Wicked Creatures

by Jessica Meigs

  “How long?” Damon asked quietly, the sound of his voice startling Zachariah out of his thoughts. For a second, Zachariah couldn’t figure out what his father was talking about, and for a heart-stopping moment, he thought he knew about the drug problem. As he opened his eyes and gave Damon a questioning look, hoping he was wrong, the man clarified. “You and Ashton. How long has it been?”

  “Three years. You knew that already.”

  Damon shook his head. “You know that’s not what I mean.” He motioned toward him, and Zachariah reflexively glanced at the tattoo on his lower stomach, near his hip. It was plain, straightforward, a simple circle drawn in black; normally, he kept it covered with the waistband of his pants, but considering he was clad in only a towel, hiding it was out of the question. “I’m not an idiot, Zachariah. When Riley and I were trying to save Ashton, I couldn’t help but notice that he had an identical tattoo near the same location.”

  Zachariah’s heart lurched. “I—”

  “When did you two get married?” Damon pressed.

  At the word “married,” Zachariah’s bottom lip trembled, and he closed his eyes, drawing in a slow, shaky breath and trying to get control of himself before he lost it completely. “February 25th. Six months,” he managed before a few tears escaped. He wiped at them angrily with the back of his hand. “It was six months ago.”

  “You did a good job keeping it hidden,” Damon acknowledged. “I didn’t even figure it out, and I’m usually damned good at ferreting out that sort of information.”

  “Yeah, well, now you know why I need to kill that bastard so badly,” Zachariah said. “Why I need to leave.”

  “I wish I could let you leave, but there’s another reason why you can’t,” Damon said. “We don’t know what exactly you can do or how you can control it. If you can’t control it, we can’t let you go on your own. That didn’t seem to work particularly well for Riley in Atlanta.”

  Zachariah remembered the explosion that had resulted when a demon-possessed agent had attacked Riley at her hotel. Fortunately, both the news and the fire department had attributed it to a gas leak, with the room’s occupant blessedly not on the premises.

  He suddenly felt exhausted, a bone-deep weariness that had settled heavily in his limbs, leaving him without the energy to even get up. “If I stay with you, will you help me kill Brandon?” he asked.

  Damon shoved himself off the edge of the vanity and offered Zachariah his hand. “The man killed my son in law,” he said. “It would be my pleasure to help you kill him.”

  Zachariah gave his father a grateful look and grasped his hand, letting him haul him off the cold tile floor.

  Chapter Two

  He was falling.

  The wind rushed past his ears, blowing back his hair, tearing at his thin white clothes as he plummeted toward Earth. The force of the wind in his face should have taken his breath away if he’d had any to give—he didn’t breathe, not normally; he didn’t have to. The sensation of the free fall forced adrenaline through his stagnant veins, the chemical shoving its way to his heart, kickstarting it with a stab of pain that, in any other circumstance, would have made him think he was dying. But no, he wasn’t. If anything, it was just the opposite.

  The ground drew closer. It rushed toward him at a speed so fast it seemed deceptively slow. He forced his arms in against his sides, bracing for the coming impact.

  He passed through the dirt and slammed into the body that lay a few feet below. All was silent and black, the weight of the dirt over him cool and heavy.

  Then he realized he couldn’t breathe.

  He lashed out in panic, flailing as much as the heavy dirt and the rough sheet wrapped around him would allow. He found a hole in the sheet, big enough for him to worm his fingers into, and yanked, ripping the hole larger. The sheet split, and he shoved his hands through the hole, clawing at the dirt frantically, searching for the surface. His fingers broke through into cool evening air, and he dug faster, spitting out dirt as he found the surface. He shoved his hands through and grasped at anything he could find to help him; his hands closed on thick tree roots, and he pulled, using all of his surprisingly considerable strength to drag himself from the soil. Inch by inch, he hauled his torso free and kicked his legs from the dirt. He flopped onto his back, panting, the taste of dirt on his tongue and the air chill on his skin as he stared at the trees above him that were falling into shadow with the dusk. Wind rustled the trees, fluttering the leaves and sending several tearing free to fall onto him. The air was cool and tasted wonderful, and he took in deep gulps of it, like a thirsting man drinking water.

  He really needed to get up, to get moving. Time was sort, and he couldn’t waste it lying in the woods reveling in his Father’s creation, no matter how badly he wanted to.

  He rolled onto his stomach then shoved his arms underneath himself and levered up to his feet. Every muscle in his body screamed in pain, and he bit back a grunt and took a few hobbling steps. It was painful to walk right now, but he’d manage.

  There were lights in the distance, and he limped toward them, pausing at the tree line to scan his surroundings. The lights were coming from posts that lit up a gravel parking lot; they were flickering on with the coming of night. A long one-story building ran along three sides of the lot, heavy red doors lining it, with cars parked in front of a few of them. A large, neon-lit sign above it all said “MOTEL.” The last branch of the “M” was, amusingly, burned out, so that the sign almost looked as if it said “NOTEL.” He vaguely remembered human jokes about No-Tell Motels and suppressed a smile. He didn’t have time for amusement.

  Mentally rehearsing everything he knew he’d have to say once he made contact, he started across the lot, trudging over the gravel to the door at the end of the building that had the large “office” sign above it. He sent up a silent prayer of thanks to his Father that he was wearing clothing, though the shirt appeared to be missing most of its buttons and the vast majority of him was covered in blood and dirt. Beggars can’t be choosy, he contemplated as he reached the door. He had to work with what he’d been given.

  An alarm on the door beeped as he pushed it open, and he stumbled inside, squinting in the bright light from the fluorescents above. A tall, whip-thin man sat behind the desk, his feet propped on it, a magazine in one hand while he read and watched a small television at the same time. The man barely glanced up as he staggered into the room.

  “Can I help you?”

  He coughed and spit dirt-thickened saliva into an ashtray on the check-in counter. At that, the man looked up at him, and his eyebrows raised. “I need a room,” he said, his voice hoarse from disuse. “Please.”

  The man looked him up and down, his alarm and confusion clear as day. He glanced down and realized what a sight he must have been, his shirt hanging half open and covered with dried blood, his entire body muddy with dark—almost black—dirt. On top of that, he realized that he hadn’t even spoken English. He cleared his throat and tried again, repeating the question he’d asked in clear, overly enunciated English. Thankfully, the man didn’t comment on his appearance or the foreign language he’d used; he simply slid a paper card onto the check-in desk and said, “Fill this out. Room is fifty-eight bucks a night.”

  He looked down at the card, wondering what he was supposed to fill it out with, and he noticed a pen attached to the counter with a thin silver chain. After a moment’s hesitation, he picked up the pen and, in the blank labeled “Name,” wrote the first word that came to mind: Abdiel. He didn’t have any other name that he knew of, so he left the rest of the form blank and pushed it back toward the manager.

  The man looked at the card, raised an eyebrow, and asked, “You got a credit card or cash?”

  Abdiel—he might as well call himself that, since he didn’t know any other names—had no idea. He slid his hands over his dirty clothes, feeling at the pockets, and discovered a lump in one of the back pockets. He pulled it free; it was a wallet, slim black leather,
well worn. He flipped it open and handed the manager the first card he saw. The man didn’t look at it before running it through an old credit card contraption and handing it back. Then he gave him a key on a keychain that said “17.”

  “Happy sleeping,” the manager commented.

  He didn’t reply; he just limped out the door, stumbling along the row of red doors until he reached the one that matched his keyring. The room was small, with only one double bed, a nightstand on either side of the headboard, and a dresser with a small flat-screen television on it. The attached bathroom was proportionately tiny, with a long counter and sink, the toilet, and a walk-in shower. As he gazed into the tiny room, there was a knock at the main door. He went instantly on alert, prowling to the door cautiously, and looked through the peephole.

  It was his lieutenant, Sera. He pulled the door open.

  The long-haired blond woman dressed all in black strode through the door like she belonged there, and in a way, he supposed she did. She held a black duffel bag, which she set on the end of the bed, and she stepped close to him and stared at his face closely, like she was trying to figure something out about him. “Captain Abdiel? Did you make it? Are you okay?”

  Abdiel. So that definitely was his name.

  “I’m okay,” he said hoarsely. “This body is more damaged than I expected.”

  “Get cleaned up and I’ll see what I can do about it,” Sera said. She scooped the bag up by its straps and shoved it at him. “There are supplies in here for you. You look like shit.”

  “You talk like a human,” he commented, carrying the bag to the bathroom. “I’m beginning to think you’ve spent too much time on Earth.”

  “You’re one to talk, Captain,” Sera replied with a small smile. “Besides, what can I say? It’s mostly lovely down here.”

  Abdiel chuckled and grabbed the duffel bag, stepping into the bathroom and not bothering to shut the door. He stripped off the filthy clothes, all the way down to his skin, and dumped them into a pile on the floor to dispose of later. Sera stepped into view, looked him over from head to toe, and made a soft tsk tsk noise, like she saw something completely unacceptable. He did the same, examining the bullet holes in the body’s torso and the bruises and scars littering most of its skin; a glance in the mirror over the sink showed that the body’s face was equally as scarred. In addition, the body had a tattoo, a novelty for someone like him. He brushed his fingers over the mark, tracing the bold black circle on the body’s hip, then held his arms out for Sera’s perusal. “Well, what am I going to do about this?” he asked. “I can’t walk around like this. It’s too noticeable.”

  Sera grinned and held up a hand; it glowed, faintly, but as he watched, the glow rippled up her arm, tracing along the reddish spirals and whorls that ran over her skin to disappear under the sleeveless black vest she wore. “Father gave me something to help with that,” she said, pressing her hand against his chest. The light spread from her hand and enveloped him, and as it spilled over his skin, the scars and wounds and discolorations disappeared, leaving new, fresh skin behind.

  “Well, that’s nice,” Abdiel commented, smoothing a hand over his now-scarless torso. He was still covered with dried blood, which flaked under his touch, but it wasn’t something that couldn’t be dealt with with some hot water in a bath. He looked at him in the mirror and was rather pleased with what he saw. His face had high cheekbones, a clear complexion, and a straight nose; it was almost perfectly symmetrical, and the eyes were a vivid blue that looked almost frigid, identical to Sera’s. It was a pleasant face, definitely handsome and attractive, and he could only imagine the pain that the bearer of it must have felt when he received the scars that had been there only moments before. “Thank you,” he said quietly. He dug into the duffel bag he’d dumped on the bathroom counter and started pulling articles of clothing free from the pile inside. Most of it was leather and cotton, all in black—of course; Sera could always be counted on to pick monochrome clothing—and it didn’t take long for him to remove a pair of leather pants, followed by a cotton tank top and a leather vest, both of which were cut in a manner that left his shoulder blades exposed, presumably to accommodate his wings. A thick black leather jacket was in the bottom of the bag, along with—

  “Oh, how I missed these,” he breathed, pulling free two long, curved knives from the bag. They were scythes, small ones that supported him in hand-to-hand combat, and they were old, familiar friends that he hadn’t seen in a long time. He found the sheaths for them, setting them beside the clothes on the sink’s countertop, adding two other knives from the bag—these straight-bladed, not curved—to the surface beside them. Black boots completed the ensemble. “This is amazing,” he commented, looking the pile over again. “You’ve already done almost too much.”

  “Oh, I’m not done yet,” Sera replied. “Father thought there’d be a good chance you would come back with brain damage again.” She sounded entirely too amused at the prospect. “So He told me to take especial care to do this.” She clamped her hands onto either side of his head. There was a bright flash of light, contained in his head, not in the room, and a jolt like electricity coursing through his body. He drew in a loud, startled breath as all the muscles in his body seized, and he collapsed to the floor. As he fell, Sera let go of his head and took a step back. “It will take a bit for your brain to process it all. Take a shower and relax. Hopefully, your brain will finish rearranging itself by the time you’re done, and then we can start making plans.”

  Acknowledgments

  I always have so many people to thank when I write books. Of course, I have to thank my family for their encouragement and inspiration. I have the best support network in the world, and I couldn’t wish for more.

  Thank you so very much to all my writer friends who have given tips, advice, and suggestions along the way as I tried to re-find my way into the writing world. Your help has been absolutely invaluable.

  And lastly, but definitely not least-ly, thank you to all my readers, both past, current, and future! Thank you for taking the time to buy my books, to read them, to recommend them to people you know, and to message me on Facebook or Twitter or wherever else to tell me what you thought about them. Your feedback keeps me going when I’m feeling unmotivated, and I only hope this volume does the series justice thus far.

  About the Author

  Jessica Meigs is the author of The Becoming, a post-apocalyptic thriller series that follows a group of people trying to survive a massive viral outbreak in the southeastern United States. After gaining notoriety for having written the series on a variety of BlackBerry smartphones, she self-published two novellas that now make up part of the first book in the series. In April 2011, she accepted a deal with Permuted Press to publish The Becoming as a series of novels. The first of the series, entitled The Becoming, was released in November 2011, and was named one of Barnes & Noble’s Best Zombie Fiction Releases of the Decade by reviewer Paul Goat Allen. Five more novels and an assortment of novellas followed.

  In 2019, Jessica began self-publishing again, this time exploring a new universe with The Unnaturals Series, in which a group of government-employed agents discover that the wheels of the Biblical apocalypse are in motion…and they are the only ones who can stop it.

  Jessica lives in semi-obscurity in Demopolis, Alabama. When she’s not writing, she works full time in EMS and as an editor, copyeditor, and proofreader. She can be found on Twitter @JessicaMeigs, on Facebook, on Goodreads, and on Instagram.

  If you are an author interested in exploring Jessica’s editorial services, you can check out her editing website at www.editsbyjessica.com.

  Also by Jessica Meigs

  The Becoming Series

  The Becoming

  The Becoming: Ground Zero

  The Becoming: Revelations

  The Becoming: Under Siege

  The Becoming: Redemption

  The Becoming: Origins

  The Becoming: Bloodlines *

 
; The Unnaturals Series

  Nightfall

  The Unnaturals

  Hellforged

  Wicked Creatures

  Reapers *

  * coming soon