The Covenant (Twin Flames #4) Read Online Rachel Henke

Categories Genre: Fantasy/Sci-fi, Paranormal, Romance Tags Authors: Series: Twin Flames Series by Rachel Henke
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Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 94823 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
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Expert:

Present day
Dr Cara Bailey-Cavendish, PhD, receives a mysterious invitation from the Jewish Mystical Society in Jerusalem.
The High Priestess Tarot card jumps out in a psychic reading, and Sylvia channels an old soul from a past life in Judea, Ancient Israel, who has an important message for Cara.
Cara can’t ignore the calling, no matter how much she hates leaving George. From the moment she arrives in Jerusalem, it’s like coming home. She falls in love with the city and feels the magic with every step. It all seems so strangely familiar, as if she’s been there before…
Cara meets the charismatic mystic, Noah. She suspects he holds the key to unlock the secrets of her perilous past life. What is he hiding, and should she trust him?
Jerusalem, Judea – 66
Cara discovers she possessed a rare gift in her past life during the Temple period. She time slips to the start of the Jewish-Roman Wars, when revolution rages, and Zealots are fighting for Israel’s Holy Covenant.
But who were Cara and George two thousand years ago? And will the Twin Flames find each other again before Jerusalem burns to ashes?

Full Book:

PROLOGUE

The Jerusalem Temple, Judea - The Year 66

* * *

The dawn sun rose over the Judean hills and whispered the promise of another scorching day.

The High Priest of the Hebrews entered the Jewish Temple to perform the sacrificial offering. A hush fell over the cool interior, and the golden tiara shone on his priestly turban as he glided across the marble floor and approached the stone altar. Incense burned in a golden censer. The sacrificial animal lay ready, prepared by his assistant priests.

On the table there were twelve loaves of shewbread symbolising the Twelve Tribes of Israel, an array of cups and receptacles, two silver tuba trumpets and a gold menorah. The High Priest looked around and prepared himself to begin the ancient ritual of prayer and sacrifice.

A loud crash punctured the early morning tranquillity, echoing throughout the Temple and shattering the High Priest’s meditative state. His eyelids flickered open, and alarm shone on his face as he turned his gaze to the entrance. He hurried away from the vessels and the incense-burning altar and strode forward at such a speed that his white linen tunic escaped from beneath his priestly violet robe and flew behind him, giving the illusion of a magical cape. The golden bells on the hem of the garment rang as he moved.

A wild-looking man with chaotic black curls paused at the entrance to the Temple and then marched in with his band of rebels. They waved their daggers, and the High Priest drew in a sharp breath and froze.

‘Matityahu ben Theophilus?’

The High Priest saw the terror on his sons’ faces and cast a longing glance towards the Holy of Holies. He beseeched God to intervene, moving his lips and muttering the Jewish prayer, Shema Yisrael: Hear, O Israel, the Lord is our God, the Lord is one.

He nodded, his eyes sombre, and folded his fingers into a steeple position as though relinquishing his life into the Lord’s hands and accepting his fate.

The High Priest was a Jewish aristocrat and a Jerusalemite by birth. He was accustomed to tiresome negotiations, both with the Romans who had invaded the Jewish state and the Zealots who demanded the nation rebel. He walked a precarious line between the two and was not ashamed of his acquiescence to the Romans and the client king, Herod Agrippa II.

He was the spiritual leader of the Jews and saw it as a necessary evil to appease the Roman Empire so that the administration would allow them to worship in the Temple as they had for a thousand years since the time of King Solomon.

Every day brought fresh horror stories of oppression of the Jewish nation, and more of their rights were revoked by the hated Judean Procurator, Florus. The High Priest feared his beloved Jerusalem was about to burn. Again. He had prayed fervently for the Temple and his people but had failed to pacify the ever-growing number of Zealots.

Revolt raged in the air, and he sensed he was about to pay for his compliance with the Roman Empire.

‘Come with us,’ barked the rebel in Aramaic. Jews reserved Hebrew, the sacred language of the Torah, for prayer.

Yaacov, the High Priest’s son, stepped forward and challenged the man. ‘On whose orders do you remove my father from his Temple duties? We are about to begin the sacrifice.’

The rebel spoke the infamous Sicarii’s name: Menahem ben Judah, before he signalled to his men who grabbed the High Priest and pulled him roughly. He stumbled and almost fell, but his captors gripped his arms and dragged him out of the sanctuary and trailed him through the outer courtyard.

The High Priest who descended from a long line of Israelite priests turned his head and glimpsed the curtain that led to the Holy of Holies for the last time.


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