by Aderyn Wood
The realisation would normally make the rage swell so violently I would have to shut myself away with the entire store of alcohol, but right now, my reaction is a very different one. Right now I am thinking of certain possibilities. There is a chance we could gain knowledge if I could see Nathaniel again. He would have information to assist us. I could prise it out of him somehow. My hands fold around the bar of the deck’s rail as I consider the possibilities. Yes, perhaps we could even work together to learn more about Asha, and that vial.
With Nathaniel tracking Georgette with his powers of the mind, I suddenly wonder about the youth whose life-force blinked out like a guttering candle when I drank his blood in the guesthouse. I dare to open my mind to him, to think of the taste of his blood and track him like I’ve done twice before. Twice before I’ve come up with nothing, but this time, there… to the northwest, a weak pulse blooms. A thin thread, filled with the essence of him winds toward me.
I gasp, my vision blurring. The boy lives. I didn’t kill him!
“I didn’t kill him!” I shout over the dark waters and laugh again. The lights from a small village grow more distant now and the trees on the riverbank appear a little more distant too as the vastness of the desert opens further. The euphoria in my veins is firing again, like an electric pulse. I pace the deck, going from port to starboard with a wide smile on my face.
“Hany, you live!”
Joy sweeps through me. I feel invincible. I could do anything. I put one foot behind the other, the way a sprinter does when they step to their marks. The next second, I run and launch off the boat. My legs cycle the air along with my arms, and the breeze tussles my hair. I am flying over the river, and I laugh again until I land silently on the bank, like a cat. I turn and watch the yacht, so tranquil, gliding over the inky water that churns in pale swirls behind it. I turn and run along the riverbank, as swift and as silent as a deer. The need to explore the limits of my powers burn within me, to let the creature I am come to the fore, and I give in to it wholly as I bound along the river, my heart soaring with freedom and hope. For once I allow hope a chance.
Chapter 12
Excerpt from Dark Ones, by Faustus Gavius
One weapon holds more danger for the Dark One than any other. A blade, a lance to be precise, and in certain hands it has the power to slay more than mere vampires…
Michael opened his eyes and saw Emma lying beside him on their bed in the cabin. He didn’t move, just stayed there for a moment to watch her. She lay on her back, perfectly still, and once again he was reminded of marble statues on sarcophagi. The rush of what happened came to him with visceral clarity. The feeling of Emma piercing his flesh and feeding on his blood was like nothing he’d ever experienced. He blinked, knowing that wasn’t quite true, but to admit to himself exactly what it was like seemed too dangerous, and a shiver of ice warning bolted along his spine.
Michael sat up and touched the wound on his neck. It stung. He got out of bed and stumbled to the bathroom where he shut the door gently behind him. He waited for the light to blink on before peering over the basin to look at the wound in the mirror. Two small punctures sat at the very base of his neck and he was reminded of Nathaniel’ diary and Emma’s blog in which they had both performed this very action – staring with horror at the unexpected wound on their necks. But it wasn’t unexpected. Michael knew, deep down, he’d been waiting for it, yearning even. He shut the thought down as he stood straight to look at his reflection as a whole. The wound was low enough that it would be covered by his shirt. Good, he had no wish to alarm Georgette. She would fly into a panic if she knew he had allowed Emma to feed from him.
He scanned his face. His complexion was no more pale than normal. He had no bags under his eyes, and he looked, in general, rather well. His hair sprung up in the usual place at the back. Michael let go a sigh as he patted down his cowlick.
“A one off.” It won’t happen again.
He splashed water on his face and brushed his teeth, but no matter how he distracted himself, he couldn’t quiet the voice that sounded in his mind telling him that it would indeed happen again, and that he wished it would happen sooner rather than later.
Back in the room, and with careful tread, he passed Emma, who didn’t move. He paused to watch her a moment, his gaze, as always, taking in the artfulness of her face before his attention drew down to the foot of the bed and he frowned. The soles of her feet were stained with mud, as though she’d been walking the very banks of the Nile.
“Greetings, sir,” Kallum said, giving Michael a grin.
“Hello, Kallum. It is a fine morning.”
“Will you and Georgette require breakfast? I understand the French lady likes her food.”
Michael pursed his lips. He needed to consider what exactly he was going to tell Georgette. Should he tell her anything at all? He had to divulge something, she would sniff it out herself if he didn’t. He glanced over the river that shimmered with morning sunshine and noted a rather large town was drawing closer.
“Is this Asyut?” Michael asked.
Kallum grinned again and leered close. “Indeed.”
Michael frowned. There was something different about Kallum this morning. The grin seemed out of character. The young man was eager to please, but not in such a creepy fashion. That grin. It seemed fixed, almost maniacal. Michael’s hands were buzzing, but the tingling was almost ever-present lately. Michael relaxed his gaze, shifting his sight, and followed the young waiter’s outline. He froze. Something was seriously wrong. Kallum had no aura. What had he said about Georgette? And how the hell did he know her name?
“Something wrong, priest?” Kallum’s voice had morphed to a sinister, shrill screech.
“No!” Michael gasped, and forced his hand forward, palm up. “Sancte Michael Archangele, defende nos in proelio, contra nequitiam et insidias diaboli esto præsidium.” As always, the rush of power erupted though Michael’s being as he chanted the exorcism. “Ímperet illi Deus, supplices deprecamur: tuque, princeps militiæ cælestis, Satanam—”
Kallum screeched, or rather the demon within him did. His mouth opened to an impossible width and his hands covered his ears. His voice was amplified as though dozens of screams spiralled from his open mouth. His eyes were filled with an enlarged iris and pupil, and his eyes, normally honey-coloured were entirely black. His skin gained a preternatural swarthiness. The classic signs of possession. But why had a demon made contact? Michael lowered his hand, now burning with heat – an effect of his gift. “What do you want, demon?”
Kallum stopped screaming and regained some composure. The grin returned, and his chin lifted. His scowling black eyes focused on Michael. “The Infernal Prince has a message for you, Michaelspawn.”
Michael forced his shaking hands to remain by his sides as adrenalin speared through his blood. Michael could face any demon without fear. But not Him. Never Him. Every fibre in his body wanted to send this hell fiend back to where it belonged, to give the Infernal Prince a message of his own. But that would take courage, more than Michael could muster, so he stood still to listen to what the demon had to tell him. “You better tell me quickly before I de-possess you of the boy.”
The demon cackled and Kallum’s grin tightened. “The vampire leads you to certain death. You must go back the way you have come. Go no further if you want to live.”
Michael squinted. “Why would He try to save me?”
“His reasons are His own, Michaelspawn.”
“Why do you call me that?” It wasn’t the first time a demon had called him this strange name, Michaelspawn. Michael had never bothered asking why, but then, he’d never bothered to converse at all with demons. He only spent enough time with them to de-possess them of their host.
More cackling. “You’re an ignorant fool, aren’t you, priest?”
Michael rubbed his palms together with impatience. “Your Domain, demon?”
Fear showed in the open mouth, and Kallum’s head shook from si
de to side. “I am a mere messenger—”
“Second level, then. A minion of Asmodeus.”
“How did you—”
“Michael stepped forward and forced his open palm on Kallum’s forehead. This time a notable spark flared when their skin touched.
Kallum screamed. “No! No! Get away, priest!”
“What’s going on?”
Beyond Kallum’s shoulder a blonde frizz of hair appeared.
Kallum grinned as he too turned to spy Georgette stride toward them, but then his face turned to stone. “No—”
Michael wrenched Kallum’s head back to face him and the demon screeched once again.
“Michael!” Georgette demanded.
“The boy’s possessed, Georgette. Help me, lock his arms behind him and hold him there.”
Georgette did so without question while Michael once again forced his palm to Kallum’s forehead. His hand sizzled with heat, static sparks snapped the air and the demon screeched in anguish.
Michael closed his eyes and began the chant once more. “Sancte Míchael Archangele, defende nos in proelio, contra nequitiam et insidias diaboli esto præsidium…”
Kallum writhed beneath his palm, but Georgette did a good job of keeping him in place, and seemed to be whispering a prayer of her own.
Michael’s whole being trembled with the power of his gift. Palm held firm, heat spread like fire through his entire arm, as though it were aflame, and small blue sparks flickered. Michael finished the ancient incantation and now focused his mind on drawing the demon out into the light, where it would extinguish.
Sweat poured down his face and gritting his teeth he opened his eyes to force his gaze on the frightened and vulnerable demon. Michael’s vision had switched to that other realm where the spirit took form and the demon’s true shell was revealed. Its skin was tight and decayed, thick saliva drooled in tendrils from its gaping mouth and its clawed hands rose in a pathetic attempt to stop Michael from harming it.
Michael took a deep breath and spoke the final words. “Get thee out from this host and into the light. I summon the light to expose and destroy this infernal enemy. Let it be so.”
“Let it be so,” Georgette echoed.
One final screech assaulted Michael’s ears as the demon was drawn into the light. A wind sprang from somewhere, as it always did, and in that rush a great brightness bloomed. The demon’s screech ended, a mighty flame roared in the air for no more than a second. All that was left was the crumpled body of Kallum and the stench of sulphur.
“Is he all right?” Georgette crouched over Kallum.
Michael stumbled and fell into a nearby chair.
“Are you all right, mon ami?” she said, concern widening her green eyes as she looked up at him.
“Need water,” Michael croaked, holding his head over his knees willing the rising nausea in his stomach to go away. He closed his eyes as the dizziness came making him feel as though he was trapped in a whirling sideshow ride. God, I hate this bit.
“Michael.”
He opened his eyes to see a glass of water hovering in front of him. He took it in a shaking hand and drank the whole thing down, before letting the glass drop to the carpet. “Thank you, Georgette.”
“That was an exorcism.”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
“I’ve been sent a message.”
“From whom?”
“Someone I never want to meet.”
Georgette’s mouth fell open, and for the first time since he’d known her she seemed afraid.
“You know who I mean?” he asked.
“What was the message?”
“He wants me to turn back. To stop associating with Emma.”
Georgette frowned and stared over the water at the desert. “Why would He ask you to do that?”
“I don’t know. He says if I continue on this path, I will die.”
She shook her head. “I don’t like it, Michael. It can only mean one thing.”
Michael gave her a nod. “I am a threat.”
“Oui, and He is a dangerous enemy to have.”
Georgette returned to Kallum and felt the pulse at his wrist. “His breathing has regulated, and his pulse.”
“He will be fine. He needs rest and when he comes to, food.” Michael stood. His legs were still trembling, but gradually his strength was returning.
“Where are you going?” Georgette asked.
“I need food too. The boat has stopped to refuel and get supplies. I’ll be back in less than an hour.”
Michael’s breakfast arrived just as the midday Azan sounded from the mosque somewhere in the centre of town. The haunting voice of the caller spiralled and echoed off stone walls and alleys. It was a beautiful yet eerie music that always brought to mind the old chants of the Medieval Church that for centuries were performed by monks.
“Thank you,” Michael said to the man who placed steaming eggs on the table. “I will leave you to your business.” Michael gestured to the street where a number of townsfolk headed the same way, no doubt to answer the call to prayer.
The waiter shook his head. “No need,” he said. “I am Christian.”
Michael watched him leave and noticed the Christmas decorations strung throughout the cafe. Christmas was but days away, and Michael felt nothing. Faith was an interesting concept, and one that shouldn’t elude him the way it always did, he had been a priest once after all. Here in Egypt many different faiths seemed to coexist in a tense kind of peace, most of the time. Michael shook his head. His personal battle with faith had not ameliorated since finding Emma.
He held no doubt that something other than the physical realm existed. He’d pulled enough demons out of unsuspecting hosts, seen enough ghosts wandering the spirit realm, to know that. But what led them? What guided the demons and spirits? He’d only ever had glimpses of the so-called superpowers known as God and Satan. And this morning’s brush with the demon was another example. Was there really one god or one devil that held dominion over such spectres, or was each spirit a rule unto themselves? And what was the extent of their influence on humans?
Michael couldn’t help a shiver that gripped him as he thought of the demon’s message. A threat from Satan himself. Was the Infernal One linked with these other entities that walked beside humans in the flesh? Vampires. Slayers. What else was there, and who was in charge? Michael recalled a line from the Foliss. God made man from the earth. Satan made vampyre from man.
“Michaelspawn,” he whispered. What was that about?
Michael slurped his coffee appreciating the flavour and thick texture. Interestingly, he didn’t feel as ravenous as he normally did after an exorcism. His body had recuperated more quickly than usual. The trembling had gone, and he felt no exhaustion to speak of.
His mind was active, too, rather than the usual haze that set in afterward and he considered all that had happened in the last twenty-four hours. He still needed to speak with Emma about all he’d learned of Asha – Ashayet, an ancient priestess. Last night, after the incident, all thoughts of anything but Emma had slipped entirely from his mind. And afterward, he seemed to float along in a wonderful stupor, as though he were drunk, or high on some illicit substance. What did it mean? He’d read about the effects the bite can have on humans. If the vampire doesn’t kill their victim, it can be quite pleasurable. Euphoric, and erotic. Yes, that was how Nathaniel had described it in his diary. He’d been right. Dead right.
Michael forced such thoughts of Emma from his mind and returned to the issue of Asha. The information Georgette had brought him provided little in the way of answers, but now they knew Asha was more than a mysterious Gypsy woman. She was older too. The enigma of Ancient Egypt was wrapped up in this in some integral way. Michael had left his tablet to charge on the boat, but he wished he brought it along with him to better research that particular link.
Never mind, he would explore it once back on the boat, and he needed to fill Emma in as so
on as she awoke after dusk. Her knowledge of Egypt would benefit them in this quest. In any case he’d brought the Foliss along with him and he took it out of his pocket and placed it on the table, opened to the passage he wanted to reread – the passage on the vampire bite, and how it brought pleasure for human and vampire alike – but before he did anything he really should eat. He picked up the lemon and squeezed it over his eggs.
“Damn.”
A few drops of lemon juice sprayed onto the open page of the Foliss and joined together in one small puddle on the parchment.
Michael swore again and frowned as he picked the ancient book up to carefully inspect the damage.
“You fool,” he berated himself as he dabbed a paper napkin on the splotch of lemon. Gingerly, he held the page up to the light to see what damage had been done, hoping the ink remained intact. There were no smudges, and Michael allowed himself a slow breath, but then he held it once more. Something showed through the parchment. A curved line with something written… a word in Latin? Adjusting his glasses he leaned in and took a closer look. It was half a word, in Latin, and in the same neat hand that had penned the rest of the book. The letters were clear, and the curved line, but it was impossible to determine the rest of the meaning.
Slowly, Michael grew aware of his fingers buzzing violently. They had been for some time. His heart fired as he stilled his hands and brushed the lemon juice over the entire page. He held the page before him to allow the light to penetrate the old parchment. It was a secret illustration. A knife or dagger. He squinted. No, a spearhead. But then Michael noted the words to the right of the illustration and whispered their translation.
“Lance of Constantine.”
The lance again. Once more he wished he’d brought his tablet with him. He cleared a space on the little table, his breakfast forgotten. He picked up the lemon quarter with a shaking hand and rubbed it over the areas that remained dry. The fleeting thought that he should wait for Emma and her book expertise entered his mind, but he ignored it and gently squeezed the lemon, dabbing the juice all over the page. Then he held it up to the light once more.