by Lita Stone
Lynn chewed her lip. “My husband was a backstabbing, cheating loser and was never home. Not a fairytale or love.” She hesitated. “But this, what’s happening to me and Isaac...it’s anything but a holy union.”
Ira frowned. “I never said any of it was holy.”
The thought should terrify her, but a warmth tingled in her groin, suggesting anything but revulsion. She desired Isaac, the Geminus beast. And that desire was so overwhelming it made her laugh drunkenly.
Ira wrapped a frail arm around Lynn’s shoulder. “Are you all right?”
“I’m frigid. Clinically diagnosed twelve years ago with Female Sexual Arousal Disorder. I gave up alcohol, smoking and fatty foods. I talked to a counselor and even prayed with my pastor. But I’ve never had an orgasm in all my thirty-one years.”
Ira smiled. “Only Master Isaac can meet your needs. Now that you are together, you will know pleasure.” A devious smile tugged at her lips. “And know it again and again, until you beg for mercy.”
Lynn’s mind flashed back to the feel of his lips on her clit. His hands on her body. The brisk and clean scent of his lust, pheromones seeping from his body. The orgasm that rocked inside her, begging for release.
Suddenly she was drawn to her feet and circled the fountain. The robe’s tail dragged behind her. The marble fountain whispered to her the way the wind whispers to the trees. The water flowing over the stone grooves and edges of the legs, faces, wings and scales sparkled like droplets of crystal. A summer night’s breeze teased Lynn’s hair. She smiled as she met jeweled eyes.
Galmoria reached out with ebony talons. The water trailed down her marbled maiden figure and smelled pure as a country rain. Cerulean moonlight showered the statue in a pale glow.
Lynn moved around the fountain. She eyed the statue of the demon in a pose like she was taking flight. The behemoth scorpion riding on her back, glassy yellow eyes, and intricately carved carapace regarded her with skepticism.
Ira remained behind her. “She is Galmoria, and that is Vostrict, the Lunar Guardian, who serves her.”
“Something familiar about her,” Lynn said.
“She is your mother, Mistress. Your Eve.”
Lynn reached for the statue’s outstretched hand. Foundation rumbling, the three stone women crept toward her. The ebony wings became the consistency of shadows. Six wings unfurled before enveloping her in a warm and protective embrace. Lynn nuzzled into the silken fur, closing her eyes.
“Mistress?” Ira’s hand touched her arm.
Lynn shuddered, realizing the fountain was intact and stationary.
“Are you okay, Mistress Lynn?”
Lynn purred and gazed at the stars. “I’m home.” Her legs began to shake. Dizziness made her blink. Stumbling, she grabbed onto the statue for support. Her hand slipped down the slippery stone and she tumbled her knees. Rolling to her back, she closed her eyes and fell unconscious.
Chapter Twenty-Four
The black waters of Sera’s Pond lapped the moonlit banks. A sweet wind creaked the ancient boards and rafters of the nearby Rawlin’s house. The shadow of a winged panther descended. The waters boiled before parting, revealing an illuminated portal in the pond’s bed, a simple threshold with pulsating multi-hued smoke. The Beast entered the gateway.
Along a craggy terrain, Isaac rode a black stallion with crimson seraphim wings. Dagger-like stones, petrified trees, and bottomless canyons scattered the region while a violent electrical storm eternally raged with the clouds of the planet ruled by a perpetual and massive full moon. Lakes of molten magma sprawled on either side of him. Through wisps of smoke and shrouds of ash, the horse leapt and soared.
A petrified skull of a behemoth alien creature, Nephruch, loomed in the distance. Multiple horns protruded from the skull and towered into the stormy atmosphere. Hollow slanted eyes gaped, one sewn shut by a massive spider web. The other still possessed a single yellow eyeball.
Half of the skull was buried beneath the stony wasteland; the top part of its open mouth serving as an entrance into Galmoria’s lair.
Nephruch, one of Galmoria’s many enslaved, once a behemoth golem composed from millions of the slain holy warriors and saints’ corpses, now reduced to a living fortress, home of the Winged Priestess.
Isaac’s mount neared the spinal-cord like bridge that crossed a deep crevice filled with bubbling blood from Nephruch’s still beating heart. The horse strained against Isaac’s command to cross the bridge.
“Cursed minion!” Isaac dismounted. He withdrew a ceremonial blade from his cloak and ran it through the creature’s skull. “Dare you defy the King of Beasts!” As the winged stallion collapsed in blood-spurting spasms, Isaac slammed himself into its flanks, sending it toppling over the ledge and into the sea of fiery blood.
After he licked the blood from the flat edge of his blade, he began crossing the bridge. Below him, the blood popped and crackled, and the heat stung through his clothing. When he arrived at Nephruch’s open mouth, a black scorpion, three times larger than his misfortunate steed, blocked his passage.
“Do you challenge my entry, Vostrict?” Isaac eyed the sentinel’s beady yellow eyes.
It performed a scuttle-dance, side-to-side while its stinger waved threateningly over its stone hard carapace.
Isaac held his dagger in front of his face. “You will obey me and remove yourself from my path.”
Vostrict halted, but the stinger remained erect, sludge-like venom dripping.
A growl tugged at Isaac’s lips as he stepped forward. “Now.”
The scorpion scudded away, deep into the living fortress.
It had been nearly two centuries since Isaac had set foot on this world. Eons past, the world had served as an alternate Earth, but demons led by Galmoria had overthrown the angels.
Isaac entered the skull. “Mother. I have come for you!”
Chapter Twenty-Five
October 21st
As with all things in and outside the natural world, there are rules governing the realms of morality, immorality and amorality. And for each and every decision we make, we engage ourselves in the nexus of societal propriety—whether we abide by, create, or break the norms. Thus, our choices make us the people we are, or the people we are not—and for an unfortunate, lot, the people we regret.
From stone tablets and papyrus, the laws of our people are handed down through the ages. The laws instruct and guide, but sometimes I fear they constrain. For laws exist inside a black-and-white tunnel that permits limited liberties. And these laws have passed through the scrutiny of many centuries plagued with hands of oppression. Do we even know the truth anymore?
Many times our liberties are plundered by those who wear the elitist robes. Though we hold ourselves to a much higher acclaim than the world we keep distanced from us, we are truly no more advanced in our decision-making politics than the so-called ‘superpowers’ of this planet. Is there any difference with the dog who sleeps on the bed and the dog who sleeps on the doorstep?
To our discredit—or perhaps to our advantage—we maintain an air of nobility—as if God blessed us above all others. So insatiable is our piousness!
Yet, I speak of the righteous and moral choices one must make in order to keep their heart, mind, body and soul pure! These choices do not exist within the narrow tunnel of absolutes, and their applications and consequences alter from moment to moment as do the shifting tides of life and destiny.
When a child ventured too close to the raging river she was taken by the currents; and the young mother cast herself into the violent waters to save her child. But they were both no match to the powerful river.
Would I save the drowning child or save her weakened mother before the river carried them to certain death?
No one can know the appropriate moralistic decision until they have heard the crying child and the weeping mother. And reckon the true force of the raging river.
If obeying the dictum lowers my ‘moralistic superiority’, then I do
so choose, for the alternative would leave my heart, soul, body and mind poisoned.
If only I could make my own choices.
If only the Order would trust my intuitions as equally as they trust the arc of my sword.
Those who raise, feed and clothe me, are also the ones who put the blade in my hand—command me to inflict pain, suffering and death upon their enemies in the name of their laws, or perhaps distorted interpretations of the laws handed down from the prophets and disciples of antiquity.
The time will come for any one of us to swim against the tide, when we must know the advantages—or implications—of our choices. For if we blindly follow the rules, obey the dictum, what is the measure of our success? Is the price too costly?
But I caution that none of us let that temptation possess us at every opportunity, for once it is inside our heart, body, mind, or soul, we may find ourselves descending deep into the shallows of evil and deceitful ways; decisions we justify to protect our egos.
~Rourn
Atticus closed Rourn’s journal and checked the time. 3:15 am.
Sparse street lights offered poor illumination along the sidewalk, but the bright moon guided him well. A Seeker—a Paladin informant and spy—had reported the murder back to the Order Of Abel even before the police had arrived on the scene. But the street Atticus strode down was now lined with black and navy squad cars and flashing blue and red lights.
He approached a police car parked sideways, blocking the street, lights flashing. Two police officers conversed beside the vehicle.
“Jones said there was blood and body parts all over the house,” one officer said.
“Yeah,” the other said. “I saw Thomas run outta there and hurl like a rookie.”
“Shit. I’d hate to see whatever turned that bastard’s stomach.”
Atticus remained quiet, concealed in the shadows. The easiest way to pass without alerting them would be to entrance their minds and plant false memories or mind control—but using such power against the innocent was forbidden under the Third Law of Arcanium—a written constitution of magic maintained by the Templar Court.
Atticus’ fingers traced the Glorious Seal suspended around his neck. To most, it only resembled a stone trinket, but Atticus could see the tiny specks of arcanium sparkling within the pearl and two outer rings; raw arcane matter placed there by Elder Cai.
Mage Master Rolland had taught Atticus the morphic and illusionary powers of the moon—one of elements under Heaven’s dominion.
“You draw down the moon’s glow and wrap that light like a robe around your body.”
Only a person with the third-eye sight could see through a lunar guise. But hopefully, he thought, none of these policemen had that uncanny gift.
Atticus channeled the elemental particles within the stone. Soon a pale blue mist draped his entire form. He wrapped and manipulated the fluff of mist into a second layer of clothing.
Lunar essence chilled the skin like frozen ice melting into every pore. Though perhaps the easiest magic to control, especially at night, even lunar mana had inherent risk. Channeling too much of the energy could cause the worst case of frostbite imaginable.
To his trained sight, or third-eye, it might have looked as though he wore a tightly woven shroud of mist around his person, but to the untrained eye they would see a black uniform. For the time being he was not going to be Selector Atticus the Paladin, but Agent Adam.
Atticus cut through the front yard, using the shadows to further hide his approach.
Orange tape cordoned off the dilapidated ranch house. Flashing lights flickered against the blue vinyl siding of the rundown residence.
He strode past a middle-aged woman dressed in a flannel nightgown. A menthol scent, like the balm Healer Merrick used on the warriors’ aching muscles after a long day in the arena, billowed around the woman.
“Sounded like a pack of wild animals was in there,” she said to a skinny police officer. “I heard screaming...terrible, terrible screaming. I’d have sent my husband to check on that poor family but he’s working overtime at the mill—or so that’s what he told me.”
Atticus ducked under the tape and headed for the open front door.
“Hey you!”
Atticus turned. A skinny cop strolled toward him.
Screaming locust. Was his illusion not strong enough?
“You’re gonna have to leave. This a restricted area.”
Atticus held his palm up as if presenting identification. The pendant sparkled. A gleam reflected in Atticus’ palm—an illusionary badge.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know the FBI was called in.” The cop shuffled back to his post in the yard next to a dying rose bush where he continued taking the old woman’s statement.
Atticus entered the home. Men and women wearing latex gloves picked through kitchen drawers and dusted the counter, refrigerator and walls. A woman moved around the room snapping pictures in rapid succession. Atticus had been briefly instructed on modern police procedures but was encouraged to rely more on keen observation.
You’ll miss the obvious if you’re seeking the hidden, Elder Cai had once told him. Until this moment, he hadn’t understood what that had meant. Blood caked the walls, floor and countertops, some in the form of large pools and others in long streaks.
The crime scene unit busied themselves with their forensic work while Atticus examined the surroundings for himself.
Though he had never seen modern appliances before, except in catalogs teachers had used during Contemporary Studies, he remained focused on his immediate duties rather than gawk at the awkward machinery.
A stray beam of moonlight filtered through the kitchen window above the sink full of dirty dishes. The sweet-sour scent of pasta sauce fumed from beneath the soapy brown water. A strand of moonlight reminded Atticus that his Lunar Robe would soon dissipate. He needed to make his own investigation quick and get out before his illusionary garb vanished.
A burly investigator with a scruffy face approached. “Who the hell do you think you are? This is a murder scene. You can’t just waltz in here like you own the goddamn place. Jesus Christ.”
Atticus caught the officer in a steely gaze. “I’m Agent Adam Lawson.” He thrust his palm toward the man.
The detective frowned, paused. “The feds? What the hell you boys doing here?”
Blazing ghost. If only he could just plant a few false truths inside his head this would all be much easier. Atticus noted the man’s gray uniform shirt with the letters BSD—Buckeye Sheriff Department.
“This crime scene shares similarities to other recent murders in the Arklatex region,” Atticus said. “You can call the Houston office later, but for now we must work together on surmising what occurred here.” Behind his back, he crossed his fingers, clinging to his childhood belief that crossed fingers brought good luck.
The officer looked Atticus over. “You’re awful young looking to be an agent.”
Atticus hesitated while thinking of another fib. “I’m twenty-eight. My father was an agent, and his father before him.”
“Right. Well, I was the senior officer first on the scene. I’ve already viewed the entire residence and have my own speculations as to what transpired here...about five hours ago.”
Atticus patted the man’s right shoulder. “Good work. Now let me pass, Detective?” He lifted his brows in question.
“Lieutenant, actually. Lt. Ralph Chambers.” The lieutenant disappeared into a room adjacent to the kitchen. Mesh patterns of dried blood stained the magenta trimming, and the paint along the doorway that had peeled away in long gashes.
Atticus stopped and looked to the lieutenant. “Is this damage new?”
“It was like that when we got here so I don’t know. The blood splatter is fresh as daylight, though.”
Lieutenant Chambers lifted his chin in the direction of the other room. Atticus stepped through the threshold.
Strewn about was a dismembered body; pools of blood, and pil
es of entrails scattered around the dining room. A torso without head or limbs lay sprawled across the dark table, chest ripped open to display the jagged ribs with deep slashes in the marrow; the stumps masked by dried bloody gristle. A bald severed head in the corner of the room grimaced at Atticus, its eyes gouged—but Atticus could hear its taunting expression: “You're too late!” An arm rested on the windowsill with several fingers missing.
Dozens of fat black flies darted from one rancid pile of remains to the other, gorging themselves on the gruesome banquet.
He glanced to the lieutenant who appeared very pale. “You alright?”
The lieutenant nodded, unconvincingly.
Atticus silently vowed to find the creature that could kill with such ferociousness and when he did, he would not disappoint Elder Cai and use a gun. He would gladly tear the monster apart with his own bare hands.
“Three decades on the force and this shit still shakes me up,” the lieutenant said. “Do you want to see the children’s bedroom?”
“Children? There were children here as well?”
“Yep. Triple homicide. A real sick fuck. I been a Buckeye cop for over thirty-six years and I ain’t ever seen anything like this. Even the Vallez farm murders back in ‘82 don’t compare to this shit.”
Elder Cai had forewarned Atticus that modern day authorities might use excessive foul language.
“You want to see it or not, kid?”
The older detective called him ‘kid’ but Atticus did not feel young anymore. “Show me.” He swallowed a lump of rage and repulsion.
Lt. Chambers led the way down the hallway. Bloody prints created a morbid track on the tile flooring.
Tracks. Not footprints. A pad with four large toe-prints. Had the Lieutenant and others overlooked this detail?
“These are animal tracks,” Atticus said.
Lieutenant Chambers shrugged. “You’re a real Sherlock Holmes aren’t you?”
“That doesn’t seem strange to you?”
“Hell yeah it’s strange, but it’s too early to jump to conclusions. It’s a biped. I suspect the killer dressed in a costume so he didn’t leave behind real footprints or shoe prints. It makes me think it was either a young punk or an experienced killer. Wide net to cast, but you gotta start somewhere. That’s what my daddy always said.”