He cracked…
“Sophie!” Jasmines voice was full with incensed outrage.
“What?”
“James didn’t kill himself, aren’t you paying attention?” explained the other girl. “He was murdered, girl, his right arm was torn off and is missing. His body was pumped up with some sort of toxin that could’ve killed an elephant. And… if that wasn’t gruesome enough, he was stuffed in a mattress and dumped atop Townsend Avenue with a trash bag full of all kinds of crazy shit – duct tape, dirty rags, a rope, a knife.
“Right now, the police aren’t even sure what the hell he was doing with all that crap before whatever got to him… well, got to him…,” she sighed hugely. “Jesus Christ, kid, aren’t you watching what I’m watching?”
Sophie’s eyes bulged with shock, her ears hearing the reporter once more as she walked up against the tape and barricades the police had put up to keep the public back from the crime scene.
“…now know the victim was a fifteen year old student of Eagle Rock Junior and Senior High School, by the name of James Henley, Jr. He was brutally murdered somewhere in this normally peaceful, middle-class neighborhood. His body was then stuffed in a mattress, carried and then dumped here at the crest of Townsend Avenue, some thirty feet or so from the street itself.
“What the police still do not know is why young James was crammed into this mattress with a number of curious items after he was killed. Things they say that often appear at the site of a murder victim, but never in the manner discovered this morning – unused.”
“Paula, you mentioned earlier that this wasn’t the only strange thing about this murder,” prompted the female anchor at the news desk back in the studio.
“Yes, Marlene, that is correct. The mystery deepened when police discovered neither of his parents were aware James had left their house sometime late last night…”
“Oh my god,” was all Sophie could say.
“Tell me about it, girl? And where was he going with all that ‘kidnapping’ shit in the first place?” added Jasmine, as she clicked her tongue loudly.
The chill that went up Sophie’s spine was so profound, her shudder so deep, she knew the answer in an instant.
She felt Daiquiri stop grooming herself, could feel the canine look up at her, knowing her head had turned to the side in question.
Jasmine’s words echoing in her head like a bell tolling in the dead of night…
…”kidnapping” shit…
He’d been coming for me.
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~ Interlude ~
The Seeker
Sunday, November 21st, 2:16 pm...
She stepped through The Way. It was a shimmering, silver rectangle slicing through the air of the basement of one of the most famous homes in northeastern Los Angeles. She was Rasputna - the Seeker, the Mistress of Chaos, the harvester of deaths, killer of more living things than any other creature in the four universes. She was the Snowman’s Dagger, the knife in the dark, forever walking in shadow, unseen, unheard, until it was too late. She struck with her infamous Stiletto of Piercing and death soon followed.
It was said she had come from human stock, a long time ago, having walked the earth amongst the very first generations of that lowly race. Though it was the truth, she never acknowledged or denied her lineage.
It was better to keep the Lords of Storm guessing.
She let them think she was far too deadly, way too evil to have come from the womb of a human mother. It was true, however, she was without pity or conscience or remorse. She merely did as commanded by the Lord of the Storm without question, devoid of thought, action minus reaction, a vessel of death, a harbinger of woe. No human should’ve had the capability to delve to that level of soullessness, for her detachment was absolute. No human being before or after had walked or thought or lived in absolutes. She did. She was immune to the human condition, foreign, unlike any other. In the quiet times, when she sought out some depravity or another, she liked to think of herself as the Unhuman Being. She liked the ring of it in her mind.
She glanced around at the familiar sight of the basement. She had come through this Way countless times. It never changed. As long as the house above it stayed the same, it probably never would. The basement was roughly square, held up by mortar and cinder blocks and was obviously not made of the materials of the house’s original foundation. It had been modernized to withstand the frequent earthquakes of the region. It was otherwise featureless despite a medium-sized heating and cooling system and a three-foot-wide casement of stairs, leading up.
The structure was originally built in 1887 by the land speculator and real estate developer, George W. Morgan at the foot of Mount Washington just a few blocks from the old Highland Park Museum. It is an outstanding example of Queen Anne and Eastlake architecture and was restored to represent the rooms as they may have appeared in 1899. The house itself was sold many times, even moved from 4501 to 4425 North Pasadena Avenue (now Figueroa Street in the World of Man) before it was purchased by James and Bessie Hale in 1906 - ever since, it has been known as the Hale House.
Separating a few years after buying the home, Bessie retained the title from her one-time husband, living in and using it as a boarding home until the mid-1960’s. Bessie left the house to her niece Odeana Johnson, who then donated the structure to the Cultural Heritage Foundation of Southern California in 1970. It was then moved to its’ current location, adjacent to the Pasadena Freeway, at the very end of Homer Street upon a plot of land known as the Heritage Square Museum.
The Node of the Way hadn’t always been within the basement of the Hale House. It had always been in the small grove of trees that later became the Heritage Square at this exact same spot for countless millennia. When the conservators of the museum had the house placed here, Rasputna decided to use the famous house as cover of her comings and goings to this particular part of the World of Man. She had come and gone for more than forty years completely unnoticed. Any other evil creature would’ve smiled wickedly at her depraved antics over the decades. She didn’t. She was immune.
She ran her hands down her tall, athletic body, swishing her waist length, jet-black hair (as straight as an arrow) from her shoulders. The static accompanying her travel through a Way always played havoc with her hair. She had a wide face and a wide nose and her pursed, bright lips shone pink in the semi-darkness. The slotted windows about the basement only let in a modicum of sunlight.
Her skin was so dark, it was oftimes rumored to be darker than the night itself, over which she wore garments from the World of Man. She preferred apparel from her home, where the materials were more form-fitting, flexible and, above all else, didn’t rustle. She wore a one-piece leotard; black, clinging to her body like a second skin. She didn’t wear any undergarments, so the tight nylon caressed her ample breasts and budding nipples, clung to the twin, half-spheres of her firm rear end and folded neatly around the crests and valleys of her vagina like a fervent lover.
She only knew what that by its meaning. Love was beyond her as well.
I’m immune to that too.
Over her leotard, she wore a long overcoat, made of kidskin leather, the type that would’ve cost thousands of dollars on Rodeo Drive and not unlike those worn by the cowboys of the Old West. Over her feet, she wore supple, black boots with thick, suede soles that never creaked, never scuffed the surface of any floor, and never revealed her position to anyone. Though she moved like the wind, her clothing made her all the more silent, deadly.
She quickly surveyed her environs, finding everything as it should be. Since the museum was on its’ winter schedule, it was closed today. In the warmer months it was open every weekend, holidays included. Because of this, there was no sound, no tourists, and no tour-guides bellowing out this and that as they took the museum-goers about the Square.
She turned back toward the Way, feeling something coming through from the plane of black ice and ebon snow. Since only
she could traverse from the world of her master to the World of Man, all the Ways and Nodes and Points were hers. She could always tell when someone else had accessed one of them. It would have to have been with her showing the Path, of course. The Grand Edicts of the Lord of the Light had long sundered this universe from the others. Her birth upon the Earth had rendered those canons null and void when applied to her. This was condition her master, the Great Maelstrom, had used time and again when he’d wished to sow discord and strife upon mankind. She was, after all, the tip of his thrust. She was the Stiletto. She was the Seeker.
A figure stepped into being. It was huge, humanoid, though covered in long flowing robes of black. Other than its’ hulking shape, not many other characteristics were discernible. Only the large, scuffed boots below the hem of its’ thick over-garment was all anyone watching would’ve seen.
She moved toward the stairs, leading up to the parlor, providing the necessary space for the rest who would be joining them shortly. Peering over at the seven foot figure, she allowed herself a thin smile, at the very corner of her mouth. There would be twelve more, striding through the shiny gray rectangle in the middle of the basement. They had once been titans in the World of Storm, before the reign of her master, countless years’ agone when it was known as Chaos. This was before the Ancient Snowman had brought order and unification, herded his minions under a single banner – His. This was before the advent of the Isig-Vültriäk, what was commonly known as the Six-Fold Empire.
They had been the Lords of Chaos, the dreadnaughts of everything and nothing all at once. They were but a shadow of what they’d once been.
They were hers now, sworn to her, devoted to no other. She had given them sanctuary in return for their unfailing loyalty. She had given them an existence when all the other Lords of Storm had wished them destroyed. They had been their enemies for thousands of years, after all. Why not?
Rasputna had been far-seeing. Or maybe, a better way of describing it is to say her perspective wasn’t tainted with emotion, vendetta, politics, dogma or any other condition. She was devoid of a point of view. She was thoroughly unhindered. Her mind was crystal clear. She had seen a use for the former Lords of Chaos, now known as the Knights of the Seeker. She had come to their defense. She had saved them. She had understood the advantages of possessing these creatures of anarchy and discord. Tens of thousands of years ago, she had known.
When her master had detailed his Grand Design in his Citadel of Storm, she knew she’d been correct. She was to use her access to the World of Man. She was to unleash her knights upon its’ unsuspecting denizens and steal the second-most precious commodity living among humankind. When the Hand began the Rending, casting forth the Melding, she would remain behind. When the Twelve Guardians of this plane were thrust upon the Melded World, she and her minions would strike.
Now, she smiled in full.
Not many knew of the Lesser. Those who had studied the Lore, interpreted prophecy and were intuitive enough to make the connection – they would know. Most others merely dismissed them.
The Lord of the Storm had not. He knew of their value. He knew how to use them as well. Though they might not as strong as the Greater Twelve, the current Guardians - the Lesser Twelves, those who were the descendants of past Guardians - were treasures beyond measure. They would prove invaluable to the execution of the Grand Design. They would be at the crux of the Vyche necessary to bring her great master into the Melded World. No one, not even the high and mighty, Lord of the Light knew this.
The largest of her knights came forward when all twelve of his companions had emerged through the Way. His voice was a myriad of voices, all spoken at once – male and female, old and young, sweet and gruff.
“We are assembled, my Lady.”
From the third step of the staircase, she glanced over the tops of their heads, and then focused her eyes upon their ever-shifting orbs. She saw blue irises turn hazel, then navy, then slate. On and on, they changed in color. This was the nature of her knights. They were beings of chaos. They features were a constant melting of all features, unceasing, forever flowing.
“We will travel at night. I will personally take you to your rendezvous with the strongest of the Lesser. There you will wait until the appointed time. You are to reveal yourselves to no one. You are to draw no attention to yourselves whatsoever. You are to stay out of sight. The Rending itself will be the signal. When you see the glorious green of decay upon all things, you will know, the time has come.” She paused. They didn’t move. “Fail me in this and I will slay you myself, understood?”
“Yes, Lady Seeker,” they said as one, though it sounded like hundreds had replied.
“Good. We wait here until nightfall.” She brushed the first three fingers on her right hand across a corresponding eye.
Behind them, the Way closed.
A palatable reticence followed and stayed, for hours.
~~~~~~~~<<<<<<{ ☼ }>>>>>>~~~~~~~~
Part Two:
The Rending
And for the season it was winter, and they that know the winters of that country know them to be sharp and violent, and subject to cruel and fierce storms.
-William Bradford
“Winter is coming.”
― George R.R. Martin, A Game of Thrones
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~ 18 ~
“I’m the Boss”
Sunday, November 21st, 3:03 pm…
The kitten watched his fingers fly across the wireless controller with typical feline scrutiny. Jason Fong knew in the next moment or two, the little guy was going to make another leap for them with its tiny, razor-sharp claws extended, it’s jaws agape. For the hundredth time in the past hour, the kitten was going to try and kill his right hand.
“I think that cat of yours in insane,” commented Joaquin from the beanbag next to an identical one Jason was sitting. Half of his attention on the TV they faced. The other followed the wild, semi-feral cat Jason had brought home a few days ago. It was a feline that, ever since, couldn’t stop chasing after anything moving.
The kitten would become instantly alert and watchful of every movement, sometimes to the point of exhaustion. Jason had burst out in loud guffaws the first time he saw the little cat hopping and leaping about, only to fall sleep, death-like in its tracks a few moments later. It had fallen sidelong onto the floor in a deep slumber. The tiny, crazed animal had been dreaming within minutes.
Both boys were wearing cotton shorts and shirts, white socks and sneakers, Joaquin with a baseball cap on, Jason without, his short hair spiked in its usual fashion – both of them in total chill mode.
“You might be right, bro, he’s a little high strung, huh?” replied the Chinese teen, deftly moving his hand a little higher, out of the reach of the determined kitten, while executing a five-button-move, hitting Joaquin’s video game character with critical damage.
“High strung?” asked Joaquin, his eyebrows rising in consternation. “That little dude is like obsessive/compulsive or something. Once he starts something he can’t stop. I mean look at him.”
Sure enough, the kitten was leaping and lunging for Jason’s hands despite the fact they were at least half a foot out of the range of its’ exertions. Still, it kept on. Jason glanced down at the cat and smiled. It was absolutely insane! Then, he grimaced as Joaquin whacked his character three times in rapid succession during his moment of distraction. The others’ gaze had been glued to the TV before them the entire time.
“Hey ass cheese, you did that on purpose!” Jason complained, and then grunted with a vengeful glare in his eye when Joaquin smiled, but didn’t return his glare.
“I use every tool in the arsenal, my man,” Joaquin announced, his smile broadening, his teeth bared behind his broad lips.
“You’re a tool,” countered Jason, which made his friend laugh. Neither of them was looking away from the TV screen. The one-on-one battle was coming to an end and, up to this point, it had been
about even.
The little cat pounced again, missing by a wide margin.
Suddenly, it seemed to realize it was fighting a losing battle and sat back on its haunches, its’ head no more than five inches off the ground. Just as swift, it appeared to get another idea and scampered off to Jason’s right and out of sight.
The boy paid little heed to the miniature feline. His focus on the TV as he blocked one of Joaquin’s strikes, then another and yet another, before he counter-attacked, hitting his friend’s toon with a ground-level, sweeping kick, knocking him to the ground. Jason quickly punched in the button sequence making his character jump high into the air and come down for the killing blow when he felt a sharp pain on his right shoulder as something bit through his t-shirt and into the skin below.
“Ooowww!” he yelled. He turned his head to look, forgetting to push the final button necessary to complete the “death move”, catching sight of the kitten as it leapt from his shoulder and onto the controller he was holding both hands. Without so much as a by your leave, the little cat took one glance at the knuckle of his right thumb and promptly bit down with surprising strength. It’s needle-like teeth easily penetrated Jason’s skin, making the teen call out again as he dropped the controller and grabbed the kitten on either side of its jaws and squeezed slightly. He hoped the small amount of pressure would be enough to convince it to let go. Then, he heard the simulated blow of Joaquin’s toon hitting his and knew immediately he’d just lost the game.
In the same moment, the kitten twisted in his grasp, its teeth no longer embedded in his thumb, and made ready to attack the offending hand that had forced its jaws open. Jason tossed the kitten on the ground in front of him before it could do anymore damage and glanced over at Joaquin who was smiling back at him.
The Unwanted Winter - Volume One of the Saga of the Twelves Page 16