Bones of Angels Read Online Free
Author: Christopher Forrest
Tags: Science-Fiction, adventure, Literature & Fiction, Action & Adventure, Science Fiction & Fantasy
taking me?” asked the frightened cleric.
The priest smiled at Connolly with misshapen lips and drew a silver blade from a sheath tucked beneath his sleeve.
At the sight of the knife, Connolly wrenched himself free and bolted for the stairs. But his body was not accustomed to bursts of physical activity, and his right knee refused to support his weight. It gave way beneath him, and Connolly fell hard to the wooden floorboards.
The priest chuckled and took a step toward his captive. He held the knife with reverence, as if it were a holy relic.
“Don’t be foolish,” he said. “Do you really believe that you can run from me?”
Connolly crabbed across the floor on all fours until he reached the top of the stairs. Gritting his teeth against the grinding pain in his knee, he reached for the banister and pulled himself to his feet.
If I can just make it to the front door.
Connolly stumbled down the steps, hobbling on one leg and leaning against the banister to support his weight. Halfway down, he stumbled and banged his knee against the railing. Fire lanced through his leg, and his vision blurred.
The priest reached the top of the stairway and watched his prey writhe in agony on the wooden steps. He tapped the blade of his knife against the banister.
“You’re almost there, Archbishop Connolly,” he said. “Only twenty meters to the front door.”
Twenty meters.
Unable to regain his feet, Connolly threw his body down the staircase. His right shoulder and hip smashed against the steps, and he tumbled down the stairs to the marble floor of the foyer. His right arm went numb. Blood streamed from a gash across his chin.
Connolly tried to stand. The broken edges of three shattered ribs grated in his chest. The breath left his lungs in a gasp of pain.
Five meters.
“Almost there,” the priest called out.
Connolly pulled himself across the marble floor with his left arm. His broken body felt like it was on fire. The color drained from his vision, and the front door swam before his eyes in foggy shades of gray.
Two meters.
The priest descended the staircase, taking two steps at a time. He kept the point of his blade trained on Connolly like the needle of a compass.
“Come now — tell me what you know of angels,” said the priest. “I am told you know a great deal about one angel in particular. An archangel.”
Connolly forced himself to his feet and rose into a half-crouch. He lunged for the door, grasped the doorknob with both hands, and pulled it open.
Outside, two men in long gray robes barred Connolly’s escape. Cowls covered their heads, shadows hiding their faces.
“An excellent effort,” said the priest. “Completely foolish, of course. Before the night is over, you will tell me everything you know about the Archangel Michael.”
He bounded down the last several steps to the foyer.
Connolly felt hot breath against his ear, and then a soft whisper.
“Bring him,” the priest commanded.
The cloaked men seized Connolly by his arms and dragged him back into the residence. The Archbishop tried to scream, but he could produce nothing more than a raspy wheezing sound.
Whittington Manor
Long Island, New York, 2011
Charles felt someone tap his shoulder. He turned over in his bed, but no one was there.
He was still clothed in the terrycloth robe. Turning on the lamp by his nightstand, he sat up and swung his feet over the bed.
Something was wrong. Very wrong. He had hypothesized five years ago that his experiments in the sensory deprivation chamber had opened up a doorway in his mind. A doorway to other dimensions and realities.
A doorway that made him more than a bit psychic.
He put on a button-down shirt and a pair of trousers and went to his main laboratory in the basement. Work was always the best medicine when he felt unsettled.
A spirit was definitely in the manor tonight.
A friendly one, he suspected.
Chapter 6
11:42 p.m., September 11
Archbishop Connolly’s
The priest smiled at Connolly with misshapen lips and drew a silver blade from a sheath tucked beneath his sleeve.
At the sight of the knife, Connolly wrenched himself free and bolted for the stairs. But his body was not accustomed to bursts of physical activity, and his right knee refused to support his weight. It gave way beneath him, and Connolly fell hard to the wooden floorboards.
The priest chuckled and took a step toward his captive. He held the knife with reverence, as if it were a holy relic.
“Don’t be foolish,” he said. “Do you really believe that you can run from me?”
Connolly crabbed across the floor on all fours until he reached the top of the stairs. Gritting his teeth against the grinding pain in his knee, he reached for the banister and pulled himself to his feet.
If I can just make it to the front door.
Connolly stumbled down the steps, hobbling on one leg and leaning against the banister to support his weight. Halfway down, he stumbled and banged his knee against the railing. Fire lanced through his leg, and his vision blurred.
The priest reached the top of the stairway and watched his prey writhe in agony on the wooden steps. He tapped the blade of his knife against the banister.
“You’re almost there, Archbishop Connolly,” he said. “Only twenty meters to the front door.”
Twenty meters.
Unable to regain his feet, Connolly threw his body down the staircase. His right shoulder and hip smashed against the steps, and he tumbled down the stairs to the marble floor of the foyer. His right arm went numb. Blood streamed from a gash across his chin.
Connolly tried to stand. The broken edges of three shattered ribs grated in his chest. The breath left his lungs in a gasp of pain.
Five meters.
“Almost there,” the priest called out.
Connolly pulled himself across the marble floor with his left arm. His broken body felt like it was on fire. The color drained from his vision, and the front door swam before his eyes in foggy shades of gray.
Two meters.
The priest descended the staircase, taking two steps at a time. He kept the point of his blade trained on Connolly like the needle of a compass.
“Come now — tell me what you know of angels,” said the priest. “I am told you know a great deal about one angel in particular. An archangel.”
Connolly forced himself to his feet and rose into a half-crouch. He lunged for the door, grasped the doorknob with both hands, and pulled it open.
Outside, two men in long gray robes barred Connolly’s escape. Cowls covered their heads, shadows hiding their faces.
“An excellent effort,” said the priest. “Completely foolish, of course. Before the night is over, you will tell me everything you know about the Archangel Michael.”
He bounded down the last several steps to the foyer.
Connolly felt hot breath against his ear, and then a soft whisper.
“Bring him,” the priest commanded.
The cloaked men seized Connolly by his arms and dragged him back into the residence. The Archbishop tried to scream, but he could produce nothing more than a raspy wheezing sound.
Whittington Manor
Long Island, New York, 2011
Charles felt someone tap his shoulder. He turned over in his bed, but no one was there.
He was still clothed in the terrycloth robe. Turning on the lamp by his nightstand, he sat up and swung his feet over the bed.
Something was wrong. Very wrong. He had hypothesized five years ago that his experiments in the sensory deprivation chamber had opened up a doorway in his mind. A doorway to other dimensions and realities.
A doorway that made him more than a bit psychic.
He put on a button-down shirt and a pair of trousers and went to his main laboratory in the basement. Work was always the best medicine when he felt unsettled.
A spirit was definitely in the manor tonight.
A friendly one, he suspected.
Chapter 6
11:42 p.m., September 11
Archbishop Connolly’s
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