In the Arms of Immortals Read online

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  In the Arms of Immortals

  “Garrett tackles one of history’s most perplexing questions: Where is God when evil seems to triumph? A powerful and moving novel that depicts a turning point in history: the moment where superstition and faith collided. Highly recommended!”

  Siri Mitchell, author of Love’s Pursuit

  “In the Arms of Immortals paints a breathtaking portrait of life and death, of hope and despair, of unspeakable joy and indescribable sorrow. Ginger Garrett skillfully transports her readers from modern times to fourteenth-century Sicily in an intricately crafted illustration of God’s lifesaving power. This book has it all—detailed research, flesh-and-blood characters, and a captivating tale that kept me enthralled from beginning to end.”

  Virginia Smith, author of Age before Beauty and the rest of the Sister-to-Sister series

  IN THE ARMS OF IMMORTALS

  Published by David C Cook

  4050 Lee Vance View

  Colorado Springs, CO 80918 U.S.A.

  David C Cook Distribution Canada

  55 Woodslee Avenue, Paris, Ontario, Canada N3L 3E5

  David C Cook U.K., Kingsway Communications

  Eastbourne, East Sussex BN23 6NT, England

  David C Cook and the graphic circle C logo

  are registered trademarks of David C Cook.

  All rights reserved. Except for brief excerpts for review purposes,

  no part of this book may be reproduced or used in any form

  without written permission from the publisher.

  The Web site addresses recommended throughout this book are offered as a

  resource to you. These Web sites are not intended in any way to be or imply an

  endorsement on the part of David C Cook, nor do we vouch for their content.

  This story is a work of fiction. All characters and events are the product of the author’s

  imagination. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, is coincidental.

  All Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®. NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved.

  LCCN 2009929973

  ISBN 978-0-7814-4888-8

  eISBN 978-0-7814-0344-3

  © 2009 Ginger Garrett

  Ginger Garrett is represented by MacGregor Literary.

  Visit Ginger at her Web site: www.gingergarrett.com

  The Team: Andrea Christian, Ramona Tucker, Jaci Schneider, and Karen Athen

  Cover Design: John Hamilton Design

  Cover Photo: © HarperPoint

  First Edition 2009

  For Mishael …

  and every reader who has wrestled with the question of “Why?”

  but contented themselves with the question of “How?”

  Acknowledgments

  For my friends at Cook, including Terry Behimer, Dan Rich, Don Pape, Jaci Schneider, Karen Athen, Amy Kiechlin, Douglas Mann, Amy Quicksall, Mike Kennedy, and the entire team for Immortals. Thank you for believing in me. Working with you is such an honor, and I look forward to many years together. And for John and Nannette Hamilton, who designed the cover, thank you for your incredible artistry!

  Chip MacGregor, my favorite literary agent. You’re simply wonderful at keeping me focused and productive, which leaves my high school teachers in awe of you.

  My editor, Ramona Tucker, who has the rare gift of making a writer feel completely at ease when being informed of a manuscript’s fumbles and foibles. Thank you for being an editor who is selfless, encouraging, and astute.

  I am blessed that so many friends and family members contribute to my ability to function as a writer while still being a mom, daughter, friend, and neighbor. The more I open my heart to you all, the richer my life becomes, and only then do I grow as a writer. I owe most of my gratitude to my husband, Mitch. He loves me, and that’s good medicine for anything that ails me.

  For my kids, who roll their eyes and pretend to gag when readers think I’m cool. Thank you for reminding me that all that really matters is what’s for dinner and where the clean underwear is.

  What in me is dark

  Illumine, what is low raise and support;

  That to the highth of this great Argument

  I may assert Eternal Providence,

  And justify the ways of God to men.

  —Milton, Paradise Lost

  Chapter One

  Thirty thousand dollars bought her the right to avoid being scalded alive.

  Mariskka Curtis did not miss the shoddy built-in shower that had been in her old apartment. Now she owned a penthouse, and one of her first decisions as a new millionaire was to have a high-end luxury shower installed.

  “For thirty grand, it should make my breakfast, too,” Mariskka said to no one.

  At least the bathroom was warm, making goose bumps and bad leg shaves a thing of the past. The maid had lit the fireplace in the master bath an hour ago and brought a fresh carafe of coffee up. The milk still needed to be frothed, but Mariskka didn’t mind that.

  She pumped the handle six times and the milk bubbled up. She poured coffee into her monogrammed cup, then the foamy milk over the coffee. Mariskka inhaled, surprised that coffee could still bring her so much pleasure.

  Rolling her neck to get the morning kinks out, she swung open the shower door and sat inside. The shower began as a slow warm mist around her feet, giving her a few minutes to finish her coffee before the gentle raindrops started from the shower head and the dawn lights bounced pink off the shower glass.

  Later this morning she was scheduled for an appearance on yet another talk show to dazzle America with her rags-to-riches tale. She hated the hollow feeling in her stomach that came from lying. She had stolen her best-selling manuscript from a patient’s room. The patient, Bridget, had been a famous editor and left it behind when she died. Mariskka stole it on impulse, thinking it might be valuable if sold on eBay. Only later, when packing the editor’s belongings, had Mariskka seen the business cards thrown in the bottom of her bags. One was for an agent. Mariskka had contacted the agent, passing the manuscript off as her own. It couldn’t hurt anyone, she had thought. Mariskka had also stolen Bridget’s watch, but only because she intended to return it to the family. Only later did she realize Bridget had no family.

  When the agent sold that manuscript in a seven-figure deal, it was as if God answered her prayers. Mariskka made a pile of easy money. She bought things she never dreamed of owning. She even donated some of it, paying hospice bills that threatened to bankrupt families and sent worn-out caregivers on vacations. Good things had happened to plenty of people because of her decision to steal.

  As the mist rose, she finished her coffee and waited for the overhead shower to turn on. Hard rock blared suddenly through the shower speakers, and she dropped her coffee cup in surprise. It shattered at her feet. Instinctively she yanked her feet out of the scalding puddle. Losing her balance in the mist, she hit her head on the imported tile and blacked out.

  The smoke stung Mariskka’s eyes.

  She blinked, trying to clear her mind, groping in the darkness for the shower door. The shower had stopped, and the music was dead. She wondered if the building had lost electricity.

  She crawled over something sharp and jagged. The lights must have shattered above. It was too dark to see anything; as she pushed back the s
hower door, she wished she had windows in her bath.

  Something was coming.

  She felt the vibrations through her legs, shaking her to her stomach. Straining to hear above her thundering heart, she heard a heavy scraping against her hardwood floors, the sound of a sharp tool being dragged over the floors, catching every second or so, bumping over a seam. Heavy footfalls shook the floor, and metal screeched together with each step. She thought of the armored boots she had seen on medieval knights in museums.

  Something slammed against the door, making the wood split.

  It hit again.

  “There is no Blood here,” someone said.

  “God help me,” she whispered.

  When she said the word God, the thing outside the door shrieked like an animal. A sword pierced through the door, creating a jagged seam as the intruder jerked it back and forth in the split wood. Light streamed in from her bedroom windows, but she could see nothing except a sword sawing its way through the door.

  They should be testing the microphones for the television hosts right now, she thought. Amber-Marie Gates, her publicist, was going to be furious when Mariskka didn’t arrive on time. Or when she didn’t arrive at all.… Mariskka’s mind was gone, traveling down more familiar tracks, unable to process her death.

  Then the door burst apart, and she was showered with wood fragments. A figure too large to pass through the door frame stood twisting its head in different directions, staring at her. The glowing blue dawn outlined its frame. Morning sun rays shot up from behind its head and between its flexed arms, illuminating dust particles spinning down and turning the shifting light into a kaleidoscope.

  Metal wings reflected the light at their sharp ice-pick tips; below these, the shoulders of a man were layered with scales. Each finger was tipped with dozens of iron claws, all pointing backward. Once it grabbed her, she wouldn’t get free without tearing herself to shreds. It was built for death.

  “There is no Blood here,” he said.

  “What?” she screamed.

  “You have no Christ.”

  A tail with an iron tip, long and scalpel sharp, rose behind him as he pointed his sword at her. He turned his shoulder to come through the door. As he thrust his wings against the frame, cracks ran up the walls above the door.

  He lifted his sword, aiming for her neck. She wondered if her lips would still be moving after death, the way Anne Boleyn’s had.

  He spun back around, his sword in motion.

  A shower of sparks was burning her.

  She remembered lights like this.

  She was a child at Disneyland, watching the magical parade of lights. A green, scaled dragon floated past her as she sat on the sidewalk, full of lemonade and ice cream. When the dragon swung its head in her direction, with its blind paper eyes and red paper streamers coming from its mouth to look like fire, Mariskka vomited right between her shoes. No one noticed, not even her mom, who had taken the wide white pills so she could get through the day, one of their last together. Mariskka wanted her to take the pills so she wouldn’t be in pain, so she wouldn’t groan in the night, but the pills made her dull and distant. Either way, Mariskka lost her mother a little more each day.

  She stood, grabbing her mother’s hand, pulling at her to run. Her mother laughed, tipsy from the combination of opiates and Disney princesses, swinging her around in a dance, not understanding the panic in her daughter’s eyes. Mariskka struggled to get free, to see where the dragon went, but it was gone. She would lie awake for years after that, wondering where it was now. The eyes had only been paper, but she knew. It had seen her. It had seen something inside her.

  Mariskka was still remembering herself as a little girl when she noticed her impending death had been delayed. Another creature was here, holding a sword, blocking the iron-winged monster from killing her. He had gold-and-straw-colored dreadlocks that ran down his back and the body of a linebacker. Judging from how close his head was to her ceiling, Mariskka guessed he was about eight feet tall.

  The man picked up the dark iron-angel by the neck and slammed it against the wall. Plaster rained down.

  “She is ours,” the iron-angel said. “We can take her.”

  “Not yet,” the new creature said.

  A dark stain spread underneath the iron-angel on the tile floor. The stain shimmered as teeth began to appear, ringing the edges.

  The new creature yelled over his shoulders, “Cover your eyes!”

  Mariskka stared at the stain, which was devouring the iron-angel as it moved up it his legs.

  The new one screamed again, “Mariskka! Now!”

  Mariskka obeyed.

  She heard the sound of an animal screaming in pain, and then all was quiet.

  She looked up to see the new creature staring down at her. His nose was inches from her face, and his dreadlocks fell forward, tickling her cheeks. If he were human, she thought, he would be beautiful. But he could not be real, not with his strange eyes that were like big gold saucers and canine teeth that peeked out from his lips. His breath smelled of meat, too. She collapsed, losing all control over limb and thought.

  His arms slipped behind her knees and under her neck, lifting her without effort. He carried her to the bed and laid her down, drawing the curtains and stepping back into the shadows. He sat in a chair, resting one arm on the armrest, watching her. A thick, numbing sensation started in her toes and poured slowly into her body. She felt it filling her, working its way through her abdomen, then her arms. When it got to her eyes, they closed and she slept.

  Chapter Two

  When Mariskka woke, it was dark in the room. Her stomach contracted with enough force to jerk her to a sitting position, and she grabbed for the nightstand lamp, knocking it over. She yanked it to her lap and fumbled for the on switch.

  It lit neatly.

  He was gone.

  She yanked the shade off the lamp and swung it in all directions. Nothing was there, nothing was out of place. She checked the clock. 5:45 a.m.

  She checked it again and watched until it read 5:46.

  A laugh started low in her throat, then burst out, making her throw her head back and laugh. She grabbed the bottle of prescription sleeping pills from the nightstand and kissed it with a loud smack. The package insert had said, Warning: visual and auditory hallucinations have been reported.

  It had worked—and far better than she had hoped.

  She was a little humiliated that using a sleeping pill was the only way she could come up with a creative idea for a sequel. But once again, no one had been hurt. There was no right or wrong in publishing. There were only sales figures. Even Mariskka knew that. And she needed a sequel, fast, or everyone would know she was a liar. And a thief.

  She groaned then, thinking of the talk show. She had to be out of here in fifteen minutes, and she was not a fifteen-minute kind of girl in the morning.

  Mariskka missed a step on the stairs and slid the rest of the way down, a dry scream stuck in her throat. A huge man wearing sunglasses sat at her kitchen table; a book with massive iron hinges lay open in front of him. Words swirled around the page with a hum. Mariskka had the terrible feeling she should know him.

  Another man stood by him. His back was turned to her, but she recognized the yellow dreadlocks flowing down his back. He spoke in coarse whispers that sounded like a lion’s huff.

  She landed at the bottom of the stairs, her head hitting an iron baluster with a crack, making the men turn.

  “Get her up, Mbube.”

  The man with the dreadlocks walked toward her.

  She began kicking, scrambling to stand and run back up the stairs. He extended a clawed hand, catching her by the back of the neck. Lifting her gently, he brought her to the kitchen table and deposited her in a chair. The men stared at her. If they were going t
o hurt her, they didn’t seem in a hurry.

  “Would you like coffee?” the one with sunglasses asked.

  “I don’t drink coffee,” she replied.

  They looked at each other.

  The one in glasses got up and poured coffee into her favorite mug, pressing the button for frothed milk. He was making it just the way she liked it. Handing it to her, he turned and opened the pantry, retrieving a vegan protein bar. She had bought it when she first believed money changed people, but she never ate it. Money was no match for her bad habits.

  “Don’t skip breakfast today,” he said. “You’ll need your energy.”

  “Get out of my house.” Mariskka said.

  “You stole my book,” the one in glasses said.

  “Who are you?” Mariskka asked. She had a very bad feeling she already knew.

  “I am the Scribe,” he replied.

  “And him?” Mariskka asked.

  “I Mbube,” her dreadlocked man said. “I yours.”

  “You’re my what?” she asked. She was flipping through the stolen manuscript in her mind, trying to remember what the whole point of that story had been. If it even had one. She had never really made it past the fourth chapter. She had gotten a headache from all the storylines.

  “Wait!” she said. “You’re an angel, my guardian angel,”

  “Your name is not written in the Book of Life. You are under no one’s protection,” the Scribe replied.

  “Everyone has guardian angels,” she said.

  The Scribe leaned over her, blocking all the light behind him. “Did you even read the manuscript you stole?”

  “It was confusing.”

  “Believers have angels, Mariskka, children have angels—but you are adrift. A passerby may help you, but no one walks with you. You rejected God long ago.”

  “Don’t use that tone with me. You never walked a mile in my shoes!” she said.

  “My dear,” the Scribe said, his voice turning soft and kind, “we would have carried you if only you believed.”