by Liam Jackson
"What's up, Nate? You hear something?"
"Shhhh!" Nathaniel held up his hand, signaling for silence. Paul turned his ear to the east and listened. It took less than a handful of seconds for Paul to understand that something was wrong. Terribly wrong. Suddenly, the still of the desert night was suffocating. The sensation of vast, endless expanses was gone and in its place was a feeling of soul-crushing confinement, of despair and dread.
Nathaniel whispered, "You feel it too, don't you?"
"I feel something, and I don't like it worth a damn. What's wrong, Nate? What's going on?"
Nathaniel closed his eyes and lifted his chin high into the night air. He inhaled deeply, and tasted the air with the tip of his tongue. After a moment, he opened his eyes.
"I'm surprised you can feel the call over this great distance. It's called reaching. It's one of the gifts I mentioned earlier.
You reached the night Axthiel attacked you, and we answered. Now, another Offspring is reaching from far away."
"You mentioned this reaching business before, but I don't know what you're talking about. How does it work?"
"Most of the time, it's an unconscious act. It's a mental call for help. Of course, as you grow into your legacy, you can learn to consciously reach out. Reaching is a double-edged sword. If you can hear it, so can the enemy. The question is, who will respond first?"
Paul thought he understood.
"So, you're saying someone is in trouble, and it's my decision now. One of those 'free will' moments, is that it?"
Nathaniel didn't answer. He simply looked at Paul and waited.
Paul nodded. "Okay, how do we get there from here?" Nathaniel smiled approvingly and said, "Nar laga Dia do lamh." May God not weaken your hand.
CHAPTER 36
Abbotsville, Tennessee
Leland Henscheid glanced again at the clock radio on his bedside table and cursed. He had gotten less than an hour of sleep before the howling began. He slid bare feet into his slippers, then rose stiffly from the bed.
"Quiet country living in the scenic Appalachians, my ass! More racket than downtown Atlanta."
That past spring, Leland had sold the family business, a thriving furniture store in affluent Stone Mountain, and moved his young bride to picturesque Abbotsville. No crime, no pollution, no bumper-to-bumper traffic. A little peace and quiet, and a lot gardening, that had been the plan. Lacie had a knack for growing prizewinning irises and convinced Leland to install an expensive greenhouse. Things were great for the first couple of months. Then, life on the mountain began to change.
In late October, Lacie arrived home from a day trip to Knoxville and found a dead coyote on the front lawn. The animal had been mauled, and Leland suspected the animal had been the victim of a pack of wild dogs, or perhaps a bear. The following week, Burton Weather, Leland's nearest neighbor, awoke to find his red bone hound dead, with wounds similar to those of the coyote. This time, however, the culprit didn't leave its victim on the front lawn. Burton found his mangled dog stuffed in the inside the cab of his Ford-250 pickup. Three days later, Margaret Newton let her collie outside for an evening run inside a chain-link fence. The dog hadn't been seen since.
It wasn't just dogs and coyotes at risk in Abbotsville.
Other neighbors had lost cats, goats, and even a pet deer. The sheriff's department sent a deputy to investigate, a pleasant, rotund, older man with red cheeks reminiscent of Kris Kringle. The deputy attributed the trouble to a band of mean-spirited local kids, and vowed to patrol the area until the incidents ceased. He made good on that vow... for about a week. Leland hadn't seen that deputy, or any deputy, in over a month.
While the attacks on pets had diminished, other equally troubling incidences continued. Just last week, Norman Young had walked outside his home on the north side of Abbotsville to find that someone had left a foot-high pile of dung in the driver's seat of his sedan.
"The real estate agent said Garden of Eden. My ass!"
"What was that?" asked the lump from the other side of the bed.
Pulling back the blanket, Leland planted a quick kiss on his wife's cheek. "Nothing, sweetheart. It's just Skittles. Again."
Lacie pulled the blankets underneath her chin and yawned. "What's wrong with Skittles?"
"Who knows? He's been yapping downstairs for half an hour. All that whining and howling, gets worse every day. Don't worry, I'll go check on him. Go back to sleep."
Lacie snuggled deeper in the thick covers and giggled at the inside joke. True enough, she thought of Skittles as her "baby," all ninety-five pounds of fur and muscle, a sable German shepherd with a champion pedigree.
Leland descended the stairs and called out to the dog. In answer, Skittle's whining turned into a savage snarl. Leland could make another sound, now, a raspy noise similar to heavy grit sandpaper sliding over rusty metal. Prowler! Leland crept across the kitchen to the patio door where Skittles stood, hackles raised and pawing at the glass. Son of a bitch, we gotcha now! Leland unlocked the door and slid it open just enough for Skittles to squeeze through. "Get him, Skittles, get the bastard!" Leland slammed the door shut and re-locked it.
His heart pounding, Leland hurried to the living room and picked up the cordless phone. Using the speed dial function, he soon had the sheriff's office dispatcher on the line.
"This is Leland Henscheid at Four thirty-one Kanis Road. Yes, Kanis Road, just across the Highway One-hundred-and-twelve bridge from Abbotsville. That's right, the old Mickleson place. Yes, we moved in a couple of months ago. Look, there's a prowler in my backyard. Yeah, it could be a bear. My dog is going nuts and... what's that? Yeah, the backyard. We've been having trouble with prowlers for the past couple of months."
At that moment, something heavy slammed into the back wall of the A-frame house.
"Listen, someone is breaking in through the kitchen door! I can hear—" A large surge of static filled the receiver, drowning out the operator. "Hello? Hello! Damn it!" Leland slammed down the receiver.
His mind racing, Leland willed himself to be calm. "A weapon," he muttered. "I need a weapon!" For the first time in his life, Leland regretted not owning a gun. Maybe I can get a knife from the kitchen...
The patio doors rattled violently and he immediately discarded the notion of going into the kitchen. The closet! There's gotta be something in there that I can use!
Making his way back across the dark expanse of the living room, he was suddenly aware of the silence. Skittles had ceased his whimpering and there was no longer any noise coming from the glass patio doors. In fact, there was no sound of any kind except that of his pounding heart and the shrill wind outside.
Maybe Skittles scared them away, he thought. After all, who in their right mind would tangle with a ninety-five-pound German shepherd? Right? Right?
Tiptoeing into the foyer, Leland gingerly opened the closet door and searched for something he could use as a weapon. He found his golf bag and searched for a club. Then, reconsidering, he pushed the bag to the back of the closet and gripped a seldom-used aluminum softball bat.
As he took hold of the bat, his confidence grew a little. While a baseball bat was no substitute for a sawed-off shotgun, Leland figured it had definite merit as an equalizer. He also had a growing anger on his side.
How dare some thieving bastard break into our home!
Just as Leland turned toward the kitchen, bat in hand, glass and metal trim exploded into the kitchen from the patio door. The broken body of the German shepherd flew across the kitchen, landing in the narrow hallway at Leland's feet. Even in the dark, he could see that the dog was badly mangled, the torso missing two legs and part of a third. Fear welled up from his stomach and filled his mouth, so thick that he could chew it. Slowly, he raised the bat over his head. He could hear the crunch of broken glass under heavy feet as the intruder slowly made his way into the house. Step, shuffle... step, shuffle ...
"Leland? What are you doing down there? What was that noise?"
L
acie!
She was standing at the top of the stairs, pulling on her housecoat. Leland started to yell out a warning but caught himself just in time. He knew he only had two real advantages. First, he knew the layout of the house and the intruder did not. Secondly, he had the element of surprise. Any attempt to warn Lacie would alert the intruder and give away his position. He whispered a silent prayer that she go back to the bedroom and lock the door. He quickly followed that prayer with another; for the deputies to arrive and put an end to this nightmare.
Paralyzed by fear and anticipation, Leland stood in the foyer with the bat raised above his head. The maddening sound moved closer until it was nearly on top of him.
... step, shuffle ... step, shuffle...
Then, silence. No sound except the wind as it howled through the shattered patio doorway. Leland tried to remain motionless but he was sure the intruder could hear the blood crashing through the veins in his temples. The intruder was scant feet away, just around the corner of the foyer.
Sniff, sniff...
What's he doing? Is the bastard trying locate me by smell? A low throaty growl sounded from less than an arm's length away, and Leland's bladder gave way. Suddenly, an intense beam of light pierced the drapes and illuminated the living room.
The sheriff's office! Thank God they're here.
"Leland, is everything okay? Where's Skittles?"
Oh, dear God! Lacie's coming down the stairs!
"Lacie, no!" he screamed. Leland stepped around the corner of the hallway, the bat still poised high above his head. His knees almost buckled and his eyes grew wide when he saw the intruder silhouetted against the wrecked patio door. Leland drew strength from fear and desperation, and swung wildly with all the force he could muster.
The impact sent a shock wave through his shoulders and legs. The bat slipped out of his grip and flew away into the darkness. Leland turned to run when enormous hands seized him by his neck, lifting him high into the air. With an audible snap, Leland's collarbone gave way. He screamed as the intruder slowly increased the pressure, grinding splintered bone until jagged shards protruded from the skin of Leland's neck. Leland kicked out at the intruder, trying desperately to break the iron grip on his upper torso. He could hear Lacie screaming from some distant place.
Slowly, deliberately, taloned fingers moved from his crushed shoulder and dug into the tender flesh beneath his chin. Eyes devoid of pupils and the color of curdled milk peered out from beneath the thick, hooded brow and the fetid stench of rotted flesh assailed his nostrils. Leland's body spasmed as a sharp pain exploded in his chest. A violent spray of blood, bone, and cartilage covered the width of the living room. His scream was cut short as his lungs were penetrated and turned to scarlet jelly. A final word formed on frothy, crimson-stained lips.
"Lacie..."
CHAPTER 37
Mykonos, Greece
He stood atop the stony outcrop, stripped to the waist with tanned, muscular arms held aloft and bare feet planted wide. His battered body gratefully accepted the healing rays of the midmorning sun. Axthiel's supernatural heritage allowed him to experience the miracle of rejuvenation as gaping wounds closed, splintered bone knitted and injured cells duplicated and repaired themselves. While he was no longer worthy of the gift, he wasn't so foolish as to refuse it.
For Axthiel, pain was a near-forgotten sensation. While he was no stranger to dispensing misery, it had been eons since he had personally experienced the sweet agony rendered flesh. His recent battle with Nathaniel had again reminded him of lessons nearly forgotten in time. The battle also very nearly cost him his existence. He had underestimated the Power, and would not make that mistake again. Being Unmade was as close to dying as one of his kind could come. Most of the Brethren would say that being Unmade was a fate far worse than death, but then, how could they know?
He quickly tired of those trifling notions. He had no intention of experiencing death in any form. Axthiel flexed the bunched muscles in his back and shoulders, and reveled in the sensation of raw power. He had never felt more alive then he did at this very moment.
An hour later, fully healed and refreshed, Axthiel turned and stepped off the rocky plateau, dropping lightly to the sand some forty feet below. He had little need for sustenance, but over centuries he had cultivated the very human habit of taking food and drink. The sun, now high overhead, told him it was past time to dine, thus Axthiel began the mile long trek back to his villa.
Once home, Axthiel took a quick dip in the crescent-shaped pool then went inside to dress for a late lunch. His wardrobe was extensive and expensive, befitting a creature of his innate vanity. Everything about Axthiel spoke of luxury and wealth. He also possessed an unusual appreciation for art, especially Mediterranean sculpture. In many ways, Axthiel had come to embrace his life in exile.
Dominations were few in number and unique in both power and intellect. Even so, Axthiel considered himself without peer among the Brethren. Perhaps the most unusual thing about Axthiel was that he reveled in his ability to be human when it suited his purpose.
Like all his kind, Axthiel was far more, and less, than any human, and his battle prowess was respected and feared throughout the Multiverse. Only a handful of either the Host, or the Brethren could claim his equal in terms of physical strength. In truth, there was only one thing that was even remotely human about Axthiel. He had discovered boredom.
His current state of mind had been long in developing, centuries upon centuries in fact. Nevertheless, it had finally happened just the same. Axthiel had grown bored with the drudgery of life. Mundane existence to one of the Brethren was no existence at all. And now!
Now, he had a renewed sense of purpose. The dice had been spilt from the cup and the final game was at hand; four mortal enemies striving for dominance, with all of Creation hanging in the balance. The Creator and his Host, the Runner and his Brethren, the Demon Legion of Sitra Akhra, and the Usurper... it was inevitable that these adversaries would collide. Only the outcome was ever in question.
Axthiel dressed in his favorite attire, dark Italian slacks and a crisp white linen shirt, then walked out onto the third-story terrace and took his accustomed chair beneath a billowing parasol. His manservant immediately appeared from the stucco and stone villa and sat a tray of food and drink upon the glass-top table.
With a grace developed over decades of service, the old man poured a precise amount of white wine into a fluted glass, then stepped back and waited expectantly. Blind from birth but tainted by a miniscule measure of his master's corrupt essence, the old thrall also served as guardian of the estate. He was intensely loyal. Perhaps, insanely so.
After pouring the wine, he stood quietly, awaiting orders. When Axthiel failed to give him additional instructions, the old man bowed, and excused himself. Axthiel sipped the wine, a splendid vintage from his own vineyards in Belgium. Excellent!
He looked out over the city as he ate his meal in silence. It was no accident that he had chosen Mykonos as the favorite of his many properties. He had searched for centuries to find his "Heaven on earth" before settling on the tiny, obscure island, situated in the Aegean between Greece and Crete.
Built much in the same fashion as Venice, the city was latticed with narrow, winding canals. Most of the houses were built well above the water line, structures that featured high sweeping arches, allowing gondolas to pass lazily underneath. Pleasing to the eye, ancient and unsophisticated, yet featuring all the modern amenities; Mykonos was a paradox, much like Axthiel. However, unlike Mykonos, which existed for no other reason than "because," Axthiel now had purpose.
He had chosen his lot very early in the Great Struggle and had no regrets. He would remain loyal to the Runner, at least in principle, because that was his nature; once a decision was made, there was no turning back. It mattered little that his actions carried great risks. There were risks to everything in Creation. He had understood and accepted that fact early on.
Risks be damned.
&n
bsp; Axthiel was created from the very atomic dust of the cosmos by God for no other purpose than battle. Once, he had led celestial armies into battle against the Nine Demon Princes of Sitra Akhra. War, chaos, and conflict were ingrained in every molecule of his being. Now, for the first time since the great rebellion and subsequent Fall, he had found an opponent worthy of the contest. What was the risk of being Unmade when compared to the glory of war?
The Runner is a fool! He would risk everything and for what? He already possesses that which he craves most. This world is already his and he doesn't realize it. Or perhaps he simply doesn't care. Either way, there is no promise of glory in his actions.
Axthiel speared a sliver of palm heart and laid it upon his tongue. He held the piece in his mouth for a moment, savoring the sweet taste of olive oil and the palm's natural juices. "Now, this, I would miss," he muttered.
It's all coming to closure. Pathetic "holy men" bathing in cow piss, "talking heads" in Armani suits offering to trade salvation for donations, and self-proclaimed snake-handling prophets; all lamenting that the "end is near!" If they only knew how close to the truth they really were! Regardless of the outcome, this world will never, ever be same.
Yet something about the Runner's plan troubles me. Allowing Legion to murder children by the thousands... not that I care. Why should I? I've done as much for sport. But the plan is faulty. He'll not break the collective spirit of Man by waging war against the innocent. Instead, he'll galvanize Man's will, provide humanity with renewed purpose. He could destroy them, for that would be a simple matter. But they'll never bend the knee to him. No, he's wrong in this. Of course, that's not exactly a first, is it?
Surely he must see this, so why? What has he to gain? To subjugate a world in which hairless monkeys are the dominant life-form, where is the challenge, the glory in that? True glory lay not in the conquest, but in the contest. The contest is everything!