Aramis thought he saw the shadows flicker with life. Dark whispers filled the air around him. Distracted by them, he didn’t notice that they had entered the Prophet’s chamber until the man’s voice echoed through the space.
“Melchiades?”
When he’d first met the man, he had been impressed. Now, Aramis barely recognized him. The Prophet’s once muscular frame was now on the flabby side. His hair was disheveled and unkempt and his jaw had the faint beginnings of gray hair. The pendant he normally wore around his neck, a closed hand with an open eye in the center, lay on his desk.
“I thought you were dead,” the Prophet said. He came around the desk and hugged Mel. “Had I known you were alive, I would have sent you help.” As he broke the embrace, the Prophet seemed to notice Aramis for the fir
