Midnight Rain

by Cecily Magnon

  She came running to his office, the staccato click-clacking of her high heels on the marble floor a happy sound he missed. “Where is my pilot? What has been happening around here?” he asked calmly. Everything looked in order as it should with Pamela watching over things.

  “After he flew you out, Sir... He’s gone dark. No contact with anybody. No one has heard from him or seen him since,” Pamela reported. She looked grave as she turned a laptop to face him.

  The laptop had several windows open at once. The one in the center was running some sort of code he didn’t understand. “What is this?”

  “It’s searching,” she almost mumbled.

  He looked closer at the window’s label. “You’re tapping into Federal databases?” he asked. The woman was brilliant. He wasn’t surprised at her capability, but he was surprised that she would tamper with protected networks again. “You’re hacking?” He tried to keep the amusement out of his voice. He was well aware of Pamela’s history. It was the very reason he hired her. Having a computer genius at his disposal gave him an edge. Besides, the felony charges against her had been out of proportion. Yes, she tampered with a secured network, but it was only to clear a friend’s massive hospital bill. A friend who had also recently been evicted from their home and was out of a job. She was trying to do the right thing. Her only mistake was, she got caught.

  She smiled innocently. Her cheeks flushing. “Searching. I’m searching, Sir. It’s not hacking, if I’ve got access.”

  He scoffed. He knew for a fact he hadn’t given her access to those agencies, but he wasn’t going to press her for the truth. He was the last person who had a right to lecture her about right and wrong. “Any luck?”

  “No,” she grumbled. “I can’t find him. Anywhere.” She looked dejected, but before her mood could go south any further, she turned the questions around. “What’s happening in San Francisco, Sir? The media... It’s been very positive about the arrival of the demons....” Her voice trailed off, a thought left hanging in mid-air.

  “You don’t believe the news?” He wanted to know what she thought of all the demon-spun hype. It was part of the plan. To make the demons look appealing, and hide the ravages that were actually going on. Those who had been asleep had been activated, and some of those Sleepers were the most influential forces behind the largest communications network in the Country. You control the media, you control the world. The demons controlled the Sleepers.

  She shook her head slowly. She was continuing to assess his question by the way she looked down at his desk.

  “Why is that Ms. Duran?” The last name made her look up with a snap. He hardly ever called her by it.

  She set her lap top down on his desk. “Sir. Demons are the quintessential bad guys in all of history. In every culture, in every religion--bad guys.”

  “Maybe history got it wrong.” He enjoyed their little debates.

  “No, Sir. An event may be skewed according to perspective. A he-said, she-said of sorts. But in the case of demons... It’s unanimous. Bad guys. The whole world cannot be wrong.” She straightened, another thought flowing across her brilliant mind, and ready to be verbalized. “There’s something else going on in San Francisco, Sir. It doesn’t feel right. But I can’t put a finger on it.”

  He was rummaging over papers on his desk. “What doesn’t?”

  “Friendly demons. I don’t believe it.”

  “What do you think is going on, Pamela?” He stopped rummaging to assess her.

  She had one arm crossed over her torso, the other bent, with her thumb softly jabbing at her chin. “I just don’t buy into the nice-demon story, Sir. Intellectually, I know it can’t be true.”

  He took a ragged breath. Her curiosity could get her into trouble.

  “I have been thinking about this, Sir. A lot.”

  He looked up at her. Their eyes locking. “Where are you going with this, Pamela?” Was she suspecting something?

  “I, I don’t know.” She looked suddenly afraid, her eyes darting back and forth, avoiding him.

  He stared at her, not saying a word.

  “Sir?”

  “I actually agree with you Pamela. Demons are evil. But the ones who have arrived in San Francisco, seem to be keeping their word about a peaceful coexistence. Innocent till proven guilty.” He lied without losing a beat. The truth was his burden to bear.

  “What about national security, Sir?”

  Solomon scoffed. His assistant was at times too smart for her own good. She knew the protocols and anything that was perceived as a threat to national security could be detained. He allowed a small piece of truth to stave off her inquiring mind. “I have men already stationed in San Francisco. That’s why the Bureau’s director has been trying to reach me.”

  She eased a little, and gave him a tight smile.

  Curious, he thought. He would have expected a more elated response from his assistant. He needed to change the topic. Get back to business. “Have you had a chance to research my request?”

  “Yes!” She turned sharply on the balls of her feet, walked out the door, and straight to her desk.

  He heard one file drawer slide open and close, and her distinct click-clacking return to his office. Placing a folder on his desk, he read the neat block print she always used on his files. ‘Seraphim’, it said.

  “Did you find information on the coal?”

  “Some.” She didn’t look too pleased. “I’m still looking, Sir. There isn’t much mention of it in the holy texts. I need to get creative with my search parameters.”

  “Good. Keep working on it.” He smiled warmly at his assistant. He’d always had a soft spot for the kid. Admired her work ethic and her kind heart. It reminded him of what he had been like in his youth. Being around Pamela, made him feel… redeemable.

  She flushed. “Yes, Sir!” she said with a happy rise to her voice. “Can I get you anything else, Sir?”

  “No. In fact, I’m going to head home for the rest of the day. If you need me, call my cell.” He grabbed the folder off of his desk and headed straight for the door. Before exiting, he turned to his assistant. “If you hear anything about my pilot, please let me know.” He stopped for a moment remembering what his pilot had said to him when they landed in San Francisco--he had called him a hero. His heart clenched as a quick prayer skated through his mind for the man’s safe return.

  Solomon prays! Solomon prays! His guardians taunted.

  “Sir,” Pamela’s voice broke through his annoyance with his guardians. She was contemplative, her eyes downcast. “Is everything all right in San Francisco?” Her face had shadowed. “I have family there. I really want to believe the demons are good, like the news says, but...” She was shaking her head.

  “Don’t worry about San Francisco, Pamela. If anything happens, our office will be the first to know.” He smiled tightly, making the edge of his jaw twitch as he looked her straight in the eyes.

  She nodded, despite the unconvinced expression on her face. She followed him out, pulling the heavy door of his office closed behind her.

  The bitter chill of the north east stung his face as he crossed the icy street to his car. The winter freeze had let up some, allowing services back to the frozen city. Most everything was still covered in ice, but the storms had finally receded allowing the sun to do its work in thawing the town. The smooth soles of his loafers challenged his balance with every step. He wasn’t dressed for the weather gripping the East. Not having bothered to put his gloves back on, he blew into his hands to ease the bite of the cold. Damn it. He cursed under the frosty clouds of his breath. All the glass on his car had frosted over in the short time he’d been inside. Annoyed, he trudged to his trunk and pulled out a window scraper. He felt like an idiot scraping his windows. He didn’t have time for this nonsense. He was a General of the world’s greatest army, for Pete’s sake.

  Laughter chimed in his head like pinpricks stabbing his brain. Your ego is your worst enemy, Solomon.

&n
bsp; His guardians were back. It seemed they never missed a chance to mock him. He ignored them as he used his frustration to take the frost off of his windows.

  You used to beg for pennies just to clean windows. Remember?

  He stilled, the scraping abruptly halted as he fought against the sad memories of his youth.

  Remember? You were pretty good at it, too.

  Their laughter made his pulse race and his breathing go ragged.

  Those idiots were still around. Your other guardians, until we got rid of them. Goody-two-shoes, they hissed.

  He could almost see the sneers on his guardians’ faces. He’d always wondered what happened to his ‘angels’. That’s what he had called them, ‘Guardian Angels’. They used to talk with him. A long time ago, when his heart was still good. “You got rid of them?” he growled. His fingers were tightening around the neck of the scraper as realization about his guardian angels turned his stomach. All these years, he had thought he was unworthy of the light’s guidance, and that was why his angels had left.

  Those fools. They kept you in mediocrity, they hissed. You come from a line of kings.

  “How did you get rid of them?” he snarled.

  They laughed, Wouldn’t you like to know.

  They faded from his consciousness and he was alone again, his frustration making him fume. The drive home would calm him down. It would certainly take long enough.

  He missed his basement office. It was the only place in the entire house that was truly his. Everything else was for his wife and daughter. The house reflected more of his wife’s style and personality--beautiful and elegant on the surface, but no substance beneath, he chided.

  He hadn’t married for love, but for position. He’d only loved once and that ended in ruin and hurt. Never again. He loved his daughter, raised her as his own, although she wasn’t his blood. He hadn’t cared at first, but as she grew older, she grew more like her mother--shallow, vain, a liar. He supposed some genetics were just too strong to overcome.

  He and Olivia stayed together for reasons perhaps only the two of them could understand. He’d never been in love with her, but he did care about her--a lot. How could he not? After twenty years together--even he wasn’t so calloused. He sighed. They were his family, regardless. They were the only ones he had left, and they were perfect for him. Shallow and ambitious, they supported his every move. Fuck. Maybe he did love them. He scoffed at his own realization. Apparently, absence could make even his dark heart grow soft.

  He finally reached his home, the sight of the large, white Georgian house bringing a smile to his face. He missed being here. It was beautiful, especially with the thick layers of snow frosting the tops of every tree and shrub on his property. The sun was shining bright, its rays peeking through the trees and reflecting off of the crystals within the snow. The whole property seemed to sparkle all around him as the sun’s rays shifted.

  Exiting the car, his door shut with a heavy thud, sending some red squirrels running into the trees. The air was crisp and fresh, with a hint of sweetness coming from the woods beyond his property. Olivia’s car was in the driveway, the tire tracks still fresh over the snow-covered driveway. She must have just gotten home. She hadn’t been expecting him. He hadn’t called. He stalled, waiting longer than he normally would to enter the house.

  If she had one of her ‘visitors’ in the house, he would have to kick the bastard out. Kick him out, don’t kick the shit out of him! He recalled Olivia snapping at him the last time. He chuckled. He had fun kicking the shit out of the little gigolo, but he really wasn’t in the mood today. He just wanted to relax in his basement.

  He turned the knob slowly, wanting to change his mind about coming home. He could still turn around and head back into the city and back to his office, but he was tired. He wanted to be in his chair, review the file, and meditate on his next steps.

  The knob reached its limit, he held it there preparing himself to come face to face with some punk moocher, leaching off of his wife. She met a new friend, Pamela had informed him. Cursing under his breath, he finally pushed the door open.

  The inside of his house was quiet. It almost felt empty. “Olivia!” He called out sure that his wife was home. He started to walk to the kitchen, looking for her there. “Olivia!” He detoured to the fridge when he didn’t get a response. Relieved there was no one to kick out, he shrugged off the silence, and grabbed a beer. She was probably too distracted to hear him. No man around, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t buried with new shoes or new dresses.

  He reached his basement office, opened the door, and flicked the light switch on the left wall. The light came on bright and harsh, making him shield his eyes with the Seraphim labeled folder he’d been holding in his hand. “What the hell?” He flicked the switch off, and scrambled to his desk lamp for light. He was still seeing spots as he fumbled around, feeling for the lamp switch near the base of the bulb. He should have installed a Clapper.

  Finally feeling the small button, he depressed it and let the lamp do its work to illuminate his beloved space. It was simple, but practical. Olivia always commented it looked like a bunker. It was better than a bunker. He had a comfortable bedroom down here, a spa style bathroom, and even a kitchenette. He used the ‘bunker’ too often. The only consolation was his wife and daughter always knew where to find him. Plopping down in his big leather office chair, he let his stress wash away from his shoulders. He could relax. He was home, even for just a short time.

  Short was accurate.

  Tension returned quickly as his ears perked to the sound of rhythmic grating coming from inside his bathroom. No one used the basement. He was the only one with a key. He cursed, only now realizing the door hadn’t been locked. He pulled open a nearby desk drawer, reaching underneath to access a hidden compartment where he kept a loaded pistol. He rose from his seat, careful not to make any noise.

  Holding the gun at his side, his index finger poised over the trigger, he crept towards the bathroom. The door to the bathroom was slightly ajar, the grating sound steady in its pace. “Son-of-a-bitch,” he hissed. This was his space. He wouldn’t tolerate disrespect here. He kicked open the door, pistol pointed, ready to scare the shit out of Olivia’s visitor.

  He gasped, unprepared for the emotional punch that slammed his chest as he saw both Olivia and their daughter--dead, bloody, naked, their arms stretched up, and swinging from meat hooks on the ceiling. It was the damned shackles he’d heard. Iron bands wrapped around their wrists grating against the hooks as they swung side to side like pendulums.

  He collapsed to his knees, splashing the blood covering every inch of his once pristine white tiled floor. Tears ran down his face. His gut twisted in fury. The bitter pang of his loss doubling him over in grief.

  Fucking demons tortured and killed my family. My family! This has their stench all over it. He’d seen those same shackles used on other victims. He swallowed the painful lump in his throat as his whole body vibrated with every conceivable emotion attacking him at once, threatening to numb him from shock.

  He didn’t want the numbness, not now, not yet. He wanted to feel every bit of rage and every bit of pain to push him through what he had to do.

  The demons were going to pay.

  Chapter Fourteen

  January 25th, The Order’s Estate

  “Enough!” Isabel stood abruptly, her glare piercing each of the leaders sitting on either side of her. “Our bickering will not get us anywhere. We must move forward.” She let her shoulders sag feeling the gravity of the situation crash her resolve. “Our people are afraid. The attack on the estate was unprecedented.”

  “What happened, High Mother? The estate is supposed to be secure. How did the demons get through?” It was the Wiccan leader, her tone accusatory.

  Isabel leveled her gaze upon the woman.

  Abigail Richards came as an Elder representing their Witch and Wiccan allies just a few years ago. The woman had never given Isabel any overt reasons t
o be disliked, but it seemed lately... Isabel shook her head, clearing her thoughts before answering. Perhaps it was the stress. It pained Isabel to know that the walls of the estate crumbled because of one of their own. “The initial attack that weakened our systems was from a guardian. She was not repelled by our protections.” She paused, studying the Elder carefully. Why was she bringing this up again? “You know this.”

  Abigail sneered. “Again, what happened, High Mother? How could a guardian come to such deplorable actions?”

  Isabel straightened, her tone hardening. “Do not forget the line that our other guardians held at our border. They held off an army of over a hundred demons, and prevented further destruction to our home. The might of The Order must be recognized. We use it to give our people hope.”

  “Hope?” Abigail said aghast. “Our people are not blind. They know we are outnumbered.”

  “What do you suggest Abby?” It was the second Witch leader, Grace.

  Abigail stood from the dais, leaned down and held every Elder’s attention with her sweeping gaze. “We cannot withstand the hordes. Our responsibility is to keep our people alive.”

  Isabel stiffened in her seat, her gaze hot upon the Elder speaking. She shifted into the guardian’s mask momentarily to neutralize her expression. She needed to see the Elder with new discernment.

  “What are you suggesting Abigail?” She narrowed her eyes

  “We surrender freely to the hordes,” Abigail stated.

  It took every ounce of control from Isabel not to jump out of her seat. “You speak foolishness, Abigail.”

  “Do I, Isabel?” she hissed. “Surrendering would mean survival.”

  “Surrendering would mean slavery, if not death. You cannot trust demons,” Isabel snapped.

  “So says the Anakim.” Abigail bit back. “There are demons walking and living with society and they do not harm anybody. Making such a blanket statement is what seems foolish to me, Isabel.”