Robert Browne - The Paradise Prophecy

“The astronomer had told me of the coming eclipse, and I knew that if I could free that soul during the darkness of the fourth moon, I could deliver to the world a new paradise, and I alone would be the ruler of that paradise, the new creator.

“But in a moment of clarity I came to realize that what I was seeking was a product of my own false pride and my selfish desire to control my world. That what I was trying to do could only end in disaster. So in a moment of strength, I destroyed the pages.”

The poet now stood before a fireplace, tossing the portfolio into the roaring fire. The light of the fire flared, and Batty and the poet were once against standing on the hillside, beneath a cloudless blue sky.

Batty finally found his voice. “But that wasn’t the end of it.”

The poet slowly shook his head. “Years later I had finally moved on, had learned to live with my blindness and had renewed my devotion to God and the gift he had given me. My poetry. I had long wanted to write an epic, but I thought, what if I could write one that not only celebrated God’s grace-a prayer of contrition, you might say-but examined the corruption of man. A corruption I knew all too well.

“I asked God to assist me, but I never received an answer. I made claims of a divine muse, but the truth was that no such muse came to me until the very last chapter of my epic was long finished.

“Late one night, I was visited in my sleep. Despite my blindness, I could suddenly see, and before I knew it, I had several sheets of paper in front of me, my finger etching itself into them as if controlled by another being, and I knew in my heart that these were the very pages I had destroyed. They had taken on a life of their own, insisting to be seen.

“Then the angel Michael came to me and told me that I was to be the first guardian of the pages. That I had proven myself trustworthy when I had attempted to destroy them, and now I must hide them away, so that they never fall into the wrong hands. Until the time came that they could be used to serve God.

“The original copy of my epic still lay on my writing table. A final transcription had already been prepared and sent to the publisher, and though I was blind, the manuscript still had sentimental value to me. So the following morning, I gathered up these new pages, added them to the bottom of the stack-my own personal Book Eleven, you might say-and asked my daughter to summon a bookbinder. I stood there with him in the room as he bound all the pages together, then I locked it away in my personal vault.

“It stayed there for nearly ten years. And as Michael continued his long search for the sacred traveler, he asked others to join me in protecting her secret.”

The poet lowered his head, as if exhausted by the story, and Batty said, “But the pages were removed after you died. Who removed them?”

“One of the new guardians, of course.”

“And where were they taken?”

“To where I could continue to watch over them.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Let me show you,” the poet said, then waved a hand in front of Batty’s face.

Suddenly the world went dark again and Batty found himself at the center of a swirling tornado, its walls closing in on him. Then, with startling abruptness, the whirlwind came to a stop and he was floating-floating above an open wooden coffin, looking down on the poet’s body as those milky, sightless eyes stared up at him.

“They are with me,” the poet rasped.

Then, with equal abruptness, Batty awoke. He was sitting in the chair in the all-night bookstore, his palm pressed against the binding of the manuscript as Callahan eyed him with grave concern. He slumped back, feeling as if every bit of energy had been sucked out of his body.

He was barely able to move his lips.

“You were right,” he gasped. “We need to get to London. Now.”

LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA

He didn’t find the house as easily as he would have liked.

Remembering what Zack had told Jenna that first night, that he and his friends were “crashing at a place up in Burbank,” Michael had stolen a Buick convertible and hit the freeway.

Unfortunately, Burbank, a sprawling suburb in the San Fernando Valley, boasted a population of more than a hundred thousand, and traveling from one neighborhood to the next playing a potentially fruitless game of Where’s Jenna was a time-consuming process.

He supposed he could have used another means of travel-a means he and his brethren were accustomed to-but his first attempt since he’d acquired this skin had been an unqualified failure, and he knew that for the time being it was best to stick to the laws of this world for fear he might weaken himself unnecessarily.

His skills would return in time.

Finding the house was a thankless task, but Michael had not prevailed against Belial and her friends these last several centuries by giving up easily. His one advantage was that Jenna’s song still hummed faintly in his chest, fading in and out like distant radio signal, and his only solution was to keep moving block to block, house to house, in hopes that he’d eventually find her again.

He worked slowly and methodically through the night-a game of hot and cold-backtracking when necessary. And by early the next morning he found a run-down house on the outskirts of the city and instinctively knew that it was the right place.

There was no sign of the battered Chevy Malibu in the driveway, however. And the house itself-an abandoned rental with an overgrown yard-looked empty.

They’d been here and gone.

Disheartened, Michael found the back door unlocked and went inside. The kitchen was a disaster that smelled of rancid milk. The living room was filthy and devoid of furniture. Crude graffiti was spray-painted on the walls. The stained carpet was littered with pizza boxes and burger bags, and there were several ratty blankets on the floor, along with enough discarded needles and drug paraphernalia to stock a small medical clinic.

The thought that Jenna had slept in such squalor (if she’d slept at all) deepened Michael’s depression. He had a hard time believing that such an innocent girl could be so easily seduced by Zack’s oily charm. But maybe that innocence had been a figment of his imagination. Maybe he’d been romanticizing the girl because of who she was and what she meant to him. Maybe she was no different from the countless other runaways who had found their way to this sadly corrupted town.

Her song had grown weaker than ever now, only its residue remaining, and he had no idea why the signal was dying.

But he couldn’t give up. Not now. Not ever.

Taking a last look around, he was about to head outside when he heard a soft moan, coming from the down the hall.

Jenna?

Feeling his heart kick up, he crashed through the hallway, moving from bedroom to bedroom. In the corner of the master was an open bathroom door.

He stepped inside and froze.

There was a petite teenage girl lying faceup in the tub, her head canted, a string of vomit running down her chin, a syringe still stuck in her bruised, needle-marked arm.

Not Jenna, but her girlfriend from the cafe.

Michael quickly moved to her and sat her upright, slapping her face to wake her up. But she didn’t respond. He felt for a pulse, but it was barely there and he knew it was too late. The girl would be dead before he could get help.

Something sour churned in his gut, and all he could think was that this could easily have been Jenna.