Amongst the Fallen

by Devin Lee Carlson

  “He should have invited me up, but no matter. Thank you, my dear.”

  The irritation in Wayde’s voice grated on Sabree’s nerves. Chambers was wise to meet him downstairs in public. Excluding himself, Wayde intimidated the people he employed, which was probably why most of them developed nervous ticks.

  Chambers stepped into the lobby and hesitated before he offered his hand. “Thanks for coming on such short notice,” he said. “I’ll get to the point. Can we trust this Zanyael character?”

  This meeting is about moi? Sabree stifled a cough.

  Wayde’s smile shifted to one side. “Look, I don’t trust any of the Fallen, but we have no choice. The DanJal assigned Zanyael to keep an eye on the Colton twins. And once we get the journal, he has orders to destroy them.”

  “What of their father?”

  “Duncan’s dead.” A scowl formed across Wayde’s face.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Certain as I’m standing here.”

  Remorseless, Sabree impersonated Zanyael a month ago and killed Duncan Colton per Wayde’s request. The deed was an initiation of trust. Three centuries ago, one of the Fallen betrayed him by stealing the zygotes from his grasp. The thief kept them hidden all those years until he delivered them to Duncan a few years ago. The visual of the thief, a man wearing blue-lens goggles had stayed with him until this day.

  Apparently, rumors alleged that Duncan destroyed the twin zygotes to alter his children with the DNA. Sabree enjoyed torturing him, but never found out the name of his Judas brethren. Still, he had his suspicions. The mad professor never confirmed if Ariane Rose and Brian Ross were the twin zygotes or just a twisted science experiment. Sabree suspected the latter. Wayde’s voice drew him back to eavesdropping.

  “In any case, you have nothing to worry about; Zanyael has everything under control. I’m meeting him tonight. The twins arrived as promised. By the way, how’s the surprise we arranged to preoccupy Brian while I have a private chat with his sister?”

  Chambers wiped his brow with a yellow-stained handkerchief and addressed Wayde’s inquiry without looking away. “Ms. Tsukino will seduce him at the party. I have seen personally to the details.”

  “Perfect. I’ll be there, but incognito—easy enough considering it’s a costume ball. Until then.” Wayde bowed his head. “Off to meet Zanyael at the Hogshead Pub for a report.”

  Wayde’s scheme to separate the twins to get Ariane alone intrigued Sabree. What were they up to and why did they keep their intentions from him? Did Wayde suspect Zanyael had been compromised? I had best attend this masquerade. Ready to depart, Sabree had one more stop scheduled before he met with Wayde. He had to introduce himself to Wayde’s right hand man, Hoffstot. Time to take control of the man via the blood-tie.

  His body dissipated into a fine mist. Thirty minutes later, the mist materialized in the shadows outside Hogshead Pub. After he fulfilled his amusement as a ghost and spy, best take care of business next. He slid out of his trench coat, draped it over his arm, and entered the pub. As Sabree predicted, the human sat by himself at the bar. At the opposite end, a couple discussed what to order, the rest of the pub deserted. The pallid decor combined with stagnant cigarette haze shrouded the tavern.

  A mere 5,517 Earth years old, still considered young for the Fallen, Sabree moved in a graceful manner comparable to a man of profound nobility and wisdom—an old soul. “Good evening.” He ignored Wayde’s nervous chuckle and slid onto the stool, leaving the seat between them empty.

  From experience, transactions between human contacts and the Fallen were notoriously known for being difficult—a proven fact through the millennia. However, the DanJal clan had taxed each side’s patience when they refused Wayde’s request to work alone, insisting Zanyael supervise the operation. More or less, the final contract suited all parties until Sabree stepped in to take Zanyael’s place. As soon as he partook the role of the DanJal liaison, he had to act fast before the clan questioned the break in communications. Hopefully, his acting skills perfected during Shakespeare’s glory, were worthy of applaud, so neither Wayde nor the DanJal suspected foul play.

  “On time as always, Zanyael.” Wayde nursed his drink without looking his way.

  Sabree half smiled. “Monsieur Wayde, I know you disapprove of our kind meddling in your business. Well, Brian and Ariane are the Fallen’s business and we intend to eliminate them whether you find the journal or not.”

  Wayde nodded. “The DanJal’s plans for Colton’s offspring are no concern of mine. And I will tolerate your assistance provided you do not interfere with the way I conduct business.”

  “Never my intention,” Sabree said, concealing his resentment. The DanJal, the rival clan of the Caderen, paid Wayde handsomely to retrieve the journal. The human liaison had earned the clan’s trust from prior tasks. In general, the Fallen disliked working with mortals, but the need often presented itself, and humans accepted the generous cash flow. Sabree reasoned this human was no different.

  “Splendid,” Wayde said. “As you know, I assigned my security, Mr. Hoffstot and Mr. Chase, to also watch them.”

  Confidence was an old friend of Sabree. He already manipulated half of Wayde’s security by connecting his blood-tie with the humans. Sabree held his chin high. Chase would soon join the ranks.

  Beneath the haze of cigarette smoke, fear and aversion oozed from the human. The nicotine reeked on the man’s breath as well as in his sweat. Drinking Wayde’s blood, if the need ever arose, repulsed him. He flicked his hand at the bartender and asked for a glass of pinot noir to quench his thirst. He guzzled the fruity wine. “My next task is to befriend Brian Colton and gain his trust.” Plans for the female Colton would be his secret.

  “Make sure you don’t expose your true self.”

  The foolish man spoke of the Fallen’s prime directive: never reveal oneself to humanity. Sabree’s lips formed a thin line. His true self warned him to terminate this discussion with the human. “Bonsoir, Monsieur Wayde.”

  “Not so fast. Why the journal? Why not synthesize the formula from the serum instead? Then the Fallen could exist amongst humans.”

  Tension mounted between Sabree’s temples. He pinched the bridge of his nose. The Fallen clans had discussed, argued, dismissed, and reopened the proposal once too often in his opinion. They had never come to an agreement. Besides the formula, the journal contained secrets humans must never know. His clan suspected it included information about Turian, his physiology, and clues to the location of his tomb. Of the Fallen, he was the only one whose wings remained intact, not amputated like the rest of the exiled clans. Assigned the task of liaison with the use of an amulet, Turian upheld communications via the portal. The Fallen would have to enslave humankind if the journal became public knowledge.

  Sabree rose from his stool. “We have no desire to live amongst the humans.” He edged off his stool to leave. Continually misting in and out as a ghost had depleted his energy. Fresh blood would recoup his strength. He stepped outside, inhaled the night air, and glanced at the full moon.

  Night of the hunter.

  3 3 3

  While Sabree regarded the city below, he welcomed daybreak, eager to greet what each new day might offer. Behind dark shades, he savored the ability—however brief—to stare at the large red ball as it leisurely rose over the horizon. The view from atop Arthur’s Seat revealed a sky aflame with brilliant ribbons of red and purple. Unlike the midday sun, the dawn’s cool embers never stung his eyes.

  As the last hues of color dissipated, an unwanted guest misted in for a visit. He continued to gaze at the horizon without bothering to address the woman behind him.

  “It’s been centuries since we last spoke,” Abyss said, hissing into his ear. Her whispered breath tickled his sensitive skin.

  The feminine voice resurrected ghosts from the past—ancient ghosts. For almost three thousand years, Sabree had purposely avoided this manipulative creature as much as possible, especially after she disc
overed his darkest secret. The past three hundred were the easiest while he healed. Having one’s head decapitated took a long time to mend. Fortunately, he had called out to Cayiel for help before his execution took place. In truth, he deserved the death sentence. But that was another story he’d rather forget.

  Still admiring the view, he waited until she misted into completeness. Like him, she had the ability to dissolve and travel the wind wherever she chose. Unlike her, his gifts included the ability to slip into stealth mode like a chameleon. This covertness prevented the Fallen or humans from detecting his presence.

  He removed his sunglasses and gazed upon the woman he had known for several millennia. Her unexpected appearance made him step back, his bum smacking the trail marker. Apparently, she had revamped her looks to a modern-day Goth. Her pierced eyebrows unraveled his usual poise. The dark gems augmented her jet-black bangs cut level above them. Not one strand of her shoulder-length hair hung out of place. He recalled her waist-long hair centuries ago, when he had last quarreled with her.

  “What do you want?” Sabree gathered composure as his gaze lingered on her formfitting leather cat suit.

  “Plot wisely. A naive babe long ago, you sided with the wrong team.”

  “Team? I have always been loyal to the Caderen.” For a while after Turian’s death, he considered going rogue to abandon all contact with his clan. Resentment turned to hope and faith that one day his friend’s offspring would return the Fallen to their former home.

  “May I remind you not to let the DanJal get the journal?”

  “I need no reminder.” Her smug expression deflated his ego, humbling his significance. Their relationship had curdled year after year, century after century. “I know what I’m doing,” Sabree said. He chewed on his lower lip, uncertain if she meant to hurt or insult him. Instead, he turned his back to her and glanced at the city below. “The DanJal sent Zanyael, and I intervened as planned. How long do you think it would take one of us to reassemble after being minced and canned as dog food?”

  “Gruesome. Takes a bit longer than mending a decapitated body, I imagine.”

  Perhaps the grotesque conclusion Zanyael met would deter her from disrespecting him further. The fact that she took pride in mentioning his injury, he doubted so. “No one will possess the journal, even if I have to kill the twins.”

  “Have you met the freaks yet?” Abyss asked.

  His mind raced in an attempt to find the correct term, assured her choice inappropriate. The Fallen clans referred to the humans they infected as nosophors. Humans called them vampires. As for the twins, human science intervened to create mutants—ghouls. “Yes,” Sabree replied. “Sister and brother seem harmless enough.”

  “Some believe the ghouls could become quite dangerous. Rumors have surfaced about the twins’ creation—some frightening.” Her silver-gray eyes locked onto his. She changed the subject. “You don’t seem to be bothered by the years we’ve spent apart. You haven’t changed a bit except for your hair.”

  Sabree shook his feathered layers on purpose. “Oui, I don’t miss the old musty French wigs.” He scoffed. “You may disguise your looks, but you’re still as vain as ever.”

  Blood-red hues shadowed her gray irises. Abyss leaned closer to his face. “You’re one to criticize. Your arrogance will one day be your undoing. Beware, Sabree, the twins may reveal their deadly selves when you least expect.”

  “They are far from dangerous. I’d dare say there are beings far deadlier.” He suspected certain members of his own clan were more formidable than the twins at their worst—Abyss at the top of the list. His distrust of her and the history they shared had pulled them apart. He refused to elaborate on his suspicions. “Can you detect them?”

  She paused long enough to open her senses. “Yes, the ghouls haven’t figured out how to block us from perceiving their thoughts.”

  “A wise man gains more from his enemies than a fool from his friends. Ghouls or not, they have feelings, and no doubt have been lonely since the transformation. I shall befriend Brian and manipulate him into giving me the journal.”

  “And the female?”

  “My plans for her are none of your business.” The mere thought of Ariane sent an electrifying current of warmth up his spine. Her beauty, as beguiling as the mystery of her creation, clouded his focus.

  “Thousands of years and you haven’t changed a bit. Still condescending as ever.” Abyss sighed. “I envy your enthusiasm. Doesn’t immortality ever get stale for you?”

  “Stale?” If she meant to ask him if he had grown tired of living forever, then the answer was never in a billion years. Although over five thousand years old, he still cherished life. About to explain, his hand reached out when her form disintegrated.

  “Be careful,” Abyss whispered as she misted into nothingness.

  Not even a goodbye. Sabree refused to dwell on her abrupt departure, relieved she left. Abyss equaled trouble. Again, he leaned against the railing to marvel the morning sky as if she had never interrupted the moment. He decided to meet the Colton twins sooner than originally planned. Something about them disrupted his sharp intuition.

  6

  A LIGHTED ONE

  S prawled on the bed with my laptop propped against my legs, I stared beyond the screen. The internet was down, a service Dougal had apparently kept off even after several requests. My phone couldn’t carry a signal in this remote area. I snubbed the usual symptoms of internet withdrawal and decided to lose myself in work. Bugger. No internet, no work.

  Between boredom and curiosity, I closed the laptop and put it on the nightstand. The stark decor jump-started my decision to investigate my alleged childhood instead. If I searched every nook and cranny of the mansion, maybe I’d find a photo album, trinkets from the past, a diary, or medical records to reveal something of our lost memories.

  Last February, we celebrated our twentieth birthdays, but instead of two decades of memories, we could only remember the one and a half years since the transformation. The cost for immortality was exorbitant, the price I had never agreed to pay.

  The search began in my father’s office. One memory stood out: the number one rule about his office. He had to remind me quite often, not Ariane, that his space was off limits. “Respect my privacy, lad, or you’ll feel the end of my paddle.” Aye, he kept one in his office just for my bum. The rule refueled my curious mind that a hidden door somewhere led to an underground laboratory. Ariane insisted my imagination had run amok. Be it a hunch or an inert memory, I had to differ.

  Glancing up and down the hall for the nosey butler, I slipped inside the office. The black teak desk, its sheer size alone, drew my attention. I rolled the chair out and sank into its leathery clutches, half-expecting Pop’s ghost to paddle my ass.

  As the seconds ticked by, I glanced around the room, aware I was trespassing. Anyway, what did it matter? As the new Master Colton, no one jumped out of the woodwork. No paddles or ghosts. Nothing odd happened, except for the familiar emptiness troubling my soul.

  A realization straightened my spine. There had to be a hidden compartment inside the desk. An ineffective tug confirmed someone had locked the center drawer. My fingers traced the bottom until they rubbed against something wedged in back. I pried the key free and unlocked the drawer.

  I never dreamt I’d find an envelope addressed to me. The chicken scratch belonged to my father, always in a hurry to jot things down before he forgot what was on his mind. I opened it. A circular diagram of intricate, yet strangely familiar symbols jarred a fleeting memory. Unable to grasp its significance, I stuffed it inside my pocket before looking through the other drawers. Empty. The heavy desk refused to reveal its secret compartments. Disappointed, I slumped against the back of the chair.

  A slow twirl spun me around, so I could scan the bookshelves next. Books of all genres lined the four walls. My sneakers touched down to pause the rotation. At the back shelf, one section of antique books leaned cockeyed against the stainless she
lves trimmed in black teak. They beckoned me.

  I removed the largest book bound in crimson leather, titled The Fallen Ones, and opened it to an illustration of angels being cast from the heavens. Those who landed no longer bore wings. The image, oddly familiar yet alien, pulled me in. Syrupy maple instead of mustiness wafted into my deep inhale. I flipped through the pages until the centerfold opened up. My finger traced the outline of the cosmic being that depicted a condensed solar system of planets and stars. A super nova blazed in its epicenter. A red puddle splattered below the radiance. A shock zapped my finger as if charged with static electricity. “A Lighted One?” My breath hitched on the spoken name grossly taboo.

  My lips twisted into a crooked smile. Never thought Pop to be a religious man. I closed the book and squeezed it firmly before sliding it into its rightful spot.

  I backed up toward the chair and noticed a slight indent located a few feet on both sides of the wall. My fingers tapped the edges in search of a mechanism that would activate a hidden door. Uncertain where to look next, I moved along the length of one wall as my finger traced the spines of hardback novels, one after the other, looking for a photo album next.

  “Can I help you look for a particular book, Master Colton?”

  Damn it, the dreaded butler. I nearly jumped out of my skin, although I should’ve expected as much. Dougal probably had cameras placed all over the mansion. He always seemed to know when and where I’d be roaming about. For once his timing pleased me, though his presence did not. The butler’s edgy tone warned me that my intrusion annoyed him. My father was supposedly dead, the office mine now. Unless... “Where did Pop keep the family albums?”

  “Sir?”

  “Surely he kept photo albums of Ariane and me growing up.” The twinge of discomfort in the man’s craggy face at the mention of photos made me worry otherwise.

  Dougal brushed aside a tuft of white hair that strayed from his slicked-back style. “My apologies, Master Colton, but the family albums were destroyed in a fire.”