--Abigail Martin, Through the Eyes of a Martyr
Alex had been woken early in the morning so his hair could be dyed a dark brown and his clothes could change to something a little more suited for a child of the aristocracy. He stood in front of a mirror admiring himself. It wasn’t what he’d been so used to, but he did have to admit, it looked good. He ran his hands down his blue, silk shirt. He lifted the shirt slightly and turned to see how his butt looked in the black designer denim jeans. Everything was a perfect fit. And why not? He did, after all, have tailors at his complete disposal.
He was escorted outside the mansion to a red Logos. Besides the fact that it was the most expensive car Alex could think of, he didn’t know too much about the car. He walked around it, examining the features (as if he knew anything about what he was looking at). He ran his hand along the headlights and walked toward the driver’s side door. Alex looked inside and saw all sorts of buttons across the dash of the car.
“You’ll need keys for that,” he heard Matt say from behind him.
Alex turned to see Matt toss the keys lazily to him. Alex snatched them out of the air, but he couldn’t pull his attention from Matt, who now had blonde hair and was sporting very casual clothes—blue jeans and an orange, name-brand t-shirt. It looked as though Matt had taken his outfit directly out of Alex’s closet.
“You look...different,” Alex mentioned.
“Yes. And so do you,” Matt returned with a smile.
“In fact,” Alex continued, “except that you’re in better shape, you look a lot like me.”
“Well, like you used to look,” Matt corrected as he peered down at his attire. “That’s the point.”
Alex kind of cocked his head and glared at Matt. “Why...?”
“Isn’t it obvious? If they think I’m you, then they might not think you’re you.”
“You’re bait.”
Matt smiled, unconcernedly. “Look, don’t be dramatic about this.”
“Dramatic?” Alex echoed. “Dramatic is setting someone up to get killed.”
Matt suddenly looked pretentious. The pitch of his voice rose slightly, and he took on a painfully fake British accent. “Me? Me? I have no intention of dying. I’m too young and beautiful.”
“Goddamit, Matt. I’m serious. This has gone too far. I don’t want you to go.”
Matt laughed. “Alex, I don’t think you have much say in that. Listen, I’m only trying to protect you. I realize that you’re trying to be heroic, and that’s sweet, but have you ever fought a demon?”
Alex looked away and, in a softer voice, answered, “You know I haven’t.”
“Have you ever had to dodge bullets?”
“Matt, that’s not the point.”
“No, you’re right,” Matt said, sullenly. “The point is that Jeremiah tells us what to do. He has always told us what to do. We may not like it, but we do it because we have no other choice.”
“He’s using you as a decoy,” Alex observed, getting very frustrated. He shook his head. “No, this isn’t right.”
Matt placed a hand on Alex’s shoulder. “This is a necessary precaution.”
In that moment Alex felt a torrent of emotion flood him, and it wasn’t his. He sensed fear. He sensed bitterness. He knew that Matt saw this as unfair, but Alex felt something else. Matt saw this for what it was and accepted it—not because he thought it absolutely necessary and not because he couldn’t see what Jeremiah was doing, but because he loved Alex.
“You shouldn’t do this,” Alex insisted.
“But I’m going to anyway, and you know it.” Matt looked away and motioned to the car, “Now, let’s take this baby for a spin.”
***
Lao Shi stepped off his flight and looked around at his new home—Las Vegas—the City of Sin, according to many Americans. He wondered how many of them realized the irony and poetic accuracy that statement held at the same time. People all around the airport were trying to give him free gifts or sell him something. Some of those who were milling around the airport looked like he would have, if he were still in the temple, with their orange robes and shaved heads.
He was advised not to dress in the traditional monk’s outfit—it would not do, as he was trying to pass as an American. His accent was slight, and his vocabulary was better than most life-long residents of the country. His hair was little more than stubble, but it was growing in.
Lao Shi had not realized that another prophet, Abbie, had come almost exactly the way he had out of the airport. If he had, he may have reflected on it for a moment. But, because he didn’t, as he was exiting the airport, he saw a car coming in time to step back onto the sidewalk. He remembered he was far from his quiet home in the mountains.
Thinking of the mountains caused him to wonder how his master was faring while he was away. The prophet even remembered a traumatic nightmare he’d had three days ago, before he’d left his home. He silently chided himself. The temple had stood for nearly a hundred years, and it was in the hands of the most capable person alive. It was foolish to even wonder what effect his absence would have on it.
He felt a touch on his shoulder. He looked to see a black woman smiling down on him.
“Lao Shi?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“My name is Marla. I’m a friend.”
He smiled warmly back at her. He knew she was a friend when she touched him, but it was nice when people identified themselves as such. He had always thought that too often friendship is assumed. And, though he tried to be friendly with everyone, the assumption was sometimes misplaced. However, something in her eyes told him that she was sad and afraid. There was something that she didn’t want to tell him.
“What is wrong?”
She looked surprised by the question, but she quickly accepted it. “My car is down the road a little. Perhaps, we should discuss it there.”
He bowed his head slightly. “Of course.”
***
The apartment that had been set up for Matt and Alex was enormous. Alex was sure that few other students were living this well. The high ceilings, the Italian leather furniture, and the state-of-the-art entertainment center were only a few examples of how far Jeremiah was willing to go to make sure the facade of Alex being the son of a real estate tycoon passed all the tests.
Matt slapped Alex on the back. “Just like home, hmm?”
Alex laughed. “Yeah, but I’ve been in so many homes lately that I’m not sure which one is really mine.”
“That’s true,” Matt agreed. “You came from Kingstone. Jeremiah took you to hide out in that shack. You stayed in the mansion for a while, and now you’re here, within walking distance of a college campus. Well, it’s all for the good of the world.”
“I keep telling myself that.”
Matt saw something in Alex’s eyes. He wasn’t sure if it was doubt, fear, or regret, but he wouldn’t blame the boy for any one of them. This was going to be quite an eventful semester, even if everything was as calm as it could be.
Matt wanted to change the subject. He knew that he shouldn’t be getting so connected to Alex’s feelings. It could definitely conflict with his position. If Matt’s feelings started to overwhelm his senses, he would have to find someone to replace him as the boy’s guardian. Matt didn’t want that to happen because he enjoyed Alex’s company, because he didn’t think anyone else could protect the prophet like he could, and because it would be yet another example of his own inadequacy. The last was enough to solidify his resolve.
“So,” he said, “I’ve got your schedule.”
Alex looked hesitantly at Matt.
“Don’t worry,” Matt reassured. “You’ll be fine. They’re all introductory level classes, and you’ve been with those tutors so much in the past couple of weeks that you’re bound to do well. Besides, Jeremiah has too much resting on you.” He thought for a moment and laughed. “I’m sure we could find someone to do your homework, if it came down to that.”
Alex took the piece of paper in Matt’s outstretched hand and read aloud, “Introduction to Composition, Introduction to Philosophy, Speech and Rhetoric, and Introduction to Psychology—with Dr. Abigail Martin. Nice.”
“That’s twelve credit hours,” Matt added. “It’s as small as we could give you and it still be considered a full load. Any more, with your already busy schedule, would probably kill you.”
Alex sighed. “Okay. Well, what do we do now?”
“We should tell Abbie that we’re here,” Matt answered.
“I’ve heard so much about her; I’m really curious to see if she stands up to all the hype.”
Matt nodded. “I’m sure she’s thinking the same thing about you.”
***
Elizabeth looked at her computer screen in vain. She could not take her mind away from the parting between her and Matt. Why couldn’t he understand that there were other things at stake besides Alex? For the past two weeks, all he could talk about was how good Alex was and how mean she’d been for not giving him a chance. She’d grown up in a small town, though. She knew the thought process of small-minded people. Alex may have claimed ignorance, and he could, in fact, be ignorant. But she had a gut feeling that she couldn’t trust him, and this morning he took away the first man she really cared for.
She slammed her hand on her desk and yelled, “Goddamit,” as a sharp pain ripped through her lower arm.
Turning her head slowly, she saw that, as she expected, everyone in the room was staring at her. She told them all to take a break before, she added with a smile, they all became as frustrated as she was. When they were all gone, she laid her head down in front of her monitor and wept.
After a few minutes of crying, she sat up straight, held her head back and took a few deep breaths. She dried her eyes with her sleeve and looked at the monitor. To her surprise, there was a message on the screen. It looked as if someone had sent her an instant message.
The box stated, “You are not alone.”
She blinked a couple times and typed the message, “Who are you?”
In an instant, there was a response. “I am.”
“Well, that’s cryptic,” she said. “How did you get this address?” she typed.
“I was born,” the message replied.
“Enough of this nonsense,” Elizabeth fumed. “I don’t need you to tell me who you are.”
Her fingers began working quickly across the keyboard. She was running searches throughout the compound’s database to find programs that would have allowed someone to find her personal IP address. At the same time she was trying to trace the message back to its source. The signal was being piggybacked through many different networks. All of which were addresses that she had recently been to. This was enough to give her cause for concern. Some hacker had followed her, and now he probably intended to do something about her recent exploits. Indeed, he would, unless she could trace him back to his computer and drop off a virus. She knew that she had to be getting close, too. What worried her was that there wasn’t any kind of security for her to crack.
She got to the end of her trek, and, as she examined the IP address in front of her, she cocked her head in astonishment. It was her own. She took a second look and leaned back in her chair. Had he created some kind of looping software that would take any hacker back to her own computer instead of revealing his identity? She’d never seen security like that before. It baffled her. Her computer was designed to circumnavigate every known firewall, yet something had bounced her back.
“Where are you?” she asked out loud, knowing that typing it would do no good.
Nevertheless, “With you,” appeared on the screen.
She spun her head around. There were desks, other computers, a pile of miscellaneous hardware on a table, but no one other than her. She apprehensively looked back to the computer.
“You bastards have bugged the mansion,” she reasoned in awe.
There was no reply.
***
“Thomas Kinsfield,” Abbie read to herself from her roster. “I guess everything is in order.”
She was walking across campus. She’d had to endure a half-day seminar for new professors. As she listened to the blithering idiots talk about what education meant to them, she had wanted to stand up and explain that, in four hundred years, she had never heard so many professional people say so many stupid things consecutively. Instead, she had done her best to ignore them as she added more and more sugar to her coffee for the purposes of consciousness. She rolled her eyes as she reflected upon the wealth of knowledge the tenured professors had for recent inductees.
“Don’t tell the students that they’re wrong,” one fat man in glasses and sporting suspenders had droned. “Instead, tell them that they are on the right track, but they’re not quite there.”
The dean of Student Services had told them, “Tomorrow will be the beginning of a new life for thousands of incoming freshmen. We should all strive to make sure that it is a life of wonderment and self-imposed challenge. Teach them to have a critical eye for the world. Give them the tools they’ll need to make a difference. Finally, help them feel at home in a world that will probably be very foreign to them.”
Everyone had clapped for that pompous blowhard who, incidentally, hadn’t done any teaching in fifteen years. His speech was obviously canned, and he’d probably used the same exact one last year. Abbie had stood and clapped with the sheep all around her. And, as she did, she glanced at the clock on the wall. Her eyes went wide when she realized that Matt and Alex would be getting to the campus at any moment. Had that waste of time really taken four hours of her life? Without any concern for the opinion of any of her “colleagues,” she picked up the stack of papers she had brought with her and, attracting stares from many people in the room, marched out of the banquet hall.
Now, she was walking briskly toward her office, and she could hear someone calling her name. “For God’s sake,” she muttered to herself.
“Dr. Martin!” the voice repeated.
She slowed, but did not stop. She could hear the huffing of some man, probably older and overweight (from the sounds of the panting), trying to catch up with her. Her head turned slightly to see that, indeed, the chair of the Psychology Department was moving as quick as his stubby legs could carry him to keep up with her.
“Dr. Phillips,” she noted, “I really must take care of something. May I speak with you at another time?”
“Ben,” he returned, patting the sweat off his head with a handkerchief. “Call me Ben.”
“Ben,” she continued, not slowing her momentum, “I have to meet with a student, and I’m running late as it is.”
“Yes,” he agreed, “I noticed that you left the seminar in a hurry.”
“I can’t imagine,” Abbie said, exasperated, “that I missed much after the standing ovation.”
“No. Of course not.” He was lagging behind. “I was just thinking that, in all the hustle and bustle, I hadn’t gotten a chance to formally introduce myself to you.”
She could feel the lust emanating from behind her. She cocked an eyebrow in dull realization. If he tries anything on me, I’ll put him in a coma for a week, she thought to herself. It wouldn’t be that bad; she entertained the thought, I could make it look like he’d suffered a mild stroke. The doctors wouldn’t be able to explain the coma, but there wouldn’t be any brain damage. And brain damage would be the least of his problems, if he kept hounding her.
Abbie finally stopped and turned to face him. “A student is expecting me.”
“Oh, right. Well, I should let you go take care of that.”
“Yeah,” she agreed and turned to walk away.
“If you have any questions about departmental policies, feel free to call on me,” he invited.
“Will do,” Abigail returned shortly.
As she moved toward her office, she couldn’t help but feel a little flattered that after four hundred years she still “had it,” but it was little
consolation that sex, despite all of the emotional evolution humanity was supposed to have gone through and all of the civil rights women had obtained, was still the driving factor in relationships. She smiled, considering that she might set a new record for old maid.
***
A man-sized pillar of flame shone brightly on a hill in Northern Ireland. Despite the strength of the demon fueling it, the intensity of the pyre had decreased steadily over the last ten minutes. Jeremiah had made quite sure that no one would be around for miles, just in case this didn’t go as he’d planned. His power was waning; he didn’t know if the ritual was working, or if it was even possible after so many centuries. He knew that he was fighting against something, but all of Metatron’s wards should have been overcome by now.
Without warning, he felt the ground open up, and a swarm of flies poured out of the crevice by the thousands. The insects didn’t stop. The swarm surrounded him, undaunted by the gradually diminishing flame.
“Behold your poison,” it buzzed in a very old, Arabic tongue all around him, still flowing from the opening in the earth.
Jeremiah could hardly maintain focus. “Kemuel, you are released from Metatron’s bondage, but you will be in my service until I see fit to release you.”
“I do not take orders from you,” the plague concentrated its wrath upon Jeremiah.
“Then,” Jeremiah replied, becoming weak as the fire continued to die down around him, “you will not get the opportunity to enact your revenge upon your captor.”
Jeremiah could no longer see daylight, for everything around him was becoming increasingly blocked by flies. The air around him was thick with black buzzing. The torment swelled for an instant and then stopped. In place of the swarm, there was an emaciated, balding man of middle-eastern descent. He was, of course, completely naked. His eyes were locked on Jeremiah. His fists were clenching and releasing.
Demonic Designs (To Absolve the Fallen) Page 20