Free Passage Graves by Madyson Rush Page B

as he moved across the top shelf and then over the shelf below. Flickering candlelight cast diagonal shadows over the crevices separating each text. None of the fraying, boney book ridges looked familiar. He lowered to the third row, dragging his finger over each spine. He poked through a small hole, his finger lodging in between two larger texts. The cavity was too wide to keep the adjacent books from falling in upon each other, and yet the texts stood upright.
    H e forced his way into the nook and felt the top of a small leather text, a petite and stubby thing lost in shadow. He pulled it out. The book was half an inch thick, three inches by five inches in size. He blew dust off the cover, set his candle on the shelf ledge, and stared at the faded title. The Hebrew letters were stained with mold.
    It was vaguely familiar.
    He opened to the title page . The tiny Hebrew words were printed with gold foil. Their transliteration was in bold calligraphy underneath.
     
    אֲבַדּוֹן הֹוָה
    Keloohah’ee Sheh-ole’ Abaddon
     
    There it was, Abaddon . Javan had said something about the captive ruling Abaddon.
    At the bottom of the page, in nearly vanished pencil, the Greek translation was followed by his own translation:
     
    αντιχριστος καταστροφέας
    anti-Christ’s ruin
     
    Ian climbed down the ladder. He grabbed the candle and limped up the staircase into his room. Excitement swelled over him as he shut the door. He set the candle on his bedside table and dropped onto his mattress. Dust lined the book cover and the top of every page. He flipped anxiously through the text. Most of his pencil scribbles were too faint to read, but the Greek translations were unblemished.
    The pages fell open near the center of the book, where a small slip of paper was tucked into the crease of the binding. It was a note from a fortune cookie.
    Pe ople who are late are often happier than those who have to wait for them.
    Scribbled across the back was an address: 9 Sheep Street, Northampton, Northamptonshire, NN1 2LU.
    The address was unfamiliar. Northampton was far away from Bathwick. He tucked the paper into the crease, and then noticed that directly below it on the page was the Hebrew symbol for Abaddon. His finger traced the Greek translation as he decoded the English equivalent. Abaddon: ruin, perdition, destruction; the forefathers of Dark Priesthood, Protectors of…
    He didn’t recognize the word but the Hebrew transliteration was pronounced beb’ne hoshekh .
    What did it mean—fo refathers of the Dark Priesthood?
    Ian turned the page.
    Abaddon guard the secrets of Apocalypse and protect the sacred seals until the Chosen One calls forth the end.
    The Chosen One?
    “Father Ian?” a voice sounded at his door.
    The book dropped from Ian’s hands. His heart leapt into his throat. He was certain Father Tracy could hear its panicked rhythm beyond the door. He cleared his throat, gaining control over his voice. “I’m sorry, Father. Did I wake you?”
    Father Tracy’s voic e wavered with age. “There was some noise. Are you alright?”
    Ian tucked the book under his pillow and blew out his candle. “That was me,” he explained. “I got up for a drink of water. Sorry for waking you.”
    Father Tracy’s candlelight danced underneath the crack of the door.
    “I’m fine. Settled now,” Ian insisted.
    The older priest’s shadow turned away from the door. His light faded, and the black of night took its place, creeping under the door, stirring inside Ian’s room, filling the corners and invading the bed.
    Come…
    The word thundered in Ian’s brain.
    G uilt congealed on his tongue. He felt for the book under his pillow and slid the text to the far corner of the bed. It was not too late. He could walk away from everything and cut ties with Javan, bury his father in silence and ignore the grief.
    He shut his eyes and kne lt beside the bed.
    “ Holy Father, remove this evil from me.” He swallowed,