The Dark Rift: The Supernatural Grail Quest Zombie Apocalypse (The Last Artifact Trilogy Book 1) by Gilliam Ness Page A
Authors: Gilliam Ness
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Poached eggs, bacon, sausages, potatoes, fried fish, baked beans, fresh croissants and coffee in a French bodum. The perfect continental breakfast, and the eighty-five year old Bishop showed Gabriel that he still had quite an appetite. By the time he had finished his meal, Gabriel was dizzy with sleepiness.
“Let us now retire to the library,” said the Bishop, noting Gabriel’s fatigue. “There we can discuss your Compostela Cube.”
“But how did you know?” said Gabriel, rubbing his eyes sleepily.
“I’m not as dumb as I look!” said the old Bishop with a wink.
He scrubbed at his beard with a napkin, loosing a fragment of egg that had clung there the whole while.
“That is to say, I am much smarter than I appear!”
When they arrived at the library, Gabriel could barely keep his eyes open. The food was settling into his stomach, and his body was beginning to respond.
“Take off your shoes and lie yourself down on that sofa, my boy,” said the Bishop from the threshold. “I’ll be right back. We’ve got a lot to talk about, you and I.”
Finding himself alone in the room, Gabriel decided to take the Bishop up on his suggestion. Wearily he kicked off his shoes and stretched himself out on the soft leather sofa. Beside him, thin orange flames flickered lazily behind the glass doors of a cast iron stove, the familiarity of the room instilling a feeling of peace and security in him. As his eyes wandered around the paneled library, roaming dizzily from bookshelf to bookshelf, Gabriel began to feel a deep slumber take him.
“I’ll just close my eyes for a second until he gets back.”
CHAPTER 10
Amsterdam, North Holland.
It was night when the private jet landed in Amsterdam. Christian had slept the entire way. He emerged from the executive cabin to find his two escorts standing on either side of the door, their arms crossed over their chests officially.
“I trust you had a good flight, Christian?” asked one of the men.
Christian walked past them as if they did not exist. He was a prisoner. He always had been. Bending to look out the window, he felt a distinct pang of hatred surface somewhere in the back of his head. This was his hometown, and he did not know what he hated more, the city or his father. The mere thought of the man filled Christian with bitterness and scorn.
The plane came slowly to a stop beside a waiting limousine, and Christian, familiar with the mechanism, opened the hatch in time to see the motorized staircase pull into place. Before it had come to a stop he had already stepped onto it, making his way off the plane and into the car before his two escorts had time to follow.
“Take me to my family residence,” he ordered, closing the car door as the two men hurried down the steps toward him.
“Now!” he barked.
The car sped off instantly, leaving the two men behind on the tarmac. Christian lowered his window, feeling a flow of cool, Dutch air wash over him. It was a familiar smell that he deeply despised. It was too fresh, too clean, and it smacked of the forward-moving mentality characteristic of the Netherlands. He lit a cigarette and passed a hand through his greasy hair.
The Antov family estate was located in the outskirts of Amsterdam, its manicured grounds, majestic stone walls and shining copper rooftops sending an instant message of power and affluence. How long these buildings had housed his ancestors, Christian did not know, but if he was sure of one thing, it was that his family was much older than the stately Napoleonic residence; much older indeed.
“Take me to the west entrance,” he ordered, “and call ahead to have a bath prepared for me. I want a bottle of red wine and Eggs Florentine waiting for me when I’m done.”
“Very good, sir.”
The car rolled down the long drive that led into the grounds, its wheels rumbling over the uneven cobblestones. Christian lit another cigarette.
Maybe I’ll get lucky and he’ll be
“Let us now retire to the library,” said the Bishop, noting Gabriel’s fatigue. “There we can discuss your Compostela Cube.”
“But how did you know?” said Gabriel, rubbing his eyes sleepily.
“I’m not as dumb as I look!” said the old Bishop with a wink.
He scrubbed at his beard with a napkin, loosing a fragment of egg that had clung there the whole while.
“That is to say, I am much smarter than I appear!”
When they arrived at the library, Gabriel could barely keep his eyes open. The food was settling into his stomach, and his body was beginning to respond.
“Take off your shoes and lie yourself down on that sofa, my boy,” said the Bishop from the threshold. “I’ll be right back. We’ve got a lot to talk about, you and I.”
Finding himself alone in the room, Gabriel decided to take the Bishop up on his suggestion. Wearily he kicked off his shoes and stretched himself out on the soft leather sofa. Beside him, thin orange flames flickered lazily behind the glass doors of a cast iron stove, the familiarity of the room instilling a feeling of peace and security in him. As his eyes wandered around the paneled library, roaming dizzily from bookshelf to bookshelf, Gabriel began to feel a deep slumber take him.
“I’ll just close my eyes for a second until he gets back.”
CHAPTER 10
Amsterdam, North Holland.
It was night when the private jet landed in Amsterdam. Christian had slept the entire way. He emerged from the executive cabin to find his two escorts standing on either side of the door, their arms crossed over their chests officially.
“I trust you had a good flight, Christian?” asked one of the men.
Christian walked past them as if they did not exist. He was a prisoner. He always had been. Bending to look out the window, he felt a distinct pang of hatred surface somewhere in the back of his head. This was his hometown, and he did not know what he hated more, the city or his father. The mere thought of the man filled Christian with bitterness and scorn.
The plane came slowly to a stop beside a waiting limousine, and Christian, familiar with the mechanism, opened the hatch in time to see the motorized staircase pull into place. Before it had come to a stop he had already stepped onto it, making his way off the plane and into the car before his two escorts had time to follow.
“Take me to my family residence,” he ordered, closing the car door as the two men hurried down the steps toward him.
“Now!” he barked.
The car sped off instantly, leaving the two men behind on the tarmac. Christian lowered his window, feeling a flow of cool, Dutch air wash over him. It was a familiar smell that he deeply despised. It was too fresh, too clean, and it smacked of the forward-moving mentality characteristic of the Netherlands. He lit a cigarette and passed a hand through his greasy hair.
The Antov family estate was located in the outskirts of Amsterdam, its manicured grounds, majestic stone walls and shining copper rooftops sending an instant message of power and affluence. How long these buildings had housed his ancestors, Christian did not know, but if he was sure of one thing, it was that his family was much older than the stately Napoleonic residence; much older indeed.
“Take me to the west entrance,” he ordered, “and call ahead to have a bath prepared for me. I want a bottle of red wine and Eggs Florentine waiting for me when I’m done.”
“Very good, sir.”
The car rolled down the long drive that led into the grounds, its wheels rumbling over the uneven cobblestones. Christian lit another cigarette.
Maybe I’ll get lucky and he’ll be
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