“Mel, help me carry her and I’ll get us into the Pneuma Rigma,” I direct as I squat near Jan’s head and scoop my arms through her armpits.
Mel steps between Jan’s legs and crouches to wrap them up when a sudden puff of wind brings a rush of dread. One puff becomes two, then three, then a steady zephyr that builds abruptly to a gale. I search the sky, hoping to discover an approaching storm. Even a hurricane would be better than what I fear has arrived. But as I scan the endless reaches above, there is no lightning to comfort my woe, no thunderheads to soothe my dread; in fact, only a few clouds blot out the speckled night sky. I pan down and across the roof to discover the pulsating pupil of the Nephilim monster’s gateway above Harvey’s motionless body. Each time the gateway swells, it swallows the heavenly lights before contracting to reveal them again. I can feel the color drain from my face with the noose tightening around my neck. It’s too late. He’s here.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Snapping over her shoulder, Mel sights the gateway and hurriedly tries to lift Jan from the ground. “No, no, no,” she cries, “we have to get her out of here! Get us into the Pneuma Rigma, Ted!” As Mel lifts Jan’s legs, I slide my arms out from under her armpits and step away.
“It’s too late, Mel. He’s coming from the Pneuma Rigma. If we bridge through now, we’ll just end up face-to-face on his turf. Maybe we can trade her for Drake, you know, a hostage exchange.” I shrug my shoulders, disappointed with my own suggestion but at a loss for a better one.
The gateway stabilizes and the Nephilim abomination steps through with the officious swagger of royalty. His flowing black garments ripple in the wind and lick the charcoal vapor that spills out from the portal to the spirit rift. He says nothing at first, taking his time as he surveys the state of affairs on the roof of Milburn Tower. His black, dead eyes roll to the back of his skull and he holds a deliberately long and incensed blink.
“This is not the scene that I hoped would greet me,” he asserts with his haunting, choral timbre. “What has she told you?”
“She hasn’t said anything…yet,” Mel states.
“And she won’t. I’m certain of it,” he says calmly.
“I wouldn’t be so certain,” Mel rebuts. “We have our methods for extracting the truth.”
“And I have my methods for burying it,” he rumbles. “Hand over Jan and I’ll give you my hostage.”
“I don’t see any hostage. How do we know you’re not lying?” I question.
He tilts his head and shoots an irked glare through his bald brow. “Don’t push your luck. I’m already being far more generous than necessary. I could call my horde through that gateway to destroy you both and take Jan for myself, but this isn’t Carver and I’d rather not risk some human witnessing my beasts.”
I sneer at him and goad, “Then why don’t you do it yourself?”
“You petulant fool! You’re squandering your hand. I’m offering you the only way out that gives you any hope of saving your friends and yourself. Even if I fought you and lost, which is impossible, my beasts have orders to eviscerate the hostage. Take the deal, give me Jan, save his life, and survive this, you imbeciles.”
His shoulders rise and fall heavily, tensely with each raging huff. We truly don’t have a leg to stand on, but we can’t risk forfeiting Jan for no gain. What’s to stop him from taking Jan and disappearing into the spirit rift without even giving us Drake? Although, if he’s bluffing about even having a hostage, that wouldn’t be such a bad outcome. We’d lose Jan, but we’d still walk away with our lives.
Live to fight another day.
“Okay. We’ll give you Jan, but we need proof that you have Drake and that he’s still alive,” I barter.
His lips curl with sinister pleasure and a slight laugh escapes his nostrils. Looking down his nose with condescension, he says, “Right…Drake,” then casts his gaze on the bare concrete to his right. His gray fingers extend from the bottom of his sleeve, thumb pressed to middle finger, and snap. A body is heaved through the gateway, landing at the warlord’s feet and exactly where his eyes are fixed.
He maintains his gaze on the broken body that lies in a crumpled pile on the rooftop. It’s a wounded form, bleeding inside and out, tender and swollen. Its coloration is that of an overripe avocado, browns seeping into pale yellows, wrapped in deep purple and green. From this angle, he’s barely recognizable as human, much less anyone I know, but it’s clear that this unfortunate creature is not Julius Drake. Unfortunately, this brings little comfort. It was crudely uplifting to think that Drake could still be alive even if he was this monster’s captive. Now, the hope that Drake survived the gymnasium is gone, and it seems that another of our alliance family has fallen prey to this onslaught. The question is who.
I move slowly toward the hostage, keeping my eyes on the warlord who silently consents to my approach. He watches in amusement as I stoop over my fallen comrade who’s still breathing, albeit weakly. Even with his face angled away, I can tell his eyes are swollen shut and his skin is lacerated beyond any hope of healing. His hair is wet, matted with blood, so I carefully cradle his shoulders and turn him just enough to look upon his face. At first, the bloated features, torn, discolored skin, and smeared plasma effectively veil his identity; even his overall face shape is altered and unusual. But after a minute of examination it dawns on me that this pitiful mess is Reb.
I drop to my knees and begin weeping bitterly. “Oh my god, it’s Reb! Oh my god,” I wail.
Mel races over and slides in next to me, already emotional without having seen for herself. She recognizes Reb immediately and pulls him up onto her lap. Rocking gently and shaking violently with each devastated sob, Mel holds him and I wrap my arms around them both, forgetting for a moment where we are and who is looking down on us with his sordid smile.
He interrupts our grief, his tone betraying his measurable enjoyment of our pain. “This is all very touching, but you still need to uphold your end of the bargain. I gave you your friend, now you give me Jan. Bring her here, though. I won’t risk stepping in some trap you’ve set.” I stand and face the monster, fighting every red-hot cell in my body to keep from picking a fight that would undoubtedly get us all killed. I swallow the venom in my throat and walk to Jan, then grab her ankles and drag her across the roof, her head bouncing along the way. Once in front of him, I drop her legs and take a step back, staring defiantly into his dead eyes. He reaches down and lifts her by the neck, dangling her like a piñata.
Out of nowhere, he produces a short sword, barely longer than twelve inches, that he plunges into Jan’s back and through her torso, piercing her heart. Her eyes burst open and bulge as she looks down at the blade protruding from her chest. In a tight, cartoony voice she rambles with panicked utterances as a red inkblot rapidly blooms and weeps down the front of her shirt. He extracts the sword and drops her alongside Harvey’s yet motionless body, where she twitches and whimpers for a few seconds before lying still.
Mel has shifted her position to better watch the monster’s actions and scooted several feet back toward the stairwell with Reb still in her lap. “What the hell is wrong with you?” she screams. “We already told you she didn’t tell us anything. What do you get out of all this suffering?”
“I told you. I have my ways of keeping the truth buried. Besides, she failed to deliver you to me as I ordered. There’s no place for such weakness in my ranks.”
He wipes the blade on Jan’s back before replacing it in its sheath. He purses his lips and whistles a brief, wavering tone that summons his hellions’ attention. Dozens of their black arms protrude from the gateway’s void, stirring and reaching and grabbing frantically and ravenously for anything they can touch—a true vision of the gates of hell. The warlord grabs Jan’s wrist and drags her within reach of the horde, who latch on and pull her through with voracious intent. Next, he grabs Harvey by the wrist and drags him to the gateway. Again, the hellions grab on and snatch him into the Pneuma Rigma to be devoured
.
The Nephilim monster dusts off his hands and sighs. “Now that that’s done, my business here is nearly concluded. Theodonis, let’s go. You’re coming with me.”
Mel, soggy-eyed and quivering, shouts, “What did you say?”
My stomach churns as he waves his arm like a traffic cop, directing me toward the gateway that teems with the devilish beasts who are only momentarily out of sight to eviscerate their appetizers. I won’t be their entree.
“That wasn’t the deal!” I snarl. “You’ve made your damn point! Who do you think you are that we should just bow in fear at your every whim?”
“Given the fear that warps your face every time I appear, you seem to already know all you need to know. But it’s not just me you should fear, and the command I give is not my own. The dark ones to which I answer have demanded your presence. I’m only the messenger. Deny me and you may very well invite them to your doorstep, and they won’t be denied.”
“So, you’re nothing more than their errand boy?” I provoke as I turn to grin at Mel.
Black veins surge through his gray flesh as he grabs my neck in one hand and withdraws his sword with the other. His giant grip sends a web of pain in all directions from my gunshot wound.
He pulls me close enough that I can feel the tiny drops of spit fly from his lips as he quietly roars, “I will not be goaded into a fight with an ant. I will not be goaded into telling you what you want to know. I will not be goaded into allowing you a quick and painless death. You will do as you’re told—”
“Ver…” Reb grunts hoarsely and frailly from Mel’s lap. A coughing fit ensues, producing blood from his lungs that trickles down his chin. When the fit settles, he makes another attempt. “He’s ver…,” he tries again, quickly running out of breath. The rooftop is frozen, and the warlord grows uneasy with each silent tick. With a third determined heave, he groans hauntingly, “He’s Verdonos!”
It’s not possible, and yet it makes perfect sense. He’s the only Nephilim that was ever recorded bridging the Pneuma Rigma, but if there’s any truth to the legends, Verdonos lived millennia ago and was killed by a demon horde. Reb collapses back into Mel’s arms and, given the amount of trauma he’s experienced, it would be reasonable to blame delirium for his outburst. Like waking from a nightmare, he snapped up from his rest and blurted out the unprocessed content of his subconscious, nothing more. Except the monster’s grip on my throat is tightening and his teeth are clenched together. My airway compresses under the weight of his ire, and the blackness of his eyes deepens to the point of pure emptiness.
Then, slowly, his grip loosens until it releases me altogether and an eerie relaxation melts away his tension. His eyelids slide shut, and he takes a cleansing breath.
Setting his sights on Mel and Reb, he sighs woefully. “Oh, Reb. With that little outburst you have sealed everyone’s fate. Now I have to kill all of you, except maybe Ted.” He turns to me and speaks. “You can still survive this if you agree to come peaceably with me.”
I shake my head, bewildered by his implied confirmation of Reb’s claim but nevertheless convinced that I want nothing to do with him. I don’t understand how he could be Verdonos, my childhood idol, the hero of Nephilim lore, but it makes no difference what he was. He is abominably evil now.
“Never. I’ll die first,” I declare, fully realizing that is the likeliest of outcomes.
“So be it.”
His body snaps into action like a striking cobra, the moonlight glinting off his sword as he slashes back and forth. I dodge once, twice, but each pass of the blade gets closer than the last and my injuries make fighting back all but impossible. Swelling, soreness, and limited mobility are setting in, and even if they weren’t, I’ve lost even more feeling and control in my right arm.
Backpedaling and quickly running out of room, I block his arm during his next slash, but it sends a debilitating jolt across my shoulders and down my spine. My left arm joins my right in hanging loosely at my sides, capable of movement but not that of the spry variety necessary for any hope of fending him off. He recoils and winds up for what I fully expect to be a deadly blow, bringing a surge of dread, sorrow, anger, and denial that stretches my nerves like taffy and sickens my spirit.
But the instant that his arm starts downward, his forearm is met with the axe blade moving in the opposite direction. A revolting, fleshy thunk peals across the roof as the axe cuts to the bone. He releases an agonized bawl from the pit of his stomach and stares, bewildered, at the axe. His arm, still attached but clearly broken and a bit floppy, drops the sword, and for a moment no one moves. Mel released the axe handle on impact and it now hangs like another appendage from his body. Verdonos grabs the handle in his left hand and yanks the axe free with a yowl. Bottling the surge of pain, he stands like a vibrating statue, as if imitating stone will limit his feeling.
Globs of black mud that can only be his ancient, spoiled blood fall from the axe head to the concrete roof as Mel and I take positions at his flanks. She lunges to scoop the sword from the ground but he comes to life once again, stomping on and bending the blade before she can pull it clear. He whips the axe, striking me in the jaw with its butt during the back swing of a hack that’s headed straight for Mel. The tool’s heavy head plunges like a guillotine toward her as she’s still off balance and unprepared due to her failed attempt for the sword.
A zip and snap pierce the air almost simultaneously followed by the staccato clap of handgun fire. More zips and claps follow, the impact of each bullet producing a palpable thump against Verdonos’s torso. The axe halts its trajectory of death and falls aimlessly to the ground as he lurches with each successive bullet wound. Tiny droplets of that motor oil blood burst like solar flares from his back as several jacketed rounds rip cleanly through his thick abdomen.
Backlit by the stairwell lights, a figure moves tactically toward Verdonos with his weapon trained steadily on his target. He empties the first magazine and ejects it straight to the ground without lowering the sights. Verdonos staggers back toward the gateway that is once again swarming with his rabid beasts. Their dark arms flap frantically like tall grass whipping in a howling wind, and their shrieks make the sound to match. In a well-rehearsed choreography, the shooter pulls the next magazine from his belt, slips it into the grip, and racks the slide to chamber the next bullet.
As his finger rests heavily on the trigger, Verdonos’s baboons scuttle through the increasingly unstable gateway and drag their severely wounded master into the Pneuma Rigma in a repulsive sight like a loosely packed wad of black hair being sucked into a drain. The gateway collapses, sending ripples of light in all directions and a blast of cold wind that stuns my lungs and stings my eyes. My lids clamp shut until the air settles and then, upon opening my eyes, I look to the one who saved us.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Once again, Mel is quick to recognize the figure even in the dim moonlight and enthusiastically finds her feet. Like a honking flock of geese, approaching sirens wail distantly, growing louder moment by moment. He walks toward us, holstering his weapon as he passes through the dark beams of the radio tower’s shadow.
“JULIUS!” she cries in gleeful disbelief as she wraps him up in a giant hug. Then through a beaming smile she asks, “How are you here?”
He doesn’t return her delight, instead asking solemnly, “Where’s Reb? Vic told me that monster took him.”
Mel snags Drake’s hand as we both move swiftly past him to Reb, who has scooted himself back to rest against the stairwell wall. His arduous breathing is dangerously shallow, each breath struggling to keep the previous one from being his last. It’s difficult to tell if he’s wide awake, unconscious, or even still alive through the tiny openings between his bulging eyelids. If it weren’t for the weak fluttering of his diaphragm, weighed down by some invisible boulder, I would say maybe he’s already gone.
She kneels by his side and, noticing the frothy puncture wounds in his left rib cage, lays him on that side, hop
ing to prevent his other lung from collapsing. Reb groans softly and Mel freezes to listen, but it was nothing more than an involuntary vibration as air escaped over his vocal cords. Tipped aside, he lies with his face smooshed to the concrete, blood spilling from between his ribs, and dust stirring near his mouth and nose less with each breath until it stops altogether. Mel sticks her hand in front of Reb’s face to feel for breathing, but his body is still and the only moving air she feels is whatever gravity squeezes from his halted lungs. She lays him flat on his back and starts with chest compressions and weeping, but after three minutes neither has brought any recovery.
“No…” she mourns. “No…no…he can’t be gone. He can’t be gone. He’s not gone.”
Her head wags in disbelief and her tears flow freely. Drake takes Reb’s other flank and begins his own attempt at first aid as I crouch next to Mel and wrap my arms around her. Drake moves with the systematic composure of an experienced first responder. Carefully but urgently, he checks Reb’s airway, breathing, and circulation before starting another set of chest compressions. A minute later, I ask him to stop. With each press of Reb’s sternum, blood is oozing from the holes in his side. He has bled out into his chest cavity and no amount of CPR is going to bring him back. Reb is dead.
After several anguished minutes that stretch well beyond the constructs of time, minutes burned forever into our amygdalae to be remembered in our quietest and loneliest of moments, I remind the others that we still need to leave this place and link up with the alliance survivors. They deserve to know of Reb’s fate and be given the opportunity to hail him into the afterlife. It’s what Reb would want. It’s what he deserves.
Verity Rising (Gods of Deceit Book 1) Page 31