The Lost Garden (The Lost Garden Trilogy Book 1) Read online

  He watched now as his opponent brandished the Kamas with what was nothing short of obvious training. Although tall and looking like the Grim Reaper more than ever now, the movements were smooth and quick. The broad shoulders were angular enough and not necessarily packed with much muscle, although again it was hard to tell. The person, no matter what gender, held themselves with a sort of regal confidence that he could not entirely explain. Maybe he or she was just confident in their own abilities, which were considerable.

  His opponent had let down any guard after spying his painting. Had she seen something significant in the painting derived from his very dreams?

  He noticed that he was now beginning to think of the robed figure as a female. There was fluidity in her movement, a poetic balance that was rare in fighting men, but that which most truly gifted women possessed. Then what was she doing here and who was she?

  She attacked in a flurry of polished steel blades. As always, she was silent. He never even heard her breathe. Her robes flapped through the air, her feet whispered over the polished floor and her movements were as deadly as ever.

  He gave her some ground, turning his body often to avoid the deadly blows, most of which were aimed at his face and heart. He felt the metal whisper near his face and ears. There was no opening for him to counterattack. He was solely on the defensive and he was okay with that.

  Sometimes, it was better to watch and learn.

  He watched her and learned as she was trying to kill him. He still did not know why. Her form was flawless. Had he been lesser skilled, she would have shredded him to ribbons.

  Then he heard it. A grunt, a gasp escaping from her lips.

  She was tiring.

  Granted, he was already wheezing and sweating, as this was perhaps the most rigorous workout in his life, not to mention, it was a fight for his life.

  Her hood fluttered back in the whirlwind of her arm movements. He saw an angular nose and thin, pursed lips, and beautiful dark eyes. Then the hood fell back. It had only been a brief imprint on his mind, but it had been enough for him to lose his concentration.

  He suddenly dodged left, but she seemed to anticipate that move and brought the right Kama up. He was in trouble. He knew the blow was going to hit home and do some serious damage. He wasn’t entirely in harm’s way, but with a Kama, it didn’t take much to inflict massive injuries.

  The injury never came. She switched movements in mid-swing, deciding instead to bring the weapon slashing down, which he easily avoided. She could not have made that mistake by accident. She had him dead to rights, but had shown mercy on him.

  She doesn’t want to kill me, he thought. Then what the hell is going on?

  She lunged forward, blades aimed for his midsection. He sidestepped the sudden attack.

  At least, he thought. I don’t think she wants to kill me.

  She spun, slicing through the air with one of the Kamas. The blade veritably hummed with motion. He dropped, rolling backward, and ended up against the far wall. Enough was enough. He turned and removed two butterfly swords, which were blunt, snubbed-nose weapons that were the perfect counter to the Kamas.

  He just happened to be an expert in their use, as well.

  She gave him no time to ready himself as she lunged forward. He took a step back, raised the butterfly swords, and blocked her weapons. The hooked Kamas were lodged firmly against the sharp edge of his swords, as the momentum of her attack brought her just inches from his face. He could see the light of her eyes inside the hood. She was powerful and the force she brought to bear on her weapons was almost staggering.

  “You fight well,” he said. He gave her a lopsided grin. “For a woman.”

  He thought those shining eyes might have narrowed and knew he had probably hit a nerve, which was fine with him.

  She released herself from the stalemate and renewed her attack. He met her move for move and sparks erupted from their weapons. She fought like a tiger. Now, he sensed that she was holding very little back and that this time, there would be no mercy. He did not feel the need to launch a counterattack. He did not want to hurt her, if he could help it. Instead, he wanted to know who she was and what this was about.

  Fighting defensively, he continued his minor retreat. She mixed up her attack with the occasional lightning-fast hooking kick, one or two of which connected on a kidney. Long ago, his trainers had taught him, the hard way to take a punch, or in this case, a kick. She would have to kick him a lot harder and more often to wear him down.

  She brought her weapon up quickly and she got the tip of his chin, opening it up.

  The pain was nonexistent, but the blood which now dropped steadily onto his shirt and floor, made his footwork tricky.

  Word of advice, he thought. Don’t insult her in the future.

  If he had a future.

  * * *

  She wasn’t sure why she’d spared him. She had him dead to rights and had countered her own swing with one that was easily defensible. Perhaps she would have been reluctant to bring back, battered and wounded, the man who had been prophesied about throughout the ages. Mother Daughter would be pissed.

  Now, she regretted it. The male was cocky and had insulted her. He knew that she was a woman and he was trying to take advantage of that fact.

  Her nick on his chin had felt good. Her first real strike against the male. Blood dripped from the wound and she found her footwork compromised by it. Still, she was glad it was his blood and not her own.

  She was winded. It was the first time in a long time that a mortal had winded her. Perhaps ever. She was just beginning to see his potential usefulness. However, it was beyond her to see how he could ever replace a Guardian.

  She was determined to teach this male a lesson and wipe that smirk off his face.

  She launched into another attack, adding sweeping kicks that occasionally landed. He gasped when hit, but for the most part, he was holding his own. She was sure the kicks did little damage, other than make her feel good.

  Sweat rolled down her back. The blood on his chin was coagulating. She noticed the shadow of stubble on his cheeks.

  “Focus,” she told herself.

  She also noticed that he was no longer on the offensive and was merely reacting defensively. She did not know what to make of this. Was it because she was a woman or was there something else?

  More than likely, she knew that he wanted to know who she was.

  * * *

  She renewed her fury. He could no longer think of anything but his own survival. Too many times, the weapons had come close to decapitating him. He watched as his arms seemingly reacted on their own, countering her offensive blitz. They almost seemed to move independent of thought.

  He was pressed up against the wall and had lost track of his surroundings. Not a good thing. She had him pinned and he needed room. He had no choice.

  She had gotten used to him reacting defensively and was getting careless. He lashed out with a foot and caught her in the mid-section. A solid kick, but not one meant to do internal damage. She briefly doubled over. He knew she was more surprised than hurt.

  She instantly recovered.

  But he was already moving. He reached up and lodged the points of his butterfly swords into the mahogany above his head. She slashed with her weapon as he kicked up, using the handles of the swords like a gymnast’s parallel bars.

  The movement was quick. Her swipe missed, because he was no longer there while both Kamas landed hard in the wood where his head would have been. Instead, he was briefly suspended above her by the strength of his swords. He kicked out and up, flipping briefly through the air, leaving the swords in the wall.

  As he passed her in the air, he grabbed her hood and pulled.

  The hood came down as he landed behind her and she turned to face him. What he saw made his heart stop It was her, of course.

  The girl from his dreams.

  * * *

  “Arm yourself, mortal,” she said. “I’m not done with yo
u yet.”

  She turned to face him, leaving the Kamas in the wall and shrugging out of the black robe, which fell to her ankles. She was dressed in a tight black pullover that accentuated her fit body. Knight could now only look at her in awe.

  He recognizes me, but I do not know how or from where, she thought.

  She was nervous, as she circled him quietly. He only followed her with his shocked eyes. He was breathing hard. She sized up the man as she walked around him.

  “Who are you?”

  She stopped next to a rack of Samurai combat curved short swords, which were designed for good balance and ultimate efficiency. She had one or two at home.

  She removed the first and tossed it to him. He did not seem to take his eyes off her, as he caught the weapon by the handle, spun it once, and then lowered the handle to the floor.

  She removed the second one for herself.

  He realized that this was something he had to do, if he wanted answers.

  Not to mention, she wanted some answers herself.

  “You’ve proven yourself to be efficient, mortal.” She raised her weapon in the guarded position.

  He didn’t move. “Why do you call me that?”

  “Because you will die like the others.”

  “And you do not die?”

  “No,” she said, circling.

  He tilted his head, following her with his eyes. His chest was still heaving. “You are from Eden.”

  Her step faltered. She said nothing.

  “I dream of you,” he said. “I’ve dreamed of you my entire life.”

  She saw that he was close to hyperventilating. He wasn’t just tired from their bout. He did seem to be having some sort of reaction to seeing her. She attacked, thrusting her sword forward. He parried easily, but did not riposte. He simply stepped back, as she redoubled her attack without withdrawing her arm. He parried this as well. She riposted, hacking savagely. His own sword met hers in a flash of blinding white sparks.

  “What else do you dream of, mortal?”

  “I dream of many things that I do not understand.”

  She lunged again, attempting a duel attack that, if done right, was difficult to defend. The tip of her sword slashed twice and he defended it perfectly.

  “These paintings are from your dreams,” she said.

  “Yes.”

  She saw that he had maneuvered himself to one section of the studio, seemingly on purpose.

  “Look,” he said, and he stepped aside. It was another painting, one of a tall, angular woman with eyes that flashed with an inner fire. She held in her hand a broadsword, point down. She appeared relaxed, but something about her body position suggested she was ready to lead an attack. She had black, flowing hair, pale skin and a streak of white in her hair.

  It was her, of course.

  Jess almost dropped the sword. She turned to face him. There was something close to tears in his eyes. He seemed to be shaking, as if cold, but that could have been an illusion. He seemed overwhelmed with emotion, but she had never been a good judge of human emotion. At least, it seemed that he looked relieved, as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He seemed ready to collapse.

  She lunged again and he raised his sword to meet her attack. For a few seconds, their swords were an utter blur. She found herself losing ground. All of her moves were met by his firm determination and he seemed to actually be gaining strength. The look in his eyes was almost frightening.

  “Why do you want to hurt me?” he asked, grunting.

  “You are mortal and you are male. You are unworthy. I have given my life for what must be done. I have given many lives for what must be done. You appear and then you are expected to do the job that surely the Daughters can do on their own. I can see no use for you.”

  “I have no clue as to what you’re talking about.”

  “Of course not. You only dream meaningless dreams, mortal.”

  He resumed his attack and moved forward quickly. She found herself pinned to a far wall. “Quit calling me mortal!”

  She kicked out hard, nailing him in the groin. He doubled over as she smiled and gave him a moment to recover. He stood, his face pale, and they engaged again.

  She lost track of time and space and any thought process. Her body was a machine of parrying, riposting, engaging, disengaging and thrusting.

  It was an uncanny final move that found both swords pointed under each other’s throats. Any false movement by either party would lead to instant death. Both swords were held steady.

  “What is your name?” he asked, gasping hard with sweat dripping from his nose.

  “I am Jessima IL Eve,” she said, sucking in air. “Guardian of Eden and the Tree of all Life.”

  “Hello, Jessima IL Eve, Guardian of Eden and the Tree of all Life. I am Dr. Evan Knight. I’ve been waiting for you.”

  Chapter Three

  Alexey Konstantin had rarely missed an opportunity to advance his pharmaceutical empire and he wasn’t going to miss this one, either, no matter what the cost and no matter how strange and surreal the circumstances. He was a billionaire, too, because of his ability to turn his gut instinct into profit. Now, his instincts were telling him there was something here. Something worth pursuing. He was sure of it. He felt it in his heart and soul and it all started with the amazing vial of oil.

  “But, sir, this is crazy,” said Alexis Milek, his assistant, a little man who was paid too well to play the devil’s advocate. He was a hell of a sounding board, but Alexey was already growing tired of the man’s firm resistance to this latest scheme. They were sitting in Alexey’s suite at the Hotel Kabras in uptown Tehran, a hotel popular with visiting dignitaries and local embassy staff. As Milek spoke, Alexey moved over to the wide window and looked down upon Iran’s populous capital. Outside, nine floors below, traffic was snarled because of a broken-down bus with steam emitting from its engine. “I have calculated that this venture would cost over two million dollars in bribes, weaponry and salaries. Not to mention the potential loss of human life, if we are met with the kind of resistance we anticipate. I cannot agree with this, especially based on what little information we have received.”

  Alexey did not immediately respond. Instead, he continued staring down upon the ancient capital. He saw the heat waves rising in the distance as the bus finally hiccupped to life and rolled along, freeing up the traffic. He saw the distant smoke of the many factories that populated Tehran, filling the air with their vile pallor. He saw all of this, but he didn’t really see it. No, he was thinking about the Garden of Eden. The real Garden of Eden, supposedly hidden within a dormant volcano, if it was indeed a volcano at all. He was thinking about the Tree of Life. He was thinking about the vial of oil that he, even now, held in his hand. The clear amber liquid was, in fact, sap from the Tree of Life. He believed all of it because he had seen the evidence with his own eyes.

  Milek had only just flown in from Moscow, headquarters of Konstantin Pharmaceuticals. As luck would have it, Alexey had already been in town, touring his third-biggest plant here in Tehran as he did a lot of business with the Iranians, when word came from some local doctors that something unusual had been found. It was something so fantastic that they needed his laboratory to test it.

  Alexey moved over to where a beautiful white cockatiel with full plumage rattled and stirred in its cage. Alexey had requested the bird to be brought for just this occasion. When Alexey requested something, the staff at the Hotel Kabras provided, instantly. He was one of their richest guests.

  “Milek, I would like to show you something.” Alexey opened the cage and reached inside for the bird. It was an obedient bird and hopped onto his wrist. He brought it out, stroking its fine feathers. It shook its head and splayed its tail feathers affectionately. “He is a beautiful creature, is he not?”

  Milek removed his round glasses and wiped the lenses on his white polo shirt, a nervous habit that Alexey found amusing. Milek eyed him warily. “Yes, sir. He is beautiful.
But I do not understand—”

  “Avert your eyes, Milek. You do not have the stomach for this.”

  Alexey opened his palm and smothered the bird’s face, closing its beak and shutting off its air holes. The bird tried to escape, flapping madly in his hand, until he restrained it with his other hand. Small white feathers drifted lazily to the floor.

  “Sir! You’re killing it!” Milek did finally look away, his face thunder-stricken and pale.

  Alexey knew he was smiling and knew that he probably looked insane. Maybe he was...a little. But he wanted to prove his point and wanted to see the magic at work again. There was no better way to see it than with death. Finally, the bird ceased its resistance. It shuddered violently once and then, went limp. To make sure death had set in, Alexey held it like that for another minute, slowly ticking off the seconds in his own head.

  The smile was still there. He should not be enjoying this so much, but he was.

  I am a monster, he thought. But soon I shall play God.

  He released the bird’s beak and held the limp figure in his palm. Its legs and head flopped over his fingers. It was definitely dead.

  “Look at me, Milek.” The man did not. Alexey saw that he was shaking. “Look at me!”

  Milek did, and when he turned and saw the dead bird, he stepped back against the front door. He looked at Alexey with nothing short of horror on his face.

  Alexey laughed. “I am not evil, Milek. There is a point to all of this, after all.”

  His assistant said nothing.

  The Russian pharmaceutical giant set the dead bird on a beautiful seashell-inlaid end table. Its head, with its heavy beak, flopped to one side. Alexey removed the vial of oil from inside his jacket pocket.

  “Watch closely, Milek and do not blink.”

  The amber oil was still in the original container in which it had been found, which was an ingenious little glass vial that allowed only one precious drop at a time to flow. One drop was all that was needed. Alexey turned the little bird’s head and pried open its beak. His movements were precise. After all, he had been a chemist in his former life, before his small company grew into the second largest in the world. His hands, though, despite all their practice with fine movements, were trembling with excitement.