by Rach Elle
She lifted her chin, “Why are you in here?”
“I realized I’ve never been.” That wasn’t a total lie.
Elizabeth narrowed her eyes, “That’s not the only reason, is it?” She asked rhetorically.
Zeff took a deep breath as he looked around the room, “I also realized I never said goodbye.”
Elizabeth dropped her head in sadness; like she knew how he felt.
“You shouldn’t blame Sunders for this, you know.” He watched as the old woman looked up to meet his icy blue eyes. “I’m the one you should hate.”
“Why would you say that?”
Zeff swallowed the lump in his throat, “We were supposed to ask BeStone and his clan to help us; just in case. But we didn’t – because of me.” He looked to the floor and shook his head. “I didn’t trust them. I didn’t think we’d need them.” He lowered his voice to barely above a whisper, “Clearly I was wrong.”
“If it makes you feel any better,” Elizabeth began, “Bawli wasn’t a fan of BeStone either.” She tried not to look toward the closet door. She knew what was behind it; a collection of horrific and gruesome images that had stemmed from his dreams and all centered on the subject of BeStone Soltan. She hadn’t yet decided if she should show the others that space. She didn’t know if Bawli would have ever wanted them to see it.
Elizabeth thought for a moment as she looked upon the solemn, blonde shifter. “If you could do it all over again; would you make the same call?”
Zeff lifted his head, “No,” he said without hesitation.
Elizabeth smiled softly, “I know. And that’s why I could never hate you for what has happened. And neither would Bawli. You loved him. And he knew that.”
“I’m not so sure,” he mumbled.
“I am,” she cooed. “He spoke highly of you Zeff. He adored you. And he would want you to know that.”
After a moment of silence; watching the emotion register on the scarred shifter’s face Elizabeth said, “I think it’s time we leave this room be. This was once Bawli’s sanctuary; a place to be with his redhead. Let’s give her some time to mourn in peace.”
Zeff nodded once before following the old woman’s lead and leaving the room. Just before shutting the door behind them he peered inside again. Quietly, too low for human ears he whispered, “Cheers, mate.”
52
3 Days Later…
Awilda…
Awilda’s eyes popped open at the distant sound of her name. She lifted her head off her pillow and looked around the bedroom. The space was dark; almost too dark for her to see. But she could remember the layout. She knew the bathroom door was in the corner and the walk-in closet was carved into the opposite wall. She knew if she turned over on her left side she would be facing the wood burning fireplace; instead of the tall dresser that currently towered over her. And smack-dab in the center of the room sat a small table with a game of Chess still in progress.
Awilda calmed slightly at the sound of Junior shifting his position next to her. A small smile reached her lips at the thought of him. She could remember the first time they’d played Chess together. They were in a hotel room less than twenty-four hours after he and Kingsley had abducted her. She giggled to herself as she recalled how scared of him she had been. Now he was just about the only person she truly trusted.
Her smile softened as she thought about their conversation during that game. He spoke of his mother and the hardship of her passing. Awilda swooned a little as she remembered the reverie with which he said his mother’s name. It was that moment that she had begun to see him for the person he was; not the creature.
Junior sighed in his sleep as Awilda rested her head on her pillow and settled back into the mattress.
Her relationship with Junior hadn’t exactly gone the way she’d planned. She had assumed their romance would dominate every other aspect of their daily lives. She had made herself at home in his bedroom; expecting any venture beyond the threshold to be a rarity. At least she was half right. They didn’t leave this room very often. But it wasn’t because of the sex. In reality, she and Junior hadn’t slept together since before Bawli’s death. She had avoided admitting it to anyone, but she couldn’t help feeling responsible for the tragedy. It was, after all, she who had been the one to convince the others to accept Sunders into their clan in the first place.
The sad truth was that Bawli wasn’t the only tragedy to come from her mere existence. How many people had died because of her? According to Cooper more than one Protector had perished that fateful night. Her father and Regina had been sucked into hell. Her grandfather was shot and killed during a psychotic break; and her grandmother… Oh, her grandmother; once the sweetest person to ever walk this earth had gone completely insane because of her.
Awilda could still see Gayle standing outside her room at Bain Asylum. The old woman looked up at her; exhausted and defeated. She waited until just the right moment before stepping out into the middle of the street – in front of an SUV. The image of her grandmother pulled under the vehicle; the echoing thuds of her body being flattened by the oversized wheels; still haunted her.
Awilda squeezed her eyes shut; remembering the moment she started all of this; the moment she opened her big mouth to that college student in the mental hospital. She had spilled every detail about her dreams and hellish paranoia; only to have the boy publish it all in the first tabloid he could think of.
Maybe if she had just kept her trap shut; maybe Bawli would still be alive…
She shook her head against her pillow. She had to stop herself from thinking this way. If Junior knew she was blaming herself for everything he would lose his mind. Instead he read her silence and her lack of lust as sadness. He never pushed her. He never tried to talk her out of her mood. He just held her because that’s what she asked for. They would lie in bed for hours in each other’s arms; no expectations. And Junior never complained. He never objected. Instead he happily held her against his chest so she could fall asleep to the sound of his heartbeat.
Awilda…
Awilda’s eyes popped open again to a voice that nearly whispered in her ear. Slowly, she turned her head to see a figure standing at the foot of the bed. Instantly she sat upright and placed her hand on Junior’s bare shoulder. As her heart raced at the sight of the shadowed figure she shook Junior as hard as she could to wake him.
“He won’t wake up,” the male, accented voice advised.
Awilda stopped shaking Junior and looked down to him with quivering eyes, “What did you do to him?”
The figure smiled, the white of his teeth barely illuminated in the darkness, “Nothing, my dear. He’s sleeping peacefully; as are you.”
Awilda crooked a brow as she tried to regulate her breathing, “I’m dreaming?”
The figure nodded, “And you’ll wake up in no time.”
Awilda looked around the room. Everything seemed to be in its place; nothing out of the ordinary – except for the mysterious figure before her, of course. “This is the weirdest dream I’ve ever had, then.” She thought aloud.
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” the figure crooked a brow. “I read your article in the tabloid; gripping stuff.”
“Who are you?”
“They call me Mr. Benjamin.” The figure bowed his head slightly.
“What do you want?”
“To give you an address.”
“What?”
“Yes, you see,” the figure moved toward the girl in the bed, “When you wake up you will have very little recollection of this dream. You won’t remember the savior’s inability to jump to your rescue; and you certainly won’t remember me. But you will remember one little detail – an address; and that’s where I’ll be. And you will do everything in your power to get there. It will become all encompassing. You won’t be able to explain it, but you will want nothing more in this world than to come to me. Do you understand?”
Awilda cowered as Mr. Benjamin approached her, his body slowly m
oving into the moonlight that seeped through the crack in the curtains. “How can you be so sure?” She stammered.
The man stepped fully into the moonlight. Awilda gasped at the sight of him. He was shirtless with brown skin and dark eyes and hair. But what jarred her was the set of jewels embedded in his bare chest like a necklace. The middle stone looked to be carved out of ivory as it glistened atop scarred, mangled skin. “Because, my dear,” Mr. Benjamin smiled devilishly, “you’re under my spell.” He leaned downward, bringing his face so close to hers she could feel his breath on her skin as he whispered, “And now you belong to me.”
53
Sunders entered his bathroom for a shave. It had been three days since he’d cared to lift a razor and as he leaned over his pedestal sink staring at his disheveled face he considered going for a fourth. After a moment of hating the man that stared back at him he exhaled and left the bathroom; glancing over his shoulder for only a moment at the gun he knew was rigged behind the sink. He finally continued his trek back to his chair and plopped down into it.
Since returning from the Vanderburen castle on Tuesday he had only left his flat once; and that was for a liquor run. He’d bought enough to tide him over this long, but he wasn’t sure how much longer it would last.
Every time he closed his eyes he saw Bawli’s face just as the bullet embedded itself into his abdomen; the bullet that was meant for him. He should be dead right now. Sunders thought back to the gun in his bathroom again. He wondered how much longer he could hold on before putting the piece in his own mouth and pulling the trigger. The only thing that eased his pain was his oldest friend – alcohol.
He reached down to grab the bottle of whiskey that sat on the ground only to find it empty. With a scowl he pushed himself onto his feet and shuffled over to his tiny kitchen. He threw all of the cupboards open to find them empty as well. Shit.
Sunders grabbed his jacket and threw it on before opening the door and stepping out into the cold Friday afternoon air. He huddled into himself to shield from the wind as he made his way to the corner off-license.
54
Paris, France…
The sun had set almost an hour ago as BeStone and Parag reached their sewer entrance; annoyed and perplexed. BeStone had called a meeting with his shifter contacts throughout this half of the world. They were all scheduled to meet and go over the plan for taking control of the nearing apocalypse; but no one showed. He wondered if Augmen had relayed the incorrect information to them.
He and Parag had waited for hours until it was too late to fly home in the cloak of night. They ended up staying the day and waiting out the sun. Now, only an hour after sunset they returned to their hideaway.
BeStone and Parag climbed down into the sewer and weaved their way through the maze of tunnels; their dinosaur-like feet splashing in the shallow puddles on the filthy ground.
They rounded the corner, expecting to see the rest of their clan in their usual positions; the brothers Augmen and Cypro lying in their hammocks; Viattrice and Amelie sitting in tattered furniture retrieved from the dumpster nearby. But all they saw was Fazal sitting cross-legged in the corner with his head hung low and his limbs wrapped in chains.
“Fazal,” BeStone spoke sternly. He watched as the Limrid took his time to look up and meet his eyes. “Where are they?”
Fazal’s lips slowly stretched into a smile, “They’re gone; he took them.”
Both BeStone and Parag tensed instantly and crossed the clearing to close the distance between them and the pathetic little creature. “Who,” BeStone crouched down to Fazal’s eye level.
“You know who,” Laughter escaped Fazal’s lips; the melodious sound resonating throughout the sewer as the terrifying realization hit BeStone.
The gargoyle stood and ran to the opposite side of the clearing; toward the sheet they had hung from a piece of rope in the back corner. It was filthy and damp, but it concealed the mattress Viattrice and Amelie shared – affording them some privacy.
BeStone’s heart beat violently in his chest as he outstretched his arm and whipped open the curtain. “No!” He roared as he stared upon a symbol that had been painted in blood above the bed; a triangle with a large, crude ‘H’ in the middle.
The gargoyle turned; his eyes burning red. He looked up to see Parag; his jaw clenched and his body stiff. He too knew that symbol all too well.
BeStone charged toward the still laughing Limrid. He grabbed the chains that restrained the creature and lifted him off the ground with ease. He brought his face mere centimeters from Fazal’s and bared his fangs. “Why didn’t you stop him,” he growled; resisting the urge to tear the creature’s throat out.
Fazal looked uncomfortable with the close contact. “I was under strict orders to do nothing but sit here, remember? I am nothing if not obedient; master.” His last word was flat and bitter.
“How did Hasmukh know about my clan? I am the only one that has had contact with him.”
Fazal shrugged and rolled his orange eyes, “He wasn’t really up for chit-chatting.”
BeStone crooked a brow, “And why did he leave you? To give me a message, perhaps?”
Fazal laughed again, “How do you carry the weight of your ego every day?” His expression dropped and his eyes hardened, “Raas il zub,” his Arabic flowed as he held up his hands and shook them; the sound of the clinking chains echoing throughout the sewer. “He couldn’t touch me; half Limrid, you know.”
BeStone took in Fazal’s words. He had a feeling the creature was telling the whole truth. Hasmukh had shown up unannounced and snatched his beloveds. He most likely would have taken Fazal, but his pet had a point – Limrids couldn’t penetrate iron. As long as Fazal was in those chains he was impervious to rebellion; and others of the same race didn’t stand a chance if they attempted to free him. The element simply drained too much power.
BeStone growled and dropped the Limrid to his feet. He yanked on the chain as he and Parag charged out of the clearing. “You’re coming with us,” he scowled as he pulled the white haired, orange eyed Limrid behind him like a puppy on a leash.
“Where are we going?” Fazal asked, intrigued.
BeStone’s eyes burned red in the dampened darkness, “To kill.”
55
London, England…
Sunders Harper arrived back at his flat with a few bottles of liquor and a small bag he hadn’t planned on purchasing when he left earlier in the day. He dropped the booze on his counter and sat at his writing desk directly in front of his large picture window. He didn’t care to look out the window. He knew the view; a dark, littered street and a flickering streetlamp that wouldn’t provide enough light to see by even if it was working properly. Instead he focused on the bag sitting in front of him. He took a deep breath before emptying the contents on the desk.
A small, rapid tapping sound filled the silence of his flat as over a dozen tiny white pills spilled onto the wood. He looked at the tablets with narrowed and tired eyes. The man that had sold them to him said they were sleeping pills. But there really wasn’t any way for Sunders to be sure that was true. He wasn’t exactly a connoisseur of good drugs. Alcohol had always been his poison; his slow death of choice. But tonight he considered changing that.
As he stared at the collection of pills in front of him he contemplated – very briefly – taking them all at once. Although dying peacefully in his sleep seemed too good an end for him, at least it would all be over. His reign of Disappointment King would come to a glorious finish and he could finally rest.
A knock sounded at his door. Sunders sighed as he stood groggily and answered the call. He opened the door to see Corey standing on the other side with a stack of books in his arms.
“Hello Mr. Harper,” Corey said nervously. “Sorry to bother you.”
“What is it?” Sunders said bluntly; not in the mood for pleasantries.
“Well, you haven’t been at work the past few days so I figured you were working from home.”
Corey furrowed his brow with concern that he didn’t dare express verbally. Harper clearly wasn’t in the mood for a one man intervention. “Well,” he began, “you asked me to gather all references on Arav Dave; but I had come to realize you already had them all.”
Sunders crooked a brow as he eyed the books in Corey’s arms, “Then what are those?”
Corey repositioned his grasp on the stack and held it out for Sunders to take. The Scotsman reluctantly accepted the load. “I stopped looking for Arav,” Corey continued, “Instead I searched for all literature and art that derived from Arav’s works. You know; all the pieces that were inspired by the Ultimate War and the structures that paid homage to the Praying Gargoyle. They’re all in here,” he patted the stack of books proudly.
Sunders thought for a moment, searching for a way to let the boy down gently; to let him know that he was officially throwing in the towel on the investigation. He even considered saying a heartfelt goodbye, for there was a good chance he wouldn’t see the boy ever again. But instead he just nodded, “Good job. But if you don’t mind, I need to get back to work.” He motioned to the pile of literature in his arms, “I’ve got a lot more to go over now,” he joked halfheartedly before bidding Corey a flat farewell and closing the door.
Sunders sighed before dropping the books on the floor and returning to his seat at his writing desk. He barely registered the fact that the desk drawer was slightly ajar until his eyes caught sight of a familiar frame. He lowered his brows and reached into the drawer before pulling out a picture. With a heavy heart he stared at the photo of his son, Max. Tears welled in his lids as the little brown haired boy stared back at him; smiling and so full of life. He missed him. He missed being there for all the big moments, but even more so he missed being there for the small ones; brushing their teeth together as they both got ready for their day; falling asleep together on the sofa to one of his unbearable kid shows; and allowing him to climb into bed between Darla and he after having a bad dream – he missed it all.