His wife had been tied down to face the open doorway. Her dress lay in tatters beside her nude marble-like form. There were many empty wine bottles on the ground, and several piles of ash from a pipe. Enough ash to signify that several men had bided their time in this room while he had been away at market bartering higher prices for his wheat. The house reeked of tobacco. And he wasn’t a smoker. He subconsciously knew that his future path would now lead him to darker places than he could ever imagine. His life would be forever changed.
I shivered, feeling the dark story touch a part of me that I had to fight to squash down. I had enough frightening memories to fuel my recent night terrors. I didn’t need another. But I knew Hemmingway would tell this story only once. Also, this story would be my only knowledge about angels outside of the Bible. If angels were watching my movements, I needed the information. I waited for him to continue, signaling the bartender to refill Hemmingway’s glass. The storyteller nodded in appreciation.
Upon seeing his dearly beloved murdered, the farmer crashed to his knees, the forgotten purse of money clutched in his fist dropping to the floor like a sack of potatoes. The coins spilled across the gnarled wooden planks, one coin rolling toward the tear-filled, terror-laden gaze of his wife, before briefly brushing her long lashes and settling flat against the floor in a rattle that seemed to echo for eternity. That and the desperate panting of the farmer’s breath were the only sounds in the haunted house. But they were enough to fill it completely. He had been anxious to see the look of joy in her eyes at the coins.
The sensation of pride from her meant everything to him. It lent him his own pride. Instead he received this glassy, empty stare that would forever haunt his dreams. The woman who had made his life worth living, the woman who had saved him from his own darkness, the mother of his cherished son, the woman who had made the endless hours of toil in the fields worth it lay before him, filling his vision like a never-ending scream that tore at the fabric of reality. Thunder rumbled outside as if an extension of his grief. He would never be able to look at a coin again without remembering this scene. He had been proud to come home. Proud of his success at market. Proud of what the money would mean to his family. The prideful, peaceful, god-fearing farmer felt a scalding tear sear his weathered cheeks.
He distantly realized that he was no longer a prideful man.
A cold, amused voice emanated from the shadows. “Do you seek justice, farmer?”
The farmer jolted, hands shaking with fear… and something else. A feeling he had not experienced in many years. White-hot rage. He stared into the shadows, only able to see a hazy silhouette, wondering if it was one of his wife’s rapists mocking him. If it was, so be it.
Everything that mattered in his life lay dead before him. He would welcome the cold, merciless slumber of death in order to escape this haunting grief. Or he would dish out his grief on this wretched soul. It was a long time before the farmer answered, knowing that farming held no interest to him anymore. Nothing held any interest for him anymore. Well, one thing did. Vengeance. The sight of their blood on his weathered knuckles, the scent of their fear filling his nostrils, the feel of their dying struggle under his blade. The sound of their endless, tortured screams was the only sensation that would appease this once prideful, peaceful, god-fearing man.
“I do.” The farmer rasped, realizing he was no longer a peaceful man.
Lightning flashed, the thunderous crack instantaneous, rattling the open windowpanes, and billowing the curtains. With it came the downpour of rain that had been biding its time in the dark skies above. A new voice entered the conversation from another shadow of the room.
“Together, then. We must each give him a gift. To represent both worlds. He must agree to neutrality. To live in a world of grays, as the final arbiter of truth.” This voice was deeper, more authoritative, and obviously not happy at the situation, judging by his tone. The voice addressed the farmer. “After your vengeance is complete, do you agree to forget this past life, and embrace your new vocation? I cannot tell you what it might entail, but you shall never be able to deviate once this choice is made. I can promise that you will not be alone. You will have brothers to aid you in your cause.”
The farmer nodded. “If I can obtain justice first, I agree. I have nothing else left to me.”
The first voice grunted his agreement with a puff of stale sulfur that the farmer could taste even from across the foyer. What could only be described as a demon slowly uncoiled into the light, red eyes blazing with anticipation, his leathery, scaly skin covering a human-like frame. The horned, shadowy creature, pulsing with physical shadows of molten fire and ash, handed the farmer a gift, placing it over the man’s face, which instantly transformed the approaching darkness into a hazy green, the shadows evaporating under his newfound night-vision. The demon stepped back, appraising the man before him with satisfaction and uncertainty… fear, before waving a hand in the direction of the other voice. The farmer turned to assess the second creature, eyes no longer able to show surprise. The man-like being that stood before him crackled with blue power, like lightning given form. An angel. Wings of smoking ice and burning embers arced out from the creature’s back, sparks drifting lazily down to the ground, dying away before contact. The angel extended a marble hand, offering up a gleaming silver gift. The farmer took it, the item familiar in his hands.
The two creatures spoke as one. “Gifts given. Contract made. He shall be the first. Now, ride forth into your new life. You shall find a horse waiting for you outside.” Another blast of thunder, and the once peaceful, prideful, god-fearing farmer was alone.
The farmer stood in the empty house, and realized he was no longer a god-fearing man.
Over the coming year, he found every last culprit in the crime that had destroyed his life. Their screams unsuccessfully attempted to fill the empty void in his soul, and he reveled in every sensation he created from their broken bodies. Immensely. But it was never enough. Then he faded from this world, to fulfill his new responsibilities, forever regretful of his decision to accept those cursed gifts.
… Blood Debts - the 2nd installment of The Temple Chronicles - to be released late 2015!
About Shayne
Shayne is the guy itching for confrontation, oozing testosterone from more pores than the average male has room for. He is a published author of fiction novels and currently makes a living in the commercial lending realm for a nationally known bank in the Midwest. He hails from Denver, but has survived from New York City, to Miami, to Los Angeles, to Chicago, and even across the pond in London, before finally settling in Missouri where he not-so-secretly works on the global domination plan he intends to achieve by his mid-thirties.
He holds two high-ranking black belts in the martial arts, loves coffee, drinks adrenaline before going to bed, and wishes he could share a glass of wine with Alexander the Great, Achilles, and Thomas Jefferson… at the same time. He dresses like the world is his red carpet, and is the father of a bearded baby man-ling with his wife, the Duchess of Russia. He is currently hard at work on Blood Debts - the sequel to Obsidian Son - that will be released late 2015, and hopes that you enjoyed reading Nate’s Story as much as he enjoyed writing it.
Connect with Shayne online:
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Don't forget! If you enjoyed what you've read, please head on over to Amazon to leave me a review.
Published by Argento Publishing
Copyright © Argento Publishing, 2012
Cover design: Lieu Pham, Covertopia.com
E-Book formatting: Shayne Silvers
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locale
s or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Dedication
Dedicated to a Man among men… Scott Erwin
Acknowledgments
Many were instrumental in bringing this story to life. Too many to name, but I will give it the ol’ college try. First, I would like to thank my beta-readers, those individuals who spent hours of their time to read, and re-read, and re-re-read Nate’s story: Cameron Burson, Chris Casazza, Kori Erwin, Marni Erwin, Tess Flood, Lori Hardy, Albeejohn Hummel, and Theresa Rupeka.
Guido Henkel and Lieu Pham, who were the virtuosos behind the cover design, as well as incorporating the final touches on the formatting which helped transform the document into the digital world. Check them out at www.guidohenkel.com or www.covertopia.com
I would also like to thank you, the reader. I hope you enjoy reading Obsidian Son as much as I enjoyed writing it. Stay tuned at shaynesilvers.com for Blood Debts - the sequel to Obsidian Son, coming late 2015.
And last, but not least, I thank my wife, Olesya Silvers. Without your support, none of this would have been possible. Transcript that birthed Obsidian Son:
Shayne:I’ve thought about writing an urban fantasy novel, but don’t know where I should start. How would I make it unique?
Olesya:How about Black-Ops Wizards?
Shayne:Damn. Why don’t you write it?
Olesya:That’s what I have you for…
Table of Contents
Dedication
Epigraph
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Reviews
Excerpt - Blood Debts
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
About Shayne
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Obsidian Son (The Temple Chronicles Book 1) Page 33