by Kresley Cole
Yeah, I remembered now. She was a crier.
I glanced at my older brother. Brody was at the edge of the rink, leaning heavily on his cane. He was still a badass, even though he couldn't skate anymore, could barely walk.
Because of me.
At fourteen, I'd gotten hauled in for questioning (the bitch thought she could "change her mind" after teasing me all night?), and he'd come to bail me out. On the way home--wham!
Car crash.
In seconds, he'd gone from star player to cripple. Then later to my agent and coach. Weeks after the accident, he'd told me, "You're quick, you're still growing, and you're mean. By the time I'm done with you, you'll fly over the ice. You'll be big as a tank. Nobody'll be more vicious. The perfect grinder."
His coaching technique? Pain. Lots of it. Every time I fucked up.
At first I was so slow and stupid he had to use his cane on me every day. Now only a couple of times a week. . . .
Number Eight didn't move as they wheeled his stretcher away, didn't even give a feeble wave to the crowd so they could cheer.
I shared a look with Brody, not quite a smile. His beefy face was just like mine, a face that turned ugly when he smiled. He'd noticed the scouts' interest too. It was all happening according to his plan: Red Wings before I turned eighteen, then Stanley Cup by twenty.
I mouthed to him, I told you so. He'd been thinking those new accusations would follow me to Vancouver, had been worrying for no reason.
Nothing could touch me!
I glanced at the game clock, and got a spike of adrenaline. Three . . . two . . . one . . .
Back on the ice. Puck in play.
Number Twenty was giving me looks like he wanted to dance. At the thought, my body got hot, my skin flushed. This was what I loved! He was coming right at me. Bring it on, you little bitch!
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Number Thirty too late. Double-teaming me--
WHAM. As hard as the car wreck . . .
Next time I opened my eyes, I saw the roof of the stadium. Couldn't breathe! I was laid out on the ice, gliding across the surface like a puck. Needed air! I was never on the ice.
They were laughing. Twenty skated closer, skidding inches from my head to spray my face with ice shavings. "That's for my sister, you sick fuck."
I needed to pummel their faces to meat! To goddamn meat! Breathe, Richter! Why couldn't I move? My vision was going blurry, my body fever-hot. My fists felt like they were burning!
I got the weird sensation that I was sinking. Was the rink . . . melting? Surely I was unconscious, and this was a dream.
People started screaming. Players tried to run/skate off the thawing rink. There was no more smooth ice, just slush and sand. My head lolled to one side, and I saw my right hand. The glove looked like goop, like soup spilled on my knuckles. Melted too? Impossible.
Suddenly light flared through the stadium roof; outside the night was . . . day? Was I dying? Going to the light? I'd dreamed of hellfire for so long, there was no way I was going up.
More screams. That meant everyone else was seeing this! Where was Brody?
Fire rained down, flames landing all around me, on me. They didn't burn. Felt . . . good. My lids went heavy.
No! I had to get up. I needed to get to my brother! I struggled to rise. The world seemed to tilt.
My eyes rolled back in my head, and my mind went under. . . .
When I came to, I couldn't see shit. How long had I been out? I rubbed my eyes. Wait, where were my helmet and gloves? My pads and jersey? I slowly sat up. As my vision cleared, I saw black char marks all over my buck-naked body, but no burns. I gazed around. My brain refused to compute this sight.
The stadium was gone; only the metal skeleton that used to be the bleachers and a ring of steel girders were left. Farther out was a parking lot full of scorched cars. Tires smoked.
All around me were weird piles of ash. I made it to my bare feet. Where the hell were my skates? I blinked down at a pair of blades. My skates had . . . burned away.
Where the hell was Brody???
I lumbered toward the bleachers. I was sore, the way I got if I didn't practice for a couple of days. Damn it, how long had I been out?
I passed an ash pile. Skate blades jutted from the bottom. Was that . . . a player? I saw another pile, and another, all with blades. Somehow their bodies had burned to ash. We must've been bombed by terrorists or something!
How had I survived? Why had I liked the fires hitting me?
"Brody!" I yelled. Silence.
I ran toward the spot where he'd been standing, hoping to see footprints in the ash. Instead, I found the golden end of his wooden cane, as well as the surgical implant they'd put in his knee. I shuffled the ash, uncovering the titanium rod that had been attached to his spine.
This is my brother. Brody was dead.
Rage like I'd never known exploded inside me, the need to kill--
The ground ruptured between my feet. I yelled, lunging to one side. When the crevice yawned wider, I took off in a sprint toward the parking lot, running full speed between scorched cars. But the opening kept growing, the edge right at my goddamned heels, like it was chasing me! Cars toppled down; ash swirled in the air till I could barely see, barely breathe.
It'll catch me, then I'll fall straight to hell!
The pavement disappeared beneath me. I lurched in midair and latched onto the side of the crevice, digging my fingers into the crumbling asphalt.
Choking on ash. Heart thundering. Legs flailing to find a foothold.
As I scrambled for a better grip, I glanced over my shoulder. The rift went so far down I'd never stop falling. Just go on forever.
A gust of steam shot up, wetting my skin. My fingers started to give way. Hold on, Richter! Hold on, you bitch-ass!
One finger slipped . . . two more . . . One hand.
'Bout to die. A yell ripped from my lungs. I was dangling from three fingers when another gust hit me from below.
Game over--
I dropped.
Inches? What the?? I frowned down at my feet. My body was . . . rising?
All around me lava bubbled up, wrapping me like a soft blanket.
It didn't burn. No, the lava just carried me along.
Like a gift from hell. . . .
The Hierophant (V)
Guthrie, He of the Dark Rites
"We go now to our bloody business."
A.k.a.: The Sacrificer, the Consecrator Powers: Mind control, mesmerism, pathokinesis (emotion manipulation).
Special Skills: Genetic memory. Has an innate knowledge of sacrificial rituals. His mind control can last even after he's dead.
Weapons: His brainwashed followers.
Tableau: A robed male holding his right hand high, two fingers raised, blessing his white-eyed followers.
Icon: Two raised fingers.
Unique Arcana Characteristics: Pale from cannibalistic diet. Teeth filed into sharp points. Eyes turn white when he uses his mind-control power.
Before Flash: Miner.
The Lovers (VI)
Vincent and Violet, Duke and Duchess Most Perverse "We will love you. In our own way."
A.k.a.: The Milovnici twins
Powers: Pathokinesis and love manipulation (can warp and pervert any who love). Replication (can create carnates, living duplicates of themselves). Command inducement and sense scrying (can command carnates and borrow their senses).
Special Skills: Torture.
Weapons: Their carnates. Also, torture implements, pistols, booby-traps, explosives.
Tableau: Look-alike twins, a male and a female, stand hand in hand with a bloody windmill spinning in the background and dead roses at their feet.
Icon: Two overlapping triangles, bisected with arrows.
Unique Arcana Characteristics: Violet is part of Vincent, an absorbed twin.
Before Flash: Lived their entire lives in the Shrine, their father's doomsday bunker, studying their line's chronicles.
The Centurion (VII)
Kentarch Mgaya, Wicked Champion
"Woe to the bloody vanquished."
A.k.a.: The Chariot, the Wanderer, the Phantom
Powers: Teleportation. Ghosting (intangibility, can phase rapidly between corporeal and incorporeal.). Ghosting extension (can make objects and other people intangible). Superior aiming.
Special Skills: Covert operations, intelligence collection, tactical satellite communications, target acquisition, and offensive raiding. Marksmanship.
Weapons: Whatever's available.
Tableau: A warrior in a horse-drawn chariot, dressed in a red tunic and a helmet with a red-feather crest. Waterfalls and waves appear in the background.
Icon: Horse's head.
Unique Arcana Characteristics: When intangible, a faint outline of his body remains.
Before Flash: Newlywed Kenya Special Forces soldier, training an elite anti-poaching unit. Descended from a long line of Maasai warriors.
In the shadow of Mount Kenya
Day 0
Outnumbered and outgunned.
At least a dozen poachers fired on me with automatic rifles, their bullets chewing up the side of my truck. On the other side, I hunched down, taking cover, my own rifle in hand.
I'd already used most of my ammo, was down to my last four bullets. Sweat dripped into my eyes as I awaited an opportunity to return fire.
To think I'd once complained that my new assignment here would be too soft! When my superiors had dispatched me to this park to train rangers, I'd wondered why they would punish me.
I wasn't simply a soldier in the KSF; I was the best, breaking records so thoroughly they would stand forever. I'd learned from my father, an unmatched lion hunter, that there was power in excellence.
Then I'd quickly discovered that a conservation ranger's job was not only dangerous--it was a widow-maker. Every animal was a target of poachers, but especially the rhinos, with horns worth more than their weight in gold. This park had become a frenzied war zone.
Though my wife had been afraid a lion would get me, a far more dangerous predator had me in its sights.
One shot rang out above the others, echoing over the plain. It blasted straight through my truck, inches from my head. A high-caliber hunting rifle. Gasoline began to pour from a hole in the tank.
The gunfire ebbed. "You don't belong here, soldier!" one of the poachers yelled. "You never should have come!"
They wanted revenge for the deaths of their men during an earlier shootout with my conservation rangers. Today this gang had caught me driving alone to retrieve gear I'd used for a drill, my last task before my leave began.
"Surrender, and you'll live," another one shouted. "Stay and die. This is your last chance to walk away."
A lie. They executed anyone who laid down arms.
But surrender still beckoned. My beautiful Issa was expecting me home tonight. My yearning to get back to her played tricks on my mind, whispering, "These men are telling the truth. Of course they will let you go home."
I forced myself to accept reality. I would die if I fought; I would die if I didn't.
I am already dead.
I replayed Issa tracing the claw-mark scars across my chest, asking me not to take this park assignment because of the lions. I'd explained to her that I had earned those scars. I'd heard the maddened lion roaring with fury, warning me away, and still I'd foolishly stalked it.
I'd vowed to her that I would be safe because I would never ignore a warning again.
Yet now I was a dead man. Hatred for these poachers blistered me inside. I could at least take a few of them with me. "No surrender!" I leapt up, pivoting and aiming through the busted windows of my truck. Two controlled shots. I hit one poacher between the eyes. Another in the skull. I dropped back down. "Not today!"
They opened up with their machine guns, spraying bullets.
Amid the gunfire, I caught a different sound--a copter? Coming up from behind the ridge? If it was the park's copter, I might live. If it was theirs, I would die.
A lull. I chanced another shot, hitting my third target. One bullet left.
The helicopter appeared over the rise. . . .
Not ours. Two shooters inside had me dead to rights.
A dying man's life truly did flash before him. Mine had been filled with polarities and extremes. Fundamental forces in combat.
Old and new. Life and death. Love and hate.
Ancient Maasai tradition clashed with my modern military life. I'd hunted lions as a boy; now I protected them.
I delivered death to so many men--three this day alone--but Issa and I were trying for a baby.
My love for her left me reeling sometimes. But so did my hatred for my enemies.
Beyond the helicopter, Mount Kenya stood proud. My family had lived, warred, loved, and died on these plains for centuries. Sun struck the peak.
My instinct was to close my eyes. But I refused. I straightened my beret and prayed to my spirit guardian. Maybe my ancestors were wrong; maybe there was an afterlife.
I rose with my rifle in my outstretched hand--the posture of surrender. I stared them down, standing as proud as the mountain. But I'd be as unpredictable as a lion. I jerked my rifle to my shoulder and fired my last bullet, hitting the pilot--
Gunshots erupted from the copter.
I felt no pain. Had I died? Dozens of bullets had passed through my body. Suddenly I felt weightless--I must be leaving this world.
I only wished I could have seen Issa one last time.
As the copter plummeted into the ridge, I did shut my eyes, closing the cover on the book of my life.
I waited.
And waited.
When I opened my eyes, I stood in the bedroom of our little apartment in Nairobi. Was I already a ghost? Issa strolled out of the steamy bathroom, wrapped in a towel. Her face lit up into a smile.
She could see me?
In a delighted tone, she said, "You're early! I wanted everything to be ready when you got here. The apartment was supposed to smell like nyama choma and biryani, and I would look like a pinup. Sawa sawa." No worries. "I will take this surprise any day." She hurried to give me an embrace. "Ooh, you smell like gasoline." But she didn't release me.
I still hadn't spoken, hadn't moved. I must be alive. Maybe I'd had a mental breakdown.
She drew back. "Hujambo?" Everything okay?
I finally found my voice. "Sijambo." I'm fine. I pulled my beret off. My throat was tight as I said, "I am very glad to see you, Issa."
_______________
Later that evening, we lay in bed, sharing a warm bottle of Tusker's.
What if this night with Issa was all a dream? If I fell asleep, it might come to an end.
The thought chilled me. I decided to remain awake as long as possible, to spend as much time with her as I could.
She had curled up against me, was again tracing the scars across my chest. The skin that should be riddled with bullet holes.
All night I'd been replaying the shootout. Those bullets had passed through me as if I'd already been a spirit.
"Don't go back," Issa said with a pensive look on her beautiful face.
Don't punish my enemies? "Let us talk tomorrow." Today had been strange enough. After returning home from the madness of the park, I'd received a bizarre package: a satellite phone with one preprogrammed number, sealed in a military-grade storage case. I'd seen these in my training. The case would withstand fire, water, even an electronic pulse.
Reading the accompanying note had brought on a wave of dizziness:
Centurion,
When the end begins, contact me.
Death
Why would a man named Death call me "Centurion"? His note had called to mind a tale I'd learned as a young moran. Among the Maasai, the morani, warriors, were distinct from the laiboni, spiritual guides and healers, but one legendary man had been both.
Kentarch of the Legion.
The namesak
e of every firstborn male in my line, he was said to have rescued a lost Roman legion from starvation, becoming a blood brother to a centurion.
Kentarch had been a killer and a healer, filled with polarities, just like me. He'd also possessed unique gifts, had been able to vanish into thin air and reappear on the other side of the Great Rift Valley.
Fearing his power, other tribes had tried to kill him, attacking with their marungu. But none of those throwing clubs struck him. In front of all his people, he'd become a ghost.
Had I inherited the first Kentarch's powers? Perhaps I could become a ghost at will. The poachers would stand no chance. . . .
I gazed up with a frown when a hot breeze blew in through the open windows, rustling the curtains. Nights were usually cool here this time of year.
Issa said, "So warm?"
Shouts sounded outside. I rose and crossed to the balcony to investigate. The sky grew brighter before my eyes. Fantastical lights began to gleam on the horizon.
What wonder was this? "Issa, come. You must see." I stared up in awe.
She joined me at the balcony rail, and we watched the spectacle together. She whispered, "Ajabu." Amazing.
Through sheer will, I forced my gaze away from the sky. Though I longed to look at those lights, my wife was the wonder of my life. I would much rather look at her, and I might be on borrowed time with her.
A thunderous sound rolled in the night. When it increased in intensity, my blood grew cold. "Did you hear that?" I didn't know what was creating that sound, but I understood the message.
"Hmm?" Issa murmured without a care as the lights danced in her eyes.
The sound was the warning roar--of every lion that had ever lived. . . .
Strength (VIII)
Lark Inukai, Mistress of Fauna
"Red of tooth and claw!"
A.k.a.: Fortitude
Powers: Animal manipulation (can control all creatures). Animal scrying (can borrow the senses of animals). Animal generation (her blood affects the physiology of creatures and can make them into her familiars). Enhanced senses, night vision.