by David Risen
Then he steps over to Merissa, hoists her over his shoulder, and listens hard. Upstairs, Lilith is still screaming and writhing.
Rider grins.
And before stalking off to return to Hayden’s part of the city, he turns and gives Cain the stink eye.
“Stay away from me. Attack either one of us again, and death will be the least of your concerns.”
Dried leaves crunch beneath Rider’s feet as he jogs through the woods between Cassandra’s camp and Hayden’s stronghold with Merissa Irons draped over his right shoulder.
Leaves crunch through the woods behind him with the sounds of other footfalls – pursuers.
Rider presses forward, exhausted – his heavy breaths billowing out of his mouth in the form of a white vapor. His back, shoulders, and thighs scream with strain and exhaustion.
Then his eyes catch a sight fifty feet ahead that causes him to drop to the ground panting into the yellow, brown, and red bed of leaves.
Seven women wearing familiar hooded cloaks standing in a line beneath the canopy of trees. The woman in the center wears a white cloak, while the others all wear red, blue, green and brown cloaks.
Sisters.
Rider listens hard, but he hears nothing but the distant crunching of leaves as the other members of Cassandra’s coterie comb through the woods searching.
“We know you’re there, Abysmal Patron,” says the voice of the woman in white.
Rider furls his brow and then rolls Merissa Irons off him. She lands on her back in a bed of leaves with her pale arms extended. Her nude skin is drawn up into goosebumps from the cold. A shallow cloud of vapor rises from her mouth as she breathes. She rolls over onto her left side, curls into a fetal position and shivers in her sleep.
Rider strips off his leather coat and lays it over her like a blanket. Then he trains his eyes back toward the women ahead. None of them have moved a muscle. They stand as if frozen in stone in the woods.
Rider unsheathes the abysmal spike from its scabbard, climbs to his feet, and approaches them – stopping fifty feet short of the Sisters.
The woman wearing the white cloak pulls down her hood.
Her hair is completely white. Her eyes are gray. Her pale skin is flawless.
“My name is Grand Arch Sorceress Mildred Worthington.”
Rider smirks. “Did you come all the way out here to tell me how special you are? I’m not hirin.”
She clears her throat.
“We’ve come to oppose you as prescribed by the prophecy.”
Rider gives her an incredulous look. “I’ve been opposed enough. Go find someone else to play with.”
She shakes her head. “It is the duty of all sisters alive and dead to test you.”
Rider grins.
“And they did that and failed. They’ve thrown everything but the kitchen sink at me. Adam, Lucifer, Baal, themselves....”
“Do you really believe that inflicting the horrendous spirits here on the world is the answer to all human suffering, or is it the answer only to your own?”
The sensation of electricity coursing through his body increases as the dangerous one rises from the deepest recesses of his being. Rider’s eyes begin to burn, and he feels the heat of the abysmal spike as it snakes around his arm joining with the physical sword.
“Suffering and hatred is the only thing all men have in common, now.”
The woman in the white cloak lowers her head with regret.
“I see.”
She looks up. “But the only true measure of the truth of your words is whether you have the power to sweep away all who oppose you.”
Father Fury glares. “This is pointless and redundant.”
The gray grand arch sorceress frowns. “But necessary.”
As the powers deep within Rider collect and the clouds lift from his spiritual memory, he sees the women standing before him as they are.
He looks inside the women and sees their virtue shining like a beacon of white in their auras. And the memory of the eldest fills his mind.
Grand Arch Sorceress Mildred Worthington sits atop what can only be described as a royal throne inside an ornate domed chamber in the center of a sacred circle. Scores of women dressed in multi-colored hooded cloaks stand just outside the circle.
Ten feet beyond the great Grand Arch Sorceress stands two podiums.
Mildred’s first counselor steps up to the podium on the left.
“Our first order of business today are the concerns of the Italian Stake,” she says in perfect, refined British English. “To give voice to these issues, I present Arch Sorceress Sophia Sacco of the Italian stake along with Arch Priestess Ricci who will translate.”
Mildred draws a deep breath and releases it slowly as Sophia Sacco and Bonfilia Ricci approach the podiums.
Mildred is aware of Sophia’s disdain for her tenure as Grand Arch Sorceress. She’s also heard reports that Sophia has entire chapters of the order working against her – and that the magic they use is less than virtuous.
Sophia wears a gold cloak that swishes against the marble tiles as she approaches. Mildred smirks a bit as she recalls how her second counselor once remarked that she looks strikingly like the wicked witch in the American movie “The Wizard of Oz.”
Sadly, Sophia, who is the leader of a growing sect of the sisterhood that dabbles in the dark arts more than necessary, would be the leading contender for the title of Grand Arch Sorceress should something happen to Mildred.
Unbeknownst to all of them, Mildred has sanctioned a secret inquiry into their practices that has uncovered a group of sisters who have grown far out of balance.
The translator and Arch Sorceress Sacco settle in behind their respective podiums. Sister Sacco clears her throat, and removes a paperclip on a stack of typed pages that she’s apparently come to read.
Sacco clears her throat, and begins prattling in Italian. After a few sentences, she pauses and eyes her translator.
“Esteemed Sisters,” Ricci begins, her language colored by a thick Italian accent. “Grand Arch Sorceress Worthington, we’ve requested to speak with you today regarding a growing threat that challenges our ancient sisterhood.”
Mildred looks down at the sacred circle below her throne and must resist rolling her eyes. Mildred is aware of Sacco’s disdain for the Celestial shards and her desire to control them. She maintains her downward gaze as Arch Sorceress Sacco continues the rattle onward in her native tongue. Finally, she pauses, and her translator speaks.
“The spirits that the apocalyptic prophecy call ‘The Celestial Shards’ have, once again, brought the mortal realm to near ruin. The unchecked and freed Abysmal Patron, working behind the scenes, has used all of his resources to bring all of Europe and Asia to near ruin with a second World war.”
Mildred can take it no more. She sighs and shakes her head impatiently as Sacco continues in Italian, and after rattling off a few more sentences, Ricci translates.
“This time, it took all of the might of the sisterhood along with the help of the Conciliator Patron to put him down – the Conciliator Patron who even now defies the law of mortality with this order’s blessing in Oxford inside your own country. And even the benign Conciliator Patron sets our world out of balance with his unnatural life beyond life.”
Mildred continues to shake her head as Sophia Sacco bellows out her next few sentences, and then Ricci translates the poisonous words.
“The Conciliator Matron, in a similar state, lives completely ignored by our order in The United States, accosting men with her supernatural powers, and healing those condemned by the wyrding. The Abysmal Matron, has grown to a strength that we cannot oppose.”
Mildred looks up to the mural on the domed ceiling in the underground chamber. The mural is a portrait of the re-weaving ceremony performed on the Abysmal Patron in distant antiquity painted by the same hand that decorated the Sistine Chapel – Michelangelo.
Sacco finished her next few lines and her interpreter butts in.
“It’s only a matter of time until the Vivacious shards appear, and they all converge. Europe lies in ruins. The people of the world suffer great grief. We must stop them!”
“That’s enough!” Mildred says.
The translator turns and whispers the Italian version to Sacco.
“We are all aware of the Italian Arch Sorceress’s ire for the Celestial Shards, but as the wiser among you all know, we must follow the measures prescribed by the prophecies.”
A few words into Ricci’s translation, the expression on Sacco’s face darkens and she begins to shake her head. She says something in Italian.
Ricci takes a deep breath and turns once more to face the Grand Arch Sorceress. “It is our duty to preserve the balance that perpetuates this mortality. It is our belief that our mandate is not limited to mere Malevolent threats, but all Celestial threats.”
Mildred holds up her right hand as if signaling the translator to stop.
“The Celestial Shards are not evil. They were created by the Great Spirit himself with the specific purpose of ending mortality in the case that our realm loses its balance to the point that it is no longer a functional academy for the young children. Our job is not to oppose the Celestial shards, but to impede them. If they rise above our efforts to stop them, it is our duty to the supreme creator of the universe to get out of their way. At no time will we ever employ maleficent tactics to do so, nor will we turn the tables and call what is created for the common good evil. Perhaps Arch Sorceress Sacco would have us directly oppose God himself because he’s too dangerous?”
Sacco sighs with frustration as Ricci relays the Italian translation of Mildred’s thoughts. Before her translator has even finished, Sacco turns and regards Mildred with an icy stare.
Sacco half yells her next comments.
Ricci gives the Grand Arch Sorceress an apologetic look as she begins to translate.
“Is a child standing outside of his destroyed home with the blood of his mother and father splattered on his face not evidence of evil? Are people being herded to their deaths inside a slaughterhouse built to resemble a Jewish bathhouse – is this not an evil act? The celestial shards should be redesignated Malevolent by our order for they have gone insane, and we should treat them as adversaries.”
This time Mildred raises her voice. “Perhaps the esteemed Arch Sorceress of Italy and her flock has forgotten that mortality is not the host of the Celestial Shards. They are ours. Read your prophecy again. Furthermore, the lawlessness of these informal sects gathering in our order that plot to take more power than afforded by divinity will soon be dealt with.”
That evening, when Mildred Worthington, also called Mother Superior Joan Mary retires to her domicile – a simple room inside the grand, old convent with white walls, a simple bed with a metal frame, and a crucifix hanging above it with a small writing desk. She feels heavy.
Her spies inside the Italian administration of the sisterhood reported a lot of chatter. Mildred doubled her own guard and ordered new wards of protection be administered.
But she knows that Sophia Sacco is not a woman to be trifled with.
She was born a temperamental, hot-blooded Italian woman with ties to La Cosa Nostra. If she couldn’t put down an opponent politically, she would try using her powers. If that proved fruitless, she would take them out physically.
With all the stress surrounding Mildred’s growing unpopularity, she thinks that sleep might be a difficult proposition.
But as soon as she rests her head on her simple pillow, she slips into deep sleep.
Two hours later, something heavy lands on top of her. Her eyes pop open to find the grotesque mien of Arch Sorceress Sophia Sacco hovering over her with a look of hatred upon her mien.
“É giunto il momento per un nuovo ordine,” she hisses.
“What’s the meaning of this?” Mildred snaps.
Sophia cocks a gleaming silver Athame over her head and plunges it deep into Mildred’s heart.
Rider snaps out of it and squints at the women standing before him. He shakes his head. The spiritual abysmal spike rescinds leaving only the physical sword in his hand.
“I will not fight the virtuous.”
The former Grand Arch Sorceress shakes her head. “You will fight us or be deposed.”
The spiritual abysmal spike snakes around Rider’s arm again.
“Your power will not harm me.”
“Sisters,” Mildred says.
The sisters release their powers in unison. The wind whips about the woods. The earth grumbles and shakes, and all the power of the Sisters of Divinity is sucked into the glowing Abysmal Spike.
In a moment, they cease their attack.
Father Fury nods. “If you attack me further, you lose once and for all the virtuous battle that each of you fought so vigilantly in your lives.”
Mildred eyes the sisters around her with a look of remorse, and then redirects her attention to Rider.
“What I will do is correct the wrong that put you here,” Rider says.
Father Fury slices the abysmal spike through the air and opens a rift before them that parts like a curtain spilling out white light so bright that none living can look upon it.
“Beyond this portal lies your ultimate reward. Go.”
One by one the sisters file into the rift with the final sister being Mildred Worthington.
She stops just short of the rift and gives Father Fury a look of regret. “If only the coup had been unsuccessful.”
Father Fury shakes his head. “Fate itself was written by the Great Spirit. He doesn’t make mistakes.”
She nods, and then she enters the rift with the portal closing behind her.
In a moment, Rider finds himself standing in the woods alone.
The sounds of the footfalls crunching through the leaves in the woods have grown much closer.
Rider turns around to find Merissa staring upon him with disbelief wearing his black leather coat.
“You’re awake.”
She nods and stares at him with awe. “I saw you in my dream. Who are you?”
“My name is Blake Rider. I’m here to save you.”
She shakes her head. “You have powers like me.”
He gives her a screwed-up look that disintegrates into a look of embarrassment. “If you believe the line of shit the witches are sellin, I’m supposed to be your soul mate.”
Her mouth falls open. “But that can’t be.”
He shrugs. “That’s what they all keep tellin me.”
“But you’re so old.”
Rider smirks. “You got any idea what year this is?”
“2007,” she says.
Rider shakes his head. “Try 2016. You’re older than me.”
Raven looks as though someone has punched her in the stomach. She stares down at the leaves at her bare feet.
“So, are you really, Raven – the wife of Rhett Mueller?”
Her eyes light with hope. “You know him?”
He huffs. “I wish. He was my hero when I was a teenager.”
Rider hears wraith’s voices progressing through the woods.
“We have to get out of here.”
She frowns. “Where?”
“Hayden has offered to take us in.”
Her eyes bulge. “No! Hayden tried to eat me.”
Rider’s mouth falls open. “He knew who you are?”
She nods. “He wants my power as much as Cassandra. Do you know who he really is?”
Rider shakes his head.
She frowns. “Hades – as in the Greek God Hades. But he’s not a real god. His wife, as he calls her, is Aphrodite. They’re both evil and dangerous.”
Rider frowns. “What do we do?”
Raven squints and looks left as she considers their options. “There’s this place not far from here that no one will dare go, but we can.”
Rider nods. “Let’s hit it.”
The wrinkled and hard visage cloaked in a thick red
beard and a curly mop of red hair that belonged to the man – the arch spirit – the God – Hades hovers over a fire in the hearth of his home on the other side of the city.
His eyes flicker with doubt and fear. In his chest, the tight sensation of dread and anxiousness ebbs.
“Sire?” someone says behind him.
His inner tension has escalated to such a level that he jumps at the sound. He turns to find his chief of scouts – a spirit who was also once a man, now known as David, but once called Vlad Tepes or Dracula.
“What?” Hayden growls.
“Father Fury has left the camp of the adversary in shambles with the mother of chaos in his arms. We lost them in the woods, and Cassandra’s hosts pursue them.”
Hayden nods. “Do you think he decided not to return here?”
“That’s the fear.”
Hayden sighs. “Alora and I have discussed the possibility. She will seek Father Fury and I will take on Mother Chaos. We should leave now and mop up Cassandra’s followers while they’re distracted and unprotected.”
Vlad Dracula nods his gaunt head of long, dark hair. “I’ll assemble our procession.”
Rider sits along the front pew of the rotting, old church with his arms stretched out on top of the backrest as he looks up at the dusty, wooden cross that presides over the rotten pulpit.
The sound of the door behind the choir box closing summons his attention. Rider looks down to find Merissa wearing a white and gold choir gown. She cradles his black, leather coat in her arms like a baby.
She stumbles down the steps, and falls into him.
Rider rises and catches her mid fall and they stand for a moment with their faces only an inch apart. Merissa’s wild eyes are half-closed as she considers his face.
“What’s wrong with you?” Rider says.
She looks down. “I’m weak. It’s all I can do to stay awake. Something is pulling on me.”