The Lafayette Sword by Eric Giacometti Read Free Book Online Page B

come upon him making a second copy. She was also aware that her husband kept certain books that only he knew about in a baseme nt closet.
    Never had she dared to tell her confessor, for fear that misfortune would fall on her household, but she shook at the idea that she was risking her soul. Every time her husband emerged from the basement, candle in hand, he looked feverish. And it took him a long time to fa ll asleep.
    In truth, she didn’t just fear books. She hated them. And she hated even more the strange customers who showed up at night with books hidden under their clothes. Her husband always opened the door to them, offering them something to drink and a place near the fire. He had once told her that every time an unpublished book came out of the night, a whole section of human thought came back into the light.
    When she returned to the main room, her husband was focused on a book. She coughed. He looked at her but then turned to the window, as if something had caught his eye. Then shock filled his face. She strained to see what had caught his attention but couldn’t. Her husband got up and strode across the room. He stuck his head out the door and then looked back at her, as if he had seen the Devi l himself.
    â€œMaster Flamel, I have come to see you.”

    Nicolas Flamel said nothing. His new neighbor was at his door: the man in black. He wasn’t wearing his hood today. His face was a pasty white, and there were bags under his eyes. The scribe looked away. The strange man just star ed at him.
    â€œYou are a master in writing, I believe? I too am a kind of master, but in a very special area. I am dedicated to serving the will of God. My name is Jehan. Jeha n Arthus.”
    Flamel removed his skullcap.
    â€œI am Nicolas. Nicolas Flamel. At your service.”
    A smile flitted across the m an’s face.
    â€œExactly.”
    The shopkeepers were opening a little late, as the previous night’s festivities had lasted into th e morning.
    Jehan Arthus frowned. “What did you think of last night’s e xecution?”
    â€œThat the king is good and just.”
    For the second time, the man gave him a fleet ing smile.
    â€œYou are a prudent and reserved man, Master Flamel. Never one word louder than another.”
    â€œCopying all day long requires di scipline.”
    â€œYes, it’s much like my oc cupation.”
    Flamel didn’t say anything. He didn’t like where the conversation was going.
    â€œMaster Flamel, are you a good Christian? And don’t worry. I’m not looking to cause you trouble. I simply need you r skills.”
    The scribe relaxed a little.
    â€œYou need to copy a book. A Gospel, undoubtedly. I have already…”
    â€œNo. I simply need a man who knows how to write what is being said and to forget what he has heard. Are you that man, Maste r Flamel?”

21
    Grand Orient Masonic Hall
    Evening of the initiation
    H e advanced quickly, using just his hands to guide him along the walls. He’d practiced dozens of times and didn’t need any light.
    â€œTotal, absolute control. That is power. I love the darkness.”
    He climbed the three steps that led to another passageway. Soon he would be out in the open and could hurry home to wash up. He’d have to ease himself out of his role and return to his normal life. He’d ask his wife about her day and find out if their son had done his homework. Then he’d heat up the meal Martha, their housekeeper, had prepared. The further he moved away from the temple, the more he returned to his ordinary profane existence. The brother of vengeance was disappearing little b y little.
    A vision of the man in the wheelchair flashed in h is memory.
    â€œI cry for them when they suffer. Why don’t they understand that I’m freeing them from their chains? I am the wind and the storm. I am v engeance.”
    He felt the cold iron ring, grabbed it, and pulled. The door creaked. A