Free Stealing Sacred Fire by Storm Constantine Page B

the past in
her. ‘Tell me more. It’s important I know what’s happened.’
    She looked him up and down,
probably assessing his pale skin and white-gold hair. He would not
seem kin to her. Then, she shrugged. ‘I have to go, but you can
always follow us to the meeting place. There, you will learn all
you need to know, if you’re that interested.’ She glanced around,
probably to look for comrades who had marched on without her.
    ‘Take me there,’ Shem said.
    The girl looked at him with
suspicion. He stared deep into her eyes, exerted his will. Then
without a word, the girl jerked her head to indicate ahead of her,
turned away from him and began to walk quickly alongside the crowd.
Shem followed. He did not let her out of his sight.
    The police were a very visible
presence around the meeting hall, but here the demonstration seemed
to have quietened down, most of its participants having already
entered the hall. Shem caught up with his reluctant guide. She
looked over her shoulder at him, clearly suspicious, although still
subject to his will. She gave him a guarded half smile, and he
directed the full force of his own smile upon her. ‘I am
interested,’ he said. ‘You don’t know how much.’
    They walked into the shadow of
the lobby, where people were milling around makeshift stalls that
were adrift with pamphlets and posters. There were even T-shirts on
sale; samples pinned up on boards behind the stalls. ‘Where exactly
do your people come from?’ he asked her.
    ‘Our land is known by many
names, but never its own. It is dismembered.’
    Shem eyed the red, gold and
green banners on the walls. ‘Kurdistan,’ he said. ‘Yarasadi equates
with Yezidi, Yaresan, yes?’
    She smiled, shrugged. ‘We are
seen as Kurdish yes, but our blood-lines are older than the
Yezidis.’
    ‘You have kept very quiet about
it for a long, long time, then!’
    She did not seem offended. ‘It
is only recently that we’ve discovered who we really are. We were
scattered, our memories taken from us, then a new prophet came. A
messenger from the Ancient Ones. We learned of our divine blood...’
She paused. ‘Now, you think we are crazy, as most of your people
do. But it is true.’
    Shem frowned and shook his head
briefly. ‘I don’t think you’re crazy. Who is your prophet?’
    ‘Come, you will see.’ The girl
hurried off into the crowd and Shem followed her. They came into a
darkened hall, where a video was being shown on a large screen. The
sound system echoed and spluttered, competing with the constant
underlying hubbub of conversation. Westerners mingled with the
dark-skinned crowd; photographers, journalists and those who
followed causes. Children ran around, laughing and screeching,
oblivious of the serious subject of the meeting.
    Shem forced himself not to turn
away from the scenes being shown on the screen. The introduction to
the film was clearly over: images of carnage dominated the
presentation; the bodies of children rotting in the streets; ruined
buildings; forlorn survivors wandering like zombies amongst the
remains of a community. It reminded him of times long past, when
his Nephilim sons had prompted the High Lord Anu to release the
Flood. Thousands of people had died then; pathetic corpses
waterlogged in mud.
    ‘Who did this?’ Shem asked in
clear, low voice.
    The girl leaned towards him.
‘It is the handiwork of a man who calls himself the King of
Babylon.’
    ‘There is no Babylon,’ Shem
said. ‘Not any more.’
    ‘There is,’ the girl replied.
‘The king calls himself Nimnezzar.’
    Shem raised his eyebrows. He
would need to find out about this king, but first there was other
information to gather. He smiled reassuringly at the girl. ‘Will
you tell me more about your prophet?’
    The girl brushed a nervous hand
through her hair. ‘He came to us about the same time Nimnezzar
seized control of what was once Iraq. It was no coincidence. We are
a threat to this false despot, for we carry the