by J F Cain
His answer made sense to Abaddon, and more importantly it seemed honest.
“Will its effects be permanent?”
“In your body, I believe yes. But I cannot be sure. You’re a very special case.”
Abaddon didn’t give it any more thought.
“Alright then, do it.” With a mental command, he disinfected his healer’s hands, put surgical gloves on him and lastly materialized a scalpel in his right hand.
Kenelm watched the process expressionlessly.
“You didn’t need to do that. I have my own tools,” he said as he transferred the scalpel to his left hand.
“It saves time,” Abaddon replied. “Where are you going to make your incision?”
‘Why? Are you going to disinfect that too?” Kenelm scoffed. “I’m not a diseased animal, I’m not even human,” he explained with an offended expression on his face. “I’m a hybrid being with an entirely unique constitution and a human psyche.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you,” Abaddon said stiffly.
Kenelm nodded with disappointment, but let the matter rest. Using the scalpel, he made an incision on his right wrist. As soon as the blood welled, he twisted his arm and let a small amount drop onto the wound.
Abaddon watched the process with interest. The very moment when the werewolf’s blood flowed into his wound, he felt a burning on the same spot in his ethereal body. The magical blood’s effect was immediate and the injured organs began to heal. As their function was restored, his skin began to heal too. Once the process was over, all that remained where the wound had been was a bloodied scar about an inch and half long. The Dark Angel looked at the werewolf’s wrist. His wound had closed too, but without leaving any mark.
It’s just as well I didn’t become a werewolf, he thought with relief. That’s all I needed, to add one more strange nature to the unfathomable entity I’ve turned into. Even so, he wanted to make sure. “It looks like you’re right,” he told his shaman healer with feigned indifference. “Your blood didn’t change my nature. Unlike you, I have a scar left, as is natural.”
Kenelm regarded him sincerely.
“Whether you believe it or not, I wouldn’t lie to you.”
Abaddon sensed that the werewolf was telling him the truth. But he wanted to know the reason why.
“Why?” he asked, his gaze searching.
“I have my reasons,” Kenelm answered enigmatically, the look on his face communicating that he wasn’t about to discuss it.
Abaddon realized he would gain nothing if he insisted. So he set the question aside and gestured with his head toward his physical self who was dead to the world.
“How long will the sedative last?”
“I don’t know when it comes to you,” Kenelm replied, getting off the bed. “I assume three hours or so.”
Abaddon didn’t like that. He wanted to get to the Exorcists’ fortress to see Aranes before she went to sleep. Of course, most of the hours he hung around outside the keep, he watched her sleeping. But he also knew that besides being glad to see him, even from afar, his partner relaxed when she saw that he was well—unhappy but in one piece. He glanced at the clock on the wall. The time on the temporal and formal plane, as Aranes called the physical world, was half past eight.
I should make it in time, he thought. Of course, she’ll worry if I don’t appear at my usual time, but she will relax when she sees I’m fine.
Forced to wait until his physical body had regained consciousness, Abaddon began to pace in the room, with his hands clasped behind his back. He looked around him. The bed with the white headboard, the pale walls, and the cerulean fabric of the two armchairs and curtains created a light, pleasant atmosphere. The guest room seemed to have been decorated by a young person, evidently of the female persuasion.
“A woman’s touch,” he remarked.
Kenelm took off the gloves and deposited them and the scalpel on the bedside table.
“Yes, my girlfriend decorated it,” he said, his voice sorrowful.
His reaction caught Abaddon’s attention. Something told him that this young lady had something to do with him being here in the stranger’s house.
“Is she a werewolf too?” he asked, wanting to know more.
Kenelm shook his head.
“No, she was a Guardian.”
“A Guardian!” Abaddon repeated, arching his eyebrows in surprise. “And why isn’t she any longer?”
Kenelm’s face darkened.
“The vampire that attacked you killed her.”
Abaddon frowned. Aranes had told him about that sad story.
“Then you must be Kenelm. From what I know, Jean was the only Guardian who was involved with a werewolf this century and was killed recently.”
“You know about us?” Kenelm asked, bewildered. He didn’t expect the Superior, with all the troubles she had, to waste her time talking to her partner about a lost love.
“I’ve heard so much in the last few months that I could fill entire tomes,” Abaddon said impassively.
“Intensive lessons, were they?” Kenelm asked, a faint teasing smile on his face.
Abaddon’s expression remained serious.
“Precisely.”
An assessing silence fell between them. They regarded each other warily, wondering if they could trust the being standing across from them. Abaddon was the one who broke the silence.
“Were you following me or the vampire?” he asked, riveting his gaze on his self-appointed healer’s eyes while also monitoring his greenish aura.
“The vampire,” Kenelm answered, looking him in the eye.
Abaddon saw, but also sensed, that the werewolf was being honest. So he asked another question.
“Do you want to kill him because he took Jean from you?”
“Yes.”
“Then get in line. You’re not the only one who wants to take him out,” Abaddon said, his voice betraying his indignation.
The prospect of not being able to avenge Jean’s death bothered Kenelm. But instead of arguing about it with him, he chose to appeal to the innate understanding that all Celestials possessed, even if they didn’t have their angelic memory.
“The blade that wounded you was from her sword,” he said, letting the suffering and despair that governed his existence show in his eyes. “That’s why I helped you. She would have never wanted her sword to be used against a Celestial.”
Abaddon studied him. He realized what the werewolf was trying to achieve, and that he was keeping something from him.
“Is that the only reason?”
“Yes,” Kenelm answered, but something indefinable in his gaze said the opposite.
The Dark Angel caught the hidden message the werewolf was sending him. He obviously couldn’t speak, either because he believed their conversation was being monitored—by the instigator of the attack, for example—or for another reason. Whatever the case, if he wanted to tell him something, he would find a way. Maybe he would try meeting him another time.
“You must have loved her a great deal,” he said, carrying on the discussion as if he hadn’t realized a thing.
“More than anything else in my life,” Kenelm admitted.
Abaddon nodded.
“I know exactly what you mean.”
Kenelm sat down in the armchair that stood by a white dresser and gazed out the window as night unfolded its icy darkness.
“There’s nothing we can do to change the facts,” he said, his tone defeated. “The only thing left for us is to hold on; and, if we are able to at some point, to let go of the pain and anger.” He turned and looked at the Dark Angel. “For me personally, after eight centuries of suffering, it is really difficult.”
Abaddon didn’t let the turmoil he felt at the centuries-old being’s words show.
He had used the plural intentionally. Was he indirectly telling him that their fate was the same, to live without their partners? Yes, his fear answered. But that begged the question: D
id the werewolf know something or was it experience talking? “From what I can tell, no one can avoid that suffering,” he said, trying to draw him out.
“Unfortunately, that’s true. The Source may have changed a great deal lately, but It will never change that. Because then there will be no point to this plane of trials and tribulations in which we are forced to live.”
Abaddon’s turmoil receded.
The werewolf didn’t know something he was unaware of, after all. His pessimistic observation was based on his long experience and bad frame of mind. He nodded his agreement, went to stand by one of the windows, and stared out into the darkness with a bored expression that intentionally conveyed the message that he had done his duty and shown an interest in his host’s troubles but he didn’t feel like talking anymore.
Kenelm was watching his ethereal guest with apparent indifference. In reality, he was really interested in what he thought and especially in how he planned to protect the Superior. But he couldn’t ask that question.
“I’m going downstairs to get a glass of water. Your host will need it when it awakens from the anesthesia,” he said after a while and stood up.
“Alright,” Abaddon replied, but didn’t go to the trouble of conjuring a glass of water. With his stance, he wanted to show that he preferred to get rid of the werewolf, even for a short while, even though that wasn’t true. He felt comfortable with this odd stranger that had suddenly invaded his life. Maybe because they shared the same pain or, maybe, because he needed a friend. Without Gabriel and Aranes, he was totally alone, and that loneliness was hard to bear.
When Kenelm returned, they discussed various painless matters of common interest. Abaddon was impressed by Kenelm’s knowledge of physics and technology and Kenelm was impressed by Abaddon’s well-rounded knowledge, which wasn’t due to Aranes’ teachings. Although the two of them seemed to remain formal and wary toward each other, in reality they enjoyed their discussion in the way that someone enjoys a meeting of the minds with a new friend. When the Dark Angel’s physical body regained consciousness, he slipped into his host again and got up from the bed. He drank the glass of water to chase down the bitter taste of the potion in his mouth and, after vanishing the bloodied sheet, the scalpel, and his clothes, which bore the marks of the attack, he created other clothes on himself. Before leaving, he approached his healer and stood opposite him.
“Thank you for your help,” he said formally, without offering his hand as he ought to. Not because he actually despised him, but because that was what he had to appear to feel.
Kenelm realized why he was behaving so rudely and wasn’t offended.
“You’re welcome,” he said blankly. The Celestial’s form began to fade away but the werewolf’s voice stopped him before he could disappear. “Abaddon, I would like to ask something of you.”
The Dark Angel stopped dematerializing.
“I’m listening.”
“Leave the vampire to me,” Kenelm said, a trace of pleading in his voice.
Abaddon appeared to consider it.
“We’ll see.”
“If the service I have provided you is worth anything, then please do me this favor,” Kenelm said respectfully, showing that he didn’t put himself on an equal footing with the high Celestial.
“Are you sure you will succeed?” Abaddon asked, wanting to make sure that Vincent would get the punishment he deserved. “That scum is very crafty. What’s more, he has a powerful protector.”
Kenelm understood that he was referring to Lucifer and not Lucard. But that didn’t change his decision.
“I will send him to Eregkal, even if it’s the last thing I do in my life,” he replied with icy rage. “Just give me a little time.”
Abaddon, not knowing the restrictions Galen had set, thought that Kenelm was asking for time because it was difficult to find the vampire.
“Alright,” he said and vanished, thinking that if the werewolf didn’t manage to kill their common enemy, then he would.
The stuffiness inside the room with the stone walls made the air suffocating. The thick, scented candles burning on a rusted round tray cast their trembling shadows on the old wooden wardrobe and the table with the carved chair behind it. But the candles’ scent wasn’t enough to freshen the air and their light inadequate to light up the large space that seemed to be trapped in the folds of a bygone era.
Vincent was lying on a timeworn stately bed with his hands clasped behind his head. On the bedside table lay the blade with traces of Abaddon’s dried blood on it.
The vampire was pondering what to do to be able to move around freely again. He was sick of being cooped up in the castle. But the threat the Dark Angel presented hung like a Damoclean sword above his head. Tonight had been the only time he had left the fortress after his attack on Aranes. And if he hadn’t had Lucifer’s protection, he wouldn’t have attempted it. The Dark Lord had planned the operation carefully. He had given him detailed information about where Abaddon was and had even promised to protect him if something went wrong. Vincent had believed him because he knew that he was indispensable to his new master’s plans. Lucifer wanted to show Abaddon that he was lacking and vulnerable. This way, he would break his adversary’s spirit, so that he wouldn’t think that because of his special powers he could do whatever he wanted. However, his new master’s demands had started to annoy the vampire, because they endangering him more and more. After tonight’s attack, the Dark Angel wouldn’t rest until he had taken him out.
Vincent sighed heavily, annoyed by the turn of events. The satisfaction he had felt stabbing Abaddon in the back had turned into worry.
He must have realized that Lucifer was the one behind the attack on his chick, he thought. But this attack against him looked like a settlement of accounts between us. Vincent wondered if, besides fettering Abaddon, Lucifer had also wanted to get rid of him.
The possibility that he could be right rattled him. He leaped off the bed and began to pace agitatedly.
If he thinks he can get rid of me so easily, then he needs to think again, he said to himself, clenching his only hand into a fist. He might be the Lord of Darkness, but I am the most dangerous vampire.
CHAPTER 26
The sun was about to rise in the Appalachians. The dense forest in front of the Exorcists’ fortress was full of activity.
Kadu appeared among the branches of a tree and looked down. Beneath the dense foliage he saw the forest swarming with Cursed as far as the eye could see. As if split into different camps and not part of a single army, werewolves—men and women in their human forms—sat cross-legged on one side, grouped in large circles. Silent and composed, they watched their—of necessity—allies with blank gazes. On the other side, the vampires, using their magical powers, were transforming their bodies into a spinning column of blackish smoke that sank into the ground beneath their feet. When the huge cloud of eerie smoke had been absorbed into the earth, Lucard became visible behind it, surrounded by his gargoyle guards. The two creatures flanking him spread their large stone wings to protect him from the sunlight.
The vampire leader didn’t intend to follow his race into the ground. His ego wouldn’t permit him to go into hiding like a frightened weakling. He would stand there, tall and proud, and watch what the werewolves got up to. Protected under the dense foliage and the wings of his faithful gargoyles, Lucard had his gaze pinned on the werewolf elders standing among their kind, to send the message that he was keeping a watchful eye over his interests.
Kadu left the forest and, passing through the invisible world’s unearthly channels, he materialized inside the fortress. In the bailey, the warriors of Light were making their final preparations for the coming battle. The Exorcists had formed a big queue and were each stopping in front of a long table with crossbows and quivers filled with arrows whose tips Eiael had soaked in a fiery ethereal substance deadly to the Cursed.
A few feet away, Fares was instructing two Guardians who were pushing a tarp-covered c
art. One of the wheels went over a small stone and the cart was jolted. A glass sphere the size of one’s palm was knocked off the cart and, as it fell, the greenish liquid inside it was shaken and began to give off a strange glow. Fares saw it in time; he leaped forward and reached out and grabbed the sphere before it hit the ground.
“I told you to be careful! Do you want to blow us all up?” he asked, his tone restrained yet stern.
The two Guardians were taken aback and stopped pushing the cart.
“We’re sorry,” they said. “But what was that?” one of them asked, pointing at the dangerous object their second-in-command was holding.
“It’s an Exorcist weapon,” Fares explained more gently. “The liquid inside the sphere is more powerful than a modern-day hand grenade.”
“I was under the impression that Exorcists aren’t fighters,” the other Guardian remarked.
“They aren’t. But they know how to defend their fortress,” Fares replied. “Their ethereal nature gives them many advantages. Besides their ability to teleport themselves, their arrows always find their targets and their composure allows them to react appropriately when there is danger. So let’s help them as much as we can.” He gestured with his head toward a stairway leading up to the wall. “Take the cart there, and be careful, alright?”
As the Guardians continued on their way with the cart, they passed behind Aranes and Eiael, who were standing in the middle of the bailey as if waiting for someone. Suddenly the energy in that spot began to change, forming imperceptible ripples in the atmosphere as a hazy figure began to form. As soon as Kadu took definite shape, he inclined his head in a slight bow.
“They are here,” he said as soon as he lifted his head.
“How many are there?” Aranes asked him.
“About nine thousand.”
“Then it is worse than we expected,” Eiael said, holding in the worry that overcame her.
“That is why it took them so long,” Aranes noted pensively. “Please notify Abaddon of their arrival,” she gently ordered Kadu.