Archangel Crusader

by Vijaya Schartz

  Krastinios laid her down on the warm stone and covered her body with kisses first. Then, as she writhed under him in arousal, he kept her down under his weight. Reaching for her hands, Krastinios produced soft black leather ties from under the edge of the altar and bound her wrists to a metal ring at the head of the altar stone.

  The Chosen groaned in anticipation, inviting Krastinios to move down her body. How he enjoyed her eagerness to please! He spread her legs apart and bound them to the far corners of the sacrificial stone. Wanton hips contorted in sexual beckoning while hard breasts swelled and fell to the rhythm of the woman's heavy sighs.

  Krastinios rose straightening his clothes with nonchalant ease. "Since we are among friends, let's enjoy our special party... I think our lovely surprise is ready to be consummated. Make yourselves comfortable and suit your fancy. I will give a reward for the most original fantasy acted out here tonight."

  The eerie music grew louder and the tempo accelerated. Some participants removed hoods and face veils, unleashing thick tresses of perfumed hair. It suddenly felt very warm, the low ceiling and dim torchlight adding to the oppressive sensation. The eyes of men and women alike burned with shameless lust. Articles of clothing came off, revealing haphazardly muscular thighs, a hard male member, small firm breasts. Heavy bosoms heaved to the rhythm of undulating bellies and rounded buttocks. Soft hairy triangles, alive with heat and exploring fingers, released a sexual aroma..

  A powerful male, unclad except for a black hood, approached first the low altar. He stepped up and knelt astride the vulnerable chest of the Chosen. As the drug started to wear off, the bound woman blinked in wonder, shock registering in her green eyes. When she opened her mouth, the man seized her head roughly and shoved his throbbing member deep into her throat. She coughed and choked and cried. Meanwhile, the other participants came closer, to observe and prepare for their own desecration of the offering.

  A full-figured woman neared the sacrificial table and lowered herself onto the highest step of the altar. Wetting her fingers, she worked the small sensitive knob of the victim's most private parts. The Chosen’s back arched under the gentle but insistent pressure. The plump woman then teased her mercilessly with tongue and teeth, sending her quarry into a flurry of wild quivering. The man on top erupted in tremulous release, then vacated the altar, making room for more to participate.

  When the Chosen finally came back to reality, she was beyond caring. The scent of mating, the heat, the repeated stimulation, all contributed to her surrender. The participants quenched her parched throat with wine, soothed her with kisses. All took turns at the desecration.

  The panting creature gasped but still showed wantonness. Her skin glistened. Drops and rivulets of perspiration dripped from her brow and upper lip. Her voice weakened, raw from groaning. Yet, again and again she gave in to the irresistible craving, never satisfied, never complete, never fully satiated. Even when overcome by several partners intent on satisfying her needs, the desperate soul begged for more.

  When the giant with the whip came into her field of view, however, the Chosen paled. Garbed in a black leather mask and wide leather straps, the tormentor's stance made his intent clear. He laughed harshly at the dismay on his victim's face. She pulled on her restraints and started to plead, but he only raised the thick leather braid. Clenching her jaw, the woman tensed for the blow. It came hard, leaving a red snaky mark on the pale skin. The Chosen winced, then she howled like a wounded animal.

  The activity around the altar stopped as everyone concentrated on this new entertainment. Some participants, aroused by the scene, found a willing partner to appease their fancy. The bullwhip slowly rose then lashed, harder every time, each stroke extracting a broken scream and leaving a new angry welt on the soft skin. When he could not hold his arousal anymore, the tormentor threw aside the whip, straddled the altar, lifted the Chosen’s hips, then crudely relieved himself in her bleeding rectum while the spectators cheered.

  Only Krastinios had not participated... Yet. Fully clothed, relishing the heat, he presided over the ritual from his elevated throne. The black knight had waited patiently, bathing in the energy released for his benefit. Now, he rose, casually stepping down from the black marble seat. As he approached the sacrificial platform, his underlings respectfully made room for their powerful master.

  Gently, Krastinios untied the whimpering victim then gathered her in his arms, offering understanding and comfort. With a sigh of relief, the Chosen collapsed and sobbed against his chest.

  At a snap of his fingers, four stout men approached the altar. Each taking hold of a wrist or ankle, gently at first, they held the woman firmly down. She protested feebly, hurt and distrust fleeting on her face. Then Krastinios pulled the bejeweled dagger from the fold of his black leather tunic and held it aloft, in ritual offering, for his Father’s blessing.

  "You are doing fine," Krastinios assured the trembling girl. "In this safe place, no one can hear you. You may scream all you like... The more the better."

  Smiling all the time as if to reassure the girl, Krastinios waited until full understanding and terror registered on the Chosen’s face. Too scared to scream, she stared as he lowered the knife, ever so slowly, to her spread genitals and penetrated her with the blade.

  She screamed. Krastinios plunged the knife deeper into the abdomen, and she screamed again as the steel crushed the pelvic bone with an audible crack. Applying steady force, Krastinios bisected the heaving abdomen, all the way up through the sternum.

  The screams stopped when the disemboweled victim lost consciousness. Blood and steaming insides spilled onto the warm stone and down to the floor.

  Krastinios seized the exposed beating heart and cut it loose from the arteries. Blood sprayed the ceiling. The overpowering, coppery smell of it, as much as the sight, sent pulses racing and lungs breathing hard. With a hissing sound in his mother tongue, the knight placed the bloody organ on a gold plate and made a ritual offering to his Father. Then, bringing the heart still beating to his mouth, Krastinios took a bite, chewed the firm bloody morsel with relish then swallowed.

  None of the followers observed the small green snake leaving the entrails of the Chosen to slither away into inconspicuous shadows, but Krastinios nodded in acknowledgment and smiled. Shaking the blood loose from the blade in a swift motion, he returned it to its hidden sheath.

  On his order, the blood was poured into gold decanters and mixed with wine. In a ritualistic communion, the disciples partook of the mixture, the tormentor, winner of the contest, getting first blood and a share of the heart.

  When no blood remained in the gold vessels, Krastinios turned to his disheveled and now bloody guests. They stared at him and he knew why. Not a drop had spilled on him. His face, hands and clothes remained perfectly clean. "Let the party go on!" he announced cheerfully. "I am expected elsewhere... Have fun without me. There are still a few hours before dawn."

  The black knight headed toward the hidden door, a happy spring in his step, turned and waved to his friends, feeling magnificent and rejuvenated. Then he dematerialized, grinning at the surprise of his loyal subjects.

  Chapter Fourteen

  After Michael's struggle in the busy capital, Arkansas came as a welcome respite. A dog from a distant farm barked to the roar of his motorcycle. In front of a neighboring farmhouse, a small fire burned dead branches and leaves. Michael smelled the smoke on the cool breeze. Now close to his brother's small estate, Michael wondered how some people could enjoy the simple life of the country and ignore the problems that plagued the planet. In blissful ignorance, they partook of Earth's gifts without a care about the morrow, as Michael had done, before meeting Amrah.

  On the horizon appeared the familiar blue haze of the Ouachita Mountains. In a pale green meadow, a mare and her colt grazed in the shade of a tall oak tree. Already, the sun lowered on the horizon, setting ablaze the open fields in various shades of green and brown.

  The vibration of the engine had num
bed Michael's arms. Throat parched from the dust of the road, he longed for the cool serenity of a house in a shaded meadow. The headband, stiff with caked dust, made him look like the half Native American he did not like to be. Boy, am I going to enjoy a shower! Soon he came to the farm's landmarks: a dirt road leading to an old barn and a trailer home, a baby-blue pick-up truck discolored by the sun and, behind it all, the skeleton of a pretentious two-story house still in the framing stages.

  Dave must have heard the motorcycle first. He’d waited all day, no doubt, so relieved did he look walking toward Michael along the dirt lane. "Mike?" he yelled over the noise of the engine.

  Michael turned off the ignition, stabilized the big machine, dismounted and greeted his brother with a bear hug. Even though Michael had raised him, Dave, five years younger, looked older with his bushy beard and receding hairline.

  Behind Dave’s washed blue eyes, Michael could read his brother’s thoughts. For the past five years, Dave had tried to instill some wisdom in his wild, older sibling, unsuccessfully. For Dave, Michael remained a hopeless alcoholic, a manic-depressive off medications, and a suicidal renegade suffering from a persecution complex. Dave loved him nevertheless, imperfections and all. Still, Michael would have to work hard at changing the image he’d carved in his brother's mind.

  A young, giggling girl ran out of the mobile home, followed by Becky, Dave's wife.

  "Hi, Becky!" Michael waved cheerfully, trying to forget old grudges to see her with new innocence. Becky waved back from the house, saying something Michael did not understand.

  As the running child came to a stop, Dave introduced her, puffed with pride. "This is Clara, our newly adopted ray of sunshine!"

  "I'll be damned!" Unbelieving, Michael stared at the adopted child, who stared back with round brown eyes in a clever chocolate-brown face. "Why didn't you tell me?"

  "Tell you what? That she's black?" Dave guffawed.

  Michael was delighted. “I was just surprised... Glad to see you’ve forgotten the old man’s lectures about the evil nature of those goddamn niggers.”

  "Damn right! What difference does it make? We love the kid, and the color of her skin doesn't make a bit of difference."

  "Believe me, I know..." Michael looked at his brother with moist eyes, realizing the vastness of the transformation occurring in the world. Despite their upbringing, Dave had set aside his old beliefs to adopt an African American child.

  Michael flashed the child a big smile and scooped her in his arms. A sudden yearning for Jennifer seized him as he held Clara. Almost the same age... Clara was younger, shorter, Michael thought, enjoying the closeness of the little girl. Inside, every child craved the same love.

  When he let her down, Clara took his hand, "Come see the new house, Uncle Michael."

  Wiping wet hands on her apron, Becky joined them and kissed Michael on the cheek. She looked different, plain, with glasses and no makeup, a far cry from the exotic dancer she was when Dave met her. She looked older, too. Michael could not help but think of them as older folks, although it had nothing to do with age. They seemed to have given up on youth. Michael would never give up. He would always be eighteen.

  "You guys go see the house, I'll bring some cold drinks. Michael, you want a beer?" Becky asked, matter-of-factly.

  "No thanks, Becky, got any soda?" There was a short hush.

  "Sure... Pepsi okay?" She seemed at a loss.

  "Fine... Pepsi's fine." Michael avoided looking at Becky, who stared at him in disbelief.

  Dave broke the embarrassing silence. "Come see my work." He rested a hand on Michael’s shoulder. "Let me show you how far I got. Your timing's perfect. I sure can use your talents now. I need some advice on how to frame the dormer windows on the roof... See, the bedrooms on the second floor have a slanted roof, and the living room will have double-height ceiling with full-length windowpanes... And I don't know as much as you about plumbing either..."

  Clara followed the two men closely, curious as any child when meeting a famous family member for the first time. They sat on sacks of concrete piled up in a corner of the future living room. The elongated shadows of the naked frame crisscrossed in an elaborate pattern in the glow of the setting sun. Becky joined them shortly and sat with them, as if finally relaxing after a long day of domestic and farming chores.

  Clara stared, obviously fascinated by Michael. During a pause in the adult conversation, Michael addressed Clara. "I have a little girl like you, her name's Jennifer. You'll meet her soon. I'm sure you two will get along just fine. We go fishing together sometimes... Do you like fishing?"

  Clara nodded vigorously. "But I don't know how!" She shrugged, staring at him candidly.

  "Really? I'll have to teach you then... If you want to learn, of course..."

  "I want to learn..." The tone in Clara's voice and the determination in the set of her mouth made Michael smile.

  "I'm pretty sure you'll like it... I know a river where the fish come when you call them... I'll teach you how if you want..."

  The little brown face beamed with pleasure, "Really?"

  "Sure... And I can teach you much more."

  Dave and Becky watched, exchanging quiet smiles and holding hands over the heavy sacks covered with gray concrete dust on which they sat.

  *****

  A long shower left Michael refreshed. A shave and clean clothes made him feel civilized again. The trailer proved bigger inside than it looked from the outside. Although temporary, these adequate living quarters would allow him to enjoy enough privacy without imposing on his brother's family space. As the aroma drifting from the small kitchen whetted his appetite, Michael realized that he had gone without food for a whole day.

  Dinner consisted of chicken, potatoes, gravy and apple pie, all ingredients produced on the small farm. Becky was proud of her home-raised chickens. She fed them good grain, and they ran free on the grounds. She also kept rabbits in cages in the barn. Dave took care of growing the vegetables. He had a small tractor, sufficient for the acreage. What they didn’t consume, they sold at the market. Dave also hired out his services here and there as a carpenter to supplement their income.

  The whole family spent the evening studying the blueprints. Dave explained his ideas, and Michael offered technical solutions to the problems encountered. Raised in Seattle by Michael since the age of ten, Dave, essentially a city-boy, had only recently returned to the land of his birth. His tastes, too sophisticated for a farmhouse, created interesting challenges. Dave wanted it all and Michael, although he did not quite understand why they needed all these luxuries, enjoyed the opportunity to show the extent of his knowledge in the craft.

  Dave was a dreamer, learning the construction trade from his brother but never considering it a vocation as Michael did. The younger brother enjoyed intellectual pursuits whenever time allowed, considering physical work healthy for mind and body. He relied heavily on Michael's technical expertise for the building of the new home.

  Clara helped Becky clear the dishes then joined the adults who now discussed the future house over coffee. New enthusiasm brought by Michael’s suggestions now fired the conversation. Michael's creative approach was stirring excitement into the life of the isolated family.

  Late that night, since it would be morning in France, Michael called Tori in Paris. When the call finally went through, Michael was patched into an answering machine. A foreign male voice delivered a recorded message in French. It might have been Tori's husband, but since Michael did not know the man, he couldn't tell. Nevertheless, Michael left a message for Jennifer, not sure at all he had reached the right number. Lately, He had been unable to achieve a mind link with his daughter and he wondered why. Maybe the girl was having so much fun that her mind was otherwise occupied.

  His dreams that night took Michael back to the infernal planet of his earlier nightmares. Below the fiery glow, at the core of the underground city, he saw the frightening alien with a snake face and a forked tongue. This time, the R
eptilian laughed under the hood of the silvery robe, a dry, icy cackle that brought goose bumps to Michael's skin. But in the dream, Lufriec was not alone. Krastinios joined in the laughter with a warm, rich baritone. The two talked in riddles about two chosen doves for a sacrifice. Michael knew it concerned him and ought to know what it meant, but comprehension floated beyond his grasp.

  The next morning, over a real breakfast of eggs, bacon, biscuits, and gravy, Michael discussed humanitarian and ecological ideas with Dave and Becky. He related the two-week campaign in Washington, gave Becky news of her sister Debbie and, to impress Clara, made the spoons dance by themselves on the table.

  "Whoa!" the child exclaimed, big round eyes full of wonder.

  “Nice trick,” Dave commented. You’ll have to show me how it’s done.

  Michael only smiled. Typical for adults to disbelieve...

  But Clara now asked, “Do something else!”

  Michael thoroughly enjoyed her delight. "Now, what do you bet I can throw this glass through the wall without breaking it?"

  "Can you do that, Uncle Michael?"

  "All right, just watch." Michael sent his glass flying in slow motion toward the flimsy wall of the trailer. It stopped as it hit, melted into the wood, then disappeared into it. "Now go get it in the dandelion patch outside!"

  Without a word Clara ran out and came back with a big grin, triumphantly holding the glass high for everyone to see.

  Dave and Becky laughed, but Michael knew they didn’t understand what had happened and wrote it off as a trick. Funny how we only see what our mind can comprehend and lock away any unexplained phenomena. Even when confronted with the facts, our conscious mind invokes coincidence, freaky happenstance, and still refuses the unacceptable proof. Michael didn’t condemn them. He had done it, too, on many occasions.