The Night Everything Fell Apart (The Nephilim Book 1)(55)
“Really?” He added a guileless blink. “I had no trouble entering.” It wasn’t a lie.
The man looked skeptical. “Nonetheless. You must allow me to escort you out.”
“Actually,” Michael countered, “I’ve traveled all the way from England, hoping I might tour the Institute. I’d like to apply for admission.”
“Ah.” The man’s expression eased a fraction. “We have many British students. Some from the United States as well. Most of our classes are taught in English, as the Institute’s work is international in scope. What is your area of study?”
“The Ancient Middle East.”
“Precisely my interest as well. I suggest you visit the admissions office. The door is around the corner, accessible from the street. They can provide further information and arrange a tour on the weekend.”
“Unfortunately,” Michael said, “I’ll have left Prague by then. Perhaps you could give me a brief tour now? Informally?” He held out his hand. “My name is Michael, by the way. Michael...Santángel. And you are?”
After a brief hesitation, the man shook Michael’s hand. “Dr. Shimon Ben-Meir, archeologist. I’m at liberty for the next hour. I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to show you around. Come.” He nodded toward the mahogany doors.
Michael murmured his thanks as he fell into step beside his host. “When does the next term begin?”
He kept up a steady stream of questions as Ben-Meir guided him through several ground floor passageways, pausing to allow Michael to peer into classrooms, offices, and laboratories. A few passing students eyed him curiously. He nodded in return. The Institute was, as Raphael had said, a bona-fide center of learning, no matter that the director was a Nephil. Its facilities were a curious mix of modern comfort and old-style graciousness. Michael sensed nothing amiss with any of it.
He let his senses roam, seeking any sign that Fortunato’s celestial spirit had passed this way. He encountered nothing.
There had to be something. The little cherub could hardly have vanished into thin air. “The Institute’s founder is well respected in the international academic community,” Michael commented as they climbed a marble staircase.
“That is very true. Professor Vaclav Dusek is a highly respected scholar of antiquities.”
“I’m sure he’s a busy man, but I’d very much like to meet him. Could you perhaps arrange a brief interview?”
Ben-Meir paused at the top of the stair. “That will not be possible, I’m afraid. The professor is out of the country at the moment. I am acting as director in his absence.”
Michael wondered if Ben-Meir knew the man he worked for was a demon. “Do you teach classes as well?”
“Not normally, no. In fact, I’ve spent the better part of the last year off-site, on an archeological expedition.”
“Where?”
“Axum. It is in—”
“Ethiopia,” Michael said. “The Ark of the Covenant is said to be preserved there.”
Ben-Meir’s brows rose. “That is true. Unfortunately, only the high priest of Axum is permitted to view the relic, keeping its true provenance a mystery.”
“And the archeological expedition you mentioned? Was it successful?”
“I believe so,” he said, but offered no further elucidation. Pausing before a pair of gilded panel doors, he pushed the right leaf open and stood back. “The Institute’s library,” he said. “A place of study and awe.”
The space was impressively lofty. The mansion’s former ballroom, Ben-Meir explained, now fitted with long wooden reading tables, glass-topped display cases, and tall oaken bookshelves fronted by rolling ladders. Delicate chandeliers hung from the deep-coffered ceiling.
A few students sat at the table studying various documents. Leather bound tomes, illuminated manuscripts, parchment scrolls, and even stone tablets. All wore white gloves and paper face masks.
“The university’s collection of ancient materials is unparalleled,” Ben-Meir said. “Our most prized artifacts come from Biblical lands. We take the utmost care with their preservation. Yet we also believe the treasures must be accessible for study.”
He guided Michael along a series of cases in which fragments of ancient scrolls were displayed in humidity-controlled compartments. He halted before an especially fragile specimen, displayed alone, in a round case a short distance apart from the others.
“From Israel,” he said. “Recovered from a cave near the ancient city of Qumran. It’s a fragment from the apocryphal Book of Enoch.”
Michael bent his head over the case. The dark bit of parchment was no larger than his palm, its edges ragged, the lettering almost unintelligible. It’d been a couple centuries since he’d deciphered any ancient Aramaic, but, as he scanned the text, one word jumped out as if it’d been written in fire.
Nephilim.
He straightened. No wonder this fragment had been given pride of place.
They left the library, descending the grand stair to a marbled entry hall. The tour was almost at an end and Michael’s frustration was growing. Perhaps Fortunato hadn’t been here after all. But if that were the case, where in Heaven’s name could the cherub be?
The stair didn’t end at street level. A narrower flight continued downward, closed off at a lower landing by a plain mahogany door. Michael was about to look away when a glittering bit of something, resting on the second step down, caught his eye. His heartbeat accelerated. When his guide turned to speak with an approaching student, Michael stooped and picked it up. He studied it gravely before closing his fingers around it.