by Tigris Eden
“I shall return.”
“I don’t want you to.”
“I am not here to give you what you want. I am here to give you what you need.”
Dietrich’s sister was a certified whacko, Enri decided as he watched her walk away.
“I would have taken her up on her offer of aid,” the entity said into the darkness.
“I don’t recall asking for your opinion.”
“Yet I will give it to you regardless. Is that not what a father does for his son?”
“You’re not my father.”
“I am.”
“My father is Hades, guardian of Tartaros.”
“It would be truer if you were to call him your son, not the other way around.”
Impossible.
“Fuck me. Is this the immortal version of Punk’d? Gregor, very funny. Almost had me going there for a second,” Enri said, holding in his laugh. He had to admit, that was some funny shit.
The air was once again taken from the room, and against his will, Enri’s body rose from the ground as much as his chains would allow. Suspended, his skin stretched and burned as his body protested being held mid-air.
“You will not mock me, boy. I am the beginning. Unending in my life, and you will bow down to me,” the voice said on a roar. It shook the entire crypt. Dirt and sand littered the floor like rain. Enri, being who he was, couldn’t help himself. He knew he would suffer, and a tiny part of him felt this could be his end. But he ignored the last thought. He would not fall.
“Say it don’t spray it, dude.”
There was no warning before Enri’s chest broke open and his ribcage burst. There was nothing he could do but lie there in his own guts and blood. Fuck, it would take days—if not longer—for him to heal properly, and the now-intensified pain wracked his limp form. Over the sound of his own breath faltering and the last few beats of his heart as it pumped the rest of the blood free from his broken body, he heard the entity in the room say, “I’m am Erebos. Son of no one. I am the true beginning of all things. Darkness will always hold the Throne of Creation. A place you have no claim to.”
Enri’s vision dimmed, and as his last breath left his body, he told himself if the Throne of Creation existed, he would claim it as his—if only to shut the smug fucker up.
It had been many years since Yewa felt the Earth move. An odd feeling, but the memory was still present. The mountains from her homeland would shake the ground from time to time. It felt like she was riding in the back of one of those metal carriages Dietrich and Enri called a vehicle. There was no one around, and the sky had long since blackened, giving way to the stars above. Looking up, Yewa walked until she found herself in the middle of the courtyard. She sat on a bench not far from an anthill. She stared at the mound. Inside, everything was quiet and calm. Even after the Earth had moved, the hill remained silent. Maybe its inhabits had long since vanished. Or maybe they were used to the Earth and its whimsical ways.
She knew she should wish harm upon Enri. He’d threatened her brother and endangered his friends and mate. But she couldn’t find it in herself to muster up any hatred. She didn’t feel sorry for him either, but she felt…something. A kinship maybe? Like calling to like. In so many ways, they were similar, but at the same time, opposite. Yewa looked back at the crypt door. Enri remained alone in there. No, someone else was with him. They just didn’t want to show themselves. Along with her healing capabilities, she could sense others’ presences. Whatever was in there with him wasn’t there to be pleasant. She could feel its malice as she entered. And although Enri had said he wanted nothing from her, she knew he did. Everyone wanted something. She would do her best to figure out what Enri needed and follow through.
There is no time like now. Yewa turned toward the moss-covered door. The massive wood creaked open, and the smell of salt and brine assaulted her senses. The room had a stale quality to it, and although pitch-dark inside, her eyes quickly adjusted. There were some advantages to her newfound strengths. Each step she took led her closer and closer to her target. As she rounded one of the pillars, the coppery smell of blood saturated the air. Had the chains cut farther into his skin?
“Enri, I must ask you not struggle against your bonds, it will—Yewa gasped at what lay before her on the dirt floor.
Enri’s body lay lifeless on the ground. His chest splayed open, and what blood his body held, soaked the dirt, turning it to mud. He did not move. His body lay prone, and for a moment Yewa felt hopeless. Utter desperation brought her up short. Jarring her body back into motion, she moved forward. She didn’t think. She dropped to her knees and laid both hands on his mangled chest. He was immortal. Truly immortal. Her life could easily be taken if someone was to remove her head from her body, but a Fallen... One couldn’t kill a Fallen. She’d been told Enri fell from the heavens; he was a true being of the cosmos. It’s why they used cosmic dust to contain him. Also, he did not resemble the Angel, Lucifer, who’d fallen from the grace of his father. Those Fallen did not have wings—or at least the use of them. Enri retained full use of his, and they were large enough to blacken the sky. She’d witnessed that, firsthand, before his capture.
His flesh was cold to the touch and felt sticky from his blood. There is so much red. Yewa’s body heated with energy. She’d need to use most of her strength to put his chest back together, but she couldn’t think about the consequences. He needed her.
Her energy seeped into Enri’s chest, and his skin began knitting together. Pieces slowly healed as bones mended, and veins fused back together. She didn’t know how long she kept at it, but it must have taken the better part of the evening. Her skin tightened with exhaustion, and her body swayed as she willed the rest of her power to him. Her eyes itched, and her stomach knotted with stress as she hunched forward.
There. Enri was whole. He still hadn’t come to. It would take a few days for him to gain full consciousness, but while he slept, she would clean him. Tend to the remaining wounds she couldn’t heal and ask Gregor for some fresh clothes. But first, sleep. Maybe even for a day. She knew the ground beneath her contained mud and blood, but she’d slept in worse conditions. Too tired to move away from the mess, Yewa lay down and propped her head on her arms. Sleep came quickly—so did the memories.
This time, she dreamt of her captivity with the Agency, but long before there were cement walls and glass windows, there was the guy known only to her as Master Boone.
The sunbaked road hurt her feet. Everything about this place screamed danger, but when Yewa saw the trees covered in their green drapery, she could also see the pleasing aspects of her new surroundings. But that beauty wasn’t meant for her. She knew this. The chain around her neck burned, and the iron that shackled her ankles dug painfully into her raw skin, making it hard for her to walk. But the male dragging her behind the horse didn’t care. She wasn’t the only one being treated this way, there were others. Among those that traveled with her was a little girl. With dark skin, now an ashen gray, the child had a split lip and a swollen eye. She wouldn’t hold on too much longer, and Yewa had no idea how long their journey would be. They’d been journeying for days. The soles of her feet no longer protected her from the rocks embedded into her skin.
“I’m so hungry,” the little girl whispered.
Yewa tried to look back but her chains were too tight, and if she turned the slightest, the skin would break again.
“Be strong, little one.”
“Why? They will only kill us once we reach the Master’s home. It’s what they do to our kind. I should have never let them take me.”
The young girl sounded much older than she looked.
“How would you have stopped them?”
“I should have shifted. But I didn’t. Now I can’t. I can’t control what happens to those around me when I do.”
Shift?
“What do you mean shift?”
The girl laughed, then. And this time, Yewa could hear the undertones of death. The little girl thou
ght there was no hope.
“I’m a skinwalker.”
That she understood. There were people in her tribe that were skinwalkers. Those able to take the shape of an animal, or even another man, if they were powerful enough.
“Then you should shift, little one. Get far, far away from this place.”
Yewa really wanted to ask the little girl to take her along, but she knew better. She’d been sold; they wouldn’t let her get away. She’d heard the other men talking in their native tongue about what they planned to do to her. It had taken her a while to understand the words at first, but her journey from home—to this new land—had given her enough time to make out some of their meanings by watching their interactions and gestures.
“None of you would survive once I shifted.”
“What animal form do you take?”
“I take the form of a winged lion.”
“I’ve never seen a winged lion before,” Yewa commented. She’d heard tales of lions that could fly. They were considered deadly and uncontrollable. The historian in their tribe told tales of the winged lion and the serpent. But in that tale, the lion had been the one to suffer—not the serpent.
“No one has. We try and keep our kind secret. We were hunted down and killed for our wings.”
“You said ‘our kind.’ Did you mean like from our land?”
“No, I mean those of us that can shift, heal, and do other things. My group was trapped and captured while we were out hunting. The only reason they knew I could shift is because they tried to kill me and I didn’t die.”
Yewa thought about that for a moment. They hadn’t tried to kill her, but they had done other things to her. She knew any other person might not have survived. Like her sister, Andina, who had been thrown overboard, chained to others. She’d wished a million times that day that they’d thrown them both over. But they had other ideas for Yewa. The men had tied her down and forced themselves on her, over and over again until she’d lost consciousness. She knew they thought her to be dead. They’d tossed her onto a pile of bodies meant to be cast out to sea. When she’d woken, the g stench made her vomit uncontrollably. When they realized she wasn’t dead, they’d taken her back down below and kept her with the rest of the women and children. Her gift to heal had been of great use to her then. But now, she wasn’t so sure she hadn’t done them more harm than good.
There was a small voice in the back of her mind telling her she should have let everyone on board die. Death would have been far better than what would happen to them later on. But she’d ignored the voice and prayed to Obatalá, the father of all the Orishas and humanity, for guidance. He would help see them through this. Her prayers kept her going.
“Whoa,” the male on the horse said as they came to a stop.
Yewa couldn’t see why’d they stopped walking, but the male began talking to someone she couldn’t see. Their voices were too low for her to hear, but the little girl behind her didn’t seem happy about what was being said.
“Can you hear them?” Yewa asked in their native tongue.
The girl nodded. “They are bartering. The man who has yet to give his name is telling the man on the horse that he has something he wants.”
Yewa tried to get a glimpse of the newcomer, but the horse blocked her view. If she tried to move, her chains would make a noise, and that would only further upset the male on the horse.
“What does the man want?” Yewa asked.
“You,” was all the girl said before the male flew from his horse and was impaled on a branch up in one of the trees. The male who she could now clearly see wore a hat that covered most of his face from view, his body a large mass of strength. Thick, broad shoulders, and ropes of muscle contained in fabric she’d never seen. He stalked toward Yewa and the others, reaching them in a few short strides. He unhooked the chain attached to the horse’s saddle and wrapped it around his meaty fists.
“You,” he said in a calm voice. “You will come with me. There is a place for you. As for the rest of you, go. You are free.”
The chains holding the others she was tethered to disintegrated and the girl, who only moments before seemed to be on her last leg, didn’t give Yewa a second thought. She took off in the direction of the woods and never looked back.
A hopelessness settled heavily into Yewa’s heart. They’d all been let go, save for her. Why?
The man in the hat, still not showing his face, stepped closer.
Too close.
His chest, raising and falling with every breath.
“Do not fight me,” he said in her native tongue. “Do not try and escape me. If you do, I will rip you limb from limb, and I don’t want to do that. You have a purpose.”
Yewa said nothing. She didn’t move either because he hadn’t told her to. The rusty link around her neck tightened, and she could feel the warmth of blood as it rolled slowly down the sides of her throat. Her first reaction was to try loosening the chains, but as her hands lifted, he clenched hard, jerking the chains forward. The action brought Yewa to her knees. When she looked up, his visage was there for her to see. He had the face of an Anointed. Flawless, with striking beauty. But in his eyes, she saw the stars and the dangerous black void of nothingness.
Pulled from the dream, Yewa woke with a start. Those eyes, lifeless and vast. So blue, at times they appeared black. She knew those eyes, yet why hadn’t she remembered until now? It was Enri who’d given her over to the Agency. If she’d had the means to run away, she would have. She’d vowed to help him. She couldn’t go back on her word. Too exhausted to have the proper reaction, she fell back into a deep sleep. This time when she dreamed, she dreamt of her home, far across the sea.
There had been a few times in Enri’s life when things hadn’t gone as planned. And each time his plots were thwarted and he was, what he liked to call ‘checked out,’ he ended up here. In this black abyss of nothing. It had been well over a thousand years since his last visit, and everything looked how it had when he’d visited before. There was nothing, yet there was…something. Like the entity in the cave. Erebos, he’d called himself. The being claimed to be his maker, his father. Why, when everything was falling into place for Enri, did someone come along and fuck it up?
Sound claimed something similar. Had even told him to defeat his father and lay claim to the Throne of Creation. Why was this the first time he’d heard of this so-called throne? He knew there was one who created, and if Eremiel told the tale, there was only one true creator. Enri liked to think the known existence of all things was a joint venture. Some said it was the Defiant Ones, but Enri knew all about them. Too much. They were after the Sahidic, and once they were awake, all hell would break lose unless they were reined into some sort of an agreement. Which Enri already had a bead on. He knew what they wanted, and may have even promised to deliver. It was something he wasn’t too worried about. Not now. He had time.
He'd learned early on that he had a way of convincing people to bow to his will. He didn’t have to try hard, either. But as time went on, it became harder to control those around him. Unless it was his Death Walkers, all he was able to do now was whisper suggestions in someone’s ear. The choice, though, ultimately belonged to them. It was one of the reasons he had high hopes for him and Jorunn. She would have made one hell of a mate.
In the place he resided, there was no life, no breath. Just the existence of him. Void of light and a place he knew well.
Darkness.
What had that bastard said to him back in the crypt? “I am Erebos. Son of no one. I am the true beginning of all things. Darkness will always hold the Throne of Creation. A place you have no claim to.”
Darkness held the Throne of Creation. Did this mean Darkness was Erebos? But darkness wasn’t anything at all, was it? He’d been around longer than most. All his memories were sharply intact. Except for the ones before your beginning. But he’d always attributed that to his birth. His brother Z wasn’t born but created, whereas his creation had, in fac
t, been an actual birth. He was the product of Hades’ indiscretions. He’d sought his mother out once, but there was no sign of her. He would know if there were. He’d looked for her for almost three hundred years, and each time, Hades would grin and chuckle to himself.
“She doesn’t want anything to do with you, bastard,” Hades would taunt. “You’re a stain—a disturbing bug that will not go away. Do you think she wants to be reminded of her mistake?” Enri thought over the countless times he’d tried to search, each time coming up empty. If he could have moved or even roared in his current state, he would have. But in this place, there was nowhere to turn, nowhere to lie down. There wasn’t even a place to stand. Here, he just…existed. No form, no body. Just a thought. When he’d come to this place in the past, he would just be. Do nothing, and wait for his body to mend itself so he might once again return to the land of the living. He didn’t even get a passage to the Hereafter, although he knew personally there were many different Hereafters—each one a product of someone else’s imagination. For him, death was existing in a place without sound, light, or air. Like sinking into the depths of an unending ocean with no bottom in sight. Thoughts still danced in some form or another. How else was he even able to contemplate his next move, if not for the stream of consciousness he possessed?
Enri didn’t know how long he’d been in the state he was currently in. There was no concept of time. He just knew that when he woke, he was getting the fuck out of France and looking into this so-called Throne of Creation. His business with Hades would have to be postponed, but only for a short while. He planned to visit dear old Dad. Right after he killed the brothers of Clan Ellys, and his half-brother Z, and took the throne that was supposedly his. All in a day’s work, and it didn’t matter if it took him hundreds of thousands of days. He was immortal in the truest sense of the word. Time was not a factor for him. He’d waited this long to get what was rightfully his. He was patient if nothing else.