The Sunset Prophecy (Love & Armageddon #1)

by P. J. Day

  Next to the desk, an old wooden pew stood in front of an imposingly large wooden cross on the wall. Candles flickered, revealing half of Fisker’s gaunt face as Adam approached.

  “Please sit,” Fisker instructed.

  “Thank you,” Adam said.

  Augustus wore a black suit, a black tie, with a red shirt underneath. The bald man looked like he was in his late fifties. Faded tattoos covered the wrinkled and hardened skin on his neck and hands. The letters INRI were inked left to right on his knuckles. Adam assumed a defensive posture as soon as he identified the markers on Fisker’s dermal canvas.

  Adam squeezed into the chair and nodded toward the cross on the wall. “Aren’t you afraid that word might get out?”

  “No one seems to have a problem. Everyone here answers to me,” said Fisker. “Everything is under control. I can’t say the same about you.”

  Adam shrugged his shoulders and played coy. “Control? We have everything under control.”

  Fisker poured water into a clear glass. He then tapped the glass with his long finger and the clear water bubbled slightly, transforming into a thick, rich purple liquid.

  “Wine?” he asked.

  “You guys have that trick down pat, don’t you?” Adam smirked. “No, thank you. I need to keep a clear head.”

  Fisker smiled and took a sip from the glass.

  “Someone who I constantly have in my ear has told me that you might have a rebellious progeny problem.”

  “Who gave you that information?” Adam asked, with an awkward chuckle. “We’re all on board. This is gonna happen the way it was always supposed to happen. There is nothing standing in the way.”

  Fisker’s sunken cheeks reddened and his brow furrowed with slight frustration. “Why are you lying to me, Mr. Cagle?”

  “Who says I’m lying? You? What do you know? I work my ass off every day to make sure everything is right for you guys. Every millennia, you just sit around and wait for your turn.”

  Fisker slammed the glass on his desk. “We see everything, Adam. Don’t be a fool. We’re everywhere. We hear everything. This world is ours. It was all agreed upon by those you identify with. Your job is to maintain the status quo. To keep everyone in this world in line and now, it seems you can’t uphold your end of the bargain.”

  “Well, if you haven’t noticed, we’ve done a wonderful job of that, don’t you think?” Adam grabbed a tablet computer from his bag and opened the browser. Fisker cocked his head back and stared into the tablet’s luminous glow. “Look. Kardashians everywhere. There are children being slaughtered in Syria, yet on the front page of Yahoo, MSN, CNN, and our website, there are nothing but fashion tips, who’s dating who, and what reality show has the best pair of tits.”

  Fisker nodded as he wetted his lips. He continued to focus sharply on Adam’s presentation.

  “What more do you want? Here’s a featured story. Let me repeat that, a featured story about some British Premier League bench-warmer attending Justin Bieber’s concert.”

  Fisker leaned back in his chair and gave Adam an understanding scowl.

  “Fine. Yes, you’re right, Mr. Cagle. You are doing a wonderful job. However, we’re all nervous and rightfully so. This daemon of yours has the potential to cause horrific disruptions.”

  “He’s not my daemon, per se.”

  “Don’t even pretend he’s not out of your control! We cannot afford another war, do you understand?”

  Adam slipped the tablet back into the bag’s pouch. He folded his hands and placed them on the desk.

  “How do you know about our daemon problem?”

  Fisker downed the last half ounce of wine in his glass and wiped the mauve dribble from the side of his mouth. He took a deep breath and cleared his throat. “Seraphs are here. On Earth. As we speak.”

  Adam’s jowls pulsated as he was taken aback by Fisker’s revelation.

  “Who ordered Seraphs on Earth? That is completely irresponsible.”

  “It wasn’t my call, just like how your spontaneous girth issue wasn’t your call.”

  “Then whose was it? Adonai’s?”

  “Adonai did not call in the Seraphs. In fact, Adonai isn’t aware of our situation,” Fisker said, standing up and opening the curtains behind him.

  The sun that splashed Los Angeles with its infamous sunshine filtered in through the office window with all its might. Adam shielded his eyes with his arm.

  As Adam regained his sight, he noticed a large shape take form as the golden rays dissipated.

  On the ledge, a large gray wrinkled creature crouched and observed the city below. It wore a tattered hood. Its muscular thigh and calf jutted out from beneath its ratty cloak. Three large feathery wings protruded from its back. Veiny and translucent skin seemed to tightly glue the feathers together. Claws grew out from the tops of its wing joints.

  The creature swung its head toward the men in the window. It made eye contact with Adam, who averted his eyes. The only features visible from within the cloak were two large black discs and patches of its gray, oily and wrinkled face.

  “They’re desperate,” said Fisker. “They sense a disruption. Your daemon will be hunted down and killed in order to protect the Prophecy.”

  Adam’s eyes blinked rapidly, a twitch he had when confronted with predicament he didn’t appreciate. “That is against the Concord. The scions of Pit are off-limits.”

  Fisker’s posture stiffened as he began losing patience with Adam’s insolence. Fisker knew his kind held authority and there was a reason why rival overseers rarely crossed paths: ruminations of the past were too painful for Adam Cagle’s faction to bear. “The Concord explicitly states that all who stand in the way of the fulfillment of the Harvest shall be executed without question and without mercy.”

  Adam’s shirt and jacket began to flap upward as if caught within an invisible wind. The rolls of his belly synchronized with the flutters of his fabric.

  “Don’t you even think about it, Adam,” warned Fisker.

  The creature outside the window screeched at the sight of Adam’s offensive posture. Its shrill howl created a sound wave so small, so unique, that it traveled through the atoms that bounded the large thick window separating the outside world with Fisker’s office. Adam gritted his teeth as his ears and his entire being fought through the sound of the piercing shriek.

  “Adam, it’s not worth it. You fight me or attempt to extinguish me and you risk all-out war,” threatened Fisker.

  Adam’s glow diminished. He figured he was outmatched and was much closer in finding Theolodus than the Seraphs. As Adam picked up his bag, he abruptly turned around, and wagged his finger in the air, dark smoke emanated from his body. “Nope, our numbers will not be diminished. I will find him before your junkyard dogs ever do.”

  Fisker planted his hands on his table. Exhausted by the fact that he almost had to battle, he panted at Adam, “Don’t get in the way, Adam.”

  Adam turned around; his eyes glowed like hot coals. “Call off the Seraphs or Adonai will be hearing from us.”

  “Adonai can be petulant. You know and I know that might not be a good idea,” Fisker begged. “Like I said, the Seraphs aren’t my call.”

  “Tell whoever made the call to give me more time,” Adam’s voice echoed, as he stood on the other side of the long office.

  “I can’t guarantee that.”

  “Then war is imminent,” Adam intoned.

  Fisker loosened his neck as his head drooped downward. “Fine, I’ll do my best, but I can’t guarantee how much time you’ll have.”

  “Fine,” said Adam, his glowing eyes subsiding, as he stood at the doorway. “I promise you, I will find him.”

  The Seraph outside the window shrieked one last time, becoming transparent before disappearing, leaving only a brief pulsating static-like imprint in its wake.

  “I hate those fucking things,” stated Adam, before turning around and walking toward the elevator.

  10

&
nbsp; Fateful Relay

  Raffi’s salt-and-pepper hair covered the top of his ears. His curled hairline extended halfway down his forehead, fulfilling his mother’s prediction that he would never go bald. At 65, it was time to close up shop, and move back to Tehran. He wanted to be at his ailing father’s side. He wanted to tend his mother’s plot, but he also had a nagging feeling that he was being observed from a distance. There was no history of mental illness in Raffi or his family, but he did feel the occasional breath feather the skin behind his neck on days where there was no wind. He knew he wasn’t crazy. He knew it was time to go. Home.

  Cindy browsed the sparse shelves near the storefront.

  “Raffi, what do you have for sale today?” she asked. She passed by a couple more shelves before her eyes gravitated toward a fresco hanging on the wall that depicted a raven-haired angel. “Ooh, what’s this?”

  Raffi was hunched over a box. Sweat poured down his wrinkled forehead, even though it was the middle of March. “That is Pairika. She’s a fallen angel. She’s been evil and is now good. Teaching us that even in the spirit world there are no absolutes.”

  Cindy’s eyes lit up. She sensed Raffi’s haste and pounced. “Please tell me this is discounted, too?”

  “Tell you what,” he said, standing up and slapping the dust from his hands. “You help me get these boxes into the back of my truck and I’ll let you have it.”

  Cindy rushed the counter. “Which box? Nothing over twenty pounds. I don’t want to break any of your stuff.”

  “The white one over there,” he pointed. “Leave the box with the funny writing alone. I need to talk to you about that one in a minute.”

  Ecstatic, Cindy picked up the crate. She slumped forward as the weight of the box slightly passed her threshold. “I said twenty pounds, Raffi.”

  “You want Pairika or not?” he smiled. “Come on, the truck is parked in the back.”

  They both walked through the small warehouse that was connected to the store, which was now completely emptied. The old white bobtail truck was parked in the alley. Its tailgate was opened and almost brimmed to capacity with most of Raffi’s unsold merchandise.

  “What are you going to do with all this stuff?” asked Cindy.

  Raffi stepped back and placed his hands on his waist. “If I told you, you’d hate me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Cindy, you’ve been very good to my store. Your word of mouth kept me in business when times were tough. But we have to let go sometimes.”

  Cindy stared at all the unusual trinkets which begged for her touch and attention. “But all this stuff deserves a home, don’t you think?”

  “No, it doesn’t. Some of these things have haunted some and have made many irrationally paranoid. How do you think they all ended up at my store?”

  A faint glimmer through a crease in a box caught Cindy’s attention. “Can I at least have what’s in that box? The contents look shiny.” Cindy reached in and pulled the cardboard cube out from underneath a table. Like a kid on Christmas morning, she pried open the box with delight. “Holy crap, the diamonds on this medallion look real.”

  Raffi raised his bristly eyebrows. There was no doubt, that by looking at them, he was part of the Mediterranean gene pool. “That one paid for my trip back to Tehran. It’s sold. I need to tape it before FedEx gets here.” Raffi grabbed the box and sealed it with the tape gun. Fangparker950@gmail.com was written on the box in Sharpie marker. “I’ll leave it right here, so the driver sees it.” Raffi left it in a nook by the door where parcel companies picked up and dropped off.

  “Where would something like this come from?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. Many people coming into my store strung out on some type of drug looking to pawn off their wares for money,” Raffi said. He placed his hand on Cindy’s back. “Hurry, hurry, follow me, let me show you something.”

  Raffi escorted Cindy to the storefront. He picked up the wooden box with the funny writing on its side and placed it on the counter. “Please, take this.”

  “The entire box?” she asked. She rotated the box and scanned the exterior. The mysterious inscription kindled her curious fire. “What’s this funny writing all over it?”

  “I really don’t know,” he said. “I sent a picture to my friend, who’s a linguist at USC. He said it might be an offshoot language of Koine Greek and Aramaic.”

  “What?” asked Cindy.

  Raffi reached into his wallet and pulled out a tattered business card. “Here,” he said. “If you wish to contact him...actually, please contact him. The contents inside, study them as soon as possible, please.”

  Cindy picked up the box and held it in her arms. “How much do I owe you for this?”

  “Nothing,” he said. A Dumpster-diving cat outside in the alley knocked an old metal shelf to the ground. The sound of tin hitting the concrete startled Raffi. His eyes darted around his surroundings like prey hearing the snapping of twigs on the jungle floor.

  Cindy’s eyes widened, matching Raffi’s panicked look. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing,” he said. “Please, try to understand the contents of this box. Make sure to contact Professor Rivers. I really need to go.”

  Raffi hugged Cindy. “Don’t ever cease to be curious, okay?”

  “Yeah, of course. Thanks, Raffi,” she said, as she focused sharply on the door that led to the alley. “Everything okay?”

  Raffi wiped away the sweat that was accumulating on his eyebrows. He breathed heavily. “Go, please. Just go. Don’t come back here, do you understand?”

  “Raffi, what’s wrong?” Cindy asked. She looked around the store, wondering if Raffi was losing it.

  “I’m fine. I need to leave. I’m not good with goodbyes,” he said.

  Cindy raised her eyebrows. She didn’t know what to make of Raffi, who had always been friendly, caring, and showed the same enthusiasm toward the artifacts in his store, which she could relate to. “I’ll just go,” she said tentatively, walking backward toward the exit. Cindy scanned her surroundings with nervous energy. “Thank you, Raffi.”

  “Don’t forget Pairika,” he said, leaning on the counter with a nervous smile.

  Cindy almost tripped. She recovered and grabbed the fresco from the wall. “Bye, Raffi, good luck,” she said, before stumbling out the door.

  She placed the box and the fresco in the trunk of her green Beetle. She clicked her seatbelt and stared at Raffi’s store one last time before turning the key in the ignition. She observed Raffi lowering his head on the glass counter. She felt the sudden urge to re-enter the store and comfort him, but her imagination ran wild. Her gut churned up a feeling that something wasn’t quite right. Was Raffi involved in something shady?

  She swiftly came to an internal resolution. Raffi would be all right, she thought. He’s leaving anyway, far, far away from whatever was spooking him in Los Angeles. Besides, she found what she’d been looking for. Something that could validate her beliefs, beliefs which others took pleasure in mocking.

  As Cindy departed, Raffi’s hands trembled. He stared at the shelves in his store one last time. There wasn’t any time left. The landlord would have to take care of all the items he left behind.

  He picked up the last wooden box and rushed toward the alley. The bottom edges of the box dug deep into his skin, pressing hard on the bones of his long fingers. Nervously, he looked for the keys in his pocket. They were in the store. “Dammit!” he yelled, scaring off the cat that was still scavenging the Dumpster. He went back inside and inspected the warehouse floor with a keen eye. He kicked the wooden pallets and wrapping paper that were strewn about. Nothing.

  Raffi felt a sudden, burst of cold air tackle his back as he pressed through the doorway toward the front of the store.

  The skin on his arm suddenly broke out in goose bumps. The hairs on the back of his neck lifted. His urge to leave rushed copious amounts of blood through his heart. Palpitations increased. Raffi began sweating
profusely as he entered the front of the store.

  The glint of keys caught his eye. They were sitting on an empty shelf. His sweaty palms snatched the key ring. Raffi paused as another mysterious blast of wind ran down his vertebrae. He gasped and held his breath. The walls of his store flickered like digital static. Raffi turned his head. There was nothing there. He let out a breath. He stumbled toward the exit. Tapping sounds, like the racket of a puppy’s claws scurrying about on hardwood floors, pulled his ears and head toward the metal beams in the warehouse ceiling above. A strange shadow that seemed out of place briefly caught his eye. Raffi backed up.

  “Go away,” he yelled, at the cold empty air. “There is nothing here for you.”

  Raffi gazed above. The static returned this time on the ceiling, blinking wildly, finally revealing a medium-sized organic form. A Seraph. The creature stretched its limbs, as it hung upside down like a spider. Its wings fluttered slowly like a fruit fly. Raffi peered into the monstrosity’s deep and dark eyes. Galactic spirals appeared to be in the center of Seraph’s eyes.

  The winged beast dropped down from the ceiling, slamming its black claws into Raffi’s chest, pinning him to the cold, concrete floor. Raffi fought back, bashing the creature’s ribs with his fists. The Seraph dug its claws deeper into Raffi’s skin, puncturing his fat, and then piercing the muscles surrounding his ribcage. “Help!” Raffi yowled, hoping that someone passing by would hear.

  Blood began pooling around Raffi’s torso. The creature opened a slit where a mouth would normally be. A small gumline with equally small, sharpened teeth emerged. Its synthesized growl modulated into a layman’s enunciation. “Where’s the Apocryphon?”

  In excruciating pain, Raffi willed coherence. “What Apocryphon?”

  “The Apocryphon? You roach,” hissed the Seraph.

  Raffi knew what the Seraph was intimating; the Apocryphon that was given to him by Father Gutierrez from a parish in Riverside County, the one that was in the silly box with the silly writing. Raffi thought Father Gutierrez was a quack, but sometimes, even the unbelievable rants of crazy people tickled the part of the brain where irrational paranoia lived. He gave in to that sudden and momentary feeling.