The Long Night of the Gods: Lilith Awakens (Forgotten Ones Book 2)

by M. H. Hawkins

  Reality has a way of ruining our dreams, and this time was no different. Looking over the city and city lights, she thought of the people and their families and their children. They were all going to die. But they wouldn’t die alone; the rest of the world would be joining them. The world was ending, all of it. Mea’s thoughts were heavy and weighed heavy on her conscience.

  And the moon felt like a spotlight, a spotlight beaming down on her; judging her, doubting her, questioning her. What are you going to do? Will you just stand by and watch them die? Will you let the world burn? Will you watch it? If it did burn, would you even care? Truly, would you? To be quite honest, Mea didn’t know. Her answers were firmly planted on the fence. And the grass on the side of it, on both sides of the fence? Well, with each darting glance, each side looked greener than the other one had.

  Reflecting further, Mea gazed back up at the moon, her spotlight of judgement. It was full and glowed brightly. The clouds in front of it were nothing more than a thin veil and looked more like thin smoke squiggles than actual clouds. And while the wind was mellow, the clouds of smoke seemed to be sliding past the moon at a slightly quicker pace. And they looked almost close enough to touch.

  So she did.

  Mea’s hand, suddenly clad in her silver armor, lashed out like a harpoon, snatching one of the squirming clouds of smoke. But as her fingers tightened around it, the cloud was surprisingly firm and felt like a hose, a squirming hose. No, not a cloud, not a hose… a snake, a banshee.

  Thrashing wildly, it wasn’t going quietly and put up quite the fight. Viciously and relentlessly squirming, Mea fought to hold on to it. But then, with a hard squeeze and pull, she was finally able to yank the white snake out of the sky and atop the steel arch.

  It still wasn’t over, and the banshee still had some fight left in it. Thrashing wildly and every which way, Mea latched on to it with her other hand and squeezed even tighter, hoping to strangle the life out of it.

  It didn’t work, and the banshee still managed to let out a scream, a screech, a series of screeches. Sounding like nails on a chalkboard, it was loud and painful and somewhat strangely appropriate. And it seemed like the banshee was finally living up to its namesake. The banshee’s screeching stabbed sharply through the air and Mea’s eardrum as well. But when she squeezed again, with even more strength, the squawking settled and faded into the more tolerable sound of strained, oxygen-deprived gasping.

  With that, a pair of lips and a nose formed at the tip of the smoky, snake-like ghost. Hollow black eyes formed next and stared up at Mea, the girl that was strangling it. Momentarily docile, the banshee snapped back to its old ways and went back to trying to escape, to squirm out of the vice-grips of Mea’s hands.

  By the time the banshee found the energy to try screeching again, Mea had had enough. Looking somewhat like the Boston Strangler, she went back to squeezing, strangling it. And she kept squeezing. And after slamming the banshee against the steel arch a few time, she squeezed it again and even harder, up until the time that the screeching finally stopped.

  The banshee finally lost its will to fight, this time for real. It turned limp, and its eyes slimmed into two slits of darkness, and it looked like it was about to fall asleep. Now calm and with a ghostly, peaceful face of a woman; the banshee seemed less evil, and it was cute, almost beautiful… peaceful, at the very least.

  “Hey!” Mea shouted, shaking it vigorously. “Wake up.”

  Mea looked over the city again. They’re all going to die. The world is ending. Mea’s eyes narrowed. They’re all going to die; that was a fact, she thought again, but not today.

  “Hey!” Mea said and shook the banshee again. And when it stirred, Mea looked into the creature’s sleepy, hollow eyes and said, “Where’s Lilith?”

  CH 30: Hungry Like a Wolf

  Raven hid in the shadows and waited. And as did so, his patience withered away with each passing second. The bloodlust. His broadsword begged to be held, and he wanted to hold it, to swing it, to cut something… to make something bleed. No. Not yet, he told himself, now is not the time.

  Below him, the cavern was filled. A sea of wolves. All sat, perching upon their muscular hind legs. All with glowing yellow eyes, they gazed up at the stone pulpit, their glowing eyes fixed on the sapphire-eyed god. And more patient than Raven currently was, they waited intently and obediently for their wolf-god to address them.

  Fenrir’s stage-presence was quite imposing, and his charisma inspired loyalty. Draped in his heavy black armor and his cloak of fur, he had the look of an oversized Viking. His long glaive and the giant black-blade that tipped it only added to the image. And with his brooding demeanor, massive muscles, imposing size, and his thunderous voice; Fenrir’s presence was god-like.

  His speech was reminiscent of a heroic monologue, worthy of a Hollywood movie. Like a general addressing his troop, Fenrir’s words and tone were motivating and inspiring. Gesturing with his glaive as he paced and spoke, his message and movements were high energy. And after each verbal punch of motivation from their fearless leader, the cavern of wolves howled in approval.

  Raven heard very little. Too focused on restraining himself and containing his bloodlust, his mind was elsewhere, and he could only make out bits and pieces of Fenrir’s sermon. You are here because your souls are strong and resilient… no longer corrupted, trapped in the flesh of men, you are free—freed from the shackles of men. Freed from the shackles of their flesh… you will be strong once again. As your souls are strong, your flesh will become strong as well, rebuilt in new blood and new flesh… Whereas men are easily swayed, wolves are not. Whereas you once endured the abuses of the wicked and ignorant, you will now be their reckoning… In your first life, you only knew sorrow and felt pain, but in your second life… In your second life, you will be quickened. As your bones become coiled steel and your muscles pistons, you will feel the strength of power, the strength of certainty, of justice… And when the ceremony is complete, your eyes will be opened, and you will see clearly and with new eyes… No longer will the terrors of the world frighten you, for you will be the ones who inspire fear.

  Spying, hiding in the shadows… Raven couldn’t help noticing the similarities between what he was currently doing and when he was spying on Dr. Patterson. Of course the Patterson job was easier. Back then the bloodlust was still weak, and Raven was still draining fallen angels to avoid any withdrawal symptoms. A lifetime ago… Two days ago. Am I really that far gone? he asked himself. What have I become, a monster… a demon?

  Right now, it was all too much, and Raven shook off the thoughts and went back to the job at hand, which, at the moment, involved a significant amount of waiting. The cavern was full of wolves but, to have even the slightly chance of success, he’d have to wait for it to empty before striking. If not, he’d most likely be torn to pieces before he could even reach Fenrir, let alone kill him. So he waited. With his skin crawling and bones aching, he waited. And when time slowed and the seconds felt like hours, he waited some more.

  All the while the sitting wolves continued listening to Fenrir as he stood, paced, and preached upon his platform atop the stone steps, his stone pulpit.

  “We are the chosen ones,” he boasted. “We will prevail. Where men betray each other, wolves do not. Look around children. This, this is your pack… your brothers, your sisters. This is your family, and they are the ones that love you, the ones that matter. And they will fight for you and defend you. They will kill for you. And if necessary… they will die for you—and you for them… because that is what family does…”

  Fenrir paused and the cavern grew quiet. His booming voice was gone, and now he was just staring down at his pack. For some reason known only to him, he deflated, and a sad, somber look came across his face. Finally, significantly sadder and with much less passionate, Fenrir finished up his speech. “But now… That is for later. It can wait. For now… now we rest.” Then Fenrir sat back down on his throne and closed his eyes.

&nb
sp; Damn, this is turning out to be a really long night. Clinging to the ceiling, Raven squeezed his loose claw with frustration—and also trying to keep it from shaking. His other one squeezed into the stone ceiling, his talons digging further into the polished stone. Waiting and hoping for the room to empty, the bloodlust was still raging inside him and grew hungrier. He knew he needed to wait for the right opportunity, but with each passing second, the withdrawals of his addiction grew more painful and begged to be satiated.

  A means to an end. Stay strong, he told himself, one more time, one final battle. Be a hero for once, one last time… before you die, before you become a monster. Through his painful and impatience withdrawals and shaking, and despite the promise of certain death, Raven still had the urge to rush in and get his fix. And he was just about to but… seconds before his spirit broke, his patience was rewarded. Led by the low growls of the largest six, the massive horde of wolves stood and began padding away, sifting away and into each of the six separate corridors. And soon, the room emptied and its bright blue floor dimmed again.

  A few painful minutes later, everyone was gone and the room was all but empty. Only Raven and the wolf-god sitting atop his throne remained. Not yet, just a little bit longer, Raven decided, let him settle first. He waited and watched as Fenrir’s body went limp and until his eyelids lowered over his glowing blue eyes. He watched as Fenrir yawned and scratched at the thicket of his chin while his shoulders slumped further and until his closed eyes began twitching with dreams. Now, now is the time, now that he’s asleep. He is asleep, isn’t he? Raven wasn’t entirely sure.

  Shifting in his seat, Fenrir snorted and adjusted the black-bladed glaive in front of him. The long polearm lied across the throne’s polished stone armrests, and despite the large blade that topped it off—the same blade that seemed to make it horribly off-balanced—the glaive did not fall. Perpendicular to the armrests and parallel with the floor, it rested perfectly level and acted like a thin barricade for its owner… its sleeping, soon-to-be-dead owner. He was asleep, wasn’t he? Creeping closer, Raven hoped so.

  Silently and slowly, Raven slid over the stone ceiling and through the shadows. And with every step, he was careful to not make a sound, tip-toeing like a cat-burglar. Cautious yet fearless. Eventually, he stood at the edge of the shadows and prepared to strike. Nearly upside down, the black claws that replaced his feet dug into the stone roof. This is the perfect spot, he thought. He crouched down and made himself tight and compact. Clinging to the ceiling, he steadied himself. The claw that stood in for his hand crept over his shoulder and over the grip of his beloved broadsword.

  The point of no return neared. In his current position, Raven was a charged projectile at the end of a coiled spring, a rocket. And he readied himself for the attack, to rocket off the ceiling, unsheathe his blade, and kill a god. So Mea doesn’t have to do it, he reminded himself. I may be a killer, he thought, but I have my reasons. And now… now it was time to kill a god.

  Well… now, later, or never.

  Raven chose now and shot off the roof. In half-a-heartbeat, he was sliding his broadsword from its scabbard, over his shoulder, and in front of him. The blade spun the shadows as he switched his grip and—now with both claws firmly holding it—prepared to slam its sharpened tip through the wolf-god. Blasting down from the ceiling and straight for his target, the sweet spot—where the chest plate meets the pauldron (shoulder armor), he was so close. The sweet spot, just above his armpit, was the perfect place to strike, where armor was the weakest.

  He was almost there but… A blinking second before the tip of his blade met god-flesh, the old god snapped open his eyes, revealing two glowing sapphires. Too late. Raven’s reaper blade sank through the Fenrir’s armor and shot through his shoulder.

  Fenrir felt it and let out a howl that was neither human nor wolf. His eyes met Raven’s, and he yanked his glaive across his lap, smacking Raven in the process. Faster than Raven expected, the polearm slammed into his shoulder, shattered the armor that covered it, and sent Raven flying.

  The blow was painful and, like he was nothing more than a swatted fly, Raven was tumbling through the air. Beneath his shattered armor, his shoulder exploded with pain and felt limp and broken. What the hell just happened? Before he could figure it out, Raven slammed into and across the again lit-up floor of Fenrir’s throne room.

  “What was that? A moth maybe?” Fenrir jested as he stood up. My back feels strange, he realized. Looking behind him, Fenrir saw a deep slit carved into the back of his throne that wasn’t there before. Then looking over his shoulder, he saw the blade sticking out of it. Then looking down at front of his shoulder and seeing the rest of the blade, he finally realized what happened. He shrugged and left the sword alone, for now.

  Sniffing the air, he grinned and answered his own question. “No, not a moth, a raven. A good raven—I’ll give you that. Quick.” Fenrir sniffed the air again and grinned. “Aye, a good raven indeed. No fear in you. Huh, guess that’s why I couldn’t sense your presence.”

  “Interesting theory.” Raven’s black mask slid over his face, and he was already back on his feet and shooting forward, rocketing towards the stone steps and Fenrir.

  At the same time, Fenrir was casually descended the very same stairs. “Here,” said Fenrir, pulling Raven’s sword out of his shoulder. Looking at it momentarily, he shrugged, slightly impressed that it cut him so deep. “You might need this.” Then, as if he was skipping a stone, he casually flung the sword at Raven. And as it left Fenrir’s hand, the broadsword spun through the air like a large, black, razor-edged discus.

  While it came at Raven faster and sharper than he expected, it required minimal adjustments. “Thanks,” he said, not missing a beat and still charging. Then, without breaking his stride or losing a step, he snatched the hilt of his spinning blade and continued racing forward. Switching his grip once again, he spun the blade around and readied his next attack.

  Fenrir was readying himself as well. Stopping at the bottom of the stone steps, he casually scratched at his bearded chin. “Come, boy. Let us see what you can do.” As if he was no more than a baton-twirler and it was a baton, he spun his glaive around the front and sides of himself. Quick but spinning faster, the large black blade left trails of violet as it spun and sliced through the shadows around Fenrir.

  “With the passing years, it seems that the Dark One has grown bold.” Fenrir stopped spinning his blade and readied himself for Raven’s approach. “Hmm, perhaps I have slept too long this time.”

  Charging hard and about to attack, Raven answered the question. “Maybe.” Then leaping into the air, he came down with a crashing two-handed slash which, with an effortless parry and a side step, Fenrir easily defended. Raven’s second attack came in quick succession and swept just under Fenrir’s beard, his sapphire eyes following the blade as it passed ever so close to his throat.

  Raven’s barrage of attacks continued—lightning fast and filled with rage, and he slashed from every angle using every technique he knew. But the results were the same, and each attack was less successful than the one before it.

  Metal sparked with the sound of bells, and amidst a series of flashes—almost too fast for human eyes, Fenrir easily dodged or swept aside each and every swing of the reaper’s blade. And while Raven was fighting for his life, Fenrir’s parries were calm and effortless. And Raven was so focused on killing the wolf-god that he barely noticed the lack of effort.

  That wasn’t all that he barely noticed. The six tunnels leading to the throne room were filling with yellow eyes and soon they were pouring out of them, wolves returning and emerging from each of the corridors. And with each flash of sparked metal, the number of spectators grew the same. Raven didn’t notice that either and he certainly didn’t notice that the horde of wolves was also beginning to surround him.

  Still attacking, Raven found that his attacks weren’t entirely fruitless, and Fenrir’s lack of effort eventually showed a flaw. Raven’s broadsw
ord swept upwards, hoping to split open Fenrir’s face, but it only met the shaft of his glaive and exploded with sparks. Fenrir’s parry continued and he slid his glaive across the edge of Raven’s sword—metal sparking on metal all the while—before twirling it around and smacking the reaper blade to the ground. Damn he’s fast, thought Raven. Apparently Fenrir thought so as well and was quite impressed with his performance and… he smiled at his opponent.

  Maybe that’s why he didn’t see it coming. Raven was expecting Fenrir’s movements and had released his grip beforehand. Where was Raven’s other hand, his claw? Well… Fenrir was still smiling when it slid across his face. Raven’s razor-sharp talons raked across Fenrir’s cheek and carved three trenches into it as it passed.

  While the wounds would heal quickly, the carved pockets in his cheek and the chuck of his nose that was now missing were enough for Fenrir to truly pay attention. The wolf-god growled angrily then slammed the butt of his glaive into Raven’s chest, shattering more of his glossy black armor and sent onyx shards tumbling onto the ground. The blow felt like a sledgehammer, and Raven followed the path of his shattered armor and hit the floor.

  Get up, NOW. Stay focused. Raven tried. Flooded with pain, he tried to stand, to fight back, to do anything, but it was no use. Everything was blurry and confusing, and then it happened again, the sledgehammer. Fenrir’s armored fist slammed into the back of his head, and now fighting back was out of the question. The pain shot through his skull just before his face slammed and splattered against the glowing blue floor. His face mask shattered and spread across the floor, blood splattered out from beneath it. He heard a familiar “ting” as Fenrir kicked his sword across the room, and Raven knew what came next. I’m done for. Time to die.

  But seeing his blood, Raven forced a half-smile. Maroon, my blood’s maroon—not black. I’m not too far gone. I’m not done for, his rattled brain tried to convince him, not yet. From somewhere, Raven again found the strength to fight and his will to live.