Covenant by Dean Crawford

out,” Patterson reminded him. “Thirty million Americans follow my church. Think how many will follow it if these endeavors succeed.”
    “I think you put far too much faith in the power of your flock,” Stone murmured, “and not enough thought into how you’re using it.”
    “You have the photographs?” Patterson demanded, and grabbed the envelope Stone handed him with greedy hands, flicking through the images. “My God, look at it,” he marveled. “Look at the chest plate, built to support wings, and the cranial cavity, a brain far larger than our own. A Nephilim, a fallen angel of God.”
    Stone drew on his cigar. “Whatever.”
    “Science supports it,” Patterson said with quiet confidence. “We have already extracted the mitochondrial DNA from the other fragments we’ve acquired, and the full genome is not far behind. This will change the face of humanity forever.”
    “Strange,” Stone murmured, “how your church denies science with one breath and yet embraces it with the next.”
    Patterson struggled to cope with Stone’s ignorance. That any man could display such indifference to the divine staggered him.
    “We’re searching for creation, searching for the face of God. What greater purpose can there be than finding the cause of everything in our universe and communicating with it? How can we sit on the precipice of discovery and not act when we have the chance to prove the divinity of the Lord?”
    A long silence ensued as the Texan inhaled deeply upon his cigar, expelling blue smoke in diaphanous whorls.
    “Do you have faith, Pastor?” Stone asked finally, as he stared out over the Potomac.
    “I have absolute faith,” Patterson replied instantly. “God is always with me.”
    Stone smiled without warmth. “If that were truly so, you wouldn’t need these experiments of yours, would you?”
    Patterson kept his gaze fixed on Stone. “I seek only confirmation,” he insisted, “for the sake of all manki—”
    “You seek proof because you’re not sure,” the Texan interrupted. “People who claim absolute conviction without evidence are setting themselves up for a fall. Don’t wish too hard,” he said with a cold smile, “you don’t know what you might find.”
    “Our influence is waning,” Patterson lamented. “Americans do not worship with the passion of previous generations. There have been too many scandals, too much corruption, too many empty promises. The people are turning to personal faith and this is the only way to save them from the abyss, to prove that what we believe is true by cloning these remains and resurrecting an angel on Earth, a Nephilim.”
    “I’m in this for the money,” Stone said as he stood, “not for heavenly glory or your supposed salvation.”
    “A pity,” Patterson said, “that you place money above faith. It would be a shame to see MACE assets sold off to avoid bankruptcy.”
    Stone glared at Patterson for a long beat before flicking the smoldering butt of his cigar into the Potomac.
    “MACE will continue to protect your grotty little experiments—for now—but if you push this too far, you’ll end up exposing us all, and then you can go to hell for your protection.”
    Byron Stone turned his back and strode away down the path beside the river.

 
    JERUSALEM
    T he golden dome of the Al-Aqsa Mosque shone like a second sun against the hard blue sky in the distance as Ethan hurried Rachel through the Old City. While Rachel was distracted by the sights and sounds around them, Ethan instead struggled to conceal conflicting emotions that rushed upon him in waves. Long forgotten images of these packed streets and the throng of life in a city where the three great monotheistic faiths met in a potpourri of holy worship and primal hate flushed through his mind.
    Orthodox Jews in black coats and fox-fur hats weaved their way toward the Western Wall past Palestinian street hawkers touting their wares. Tiny shops wedged into recesses in alleys sold