War and Famine
Revelations Book # 2
J.A. Cipriano
Copyright © 2015 J.A. Cipriano
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And the first angel sounded his trumpet, casting blood, hail, and fire down upon the earth. – Revelations 8:7
Kim 02:01
“You killed me, Kim,” Malcom bared his teeth, but since most of his lips had rotted away, she could see not only his teeth, but the yellowed bone of his face. “And then you left me to rot.”
Rivulets of decayed flesh clung to his skull as he hoisted himself to his feet and took a step toward her. Fragments of his broken bone poked through the bloody white t-shirt stuck to his chest, from where she’d caved in his ribcage with Mjolnir.
“You left me all alone in this wasteland.” He shook his head, his dark eyes full of betrayal. “And you said you loved me.” He snorted. “Was I a fool to believe you?”
He took another step toward her, and she tried to move, tried to make herself do anything other than stand there gaping at him like an idiot. Only she couldn’t get her legs to react as he shambled closer, one hand outstretched toward her. His dirty fingernails were blackened and split, making her think of a zombie forced to claw through its coffin lid.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice a mixture of guilt and fear. Guilt at not having been able to bring him back to her, despite all her efforts to do so welled up inside her, overriding the fear at what he might do to her because of it.
“Your apology means nothing to me, Kim.” Malcom sucked in a breath that whistled through his punctured lungs. “You need to come get me, Kim. You can’t leave me alone here. You can’t.” He was nearly upon her now. His hand caressed her cheek, leaving a trail of slime on her flesh. “You promised you wouldn’t leave me here all alone.”
Kim awoke with a start. Her blanket fell off her as she sat up, leaving her naked flesh exposed to the night air. Her heart hammered in her chest as she looked around the room wild eyed. She didn’t recognize it at all. Something shifted next to her in the bed, and she glanced toward it, adrenaline still surging through her veins. A dark haired boy lay asleep under the blankets, a small puddle of drool dripping from his lips. Unfortunately, he was as unfamiliar as the room she was in with its posters of aged rock bands and graffiti covered walls.
Another surge of fear rushed through her. She’d done it again. She tried to remember last night, tried to piece together how she’d ended up here, but just like every time before, her memory was a fuzzy blank. The first time it’d happened, she’d started screaming, waking up everyone in the frat house. The second time, she’d screamed again, but only loud enough to awaken the girl sleeping next to her.
Now, fifteen times later, she was used to it as much as she could be. If only she could figure out why she kept blanking out, kept losing entire portions of her life only to awaken in the bed of a stranger. She’d thought about asking for help, but if she was honest with herself, how would she go about it? It wasn’t like she was close enough to her friends to feel comfortable telling them she was waking up in the bed of strangers with no recollection of the events leading up to it.
She shut her eyes and took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. There was no use worrying about it. Still, what troubled her was the dream. Malcom showing up was becoming more and more frequent. The desperation in his voice more urgent. The anger more real. If this kept up, she might just have to find Amy or Ian and ask for their help. Doing that would mean getting dragged back into the world of the horsemen, of accepting the call of her mantle to be near them. If she did that, she’d have to acknowledge the ache inside her, the loneliness filling every part of her being now that Malcom was gone, made worse by her absence from her friends.
“It’s just a dream,” she murmured to herself, trying to force truth into the words. “Just like the last one. Malcom is gone…” She had told herself that a lot over the last several weeks because if he wasn’t gone, if he was trapped in that otherworldly dimension by himself, it was her fault. If he was still there, she had to rescue him, but she couldn’t. She wasn’t strong enough for that. What could she say to him anyway? Sorry for leaving you alone in a demon world for weeks. Thought you were dead, my bad?
Kim climbed out of the foreign bed, careful not to awaken the other occupant. It would only lead to an awkward conversation she didn’t want to have anyway. She dressed quickly. One look through the closed blinds told her it was still dark outside. Good, she could avoid a walk of shame. That was the advantage with leaving before morning. There would be no forced conversations, no knowing smiles on friends’ faces.
Leaving was easier, especially when there was no one to stop you, and if there was one thing she’d gotten good at over the last couple weeks, it was leaving. Part of her felt bad for walking out on her parents, but as far as they knew, she’d just left for college early. They didn’t know what had happened to her, to Malcom, and if she had it her way, they wouldn’t ever know. No one would ever know. Hell, if there was a switch she could flip to drive the memory of it from her mind, she’d throw it in a heartbeat.
The door to the strange boy’s room closed behind her with a soft click, and as she made her way down the hallway of the grungy apartment building, she let a single tear slip from her eye. Nights like this made her remember what had happened. Much as she tried to drown it out, tried to ignore what had happened to her, it seemed like the memories of the fight with Jormungand were destined to haunt her. Forever.
It’d be easier if she had someone to talk to about it, but then again, maybe it wouldn’t be. She could have talked to Caden. He would have listened to her, but she hadn’t so much as tried. Hell, she hadn’t even thought about him at all. Her thoughts had centered on Malcom, and how she had left him behind even though he had saved them all. It didn’t seem fair, but it wasn’t like Ian or Amy had tried to bring him back either. Then again, neither of them had dated Malcom.
“I wonder if Ian and Amy are having nightmares too?” she mused, surprising herself by speaking their names aloud for the first time since that day. Part of her knew she should find them, should talk to them about what had happened, but she knew if she did, they’d try to tell her lies. They’d try to tell her it wasn’t her fault Malcom had died even though she’d used Thor’s Hammer, Mjolnir, to cave in his chest while he held the demon Jormungand long enough for her to deliver the coup de grâce. They would tell her he was more than ready to sacrifice his life to save the day.
True, Malcom might have been. But she wasn’t ready to let him make that sacrifice. No, he’d forced her to sacrifice him. And now he was gone, leaving her to deal with the guilt of his death all alone.
“Malcom, why did you go and leave me?” She gritted her teeth and glanced back toward the building behind her. “Would I be waking up with random people if you were here to hold me?” She swallowed down the thought before it could take root, before it could burn her in fresh flames of guilt. No, when it came to that guild, avoidance was better. If she could avoid it long enough, maybe the nightmares would fade too.
Even if they didn’t go away, even if they haunted her until the end of time, she didn’t want to step back into that world again to find out if Malcom was still there, still somehow alive. Reliving terrible memories was one thing, forging new ones was quite another. Deep down she recognized she was being selfish, but that didn’t really change her opinion of the matter.
If something else happened, Ian and Amy could take care of it themselves.
She was done. And they couldn’t make her come back. She wouldn’t let them. Not even if it would bring Malcom back. Which it wouldn’t. No. The world would have to find a way to keep on spinning without her.
“The universe wasn’t very smart when they picked me as one of its defenders.” Kim stifled a sob as she reached her car and unlocked it. The beep of the door echoed through the empty parking lot. She pulled the door open and stared at the pile of energy drinks and fast food wrappers littering the passenger side of the vehicle. “I’m a mess.”
Ian 02:01
Ian didn’t see the guard walk by his jail cell so much as he felt him like the faintest breeze on an otherwise still day. Even through the concrete wall sandwiched between several inches of steel, the guard’s heat reached out toward Ian, beckoning for him to take it for himself. He fought the urge to lick his lips. If only the man realized how delicious he smelled. If he did, he wouldn’t dare come this close to Ian’s cage. At least, Ian hoped he wouldn’t. If he did, Ian just might eat him, might tear open the guard’s throat and swallow his blood.
With each passing day, the hunger inside him grew, filling him with the need to consume. Still, he’d gotten better at ignoring the familiar ache within the pit of his stomach. Not that it mattered much. He was trapped in this cell. Well, trapped, might have been too strong a word. It was entirely possible that he could escape, could freeze the steel and shatter it with a single punch.
If he did that, he could walk through the door, out into the hallway, and what? Escape? Where would he go? He couldn’t go home, not after his face had been plastered across the news for days on end. He could almost imagine the interviews with his friends, proclaiming how he had appeared so normal before he snapped and killed all those people. In truth that had been Malcom.
Besides, it wasn’t like he hadn’t tried to atone for his actions. He gritted his teeth. If only they knew the truth, then everyone would see him for the hero he was. He alone had stopped Malcom from releasing Loki, and what did he get for his trouble? A jail cell. It was awesome.
Ian only tolerated it for two reasons. The first was simple. Quite simply, he was scared of what he’d do if he got free. What if he went on a murderous rampage? He was reasonably sure it wouldn’t happen, but reasonably sure was a far cry from one hundred percent sure.
The second reason? Ian had blood on his hands, and he deserved to be punished for it. He had killed one of his best friends in cold blood. Sitting in a jail cell was almost too good for him. That was why he hadn’t tried to escape. Yet.
He shifted on his too hard, too small bunk and stared at the ceiling of his prison. His distorted reflection stared back at him. The polished surface was nearly as reflective as a mirror. He let out a slow breath and rubbed his chin. To be fair, this place was much better than the last place. For one, the food was a lot better, and unlike the last place, there was never any shortage. That was good. He didn’t know what he’d do if they hadn’t kept his more normal hungers sated. It might drive him over the edge. He did not want that.
Even though he’d been in the first jail for only a couple days, it hadn’t been so bad after he’d thrown a few people through a few walls. Apparently, inmates didn’t take kindly to suspected terrorists, especially teenage terrorists. If he’d been normal, he wouldn’t have survived an hour let alone a few days.
Eventually, they had transferred him to this place. He hadn’t quite remembered it taking place but knew it had because this cell was very much unlike his old one. He vaguely remembered sitting in solitary confinement “for his protection” after he’d turned the entire yard into a winter wonderland, complete with frozen inmates. The after that was blurry.
A black canister had rolled through the bars of his cage. The smell of burned Styrofoam had filled his nostrils. He’d woken up here. He hadn’t seen a single person since. It was probably for the best. Otherwise, he might have eaten them. Maybe. He wasn’t sure.
Still, it was a little strange. He ought to have seen someone by now. Prior to his transfer, Amy had visited every day, but since then? Well, she’d been noticeably absent. He wondered if it was by her choice. Despite everything the non-trivial, non-insignificant fact that the boy he had killed had been her boyfriend, she had come to see him.
If she had held that against him, she wouldn’t have come at all. But she had come. Something must be keeping her from coming. But what could keep Amy, the personification of war, from doing anything? He wasn’t sure, but he was almost inclined to find out. That’s where his curiosity ended. At almost. Because, truthfully, he really didn’t want to find out it was because she had decided to stop coming on her own. In this case, ignorance was bliss.
Even still, he wasn’t so much of a coward that he wouldn’t have asked about it. So far he hadn’t seen anyone to ask. Then again, what would be the point? It wasn’t like he could walk out of here with her. All they could do was stare at each other through a glass window. It had been about as fun as pulling teeth. She’d tell him she forgave him, and he’d hate her for it. He didn’t want her forgiveness, not really. He wanted his own, and right now, that was a hard commodity to come by. Guilt was much more plentiful.
He stood up and moved toward the door. The guard was farther away now, but his scent hung in the air like rich cream, cinnamon, and coffee. Ian leaned his head against the door, felt the cold kiss of the metal on his skin, and allowed himself one final sniff. God, what he wouldn’t do for a cup of coffee. His mouth watered at the thought. He sniffed one last time. He couldn’t help it.
The scent was different. Metallic and canine. Like a wolf rolling around in a pile of pennies. He furrowed his brows and sniffed again. The smell was coming closer. Fast.
He took a step back as a fist shaped bulge appeared in the door. The sound rang in his ears as he scrambled backward so fast he nearly fell on his butt. Another bulge appeared in the center of the door before it buckled, folding inward on itself. An enormous hand clad in a bronze gauntlet gripped the top of the door and tore it from the frame like it was made of cardboard. The shriek of twisted steel filled the room.
“Hello, Fames. How are you?” asked a behemoth of a man as he stepped into the room, ducking and turning sideways to fit through the entrance. The sides of his head were completely shaven leaving only a thin strip of hair that trailed down his back in a tight braid. His amber eyes sparkled as he rubbed his bearded chin with one hand. “Ah, I’ve startled you, haven’t I?”
“A little. I don’t get much company,” Ian replied, still not quite sure how this guy had torn the door free of its hinges with his bare hands. Ian was strong. Far stronger than a normal person, and he had never even been able to budge it an inch. This guy had torn it off effortlessly. Hopefully he didn’t want to arm wrestle.
“Well, that’s about to change.” He strode forward and held out his hand, offering it to Ian. “I am Vidar, God of the Aesir. I have come to release you from this cage. It is time for you to rejoin the hunt. There are wolves afoot.”
Ian took a second to process that. This guy had just said he was a god, and while a few months ago, he’d have thought that was crazy, he didn’t now. Not since he’d fought the world serpent Jormungand and battled the Norse god Vali. Besides, this guy had nearly punched through a two foot thick steel door. If he said he was a god, Ian was inclined to believe him.
“Why have you come to save me?” Ian asked, shaking the man’s hand. The god’s grip was firm, but not crushing. Evidently, he didn’t feel the need to show off his strength.
“You must stop the wolf before he consumes the sun and the moon.” Vidar released Ian’s hand and took a step backward. His metal boots gouged the concrete floor with a sound like nails on a chalkboard.
“That sounds strangely apocalyptic,” Ian replied, studying the god and trying to discern how much of what he said was true and how much was hyperbole. The god’s expression made him think th
at maybe there was a wolf who could devour the sun and the moon. How the hell was he to stop something like that?
“Why else would I seek you out?” Vidar asked, a grin breaking out on his face. “You are one of the horsemen, are you not? Your only job is to stop apocalypses.”
“I need to stay here,” Ian replied, sitting back down on his bunk. “I’ve done terrible things. I have not paid for them quite yet.”
“Do not worry about that. When this is all over, I will kill you in honored combat.” Vidar walked forward, patting Ian on the shoulder good-naturedly. “It is why I have sought you out among all the other horsemen.”
“So after I help you, you’re planning to kill me?” Ian asked, grinding his teeth together. He’d known this day would come, known he’d eventually have to pay for his sins. Well, today was as good of a day as any. He didn’t know why, but the idea of dying to pay for his sins at the hands of this god was strangely satisfying.
“Yes. I am the god of vengeance. It’s my purpose.” Vidar grinned. “It will be glorious. Provided you stop the wolf.”
“I can taste your power on the air. You taste delicious.” Ian exhaled, and frost licked along the inside of the cell. The temperature plummeted as he took a step forward, ice sheathing his fists. “If this wolf is anything like you, I will happily suck the marrow from his bones.”
A belly laugh exploded from the god. “The wolf of which I speak will make a fine meal for you. I think even you will be satisfied afterward.”
Ian struck, crossing the tiny room in an instant in a flurry of snow and sleet. Ian’s blow struck true. His fist crashed into the big man’s stomach hard enough to shatter the ice wreathing his hand. Vidar grunted, stepping back as his eyes widened ever so slightly. Frost spread out from the epicenter of the blow, rippling upward along his leather tunic.
War and Famine: An Urban Fantasy Novel (Revelations Book 2) Page 1