by JG Faherty
Unlike earlier, the professor’s voice held no regret or anger over what had been done to him. Ethan couldn’t help feeling resentful over that. He’d offered his friend immortality—or something very close to it—on many occasions over the years, and been rebuked each time. And now the old man was happy to achieve it against his will? It took all of Ethan’s willpower not to release his Beast and challenge his friend right there.
He’s already changed, Ethan realized. The thing inside me senses it, knows him for an enemy now, not a friend.
“What of their mission to build a new Mayan empire?”
Pascal nodded. “An empire of were-jaguars. A formidable enemy of mankind someday.”
“Someday?”
Heathcliff smiled. Already his eye teeth seemed longer, sharper. “Right now the Gente de Jaguar number less than fifty. We have much work to do, rebuilding our city and guarding it from discovery. We live long lives, but it will still take several generations before we can lead our people out into the world.”
“Your people?”
“Ix Chel wants me as her consort. That’s why she forced the change on me. It’s not the life I would have chosen, but now that the change is made…I don’t regret it. I will advise her on the ways of the world, teach her the history of mankind.” He smiled again. “Father her heirs.”
Ethan thought about the exotic woman who served as the Moon Goddess’s earthly servant. Her proud beauty, combining the human ideals of feminine splendor with the animal attraction of a wild jungle cat. Under her long, silky hair would be a body that only aged one year for every ten. Or perhaps twenty. Firm. Young. Ripe. A body built for pleasure, housing a mind and soul meant to rule an empire.
She would be a Cleopatra for the twentieth century.
“We’ll see each other again, someday.” Ethan knew his words were as much threat as farewell.
“I fear we will. On the battlefield. But not before my grandchildren’s children have grown and died. Be good to her, Ethan. I have enjoyed your friendship most of all.”
“And I yours. Rule well, old man.” Ethan clasped hands with his oldest friend one last time. Inside him, the Beast roared to be let out and finish what it had started.
“No!” Jenny’s shout startled them from their goodbyes. “I won’t leave you.”
Heathcliff didn’t ask if she’d heard. “You must, my dear. The time has come for you and Ethan to start your lives together. Just as I will start a new life here.”
She turned towards Ethan. Something new burned in her eyes. A promise of love. Passion.
Desire.
Then sadness took over as she looked back at her father and nodded. Ethan shook his head, knowing she’d accepted the situation much too quickly. Jenny was far too stubborn to give up like that; he knew that in the coming years it would take all his powers—physical and mental—to keep her from returning.
Ethan left them alone to their goodbyes. Inside the temple, he gathered his and Jenny’s packs. Rory Amos was placing a blanket over Harrison’s body.
“C’mon, Rory. It’s time to go.”
A gentle hand touched his shoulder, stopping him. Something flowed between them as Ix Chel came close. An electric charge carrying a promise of untold wanton pleasures and deadly violence. Standing next to him in human form, her musky fragrance sent his senses reeling. She pressed herself against him, her hair a thin and ineffective barrier between their flesh.
She leaned forward, bringing her lips near his neck.
And licked him.
Her raspy tongue caressed him for a brief moment. She drew back even as he felt his body respond against his will.
“What was that for?” Ethan asked, once his voice was his own again.
“Earlier I gave you much pain. Now I give you a small pleasure, for you have given me a worthy mate. For that I am grateful. I will assure his happiness here.”
Ethan had no doubt she would.
“Enjoy your life together, Ix Chel. I hope we never meet again.”
She smiled, purposely showing her sharp teeth. A challenge in the animal kingdom.
“And I cannot wait until we do.” She strode away.
Ethan left her to her people. Outside, Jenny came to him and took his hand. The new look in her eyes went well with her nearly naked body. The thin material couldn’t hide the signs of her excitement.
Ethan realized that from now on, there’d be a woman on every expedition.
For once, the idea didn’t upset him.
He wondered what kind of adventures they would have together.
With a smile, he pulled a cheroot from his pack.
Starting with tonight.
About the Author
A life-long resident of New York’s Hudson Valley, JG Faherty is a Bram Stoker Award® and ITW Thriller Award nominee and the author of four novels, seven novellas, and more than 50 short stories. He writes adult and YA horror/sci-fi/fantasy, and his works range from quiet, dark suspense to over-the-top comic gruesomeness. He enjoys urban exploring, photography, classic B-movies, good wine, and pumpkin beer. As a child, his favorite playground was a 17th-century cemetery, which many people feel explains a lot. You can follow him at www.twitter.com/jgfaherty, www.facebook.com/jgfaherty, http://about.me/jgfaherty, and www.jgfaherty.com.
Look for these titles by JG Faherty
Now Available:
Castle by the Sea
Thief of Souls
Fatal Consequences
Legacy
Coming Soon:
The Cure
Winterwood
Some gods demand blood!
Legacy
© 2014 JG Faherty
Sean Black, a teenage science whiz in a small New England town, leads a pretty normal life...until the night of the storm. After that, nothing is the same. He experiences strange nightmares. He hallucinates about alien creatures and begins to notice weird physical changes in his body, things no one else seems to see. The girl he’s had a crush on for years is acting strange as well, delivering cryptic messages to him that things are not what they seem. When he discovers a secret room in the library, Sean finds himself faced with a life-changing decision, one that could either save the world or plunge it into centuries of death and destruction—with Sean ruling over all.
Enjoy the following excerpt for Legacy:
It began with the storm, and the nightmare. Afterwards, nothing was ever the same.
I’ve never been the same.
The nightmare came first, at least for me.
I walked across a bleak landscape. The black dome of the sky extended forever in all directions, unmarred by stars or planets, yet somehow there was light enough for me to see by. Gray, featureless land stretched out to all sides. No hills or mountains interrupted the desolate plain; in fact, the only evidence of geologic activity was the presence of large stones, boulders really, that lay half-buried in the grassless, monochrome soil.
Not that life didn’t exist in that dreary place. A double handful of trees, each one spaced hundreds of feet from its nearest kin, dotted the monotonous topography. Their distance from each other suggested a repulsion for their own kind, either environmental or emotional. Drawing close to one, I understood their aversion to proximity; in fact, I felt it myself. Festering wounds gaped in the drab bark, weeping fluids colored mold green and pus yellow. An atrocious odor like nothing I’d ever smelled before emanated from the oozing sores.
I backed away from the abominable stench just in time to avoid capture by grasping tentacles masquerading as branches. The entire alien growth leaned towards me, appendages extended and waving in my direction. I took myself further away, fearful the creature might uproot itself and follow.
After my encounter with the botanical nightmare, I chose my path, such as it was, with more care.
I’d gone
perhaps another hundred yards, certainly no more than that, when a violent bolt of red lightning ruptured the ebon sky.
I froze as the afterimage left blinding jagged lines of color across my vision. The empty plain offered no protection, and I grew nervous about being exposed. I had no desire to serve as a human lightning rod. More angry flashes fractured the all-encompassing blackness. I held my breath, anticipating the tumultuous thunder I felt sure would come with such a spectacle.
Instead, a sepulchral voice spoke to me.
“Open your mind to me, open yourself to me. I am the gateway; through me they speak. I am your legacy, your history and your future. You and I will be as one. The past and present shall reunite. I will fill you, and you shall rise above those of lesser status.
“Together we shall speak the unspoken and call those whose names are not known.
“The spirits of the great places beyond space prepare themselves for battle once again, waiting only for you to guide them forth. Before you stands the gate to the othersphere. Only speak the words and those of the realms will enter three wide and seven strong.
“Those who hold the stars in their power and live in the spaces in between shall awaken!
“Azathoth! Tulzsha! Cthulhu! Yog Sothoth! Shub-Niggurath!
“Nine hundred ninety-nine times I shall call their names! Listen to my words. For I am—Nyarlathotep!”
I burst from the covers, nearly falling from my bed in the process.
For a moment I just sat there, chest heaving, heart jack-hammering, my back as straight and stiff as an iron rod. My hands clenched the sheets so hard my fingers ached. The echo of the strange word I’d shouted still reverberated in my brain, each repetition evoking dread.
Gradually, I eased from my rigid state as I grew fully aware that I was back in the familiar surroundings of my room, rather than the dreadful landscape of my dreams. Just as I was about to lay back on my pillow, thunder crashed outside my window, the unexpected aural explosion causing me to release a tiny squirt of piss into my underwear. It took me a moment to realize it was only an ordinary thunderstorm, that the dire crimson bolts and virulent landscapes I’d so recently wandered through hadn’t followed me back to the real world.
Lightning, wonderfully ordinary and white, flashed across the sky. Before the first jagged bolt faded away, three more bursts followed in rapid succession, accompanied by cannon shots of thunder that shook the walls of the house. The lightning erased the night’s darkness like celestial flash pots, as if God himself was taking the stage for the universe’s greatest rock concert.
Two more hellish claps of thunder accompanied more lightning, and I revised my initial evaluation of the storm’s normalcy.
My bedroom door banged open, delivering my third fright in as many minutes.
“Holy crap!” my brother shouted, his eyes wide and his face corpse-white in the glare of more strobing lightning. I feared that if it grew any brighter outside, I’d actually be able to see right through him. “Sean, you gotta come see this. It’s like the end of the world out there!”
Normally I’d have cursed Owen for barging into my room without knocking, but the truth was, I felt a large measure of relief at seeing another human, even if it was my obnoxious little brother. So, rather than yell at him like I normally would have, I told him I’d be down in a minute. A manic grin on his face, he turned and ran from the room to the accompaniment of further extraterrestrial drumming.
I pulled on fresh underwear, sweatpants, and a t-shirt, and went downstairs to join Owen, my mom, and my dad on the front porch, where they stood watching the incredible pyrotechnics.
Our house was a large New England-style Victorian with a wide wraparound porch. The porch had always been our favorite gathering place as a family, more popular even than the kitchen. In the summer, we’d sit in oversized rocking chairs and drink the lemonade or ice tea my mother made, listening to the gently comforting sounds of growling lawn mowers, chirping insects, and calling night birds. In the fall, before the frigid New England winter made it too uncomfortable to be outside, we’d cradle mugs of hot chocolate in our chilly hands as the winds brought us the smells of burning leaves and homemade soup on its weightless waves.
One of our favorite things to do was sit under the protection of the overhanging roof and watch the summer storms roll across the island. You could sway back and forth on the old-fashioned swinging couch my dad had rescued from a yard sale, sipping cold, tart lemonade - or in my parents’ case, beer - and ooh and ahh at the lightning over the ocean only two blocks away. In spite of the awesome violence of the storms, watching them from the safety of the porch was a peaceful, reflective pastime, almost meditative in nature. The wind would bring a welcome coolness to the hot, muggy air that always preceded a summer thunderstorm, and the hiss of falling rain would act like white noise, creating a hushed silence, as if the rest of the world no longer existed.
I’d always enjoyed those evenings most of all.
This storm engendered no such feelings.
Rather than sitting, we gathered just outside the front door, as if responding to a primitive need for protection, a genetic instinct to huddle in a group for survival. No breeze jostled my hair or cooled the sweat on my brow; instead, the air grew heavier with each passing moment, a physical weight that made itself known every time I tried to draw a breath.
Already a jangle of nerves from my dream, seeing my parents standing there without cans of beer in their hands made the whole scene even scarier. Not that either of them were alcoholics; as far back as I could remember, I’d never seen them get drunk, not even at barbeques or clambakes. But more often than not they’d grab a Narragansett or Harpoon Ale from the ‘fridge the same way a kid will reach for a soda. Especially on the hot days of midsummer. One before dinner, maybe a couple while watching the game, mowing the lawn, or jawing with the neighbors. Not every day, but frequently enough for me to consider it commonplace around the house or when visiting the neighbors.
On the porch, it was tradition.
The last time I’d seen them sans beer at home was when we’d been sitting in front of the television watching the events of September 11 unfold. The schools had closed early that day and my mother had to pick me up from kindergarten. Not long after we walked in the door, my father pulled into the driveway. Mom had cried while she watched television; Dad had poured himself a glass of the twenty-year-old single malt scotch he only brought out for weddings and funerals. It was years before I really understood what had happened that day, but even as a small child their reactions had made a lasting impression on me.
This was the first time a storm had ever engendered the same type of anxiety in our household. Not even hurricanes or Nor’easters, which we’d dealt with more than once, had produced such a profound disquiet.
“Norm, I’ve never seen lightning like this.” Another flash escorted Mom’s words, the crazed bolt arcing wildly across the sky before arrowing down to the not-so-distant waters of the Atlantic.
Dad’s reply was partially lost in the rolling boom of thunder that followed.
“—don’t know where it came from. The Weather Channel said the storm was supposed stay out over the water and skirt past us, not stop and settle in like a poor relative.”
“Thunderstorms are one thing,” Mom replied, twisting a lock of sandy-brown hair between two fingers. “But there’s no wind and no rain. This reminds me of the weather we’d get back home right before a tornado.”
Mom didn’t come right out and say she was scared, but I could see from her face that the storm was really affecting her. Unlike my dad and his side of the family, Mom wasn’t a native New Englander. She’d grown up in Oklahoma, where the closest she’d ever come to an ocean was spending the day at Summit Lake. Her family had moved to Massachusetts when she was eleven, after they’d lost the roof of their house to a twister for the second year in a row.
Mom didn’t look convinced. She leaned against him, her lips tight and one hand still tugging at her hair as she watched the lightning bolts chase each other across the sky.
“Daddy, what’s wrong with the clouds?” Owen was leaning over the railing, his face turned upwards.
My parents joined him. I didn’t want to; I was afraid I’d find myself starting at the alien skyscape of my dream. What I really wanted to do was run back upstairs and hide under the covers with a flashlight, the way my nine year-old brother sometimes did after a scary movie.
Somehow my feet ended up carrying me forward instead.
“It’s just a different type of storm cloud,” Dad told him. But he was lying; I could hear it in his voice. More importantly, I could see the evidence with my own eyes.
Nights in the modern world are no longer dark places where you can’t see to get around. Lights from cities, and towns, and highways cast a glow we’re usually not even aware of, a glow that allows us to find our way around outside when we’re taking out the garbage or putting something in the car. If the sky happens to be cloudy, a lot of that light reflects back down to us, making the night world even more visible.
That’s why I had no trouble seeing the bilious green and ochre streaks in the purple-black masses hovering over Tall Pine Island. They looked like ordinary storm clouds infected with some type of horrible disease, their gaseous flesh gone gangrenous. The sickly lines of putrid color were like tracks of poison running through healthy tissue. Rather than forming random patterns, the ghastly hues radiated outwards from a central point, a spiral design of meteorological cancer. As I watched, more lightning flared from the core of the spiral. It felt like I was inside one of those glass balls you see at museums, the ones where if you place a finger on the surface, tiny bolts of electricity dart back and forth.