‘Ghormho, forgive us our lack of manners, but your loyal people are starving. There is little food we can scavenge in the Wastelands. Many of our members have already fallen to dust. Have you brought food for us, Ghormho? Have you brought food for your loyal subjects?’
Ishran smiled, ‘Old One, there is no food. The Ghormho is already giving you far more than you deserve. You occupy my lands. You live here tax-free on precious soil that I could be leasing out. The Wastelands is teeming with food, if you would only get off your wrinkled arses and look for it. But no, you all expect to be spoon-fed. Indeed, I have been playing with the idea lately of relocating the Outerezt deeper into the Wastelands.’
‘Why?’ screamed the old female that he had kicked in the head. Impertinent bitch! ‘We are your loyal subjects of the Web! Many of us have given our lives to service for you and Seleza, the true High Priestess of the Azephim. I spent centuries working as one of the Amew, I was present at your hatching, and yet you dare to treat us like this!’
Ishran paused, and for a second, his mind flashed back in time. By the breath of Alecom, had that gumless, useless bag of shit been present at his hatching? Had those ineffectual hands, covered now in thick veins, lifted him from his egg? A very faint memory was stirring under the steady gaze of her sunken eyes. With a small cry, he moved towards her, and began kicking her savagely again with his polished boots.
‘I treat you with the respect that you deserve!’ he screamed. The old bitch was lying still, playing dead, no doubt. He kicked her again, feeling his boot sink into her skull. A shrivelled-up ugly male was sobbing, being restrained by angels who surrounded him. Ishran glared at them, daring them to approach him. He would kill them all with his bare hands if he had to.
There was a shocked silence from the Azephim. Then Ishran heard the sound of clapping. Perched on a rock cliff a few feet above his head was Charmonzhla. The Azephim watched the sudden transformation of the angoli, with dulled shrunken eyes.
‘Quite a performance, old man,’ Charmonzhla winked. He looked like a mischievous child hobgoblin, except for the jet-black wings that quivered behind him. ‘Do you fancy a little adventure with me?’
Ishran nodded, lighting up at the question. Normally, Charmonzhla’s adventures involved killing, lots of killing. The angoli let out a whoop and swooped high into the air. Ishran, ignoring the begging sobs around him, quickly followed, hot on the scent of blood, aching for the hounds of death to be released.
*
Sydney, Australia
Charmonzhla and Ishran arrived in the city centre of Sydney, in the middle of the lunch-hour crowds. Ishran felt slightly disorientated for a half eyston, an effect of the variance in gravity and vibration. He had always despised the Blue Planet, viewing its occupants as backward and emotionally soft, but he loved his excursions to Earth. Anything to escape from the monotony of being the Ghormho in Eronth. He had come to view his crossing adventures as a vast feeding pool for his appetites.
Now he looked around him with shining eyes, drinking in the polluted air. The heavy vibration of a planet that was being stripped too quickly of its natural resources. He growled softly, smelling the warm blood around him, the urge to take communion with their blood rising within him.
‘Sticky, sticky everywhere,’ he hissed to Charmonzhla, referring to the heavy strands of etheric that clung to the Bluites, formed as a result of their excessive emotions.
The Bluites who rushed past sensed their presence, leaving a small distance between the angels and themselves. Buskers played violins in the mall area to rapt audiences, and Ishran paused to listen in fascination.
‘Come on!’ Charmonzhla hissed. ‘Don’t fall for the illusions here, old friend.’ Around them, deadly radiation sparked, unseen by the darting Bluites. Protectors stepped forward when they spotted the angels, holding amulets out to deflect Ishran from coming too close to their charges. Ishran stuck his claws up at them in defiance and howled in excitement. The most challenging thing about having to kill Bluites was manoeuvring around their Protectors. That’s why it was so much easier when the prey was drunk or stoned. Their auric fields were weaker, and their Protectors not as powerful.
They walked along George Street hand in hand, then into Market Street, buses and traffic thundering past. A speeding courier went straight through them on his bicycle, an expression of fear passing over his features. Something evil was near, his primordial brain screamed. Something unholy lingered . . . but what?
Ishran was busy trying to anticipate the delights that Charmonzhla had in store. A traffic accident? Shooting? Suicide? There appeared to be no limit to the angoli’s ingenuity when it came to the hunt. His eyes hopefully followed an attractive young woman engrossed in her mobile phone as she walked down the street. The stench of her flesh was tantalising . . . was she the chosen one?
Together, they walked down a small side street, and Ishran was intrigued when the angoli stopped outside a small red brick building. Ashworths Yoga Centre was printed on a brass plaque, with a lotus flower underneath it. Through the door they walked and down a short cool corridor, with wooden polished floorboards, and the scent of Nag Champa incense. Statues of Buddha shared wall space with photographs of Sai Baba and crucifixes with Jesus. Ashworths Yoga Centre was taking no chances, Ishran thought.
They walked through another set of wooden doors to find themselves in a surprisingly spacious hall, where a dozen Bluites sat contorted in various yoga poses, Ishran looked about with great interest. Would he have to kill them all? Once Charmonzhla had ordered him to kill an entire nightclub of people, and he had never forgotten the rush of power he had gained from the massacre. The angoli smiled, revealing his perfect white baby teeth, and took his hand.
‘Nay, not that,’ he said. His eyes shone unconditional love into Ishran’s, and the Ghormho basked in his approval. The angoli stretched out his tiny hand, pointing at a young Bluite male who appeared to be leading the class.
‘Him,’ he said simply.
Ishran stared at the male. He was illuminated by a ray of light streaming from the city sky outside. He was tall, with long silver-white hair tied back in a ponytail. His sculptured sensitive face housed the most dazzling electric blue eyes Ishran had seen on a Bluite. They had to be contacts, but Ishran knew they were not.
‘He’s a beauty, isn’t he?’ The angoli’s breath was musky in his ear. ‘He’s almost a perfect specimen. Do you see it, Ghormho? Do you see his origins?’
Ishran nodded, gripping Charmonzhla’s hand tightly. ‘Oh yes,’ he breathed. There was no mistaking the yoga teacher’s origins: the Heztarra Galaxy.
‘He’s outcast, of course,’ the angoli continued. ‘One of the Fallen Ones. Look at the scarring around his third eye and heart regions.’
Ishran saw that the scarring was still vividly red. ‘Does he have the brand?’ he breathed. The ‘brand’ referred to the sacred marking that was tattooed into the Fallen Ones’ skin.
‘Of course,’ Charmonzhla said. ‘I’ve seen it on his inner thigh when he was naked. Oh, Ghormho, what a beautiful sight that was!’ He winked lasciviously at Ishran. Ishran felt an unmistakable stirring in his loins at the thought of that beautiful specimen in front of him naked. He watched, lost in admiration, as the Fallen One lifted his legs over his head in a shoulder stand.
‘Are we to kill him?’ he asked Charmonzhla, unable to tear his eyes away. He vowed that if he had to die, he would have some fun with him first. He had never been inside one from the Heztarra Galaxy before, but he felt confident they would be accomplished lovers.
‘Nay, something sweeter, much finer,’ Charmonzhla replied, his dark inhuman eyes shining. ‘We will work through him, and he will kill for us.’
Outside, in the heart of the city, Bluites swooped like vultures gathering in masses at their food-halls. Like a great moving beast, they crossed the roads as traffic lights turned green, breathing the toxic fumes as they walked as one. The Bluites ran for buses, they answered mobiles. They
looked for toilets, and they browsed along shop windows, but inside this peaceful, incense-scented room with its meditative air, the Bluites stretched their bodies while death walked silently among them. Death touched them with an impassive, fetid wing. Ishran and Charmonzhla were unseen, as they watched the Fallen One lead the class.
That was the first time Ishran met Lazariel. It was the moment, he realised later, when he had first fallen in love. Nothing would be the same again.
CHAPTER TEN
They followed the Fallen One back to his inner-city residence in Newtown. He didn’t linger when the class was over, although Ishran had noticed how the members of Ashworths Yoga Centre attempted to detain him. They all wanted to keep feeding off that beautiful, pure dynamism that flowed from him in thick ribbons of energy.
Ishran could hardly blame them. They were such insignificant creatures, their entire destinies must be altered from just being in the presence of this Shining One. Even he, the Ghormho, could not take his eyes from Lazariel. He burned for his gaze as a man in the desert burns for water. He was shaking, hoping Charmonzhla would attribute his emotion to the anticipation of the kill.
Flanking Lazariel in the street, Charmonzhla and Ishran watched as the Bluites followed him hungrily with their eyes. Yet the Fallen One appeared to notice nothing. He remained lost in his own thoughts, plugged into a walkman.
On a crowded bus, Charmonzhla grew bored and perched on top of a young girl’s head, his short dark legs splayed out like a grotesque spider. His face screwed up in concentration as he began to rapidly shit dark thought patterns on her head. The angoli only had time for a few before her Protector stepped forward to dislodge him with a golden charge amulet, but it was enough. Ishran laughed to himself at the thought of the consequences on her life of those brief few seconds. The thought patterns were already wriggling like giant black slugs on her scalp. Soon she would claim them as her own.
An elderly woman next to Lazariel kept glancing at him. Ishran realised that the arthritic nagging pain in her hip was easing with the Shining One’s presence. He was a Healer, Ishran realised, although his powers were yet untapped. Could even Charmonzhla induce a fallen Heztarra healer to kill? He eavesdropped with interest on the conversations around him. A woman was arguing furiously with another woman over the fact that she felt ignored. ‘Why don’t you talk to me? Have I done something? Why won’t you talk?’ she whined.
In the next lane a black car overtook the bus. It was strapped onto the back of a truck, with its chassis covered in plastic black bats. People looked up from their books and papers to follow its passing with great interest. Ishran and Charmonzhla were intrigued as well. Such sights were never seen in Eronth and the Web-Kondoell.
Lazariel, oblivious to the action around him, kept his eyes closed, lost in a musical world.
When he alighted at King Street after a half-hour trip through crowded traffic, Charmonzhla and Ishran were close behind him. This was not an area where the Azephim liked to hunt. They preferred the darker pockets of the city, where the nightclub scene offered ecstasy, cocaine and Ishran’s personal favourite, heroin. The sweets of the damned made the kills so much easier. This Newtown area was filled, instead, with bars and colourful restaurants. Pink geraniums were planted in pink and mauve planters. The traffic crawled at a snail’s pace past tattoo shops, second-hand bookshops and Thai and Indian restaurants. Graffiti lined the walls and dog shit lay on the pavement. Ishran sniffed the air, watching others feeding and drinking. It reminded him of his own hunger. They passed a woman on rollerskates, sipping a fruit juice while she pushed a baby in a stroller and exercised a dog on a lead. There was a one-legged man on crutches. A young girl with orange hair handed out environmental pamphlets. Two old women in flowered aprons were holding an animated conversation, and a very large man covered in tattoos carried a fluffy toy poodle with a jewelled collar.
Lazariel entered a small cheap-looking Indian diner, followed closely by the Ghormho and the angoli. He sat at a table and took out a battered paperback from the bag he carried. Within a couple of minutes, he was joined by a young girl with flame-red hair to her shoulders. She had a thin, knowing face, and a stud glinted in the side of her nose.
Theresa. Her name came to Ishran’s mind. She reeked of Bluite female odours, repellent to him. The two embraced, and Ishran watched closely, jealousy flaring. Were they lovers? He could see that their sexual organs had been linked more than once. Cords grew between them, but the cords were drooping and weak. He relaxed. The girl wore a black midriff-baring T-shirt with the words Jesus Rocks written on it. There was a large tattoo on her lower back revealed by her hipster trousers. She carried books and folders in her arms. Ishran and Charmonzhla watched as the couple ordered their curries.
‘Let’s leave them now,’ Charmonzhla hissed. ‘I know a place not far from here where we can feed. We’ll return to him later.’
Ishran looked back at the couple as he followed Charmonzhla from the garishly decorated diner. The girl was laughing, revealing black fillings and a dirty pink wad of chewing gum in her mouth. She’s not worthy of him. He felt an overpowering urge to rip the girl apart with his hands, and he knew then he would have to kill her. His teeth were aching for her throat.
Charmonzhla merely smiled his gentle smile. He was patient, for the angoli was eternal. With icy amusement, he observed Ishran’s blood lust, sparked by jealousy. It always pleased Charmonzhla when his plans went smoothly.
*
Why did you fuck me?
Lazariel finished his meal, and longingly anticipated his exit. The unspoken words blazed in the air. ‘You’ve got hold of the wrong end of the stick,’ he insisted. ‘I wasn’t using you. How many times do we have to go through this? I thought the feeling was mutual.’
Theresa was silent. She had barely touched her plate of dhal.
‘Come on, Theresa, you know I think the world of you! I’m just not . . .’ He thought back briefly to the phone calls he had received when there was only a dial tone. The faint thought patterns that flapped weakly at him, as she thought of him or, God forbid, practised her witchy little spells on him. The flowers left on his doorstep. In just a few weeks, a friend had become a stalker. Now she had somehow turned the tables, so that he felt as if he were in the wrong. He was sweating, and he felt sick in his stomach. Jesus, why was she looking at him like that?
‘. . . Just not ready to settle down,’ she finished the sentence for him. Her eyes were hazel chips of self-righteous indignation. Lazariel sighed, but he wasn’t surprised by her reaction. It had been a mistake to fuck her. A momentary weakness. He had already received hints of how clingy and possessive she was.
‘I’m just not ready for a full-on relationship,’ he lied. The truth was the opposite. He was so lonely, so hungry for a meaningful relationship that he was afraid the longing would rip him into a billion parts, scatter him to the stars and shred the night sky to pieces. He could drink the sand from the deserts of the planet in his hunger, his thirst, his torment.
Night after night, staring into blackness, his body ached for the one he knew to be out there. When he eventually did sleep, gaining sweet respite from the torment, there she would be, beyond worlds, waiting for him, with her cool, soothing hands and her long, flowing mermaid hair. Then he would awake to his real world, alone and aching, his body throbbing, his heart afraid.
He had taken many women into his arms, into his bed. But they were not Kath, who was lost to memory, to time. She did not belong in Lazariel’s consciousness. She belonged to his earlier incarnation when he was Larry Owens. He would move eagerly inside the other women, thrusting inside their bodies, their shells, but they were never allowed to enter his inner being. For they were not the Special One, the Anointed One. All the women he met were just wrong. But they never accepted defeat, so there were always complications and uncomfortable evasive explanations. Like now.
‘I just want to know why.’
Christ, she was not going to give up ea
sily. Petulant, pouting, like an overgrown baby.
‘Is it something I said, or did? Was it something to do with the sex?’ She was flushed in the face, and he could tell these inane questions meant a lot to her, that she had been musing over them for days. He hated this scene. He despised himself for using her body, and her for not getting his message with some dignity. Her low self-esteem was written clearly all over her, and he had just done his piece to demoralise her further.
‘I can make it up,’ she said intently, fixing him with a slightly manic stare. ‘Whatever I did or didn’t do, just give me another chance. Lazariel, I love you.’ I need you, Lazariel. You make me complete. I’m nothing without you. Need you. Want you. Give. Give. Give. Give. Give me your heart, your soul, your eyes, your cock, your house. Ex-lover’s voices mocking him over the years. The sound of trees blowing in the wind, scraping against him, threatening to destroy him as they toppled over him. Falling gracefully, unable to keep their balance. Give. Give. Give.
‘I love you too, honestly, Theresa, look at me.’ Gently he tilted her head back, looking into her eyes. ‘I love you, Theresa, but there will be no relationship between us. I shouldn’t have slept with you. It was very wrong. I took advantage of you.’ Because you’re fucked up, because so many men have let you down and you’re running from your abusive parents. You’re vulnerable and hurting and you ran to me to heal you and I used you. His hand stroked her cheek. He had to resist a sudden urge to scratch her, to draw blood. What was it about her that brought out his desire to kick her? To wound her? ‘Will you still come to the meeting tonight?’
Bride of the Stone: Circle of Nine Trilogy 2 Page 8