by J F Cain
Abriel wagered that he could hear hurt in her voice.
Gotcha, he thought, inwardly rejoicing. “Listen, Lyla,” he said soberly. “We made an agreement and, as you can see, I’m sticking to it. But I never promised you I would risk my existence for you.” I’m already doing it, but you don’t need to know that. “You obviously overestimated my interest and drew your own conclusions.”
The insulted Demon clenched her fists to restrain herself.
My own conclusions? she screeched privately. You bastard! You moved heaven and earth to bang me and now you think you can act all aloof?
“Even so, I won’t go back on my word,” Abriel continued. Besides his help, he had also promised her he would take her whenever she asked. It was a good idea to remind her of that. He hoped she would get the message and take advantage of the opening he gave her.
Lyla saw the opportunity, but of course she didn’t realize that he had given it to her on purpose. She intended to take advantage of it soon. She couldn’t right now because she was furious with him. After throwing that put-down in her face, he wasn’t going to get laid so easily!
“I hope you don’t forget that too,” she said scathingly and vanished.
I hope you don’t either, Abriel thought and left the visible world.
A moment later, Gabriel appeared on the same spot where the two Eregkalian entities had been standing. Ever since his recovery, he had been monitoring the actions of Aranes’ persecutors and knew that the commander of the fallen Powers had gotten embroiled in the schemes of his idiotic lover—the lovers’ spat had confirmed his suspicion. Gabriel was trying to understand what Abriel’s real intentions were. Had his temperament changed or was he just trying to protect the Demon with whom he was in love? The Archangel hoped it was the latter, otherwise Abaddon would have to deal with yet another Lucifer.
Troubled by these unhappy thoughts, Gabriel lifted his eyes to the night sky, as if searching for comfort in the beauty of Earth’s starry dome.
The Archivist had given him the same order he had given Michael: not to get involved in the unfolding events. Of course, he hadn’t said anything about monitoring them. Nevertheless, the Archangel often wondered if he would be able to bear obeying the order when the time came for him to watch the Superior’s and Abaddon’s existence being threatened. This question, which would never have crossed his mind before, was a constant torment.
CHAPTER 11
The spacious living room was lit up only by a floor lamp and the flames leaping from the logs crackling in the fireplace. In black pants and a black T-shirt, Kenelm stood out like a sore thumb, seated as he was in the three-seater ivory couch with its pastel apple green cushions. With his bare feet resting on the low table in front of him and his heart filled with sorrow and nostalgia, he let his gaze roam over the furniture and objects in the room. The two armchairs, identical to the couch, the side tables and table lamps with fabric lampshades, the arrangement of pictures on the left wall across from the balcony doors that faced the garden, the modern vases on the light-colored mantel and the mirror with the ornate dark frame between them—it all reminded him of Jean.
He had bought this house a year and a half ago and, except for his study, he had let her decorate it, hoping that a normal family life would tempt her, so she would decide to leave the castle and the Guardians. But she had been afraid of being seen—especially by Galen, who often visited Kenelm—and had rarely gone to the house, and when she did it was always at night. After she was murdered, even though the decoration wasn’t to his taste, Kenelm hadn’t changed a thing. He saw her touch in every object and thought back to the moments when she had chosen each one of them. In his mind, he could hear her laughing at his awkward silences when she would show him what she had chosen on the store websites. He saw her pushing the furniture into place at night and he felt her melt with pleasure when they made love on the couch.
No, he wouldn’t change anything. Eight months later, he was still mired in the pain of her loss and didn’t want to let go of anything of hers, even if it was just a small object that Jean had touched for an instant. The only thing he had left of her were memories, and some of them were linked to the stuff around him. Kenelm kept her memory alive tenaciously, as if subconsciously wanting to punish himself for making the mistake of getting involved with a Guardian. The only memory he avoided reliving was that of their final moments, because it drove him mad. The image of her blood-soaked body in his arms shattered him and filled his mind with the black void of revenge. In those moments he wanted to take to the streets and kill any vampire he came across. But if he did that, he would blow their alliance to smithereens and his sense of responsibility toward his race didn’t permit him to disregard its interests at such a critical time.
He still hadn’t found the monster that had killed Jean. In vain had he been prowling around Hell’s Kitchen, searching for his scent in every vampire he encountered. The bloodthirsty creatures had favorite haunts where they looked for victims, but her murderer, knowing that a werewolf was looking for him, was obviously avoiding the scene of the crime. However, at some point the vampire was bound to return to his haunt, and then he would get him. Kenelm was patient and willing to wait. He had no other choice. During his shamanic trances, he had tried to breach the barrier of psychic energy protecting the vampires’ fortress from incorporeal invaders, but he hadn’t succeeded. The former Demons’ black magic was powerful. He had repeatedly requested information from his helping spirits, but they remained silent, perhaps because they didn’t want to see him regress down the path of spiritual growth.
His thoughts were interrupted by the faint sound of footsteps on the veranda that his animal hearing caught. He sniffed the air and recognized Galen’s scent. He heard the werewolf elder open the door, cross the lit hallway, and enter the dim sitting room, his cloak swishing about him.
Out of respect for his leader and spiritual father, Kenelm lowered his feet from the table.
“What happened at the meeting?” he asked without turning.
“The usual,” Galen answered and sat down in the armchair next to the couch. “The vampires are pushing to attack, the Demon is delaying it, and Lucard’s underling is causing problems.”
Kenelm huffed. He detested Vincent as much as the others did.
“That idiot has grown too big for his britches.”
The elder shrugged indifferently.
“It’s his master’s fault. He obviously doesn’t think his servant has the power or smarts to topple him.”
“Idiots are the most dangerous of all because they think they can do anything. If I was Lucard, I wouldn’t make light of his aspirations. Vincent is really sly and ambitious. He can cause grave problems, and not only to his master,” Kenelm pointed out.
“All the undead are sly and ambitious,” Galen remarked rather absentmindedly, letting his gaze travel over the dark room to see if anything had changed. All the items had remained in the same place for months, there where she had put them. He sighed and looked at the man sitting across from him. “Were you poking at your wound again?” he asked bluntly, his expression making it clear that he knew what was tormenting him.
Kenelm was taken aback, but checked his surprise so that it wouldn’t show on his face.
“What do you mean?”
The elder’s gray eyes darkened with sorrow.
“You’ve never lied to me. Don’t start now,” he said almost pleadingly.
Kenelm leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees.
“Since when have you known?” he asked, giving up on hiding. He felt a weight leave his shoulders. The stress of not revealing his feelings had tired him.
“I realized you were in love right from the start,” Galen replied. “However, I saw in you a constant anxiety and sadness incompatible with love. At first I thought that maybe your feelings weren’t returned, but my intuition told me that wasn’t the problem. With your experience as a man and your shamanic abilities, you can c
onquer any woman, even one that isn’t interested in the beginning. It would have been strange, since mortal women consider you a catch. So I watched you to find out what was going on and I saw the Guardian.”
“You watched me? How didn’t I sense that?” Kenelm asked with a frown.
“I’ve taught you everything you know,” Galen reminded him with a meaningful look.
Kenelm nodded. So that was why his spiritual father had been dropping by often after Jean’s death and had been spending more time with him than was usual.
“It crossed my mind that you might know. But you didn’t say anything so I thought I was mistaken.”
The elder’s saddened expression was a sign of his closeness with his second-in-command.
“What could I say, my son? That you should give her up? Wouldn’t it have been hypocritical of me to ask you to do something I hadn’t done?”
“It’s true that I wouldn’t have listened to you this time,” Kenelm admitted.
“You’re a bit too old to still mind your godfather,” Galen joked, wanting to lighten the room’s sorrowful atmosphere.
The effort failed. The wounded man across from him lowered his head with an expression of despair on his face.
“You know, I think of you often to gain courage,” he said, his voice brimming with melancholy. “You’ve been suffering this torture for four centuries. Although time may heal the wounds, the pain never leaves you entirely.”
The heart of the werewolf elder, a being that had been forged strong as steel in the physical and spiritual war, bent under the weight of the devastation his loved one was feeling. His enhanced consciousness, which let him know about other beings’ intentions and emotional state, could feel the immensity of his godson’s grief and it opened his own old wound.
“There is no comfort big enough to soften the pain you feel when you lose the other half of your soul,” he said, each word dripping with the bitterness of a memory that had never been released from its agonizing chains. “I’m very sorry, my son, for what you are going through. I had advised you; I had warned you about the overwhelming effect that theurgists have on supernatural beings like us. I thought that my experience would make you shy away from getting involved with a Guardian. But the heart has its own laws and fate its own ways.”
Kenelm had pinned his eyes on the flames dancing intertwined in the fireplace, just like he and Jean used to dance the dance of love once upon a time, like two flames that became one.
“I traveled in time to try and influence the events of physical reality, but I couldn’t prevent her death,” he said, a trace of despair in his voice. “What use are my supernatural and spiritual powers if I cannot determine my life?”
“Perhaps your union will be completed in your next incarnations,” Galen tried to console him.
Kenelm shook his head.
“I don’t think so. Jean is an evolved soul. I was wondering why she was incarnated to begin with.”
“Don’t forget that nothing happens without a reason. Her return to the physical plane surely had a reason, and besides the knowledge she offered the Guardians, I believe it also had to do with you. The pain you are going through conceals a message. Try and find it,” Galen advised him.
Kenelm’s face became suddenly harsh.
“The only thing I want to find right now is her murderer,” he snarled, his gold-green eyes glinting menacingly. “Once I have sent him to Hell, I might be able to calm down and see things more cool-headedly. Now, I cannot.”
The elder leaned toward him.
“My son, as shamans we have the ability to manipulate the physical forces. Even so, it is exceptionally difficult to do the same with our emotions. I know very well how you feel, but don’t let hatred absorb your power. You’ve long since escaped the dark side of the invisible. Don’t go back there. The feeling that wounds you so is what will help you not lose yourself. Love has that power. You can’t see Jean, but she does see you and your state of mind is surely worrying her.”
Kenelm knew that the wise shaman was right. Sometimes, when his grief and rage at her loss became unbearable and he wanted to rip his innards out to end the torment, he could feel her spirit close by. In those moments he sensed that his pain saddened her deeply and he got annoyed with himself because he was worrying her. But he didn’t have the strength to stop suffering. At least not yet.
“The path of the serpent is difficult, but you have walked it before,” Galen went on. “Look inside you and you will find the strength to leave the past behind. Maybe, as it relates to you, that was the reason she died. So that you can overcome your personal need to have her physically present and to go on living satisfied with the knowledge that she is continuing her evolution on another plane. That would help her spirit to find peace and you to carry on living.”
“Maybe I’ll be able to do it someday,” Kenelm said, somewhat on edge and wanting to put an end to the discussion. All these things his spiritual father was telling him had crossed his mind. He knew what he had to do; he just couldn’t do it.
Galen sensed his mood and stopped pressurizing him.
“Have you got anything on the one who did it?” he asked, wanting to make sure that Vincent was the murdered his second-in-command was looking for.
The question brought to Kenelm’s mind the image of a bloodied Jean taking her last breath in his arms and the fiery rage burning inside him grew stronger.
“I didn’t see him. I only caught his scent,” he replied, his voice tense with aversion and hatred.
“That’s not going to be much help,” Galen remarked expressionlessly.
Kenelm snorted with irritation.
“I know. All the undead bastards smell practically the same. But he took her sword. He obviously believes it will give him spiritual power. At some point, in some way, he’s going to use it.”
He already has, Galen thought. Looking beyond the sequence of events, the seasoned shaman could distinguish the causes linking them. He had to stop his deputy from engaging with Lucard’s right hand at all costs. Maybe the young vampire wouldn’t survive the battle that would be waged for the Superior and the world would be rid of his awful presence. “Do whatever you want after the attack on the Angel,” he said softly. “Until then, I don’t want any trouble with the vampires. The situation is already quite precarious.”
“Don’t worry, no one will know who did it,” Kenelm assured him, his eyes dark with the thirst for revenge.
“I don’t want you to do anything before the attack,” Galen repeated calmly. “That’s an order.” He had never had to speak to him in this way. His second-in-command always took his responsibilities to his race seriously and carried out his duties as instructed. But the werewolves had been open about their dislike of Vincent, and Lucard would blame them for the death of his right hand to oust them from the alliance.
Kenelm took a deep breath and let it out. He had no choice but to give in.
“I hope the attack happens soon,” he said bitterly.
“If things go the way they should, the Angel will give birth at the end of the month. That is what everyone is waiting for,” Galen replied. He got up, approached his godson, and rested his hand on his shoulder. “Have just a little more patience, my son. As soon as we get what we want from the Source, you and Lyon will be free to have your revenge.”
Kenelm lifted his head and regarded him.
“Are you barely holding him back from attacking Lucard?”
A hint of a smile tipped up the corners of the elder’s lips.
“He’s made it clear that anyone who dares to get Lucard before him will have to deal with him.”
The prospect of the battle with the vampires lifted Kenelm’s mood somewhat.
“There’s no reason to fight about this,” he said, getting up from the couch. “There are another ten vampires. Lucard might be their head, but the rest aren’t less responsible for everything we and humans have suffered because of them.”
“Everythin
g will happen when and how it should,” Galen responded. He gave him a friendly slap on the back. “I’m off. If you need anything, let me know.”
Kenelm couldn’t stop himself from smiling.
“I haven’t heard that in a while. If memory serves, you stopped saying that after I turned two hundred fifty.”
Galen’s eyes were lit with protective tenderness for his spiritual son who he loved like his own.
“It’s not my fault. At that age you still looked twenty-five,” he defended himself with a smile.
“Yes, for some reason, you kept on forgetting to add the zero,” Kenelm teased, his expression telling Galen that he wasn’t fooling anyone. “Anyway, thank you for caring.”
The elder gestured vaguely as if to say that it wasn’t necessary.
“Get yourself together. It’s going to be a difficult battle and I need my second-in-command. I don’t trust anyone else to do what must be done.”
“I won’t let you down,” Kenelm promised. His strange eyes glowed in the gloom, showing his determination to keep his word at all costs.
“You never have,” said Galen, his gaze sober. He stood there silently for a moment, looking at him as if wanting to remind him of his strength, and then walked out of the living room.
Moments later, Kenelm heard the front door close. He sank into the couch again and rested his feet on the table.
He felt relieved to have shared his problem with someone who could really understand his pain. Galen wasn’t only his leader and godfather; he was also his combat instructor, his shamanic mentor, and the only family he had left. His parents, siblings, wife and children had all died centuries ago—his father in battle and the rest of old age. He was the only one who had inherited his father’s werewolf genes and, thankfully, he hadn’t passed them down to his own children. There was no greater curse for a long-lived being than to watch your loved ones die. He had lived through it repeatedly and had decided never to put himself in that position again.