by Diana Estell
To try to break the bonds he had agreed to by refusing or otherwise would be suicide. If Mary would not sign the agreement to lure Mark in, Savila would waste no time and call Dagon to the terms, sealing their deaths.
He began to trust that Magethna’s exuberant ways might be catchy, for he was less hopeless, indeed, more hopeful. Maybe he could halfway live in the light.
He took a deep breath and removed one of his veils, leaving him exposed to the Seraphs and Savila. Then he mentally slapped himself. Weighing the dangers of exposure, he conceded this was the path toward living partially in the light.
After eating a lemon drop, he took off his coat, folded it several times, and placed it on the wrought iron armrest, a sort of makeshift pillow. The bench would be his bed. It wasn’t quite long enough for him. It didn’t take a brilliant mind to figure out that a bench doesn’t grow, so he made the best out of a bad predicament. He lay down on the bench as he eased his head onto his coat. It took him several times of shifting it until he finally had his pillow at least somewhat comfortable. But his legs. If I could chop them off just for the night. Clearly, his height was not an asset in that moment.
Maybe if I could find a way back into the Abyss long enough to retrieve my bed and then … Nope, I do love comfort but not that much.
Dagon dangled his legs over the end of the bench. His legs twitched, trying to somehow make the wrought iron less wrought. With his precautionary measures, he would sleep tonight. Despite the cold hard bench, he began to relax. This “homeless man” began to whistle a lamenting tune.
Back in the Abyss, the Shadow Kings and other shadow soldiers stood before Savila.
“What news do you have to report?” she shifted upon her throne.
“For a while we could not perceive Dagon’s presence, but then our bodies were drawn to him. We saw him come out of a bank,” said several shadow soldiers in unison.
“What was the name of this bank?”
“We know not, Lady Savila, for the title hurt our eyes to look upon it.”
“You did well, but when you are with Lord Dagon, you are to keep a watch on him and report everything to me no matter how infinitesimal the information may seem to you.”
The shadow soldiers were aware of the punishment for failure: they would be consumed in eternal fire like shadows whose old life lingered in them to the point of rebellion.
She dismissed the shadow soldiers with a nod, leaving the Shadow Kings alone with her.
“So, he was at the Bank of the Holy Spirit in Rome,” said Lamel. “We can’t see in or get in, but he can. I believe it is his title which gives him entry. His title is not fully sealed yet until the ruby with blood is in our possession. Now he seeks an opportunity to save his bonded mate.”
“With blood, love begins,” said Savila.
“Whatever love means.”
“It means power in brokenness. It is time, my kin, to pour some salt on the wound. Let their agony remember as they climb on shattered glass.” Her head tilted as she breathed fire into the air. Spiraling coils of smoke crawled out of the Abyss on to the streets above, rising into the wind, moving through the thoughts of the night, whispering evil to anyone who would listen.
In a watery blink, the four Seraphs saw Lord Dagon materialize. He neatly folded his blazer and hung it over the arm of the bench along with his dragon coat. Magethna smiled at the sight of the blazer and the thought of the one that she had created for Dorian, which he would be seeing soon. She looked forward to the unveiling of her masterpiece.
In this state of open exposure, Dagon looked more human. They drew their swords as a vaporous pestilence passed by him before tunneling into the ground.
It was not their duty to protect Dagon, yet they had drawn swords as one by instinct. By compassion.
Magethna wondered why Dagon would remove his immortal veil, thus rendering him visible. Why was he on the bench instead of in the Abyss? Then Magethna froze, saddened. For she saw fresh lacerations on both of Dagon’s forearms. Similar marks were covered over by the hairs of his arms. These older marks looked pearly in appearance. The mark on his right arm looked very recent.
“He’s been wounded in battle. They do not seem random, like wounds of war, but planned. Yet wounds of war they are,” said Dorian.
11
Shattered Glass
Slither, slither, we all come hither, agonizing over dreams which do not wither.
Hissing shadowy serpents moved like waves over Forest Avenue. Their flapping fringes beat the asphalt, moving along in stealth. Frayed fabric scales used heat from the ground to navigate. Moving steadily, they came upon Dagon lying asleep on a bench, breathing shallowly. His long legs dangled awkwardly over the wrought iron armrests. In sleep, people have no control over what they dream and are vulnerable to an onslaught of incubus musings. But Dagon had a shield up, blocking anyone or anything from invading his thoughts. Undeterred, the shadowy serpents returned into the ground, burrowing just under the surface of the dirt toward their target. At the surface, the wind picked up, bending the grass. Bladed spikes shot up from the ground as the serpents took the shape of Shadow Kings and several shadow soldiers.
“Your pathetic blades will not protect anyone,” said King Lamel to the Seraphs.
The Seraphs said nothing, their blades holding firm.
“Our fun lies elsewhere.” King Ligon pointed in the direction of Mary’s house. “As does the soldiers.”
“We can’t let them touch Mark,” said Magethna, her face hard as stone.
The shadow soldiers rushed into Mark’s bedroom. The Seraphs struck against blades of smoke. Dorian fought to keep acrid fumes from wrapping around his blade. Magethna yanked her sword out from a sooty vapored blade and slashed the tendrils out of her way while knocking the shadow soldier away from Mark. Dorian still fought. Mystil and Raglen’s swords blocked and struck at the shadows.
Shadow after shadow tried getting to Mark.
“No!” screamed all the Seraphs as a shadowy finger touched Mark’s head.
“Rampart … Rampart … Come in, Rampart! Over,” shouted Mr. Cool into Mary’s shoe.
“Rampart here … and this better be good. I’m sleeping! Over,” said Dagon. The protection detail had interrupted Dagon’s peaceful slumber.
Sledgehammer grabbed a banana. “Do you see shadow soldiers at Mark’s house?”
“No, sleeping. Over.”
“How about the creepy dream-crashing Shadow Kings approaching your lovely beloved’s house? Over.”
Dagon’s body went rigid. “I can’t help her without doing it the immortal way. Over.”
“We got this, boss. Over.”
“Take care of Mary, boys, and keep me posted. Over.”
“Roger that, Rampart … Mission Dream Assault is engaged. Get Ready. Over.” Mr. Cool tapped the shoe.
“We were created ready. Her dream begins!” Razz grabbed a cell phone with a cracked screen and pink rhinestones on the cover. Friar found a plastic coffee mug emblazoned with Golden Perk.
Three shadowy creatures with spiked crowns walked toward a steep hill as their images morph to that of three walking men. The man on the farthest left was thin and lanky with slicked back hair. The man in the middle was portly and short, his features were ambiguous. The last man was neither thin nor portly, but muscular. He had blonde hair with deep blue eyes. Of all three men, he looked the most polished, confident. The men were sauntering in tandem toward a girl who was near the bottom of the hill. The men laughed at the crippling fear that kept her feet frozen where she stood. After a moment of paralysis, she ran up the hill, screaming for help to the only one who could help her.
She stopped close to the top. Sweat dripped from her forehead as she tried to catch her breath. Her breathing was beginning to even out when she turned around to look back down the hill. A clothesline appeared with her white t-shirts and underclothes waving in the wind. The three men walked between the garments. The ringleader tugged on a pair of her u
ndergarments as he roared in laughter. The other men followed suit, mocking her and making kissing sounds. Suddenly, all three of the men become nervous. The laundry continued flicking around the sides of their faces, and fear was evident, especially on the two followers. The ringleader, though, was frightened but still brass. Disgustingly, he moved his hands to the top of her undergarment, yanking them off the line. They became like a sheet of glass, streaked with blood. He flung the glass to the ground, watching in rapturous joy as it shattered.
A blinding light came up behind the girl, causing the fiendish men to run. The glass remained shattered and strewn on the grass.
Behind the girl was safe and comforting warmth. She turned around to see a man dressed in white run toward her, and she too ran toward him.
The scene shifted.
A man and a little girl sat in a parked car. The girl was looking out the rear passenger window amazed at the beautiful, blooming trees. The man excitedly showed her the diverse types of trees, and both marveled at the numerous species they saw. The man now was still, quiet, while the girl kept pointing. The man frantically tried to read the girl’s lips, for he could hear nothing from her. The car began to shake violently, but the girl only became more animated. In horror, the man shouted as he pointed out the back window, still trying to get the girl’s attention.
Mary watched from across the street. She looked to where he was pointing and saw why this man was so frantic. Out of nowhere, two shadows flew toward the car, armed with black lethal spikes drawn from crowns worn on their heads. Long tattered strips of cloth swung ominously along their ghoulish arms as they approached the car. The man turned around in his seat and faced Mary.
Mary panicked, for the man was Dagon, and he and the little girl were trapped. Dagon pounded the window, pointing at the girl, who continued to list all the flowering trees. Meanwhile, the shadows pulled their bladed spikes close to their chests in the shape of an X. In a violent gust of wind, they scraped the sides of the car as they flew by, producing a spine-chilling sound and shattering the paint, which fell in gritty flakes. They thrusted their faces up against the car window where the girl sat. Their breath produced no fog on the glass, as their withered, leathery, and peeling faces stared into the window. Clots of blood and rotting flesh from recent kills oozed from open wounds in their undead open mouths. The villainous creatures pointed at Dagon, the girl, and then to Mary’s terror, herself. Screams of wailing gushed from their mouths, like thousands of trapped voices trying to get out. With a satisfactory snap, their mouths closed, and then they vanished.
Dagon was beyond frantic when four more shadows appeared, two black and two red. All four of them removed bladed spikes. In exasperation, Dagon attempted to get the girl’s attention.
“Mary, open the door, help me ... open the door!” Dagon pounded wildly on the glass window with one hand while yanking on the door handle with his other hand. “Use your key, luv!”
Mary opened her purse in haste. Her fingers clumsily fumbled over everything in there except her keys. Finding the key, she inserted it in the lock, trying to open the door from the outside. Dagon started kicking the door. All four of the shadows had their spiked blades crossed against their chest in the shape of an X as they began to charge the car. In their rapid descent, the two red shadows uncrossed their blades and placed their spikes one on top of the other, creating one thick blade. The four shadows scraped their spikes over the side of the car door, sending sparks from the grinding metal. Moving at a blinding speed, their gruesome faces stared into their prey like death. More paint chips flew off the car like falling debris.
“Of all the cars to be stuck in!” Furiously Dagon pulled on the car door. “I’m in this sorry tin can. Ah, help me please.” He continued to rant and rave while he wildly shook the handle. “Oh, come on!”
The car was Mary’s to be exact, which she had purchased with her own money.
Yes, it is used, but it’s hers. Good-looking or not, she planned to have words with him. He was a captive and was going nowhere, so she began unleashing her pent-up frustration.
“Listen here, Dagon! I haven’t seen you in weeks, and now you’re back … which I’m glad … really glad, but then you insult my car? Why, I ought to … I ought to … I ought to hug you … no, I didn’t mean that … and another thing ... are you, or are you not, my boyfriend?”
Vigorously he nodded his head to say yes, while he continued trying to open the door. The four mangled shadows pushed their faces against the window next to the girl who was singing in a cute mousey voice, oblivious to their rampage.
“Do you know the muffin man, the muffin man, the muffin man?”
Humming the rest, she pulled a sticker from inside a sticker book in her lap. She placed a crescent moon sticker upside down over one of the ghoul’s faces, giving it a whacky mustache.
“Look at those four scraggly trees. Someone should pull their roots out!” said the girl.
Dagon did not appear to hear her.
“Get the boy … it's the boy!” said Dagon at the top of his lungs, while pointing and motioning to Mary to look behind her. The boy was on a hill reading a book, oblivious just like the carefree girl.
The scene shifted.
Mary was then in a walled courtyard with scraggly ivy climbing up all along the walls. Piles of leaves blew in circles, caught up in a wind tunnel. This place was lonely, as if no one had lived there for years. As she moved through the courtyard, Dagon jumped down from the wall, startling her slightly, then disappeared.
Two oak doors with Gothic brass hinges creaked open, pushed by an invisible hand. With trepidation, Mary walked in on new and polished floors, suggesting someone lived here. Hollow, mournful singing rang through the air as if the singer was aged, leaving only a hint of its former sound. Chills quickly ran through her. She tried to go out the door, only the door disappeared. A thunderous rush of wind came from the wall, materializing into one of the black shadows. The shadow flew at her, with its putrid mouth open, revealing a cavern of fire. In an instant, a man appeared in front of her, facing the monster. Light poured from him, rippling down his white garments. She recognized Dagon, though his head was wrapped up in blinding light and he walked barefoot. The shadow instantly left. She found herself turned around, looking down a long hall, and shaking when an eerie singing began. She moved slowly over the same floorboards, which seemed to become more beautiful with every step, as did the singing.
Cautiously, Mary walked down the hall, turning the corner and entering her parents’ bedroom without fear, for the singing soothed her. Mary saw her parents lying on their bed. As her mother stopped singing, her head turned with the creak of an old hinge. Her parents’ fingernails were blood red. Mary shook, trying to speak, scream, or do anything. Her parents sat up facing her with leathery, decayed, mummified skin, extending their bony fingers toward her. Acting like they wanted to grab her instead of embracing her. Parental words of kindness were replaced by blood-curdling screams when Dagon came behind Mary, a sword in his hand.
“No, Dagon, they’re my parents!” screamed Mary.
Dagon seemed not to hear her when he moved in front of her, spinning his sword.
“I'm going to kill them!” said Dagon.
Her parents’ nails reflected off his sword like drops of blood on his blade. Loud, venomous screams shook from the mouths of both parents. In one quick stroke, Dagon did the impossible, he simultaneously plunged the blade into the hearts of her parents.
“I love you, Mom and Dad,” said Mary.
Dagon withdrew his sword from their chests, but not a trace of blood stained his sword.
Instantly, the faces of Mary’s parents changed. They lay down on their pillows, youthful and peaceful.
Mary woke up in her bed but did not move. The blades of her white ceiling fan gently oscillated the air around her, giving her a slight chill. She pulled her covers tightly under her chin, imagining Dagon’s arms embracing her. Glancing over her shoulder, she caugh
t a hold of her old stuffed cat’s glassy eyes. Mary felt guilty for her switch in loyalty, but then she saw a twinkle in one of the irises of her old protector. The toy seemed to give her a wink of approval.
Her last dream made her happy and sad all at once. All she needed was to love and protect what was hers. Dagon, whom she only recently met and became a girlfriend to, had been her Angel Dream for as long as she could remember. These protective dreams safeguarded the deepest parts of her heart. She couldn’t have imagined him into her waking life. Even her friend Caroline saw him. It’s funny what the mind will tell a person to validate or refute gut instinct. Even though she had been dreaming of him, she had always known in her heart that he really existed in the flesh. She hadn’t imagined him putting himself in front of her, standing up for her when no one else would. Still lying in bed, she clenched the edge of her blanket.
All these images of Dagon only made Mary’s heart sink, for it had been two weeks since they were together. Halfheartedly, she had gone out with Caroline, though her mind, body, and soul were elsewhere.
With this ache, she blankly watched the circulating ceiling fan. Blade after blade whizzed by, but she focused on one of them. Why that blade? They’re all the same, aren’t they? The fan blade reminded her of the massive sword in the dream. The chill was back after envisioning the hideous faces of what looked like her parents before Dagon plunged a sword into them.
Dagon, was out there somewhere, but where? Where do you start looking when you only know someone’s first name and nothing else? It’s not like he’s the only blond guy in Oak Park. But still, there was no one like him.
She pushed the covers off and got out of bed. Downstairs in the kitchen she started a pot of coffee.