Fallen

by James Somers

  “How do we get in?” I asked.

  Oliver walked beside me with the king and Sophia ahead.

  “This particular temple can only be accessed by a special portal,” Lycean explained.

  “What king does this temple commemorate?” I asked.

  Oliver chuckled. “The greatest of the Lycan kings,” he proclaimed.

  Ahead of us, Lycean sighed wearily.

  My confusion was finally answered by Sophia. “Oliver built this temple in honor of my father,” she said, offering a smile for Oliver.

  I looked at him with newfound admiration.

  “I had no idea you were so diverse with your talents,” I said. “An architect?”

  “Don’t worry,” Oliver replied, “you’ll find it rather unconventional.”

  When we reached the end of the flower rows near the temple, we passed through a distortion, like penetrating the surface of water. This virtually invisible portal delivered us directly into the temple itself. We found ourselves standing upon a central plinth that extended out nearly to the inner surface of the globe. The plinth’s surface had been intricately carved with a vast mural depicting what I assumed must be the entire history of the Lycan people. Illuminating the entire temple was a blue flame that hovered in the very middle of the sphere.

  Looking up to examine the flame, I noticed its odd nature.

  “Oliver, how did you get the flame to lick downward at us against gravity?” I asked.

  He stifled a laugh, as did the others.

  “I didn’t,” he reported. “We are actually standing on the inner surface at the top of this globe. You and I are contradictory to gravity at the moment, not the flame.”

  I looked up again and all around, but there was no other landmark to gauge our orientation. I would have expected to feel the blood rushing to my head, or some other disorientation as an indicator, but I felt no different.

  “Amazing,” was all I could manage to say about the temple’s unorthodox construction.

  Oliver gave a slight bow in reply.

  It was a lighthearted moment. A moment I would hold on to for a long time after that day. Then the terrible reality of our situation came crashing back in like a tidal wave. We were here in this place to end the power of Black’s dolls over the citizens of London. We were here to remove the key to the angel’s spell that animated them in this world. We were here to kill Oliver James.

  Lycean presented me with a cloth wrap. He unfolded the silk to reveal a bright blade beneath, a dagger of exquisite beauty. I looked at Oliver who happened to be staring at the blade.

  “I can’t do this,” I said.

  “You must, Brody,” he replied. “I require you to draw the flame down into the blade before you strike. I do not wish to linger in pain, after all. That should certainly do it.”

  “Lycean?” I begged.

  He gave me a solemn look. “I wish it did not have to be,” he said.

  “You are the only one who can do this, Brody,” Oliver explained. “Only you and I can draw down the flame. And I’m afraid I could not sufficiently carry this out on my own.”

  I reached out and took the dagger from its wrappings. It was heavy, possibly made of pure silver. Certainly it was a beautiful piece. I knew that I could perform the conjuring without difficulty. Having Oliver as my mentor had given me confidence. I was less sure that I could actually kill my friend, despite the ramifications.

  “Well, let’s not drag this out any more than necessary,” Oliver said. “As far as my affairs are concerned, I have made arrangements, legally claiming Brody as my ward and heir.”

  “I don’t understand,” I said.

  “You will inherit all that I have,” Oliver explained. “And, in my absence, I hope you will carry on the fight against Black, Brody. Lycean, I hope I can count upon your long support as applicable to the boy.”

  “Of course, my friend,” Lycean said. “All that I have and more is yours.”

  I did not know what to say at this gesture. Oliver smiled at us. “You have been very good friends,” he said finally. “I shall miss you all. However, considering my new faith in our God, I trust I will see you soon enough, provided you share those convictions.” Oliver looked at me and winked. “Be sure that you share this faith with them, as you did with me.”

  I choked upon any words I might say and simply nodded. The silver dagger felt very heavy in my hands now. The moment was practically upon me. I would lose someone I had hoped to know for the rest of my life—a brother and a friend—a mentor like no other in this world. But he was slipping away, and there was nothing to be done for it.

  “I’m ready,” Oliver said. “Do what must be done, Brody.”

  He stood stock still with his hands at his sides waiting. I swallowed against the gathering lump in my throat. It was time. There was no going back.

  I raised the silver dagger toward the inverted fire burning at the center of the spherical temple. With little effort, I drew down a stream of blue flame, willing it to converge with the blade and remain there. The fire obeyed, though it took on our inverted nature now, appearing normal to us in our upside down orientation.

  I stood before Oliver with the dagger raised high in my right hand ready to strike. Tears welled in my eyes, but I pushed back against my emotions. I had to be strong in order to save all of those people who would otherwise be at Black’s mercy.

  This is a victory for Oliver in his fight against Black. I kept thinking that, trying to sell myself on the nobility of what we were about to do. All the while, my mind continued to scream out about the insanity of this ritual. Was there no other way?

  Oliver closed his eyes and spread his arms out, ready to embrace death itself and whatever else he would soon face. I drove down with all my might, hoping my boy’s strength would be enough to even do the job right. There came a whoosh as the air buffeted the flame. The dagger plunged toward Oliver’s waiting breast.

  An explosion of blue fire and a discharge of electrical current sent me flying backwards into the quick care of Lycean’s powerful arms. Oliver had also been thrown down by the unexpected exchange. Standing between us stood the mysterious angel who had both fed me in the alley and saved our lives in Tartarus.

  His expression was urgent.

  “You shall not harm Oliver James,” he said.

  Wearily, I dropped the knife, nodding to the angel, happy that intervention had come. Oliver recovered quicker than I did, getting back to his feet.

  “But the Mystic told us that I was the key,” he said. “I have to die in order to save the people of London.”

  The angel turned toward him with a gentle smile, laying his hand on Oliver’s shoulder. “There is another way.”

  Alternatives

  I had never been so glad to see someone in all my life. When the angel showed up suddenly to stop me from killing Oliver, my hopes were lifted. I was reminded of God’s intervention during the sacrifice of Isaac. Unfortunately, my hopes were soon to be dashed. Something had to be done to save the mortal citizens of London, and Oliver still had the misfortune of being the spell key that allowed them free reign in this world.

  We four stood captivated by the angel’s appearance. He was robed in white apparel with a golden sash at his waist. Light emanated from an aura that surrounded him, and his face was a model of benevolence.

  “What must we do, if not follow the Mystic’s instructions?” Oliver asked.

  “Did the Mystic instruct you to kill yourself, or have your friends perform the deed?” the angel asked.

  We thought about it for a moment. I couldn’t remember those exact words, though we had taken that explanation away from it.

  “He told us that I was the key and had to be removed from this world,” Oliver reported.

  “Then that is what was meant,” the angel said.

  “But what does that mean, if not killing him?” I asked.

  “The Fae realm cannot be the answer,” Lycean said. “You’ve been to Ti
dus several times since the dolls appeared in London and still they live.”

  “No, the Fae is rooted in the mortal world,” Oliver explained. “It cannot exist independently of it.”

  We all looked at one another. Our epiphany came simultaneously.

  “Tartarus!”

  “It does exist independently of the mortal realm,” the angel said.

  “But isn’t Tartarus a prison only for angel kind?” I asked. “The scriptures seem to indicate as much.”

  “A prison only to angels,” the angel confirmed.

  “Meaning I would have to imprison myself there,” Oliver deduced. “Dwelling there, the spell would be broken.”

  “Then why didn’t that happen when you both went there a week ago?” Sophia asked.

  We looked to the angel for the answer to that mystery.

  He smiled with kindness in his eyes to us. “Black was still on Earth,” he said.

  The answer seemed elementary. Both Black and Oliver would have to be confined to Tartarus in order to break the fallen angel’s spell on London. I only had one obvious question left to ask.

  “Once the spell is broken, would Oliver then be able to return?”

  Here the angel’s countenance fell somewhat. “I’m afraid that would be impossible,” he said. “Oliver must bind himself to Black and then cast himself into the oblivion of Tartarus. Were he to leave, Black would then be freed.”

  Our spirits fell in that moment. The angel’s appearing had brought no hope, no good news to us. The heaviness of our weight of despair had not lightened in the least, but grown heavier. Oliver’s fate would not be death, but a fate worse than death. Buried alive within the incomprehensible madness of Tartarus.

  Charlotte had long surrendered to the incessant aching of her every muscle as she hung bound by strong cords fastened to her extremities. These, in turn, fastened her to the walls of the cylindrical chamber rising up around her. The skin of her neck and wrists and ankles had been blistered and torn through days ago by her struggling to be free. She was held fast in Black’s trap, awaiting what exactly she had no idea.

  Still, the aching of her muscles was in no comparison to the terrible thirst that her days without feeding had born in her. Charlotte needed blood very badly. The urge to drink and be filled was quite maddening. And though she had long ago made her pact not to kill innocents, she knew without a doubt that vow would not withhold her now if given the chance.

  Her perception of time was completely undone in this terrible prison. She had no light from the outside, no fresh air to breathe. They did not even allow her the opportunity to bathe or relieve herself. Only water in small amounts had been provided.

  At last the door opened, and Charlotte found herself anxious just for some change in her surroundings. A vampire she knew by acquaintance only entered the room. Miles had still been a youth when this war began. Even now she perceived his inexperience and trepidation. He may not have feared human kind, but Miles did fear her.

  As he came fully into the chamber, the unmistakable scent of man filtered through around him. He was dragging behind him an elder gentleman—evidently someone they had taken from the street. The powerful urge to sink her teeth into his flesh and drink gnawed incessantly at the very fiber of her being. She might have struggled to get to him, but her bonds prevented her efforts, so she remained still, watching them both.

  Miles paraded the elderly gentleman before her like meat before a starving dog. Charlotte closed her eyes, not wanting to think about the man, but knowing it was impossible to put his blood from her mind. Miles seemed to be mocking her, but she knew this young vampire was actually acting to cover his own intimidation. Charlotte’s reputation as a deadly warrior among her people was well known.

  The man still wore a gray suit. He seemed not to realize who it was that had abducted him, or the reason why he had been brought into this cell to view Charlotte’s condition. His eyes conveyed his dismay. Clearly he was appalled to see a young woman kept bound under such conditions. But he did not see her as a threat. At least, not yet.

  Miles came to Charlotte cautiously without seeming to be cautious. His eyes never left hers. He removed the cord that gagged her. She knew exactly why. Black meant to keep her alive and that required blood. At the same time, he was probably aware of the predicament Charlotte had placed herself in. She had long ago chosen to only feed upon the dregs of society—particularly the criminal elements.

  This man, on the other hand, was anything but. He appeared to be a gentleman, a man of honest means and dignity. And while all people may have skeletons in their closets, he was not at all the sort Charlotte would have chosen for herself. Black no doubt relished the choice she would have to make: satisfy the incessant ache within, or cast aside her chosen morality.

  Miles allowed the man to go free within the cell. He backed away from Charlotte once the gag was free. The gentleman stood against the wall waiting, apparently unsure about what was going to happen next. Miles passed through the doorway, glanced at the gentleman then at Charlotte.

  “Have fun?” he said with laughter in his eyes.

  The door was shut again. Miles bolted it from the outside. They were in here together—a starved predator and her unknowing prey.

  Charlotte glanced at the man then cast her gaze toward the ground, shutting her eyes. She had to drown out the voices shouting within her mind to feast upon this mortal. The man, being kindhearted, did nothing to help her squash this instinct’s call.

  “My dear girl,” he said, approaching.

  He was not bound in any way. However, this would not help him. Had he been bound, he might have resigned himself to sitting plaintively against the wall. Instead, he was free within the cell, feeling pity for the young girl who hung bound before him battered and bruised.

  “Whatever have these fiends done to you?”

  He was presently beginning to examine the ropes.

  Charlotte attempted to spurn his assistance. “Stay away from me,” she said. She wanted to scream at him to leave her alone, but her pleas were feeble and half-hearted at best. The gentleman, being kind, disregarded any such notion. He intended to free her, as any gentleman would.

  He came close, too close, trying to loose the bonds that held Charlotte fast to the walls of their cell. The odor of mortal flesh and blood became overpowering. She wrested against the sweet sensations, fighting them by will alone. She would not succumb, she could not. A terrible battle raged within her. She pushed and pushed, until finally the aching began to subside.

  The gentleman, however, was unaware of this battle and certainly unaware of her victory. His fumbling with the cords had ceased moments ago. His hands dropped as he stumbled backward away from Charlotte. He reached up to his neck, clutching his right side. His hand came up before his bewildered gaze covered with fresh blood.

  Charlotte couldn’t understand what had happened. Hadn’t she been winning over her body? The metallic taste assaulted her senses anew. His blood was upon her lips. Her victory had been nothing more than unconsciously satisfying those damnable cravings while the gentleman stood near trying to free her. Fortunately, he had not. Otherwise, she might have leaped upon him, finishing the deed.

  As it was, though, the gentleman was still very much alive, though dazed and confused. He stumbled backward until he met the wall, appearing quite surprised by the entire situation. Even with his wounds and the crimson stain upon his hand he probably did not understand what had happened.

  He slumped against the wall, sliding down until his knees wobbled and he fell over on his side. The gentleman lay there gasping like a fish. Charlotte watched him remorsefully. But at least the ache was gone. She couldn’t help the relief she was feeling. Still, eventually she would have to feed again. What would happen then?

  Miles stood outside the cell door, feeling quite good about himself. At least, he thought he was feeling good about himself. He was serving Black faithfully, after all. Surely, there was no reason to
fear.

  Your master, Sinister, does not realize what you’ve done here. What will happen to you when he figures it out. Will he care for his sister?

  He serves Black as we all do, Miles decided. Sinister would not dare to go against the fallen angel.

  Really? This girl is his flesh and blood. And you are responsible now for adding to her torment. Black cannot be killed, but his vengeance might easily fall upon the one guarding her.

  I’m just doing what I’ve been told to do by Black, Miles reasoned.

  You are a traitor to your people. You have chosen to betray your king, Tiberius. Surely, his daughter’s tortuous death will bring down his fury upon a traitor such as you.

  But what can I do about it? Black will not listen to reason. He will not release the girl.

  But Tiberius and Sinister would at least know that you attempted to help them.

  Yes, he thought. That’s true.

  If you go now, there may still be time to warn your master before the girl dies.

  Miles walked away from the cell he had been guarding. Then he was suddenly running, then flying in the form of a crow. He would warn Sinister before it became too late, before he and Tiberius learned of his part in all of this mess.

  The good angel stood behind in the corridor as Miles went. He had remained entirely invisible, whispering doubt into the young vampire’s mind, manipulating his fears according to the angel’s own design.

  He turned to the cell door. Within, Charlotte was still held fast in bonds. The angel did not unlock the door, or enter her cell. Neither did he perform any sort of conjuring that would have enabled her to free herself. He did, however, smile as he watched the young vampire go. A moment later, the angel had disappeared entirely.

  Brotherly

  One had only to follow the fresh trail of corpses in order to find Sinister and the other Breed warriors accompanying him. Black had finally given them permission to begin a gleaning of the inhabitants of the city. After all, with so many citizens in London and the surrounding countryside, quite a lot had not been captured during their primary campaign using Black’s dolls.