Paternus

by Dyrk Ashton

  Edgar looks sheepish. “Milord, I was sworn to secrecy, but even if I were to speak of it, I did not know milady was—who she is—until just this moment.”

  Pratha smiles at Zeke, who gulps, feeling his whole body flush. Her eyes fall on Mrs. Mirskaya. She nods curtly, “Sister,” and offers a hand.

  Mrs. Mirskaya eyes her warily, but takes it and stands. “Sister,” she greets curtly in return and kisses Pratha grudgingly, a sharp peck on each cheek. There is obviously a deep seated sisterly friction between them, but Mrs. Mirskaya’s concern for Fi overrides her animosity. “We need your help,” she says bluntly.

  Pratha eyes Fi in Edgar’s arms. “I see.” Zeke scoots aside as she kneels. She places a hand on Fi’s forehead, closes her eyes, mutters more incomprehensible words. Fi’s fitful breathing slows, becoming deep and even. “Turn her,” Pratha orders. Edgar does so. She examines the wounds while Peter goes to Edgar’s long bag.

  Zeke finds the wherewithal to speak. “She was bitten by Max.” He clears his throat at the unexpected cracking of his voice.

  “The Spider,” Pratha retorts. “I can see that for myself, young man, thank you.” Even when terse, her voice is seduction sonified, and her breath, the intoxicating fragrance of lilacs, eucalyptus, frankincense resin and musk. Zeke’s head swims. She touches him on the arm and an electric shiver runs right to his loins. “Move away. Quickly,” she commands.

  Zeke lurches to his feet, staggers back. He shakes his head and his whole body follows. What the hell?! He’s been aroused plenty of times in his life, but he hasn’t felt this way, all aquiver and light-headed, since he was twelve, a young boy in puberty, when fourteen year old Ginny Radcliff kissed him on the mouth and let him touch her breasts in the back seat of the school bus. He turns away to adjust himself in his pants.

  “Galahad, leave her to me,” Pratha says.

  “Yes, milady.” Edgar slides out from under Fi. Peter places a blanket beneath her head. Edgar gets to one knee, grunting at the pain in his ribs, supporting his broken wrist with his other hand. Pratha takes hold of his crooked arm, inspecting the unnatural lump and discoloration. “It’s nothing, milady,” Edgar dismisses.

  Pratha takes Edgar’s hand in hers, runs her other hand down his arm, saying more esoteric words. Without warning, she yanks, setting the bone back in place with a sickening crunch. Edgar doesn’t wince. There is no pain.

  “Boy,” she calls to Zeke without looking up.

  He knows she must be talking to him. “Yes—ma’am?” He cringes as his voice cracks again.

  “Gather some of The Spider’s web and bind Galahad’s arm.”

  Zeke responds immediately, “Yes ma’am.”

  Edgar picks up his sword with his good hand and joins Zeke as he gathers the longest strips of web that Peter removed from him earlier.

  Both of them keep an eye on Fi. Pratha licks her fingers and jams one into each of Fi’s wounds. Fi groans. Zeke moves to protest but Edgar catches his arm, shakes his head. Pratha chants more strange words and Fi arches her back, inhaling sharply.

  “How long ago was she struck?” Pratha asks Peter, who turns to Edgar.

  “Seven minutes, fourteen seconds,” Edgar answers without hesitation.

  “And she still lives,” says Pratha, impressed. She pulls her fingers from Fi’s wounds, presses her hands over them. “There is no time to explain,” she states firmly, “but do not be alarmed.” Before Peter can respond, she shouts. If Zeke knew Sumerian, he’d know she said, “Come forward!”

  From the shadowy corner of the tunnel where she arrived shuffle three odd looking men. The first enters in a stoop then straightens to what has got to be eight feet in height. He has sharp Asian features, a freakishly long face and lime-green eyes. The other two are maybe six feet tall, but one is dark skinned with big black eyes and extremely muscular, while the third, who stands between the others, has pink eyes, close-cropped white hair and a goatee. They’re all dressed in khaki long-sleeved shirts, pants, and jungle boots.

  Edgar tenses, gripping his sword. Mol commences to growl. Mrs. Mirskaya curses under her breath.

  “Curiouser and curiouser,” says Peter. The men avert their eyes as if pained by his scrutiny. “Trueface, gentleman, if you please.”

  The men shimmer and turn into creatures the likes of which Zeke has never seen.

  The giant Asian man now looks much like an alligator, but with a slimmer snout and standing upright. The ridged tail he drags behind him is almost as long as he is tall.

  The dark muscular man is a monster right out of The Brothers Grimm or H.P. Lovecraft—covered in hair, with long claws, tall fuzzy ears, wet black nose and a horrible wide mouth full of jagged teeth. Zeke’s first thought is that it’s another werewolf—but this guy’s much more frightening. He looks a lot like a hyaena, only uglier.

  And the light-skinned man with the goatee—this one Zeke thinks he recognizes from drawings, literature, and old B-movies about Satan worship. He softly exclaims, “Baphomet.”

  Astounding Zeke even more, the goat-creature bows with a regal sweep of his horns. “At your service.”

  Edgar holds his sword at the ready. “Forgive me, milady, but I am not fond of the company you keep.” Mrs. Mirskaya sets her fists at her hips and grunts in agreement.

  “They are gifts, for Father,” says Pratha, laying a hand on Fi’s clammy forehead. “You have nothing to fear. We have an understanding. They do as I say, nothing more, and they do not die.”

  Peter lays a hand on Edgar’s shoulder, who lowers his sword but doesn’t sheathe it. He takes a bold step toward the creatures and all three drop to one knee.

  Pratha has no patience for the formalities. “Idimmu Mulla, my bag.” The dark hairy fellow with jagged teeth shivers and yelps, but speedily pulls a leather bag from his shoulder. He cowers until Peter nods for him to pass, then takes the bag to Pratha, careful to avert his eyes from both her and Peter—but his gaze falls on Fi and he’s frozen in place. Pratha doesn’t seem to notice, but Zeke does.

  She takes the bag from the beast, then says, “Pitch the devices into the water.” The creature yips nervously and shuffles to the edge of the well, pulling the strap of another shoulder bag over his head. Peter steps to him and he cowers again, holding the bag open for Peter to see. It’s full of explosives that Kleron and Max had planted in the tunnels.

  “I-I-I de-de-activated them myself,” Dimmi stutters, still not looking at Peter. “I did it, I did.”

  “Dump them, Dimmi,” Peter says. At these words, Dimmi lets his eyes meet Peter’s, but he sees no kindness there. He yips again and up-ends the bag, spilling its contents.

  At the sound of the devices splashing, Ao Guang leans forward ever so slightly to peer into the well. The vertical pupils of his eyes slowly contract as the smell of it reaches his nostrils.

  Dimmi closes the bag and can’t get behind Baphomet quickly enough. Once there, he crouches low, shaking uncontrollably.

  Zeke might feel sorry for the beast, which is obviously terrified, if he hadn’t seen how it looked at Fi.

  Pratha retrieves a folded leaf from her bag, opens it and smears an amber greasy substance on Fi’s wounds. “Boy,” she calls again, tossing the leaf to the floor next to him and Edgar. “Apply that to Galahad’s wrist and wrap it tightly.”

  Zeke squats to the leaf. Edgar crouches next to him, making sure he has a clear view of Ao Guang, Baphomet and Dimmi, and that his sword is held between him and them.

  Pratha speaks again. “Ao Guang, my kit.”

  The alligator-monster rises and shrugs to swing an ornately carved wooden chest he was carrying on his back into his enormous clawed hands. He lumbers past Peter to Pratha, gets down on one knee and presents it to her, bowing his head so the end of his long toothy snout nearly touches the floor. He rises, bows to Peter, who doesn’t respond, then returns to his place.

  Along the way, Ao gets a better look at the water below. From its dark tint, scent and movement, he can tell d
eep below is fresh running water. A way out.

  Baphomet hasn’t taken his eyes off the floor, but Peter watches him carefully. He addresses him in Latin, “Et tu Baphomet?” The Goat’s eyes meet his. “After my tolerance following the treachery at Ragnarök, my faith in you in Éire, the lenience I showed during your millennial shenanigans in Old Europe and the Levant, you betray me, yet again?”

  Baphomet nods obeisantly. “Only under threat of death, Pater.”

  Peter’s voice has an edge of imminent reckoning. “And there’s no threat here, I suppose?”

  “I have betrayed no one, Pater.”

  Peter smirks. “Not yet.” Baphomet begins to respond, but Peter cuts him off. “Silence! Wag your silver tongue without being asked and it will be removed. Intueri? (Understand?)”

  “Quidem, patrem meum (Understood, my father).” He falls silent and returns his gaze to the floor.

  Zeke doesn’t know why it should be, after everything else that’s happened, but it’s really weird to see these creatures talk.

  He begins applying the slimy foul goop to Edgar’s wrist, glad to have something to keep himself busy. “What do you think this is? Smells like Brussels sprouts and rotten beef.”

  Edgar shakes his head. “I’ve found it best not to ask, lad.”

  Zeke picks up the strands of web. “Don’t we need a splint?”

  “Not necessary,” Edgar informs him. “One of the perks of being thirdborn. A simple break like this will be healed in a day or two.”

  Zeke binds Edgar’s wrist but his eyes keep flitting to Fi, and Pratha crouched next to her, who’s pulling corked bottles of odd contents, herbs, and God knows what else from her wooden chest and mixing them with mortar and pestle. Peter sits on the other side of Fi, holding her hand, and Mrs. Mirskaya kneels next to him.

  “Fiona is in the best possible hands, lad,” says Edgar. “From what I understand, there is no healer more skilled in all the worlds.”

  “She’ll be all right, then?”

  Edgar watches Zeke work the web around his arm. “You have the right to know. It’s said that none have ever survived the bite of Maskim Xul, not even Firstborn.” Zeke tugs a little too hard on the makeshift bandage. “But,” Edgar adds quickly, “none have had this level of care, and so soon after the wounding. We are truly blessed.”

  Pratha hands a small wad of leaves to Peter. “Chew this well.” Peter unwraps what appears to be a big ball of wax and pops it into his mouth.

  “Water,” says Pratha as she holds the wound on Fi’s leg open with one hand and applies the paste she’s been preparing with the other. Peter removes a pink water bottle from Fi’s pink pack and drinks some. “Not for you,” Pratha admonishes. He recaps the bottle. “You’re slipping, old Father.”

  “How so?”

  “You were entirely unprepared for my approach, and you enchanted rather easily when I uttered the primal verse.”

  “Hmph,” Peter scoffs. “You know I can’t be enchanted, not even by you. I was, however, taken by surprise. In my defense, I had just tasted The Spider’s venom, and I’m still recovering from a deep mentia which lifted only earlier today.”

  She raises a perfect narrow eyebrow. “Just today? Perhaps I misspoke. Still, you are fortunate it was only me.”

  “Only you? After almost two myria without so much as a note, allowing all of us to believe you were probably dead, you decided, today of all days, to pay us a visit—with The Gharial, The Hyaena, and The Goat? Or is it fate? Perhaps God’s plan, as Edgar would have me believe? Maybe it was magic—we spoke your name out of dire need and—poof!—you appeared with your new best friends.”

  “All of the above,” she replies with equal sarcasm. “Apparently these three were sent by their master to recruit or assassinate some unidentified beastie in the deepest darkest jungles of the Amazon rainforest.” She flashes a sly smile. “They found me.” She eyes Ao Guang, Baphomet, and Dimmi, who quickly duck lower.

  Zeke can hear Peter and Pratha conversing, but has no idea what they’re saying. “What language is that?” he asks Edgar.

  “One of the old Hindu dialects,” Edgar replies.

  “How many languages do they speak?”

  “All of them.”

  “You’re pulling my leg.”

  “I am not,” Edgar insists. “I’m not kidding either.”

  “How many do you speak?”

  “There are as many as 6,900 distinct languages still spoken in this world today. I can read, write and converse fluently in 637, plus many more dialects, but I understand them all when I hear them.”

  Zeke doesn’t know why he should be surprised, but he is.

  “It’s quite easy for Firstborn,” Edgar continues. “They’re hardwired that way, so to speak. It’s a little more difficult for me, and much harder for regular folks like you. No offense.”

  “None taken.” Just learning the rudimentary Greek and Latin for his studies and the smattering of Spanish he knows was like having his teeth pulled. He ties off the bandage on Edgar’s arm. He even made a sling, which he adjusts around Edgar’s neck. “How’s it feel?”

  “Like new, thank you,” Edgar replies. “You have some training in field dressing.”

  “A little, when I was doing volunteer work. Three months in South America, then three in Africa. I was kind of a free agent, setting up temporary care units mostly. Red Cross, some with Doctors Without Borders, local groups too.”

  Edgar lets out a low sharp whistle and Mol approaches. Edgar begins applying the medicinal goo to Mol’s deeper cuts. Mol sniffs the stuff, sneezes and shakes his head, but tolerates the procedure.

  Zeke helps, searching through Mol’s hair to locate injuries, but continues to glance at Pratha, crouched over Fi, plying her magic, or practicing the most advanced medicine ever known. He gets the feeling it’s probably a little of both.

  Pratha opens Fi’s mouth, sprinkles a mixture of herbs and powders on her tongue. “Pour,” she says to Peter. Peter lifts Fi’s head and tilts the water bottle to her lips. Pratha holds Fi’s mouth closed and rubs her throat, forcing her to swallow.

  “Kleron was here,” says Peter.

  “I have a sense of smell,” she retorts. “Your glorious ‘Morning Star.’ Up to something fiendish, no doubt. And The Lier in Wait serves him?”

  “So it seems.”

  “Maskim Xul has never followed another. He didn’t happen to tell you why he’s chosen to now?”

  “I’m afraid not. Since the death of his wife there’s no one to temper his cruel predilections, and he has even less love of the watoto.”

  “I received word of her demise.”

  Mrs. Mirskaya interjects sadly, “A terrible loss for us all.” She speaks in the same language they do, with no trace of a Russian accent.

  Peter momentarily gazes into the past, then continues. “Zadkiel, who is calling himself Kabir, was taken by Max, but he is with us now. He’ll meet us shortly.” He considers the explosions. “If he is able.” He looks at Pratha, who is intent on her treatment of Fi. “Kleron has gathered an army of wampyr and werewolves, from more worlds than this, from the looks of them.” Pratha shrugs as if they are inconsequential. “The Cerberi accompany him as well.”

  “I heard they had a falling out.”

  “Reconciled, or so it seemed. Cù Sìth appears to have come to our cause.”

  Pratha looks up in wary surprise. “Now that is curious news. And you trust him?”

  “His actions support his claim, but there has been no time to interrogate him. I cannot say.” He thinks back on what he remembered just before Cù Sìth attacked Kleron and his Cerberus brothers in order to save Kabir—Cù climbing down the drainpipe by the swimming pool, a broken security camera high in the corner above him. “Earlier today, Kleron assaulted the hospital where I was staying. I believe Cù may have been trying to help us even then, in his way.”

  “Come to think of it,” says Mrs. Mirskaya, “it was he who distracted Surma and Wepwawe
t, making my escape from them possible. It could have been intentional. But this is Cù Sìth we’re talking about.” She grimaces and shakes her head. “Very hard to believe.”

  Peter is pensive, but proceeds. “We have no knowledge of who else Kleron may have targeted. Edgar—Galahad, Mokosh and I have had little to no communication with the Deva for some time. We know where only a handful abide, and have no way to contact most of them. Edgar attempted to get in touch with The Twins today, with no luck. The same for Freyja.”

  “I wouldn’t be overly concerned about Freyja,” Pratha replies, rubbing Fi’s temples. “She is feisty, that one.”

  Mrs. Mirskaya grunts in agreement, then says to Peter, “Edgar tells me that Samson is dead.”

  “Yes,” Peter says quietly. “An honorable passing.”

  Mrs. Mirskaya glowers at Pratha. “Of course you would not know our brother Samson. He was born long after you ran off.”

  “I heard tales of his deeds,” Pratha replies flatly. “I am sorry for your loss.”

  By the dour look on Mrs. Mirskaya’s face, she doesn’t accept her condolences.

  Pratha glances affectionately at Edgar. “I’m gladdened to see Galahad is with you.”

  Peter replies with fondness and gratitude. “He’s been invaluable to me.”

  Pratha studies Fi’s face like she’s some kind of scientific specimen. “And who is this one?”

  “Her name is Fi,” says Peter. “Edgar’s ward.”

  “Hmm,” she hums, in much the same way Peter did when he wanted to annoy Fi and Zeke.

  “Pater!,” Mrs. Mirskaya chides. Her speech slips back into English with a Russian accent. “It is no secret to Pratha. She can see.” She addresses Pratha with glad pride. “This is Fiona Megan Patterson. Last of the Firstborn. Our new baby sister.”

  “The last daughter,” says Pratha. “And she is a good one?”

  Peter gazes at Fi’s wan features. “The best.”

  “Starshaya sestra (big sister),” insists Mrs. Mirskaya, “you must do all within your power to save her.”

  Pratha replies curtly, “Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”

  Mrs. Mirskaya scowls at her and Pratha returns the challenge with a sternly raised brow.