Scenes from the Secret History (The Secret History of the World) by F. Paul Wilson Read Free Book Online

and I do mean grew – from there.  Somehow the mythology I’d invented for The Tomb became involved, and that brought Jack into the picture.  The result was an outline for a 1,000-plus-page novel.  Nobody was going to publish that, so I broke it down into a trilogy – Reborn Reprisal, and Nightworld – and sold it that way.  But in my head it remains a single novel – a roman fleuve , if you will. 
     
    Here’s how it starts…

    REBORN
    (sample)

     
    PROLOGUE
     
    Sunday
    February 11, 1968 
     
    1
    He was calling himself Mr. Veilleur these days – Gaston Veilleur – and tonight he found it difficult to sleep.  A remote uneasiness made him restless, a vague malaise nettled his mind, stirring up old memories and ancient nightmares.  But he refused to give up the chase.  He measured his breathing and soon found the elusive prey within his grasp.  But just as he was slipping off, something dragged him back to full wakefulness.
    Light.  From somewhere down the hall.  He lifted his head to see.  The glow came from the linen closet.  Blue-white radiance was streaming out along the edges of the closed door.
    Moving carefully so as not to awaken his wife, Mr. Veilleur slipped out of bed and padded down the hall.  His joints creaked in protest at the change in position.  Old injuries, old wounds, reminders of each hung on, sounding little echoes from the past.  He knew he was developing arthritis.  No surprise there.  His body looked sixty years old and had decided to begin acting accordingly. 
    He hesitated a moment with his hand on the knob of the closet door, then yanked it open.  The very air within seemed to glow; it flowed and swirled and eddied, like burning liquid.  But cold.  He felt a chill as it splashed over him.
    The source – what was causing this?  The light seemed most intense in the rear corner of the bottom shelf, under the blankets.  He reached down and pulled them away.
    Mr. Veilleur bit back a cry of pain and threw an arm across his eyes as the naked brilliance lanced into his brain.
    Then the glow began to fade.
    When his eyes could see again, when he dared to look again, he found the source of the glow.  Tucked back among the towels and sheets and blankets was what appeared to be a huge iron cross.  He smiled.  She'd saved it.  After all these years, she still hung on to it. 
    The cross still pulsed with a cold blue radiance as he lifted it.  He gripped the lower section of the upright with two hands and hefted it with an easy familiarity.  Not a cross – a sword hilt.  Once it had been gold and silver.  After serving its purpose, it had changed.  Now it was iron.  Glowing iron.
    Why?  What did this mean?
    Suddenly the glow faded away, leaving him staring at the dull gray surface of the metal.  And then the metal itself began to change.  He felt its surface grow coarse, saw tiny cracks appear, and then it began to crumble.  Within seconds it was reduced to a coarse powder that sifted and ran through his fingers like grains of sand.
    Something has happened.  Something has gone wrong!  But what?
    Slightly unnerved, Mr. Veilleur stood empty handed in the dark and realized how quiet the world had become.  All except for the sound of a jet passing high overhead.
     
    2
    Roderick Hanley twisted in his seat as he tried to stretch his cramped muscles and aching back.  It had been a long flight from L.A., and even the extra width in first class cramped his big frame.
    "We'll be landing shortly, Dr. Hanley," the stewardess said, leaning close to him.  "Can I get you anything before we close the bar?"
    Hanley winked at her.  "You could, but it's not stocked in the bar."
    Her laugh seemed genuine.  "Seriously, though…"
    "How about another gimlet?"
    "Let's see."  She touched a fingertip to her chin.  "'Four - to-one vodka-to-lime with a dash of Cointreau,' right?"
    "Perfect."
    She touched his shoulder.  "Be right back."
    Pushing seventy and I can still charm