Archangel Crusader

by Vijaya Schartz

  Walter winced at the remark. "Debbie, please, I want to apologize, I'm really sorry. I had no idea... I had no right to talk to you the way I did."

  "That's right, you didn't." Debbie hated herself for the harshness in her tone.

  "But I couldn't possibly know what you were going through..." Walter looked contrite, blue eyes searching hers. "I should not have quarreled. Now that I know everything, I understand."

  Walter reached for her hand but Debbie stepped back. "What are you talking about? What do you know? How do you know?"

  "I have ways of finding out." Walter blushed slightly but went on. "Debbie... I called your sister in Arkansas. She told me about your condition. "

  "Damn Becky and her big mouth. And damn you, too. How dare you spy on me? So you haven't changed, have you? You still don't trust me... You won't take my word for anything! You are despicable! Get out of my sight, or rather get out of my life!... The only reason you come to me now is probably that you want the exclusivity on the story. Now that Michael is news, you're interested. Is that it?"

  "Debbie, you're not being fair," Walter pleaded, eyes downcast like a scolded puppy.

  Debbie looked back toward Michael, still surrounded by journalists. Unable to stand Walter's narrow-mindedness any longer, she started toward the curb where the red Jeep was parked. Walter chased her across the lawn.

  Suddenly, she heard Michael in her mind, a desperate command, "Debbie, Debbie, stop!" Instinctively, she stopped, so abruptly that Walter ran into her. Lost for a second, Debbie wondered at the injunction when an explosion filled the air around them. A burning wind heated her cheeks. The car was engulfed in flames and smoke. Debris fell in slow motion all around the perimeter.

  Debbie heard screams. She saw people running in every direction. The cameramen turned toward the scene. Coughing through the thickening black smoke, she heard police sirens closing, or was it the ambulance or the fire truck? Her legs buckled as strong arms seized her.

  Walter's urgent voice reached her ears. "Debbie, are you all right? Debbie... Oh my God! Debbie, I love you."

  Shaking uncontrollably as Walter held her tight, Debbie clung to him with the energy of despair. She did not want to die, not yet, not before enjoying his love for as long as she could. "I love you, too," she whimpered between sobs. Closing her eyes, she rested her head on Walter's shoulder then fell into a black void.

  *****

  Michael rejoiced when Debbie was up and around again. Walter had raced her to the hospital after the failed attempt on her life. He now served as her chauffeur, bodyguard, and knight in shining armor. Fortunately, there had been more fear than harm.

  For a whole week, Michael's picture had monopolized the news. Debbie collected as many diverse newspapers as she could find, from the Washington Post, the Philadelphia Inquirer, the Denver Post, and USA Today, to the National Inquirer, even the San Francisco Chronicle, and from as far away as the Honolulu Advertiser. All the layers of society were represented. All without exception related the unnatural events of the rally in Washington, though in different shades of realism.

  Interviews and picture-taking sessions occupied most of Michael's time now. The publicity worked. Demonstrating some paranormal powers on the air widened the audience while he imparted his message. Michael made the most of every opportunity to explain his views of a better world, of what could be accomplished and how. He planted in each listener's mind a seed of positive energy that would soon grow and bloom into the will to help his cause.

  The Earth Crusade had become a powerful machine that gained momentum with each appearance, causing new ideas to germinate in millions of minds. Michael was hardly needed anymore, since other organization had taken over the program. In order to stop this positive force, Krastinios would have to intervene in person.

  Walter and Debbie became inseparable. The threats stopped, and they went on warily with their lives.

  *****

  "Earth Crusade, first take."

  The black and yellow board clapped in front of Michael face, jerking his mind back to the recording studio. In the heat of the projectors, Michael remained cool by controlling body temperature. It didn't take much to control one's own environment. A few months ago Michael would have laughed at the concept.

  "You see, this planet needs tender loving care, much like a human being..." The speech made sense, but what mattered was the thought pattern woven into the sounds. By now Michael had seen its effect many times and was still amazed at the power of his voice on regular human beings. He sometimes even had doubts about the ethical aspect of the Crusade, although it was for the ultimate good.

  "If each person keeps in mind these most important values, they will affect everyday thoughts and actions. Ultimately, the course of events will change. When choices must be made, they will be made for the greater good of the planet and of the people who inhabit it."

  Michael spoke for the cameras, constantly aware of the crew moving quietly about. As he had seen it happen before, a change occurred in the eyes of the man holding the long pole of the microphone, tears rolled down the face of the production assistant, and the makeup artist stood transfixed. Michael could sense emulating thoughts from the sound engineer at the console. Staring into the lens, Michael conveyed power to the words, and the light technician joined the quasi-religious experience.

  In these moments of pure worship, Michael could choose to become a god. Aware of the possibility, however, he had no inclination to do so.

  *****

  The morning of the seventh day since his first public appearance, Michael woke up before dawn in a sweat. In his dream, a long line of police cars drove up the road toward Debbie's house, coming to arrest him. No doubt, he had been recognized and found out. His past had caught up with him.

  Although no walls could hold him, Michael did not care much to be riddled with bullets. People feared what they could not understand. His mission remained unfinished. He still had to find and destroy Krastinios. Besides, he did not want to endanger Debbie. So he dressed quickly and mounted the Harley.

  When the police arrived in a little while, they would find an empty house. Debbie had spent the night at Walter's condo. Michael left the doors of the house unlocked, hoping the zealous cops wouldn't destroy anything.

  It felt good to be on the road again despite the cold, rainy dawn. Before the transformation, Michael would have hated such weather. His stiff joints would have rebelled against the dampness. Since the training, the alien part of his mind had rejuvenated his body, allowing him to enjoy the rain without reservation. He’d remained sober during the Crusade, and his mind felt light and clear.

  Making himself inconspicuous as a grain of sand on the beach, Michael rode on in the misty morning toward his brother's home in Arkansas. While his thoughts wandered freely for the first time in many days, Michael reflected on Jennifer. She had not contacted him in several days. He had been so busy that he hardly noticed the break in the pattern. He must reach her sometime today.

  Later, as Michael traveled along the blue-crested Appalachian mountains on Route 81, thoughts of Veronica came to his mind, bittersweet and far away. How he missed her... Seeing Walter and Debbie so close made him think of his own solitude. Damn Krastinios! Once again, Michael vowed to destroy the bastard for taking away the only woman who could make him happy.

  Chapter Twelve

  At dusk, among French geometrical gardens, lit from the inside like a monumental pumpkin, the seventeenth century structure of Krastinios' chateau loomed outrageously over the marble esplanade, surrounded by a low, stone balustrade. A monumental stairway led through several broad landings to a maze of carefully groomed shrubbery, designed by the famous André Le Nôtre, gardener architect of Louis XIV.

  Light as a dancer, the black knight ascended the steps to the first landing. Snapping his fingers, he then flooded the esplanade with flickering amber lights, enhancing the columns, windows, and the balconies of the three-story façade. Conveniently, he left da
rk alcoves and gray areas around benches and bushes for the privacy of the playful guests.

  Muffled conversations and broken laughter rode on the cool breeze with traces of perfume, mingling with the more subtle scent of roses blooming ahead of the season. A nude nymph emerged, running and giggling from behind a fountain. The long red hair, pale skin and full breasts evoked the image of Venus from a Boticelli painting. Count Dracula's smooth chest shone, inviting against the red lining of his black cape as he followed the nymph with nonchalance.

  Inside the great hall, the air felt pleasantly warm. In an intricate play of warm colors, dim lights and friendly shadows, the costumed party unfolded according to the master's fantasy. Louis XV, heavily rouged and perfumed with bergamot, lowered one knee to the thick, silk rug covering the oak parquet floor. Lifting Madame de Pompadour's crinoline, Louis admired the pubic hair, intricately braided with multicolored ribbons in the eighteenth century fashion.

  In front of a replica of the Sphinx, Cleopatra, spread in a lascivious pose on a blue velvet sofa, toyed with a turquoise from the heavy necklace resting on her naked breasts. From a silver cup, she drank a red aphrodisiac, the nectar of the gods.

  When Krastinios came near, Cleopatra winked at the knight in black leather. He smiled then lightly kissed her hard nipples. Cleopatra's blue eyelashes fluttered. She shivered under the caress, but Krastinios withdrew quickly and walked away as her heated scent flourished, leaving her wanting for stronger pleasures.

  Ravel’s Bolero, amplified by sophisticated sound technique and closed in by the hanging tapestries and heavy drapes, permeated the very air, lending its pulse to the game. The sweet smell of opium wafted high from the Chinese chamber. There, elaborate water pipes sat on low tables of red lacquer, attended by two young oriental maidens. Their thin veils parted as they moved, revealing creamy skin. A red glow softly lit the smoking room, soothing to the eye, inviting to the heart.

  Walking through the crowd of guests, Krastinios made sure everyone enjoyed to the fullest the forbidden pleasures he had devised. He provided their favorite entertainment so they, in return, would see to his personal needs.

  In an avant-garde corner, psychedelic lights exploded with life and merry sounds. An exuberant Greek huntress, a generous creature with gleaming eyes, hooked herself to Krastinios' shoulders. Her pale, hairless body, clad only in slave bracelets of green oak leaves with a headband of the same greenery, undulated at his contact. She nibbled at his ear, softly blew in it, then laughed. Krastinios gently peeled her off his chest to relinquish the woman to the care of the Marquis de Sade for further enhancement of their mutual pleasure.

  "My dear friends," Krastinios announced to a small group including Rasputin and Elvira, "I want to issue a special invitation for an exceptional party. It will take place tomorrow night, at midnight, in the crypt of the greatest cathedral of all."

  "Notre Dame de Paris?" a clear feminine voice exclaimed with a trace of wonder.

  "Yes, my dear, under the heart of the city. I also have a very unique treat for you all, but it is a surprise. May I count on you? Please wear black, and nothing underneath. This is a very formal event. Spread the word. You may invite some friends, but make sure of their commitment and secrecy. You won't regret it. I promise you an unforgettable night."

  In front of a delicately painted paper screen, a white-faced Geisha, artfully coiffed with long, carved ivory pins, exposed her small ivory breasts while plucking the strings of her shamisen. In a hypnotic trance, she recited to a captivated audience a very daring haiku, written long ago by a bored Shogun concubine.

  Nearby, a Michael Jackson look-alike in diamond studded blue leather cut neat lines of white powder with a gold razor blade on a slab of black marble. Feverish eyes around him, some with dark circles, stared avidly.

  In an adjacent chamber, a passionate Chopin played a bewitching Nocturne. Around him, heavy breasts heaved above white lace corsets and satin petticoats, amidst muffled cries, in the sweet giddiness of champagne.

  Farther away, on a decorated stage, a rare scene unfolded. Projected live on a video-screen occupying most of the wall, two hermaphrodites engaged in heated sex acts. They exposed their bisexual organs in giant close-up shots, penetrating each other simultaneously for the curiosity and arousal of the onlookers.

  Silent as a cat on black suede paws, Krastinios enjoyed surprising his guests with sudden appearances, almost as if he had emerged from thin air, and often he did. He reflected now on Jennifer and Tori, Jennifer so innocent, and Tori so beautiful. How would they respond to his depravity? Their fear, their shock, their disgust, their arousal, their terror... What a delightful sight to look forward to.

  The Persian youth, in yellow silk and matching turban, sat cross-legged on a marble pedestal. He sent a delighted smile when Krastinios materialized. The innocent chestnut eyes greeted the man in black with a look of pure adoration.

  Krastinios found blind idolization quite arousing tonight. He flashed a most charming grin in response, his mind already pondering the potential for pleasure. He then walked toward the young boy in a slow, deliberate stride and kissed the soft lips that opened willingly under his insistent pressure. In a lustful exchange, Krastinios' hands explored the hard muscles under the dark supple skin. "Come with me," Krastinios whispered urgently then started in the direction of a dark corridor.

  The boy followed him along the purple maze of doors and passageways. They passed Barbarella and Barbie-doll, standing against the wall, mouths locked, short and long hair tousled, red and black leather gear open in front. Bare breasts rubbing against each other in a lustful fever, they tangled in a tight embrace.

  Krastinios recognized a heavy fragrance: the scented oil used by the African enchantress who now tumbled with a sturdy stallion of a man, on a sofa hidden in a dark recess. Walking through the hall of many doors, Krastinios could hear the sounds of expectation and sweet madness possessing the junkies free-basing crack in the antechambers or shooting needles in the powder room.

  The boy following him stared but kept smiling and took the man's hand for reassurance. Krastinios tenderly obliged. A narrow stone stairwell spiraled down to the basement where a dark hallway ended in front of a forbidding black door. It opened as they approached and closed by itself behind them, without a sound.

  In the luxurious torture chamber, Krastinios whispered suavely, "Now, my beauty you are mine, and nothing can come between us. I will enjoy all the pleasures this gorgeous body of yours can provide, and no one will hear you scream... For you will scream as your life escapes to feed mine."

  Uncertainty floated in the chestnut eyes. A timid smile started to curl the corners of the boy's mouth, but it all changed to terror when the dangerous truth finally registered.

  And he did scream, but no one heard his desperate plea behind the mysterious door.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Rays from the rising sun filtered through the clouds while Michael rode east. The sky looked like the religious pictures of his youth, with silver beams of light piercing the dark gray clouds. After a few strategic turns, to make sure he was not followed, Michael headed west toward Arkansas. It felt good to ride through open country again after all these years. He had missed the smells, the fragrance of the dirt, even the grass.

  The land represented the soul and the spirit of his young years. He remembered a day when, at twelve, some old cowboy convinced him he could ride a bull. Although Michael was underage, the man arranged for him to ride in the rodeo.

  "Nothing to it," the rugged man said. "You're good on a horse. You can handle it. You'll become famous... It's good money. If I could do it at your age, you can. The girls will look at you for sure."

  Ranch hands hoisted him atop the meanest beast of the bunch and opened the gate. As soon as the Brahma bull bolted in the enclosure, young Michael realized his mistake. Under him, a ton of twisting, pounding, skyrocketing muscle kicked and spun. He held on to the rope as hard as he could, pale and screaming, while the chee
ring crowd whirled around and up and down. A deadly carnival roller coaster ride, the boy thought with terror, the frail body taking a severe beating. Michael did not get trampled but almost died of fright. It took him a week to recover, less than for one of his stepfather's regular beatings.

  This was the law of the country, as Michael knew it as a child. He still respected that old cowboy for teaching him a lesson in humility. That young boy had quickly learned the values that later shaped his life. Freedom at all cost, respect for life, love and protection for the children. Women remained a mystery, however. Michael wondered if he would ever understand them.

  All his romantic involvements ended the same way. Michael never found what he looked for or knew what to expect from a relationship...until he met Veronica, his first true love. And now, she had been taken from him by that popinjay in black leather. How he hated Krastinios’ guts. Michael could do nothing when he met him before, but now it would be different. At least he had the tools to fight, and soon, he would.

  Hungry and dirty from the road, he stopped in Nashville for the night. The streets smelled of burgers and fries. Michael kept an inconspicuous profile, using mind suggestion to alter his appearance. To passers-by, he looked like an old, solitary biker better left alone.

  After dinner, sitting on the bed in a dark motel room with green and gold draperies that smelled of stale cigarette smoke, Michael called Debbie and Walter on his mobile phone. The FBI had contacted them. They honestly answered all questions, including the fact that they had no idea where he hid. Michael did not enlighten them either, only saying that they could contact him soon at his destination. He hung up the phone before the call could be traced. Satellites had a way of giving out locations.