Dustan stepped into the garden clothed in linen pants, feet and chest bare. A chill tickled goose bumps on his skin, though the night was warm and humid. Five figures stood in a semi-circle around a makeshift altar—planks atop wooden crates, draped with a thick red blanket. Torches blazed. Drifting smoke and dancing flames provided an eerie atmosphere.
Geras, his robe shifting in the breeze, stood stone-faced at the foot of the platform. Shax, in a maroon coat and black pants, gave Dustan a subtle smile. Valefar’s expression bled anticipation. With a sword clutched at his waist, the tip buried in the ground, the warrior fixed his eyes on Dustan as he ambled to the altar. Every muscle in the demon’s body seemed poised to spring. If the setting did not unnerve Dustan enough, the look in those dark eyes did the trick in spades.
“Dustan, if you would.” Aamon waved a hand the length of the altar, indicating for Dustan to lie down.
He did as directed, mustering all his courage to maintain a brave façade. Saerna strolled into sight. Naked except for a gold chain around her neck bejeweled with a large round emerald, she seemed to float toward him. She raked long fingernails down his torso, quivering his skin under her light touch. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and his heart threatened to pound out of his chest. The beautiful woman climbed up and straddled him. He felt himself rising to meet her.
“Sorry for any embarrassment. Your heightened emotions should facilitate a successful transformation,” said Aamon.
Transformation? What are they going to do to me?
Surrounded by five powerful demons, now seemed a poor moment to change his mind. Saerna rocked in gentle undulation, hands caressing his stomach. Aamon extended his arm and traced a finger along Dustan’s sternum as he had all those years ago. In his peripheral vision, Dustan noticed a faint red glow issuing from Aamon’s eyes. Like a ribbon of smoke, it snaked its way down the demon’s arm, growing with intensity as it traveled. Once in Aamon’s upheld palm, the glow coalesced into a ball of radiant crimson light. He turned his hand over and placed it flat against Dustan’s chest. A jolt rocked through Dustan, his body set afire. He imagined the finger embedded within his heart burst apart, birthing a myriad of tendrils that wormed through his veins. The torches roared with colossal flames licking high into the night. The others murmured in a chant and swayed in blurred shapes like drunken ghosts. Pressure shoved down from above as needle pricks stung his back, arms, and legs. The red illumination filled his vision, brighter and brighter, until it exploded in a shower of dazzling sparks…and all went black.
Dustan opened his eyes to the night sky. The stars seemed so close he could reach out and grab them. He gazed about, realizing the darkness hid nothing from him. Hued in pale cerise, the landscape stood out clear as day. Miles from the plantation house, he knelt at the river’s bank. Across the ford, a deer drank from the rippling water. It sensed his presence, head shooting up. Dustan’s heart thundered, his every muscle taut. But no, not his heart…the deer’s. He could hear it. The beats sped up as the creature’s fear increased. The deer bolted into the woods, and Dustan chased it.
He easily kept pace and overtook the deer higher up the ridge. The skittish animal veered when Dustan flew past. Laughing, he raced along, jumped high into the trees and swung from the limbs, traversing long distances without touching the ground. He came to a fork where high rock walls rose on either side. A log, with thick plentiful branches, had fallen from the cliff above and blocked the path. He grasped the timber and flung it to one side, though it must have measured ten times his weight. Dustan stepped close to a gnarled pine and slammed his fist into the tree, splintering the wood. A hand-sized crack bled sap. He stared down at his hand and watched bruised knuckles, slick with blood, fade from purple to pink. A moment later, only smooth skin remained, the cuts and contusions completely healed.
A scent drifted to his nostrils. Following the smell, he ran miles farther into the forest and came to a clearing where a group of men cooked their catch over an open fire. The aroma of fish filled his nose and made his mouth water. Dustan could not stop laughing. Fearing the men would hear, he slinked back into the cover of the brush and headed toward the plantation.
Loping along at a speedy clip, he spotted something off to his right. In a small area, the trees and foliage appeared blurred while all around retained perfect clarity. He stared at the spot until he noticed the distortion shimmer. Dustan moved close. He stepped beside and behind the disturbance, finding it possessed no depth. Like a sheet of fogged glass, it remained confined to a space above his head and down to the ground an arm’s length to either side.
Dustan cautiously reached out and touched the hazy surface, his hand passing unimpeded through the sheen. He craned his neck, peeking behind the opaque film to find his arm did not appear on the other side. Something in his memory clicked, reminding him of the fever-dream as a child. Perhaps all this was no more than a dream induced by the ceremony.
Infused with feelings of strength bordering on invincibility, he nodded. Why not? Dustan stepped through the portal.
Violent winds whipped his mane of thick, brown hair into his face. He turned his head a fraction, allowing the gale to send the locks trailing behind his head. The sky overhead, a dome of milky glass streaked with azure, sparkled, making him squint. The mountain summit where he stood, the central massif in a range that appeared to span the entire realm, granted a spectacular view.
In the far distance, to his right, towers of glinting onyx pierced the sky. Flapping banners of gold and jade flew on the battlements marking the Hordes’ domain. Obscured by a lower line of hills, the foot of the fortresses reemerged onto a fiery plain. Tongues of flame licked waist high and swayed like fields of grain. Pathways of cooled magma paved streets along rivers of churning lava. Such a landscape should be horrifying and call to mind Hellish visions, but quite the contrary, it held the beauty of fire and light.
On his left, crystal spires rose in a multitude of silver spears. Aeries dotted their peaks, home to the Host. Encrusted ice veined the pillars, diamond dust sprinkled along their lofty frames. An enormous wall encircled the city where edifices great and small bordered gleaming streets. In the heart of the megalopolis, at the foot of the central spire, majestic figures rose hundreds of feet high, sculpted from the ice—statues of kings and queens whose reigns spanned eons, memorialized by their angelic descendants.
Upon a wide expanse positioned between the domains, row upon row of angels formed ranks behind massive two-headed beasts resembling great white bears. Opposite them, demons in equal numbers prepared for battle. Some marched while others rode gigantic wolf-headed serpents. Angels took flight on the backs of gryphons, creatures with eagle’s heads and wings and the bodies of lions. They met demons astride massive black stallions with bat-like wings in the crackling air.
The angelic figures varied in their ethereal glow—dull gray, to silver, to radiant white. The demons—pale red, to deep crimson, to scarlet—the darker the hue, the brighter it shone. They clashed in a barren valley, cracked and hardened, slick with ethereal blood. Swords and flails, spears and hammers, all the same hue as their bearers, crashed against armor and shield. Bellows of anger filled the air, competing with wails of pain.
Dustan watched, transfixed by the display—the carnage, courage and valor, murderous rage and bitter loathing. A palpable hatred rose in waves from the forces. The hair on Dustan’s arms stood erect as an electric current passed through his body. As the tumult reached a crescendo, a flash exploded from the basin floor. The concussion hurled him backward…darkness engulfed him.
“Pleasant trip?” Aamon sat beside his bed, twirling one end of his mustache between two fingers.
Disoriented, Dustan clutched his temples as old memories and current confusion made his head spin.
“What happened to me?” He pushed up in the bed, letting the crown of his head rest against the wall.
“The ceremony was a great success. I must admit I could not be completely certain it wou
ld work. Such a thing has never been attempted before.”
“What do you mean?” Dustan rubbed his eyes.
“I’ll let Geras fill you in on the details. He is much better with that sort of thing. Suffice to say, you are now one of us. Or at least part of you is. Again, it’s all very complex, and I tend to avoid the complicated whenever possible.” Aamon stood and brushed his hands along the lapels of his coat.
“I’m different now. I can feel it. Something…changed.”
“You do have a gift for understatement. Oh very well, I’ll explain the more mundane aspects, but I insist Geras deal with the metaphysical. Too much of aesthetics always gives me a headache. My token, the bit I imparted to you all those years ago? Now that you are mature, I released its power, which in turn transformed you. Half human, half demon…somewhat. It is not so simple, but you get the gist. The transformation grants you certain abilities, or rather, enhances abilities you already possessed. Your senses are heightened, greater strength, speed, and agility. You heal much faster. Additionally, you will now age more slowly.”
“I experienced all those things. In my dream.”
Aamon grinned. “Not a dream, my boy. Very real, in fact.”
“Real? What about the world I saw? The demons and angels at war?” He slung his legs off the bed and pounced to his feet.
“As to that, not a simple answer.”
“Geras?”
Aamon’s smile widened as he nodded. “Yes, Geras.”
7
The Gryphons and the Bees
He found Geras reading in a small nook with a bay window overlooking the pond. A flock of geese had taken up residence, migrating with autumn along the Mississippi River and into the Delta. Their constant hwonk hwonk conversations echoed off surrounding oaks and maples, answered by a myriad of native birds. Dustan often paused and listened to their symphony. He found their seasonal sojourn comforting, a reminder that nature remained oblivious to the perils of this world or the next.
“Can they not shut up for a bloody instant? I hear their infernal honking in my sleep. Last night, I dreamt one of the buggers flew right into my bed. Gangly neck craned down and tried to stuff a brim into my ear.” Geras shuddered and shook his head. “Sit, boy. I imagine you have quite a lot of questions.”
Dustan pulled out a chair from the table and plopped down, taking a bite of jam bread in the process. “So many, I don’t know where to start. My brain’s all frazzled.”
“Understandable. I think we should begin at the beginning. Well, your beginning, that is.” Geras sat his book aside, a treatise on Utilitarianism by John Stuart Mill, and strained to make himself comfortable. Still in his long, black robe, he rubbed his eyes and squinted to focus.
“Why do you use such an ol’ frail body?” asked Dustan. “Seems you can barely get around. Wouldn’t a younger one suit you better?”
“Doesn’t work that way. This body was young when I chose it. Spirits age, only slower than humans. For reasons no one knows, our first forms reflect our aging. Cruel joke of the cosmos, I suspect. Oh, I’m not as infirm as I appear. Well practiced affectations, more habit than need.” Geras laced his fingers and cracked the knuckles.
“Spirits didn’t always recruit humans. Shax says the human realm was discovered long after the first spirits and the war began. If you age and die, do you also…well, you know, have spirit babies or something?” Dustan shied, his face red. Now twenty-two, he remained unworldly and sheltered, retaining much of the naiveté with which he left London.
“Ha. Of course we do. Same as any creature, we procreate to propagate our species. Though our lovemaking is far more graceful than you lot. All your grunting and moaning, those hideous faces.” Geras shivered. “Disgusting.”
“Not if you’re doing it right.” Shax sauntered through the parlor, a cup of coffee in his hand. “What do you recall of it, you ol’ coot? You ain’t had a shag since Lucifer was a wee pup.” Shax laughed and proceeded toward the great room.
“Disrespectful oaf.” Geras flashed some hand sign Dustan did not recognize. “As I was saying before so rudely interrupted, spirits select mates, same as you, by falling in love. Oh, don’t look so surprised. Any creature who gains reason, intellect, and self-awareness will invariably develop emotions. With emotions follow attachments—love, friendship, society.” He pushed back from the table and stood. “Come, let us walk a bit. These old legs tend to stiffen if I sit too long.”
They walked down to the pond where Geras flung breadcrumbs to the geese and giggled as they fought over the tiny bits. One particularly haughty gander waddled up the bank and plucked the loaf chunk right from his gnarled hand. Geras chased after the fleeing thief on thin, gawky legs, swatting after it with a length of the rope belt around his waist.
“Sassy buggers.” He flipped his hands at the bird and huffed. “Where were we? Oh, yes. Spirits mate in a beautiful union. Upon climax, the male passes a portion of his energy into the female. Over time, their joint energy gestates and is later birthed. The birthing, now that is quite different. You’ve studied some science in your books?” Dustan nodded. “Read Rudolf Virchow?” Dustan shook his head at the unfamiliar name. “No matter, a scientist who discovered organic things are made of cells and those cells reproduce by splitting into two forms—the original and another. Spirits are much the same. The ‘infant’ spirit breaks from its mother, emerging fully formed—its stature and mass what it will be until the end of its days. It must still learn and grow in experience and intellect, but there is no ‘childhood’ per se.”
Dustan’s head spun. Not much of Geras’s education made any sense. He feared the old man’s answers to the questions plaguing him would offer little understanding.
“I see we’ve ventured off the path,” said Geras. “All will become clear in time. You must walk before you run. Feel free to add any other cliché you wish.” He chuckled and patted Dustan on the shoulder. “We were discussing your beginning, that is, how and why Aamon selected you.”
They came to a set of benches positioned beneath a sprawling gazebo, all of which had taken Dustan more than two weeks to build. The latticework in particular proved tricky, forcing him to start over more than once. Geras sat as Dustan leaned against a slatted partition. He noticed Valefar exercising in the yard. The agile man contorted his body in agonizing shapes, somehow managing to appear graceful.
Geras placed a hand on Dustan’s knee and cleared his throat. “Along the edge of the spirit and human realms lies a terrible land, cloaked in shadow, known as the In Between—a narrow space, which repels all life and death. During your illness, your soul slipped free and roamed the In Between. For a time, you floated there amidst the miasma of forgotten memories neither alive nor dead.” Geras peeked at Dustan as if gauging his comprehension. He nodded, satisfied, and continued. “Both sides noted the disturbance. Angels and demons alike felt the presence, a sort of announcement—the tolling of a bell from far away, carried on the wind, faint and indistinct. I am quite certain Zaphkiel investigated the event, as did Aamon. Only Aamon guessed the potential.”
Dustan listened, trying to picture the old man’s words. Something akin to a memory floated through his consciousness like the whiff of a scent or the notes of a tune he could not quite place. Though he did not remember captivity in such a locale, the truth of Geras’ description felt undeniable and prompted dimly recalled images from the fever-dream.
“Aamon plucked you out before…” Geras’ words fell away, his eyes shifted to the ground.
“Before? Before what?” asked Dustan.
Geras gave a dismissive wave. “Oh, nothing. My mind tends to wander.” He leaned back, seeming to gather his thoughts. “The token Aamon inserted within you bound you to the spirit realm. He healed your body, binding you to the human realm. He created, or at least arranged the necessary conditions for, a being both spirit and human, able to exist in both worlds.”
“Seems someone else would have been in a similar condition befo
re me, I mean, someone really sick, dead but not quite passed over yet.”
“It does happen, I suppose, from time to time. But most often, those souls are aligned. Additionally, you were a case of right place, right time. An unaligned in the In Between at the exact moment Aamon needed you. Might think it providence, if I didn’t know better.” Geras snickered.
Dustan nodded, though still not clear on the explanation. “So what I saw after the ceremony…I was really in the spirit world.” He had tried to recall his visit to that world in detail, but it flitted under the doors into dark rooms within his mind. Though the clarity of the images faded, the realness of it did not.
“Aye. Still, you are meant for this realm. The other is not a place for you. You must never venture there again.” Dustan started to interrupt, but Geras threw up a hand. “As a human able to see into the spirit realm, you already know you can see our kind, sense our auras. This ability allows you to interact with us on the human plane. Oh, I know you have been talking with us for years, but the interaction I speak of requires energy when exchanged between spirits. Fighting, for instance, requires a great deal of energy. We would find ourselves depleted. Reentry into our world, if met by an enemy, would mean certain annihilation. In addition, the ruckus stirred up around our contact would rival a thousand canons firing at once. Noticeable, to say the very least.”
“I’ll kill angels here?” A wicked glee slipped into Dustan’s voice.
“Yes. You are part spirit, so the clash of energies will still elicit a degree of commotion. However, if you are careful to encounter your foe out of the sight of humans, I warrant it will go unnoticed. A human cannot injure a spirit or vice versa. Since you are both, there is a way around this little problem.” Geras motioned to Valefar strolling across the yard. “Our kind are much faster and stronger than humans, the gifts Aamon’s token granted will allow you to match them. Most of them, at any rate. Some may prove too powerful to contest. Stealth and surprise will become your greatest weapons.”
Blood for the Dancer Page 6