“That big brute was a great man,” Gabriel corrected, putting his hands on his hips, “with an ability to be charismatic and pull a following from all these disparate people. Monsters too for cryin’ out loud. No matter who he was around, Gage managed to give them hope just by his presence and to me, that's a sign of a true leader.”
Under different circumstances, Gabriel’s statement would have carried far more of a positive bend, but with Gage’s loss and presumed death, the words, though inspiring, felt diminished.
“Hopefully he left a lasting impact. We can do well to rally behind the example he set,” Nathaniel stated.
“Ain't no doubt about that,” Gabriel replied, patting Sean on the shoulder.
The sound of something heavy hitting the deck interrupted their conversation. They all turned, seeing two bears staring toward the moon.
KYLE FULLER CHARGED into the galley, followed closely by his brother Seth. Both were completely naked, their skin still prickling from their recent transformation back to normal. They had just been out on the deck, mourning the loss of another one of their crew when Kyle’s bear form grew quite rambunctious, howling at several points like a mad werewolf at the moon. That prompted Seth to suggest they leave out of respect to the three human operatives who were sharing the space. After all, they were there before the brothers arrived.
“Did you see the look on the bald one’s face?” Kyle asked gruffly. “I wanted to claw out his perfect, white teeth.”
“Calm down… calm down… you have to remember Kyle: he’s not a shifter,” said Seth, repelling a chuckle as he ran his hands through the heap of messy blonde hair on the top of his head. “Nor the other two for that matter. We can't expect them to understand how we do things, at least not all up front. Now’s not the time for arguing; better to leave them be so they can handle their own grief in their own way.”
Finally, a laugh bolted from his lips.
“Besides,” Seth carried on, “I think you were making the bald one nervous with what you're packing.”
“Must’ve been the first time he’d seen a real beast,” Kyle grunted confidently as he waggled himself. Chuckling, he pulled back a chair, flipped it around, and dropped his bare ass onto it.
“In Alpha’s name, put some damn clothes on!” Seth growled as his eyes rolled, snatching a pair of jean shorts he had stashed in a low cabinet drawer. “Here, take these and remember to put some clean ones back in here for next time.”
Kyle was waving around proudly as he put them on, unfazed by his brother just happening to have a set of clothes for them in the galley – it was just like home. Similarly, Seth was unaffected by his brother’s high levels of self-assuredness as he somehow managed to shove all of himself into such a tiny amount of denim. Shaking his head with a half-smile on his face, Seth put on a pair of light gray sweatpants and they both sat back down at the table.
“So, Gage Crosse is actually gone,” said Seth with his head slung low. “Unsure how the rest of the crew back home is going to take that, especially Alpha. Our track record with these new folks hasn't been very good at all.”
“‘Very good’?” Kyle repeated. “Seth, we’re halfway through the quartet with Marcus and now Gage. Heck, it would have been three out of four had they not managed to save Joey. This is beyond shitty in anyone’s book.”
Seth looked around trying to find a scapegoat for them, anything at all to shift the blame, but ended up settling back in his chair empty handed.
“Well, regardless of that little fact… we don't know that Gage is actually d-dead.” Seth struggled to say it, knowing full well that if Dajjal showed up with any more treasures than the Crown, Gage would undoubtedly be deceased. “At least we can say his impact on the Smoky Mountains is one that will last. I mean, look at what we’ve experienced first-hand ourselves! Vampire negotiations down in Pine Springs, the Devil’s Highway and its vast, brown deserts…”
“… not to mention fighting demons of all things – beats shifter brawling every day of the week,” Kyle continued. His tone became grave. “And burying friends. But, on the bright side I suppose we even managed to smooth things out with the dragons. Relations there might actually be on the mend.”
“All of it possible due to Gage Crosse,” Seth affirmed.
“Indeed. Like Alpha tells us: no matter if and when we are gone, there are traces of us left behind in everything we touched – be that the walls of the room, this chair my naked ass sat in, or the hearts of those you love …”
“And he was loved by many, who are going to have a hard time moving on,” Seth said. “Just like us…”
Kyle nodded silently, just before a sudden noise cut through their conversation.
It was Seth’s stomach, groaning loudly enough to give Joey a run for his money. Taking that as a signal to eat, the ever-hungry brothers marched over to the pantry and flung open its doors. They nearly came off their hinges.
“I’d strip for tacos,” Kyle said, sniffing the air. “They have any in there?”
“You strip for anything,” Seth groaned, seeking out all the food that didn't require cooking. “Always naked, you freak.”
They ate whatever ended up in their shifter paws and before long were out of options. Hardly full, Kyle went back to the table while Seth stared at a yellow box of pancake mix peeping out from the back of the middle shelf.
“Hey, Kyle,” Seth called, reaching in to pull out the box. “Isn't this the stuff that Gage was always preaching about?”
“What's that?” Kyle asked, turning to look over his shoulder. “If it’s pancakes then yes, for sure it is.”
“Yeah, it says that on the box so at least I think so. This looks a lot different than the stuff we’ve seen down at the diner though,” Seth answered, shaking the box. “Want to try and make it?”
Kyle shrugged, pushing back from the table and moseying over.
“Why not?” he asked. “Looks simple enough without making too much of a mess.”
HE ISN’T DEAD…
Adrienne desperately tried to convince herself that Gage was in the bathroom, brushing his teeth in order to maintain that perfect smile. He would come out at any minute with no clothes on, the perfect view from behind in front of her.
He isn’t dead…
There was no noise from the bathroom, nor sounds. He wasn’t coming out…
He …
No matter how hard she tried, it wasn’t working at all.
Sitting on the very edge of her bed, her arms were locked tightly around Gage’s pillow. There was a faint whiff of him still rooted in the white cloth, though whether or not that brought her comfort was open for debate. Nonetheless, she looked out the window at the clouds, edged with silver. They passed by like supple waves on a tranquil ocean and on any other night it would have been a beautiful sight to behold, her body wrapped up tenderly in Gage's arms. Yet on this particular night, and perhaps all other nights to follow if the worst were true, she would be doing this alone.
The silence was overbearing, weighing so profoundly that she was tempted to give anything – even entertaining the reckless idea of a demon Pact – to hear Gage break the stillness, even if it were with his snores.
She shot up from the spot she had occupied for the last half hour, the pillow falling soundlessly to the floor. Beginning to pace, her breathing started off soft but was soon at a quick pace, and there was a burning that lingered in her chest that grew with each puff into a searing pain. To counter it, she tried expelling Gage from her thoughts, but the more she tried, the more he smiled right back at her, just like the stubborn bastard would do if he were there in person.
Reality liked slapping her attempts at consolation; he wasn’t there.
She stormed by the glass to head out of the room – to where she hadn’t decided – but the clouds parted just in time to see the far off twinkle of stars. The view held her firm and the distant sound of whips echoed through her memories from their time in Pine Springs. Adrienne’s gaz
e locked in on the brightest point that she could see and some of Gage’s most haunting words came to her for comfort, but her heart cried upon hearing them, forcing a single tear down her moonlit skin.
You are the brightest star in my sky…
That might have been true in the past, but there was now nobody there for that light to shine on. Instead, it was so cold; the notion that love was pain striking her hard in an already cramped gut. It was going to be a very long road to refill the hollowness left by his untimely departure.
Without a place to go, she turned and with her back to the glass, slid her body down until she was seated on the floor. Snatching the pillow again, her head fell into its soft embrace and Gage’s scent filled her nostrils.
She sobbed relentlessly as the ship continued on its way, the stars outside disappearing behind a dark veil that perfectly reflected her mindset and her mood.
JOEY’S MIND WAS racing, swerving from thought to unhappy thought like some deranged teen on a defensive driving course. He was sitting in Marcus’ favorite spot on the floor just outside the engine room on Deck Four, trying – or perhaps more hoping – for some clarity and peace of mind.
There was so much loss over such a short span of time that Joey was unsure he could handle anymore. At the same time, he found himself fearing the prospect of becoming numb to any more death, yet equally that is precisely what he wished for.
Would it be Adrienne next time?
Would he feel the same way he did with Marcus and Gage?
He didn't know the answers nor did he really want to, and thankfully his mind veered off in other restless directions allowing him to avoid the dilemma. At least for the time being.
As other thoughts came and went, they were no more reassuring, their effects piling on top of each other until an unbearable heap lay squarely on Joey’s chest. He was overwhelmed, at last pulling in his legs, closing his eyes before pressing them hard against his drawn up knees. So tempted to cry, a watchful presence felt as if it were looking down on him, telling him not to. Grasping his gift from Marcus, still dangling around his neck, he could hear his voice talking to him from the courtyard overlooking Central Park on one memorable night in the past.
… Don’t you dare cry, J. You can't live in constant fear of what might be or what might end up changing…
As Marcus’ voice faded, the steady hum of the engines took over and started to make Joey feel relaxed. He could at last see and feel the appeal of the spot. The thoughts he had of Gage continued to come and go, thankfully much slower than before, and it wasn't long before Joey started to feel sleepy. He fought it for a time, tempted to reopen his eyes.
Just going to keep them closed and rest for a minute, he told himself.
The minute soon became fifteen, then an hour, then more. Joey had fallen asleep, wrapped in the comfort Marcus found during his greatest times of need. It wasn't the same as having his partner’s loving arms around him, but served the same purpose nonetheless.
“WHERE ARE YOU HIDING IT?” Dajjal screamed, smashing a fist against the delicate wallpaper. His fingers crumpled against the rigidity behind it and in a spray of wood, gypsum, and blood they broke through.
The demon let out an incensed laugh, broad tongue riding the thin edge of his teeth as his hand withdrew from the gaping hole in the wall, smeared in red. The fragments of debris pushed out of his skin, splattering as they bounced on the decorative carpet. Bones started cracking, snapping back in place and his deep lacerations were sealed, fresh like a newborn baby's skin.
“M-my Lord?” a diminutive voice stammered. It came from across the room, barely rising over Dajjal’s panting. “A-re you alright?”
It was Sallos, his care driven only by an attempt to spare his own life. He was one of Dajjal’s four remaining generals; there were originally six of them before two were smited for displeasing their Lord. Of the survivors, all but one proved themselves to be nothing more than pale shadows of a Hell Knights’ glory. They would stiffen up at the slightest outburst – unlike the proud, armored knights of old – on the cusp of emptying their bladders down their own legs.
Morax was the only dependable one of them, by far still a lesser in Dajjal’s mind but worthy of praise nevertheless. He stood tall and unyielding on the farthest end of the line of trembling demons.
“WHERE ARE YOU?” Dajjal bellowed as he looked skyward, met with silence for his answer. “Very well. I WILL GET YOUR ATTENTION!”
Without warning, Dajjal leapt forward and grabbed the demon next to Morax by his dress shirt collar, Sallos gasping with horrific surprise. Yanking the paltry man close to him, Dajjal raised his fist. There was something rewarding in his eyes.
Thump!
“REAPER!” he cried, landing a bone crushing blow to his captive’s face. The demon screamed as pain cleaved his head. “DO YOU HEAR THAT?”
Thwack!
Another punch, this time obliterating what was left of the demon’s nose, blistering one of his eyes as the yelps that followed gargled. Further strikes came, and between each there were words mixed among an ever-growing spray of crimson.
“I. AM. TALKING. TO. YOU!”
Dajjal looked around again, waiting patiently for an answer. His chest heaved and his hand was rank with gore.
There was no reply, the Grim Reaper decidedly silent and absent from the gathering.
Dajjal dropped the wrecked body to the floor and it made a disturbing noise. The demon smoked out of the corpse's mouth, but was not fast enough to escape. It had already been ensnared by the power of the Demon’s Bane – the rust coated ring the humans referred to as the Seal of Solomon.
Using it to control the lesser demon, Dajjal drew up the swirling darkness from the ground and brought it close to his face. There, it tickled his beard hair as he licked it, then like he was sniffing a freshly baked pie, the demon was drawn into him and the sensations were deliciously euphoric. Dajjal had missed that, and his eyes slid back into his head. After a few seconds of unbridled joy he regained composure, surveying the room.
Sallos was standing in the corner quaking while the other demon had a look in his face like he’d shit in his pants. Morax was, as always, relishing the moment, bold enough to have stepped closer to Dajjal.
Above all though, Death’s absence was still apparent.
Rage grew within Dajjal, bursting in a spectacle of flames from his crown. Being so close to the end was consuming him. Five of the six crucial treasures were right there on his body, yet Dajjal was being driven to the brink of madness because the last item loomed just out of reach. Its possession would at last allow him to bring forth all of Hell to secure his dominion, but Wilson Drake, his host, took great delight in provoking him from the inside.
Until those damned gates are open, you are much less than the god you claim to be, Wilson prodded, taking advantage of Dajjal’s declining mental state.
The demon did not answer.
“My Lord,” said Morax authoritatively, his angled features catching the light as it flickered around the room. “I bear good news for you. I have a lead regarding the weapon you seek.”
Dajjal looked to Morax who remained vigilant but bold, and the Lord’s crown dimmed.
“Tell me.”
“Of course, Your Grace. Our scouts have come across a coven of witches located to the north of Hartland, Connecticut in one of the state forests. It is a small one, no more than three, possibly four from what we can gather. Notwithstanding, their group appears to have had possession of Death’s blade, if not but for a short time. It is my thinking that we can extract more information from them: where they got it for example, or who they gave it to before it wound up in Paris. This could lead us to other intel and possibly something that we can use against the reaper.”
“Witches?” Dajjal asked with surprise. “I thought the witch trials had exterminated their kind from the Earth?”
“It is difficult, if not impossible, to extinguish magic from the worlds,” Morax countered. �
��As you know my Lord, there are other sources of power that can be tapped. The mages from the Order for example, use…”
“I do not need a history of magic lesson,” Dajjal scorned as he stroked his beard. “Very well, we shall go see this coven and hear what they have to say.”
“Excellent, Your Grace. I will prepare to send a detachment of –”
“No,” Dajjal snapped. “Time is not on our side. I will go to this coven myself and speak with them personally.”
“But my Lord, do you think…”
“My decision is final,” Dajjal said, his voice raised. He turned his attention to the other two demons. “Sallos! Forneus! Do either of you bear news worthy of my ears?”
The question was unassuming enough, though the words were rife with an underlying malice.
“N-nothing new m-my Lord,” Sallos hesitated. He was unable to bring his handsome face up to look into Dajjal’s fierce stare. “All o-our efforts h-have led to d-dead ends…”
“Predictable. Unsurprising. Expected,” Dajjal crooned. “Ever have you taken a pacifist stance on things Sallos, and ever are you an utter disappointment for it. Why Lucifer had ever granted thirty legions under your command is beyond my comprehension. That was more than he ever gave to me.”
“B-but, m-my Lord,” Sallos stuttered.
“ENOUGH!” Dajjal shrieked, his fingers already positioned to snap.
But then he looked to Sallos and his gallant features – a lie that shielded a coward on the inside – and decided a different approach was required. Raising the Demon’s Bane, Dajjal’s hand crunched and snapped, his skin splitting open. Smoke poured from the wounds and a low rumble shook the room. Sallos was trapped, unable to move. His red eyes widened with fear.
“Dead end, you said?” Dajjal asked. “I like the sound of that.”
Another rumble came and this time it was Forneus who was held captive. The lanky demon walked sluggishly over to a small curio cabinet in the opposing corner. Opening the rich mahogany doors, he took a decorative knife from a small stand on the upper shelf. As he turned, the golden blade caught what little light there was. Ambling toward Sallos, he was clearly resisting each step along the way.
Running on Empty (Journeyman Book 6) Page 2