by D B Nielsen
We were not being followed. Realising we were now completely alone on the country lanes, I slowed the bike slightly, looking for the melee amongst the first stars appearing in the sky.
It was easy to spot in the distance though it passed for a fast-moving lightning storm. The explosive eruption of raw elements surged forth amongst the atmospheric storm front, as though a hole had been torn through the fabric of the world. The clash of Nephilim unleashed a chaotic fury; lightning flashed across the sky, the sound of thunder roared, as brother fought brother in hand-to-hand combat. Bluish-white light pealed out with a sharp crack, splitting the sky asunder.
Despite the limited long-distance vision from under the visor, I could see the melee’s fury as it touched the tower of Satis House and unleashed a burst of actinic static like a seething, roiling plasma ball. The massive tower trembled but held firm. Unseen forces rocked the world with another deafening blast, whilst the faintest drift of ozone and sulphur permeated the air.
‘We’ve got to hurry!’ Sage said tremulously, leaning in to speak into my ear hidden under the visor to make herself heard, as another crack of thunder and lightning ripped the sky into jagged fragments.
The Ducati responded to the lightest touch and we surged forward again on its great black back, continuing down the lane. As we rounded the next bend, I finally found my bearings and urged the monster machine homeward.
Gaining on the battle, I sensed the backlash before we felt its power, ricocheting down the length of the lane. The flux of unseen, supernatural powers recoiled through the sky. This time lightning struck the ground and split a seam in the earth, its jagged edge opening up about a kilometre ahead of us. Trapped by a vicious quandary, I had no choice but to attempt to jump the chasm on the Ducati.
Facing the impossible, I was thankful at least that Sage couldn’t see ahead with the wind whipping against her eyes and face.
If we lived through this, she was going to kill me.
Taking a leaf out of Motocross superstar, Robbie Maddison’s book, I picked up as much speed as I could, reducing the distance between chasm and bike. Better to die thrashed to ribbons on razor-sharp rock than risk falling prey to Rephaim.
The Ducati made speed effortlessly, the gusts of wind tearing at our clothes and hair. I was imminently grateful to have such a powerful and seriously fast bike under us as the ridge of earth rose before me and the earth dropped away at our backs.
The motorcycle rose in the air.
For one moment we were suspended, the wheeling stars turning in their nightly orbit, Sage clinging like a monkey to my back, her steely arms grasping so tight that I felt winded, before the front wheel tipped forward and we were plummeting back down. The back wheel dropped down first, immediately followed by the front, as we managed to remain upright, the Ducati continuing to hold its steady course.
I seriously had to get me one of these! The Ducati Multistrada was totally sick! I would have kissed the motorcycle in gratitude, if it weren’t for the fact that we weren’t out of danger yet.
The sky around us continued to spark and crackle with increased violence the closer we came to the vicinity of the battle. Approached at speed, its sheer magnitude was suddenly upon us, dwarfing us into insignificance.
I propelled the Ducati round a corner and dropped to street speed as we passed by neighbouring estates on the way to the Manor House. The steering now felt heavy and I concentrated hard to keep the beast tamed beneath me as it desired speed. I didn’t want to stall the bike nor did I wish to attract the attention of the local police handing out speeding fines – especially as I didn’t have a licence to ride a motorcycle. But I needn’t have worried; the Ducati ate up the distance between us and the Manor House, behaving like a perfectly domesticated kitten, purring all the way.
The rumble of the Ducati’s Testastretta 11° engine could barely be heard over the tempest above as I glided through the open gates of the Manor House and up the gravel driveway, noting with a sinking feeling the warm glow from the windows which indicated that both my parents were already home. Cruising round to the back of the house, I kept the hell hound in check as Sage alighted, the Ducati wobbling slightly under my tired limbs. As Sage disappeared through the back entrance, I sidled up to the side of Mum’s studio, hoping that the bike would be hidden from view from the house as I hooked out the kickstand.
Taking off the helmet which had served its purpose, I looped it round the handlebar and quietly stroked the chassis, crooning endearments and murmuring words of thanks.
That’s when I realised that it had gone completely quiet around me.
Looking up over the Manor’s rooftop, I searched for the black clouds and the electrical storm that signalled the battle. The cold blaze of stars went unchanged, the gusty wind continued, and the mellow stone of the Manor House stood solid as it had for centuries, all locked in the tranquillity of the earth’s orbit. Apart from the wind whistling through the branches of trees, and through the crannies in stone, all was now silent and still.
The melee was over. The storm had passed.
Yet something in me had shifted, unseen. I worried for those whom I had formed strong attachments to, worried about their wellbeing and prayed for their safe return. The passivity of the early spring twilit sky sent chills down my spine, ruffling my equilibrium, raising fine hairs and nipping goose bumps over my skin beneath my borrowed clothing.
Finally realising that I could no longer delay going inside, and realising that there was nothing to be seen, I made my way slowly across the landscaped lawns to enter through the backdoor.
My intention was to creep up to my bedroom and change before anyone saw me. Try as I might, I couldn’t think of any explanation that my parents would believe for why I looked like some ranch hand from Brokeback Mountain.
Entering the house, I heard my mother’s voice reverberating from the kitchen where she was preparing dinner – and she didn’t sound too impressed.
‘I’m not sure I like you on the back of a motorbike – you know how dangerous they are! And without even a helmet! Really Sage, what were you thinking?’
‘Mum, I told you–’
‘Yes, yes, I know!’ Mum’s voice sounded exasperated. ‘But even if you were getting a lift home from one of your co-workers who, admittedly, was thoughtful enough to do you a favour – what with the electrical storm and all – you should have had more common sense than to accept his offer when you realised he rode a motorcycle and didn’t have a car!’
Sage protested weakly, ‘But Mum! It would have seemed rude!’
‘Rude beats reckless, young lady! Besides, it was ruder not to invite the young man in for dinner or, at the very least, a cup of tea, after having brought you all the way home! Where are your manners? I didn’t bring you up in a barn! And I don’t believe for a moment that he was in such a great hurry to get to his aunt in Sandwich that he couldn’t have stopped off for a cup of tea!’ she grumbled. ‘It’s such a pity that both St. John and Gabriel will be delayed in joining us tonight due to that stupid Interpol investigation – I will be so glad when that whole thing is put to rest! It’s been incredibly stressful on your father...’
Not bothering to listen any longer as I realised Sage had things under control, learning to lie almost as well as me through desperation, I crept up the back stairwell and managed to slip into my bedroom unnoticed.
Fatigue now rose around me like a heavy, fuzzy woollen blanket which was, at the same time, comforting and stifling. I supposed it was because the adrenaline kick was slowly wearing off and the events of the day were catching up with me. I would have liked nothing better than to simply fall into my bed, but the demands of hygiene came first – there was absolutely no way I was going to fall asleep half-caked in mud and sweat that had chilled on my skin, and with the smell of manure and petrol fumes in my hair. Euh! Gross!
And though the bed looked ever so inviting, beckoned at me welcomingly, would caress my slim frame with the softness of feathers
and down, I knew that I would not be able to sleep peacefully.
Not until I had performed my duty and joined my family for dinner.
The horror of the Underworld was fresh in my mind; all my past sins and mistakes. And there was still so much I needed to atone for...
ORDEAL
CHAPTER TEN
The fifth step on the back stairwell creaked loudly in the silence of the house, waking me up from a deep sleep, the violence of my jerky movements dislodging the stack of trashy, gossip magazines on my bedside table so that they spilt onto the carpet in colourful disarray. Disoriented, wondering why my bedside lamp was still on, I looked at my alarm clock which read two fifty-nine in the morning.
Then I remembered.
In an instant, I was out of bed, flinging on my violet coloured cotton velour robe, not bothering to tie it at the waist or find my fluffy UGG boots, as I rushed out onto the landing. I stood at the top of the stairs, shivering despite my robe and the warmth of the central heating, perspiring despite the fear lodged like a cold, hard stone within my stomach.
The door at the end of the corridor closed gently, without sound, and I knew that what had woken me was Gabriel’s return. Glancing to my right, I saw that Sage’s door stood open and her bed had not been slept in, and briefly wondered where she might be as I hadn’t seen hide nor hair of her since dinner.
I had two options – either look for Sage, or satisfy my curiosity and concern about the outcome of the battle and what had happened to the others by tracking down Gabriel to his lair. But the decision was taken out of my hands as I heard a dull, heavy thud come from the guest wing – loud enough to be heard where I stood dithering outside my bedroom but not loud enough to wake the rest of the house – and practically flew down the corridor to investigate, concerned for Gabriel’s wellbeing.
Not bothering to knock, I quickly opened the door to the guest bedroom and gasped in shock as I took in the sight before me.
The bedroom was dimly lit by the glow of a single lamp that had fallen from where it had stood on the bedside table and now lay on the carpeted floor; the fabric lampshade dislodged from its brass stand. Long, dark shadows spilled across the beige carpet and reached to where I stood, barefoot in the doorway.
Initially, I couldn’t see Gabriel well, but I heard his laboured breathing within the dark shadows of the room and strode purposefully inside, shutting the door behind me to avoid making too much noise and waking my parents. As I approached the centre of the room, the scent and the heat inside became stronger, and from the shadows came a noise; a rustling, gathering sound.
‘Gabriel?’ I whispered, concern evident in my voice.
He moved laboriously into the light, a hand stretched out against the wall for support, stumbling and graceless. Dressed in denims, naked to the waist, his wheat coloured hair, usually so orderly, was wildly matted and plastered to his head, turning it almost brown. But my focus was upon his wings – his enormous obsidian wings – which he had not retracted fully.
‘Gabriel, what’s wrong?’
His silver-grey eyes were in shadow and I didn’t know if he’d heard me – didn’t even know if he recognised me. He seemed like a wounded animal, lifting his head so I caught a glimpse of something feral seething within him, in the flash of his eyes.
The space within the bedroom was stuffy and overwarm, the heat given off by the Anakim within, who was burning up with some sort of strange fever. In the place of Mum’s potpourri was a strange odour, a mixture of something sweet and metallic, reminding me of my experience in the Underworld.
‘Saffron, you shouldn’t be here,’ he managed to reply in a low, choked voice, lacking its normal melodious quality.
I repeated my question. ‘What’s happened? What’s wrong? Are you all right?’
He seemed confused and disoriented.
Throwing up one arm to shield his eyes, he said, ‘The light is like a needle being poked into my eyes, my brain.’
That explained why the lamp had ended up on the floor.
My mouth felt dry, my tongue tacky, as I moved further into the room; far too dry to speak.
‘Why have you come here?’ He blinked slowly, swaying on his feet.
If I didn’t know any better I would have sworn he was drugged or half-drunk. His toned, naked chest was covered in perspiration and, despite looking like a male model from a Calvin Klein commercial, I could tell he was in pain, barely managing to stay upright.
‘I wanted to make sure you were okay,’ I said, closing the distance between us as I felt the natural instincts common to all human beings at the sight of a person, a friend, in need.
Gabriel moved then, faster than I would have thought possible under the circumstances, crossing the room in a fell swoop till he was suddenly in front of me, capturing my wrist tightly and refusing to let go. His skin felt hot and clammy, and he looked at my hand as if he didn’t know how it had got to be within his. But he wasn’t hurting me. Instead, he began murmuring in a low voice, his lips parted and moving, whispering something unintelligible.
I pulled gently at my hand and he immediately released it, placing it instead against his brow to check his temperature. Gabriel was so feverish that touching his skin was like walking barefoot on burning hot sand at the beach in the summer.
Swallowing hard, I avoided looking at his pale, smooth bare chest and washboard stomach, ignored the way his denims rode low on his hips, tried to keep my mind off the fact that he looked like a Greek statue carved from marble and moonlight, and forced myself to concentrate on what ailed him.
Though I had very little knowledge of how to deal with illness, as it was usually Mum or Sage who exhibited those tender, Florence Nightingale qualities, I had been around Jasmine and her sick animals often enough to assist in ministering to them, so I tried to collect myself and apply that knowledge now.
‘Let me look at you, Gabriel,’ I said softly, as if talking to a child.
I looked him over once, with a clinical eye, noting the purple-violet bruises on his upper arms and the left side of his torso, but they didn’t seem to be the cause of his fever nor did he seem bothered by them.
I moved my hand from his head to his shoulder and pushed at him gently. ‘Turn around, Gabriel. I need to check your back.’
‘Stupid girl. Le mieux est l’ennemi du bien.’ His voice was slurred and thick now. ‘Shouldn’t have come, Saffron.’
But he turned his back towards me anyway, like a man in a trance, as if hypnotised.
Immediately, I saw the problem. A livid, deep red-raw gash ran from his left shoulder to the top of his wing, slicing through skin and muscle. Blood was smeared across the feathers, too black to see its redness, leaving a wet trail that turned them a shiny blue-black in the dim light.
My spine went rigid.
‘Bloody hell!’ I whispered in shock, ‘I thought all you Nephilim couldn’t be injured unless with a seraph blade?’
‘Killed,’ he muttered, head bent low, still somewhat lucid, ‘Can’t be killed unless with a seraph blade. Can be permanently scarred with a seraph blade. But injured ... yes ... our humanity makes injury possible, though not fatal.’
‘But I’m assuming you heal faster, right?’ I think I was hoping that this was the case.
His voice was dragged forth from him, sounding sluggish, like it took an enormous act of willpower for him to achieve this, as he replied, ‘Heal faster ... but injury makes it more difficult ... to ... defend ourselves ... against the darkness.’
From what Gabriel was trying to tell me, I gathered that there was a constant struggle, an internal battle, within the Nephilim. The darkness within them waged war against their humanity, threatening to overpower them unless somehow controlled through an appeal to reason and God-given capability. Worse still, they were made even more vulnerable to the darkness when injured.
Gathering my wits, I said firmly, ‘Gabriel, I’m going to get some things and I’ll be back. I’m going to clean your wound and ban
dage it until someone can look at it properly. Hang in there. I won’t be long.’
Leaving the guest room, I made a beeline for the kitchen, quietly managing the back stairs in the dark, avoiding the fifth step that creaked, as stealthy as any burglar. Ruefully acknowledging that all those times I’d spent creeping out of the house behind my parents’ backs now stood me in good stead, I tiptoed about in the stillness and silence of the Manor House, hoping that Gabriel would have the fortitude to endure.
In the utilities area stemming off from the back entrance of the house, I searched the medicine cabinet for the things I needed, collecting an abundance of cottonwool balls and gauze pads just in case. I couldn’t find any antiseptic cream or Dettol, so I crept into the library and liberated one of Dad’s bottles of whisky. When I’d finally gathered what I felt was necessary, I made my way back to the guest room.
Gabriel was slumped at the edge of the bed when I returned, looking even worse than when I’d left him moments earlier. Hurrying over to him, I dumped the equipment on the bed so I could lift his head and check that he was still with me. His breathing was shallow, coming quickly through parted, blood-drained lips. His eyes were dilated, wide black pupil against silver-grey iris, so dark now that it gave him an unearthly look, like I would imagine a fallen angel’s to be.
‘Gabriel?’ I whispered. He barely flickered an eyelid in response.
Shite! What the hell was I going to do now?
I wondered whether I should wake up my mother, seeing as Sage wasn’t here to help; then thought better of it. I had only to look at him – the midnight black wings attached to his back like Wolverine’s retractable adamantium blades from his knuckles – to realise my Mum would completely freak.