to meld with His spirit — He knew. His love filled me, for that moment, so completely, so utterly, that I ceased to exist at all.

Judas, kneeling beside me, was equally struck. The light had grown to encompass the entire clearing, surrounding us and cleansing us.

"I would not have had you suffer so," He spoke at last, and I could do nothing but hang my head. He stepped forward. "Look at Me, Mary. You have loved Me as no other, the both of you.

"Though I cannot share your curse, know this. A time will come when I will walk these roads again — you will be there. I will remember."

He drew us to our feet and pulled us close in an embrace, kissing first my forehead, then Judas, branded traitor. Then He stepped back, and He spoke a final time.

"Lead them to Me, Mary. I go to Galilee. Send them to the tomb, and the prophecy will do the rest. You are a part of it all now, and in that is your hope. I will not forget."

Then He was gone. Judas and I stood staring into the empty depths of the tomb, so close that our shoulders brushed. His glow was with us still, and we turned, sharing the only comfort we would have.

Judas looked at me once more, and I saw the sorrow flood through him. I wanted to comfort him, but I could not.   As the void returned, extinguishing light and returning the emptiness of the curse, hunger lapped at his heart and soul once more, and his mind snapped. He turned, and he ran, I ran to follow, calling his name.

Judas: 30

Running from the tomb, where Jesus stood, resurrected, Judas came to a tall tree. Taking from a nearby home a length of rope, he cast it upon a sturdy branch. Putting to the end of the rope a noose, he climbed to a branch high above the ground, fixed the rope to his neck, and leapt, hanging himself.

Finding him thus, the people spoke against him, led by Simon, called Peter, saying, "He has taken his life from shame, for he betrayed his Lord."

Mary Magdalene, running to where the disciples were gathered, said, "I have seen the Lord, and He is risen."

And Jesus appeared other times to His disciples, speaking words of comfort and salvation, and was raised once more to His throne in Heaven. Those who hunger remain.

Hanging failed to assuage Judas’ guilt, as I had known it would fail.   In the hours of darkness I cut him down and led him away into the shadows that bind us. On the bark of that tree, where we left the rope hanging, swinging empty in the wind, I inscribed the following words:

"Here hanged one who loved beyond life."

We wait in need; we dine in shame. May God forgive us.

SPECIAL SNEAK PREVIEW

ON THE THIRD DAY – By David Niall Wilson

PROLOGUE

The moon hung high in the sky and lit the empty streets with a white, hazy glow.  The radiance was painful to Father Prescott's eyes, so brilliant that it cut through his senses and prevented focus on anything but the dirt of the street before him and a brighter light ahead.

He stumbled forward, though the sensation was of floating, not walking.  The street was longer than he remembered, longer than it should be.  He felt the weight of their eyes.  They stood in doorways, between the homes, in the windows of stables and on the steps of the small adobe schoolhouse.

They followed him with their collective, accusing gaze.  Every face was chiseled into a frown of disapproval, or of hatred.  They stared at him like the liberated characters in an ancient painting of loss or damnation.  They stared at him and he moved on, fighting to look away from their bitter faces, only to face them again in whatever direction he turned.

Ahead the light grew in intensity until it shone like a small sun, or a captured star.  It sparked from the base of the chapel, leaped brightly to the sky and washed away the encroaching figures.  Father Prescott wanted to hurry forward.  He wanted to move into that brighter light, away from the eyes and the stares and the ancient pain that dogged his steps, but his progress was not his own to control.

As he drew nearer, he saw the statue.  It pulsed like neon, or white hot metal, molded into the form of a man.  Rays of light slashed from a gash in the side of the figure's skull.  Something beautiful and overpowering poured from that small hole and Father Prescott wanted to drop to his knees before it, but he couldn’t.  He was held, prevented from drawing too near to the statue itself; prevented from escaping those who closed in now on all sides.

Shadow forms, their features clear, but their bodies obscured, melted into the light.  He had the impression that they were pressing their features into the exterior of that light, pressing inward but unable to penetrate the glow.

He tried to cry out, tried to call to them, but he had no voice.  He tried to raise a hand to his lips, but found that he couldn’t move his limbs, except in that inexorable march forward.

He came at last to a point in the road parallel with the leading edge of the chapel.  The light surrounded him on all sides, and there was a SNAP of energy.  He stood within the light, firmly rooted on the ground and able to walk.

The statue gleamed and glittered, flickering now with multi-colored beams of light.  The radiance still emanated from the gash in the figure's head.  Father Prescott drew closer, and knelt in the hard packed dirt of the street.  The eyes of the statue glared at him in dead, unfeeling anguish.

He noticed, a leather thong had been hung about the throat beneath that glowing head, and from this a pouch dangled.  There was no radiance where the pouch touched - it was the single shadowed thing, and Father Prescott recognized it with a gasp.

It was not possible, he knew.  This pouch could not be hanging here, and it was so long ago that any of this had happened and yet...

He reached out gently and tried to cup the leather bag in his fingers.  It was slick and rubbery, and where he touched it, it grew damp.  Frowning, Father Prescott pulled the thing away from the throat of the beautiful, glowing statue, but as he did so, something dripped from the interior of the bag onto his fingers, and from there to the ground at his feet.

He jerked his hand back, but it was too late.  The sack began to leak, slowly at first, and then in a steady stream that poured over the white figure, washed down the statue’s body and leaked into Father Prescott’s skin.  It spread rapidly upward, like a coffee-stain on paper leaking from the center outward until the entire statue grew dark - all but that hole in the side of its head.  Where the dagger should be.  Where the light poured out.

Father Prescott cried out and reached toward that light, tried to catch it in the palm of his hand, and failed.  The brilliant illumination filtered through his fingers and splintered, fragmenting in all directions and then - very suddenly - went dark.

Father Prescott sat bolt upright on his cot.  His skin was clammy and the sheets clung to him damply.  His entire frame shook in the aftermath of the dream - vision?

It was still dark, hours before the sun would peek over the jungle and slip in his window.  He drew the rough blanket at his feet back over himself, rolled into a ball, and pressed his back solidly into the stone wall of the room.

There was a rustle in the back of his mind.  Something unfolded that was as familiar as his own voice, but spoken in another's.  It echoed through his mind, as he lay shivering and waiting for the dawn.

Just four words.

"I believe in God."

On the Third Day: Chapter One

The late afternoon sun filtered through the heavy blinds of Bishop Michaels’ office, striped the walls and angled just over the heads of the two men seated on either side of the ornate mahogany desk.  Tapestries hung on the wall, and the deep pile carpet was thick and soft. The wooden furniture was polished to a high gloss and the sunlight gave each surface the aspect of mellow, glowing flame.  Nothing in the office was new.  It whispered of ancient times, and power.

Crystal goblets surrounded a carafe that rested on a sumptuous buffet along one wall.  The leather of both chairs creaked with each slight motion, and the air hung thick with silence.

Bishop Anthony Michaels sat in his dark, comfortable chair, and regarded the young priest across the desk from him over steepled fingers.  The Bishop was the epitome of decorum.  He had light blue eyes and a ruggedly handsome face.  His hair was dark, graying at the temples – a look that was very distinguished when taken in conjunction with the carefully pressed vestments and the manicured nails.   No hair was out of place.  No crease or fold of material was out of order.  Ordered, in fact, was the word to describe it all, ordered and proper.  Immaculate.

On the desk before him sat an array of documents.  Some were clipped from newspapers, others were photocopies and faxes, and all were arrayed like a silent army readying itself for the attack.  The Bishop didn’t look at them, but the tips of his fingers rested on the papers firmly.

Seated across from him, Father Quentin Thomas leaned in toward the Bishop’s desk.  He had tousled brown hair, matching eyes, and a trim, athletic build.  He was not as “immaculate” as the Bishop, but perhaps a bit more honest.  His eyes had a dark, haunted aspect that spoke of weariness beyond his thirty-four years.

“So,” Bishop Michaels said at last, “what you are asking me to believe, in essence, is that you have experienced The Stigmata.”

It wasn’t a question, but a statement, as though the older man were gathering his thoughts.

Father Thomas replied, his voice quiet and strained.

“I’m not sure what I’m asking you to believe.  I’m not even sure what I believe.”

“There is certainly no doubt what these -- people -- believe.” the Bishop replied, flipping the ordered papers into a jumbled mess with a quick slash of one hand.  “People are easily manipulated, Quentin, as I’m sure you have come to know in your own right.  The question is, to what are they being led?”

Father Thomas didn’t glance at the papers.  He knew well enough what they were.  Letters to the Editor.  Headlines from “The Rooftop,” a local tabloid newspaper.  Faxes from Quentin’s own parishioners, and from The Vatican, and a small paper clipped pile of requests from the local television station.  All of them wanted the same thing. Answers.

Bishop Michaels slowly swiveled his chair and gazed out the large, curtained window into the blue sky beyond.  He rubbed the fingers of his left hand along the bridge of his nose, and then curled them under his chin.  He remained that way for a few moments, and then he spoke.

“I have been a part of the church since I was a young man, Quentin.  I have seen a lot of things over those years, and borne witness to a great many – experiences -- that I can neither explain, nor understand.”

Father Thomas sat forward expectantly, hanging on the Bishop’s words.  His hands trembled.

Then, without warning, Bishop Michaels spun back to face Father Thomas, slammed his hands down onto the desk and scowled at the younger priest.

“I have never heard anything like this.”

He hesitated to let his words sink in.  His expression slipped from its austere, almost fatherly aspect to an expression of deep disdain.  He continued, biting off each sentence as if he was having a hard time passing the words.

“Your hands itched.  You felt something trickle down your forehead in the heat of Easter Mass.  You had a stitch in your side – and your feet hurt.  Do I really need to tell you, Father Thomas, that these hardly constitute a miracle?  You’d be hard pressed to find a priest in Mother Church who has not experienced each and every one of these symptoms during a Mass.”

Father Thomas sat back as if he’d been slapped.  His eyes were wide in shock, and his mouth fell open, though it took him several attempts to form words.

“Surely,” he said at last, “you don’t believe I would make something like this up?  I know you heard what I said.  I did not have itchy palms; I bled in front of my congregation.  It ran down my arms – my face.”

He fell silent for a few moments, and then he went on, the tone of his voice far away and bitter.   He choked back anger – or tears – but when he spoke, it was controlled.

“I came to you for help.”

Bishop Michaels' countenance remained icy, but he leaned forward over his desk.  His hands gripped the edge of the wooden surface so tightly his knuckles were white spots of tension.

“Then I will grant you that help,” he replied.  “Make no mistake; I will put this nonsense to rest.”

Father Thomas sat still as stone.  His face was trapped halfway between confused anger and hope.  He had never seen the Bishop so angry, never seen him lose his calm demeanor, even for a moment.  He didn’t recognize the man facing him across the desk, but he very much wanted to be able to trust him.

Bishop Michaels caught that glimmer of hope, and stomped on it quickly and viciously.

“Don’t mistake me, Father Thomas, I see through you.  I don’t know how you did what you did, or why.  I don’t know what you think you saw or felt, or what you sold to those appointed to your care, nor does it concern me. If I had the slightest inkling that you had experienced a miracle that inkling died when you told me, not more than a few minutes ago, that you don’t even know what you believe.

“I know that there is something to this, but I know equally well that it is not a miracle from God.  Miracles, in this day and age, are rare, and very precious.  I will not have you making a mockery of them in a parish under my control.

“I also have no idea what we are going to do about these,” he swiped his hand through the pile of papers, and the frustration behind his anger shone through clearly.

Father Thomas remained rigid, as if all flexibility had been lost to his limbs, but he managed to respond, and he managed to do so in a clear, level voice.

“It is nearly Easter, Excellency,” he said simply.  “All that I have asked of you is that you attend, and, if something like what occurred a year ago should return to me, that you should see, and advise me.”

The Bishop smiled then, but it was not a pleasant expression.  He pushed off from his desk, fell back into the heavy leather of his chair, and laced his fingers together, holding them against his chest.

“And what is it that I will see, Quentin?” he asked smugly.  “Will there be lots of blood?  Will I hear angel choruses in the background?  Will there be souvenir programs handed out at the door, do you think, or will I have to purchase that?  What would be the price, I wonder?  Will the walls tremble?  Will I get to be on national television and cry ‘Praise Jesus’ like some white-suited flame-tongued televangelist?”

The sarcasm hung in the air like a bitter cloud.

Michaels hesitated, just for a second, and then said, “I will be there.  Count on it.”

Father Thomas stared at the Bishop for a moment of unbelieving silence, and then lowered his head.  He nodded slowly and turned, his shoulders bowed.  He had come expecting something; he didn’t know what it had been, but not this.  The Bishop’s reaction had shocked him to his core.  He exited without reply, leaving the heavy wooden doors open behind him.

Bishop Michaels watched the doorway until all trace of Father Thomas disappeared, and the soft brush of robes and vestments ceased to echo.  The afternoon had grown late, and the light that streamed in through the windows had fallen away.  The shadows lengthened slowly, stretching out from all corners of the room and following the light.

On the edge of the old wooden desk, the Bishop’s grip tightened again.  His nails threatened to dig into to the polished surface, and his hands trembled so powerfully that the shivers ran up his arm and shook him back to his senses.  Almost absently, he reached out and gathered the scattered papers back into a neat stack.

He stared at the doorway where Father Thomas had disappeared and fought back the anger that threatened to boil out of control.  He didn’t glance down at his desk, because there were loose objects on that surface, and he didn’t trust himself not to throw them.  There were beautiful, ancient things surrounding him, on the desk, the shelves, hanging from the walls, and he was on the verge of devastating it all, rushing around the room to smash the Tiffany lamp into an ancient Sumerian vase, or to yank the hand-woven rug from beneath the table that held his cut-crystal.

When he had slowed his breathing enough to trust his hands, he released the desk and reached to the bottom right hand drawer.  There were two tumblers there, and a small flask.  He pulled one tumbler and the flask free, and poured two fingers of amber liquid.  He stared at it, frowned, and then tipped the flask again, doubling it.

When the heat of the brandy began to seep through his nerves and calm him, he poured again, and reached across the now shadowed surface of his desk for the ornate black phone.

On a nightstand across the world, another phone rang.  The shrill sound drove itself through the darkness and snatched the room’s occupant from the warm, comfortable arms of sleep.

Cardinal Sean O’Brien, thick, swarthy, and not at all happy at the prospect of being awakened before his appointed hour, rolled in his bed and pulled the pillow more closely over his head.  It did no good.  The phone was loud, insistent, and came with none of the amenities of American phones – like an answering machine.

Groaning, O’Brien rolled over and slapped ineffectually at the nightstand, nearly overturning the glass of water he kept by his side at night.  As he came fully awake, his fingers regained their dexterity, and he managed to snag the receiver from its cradle with an irritated grunt.

“Yes?” he said.

The sound of someone breathing was the only answer for a long moment, then, Bishop Michaels’ voice crackled over the line.

“Sean?” he said.  “It’s Tony.  I . . . I’m sorry to call.  It’s so late.  I should just let you . . .”

O’Brien sat up and ran his hand back through what remained of his hair.  He was alert now, and he detected something odd in his old friend’s voice.  Something he knew he should recognize, but that did not come to him immediately.

“It’s fine, Tony,” he said.  “You never were one for ceremony, in any case.  What is it?”

“I’m not sure,” Bishop Michaels replied.  There was a slight slur to his voice, and suddenly Sean knew what it was he’d heard.  Tony was drinking.  It had been a long time since he’d last helped his friend with that particular demon, but once the circuits connected in his mind, Sean knew.

“It’s San Marcos, and Father Thomas.  You remember I told you about the – disturbance last Easter Mass?  Since then things have gotten a little crazy here, Sean.  The media is up in arms . . .”

Sean thought quickly.  There were a number of ways this could be headed, and he didn’t like any of them, but if he chose wrong, he would be no help to his friend.

“So,” he said softly, “I take it you still think there’s nothing to it?”
“How could there be, Sean?” Bishop Michaels asked.  He sounded as if he were pleading, as if he needed someone to either back up his opinion or set him straight quickly.

“This is California,” Michaels continued, “not the Holy Land, or even the Vatican.  Oddballs and lunatics are regular citizens here – and the Church has had its fair share.  I’m sure I’m on the speed dialer of every tabloid reporter and crackpot in the city.”

Cardinal O’Brien leaned back against his headboard and focused.  He knew that Tony wanted something, something he could provide, but he wasn’t sure if it was help – or just a set of ears to listen, or a wall to bounce this off of.  It was critical that he figure it out, because if the slur remained in the Bishop’s voice, they’d have to send someone in – and Cardinal O’Brien did not want to see his old friend in that position.

“What can I do,” he asked at last.

“I’m not sure,” Michaels replied, his voice weary.  “I’m not sure if I can do anything, either, but I intend to try.”

“How,” Sean asked.

“I wanted to give you a heads up, Sean,” Michaels said wearily.  “I intend to attend the Easter Mass at San Marcos this year.  I’m going to film it – cameras directly on Father Thomas.  The media will be excluded, of course.  I’ve called in favors from the local police.  They’ll be lined up in the parking lots and on the road, probably even bring in helicopters, but they won’t get into the church.”

“Is that wise,” Sean asked.  “How will the parish react?  Do they support him?  Are they afraid?  We wouldn’t want to seem intrusive, or harsh.”

“I’ll keep it all as low key as I can,” Bishop Michaels said.  “I will do everything in my power to make it seem routine, as if maybe we want to have the film for training, or a documentary.  I’ll even pretend to believe, if it can help us through this and on to normalcy.  Something.  I won’t come across as the ogre, but I have to set this to rest.”

The line went silent for a moment, and Cardinal O’Brien broke that silence.

“What if you can’t?”

“That’s what you’re there for, isn’t it Sean?” There was a light chuckle at the other end of the line, and Sean relaxed slightly.

He stared off into the shadows of his dark bedroom.  His mind was drifting, and he was thinking about other churches, other places, and other times.  He shook his head, realizing the line had remained silent for too long.

“Try to keep an open mind, Tony,” he said softly.  “Call me, one way or the other, the minute the services have concluded.”

“Of course,” Bishop Michaels' chuckled again.  “That’s why I called you now, Sean.  If this thing blows up in my face, I know you’ll be there to wipe it off – but if it doesn’t, I expect full credit for my good deeds.”

They both laughed for a moment, then O’Brien’s tone grew grave once again, and he asked.

“How have you been, Tony?”  He hesitated, and then added, “You sound a little more tense than usual.  Maybe you should pack up your things and pay a visit to Rome – unwind a little.”

There was silence, just for a second, and then Michaels chuckled again.

“When this all blows over,” he said, “I might just do that.  It’s been a very long time.”

“That it has,” O’Brien agreed in mild relief.

“Get some sleep, Sean.  I’m sorry to have woken you so late.  I spoke with Father Thomas, the priest I mentioned, earlier this afternoon, and it just wouldn’t let me go, you know?”

“I do,” O’Brien replied.  “More than you know, Tony.  Sleep, now, that has never been a problem for me.   May God be with you, old friend.”

“And also with you,” Bishop Michaels replied.

There was an audible click, and then the dial tone blared to life.  Cardinal O’Brien sat for a while, holding the receiver in his hand as the tone buzzed angrily through the silence.  Then, as if waking from a light doze, he stared at it and placed it back onto the cradle, returning the room to silence.

He thought briefly of another man, a younger man.  The Cardinal reached up without thought and pressed against his nightshirt with the palm of one hand.  He felt the familiar bulge of soft leather, and he stroked it as he thought.  Father Prescott was in South America, but he would be returning soon.  If things progressed…  Still, that was something to think about only if necessary.

He lay back, stared at the intricate pattern of shadows on his ceiling, and off to sleep.

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SPECIAL SNEAK PREVIEW

NEVERMORE – A Novel of Love, Loss & Edgar Allan Poe

Author's Introduction

This novel began its life as a flashback.  It was intended to be the introduction to the next novel in the DeChance Chronicles, but when I started to write it, it took on a life of its own.  As my friends Trish and Rob MacGregor would say, I was a victim of synchronicity.  Nothing went as expected.

What I ended up with was a blend of several stories I have always intended to write, and a few I discovered along the way.  The ending of the novel still segues into the next book – and thus – I call this a tie-in novel to The DeChance Chronicles – but it's a story all its own – a story of poetry and magic, ravens and The Great Dismal Swamp. I hope you'll enjoy reading it as much as I loved writing it.

Rather than include a lot of dedications, I'll just thank those responsible here.  First, foremost, and always, my love and thanks to Patricia Lee Macomber who was with me every inspiration of the way, and helped edit and prod it into shape when I was done.  She has helped me bring my writing to new levels.  To my kids, who have shared my adventures here near The Great Dismal Swamp and put up with my constant babbling.

A special thanks to the amazing kinetic art of Lisa Snellings, who signed on to help create the AMAZING sculpture that was photographed for the cover, perfectly capturing what I wanted and needed for this book.

Finally – thanks to Edgar Allan Poe – for the stories, and the poetry, and for making me wonder about his lost Lenore for so long that I had to discover the story for myself.

From somewhere near The Great Dismal Swamp

David Niall Wilson

Nevermore

A Story of Loss, Love, and Edgar Allan Poe

Prologue

The Great Dismal swamp stretches miles and miles back from the long, man-made ditch known as the Intercoastal Waterway.  The original idea was that the swamp would be logged, and then drained a section at a time to clear the land.  While the logging was a great success, the draining of that ancient, primeval place was far more difficult than anyone had imagined.  Engineers and investors gave up, and took to shipping lumber up and down the length of the New World via the waterway, passing all manner of barges, sailboats, and passengers from Florida across the Virginia border.

In 1829, directly on the border of North Carolina and Virginia, The Lake Drummond Hotel was built.  This hotel was unique, resting half in one state, and half in the other, with a tavern in the very center.  It lay only a short distance from the banks of the waterway, and not far from the shoreline of Lake Drummond, which was already famous in local legend.

The lake is a dark, mystical place.  The poet Thomas Moore wrote a ballad about the ghost of a young Indian maiden who died near Lake Drummond, just before her wedding, and how her lover came to the lake, looking for her in vain.  Her ghost is still said to haunt the swamp, appearing now and then, paddling a canoe, or walking out into the water.

There is a tree there so closely shaped like a deer that legend has it a witch was fleeing pursuit and turned herself into a deer for greater speed. When she found herself trapped by the lake, she transformed a second time – into a tree.  This transformation trapped her and she remained by the side of the lake, her deer form captured in the warped cypress forever.

The Lake Drummond Hotel stood from 1829 until about 1840.  It was famous for advertising itself as a place appropriate for drinking, dueling, trysts, and a wide-variety of shady deals.  The marriage laws in North Carolina were a lot more lenient than those of Virginia.  A duel, held across the state lines, one duelist on either side, presented difficulties for those prosecuting from either side of the line.  Along with this, traffic up and down the waterway brought those fleeing, and those chasing, across multiple state lines.

Famous people found their way in and out of the Lake Drummond Hotel.  Edgar Allan Poe almost certainly wrote his poem, "The Lake," about Lake Drummond.  He traveled through after his somewhat storied military career came to an end, and before his writing really brought him the beginnings of the small fame and fortune he achieved during his lifetime.

Every story has roots in reality.  Lake Drummond, and the hotel, spawned thousands.  This is only one.

Nevermore - Chapter One

The room was low-ceilinged and deep.  Smoke wafted from table to table, cigars, pipes, and the pungent aroma of scented candles.  Laughter floated out from the bar, separated by a low half-wall from a small dining area, where the bartender regaled the crowd with a particularly bawdy story.  In the corners, more private conversations took place, and at the rear, facing the Intercoastal Waterway beyond, the door stood open to the night, letting the slightly cooler air of evening in and the sound and smoke free.

The smoke prevented the illumination from a series of gaslights and lanterns from cutting the gloom properly.  Smiles gleamed from shadows and the glint of silver and gunmetal winked like stars.  It was a rough crowd, into their drinks and stories, plans and schemes.

Along the back wall, facing a window that looked out over the waterway and the Great Dismal Swamp beyond, a lone figure sat with her back to the room.  Her hair was long and light brown, braided back and falling over her shoulder to the center of her back.  She was tall and slender with smooth, tanned skin.  She was dressed for travel, in a long, floor length dress that covered her legs, while allowing ease of motion.  The crowd swirled around her, but none paid her any attention.

She paid no attention to anything but the window.  Her gaze was fixed on the point where an intricate pattern of branches and leaves crossed the face of the moon.

There was a sheaf of paper on the table, and she held a bit of chalk loosely between the thumb and index finger of her right hand.  She formed the trees, the long strong lines of the trees, the fine mesh of branches and mist.  Her fingers moved quickly, etching outlines and shading onto her sketch with practiced ease.

A serving girl wandered over to glance down at the work in progress.  She stared at the paper intently, and then glanced up at the window, and the night beyond.  She reached down and plucked the empty wine glass from the table.

"What are they?" she asked.

The woman glanced up.  Her expression was startled, as if she'd been drawn back from some other place, or out of a trance.  She followed the serving girl's gaze to the paper.

Among the branches, formed of limbs and leaves, mist and reflected light, faces gazed out, some at the tavern, some at the swamp, others down along the waterway.  They mixed so subtly with the trees themselves that if you were not looking carefully, they seemed to disappear.

"I don't know," the woman said.  "Not yet.  Spirits, I suppose.  Trapped.  Tangled."

"You are a crazy woman," the girl said.  There was no conviction in her words.  She continued to stare at the sketch.  Then, very suddenly, she stepped back.  She stumbled, and nearly dropped her tray.

The woman glanced up at her sharply.

"What?"

"That…face." The girl stepped back to the table very slowly, and pointed to the center of the snarl of branches.  The tip of her finger brushed along the lines of a square-jawed face.  The eyes were dark and the expression was a scowl close to rage.

"I've seen him before," she said.  "Last year.  He…he was shot."

"Can you tell me?"

The girl shook her head. "Not now.  I have to work.  If I stand here longer there will be trouble.  Later?  I must serve until the tavern closes, a few hours…"

The artist held out her hand.

"My Name is Eleanor, Eleanor MacReady, but friends call me Lenore.  I'll be here, finishing this drawing, until you close.  I know that it will be late, but I am something of a night person.  Can we talk then?  Maybe in my room?"

The girl nodded.  She glanced down at the drawing again and stepped back.  Then she stumbled off into the crowded tavern and disappeared.  Lenore stared after her for a long moment, brow furrowed, then turned back to the window.  The moon had shifted, and the image she'd been drawing was lost.  It didn't matter.  The faces were locked in her mind, and she turned her attention to her wine glass, and to the paper.  The basic design was complete, but there was a lot of shading and detail work remaining.  She had to get the faces just right – exactly as she remembered them.  Then the real work would begin.

Even as she worked, her mind drifted out toward the swamp, and toward her true destination.  She didn't know the exact location of the tree, but she knew it was there, and she knew that she would find it.  She didn't always see things in her dreams, but when she did, the visions were always true.

A breeze blew in through the open window, and she shivered.

The face she was working on was that of an older man.  He had a sharp, beak of a nose and deep-set shadowed eyes.  The expression on his face might have been surprise, or dismay.  His hair was formed of strands of gray cloud blended with small twigs and wisps of fog as she carefully entered the details.

There were others.  She'd counted five in all, just in that one glimpse of the swamp.  She thought she could probably sit right here, at this window, and work for years without capturing them all.  How many lives lay buried in the peat moss and murky water?  How many had died, or been killed beside the long stretch of the Intercoastal Waterway?  She tilted her head and listened.  The breeze seemed to carry voices from far away, the sound of firing guns, the screams of the lost and dying.

She worked a woman's features into a knotted joint in one of the tree’s branches.  The face was proud.  Her lip curled down slightly at the edge, not so much in a frown, as in determination.  Purpose.  From the strong cheekbones and distinctive lines of the woman's nose, Lenore sensed she'd been an Indian. How had she come here, soul trapped fluttering up through the sticky fingers of the ancient trees?

Around her, the sounds of revelry, arguments of drunken, belligerent men, clink of glasses, full and empty, and the sound of a lone guitar in a far corner surrounded her.  She felt cut off – isolated in some odd way from everyone, and everything but the paper beneath her fingers.  Now and then she paused, reached out for her glass, and sipped her wine.

No one troubled her and that in and of itself, was odd.  A woman – an attractive woman – alone in a place like the Halfway House was an oddity.  She should have been a target.  She was not.  A few men glanced her way, but something about her – the way she bent over her work, the intensity of her focus – kept them away.  She worked steadily, and one by one, the others drifted out the doors, some to rooms, others to wander about with bottles and thoughts of their own.  Eventually, there were only a few small groups, talking quietly, the bartender, and the girl.

There was nothing more she could do.  She had drawn an eerily accurate recreation of the trees over the waterway, and of the five faces she'd found trapped in their branches.  She sensed things about them but knew little. She did not need to know. She knew that she had to set them free, to allow them to move on to the next level.  Something had bound them – some power, or some part of themselves they were unwilling to release.  They did not belong, and though she knew that most of the world either ignored, or did not sense these things at all – she did.  All those trapped, helpless beings weighed on her spirit like stones.  She was fine until she saw them, but once that happened, she was bound to set them free.  It was her gift – her curse?  Sometimes the two were too closely aligned to be differentiated.

She rose, drained the last of the wine in her cup, and gathered her pencils.  She tucked the drawing into the pocket of a leather portfolio, careful not to smudge it.  Soon, it would not matter, but until she'd had a chance to finish her work, it was crucial that nothing be disturbed.

The girl, who had been busy wiping the spilled remnants of ale, wine, and the night from the various tables and the surface of the bar, wandered slowly over.

"I'm in the corner room," Lenore said, smiling.  "The one farthest in on the Carolina side."

The girl nodded.  She glanced over at the bartender, then turned back.

"I will come as soon as I can."  She glanced down at the portfolio.  "You have finished?"

Lenore nodded, but only slightly.  "I have finished the basic drawing, yes."

"He was a bad man," the girl said.  "A very bad man.  I have never seen him there – in the trees – before tonight.  I don't like that he watches."

"After tonight, he will not," Lenore said, reaching to lay her hand on the girl's shoulder.  "But I'd love to know who he is – who he was.  I seldom know the faces I've drawn.  You saw him – in my drawing, and in the trees.  Most see nothing but branches."

"I will come soon," the girl said, turning and hurrying back toward the bar.

Lenore watched her go, frowned slightly, and then turned.  She had to exit through the front door and follow a long porch along the side of the building where it turned from the saloon in the center to a line of rooms on the Carolina side.  There were similar rooms on the Virginia side, but her business was in the swamp, and the corner room gave her a better view of what lay beyond.

As she made her way to her room, she heard the steady drum of hooves.  She stopped, and turned.  A carriage had come into view, winding in from the main road that stretched between the states.  It was dark, pulled by a pair of even darker horses.  She stood still and watched as it came to a halt.  Something moved far above, and she glanced up in time to see a dark shape flash across the pale face of the moon.  A bird?  At night?

She glanced back to the carriage to see it pulling away into the night.  A single figure stood, his bag in one hand.  He glanced her way, nodded, and then turned toward the main door of the saloon.  He was thin, with dark hair and eyes.  It was hard to make his features out in the darkness, but somehow she saw into those eyes.  They were filled with an odd, melancholy sadness.  As he passed inside, it seemed as if his shadow remained, just for a moment, outlined in silvery light.  Then it was gone.

Lenore shook her head, turned, and hurried to the door to her room.  She fumbled the key from her jacket pocket, jammed it into the lock, and hurried inside.  She had no idea why the sight of the man had unnerved her, but it had.  And the bird.  If she'd woken from a dream, she'd have believed she was meant to set him free…but she was very, very awake, and though her fingers itched to draw – to put his image on paper and tuck it away somewhere safe, she knew she could not.  Not now – not yet.  There was not much time before dawn, and she still had work to finish – and a story to hear.  The stranger, if she ever returned to him, would have to wait.

She lit the oil lamp on the single table in her small room, opened the portfolio, and laid the drawing on the flat surface.  There was a small stand nearby, and another bottle of wine rested there.  She had two glasses, but had not known at the time why she'd asked for them.  Another vision?  She poured one for herself, and replaced the cork.

Moments later, there was a soft rap on the door.  When she opened it, the girl stood outside, shifting nervously from one foot to the other and looking up and down the long porch as if fearing to be seen.

"Come in," Lenore said.

The girl did so, and Lenore closed the door behind them.

"What shall I call you?" she asked, trying to set the girl at ease.  Something had her spooked and it would simply not do to have the girl bolt without spilling her story.

"Anita," the girl said shyly, glancing at Lenore. "I am Anita."

"I'm glad to meet you," Lenore said, "and very curious to hear what you have to say about the man you saw in the trees.  I see them all the time, you know.  In trees, bushes, sometimes in the water or a stone.  It's not very often that I meet another who is aware of them – even less often that I have a chance to hear their stories."

"It is not a good story," Anita said.  "He was a very bad man."

Lenore smiled again.  "He's not a man any longer, dear, so there is nothing to fear in the telling.  Would you like a glass of wine?"

The girl nodded.  Lenore poured a second glass from her bottle and handed it over.

"Sit down," she said.  "I still have work to do, and I can work as you talk.  It will relax me."

"I will tell you," Anita said, perching lightly on the corner of the bed, "but it will not relax you."

"Then it will keep me awake," Lenore said, seating herself at her desk.  "You see, I don't just see those who are trapped, I have to undo whatever it is that has them trapped.  I won't be finished until I've freed them all."

The girl glanced sharply over, nearly spilling her drink.

"Maybe…maybe it is best if this one stays."

Lenore pulled out her pencils, and a gum eraser.

"We'll leave him for now," she said.  "There are four others, and I can only work on one at a time.  Tell me your story."

Anita took a sip of her wine, and nodded.  "His name is Abraham Thigpen.  He died about a year ago but I remember it like today…"

Lenore listened, and worked, rearranging branches, shifting the wood slightly, picking the strong woman's face to release from the pattern first.  Anita's voice droned in the background – and she faded into the story, letting it draw her back across the years as she carefully disassembled her drawing, working the faces free.

Nevermore - Chapter Two

The carriage pulled away, heading back to the main road and on into the plantations of southern Virginia.  Edgar watched it for a moment, wishing he were continuing on, and then turned toward the main door of the Halfway House.  He'd written ahead for a room, but had not been in Raleigh long enough to wait for a reply.  Besides, the Lake Drummond Hotel was not the sort of place that catered to amenities such as reservations.  You could let them know you were coming, but there was literally no way of knowing what you'd walk into when you arrived.

The tavern was nearly empty when he stepped inside.  There was a young boy sweeping the floor, and behind the bar, an older man with well-combed gray hair and a silver mustache who was placing dried and polished glasses on the shelves.  The man turned as Edgar entered.

"We're closed, I'm afraid," he said.

"I'm here for a room?" Edgar said.  He stepped forward.  "I wrote ahead.  I'm hoping you aren't full, as I need to remain for several days, if possible."

The bartender dropped his towel on the bar and smiled.

"Ah," he said.  "Mr. Poe.  We were expecting you, but I thought you'd arrive tomorrow in the day.  We held a room for you, the last empty room available.  I was beginning to regret not renting it."

Edgar let out a breath.  "Thank you for holding it," he said.  "I'm afraid I don't have any way to leave, so I took something of a chance."

"Tom," the bartender called to the boy with the broom. "Show Mr. Poe to his room – it's the one right next to the corner, beside Miss MacReady's quarters.  And mind you, don't make too much noise.  The hour is late, and I imagine she's gone off to sleep."

"Not that one," the boy said.  He grinned.  "She's up all hours – seen the light from her window on my way home a couple'a times."

The bartender frowned.  "Never you mind that," the man said.  "Do as you're told.  And speaking of home, run off when you're done.  I don't want you missing an hour's sleep and playing the slacker come tomorrow."

"Yessir," the boy replied.  "Come on, Mister."

He turned on his heel and hurried toward the door, as if afraid he'd be summoned back after all to wash another pile of dirty dishes, or mop the floor a second time.  Edgar nodded to the bartender and followed Tom out into the darkness.  As he stepped outside he heard the soft rustle of feathers, and he smiled.  He did not look up, but instead turned down the porch.

Tom had grabbed a key on his way out of the tavern.  He unlocked the door to the room, and then handed it over.  "There's a lantern in there," he said.  "Should be a coal in the fire too, if you poke at it."

"Thank you, Tom," Edgar said.  "Am I to understand that you live on a farm?"

The boy nodded.  "I got four brothers and two sisters, all older.  They do most of the farming.  Pa hired me on here to do odd jobs and clean up.  Said I was always 'underfoot'."

"I wonder if you might do me a favor, then," Edgar said.  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a copper penny.  "I wonder if you might bring me a bit of corn."

The boy stared at the penny, then glanced up at Edgar as if certain he was talking to a crazy man.

"Corn?" he asked.

"Corn," Edgar affirmed.  "I am partial to birds, you see.  I like to feed them, and I find that if I drop a handful of corn outside my window they gather very regularly.  Can you do this for me?"

Tom snatched the coin and grinned.

"You bet," he said.

"I thank you," Edgar said.  The boy turned and hurried off into the night, as though afraid Edgar would ask for the money back.

With a chuckle and glance to the empty sky, Edgar entered his room.  He left the door open a crack until he'd located the lantern.  He lit it with practiced ease, turning the wick up just slightly to increase the flame's brightness.  Then he returned to the door.  He closed it and locked it carefully, then laid his bag on one of the two wooden chairs and pulled it open.

The room had a small chest of drawers along the side wall, and he carefully unpacked and stored his clothing.  Next he pulled out the book he was reading, a novella titled Carmen, by Prosper Mérimée, and his worn copy of Children's and Household Tales – or – Grimm's Fairy Tales.  He set these aside almost without thought and drew forth a thick sheaf of papers bound in a ribbon, his pens, and a small bottle of ink.  He glanced at the window.  Through the curtains he saw that there was a light.  He placed the ink, pens, and paper on the table that rested against the wall beneath the window and pulled the curtain aside curiously.

To the right, along the back of the building and on toward the tavern, only the moonlight shone down to illuminate the trees lining the near side of the Intercoastal Waterway.  To the left, however, at the very corner of the building, flickering lamplight danced outside the window of the room adjacent to his.

What had the tavern keeper said?  Miss MacReady?  And the boy, Tom? "She's up all hours…"

It seemed that it was true.  Edgar smiled.  He was no stranger to late nights.  He sometimes believed he would be unable to write at all if it were not for the long hours between dusk and dawn, when the world quieted, after a fashion, the light flickered, the paper took on a yellow lamp-light hue, and his imagination wandered.  He thought of his desk, and his home – and that brought him to thoughts of his wife, Virginia, and her failing health.

He turned abruptly back to the chair and opened a side-pocket on his bag.  He pulled free a large, silver-plated flask and carried it to the table.  The wind was picking up outside, blowing in from the south.  Trees swayed, and the roaring throaty breath of the storm teased along the walls and through the slats of the roof.  It was a proper night for writing, and only the words – and the whiskey – could draw him up and out of the cloud of despair that was his constant traveling companion.

Virginia was always on his mind.  Theirs had been a troubled relationship from the beginning, their familial ties, and the girl's age, but he'd seen something in her – some fragile beauty – that completed him.  Now – having filled the hole in his heart, she withered, and he felt the pain like a fist squeezing the light from his world.

If only she'd listen to him.  If only the things he knew – the things he could do – could ease her pain.  There were curatives – elixirs – potions and charms.  He knew he could restore her health, but she would not allow it.  Not at what she considered to be the cost of her soul.  Not if it meant becoming part and parcel to the powers that swam through the darker recesses of his mind.  It was likely that she had trouble deciding if he were evil, or simply mad.

He knew that, despite her wishes, he could save her, but if he did, she would hate him.  She would not be happy, and making her happy was all that he craved.  Instead, she died, and he drank, and he wrote and he prayed that when all the smoke and dust had cleared that something of worth would remain.

A dark shape dropped through the light from the MacReady woman's lantern.  Edgar walked to the window, glanced out, and actually smiled.  He unfastened the sash and lifted the window a crack.  The scents of blooming flowers and impending storm wafted in.  He lifted the window a bit farther, and with a hop, a large crow landed on the windowsill, then dropped into the room with a thud.  It sat glaring at him for a moment, and then, as if satisfied in some way, began to busily and noisily preen its feathers.

"Good evening, Grimm." Edgar said with a slight, mock bow.  "And it is good to see you too.  Perhaps I shall groom my mustache while you are busy, as a show of camaraderie?"

The bird glanced up at him, and then continued working over its tail feathers in complete indifference.

Edgar closed the window and took a seat at the table.  He arranged his papers carefully, gathering those he'd written the night before on top of a larger stack of blank sheets.  He always began by re-reading what he'd just finished.  It served as a quick pre-edit, and it dropped him back into the story with a fresh 'reader's' perspective of the work.

"Perhaps," he said conversationally, "I shall write a story about a bird – a great black one who is too often inattentive.  Grave things might happen to such a creature, don't you think?"

The crow didn't even bother to glance up at this.  Edgar chuckled, and turned to the pages before him.  He had meant to write a story of romance and intrigue, but as he read, he saw that – once again – the melancholy that served as his muse had taken over and driven dark spikes between the pages.  It was clear that one lover must die at the hand of the other, and that the mystery would depend on the circumstances.  The young man in the story was quite mad – as was so often the case – mad and absolutely brilliant.  Misunderstood.  Lonely.

He opened the flask and took a long pull, letting the fiery warmth of it roll back over his tongue and down through the chilly expanse of his heart.  Grimm hopped to the tabletop in a flurry of wings.  He turned and glared at Edgar again, looking for all the world as if he would snatch the flask and fly off with it.  It was Edgar's turn to ignore the bird.

"Leave it be, old friend," Edgar said.  "Now is not the time.  You are right to disapprove, but I can't help myself.  Rather, knowing the pain that it would bring, I will not help myself."

Then, opening the small bottle of ink, he dipped the first of his quills and began to write, dropping away into the world of the story as if it might erase the real world entirely.  He told himself the protagonist's pain was not his own, so it was cathartic to pretend that the darkness in his characters’ lives was also not his own, and to drive them deeper and deeper until what he suffered in his silence seemed smaller in comparison.

And there were the visions.  As he wrote, his mind stretched.  It was the only way he could describe it.  He reached out to the world beyond him, linked himself to the minds and dreams of others, plucked out the things that frightened them, and made them his own.  His mind blended with that of the crow as well, named Grimm for the fairy tales so well-penned by long-dead brothers.  The two had traveled together, albeit in secret, for several years.  The old bird lent him strength, sometimes wisdom, and more often than not the necessary inspiration to bring another tale to life.

This time it was different.  Something had shifted, or changed.  He could not drop into the story he was working on properly.  He knew what was happening, knew what he thought must come next.  He even had bits and pieces of prose handy that he felt he might make use of in the course of recording that particular vision.  He could not write it.  It had all disappeared from his mind like a puff of smoke.  In its place – all he saw were trees.

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Table of Contents

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

PROLOGUE

On the Third Day: Chapter One

Prologue

Nevermore - Chapter One

Nevermore - Chapter Two