by Rach Elle
Junior mouthed the word, okay, and kissed her lips gently before watching as she ascended the stairs toward their bedroom.
Once Awilda was out of sight, Junior took a deep breath and turned around to see Kingsley and Elizabeth resolving to head back to the guest house.
“King,” he called, “hold on a minute.”
The old man stopped and looked back at his friend.
Junior nervously rubbed the back of his neck. He hated these sappy moments, “Awilda told me about what you did; how you stopped her from, you know.”
Kingsley nodded, “Just doing what any shifter would do.”
“No,” Junior cut him off, “you weren’t even supposed to be there, thanks to me. I’m sorry for not telling you I was taking her somewhere. And thank you for being stubborn enough to track us down and follow us anyway.”
Junior held out his hand and watched as Kingsley smirked; his crow feet appearing alongside his eyes. He reached out his hand to accept the gesture but before he could reach Junior’s fingers his body suddenly convulsed. His legs gave way and he fell to the stone floor unconscious.
Elizabeth screamed as she and Junior ran to his side. His body began seizing as the other residents of the castle ran to their aid. “Let’s get him on the couch,” Junior called as Zeff raced down the stairs after having heard Elizabeth’s cry. He was there in an instant to help Junior lift the old shifter’s seizing body onto the sofa.
“We need to get the DAA doctor; he’s going into shock,” Junior ordered just before Kingsley began mumbling something. “What?” Junior asked as he lowered his ear closer to Kingsley’s mouth. The old man stammered again through his convulsions, “It’s… time.”
Junior’s expression fell grave and his chest ached as he knew exactly what Kingsley was referring to. Without saying a word he jumped to his feet and bolted out of the room; dashing up the stairs toward the bedroom he now shared with Awilda.
Junior threw himself into his bedroom, “Awilda!” he called. The shower water in the adjacent bathroom was flowing and steam was seeping through the crack in the door. He whipped it open and entered the tiny porcelain space. “Awilda,” he called again as he stared at the closed shower curtain. With his heart pounding in his throat he cautiously approached the shower. In one swift movement he whipped the curtain open to reveal… no one.
Junior pivoted sharply, “Awilda!” he cried. He ran back into the bedroom and caught the slight motion of the curtains billowing in the light wind. “No,” he breathed as he ran to the open window. He leaned out over the sill into the night air and frantically searched every nook and cranny of the seeable outside world. There wasn’t any sign of her. Finally, he looked up into the night sky and roared at the top of his lungs, “Awilda!”
65
Wiltshire, England…
“Is there anything else?” Hasmukh asked, growing tired of this conversation.
“I don’t believe so,” Tauggle bowed his head slightly.
“Good,” Hasmukh began, “Go home Tauggle. Go home and hold the one you love most for as long as you can; for there isn’t much time left.” He looked to the Limrid who now held a stern expression laced with question. “Can’t you feel it?” He asked, “The adrenaline pumping through your veins; the constant hum vibrating all over your skin?” Hasmukh smiled, revealing the white of his slowly protruding fangs, “It’s time Tauggle; the war is upon us.”
66
London, England…
Elizabeth knelt beside Kingsley as his body continued to convulse in a steady rhythm. She knew everyone else except Junior and Awilda were all standing behind her, ready to jump into action if need be.
As she placed her hand gently on Kingsley’s forehead his body suddenly began to convulse faster and faster; his short, shallow breaths echoing throughout the castle. She could feel Zeff latch onto her shoulders and pull her to her feet and back into his body; protecting her from whatever may occur.
Kingsley’s body continued seize rapidly until finally, without warning, he stopped. He lay perfectly still on the sofa as his eyes shot open; glossy and fixated on the ceiling. His mouth moved and he spoke a string of words so clearly and perfectly that it sent a wave of dread over the castle; cloaking every centimeter with sorrow and fear.
The clan huddled against one another as they listened to Kingsley’s horrific and deadly words…
“The prophecy has begun.”
To Be Continued…
Epilogue
The overhead fluorescent lighting was dim with a green hue. It sat on a ceiling that hung lower than most; causing the room to be filled with a sickly glow.
Sunders peered around the corner, “Rue?” he asked quietly. He knew he needed to keep his voice down – he was in a library, after all.
Sunders continued moving forward; looking for the woman that had been caressing him in his bed just moments before. He began to panic. He needed to be near her. Without Rue he was an unredeemable failure. “Rue,” he called again. No answer.
He passed through a narrow hallway flanked by rows upon rows of crowded book shelves until finally he stepped into a clearing.
A steel table sat in the middle of the clearing; no chairs; no people. The constant hum of the fluorescents grew louder and louder and began to give him a headache. He massaged his temples as he turned around to see a large bay window.
Sunders nearly fell to his knees at the sight of a shifted Bawli lying in the grass just outside the window. Alvin and Mason were kneeling next to him; crying. He flattened his palms against the pane and watched as Bawli tried to say something; but he couldn’t hear a single word.
The loud, vibrating hum cut out and the sudden silence rocked Sunders’ brain. He took a step back from the scene in front of him and contemplated breaking the glass. If only he could speak to Bawli. Maybe he could figure out what he was trying to say in his final moments. Alvin and Mason couldn’t decipher his words. E. Owen; E. Olden – none of it made any sense.
“Sonny.”
Sunders pivoted immediately one hundred and eighty degrees to see the woman that had called his name. His shoulders relaxed and his breathing softened instantly at the sight of Rula Jones. She wore a black leather jumpsuit and a dark motorcycle helmet with a tinted face shield; and yet somehow he knew exactly who she was.
He smiled and closed the distance between them; leaving the deadly scene behind. He reached Rue and raised his hands to her helmet. Gently, he lifted it off of her head.
Rue’s long brown hair unraveled and fell like a waterfall over her shoulders. Her skin was pale and youthful as her lips stretched into the most perfect smile. Quickly, she raised herself onto her toes and brought her lips to his.
Sunders could feel his legs weaken as she kissed him softly.
Rue pulled back and sighed, “Do you want me to help you?”
Sunders crooked a brow, “With what?”
She laughed at his absurd question and walked toward the steel table. Sunders was suddenly taken aback by the stacks upon stacks of books that surrounded them.
Rue hoisted herself onto the table, “Help you with your writing,” she clarified. She began to roll her head in slow circles like she was massaging her neck. She kept her eyes closed and a slight, relaxing smile played along her lips. She stretched her arms upward and yawned as she leaned back and sprawled out across the table.
Sunders could feel his heart begin to race as he watched Rue’s long body lay out in front of him. He wanted nothing more than to climb on top of her. He took a step forward just as she began to speak again.
“Do you want to be the volunteer?”
Sunders stopped short, “What?”
Rue turned her head to the side to look at him, “We can write about it.”
“You mean; the prophecy?”
“Mm-hmm,” she nodded slightly before turning the rest of her body to the side. She cradled her head in the crook of her arm and closed her eyes to go to sleep.
“Nah,” Sund
ers knelt down beside her, “I can’t volunteer. I don’t want to.”
Rue’s eyes sleepily drifted open. She lifted her head, “I’ll read it later.” She leaned into him as his eyes closed in anticipation of another kiss.
Sunders woke suddenly to the sound of a dog barking outside. The light of morning was peering through his front window blinds and threatening to brighten his flat.
Sunders grabbed his head and applied pressure to stabilize his headache. The pills he took the night before had really done a number on him. He was nauseous and light headed and his body fought against every attempt to move.
His last dream started to replay in his head; causing him to question his own sanity. Why was he dreaming of Rue? He found her attractive; he felt remorse for the way he’d spoken to her during their last conversation; but this dream made him wonder if there was even more to it than that. Sluggishly, he shook his head to try and rid his brain of any lustful thoughts he’d had during the night. It was the pills. Aye, that was it. The pills were fucking with him.
He was about to lay his head back onto his pillow when suddenly more of his dream played in the foreground of his mind. The books; Bawli; Rue asking him if he wanted to be the volunteer in the prophecy – and then saying she’ll read about it later. It was like every image, soundbite and piece of the dream was floating around in space until finally figuring out where to land; pieces of a puzzle coming together for the first time in what felt like far too long.
Sunders’ heart jumped as he forced his body to roll out of bed. He planted his feet on the floor and stood; catching his balance instantly against his writing desk. He tried to will himself out of this stupor as he made his way over to the stack of books on his floor; the stack Corey had dropped off the night before. He didn’t even notice the fact that the bag of pills he had bought last night was missing; no longer on his desk. He was too fixated on those books.
Sunders dropped to the floor and began sorting through the titles in front of him. Most of them he recognized; some of them he wasn’t too familiar with. They were all books that contained works of art inspired by Arav Dave. Corey had said he couldn’t find any literature of Arav’s that Sunders didn’t already own, so he dug up as many companion pieces as he could.
A large smile plastered against the Scotsman’s face as his eyes landed on one book in particular, Prophets and Pentagrams: A Collection of Biblical Poetry. For some reason, and he truly didn’t know what that reason was, he found himself drawn to this title.
The book didn’t appear worn. It’s binding was still intact; the embedded silver lettering was dull but not dirty. And the pages, for the most part, lay perfectly flat.
Sunders turned to the table of contents and used his pointer finger to scroll through the different pieces of literature this book had to offer. He had to squint, rub his eyes and blink rapidly to get his sight to cooperate; but eventually he thwarted the blurred vision and read the title of an Arav companion piece he knew; albeit vaguely.
His adrenaline picked up pace as he flipped to page one-hundred and nine. His lips formed the words as he silently read the title: The Ultimate Warning.
Sunders skipped past the explanation of the piece. He already knew it was inspired by Arav Dave’s Ultimate War. He jumped past the first six paragraphs that explained the three warning signs of the gargoyle apocalypse; the endless winter, reveal to the masses, and the true minions will flock. He didn’t even bother to read the author’s blatant disgust with the human race that led to the posed question – is the human race worth saving?
No, Sunders didn’t need to read any of that. Instead he allowed his eyes to skim the piece until they landed on the one word he had been looking for; the word that had been plaguing him since Awilda had spoken it in the forgotten storage room of the Vanderburen Castle – volunteer.
With adrenaline coursing through his veins, Sunders read the ending to the piece out loud.
For what is a war with an unwilling leader? Without the stomach the head cannot command. It is a necessary burden. Only one with a blackened soul and darker blood can withstand.
With no love of war but willingness to accept such a fate. A volunteer will kneel to his queen where he will watch her slaughter and then laugh at the destruction in her wake.
But where to find such a man.
My light is dead and forever gone. I have swallowed my bitterness, my hatred for this pitiful earth and those I hide myself from. Five hundred years to cleanse this world is much too long.
But I must wait.
For one day I will kneel to my queen. I will be her power, her stomach and her strength.
It was not an easy journey that I have travelled. But it has concluded in one thought. A human life may be worth saving. But the human race is not.
Too much repulsion I have stood in witness. I am merely a son. And so to my true father I promise this –
I will be your volunteer. And your war will be won.
Sunders’ eyes widened as his heart plummeted into the pit of his stomach. Under normal circumstances he would have rejoiced. He had finally found that word. But the second to last sentence of the piece was much too ominous and haunting for him to even crack a smile. I will be your volunteer.
With a wave of anxiety running down his spine he carefully pulled back the pages to the beginning of the piece. There, in front of him, the title sat prominently on the page just above the author’s name.
The image of Bawli lying in the back of the overturned truck; blood seeping from his gut overtook his mind. The sound of Alvin recounting the shifter’s last words rang in his ears. He had said Bawli was trying to tell him of a dream. As he stared at the author’s name he realized Bawli’s inability to speak in his final moments meant slurred and dulled sounds. He couldn’t manage the harsh letters and severe syllables he needed to articulate; to warn the boys.
Sunders’ breathing sped as he finally understood. Bawli wasn’t saying E. Owen or E. Olden. He was fighting against his inability to properly say this author’s name.
He read the heading again…
The Ultimate Warning
By B. Soltan
Sunders could suddenly see so vividly the painting of The Guardian Angel hanging in the Vanderburen castle. He could see himself entering a darkened room filled with art supplies and a very somber Bawli standing by the window.
“He was Arav Dave’s muse,” Bawli had said. “At least it means I wasn’t dreaming of the dead.”
“I’m sorry?” Sunders asked for clarification.
Bawli’s eyes – visible even through the darkness – bored into Sunders as he said, “Many times I have dreamt of BeStone Soltan.”
WAIT!!!
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Dark Angel Alliance: Gargoyles IV
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The Gargoyle BeStone: A Prequel
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DayWalkers
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Playlist
I don’t think I could write without music. I know it sounds weird… feel free to judge me here… but often times when I listen to music I see music videos featuring my characters unfolding in my head. Usually the song’s lyrics are relatable to my stories; and sometimes not. Sometimes the song is seemingly out of left field and makes no sense whatsoever within the context. I don’t try to figure out why I’m drawn to any particular song… I just go with it.
I’ve narrowed this “playlist” for those who are interested in the inspiration behind some of these characters to a handful of songs. But I would feel terrible if I didn’t credit the groups that provide awesome music on my Pandora every time I sit down to write. I absol
utely love listening to Breaking Benjamin, Seether, Shinedown, Five Finger Death Punch, Three Days Grace, My Darkest Days, Hollywood Undead, Deuce, and Halestorm – not necessarily in that order.
Now, with that being said – here is my playlist for Gargoyles III
Pop Evil – “Torn to Pieces”
Zeff’s song
Jason Mraz – “I Won’t Give Up”
Junior’s song
Imagine Dragons – “Demons”
Awilda’s song
My Darkest Days – “Save Yourself”
This song inspires me to write for several of my characters. I guess because it fits so well with the overall theme of the series…