For Blood & Glory

by Cassandra Hendricks

  “Was a war,” Kaetano cut in. He scratched his head. “Sorry.”

  Lyrica continued. “That’s where your people are from. And the two most powerful tribes were,” she stumbled over the word, “fighting against one another. The Atoris—my tribe, against the Noridians—Nivea’s tribe. I—fled, at the behest of my family. They wanted to make sure I remained safe. You see, I was pregnant at the time, with both of you—which brings me to something else I need to tell you—”

  Blythe cut her off, staring at the phone. “Nephilim. It’s with a ‘ph’ by the way. Says here they were fallen Angels. And something about…demons? Wait,” she lowered the phone, mouth agape, “—we’re demons?” she asked, with a sickened look. “Hold up. I know I’m Emo or whatever, but I believe in Jesus. This ain’t gonna work.”

  Sefira sighed. “Seriously? Google?”

  “Don’t underestimate the power of Google. Watch,” she depressed an icon, waited for a beep and then spoke into the phone. “Who-shot-Biggie—”

  What is wrong with her? “Why are you cracking jokes right now? Do you think this is funny? Do you think it’s a game?” asked Sefira.

  “Of course not. I know how serious this is,” answered Blythe indignantly, sitting up straight.

  “Then act like it.”

  “What do you mean?” Blythe stood up.

  Sefira did as well. “I mean maybe you’re not hurting, but I am. That’s my mother on the floor and my sister gone!”

  “I’m your sister too—and what, you think I’m not hurting? That this whole thing isn’t killing me? She just freakin’ told us we’re like Angel Demons! I’m trying to stay sane!”

  “C’mon you guys,” said Kaetano starting toward them.

  “Get away from me,” said Sefira, cutting him with her eyes.

  Lyrica closed hers, looking exasperated. “Girls, that’s enough. Sit down, we don’t have time for this.”

  Blythe sat with a huff as did Sefira who sat forward, fingers clasped behind her bent neck.

  Her mother continued. “Enough with Google and enough with the arguing.” She turned to Blythe. “To be clear, we are not demons—nothing of the sort. That’s a whole other faction that we have no part of.”

  “Back to Nivea,” said Sefira. “According to Kaetano the war is over. She’s won. So why is she after us?”

  “For blood and glory,” said her mother with a look of disgust, exchanging glances with Kaetano.

  What’s that all about? She could tell her mother wasn’t going to elaborate any further and the way Kaetano was bowing and kneeling these days, he probably wouldn’t either.

  “Now,” her mother continued, “I need you to put the questions to bed, so we can talk.”

  The girls looked at one another, waiting, while their mother appeared to choose her words carefully. Reaching, she motioned for them to step closer and clasped hands with them both. “You have a brother. A third sibling. You’re triplets. Now that I know you’re alive,” she said, looking at Blythe, “I’m almost certain he is too. I have no idea where he is, but we must find him before they do.”

  “They? Meaning the Nephilim?” asked Sefira.

  “They, meaning Nivea,” answered her mother.

  “A brother?” Blythe repeated blank-faced, presumably letting it all sink in.

  Sefira, on the other hand, wasn’t blindsided. It was time for her to stop denying what her gut already knew. “I—I think I know who he is.”

  “What?” asked Lyrica, eyebrows raised. “What do you mean?”

  “His name is Chase. I’ve—seen him. In my dreams. He’s angry and confused.” She looked at her mother. “He’s not well.”

  Their mother sighed. “We’ve got serious ground to cover and not a whole lot of time to cover it. I came to Earth to protect you from the war. We were confident that we would win.” She patted her thigh, looking distant. “However, that does not seem to be the case. As much as I never wanted to say this, you’re going to have to get ready.”

  “For what?” asked Blythe, wearily.

  She threw the bloodied towel to the floor and stood up. “To fight,” she said plainly. “No more talk. Get your things.”

  Sefira knew their talk was over. When her mother had that look in her eye, she meant what she said. It seemed the others knew that as well as no one protested.

  Sefira glanced at the body on the floor. “What about Celeste? We can’t just leave her here like that.”

  “You’re right. We’ll have to put this house to the torch,” her mother answered.

  “What?” Sefira couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

  “I’m sorry. We don’t have a choice. You will be able to pay your—” She winced again. “Respects later. We all will. I promise.”

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” asked Blythe.

  “Yes, I’m fine.”

  “With all due respect, she isn’t,” said Kaetano. “She’s been bitten by a Noridian Droge, and she’s a full-blooded Atori. That’s poison in her system.”

  “Great, just great.” Blythe kicked a couch cushion. “What the heck does that mean? Dude, just give it to us straight. What are we working with here? Months? Weeks?”

  “Days,” Delilah sighed. “Seven to be exact, give or take one.”

  “What happens after that?” asked Sefira, trying to suppress vomit from rising in her throat. With haste she went to her mother’s side and peeled her collar back so she and Blythe could assess the damage for themselves. Most of the bleeding had started to clot, but what was left was nasty to look at. “What happens?” she repeated, firmly.

  Kaetano and her mother exchanged glances but did not answer.

  Dear Lord. First Celeste, and now her?

  “But there’s a cure, right?” asked Blythe, rubbing nervously at the side of her face.

  “I know a place we can go. It’s a bit of a drive, but we can make it,” Kaetano answered.

  “Why drive?” Blythe placed a foot atop a chair, leaning on her knee for balance. “I can take us all. Give me a map, and we’re there.”

  Kaetano shook his head in disagreement. “That won’t work, this place isn’t on any map,” he said. “I promise you though, it’s our best shot.” He turned to Lyrica. “Your Majesty. If you don’t mind, I’ll grab a fresh towel for you. Give you all some time to talk.”

  She nodded and he made for the kitchen.

  When he was out of earshot, Blythe whispered, “Are you sure we can trust him?”

  Sefira sucked her teeth.

  Lyrica nodded affirmatively. “I think so,” she said. “There’s a story there, I can tell. One thing I do know, life would’ve been a whole lot easier for him if he’d teamed up with Magnus. Now he’s just as much of a target as we are.”

  “I guess it’s settled then. Let’s get going,” said, Blythe.

  From her closet Sefira grabbed a couple bags and began to stuff them with clothes. As she was zipping them up, she heard a familiar voice in her head.

  “Sefira, I didn’t mean to come across like I don’t care. I’m really sorry about what happened to your family,” said Blythe. “And—we’re not going to let this go. We’re going to get your sister back and return the favor.”

  “Yeah,” said Sefira.

  “Um—I’m not always the best with words. I mean my mouth—you know about my mouth. But what I’m trying to say is…what you said before, about sticking together—we have to do that. We will do that. No matter what.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I know you’re trying to keep it together, but if you want to talk, you know about your mom or sister, or whatever, please don’t hold back.”

  Sefira sighed. “I appreciate that. I do.”

  “Sure.” Blythe paused. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Shoot.”

  “What did you think about that speech our mom gave?”

  “What do you mean?” asked Sefira.

  “It just seems like she left a lot out.”

  Yes
, she did. We still don’t know how the Nephilim came to be, or why there was a war in the first place, why we’re targets, or what that bit about violating The Order was about. I could go on. “I know,” Sefira answered. “But at least we know something. Besides, I don’t think I can take any more bombs dropped today. The angel thing alone…”

  “Tell me about it. And then there’s—you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We’ll talk about that later. No more bombs remember? How are things coming with the clothes?”

  “Almost done.”

  “Me too. I call shotgun.”

  Ordinarily, Sefira would’ve laughed at that. But not today.

  Bed springs squeaked under the weight of the two loaded duffel bags she plopped on top of her mattress. This was it. The last time she would ever see this room. Wearily, her eyes flitted about and stopped on her nightstand. On it was a picture of Carli, Celeste, Randall and herself during better times as well as the gold necklace Celeste had given her. Padding over she picked up the frame. In the picture Randall had just poured ice water over Celeste’s head and they were all laughing as she promised revenge.

  “They want me to tell you they’re getting ready to light the fire,” said Blythe, in her head.

  “Already?”

  “Yeah. Time to go.”

  “Okay.”

  Tears fell from her eyes and plopped on the frame. “I promise to make things right.” She couldn’t change the way the chapter with Celeste had ended, but she could change the narrative. One thing she was sure of, her mother wouldn’t die in vain. Sniffing, she carefully placed the picture in her bag and fastened the necklace around her neck.

  Sirens blared in the distance as she slung two large bags over her shoulder and headed for the door.

  Party’s Over

  “That dirty bastard!” said Chase, as he slammed his dad’s notebook closed. The infamous “black book,” the one the doctor scribbled away in during his experiments, was normally on lockdown. Literally, locked away in the old man’s study. Lately though, the old man had been off his game. Sometimes forgetting things like his keys or his wallet. The last few weeks, he’d grown quiet and skittish for some reason, as if something had greatly disturbed him. Perfect fodder for Chase. All he needed was a slip-up—just one.

  He thought the day would never come, until today. In a huff, the great doctor announced that he was going to town and would be back soon. He’d locked the lab and all the doors to the rooms he deemed most important, including the study. But what he failed to do was pull that door shut. As a result, Chase had spent the last hour in his bedroom, pouring over the black book’s contents, trying to find answers to questions he hadn’t even formulated yet. If anything, the book raised more inquiries than answers. But some of the questions, the ones that kept him up at night, were answered.

  As Chase had long suspected, they were not kin. He’d gathered as much, after all, the man treated him like a stepchild, and they looked nothing alike. Sixteen now, Chase had grown into a tall young man. His hair, once light, darkened into a deep auburn, and if allowed to grow, grew into gentle waves. His skin, still olive, darkened easily when out in the sun and didn’t burn like his dad’s. And his features—thick lips, dark eyes, and strong chin, were in stark contrast to Mark’s thinner lips, baby blues, broad forehead, and sharp nose.

  He’d thought himself a bastard, quite frankly. Possibly the result of a one-nighter. Or, adopted even. But oh, how wrong he was.

  “Taken.” A benign word, and yet, he’d never hated a word so much. And now, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t get the word that was so clearly written in the book, out of his head. Repulsion is what he felt, and now he was driven by it.

  He thought about putting the book back. Carefully. Just the way he’d found it. But for what? It didn’t matter now. He’d be long gone before “Dad” got back. He placed the book carefully in his bag.

  Chase’s duffel was halfway full when he thought he’d heard tires. He froze; his stomach seized immediately. The old man still had a hold on him, and the realization alone sickened him. So what, he thought. Let him come in. I’ll tell him just what I think of him—of what he did. And if he crosses me…Well, I’ll make him pay.

  He sat on his bed, waiting to hear the car door close and the sound of heavy footsteps approach the front door. Five minutes passed, then ten, and he heard nothing. Perhaps Witherspoon wasn’t home, and he wouldn’t realize the satisfaction of the standoff he’d fictionalized in his head. So what. He’d returned to stuffing as much as he could in his bag when he heard the unmistakable sound of a car parking out front. The footsteps were different, though. They were rushed.

  The keys jingled the lock and the front door opened followed by the sound of numerous car doors slamming.

  “Dr. Witherspoon!” a male’s voice shouted.

  The front door slammed shut, and he heard all the bolts turn. The doctor was running towards the back of the house. Toward the lab. He had guns there. Lots of guns.

  “Chase!” Witherspoon yelled. “Chase, get out here, now!”

  Chase snatched the duffel bag off his bed and turned the lights off in his room.

  He’d wanted the bedroom with the big window that faced the road, but good ole’ Dad wouldn’t hear of it. He was too afraid his “son” would slip out through the window. His room was in the back, with the windows boarded up. Now, he was happy for that back room.

  The front door thudded as someone pounded against it. He heard someone else approach his window on the side of the house. They must’ve thought better of grappling with the boards and continued running past. When the footsteps were far off, Chase ran down the hallway and through the living room. He could’ve called 911 if the idiot hadn’t insisted on leaving them without phones. There was only one phone, and it was usually on Mark’s person. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway. They were in the sticks. Deep in the woods. Even if he could call, it would take too long for the sheriff to get there.

  A window broke. He’d almost made it to the bathroom when he heard the front door burst open. Hurriedly, he slipped into a closet and shut the door, locking it as quietly as possible. He ended up right next to the door of the lab. Not where he wanted to be.

  “There’s no use running, Dr. Witherspoon, your place is surrounded,” said the voice again. It exuded the confidence of a man telling the truth.

  “Don’t come near me!” It was Mark. He was in the lab and suited up, no doubt. But from the men’s vantage point, it would be difficult for them to discern where Mark was. Voices carried in this house. “I told you people I’d have your money. That and more. All I need is time.”

  “Well, I’m afraid time has run out.” There were the footsteps again. There were at least three sets of them, Chase thought. The man continued with his speech. It sounded like the prelude to a dead man’s eulogy. As he spoke, the footsteps headed in different directions, only one pair drew closer.

  “Mr. Daneer is a patient man, Mark. But when you run away, and hide, and make promises you can’t keep, naturally his patience runs thin. I’m sure you can understand that.”

  “I’ve got guns! Me and the boy both! Walk away now and nothing has to happen. Tell Mr. Daneer,” his voice faltered, “tell him I can prove to him that he made a worthy investment. As a matter of fact, if you give me a chance, I will show you.”

  The other man grew quiet, as if contemplating.

  Mark must’ve sensed the man’s hesitancy. “Chase!” he called out. “Son, come here. I want you to show the man what you’ve learned. Don’t be afraid.”

  “I thought you said the boy was with you?” questioned the voice. “Enough of the games.”

  The footsteps were right outside the closet door. Chase held his breath, and then he heard a gunshot. Sounded like a shotgun. Chase’s ears rang, and gun smoke filled his nostrils as shots fired back and forth. He crouched down as low as possible. There were more footsteps and more shots, until finally there wa
s no return fire from the lab.

  He could hear the sound of the door bursting open as the men poured through. Chase knew without a doubt that Mark was at the back door. The coward was abandoning him.

  There was a shot and a scream. It was Mark. He was crying. It was an odd sound, something Chase had never heard before. For the first time, Chase could hear frailty in his voice.

  Someone flicked the power on. Chase could hear the hum of the machines.

  “Ahh!” Mark screamed again. He sobbed pitifully.

  “Look at all this stuff,” somebody else yelled. “The man’s been locked away, all this time, playing the mad scientist.”

  “So,” the head voice said, “let’s see this…evidence you speak of.”

  “I’ve got it.” Mark stammered. “I swear it.”

  What a rat! All this time he’s tortured and intimidated me. And now look at him, sobbing like a little girl. Chase wiped his brow, exhaling as quietly as possible. Time to go. His heart slammed against his chest as he gripped the brass handle and slowly opened the closet door. Just a crack. The living room was disheveled but empty. Problem was, the door was right in the lab’s line of sight. If he opened it any further, the probability of being seen was great. Their voices were louder now, and from the sound of Mark’s cries, the situation was souring quickly. The more Mark ran his mouth, the more Chase knew it was now or never. Hands slick with sweat, he readjusted the bag on his shoulder, clutching it tightly so as not to make a sound. His sneaker slipped through first, then a knee. Almost there. With his back to the lab, he was pulling his final leg through when his heel caught the door. It moaned and Chase’s heart stopped.

  “Chase, son, come here.”

  Chase froze, gripping his bag even tighter.

  “Come here, son!” Witherspoon repeated.

  Chase didn’t respond. Admittedly, he didn’t have a very good plan B. He could try to make it to the front door, but then what? Where would he go? Those guys would be on him in a flash. In fact, there were probably guns drawn on him now. No, the best thing to do was to face the music.