Beyond the Veil

by Brian Rathbone



  Beyond the Veil

  By Brian Rathbone

  Copyright 2008 Brian Rathbone

  https://brianrathbone.com

  Published by White Wolf Press, LLC

  "Don't cry, Daddy. Mommy's with God now."

  Those words, coming from Kindra, his then five-year-old daughter, were among the only things that had kept Vincent Pels from falling into an abyss of hopeless despair. Losing Joan would have been enough, but knowing his own negligence had played a part in her death was more than he could bear. If only he'd put air in her tires. At times, only his love for his daughter kept him from giving up completely. Life without Joan seemed dark and cold.

  Kindra's ability to accept and cope with her mother's death left Vincent feeling ashamed and guilty. How could such grace and wisdom be granted to one so young, yet denied to him?

  The tinny peal of a familiar ring tone announced a call from St. Joseph's Elementary, Kindra's school, and Vincent failed to keep the anxiety from his voice when he answered.

  "Mr. Pels, there's a problem with Kindra," said the school nurse, who sounded uncertain and concerned. "She's complaining that the 'bad things' won't leave her alone, and she's got scratches on her neck."

  "I'm on my way," Vincent said as he made a hasty U-turn. Kindra's complaints about the "bad things" had started a year ago, but they had always been at night, when she was trying to sleep. He had assumed they were little more than an excuse to sleep in his room, but his anxiety grew with each passing moment and tears gathered in his eyes.

  In his rush to get to Kindra, Vincent barely saw the road before him or heard the whine of his engine. Scenery flashed by in a blur, and only the high-pitched whistle of a crossing guard brought his attention back to the road. A dirty, green trash truck approached from the other direction; the portly crossing guard waved her arms and shouted.

  Over a bump that had never seemed so severe when doing the speed limit, Vincent's minivan momentarily left the ground then landed hard, sending a shower of sparks into the air. When he regained control, he drew a sharp breath; in the middle of his lane stood a little girl. She looked up at him. Deep brown eyes swirled with hazel and gold met his. He saw no fear in them, only sorrow and regret.

  Instinct took over. Vincent's right foot stabbed the brakes, and he yanked the wheel to the left. The squealing of his tires was accompanied by the wail of the trash truck's overloud horn. Gripping the wheel as his van careened out of control, Vincent Pels watched a grimy bumper part metal and glass. In the moment of his death, he felt no pain; all that existed was an awe-inspiring, yet familiar, white light.

  * * *

  Azure waters streaked with rivers of color ranging from turquoise to violet and obsidian lapped against a shoreline of translucent stones whose color shifted depending on the angle from which they were viewed. Rounded and polished by the relentless tides, each stone was as fine as any gem. Light seemed to stream from every direction, yet there was no visible source. No sun graced the cloudless sky, only swirls of pastel.

  As the sensations of his form began to return, Vincent shook the fog from his mind. Where was he? What was he doing here? When he looked at himself, his confusion grew. Dressed in heavy armor—finer than any he'd ever seen in a museum—he wondered if he were dreaming. When he drew the sword from the scabbard that hung on his belt, it sang a song of pride and death, and he doubted his imagination could create an image of such fierce beauty. Intricate patterns, traced in delicate and precise lines, accentuated highlights of gold and other metals Vincent did not recognize. Worried that he might accidentally hurt himself with the fearsome blade, he sheathed it.

  "Welcome back, Kevriel," came a female voice from behind.

  Vincent spun. Facing him was a woman dressed in armor similar to his own. Only her voice gave evidence of her gender, as her face was concealed beneath an ornate helm fashioned into a fierce and baleful glare.

  "Where am I?" Vincent asked. "Who are you, and why did you call me Kevriel?"

  "You know me," the woman replied. "We have done this before."

  Her words washed over him like a faded memory, and for an instant he smelled dandelions, but then it was gone, leaving him to wonder if he'd imagined it. Confused and frustrated by her vague answer, Vincent took a step forward. "I have to get to Kindra. She needs me."

  Despite the armor that shrouded this strange woman, Vincent sensed a reaction. "Vincent is dead," she said. "Here, you are Kevriel."

  "I'm not dead. I can't be," Vincent said. "Kindra needs me. Who will take care of her?"

  "Do not despair, Kevriel. On this side of the veil, you are stronger."

  "I have to go back," Vincent said, the woman's words seeming like a distant dream. The world around him began to shimmer and diffuse; only the armored woman's voice held him there.

  "No, Kevriel! You must not go back. Not yet. You must stay to protect Kindra!"

  His daughter's name demanded his attention. Nothing mattered more than Kindra. "How do I protect her?" he asked.

  "You won't believe me. I know you too well. You only believe what you see, and we are running out of time. I must show you."

  "Then show me now."

  "Put this on," she said as she handed him a helm similar to hers, yet with an expression of fury and rage. "Prepare yourself and follow me. Do only as I say."

  Vincent donned the helm. It fit him well and did not block his vision as badly as he had expected. He prepared to follow the strange armored woman, but he was surprised to see her wading into deep water.

  "Do not wander or stray," she said. "Stay near me, and you'll be fine."

  Vincent hesitated a moment, but his need to get to Kindra drove him into the water. The woman dived beneath the waves, and he followed without another thought. As soon as the water closed around him, though, he became disoriented. Light flowed from everywhere, and he could no longer tell which direction was up. Just as panic began to set in, he caught a glimpse of movement. Desperate, he swam hard to keep up with the woman's too-distant form. Hampered by his armor, he didn't think he would ever catch her, but then his feet encountered something solid, and he thrust his head above water, gasping for breath as soon as his lips broke the surface.

  Standing on the shore, the woman waited impatiently, her arms crossed over her chest. "Hurry," she said, and Vincent scrambled to shore.

  The world looked much different than it had when he had entered the water. The air shimmered, and nothing looked quite solid or real. "Where are we?" he asked.

  "Between," she said. "We are vulnerable here, so be ready for anything. I'm sorry I have to show you this, but there's no other way. Just do what I tell you and nothing else. Be strong and remain true."

  "What—?" Vincent began to ask, but she cut him off with a look.

  "Be ready, Kevriel," she said, and she drew her sword and spoke, "Malcifious."

  The word fell like a hammer-blow to Vincent's consciousness, and he thought he might be sick. Revulsion and self-loathing filled him when he recognized and felt a certain kinship to the evil presence summoned by the woman's command.

  "You've been deceived," said a voice in Vincent's head. "She is the evil one. Kindra needs you and the woman is the only thing standing in your way. Kill her now and you will be free. Kill her, Vincent. Kill her now!" Snarling and with his fists clenched, Vincent found himself moving without conscious thought.

  "Show yourself, wicked one," the armored woman demanded. "No one will believe your lies after they've seen your true form."

  The feeling of cool air on his neck made Vincent realize that something had been perched there only a moment before. The sound of leathery wings drew his eye, and he recoiled. Floating in the air near his face was the vilest creature he'd ever seen. Wrinkled ski
n hung in folds, and diaphanous wing membranes were streaked with veins, but it was the face that shamed Vincent, for it was much like his own, only twisted into a permanent sneer.

  "Vincent does not see what you see," Malcifious hissed. "Vincent sees himself."

  "Don't listen to him, Kevriel. He speaks only lies."

  Vincent didn't know what to think, and he swayed on his feet, overwhelmed. "The woman is not your friend. I bet she hasn't even told you her name," Malcifious said in Vincent's mind. "She took you away from Kindra. She is why you are here. It's all her fault."

  "This demon was created by your actions on the Earth plane," the woman said. "When you crossed the veil, it was unleashed on this plane."

  "Lies," Malcifious hissed. Then, quicker than thought, the demon lashed out. Before the woman could defend herself, Malcifious was on her, and he yanked the helm from her head.

  Long, blonde hair tumbled around the woman's shoulders as she rolled away from the demon's attack. High cheekbones and a prominent nose gave her a noble air, but it was her eyes that Vincent recognized: deep brown swirled with hazel and gold. "You," he said. "You ran out in front of me. You caused my death. How could you?" Rage consumed reason as he advanced on the woman whose name he no longer cared to know.

  "Gruesomer," Malcifious whispered in his mind.

  "Gruesomer," Vincent echoed without realizing it, and Malcifious laughed.

  "You fool," the woman cursed. "Prepare yourself. You've no idea of what you've—" Her words were cut short as she was sent tumbling through the air. Behind where she had been standing loomed a vision from Vincent's nightmares.

  A creature easily twelve feet tall with the face of a bull, arms like ropes of stone, and legs like buttresses looked down on Vincent. Hefting a wicked-looking axe made of black metal that seemed to absorb light, the beast ran the blade over its bluish black tongue and gave a snort that sent flames curling from its nostrils. "Burn," it said in a voice like a blast furnace.

  Searing pain erupted all over Vincent's body, but it was especially intense in his neck. When he reached up to fend off the burning sting, his hand closed around Malcifious's neck. With a yank, he tossed the demon through the air. Malcifious righted himself, hovered, and laughed, his distorted lips dripping with fire.

  Vincent had only an instant to duck under Gruesomer's axe; he would have been finished if not for the woman. Issuing a high-pitched battle cry, she crashed into the back of the demon's legs, knocking it off balance. Malcifious flitted around her head, nimbly avoiding her swats. "Run!" she yelled. "To the water. You must escape." Vincent hesitated, his conscience unwilling to leave this woman to fight in his stead. "Go. Now!" she commanded.

  Set into motion by the sheer force of her will, Vincent moved with all the speed he could muster. "Coward," Malcifious said in his mind, but Vincent continued to flee. "You cannot run from me; you cannot hide. You created me!"

  Vincent dived into the waves, now driven more by the need to escape Malcifious than to obey the woman, but his demon's voice rang once more in his mind, "You are me."