by Kris Greene
After six long months of physical therapy and a crash course in the supernatural, Jackson was well enough to venture back out into the world, but he had nowhere to go. His gang had been his only family, and much like Morgan and Jonas the forces of hell had made him an orphan, so it was no surprise when Jackson asked to stay. He couldn’t go back to living an everyday hood life with what he’d seen and been through. Morgan and Jonas had snatched the blinders off, and Jackson now saw the world through a new set of eyes, and what he saw wasn’t pretty. From then on, the duet had become a trio. They would find themselves in some tight situations over the next few years, some better than others, but one thing was apparent about their newest member: Jackson might not have contracted the vampire infection, but he did acquire a taste for blood . . . the spilling of it.
“Negative, we still don’t know if they’re really human or posers. Morgan, I need you to head back here so we can see if we can make heads or tails out of the data we’ve already gathered. Jackson, I want you to follow them, but by no means are you to approach, is that understood?”
“Come on, dawg, can’t I have a little fun?” Jackson whined.
“Yeah, it’ll be fun until you find out you just drew down on two Weres and they make a candlelit dinner out of you,” Jonas warned. “Fall back, Jackson. We can’t take any chances until we know what their deals are.”
“You got it,” Jackson said, cutting off his radio. He mumbled something under his breath and punched the brick wall beside the exit door, chipping it.
Morgan waited until he was sure Jonas wasn’t still on the line before speaking to his friend. “So, are you gonna do like the man has asked or do what Jackson wants to do?”
Jackson looked at Morgan as if he had asked a stupid question. “Man, how long have you known me?”
“Jesus, lad, why can’t you just do things the correct way for once?”
Jackson shrugged. “Because I might wake up one day, discover how boring my life actually is, and kill myself.” Jackson winked at his partner and leapt over the side of the building.
Morgan just shook his head and calmly walked to the stairs.
CHAPTER TEN
Titus balanced himself against his desk, waiting for the pain to pass. It was similar to what he had felt earlier yet more intense. Somewhere in New York, the Nimrod stirred.
When he had made his pact with Belthon, Titus was promised that all his suffering would come to an end. The fire exploding within his chest was a definite indication that someone wasn’t keeping up his end of the bargain. When the pain finally passed, two things happened. Titus was able to stand up straight, and Flag released the breath he had been holding.
“My lord,” Flag called in almost a whisper.
“A moment.” Titus rolled his broad shoulder to ease the tension. When he looked at Flag, his eyes were glassy, as if in either extreme ecstasy or pain. “Speak,” he ordered.
“We have word in from New York,” Flag said, tensing up.
“The Nimrod?”
“Yes, Lord Titus. Riel encountered the trident, but there was a problem retrieving it. He—”
“Hold your tongue.” Titus waved him silent. “You know I’d rather receive bad news firsthand.”
Flag bowed, thankful that he wouldn’t be punished for delivering the news. “Of course, my lord. I’ll ready the mirror.” Flag moved to stand in front of the silver-framed mirror, which stood just a hair over five feet and was mounted against the wall in Titus’ office. Whispering an incantation, Flag waved his hand across the mirror, which filled with smoke. When the smoke cleared, a distorted image of Riel stood in the reflection.
“And what news does my most efficient captain bring this night?” Titus asked, as if he already knew the answer.
Riel didn’t answer right away. There was no doubt in his mind that his master would not like the news he was about to receive, and Riel had become quite fond of his host’s body. Though New York was hundreds of miles away, distance mattered little when dealing with magic. Though the looking-glass spell couldn’t be used for travel, it still made Riel accessible to a point.
“Lord Titus, favorite son of Belthon, I humbly greet—,” Riel began but was cut off by a dismissive gesture.
“Riel, please skip the formalities and get to the point.” While Titus’ voice was neutral, there was a dangerous glint in his eyes.
“As you wish.” Riel swallowed. “This evening I did battle with a Knight who wielded the Trident of Heaven.”
“Seeing that you’re alive, I would assume that you have recovered it for the dark father?” Titus asked.
Riel cast his eyes to the ground. “No, the Stalkers were destroyed and I barely managed to escape with my host’s body intact.”
Without warning Titus’ hand shot out at the mirror. When it made contact with the surface there was no breaking glass but the low thud of something being dropped into place. Gnarled hands clutched Riel about the throat while blackened nails bit deep into his borrowed flesh. He could feel the skin blister as Titus threatened to incinerate him.
“The Old Ones call you King Maker, but I call you a failure!” Titus’ eyes blazed, as well as his hands. “For centuries we have searched for the remaining weapons of the cursed Knights, and you manage to lose the most powerful of them to an offshoot of a bygone era. Riel, you as well as all who follow the Dark Order know the price of failure.”
Riel was one of the most feared and powerful demons in the history of the world, but his efforts to break Titus’ hold were useless. The looking glass’s main function was communication, but the most skilled at using the object, or the spell where its abilities derived from, could send or receive items through the glass, as Titus was showing Riel. Being that the glass’s transmissions were channeled across the demon plain, it allowed Titus to call on his demon form without the normal restrictions of the mortal realm. Titus was powerful in the mortal realm, but on the plains he had the power of Belthon himself at his call.
Riel gasped. He was quietly still trying to call his powers against Titus, but he had not the strength. Figuring he’d never overpower Titus, Riel tried diplomacy. “He called the Storm!” he croaked.
Titus loosened his grip. “Impossible. Petty lies will not undo your fate.”
“It is the truth,” Riel insisted. “Storm clouds danced in his eyes, master, as he slew an entire troop of Stalkers. I swear to it, Lord Titus; the Bishop himself spoke to me through the boy!”
Releasing Riel completely, Titus withdrew his hands from the mirror. They had taken back their normal forms, but the skin around the knuckles was a bit scorched. He studied Riel, measuring his words. “Tell me about this, offshoot,” Titus demanded.
Riel went on to recount the tale of the bookish young man he had clashed with earlier that night and the light that had threatened to send him to the same black place the Stalkers had gone. Of course he added his own twist and omitted the part about his calling Shadow’s Cloak to escape.
Titus doubted most of what Riel said had happened. Demons were excellent liars by nature. What Titus did know to be true was that the Nimrod has been awakened and with it the soul of the cursed Bishop. The reoccurring throbbing in Titus’ chest confirmed that. In the recesses of his mind he could’ve sworn he heard the Bishop laughing at him. But even with the Nimrod active and the Bishop’s soul stirring, the power was incomplete. Only with a willing and capable host could the Bishop cross the plains. There was still a chance that they could capture it, unless Riel spoke the truth and the fabled Nimrod had chosen. As unlikely as it might’ve sounded, Titus couldn’t deny feeling the power of the relic coursing through him.
Over the last few centuries the Nimrod had mostly remained dormant. It had passed through several hands, with most people mistaking it for just what it looked like, a broken fork. There was one instance when it had flared to life briefly, but before going back to sleep it ended up consuming the poor soul who had happened across it. If the trident had chosen a master, it
could mean the beginning of another war. If they were on the threshold of another seven-day siege, then Titus knew he would need his most valued demon warriors at his side.
“Riel, you have served the order faithfully for centuries, and proven yourself to be more of an asset than a liability. It is for this reason alone that I do not cast you back into the fire to answer to Belthon,” Titus told him.
“Thank you, my lord,” Riel said, almost groveling.
“I don’t need your thanks, worm. I need results. I don’t care if you have to raise an entire cemetery to slay the boy and capture the trident, I want it!”
“Your will be done,” Riel said as his image faded from the looking glass.
“Incompetent,” Flag mumbled. Titus looked at him as if just realizing Flag was in the room. “Not you, Lord Titus. I was speaking of Riel,” Flag quickly explained.
“Flag, Riel has been shedding blood, human and demon, for longer than you or I have been alive. Though he failed to capture the Nimrod, he has just taught us two very important lessons.” Seeing the confused look on Flag’s face, Titus explained, “The first is the fact that the Nimrod is very much alive. The second is never underestimate an opponent. Riel thought because it was humans he was seeking that they would be weak, but magic can turn even the most timid sheep into a fierce lion. This mortal must be found and the Nimrod captured before the Bishop gains a foothold in this world.” There was no mistaking the nervousness in Titus’ voice.
“Should we inform Belthon?” Flag asked, praying Titus would say no. Flag’s master was a beast of a man, but the demon lord made him seem like a pussycat. Though the mage had been working closely with the Dark Order since he was a child, the more powerful entities always made him uneasy, even if they weren’t full demons.
“Not yet. I can’t see that a lone mortal is more powerful than the forces of hell, trident or not. We must formulate a plan, but first we will need answers. We’ll see what Leah says of this.”
“Sir, do you really think consulting her is necessary?” Flag stopped. His face suddenly wore a worried expression.
“Flag, surely you haven’t become that prejudiced that you can’t stand the company of a sprite?” There was a mocking tone to Titus’ voice.
“Leah is more than just a sprite,” Flag grumbled.
“Indeed, she is the answer to our questions. Attend me, mage; there are plans to be laid,” Titus ordered, leaving his office.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The elevator took them two floors below the one that housed Titus’ office. Like most of the upper levels, this one could only be accessed by a card-key and boasted a state-of-the-art security system, but unlike the business-functional floors of the building, this reeked of magic . . . old magic. The unmarked floor was the most heavily guarded level of the building, including Titus’ own lair. The floors, walls, and ceilings had all been heavily warded with magic that was almost as old as civilization. Only Titus could call even a slither of magic while on this level; all others were neutralized. The greatest of care was taken when fortifying the unmarked level, but it wasn’t to keep others from getting in; it was to keep someone from getting out.
Two females dressed in military fatigues stood guard outside a sculpted bronze door. They were armed with high-caliber assault weapons, but if the wards didn’t hold their guest, then the guns would be useless. Inside the room there were two more guards, who were also females. Titus had seen the games his guest could play with the minds and hearts of men, even without magic, and he wasn’t taking any chances. The only man who was even allowed to enter the room unsupervised was Titus.
The inside of the room seemed totally out of place in the office building. The entire eastern and western walls were screens that showed realistic views of downtown Ontario, which changed according to the time of day or season. No sun- or moonlight was allowed in the room. There were bookshelves filled with just about every kind of book, except those dealing with magic, not even fairy tales. Resting amongst the throw pillows of a large canopy bed, in the center of the room, was Titus’ guest and the object of Flag’s fear, Leah.
She was sitting on the bed, with her back to them and her knees gathered to her chest. From that angle all you could see was her spill of soft pink hair. Her shoulders were straight and proud even in light of her situation. She tilted her head, showing the beginnings of her keen nose and angular jaw, indicating that she had acknowledged their presence but would not give her visitors her full attention. Even in bondage, Leah still carried herself like royalty. “Titus.” She purposely left the title off his name as a sign of disrespect, but Titus wasn’t easily goaded.
“Good evening, Leah,” Titus said in an almost affectionate voice. “I trust you are well?”
“As well as can be . . . considering.” She raised her hand to point at the wards etched into the posts of her bed, letting the soft silk of her nightgown slide into a bunch about her elbow. Her pale skin seemed radiant even in the dim light. “Have you come to grant me my freedom or to taunt me further?” she mused.
Titus’ lips curled into a smile. “Come now, Leah. Has your stay here been that miserable? Have I not been a gracious and loving host?”
“Loving?” The air rippled slightly, blowing her hair like a gentle breeze. “Where is the love in caging me like an animal? Or clipping my wings?” She turned and faced them for the first time. Her doll-like face was hard, and fire danced in her molten gold eyes. “This is not love, Titus, betrayer of his brother. . . . You’ve condemned me to hell!” At the force of her voice the wards flickered to life, illuminating the room in a dull glow. Flag stepped back, but Titus held his ground.
The tone of Leah’s voice was that of an adult, but her appearance was anything but. She was frail, with just the beginnings of breasts pushing out against the silk. Her full beauty hadn’t yet come to her, but she was still stunning. It wasn’t in an attractive way as yet, but more like seeing the sun rise for the first time. At the height of her glory Leah had been hailed in some cultures as a goddess, but thanks to Belthon’s magic she was a woman trapped in a child’s body.
“Leah, hell is such a relative term.” Titus approached the bed but didn’t get within arm’s reach. Though her magic had been suppressed within the child’s body, she could still inflict physical harm. “Besides, most women would kill for the chance to be forever young.”
“I was forever young.” She folded her slender legs beneath her. Though she seemed calmer, there was still murder in her eyes. “A woman who would be twenty for all time . . . a goddess, but you’ve robbed me of that.”
“I robbed you of nothing, dear girl, only delayed the maturation process of your powers,” Titus said as if it were all quite simple.
“By murdering me?” she said in an almost-pleading tone. “If I were myself, I would show you true hell, betrayer,” she hissed.
“I’m sure you would, Leah. And this is the reason you will never grown into womanhood,” Titus taunted her.
Like most sprites, Leah had a fascination with mortals. One of her favorite pastimes was masquerading amongst them. Leah would swap souls with a mortal girl and take a lover for a night or two. She never worried about the mortal making off with her body because without the sprite’s spirit to insulate it from the lingering magical residue, the human would either literally go mad over time or combust. In that event Leah would keep the borrowed body and be re-made when it reached the proper age. It was during one of her little games that she ended up in the hands of Belthon.
The mortal lover she had chosen was a follower of the dark forces. They enjoyed wine and carnal sex all through the night and into the morning. While Leah slept in her borrowed body the forces of Belthon captured her. Belthon also knew the legends of the sprites, which was why he worked a dark spell on her. Every host’s body she had inhabited would be murdered before it could reach its twentieth year and replaced with another preteen girl. Leah would be old enough for her powers to be of use to the Dark Order but never
old enough to become the goddess again.
“Enough reminiscing, I have need of answers that only you can give,” Titus told her.
Leah smiled warmly. “Lord Titus, you are a fool to think I will willingly help you. Murder this body again if you must, but I will not serve you or your master.” Leah sat back with her arms folded like that was the end of it.
“Oh, but I think you will.” Titus’ hand lashed out and he had the female guard by the throat. She struggled but was no match for him with his supernatural strength. Titus waved a hand across her exposed flesh, leaving a red welt as it passed. There was nothing at first, but within seconds blood started to pour over his hand from the wound.
“An offering.” Titus smirked, holding out his bloody hand. Blood dripped from his fingertips, splashing against the lavender bedsheets, almost hitting Leah’s bare foot.
“No.” Leah scampered farther back onto the bed, as if the blood would scald her. “I will not serve you!”
Titus dragged the guard over to the bed where Leah was cowering. “You don’t have a choice,” Titus said, before digging his fingers into the wound, causing the blood to spray in an arc, splattering the lace veil that covered the bed. “I make an offering, sprite. Blood and bone, that is the dowry.” Titus flicked excess from his fingers at Leah.
When the blood touched her skin she shrieked like she’d been scalded. The blood that had landed on Leah’s skin sizzled, before seeping into her pores. The corpse of the guard shook violently, as the rest of her blood spilled forth and as if by magic was sucked into the sprite’s skin. Soon there was no trace of the blood or the body of the guard, only Leah’s glowing form levitating slightly off the mattress.