“Lala. Lala. Fly too,” the girl’s sweet voice rose above the raucous noise of the kids around her.
“I do not know if I am strong enough to carry two such squirmy children,” he teased.
“Yes you can! Yes you can!” Alexis cheered on his shoulder as Lala bounced around, waiting to be picked up. The two youngest were certainly the two loudest, he mused.
Toqeph hoisted the second child above the group of playful children. Both girls hung on to him, their small, plump hands wrapped lovingly around his neck.
“Hang on, Lexi!” Lala gripped her friend’s arm.
The children squealed in happy fits of laughter as Toqeph rose swiftly into the afternoon sky. He swooped and dove under the bluest sky she’d ever seen. She could feel the cool winds rush around him, the feeling of freedom, and deep, fatherly love surging through his heart as he secured the children tighter in his arms for a final loop-de-loop in the freshest air.
He landed softly, his sandaled feet soundless over the pebbled ground as the children jumped out of his arms, and his huge black wings disappeared behind his back.
“No more rides, young ones. I have to see to the Island,” he announced.
The children moaned in unison, their sad faces almost making him change his mind. Large, black wings reemerged, stretching wide, the shimmery feathers ruffling excitedly. A small, controlled gust formed to shoo the children backwards. They squealed happily, flapping their arms like birds as they scattered in different directions from him.
He watched them, joy swelling his cells as he let the din of their laughter absorb into him.
Fawna stirred, gently rousing out of her nap, the residual feelings of joy elevating her own happiness. She stretched her arms toward the ceiling letting out a hearty yawn as she shivered underneath the coverlet.
Dex and Sabine walked in. “’ey, sleepy ‘ead,” Sabine greeted. “’ow did things go with Mariana?”
“Good. She wants us to come back and see her. When we’re free.” She went to the kitchen. “Take a seat. I’ll get dinner started.” She smiled at her parents.
“Thank you, Love. It’s been a long day.” Sabine let out a heavy sigh and took her place on the couch.
Dex came into the kitchen, grabbed a bottle of dark beer from the fridge, and took a seat at the kitchen island. Tipping the bottle up to his lips, he downed a large gulp before letting his head plop down toward his chest.
Fawna looked at them both. Worry erasing her lighter mood. “What happened?”
Dex was shaking his head. “A lot of troubled people.”
Fawna understood. Both her parents were empathic. Their sensitivities to other people’s emotions were strong. They weren’t usually this burdened by it, having great skills at shielding themselves. “What’s going on? You’re not telling me something.”
“The townsfolks are whisperin’.” Sabine got up from the couch. Her brows crinkled with stress. “They’re frightened. Fearful.”
Her happy mood was deflating. “Fear? Of what?” Nothing ever happened on the island.
Dex swallowed the last gulp of beer, placing the bottle deliberately on the table. “Demons,” he announced with a belch.
It was Fawna’s turn to fear. Demons? On Bimini?
Chapter Nine
January 22nd, Washington, D.C.
5:00 am
Emergency alert services warned the citizens of Washington, DC in the early morning hours about closures of several government branches. Hazardous storm conditions and icy roads riddled the city, and citizens were being encouraged to stay indoors.
Pamela Duran, the General’s trusted assistant listened halfheartedly to the warnings playing on a continuous loop on a local tv channel. She peeked outside, marveling at the transformation the freak storm brought with it. Her street was blanketed in thick, white layers of dry snow. Icicles of every size hung from windows, eaves, and doors. The cars parked on the street looked like small, lumpy hills on an otherwise flat terrain. She thought it looked wondrous outside. And cold, definitely cold.
She pulled her dark hair in a loose bun, and turned away from the window. If she had to brave the tundra, she would. She had been given an assignment and she would see to it. Besides, the office’s internet service was better suited for her task. She didn’t live far from the office and walking seemed less dangerous than driving. Methodically, she started to dress for the weather. Starting with the first layer of thermal underwear and heavy socks. She found a good pair of jeans with no rips or holes and paired that with a long-sleeved t-shirt. She topped that with her favorite Cal Berkeley sweatshirt, and finished off with heavy winter paraphernalia: knit gloves, cap, scarf, and a thick parka.
After what felt like hours to get dressed, she bravely slogged through the streets. Her, heavily soled snow boots barely gripping the ice encrusted side walk. She felt overlayered beneath her winter coat, and could barely bend her arms, but keeping her body heat trapped was a priority. At least that’s what she remembered from a survivalist show she saw a few years ago.
The three-block walk would have been tolerable, had it not been for the wind pushing against her. By the time she’d arrived at her office building, she was breathing hard through the knitted scarf her mom had crocheted for her before she moved to D.C. Lumbering to her desk, she felt like a marathon runner reaching the finish line. She stood over her desk, feeling triumphant with her small accomplishment. With a hefty tug, she lifted a heavy messenger bag hanging across her torso, and onto the desk. She pulled off her long winter coat, lifted off her knit cap, unwrapped her scarf, and peeled off her gloves. She looked at the pile of clothing, shaking her head, dreading when she’d have to put everything back on to get home.
She adjusted her hoodie, happy for the comfortable heat warming the office. Pulling on the sleeves of her hoodie, she stuck her thumbs through holes she’d cut in the elastic ends. It was her favorite piece of clothing. She practically lived in it on the weekends. The yellow decal dominating the front of the sweatshirt used to say ‘Cal’ short for the University of California, Berkeley. But the ‘C’ had peeled off after many washings. It had been a gift from her cousin who went to the university to study law. She missed her family. She was an only child, but she had plenty of cousins who were more like brothers and sisters.
Not wasting any time, she quickly set up in the General’s conference room with two laptops from the office, and all the supplies she anticipated needing. The laptops booted up quickly, having its own dedicated network. As she anticipated, the network in the office was not being affected by the storm. She bent over each laptop and typed her search parameters.
She unzipped the messenger bag and tugged on her laptop, then her thermos. Her loose bun came undone with the effort as she heaved her beast of a computer next to the standard issues. She blew on a stray strand of dark brown hair dangling near her eye, and catching on her lashes. She waited as her laptop’s security screening ran through its process. Impatient, she reached for the thermos. Acidic, but warm bitter liquid made its way down her throat. Gagging, she stuck out her tongue with a grimace. She forgot the cream and sugar. This wasn’t a good start to her day.
She poked her chin as she stared at one of the office laptops she’d connected to a local news channel. The weather warnings plaguing the east coast replaced all other topics. The channel had invited all sorts of experts to chime in and lend opinion as to what could possibly be happening. To the station’s credit, they even invited a religious theorist, who pointed to signs confirming the start of the end-of-the-world. Conspiracy theorists. She shook her head.
She tuned out the news station and went to the second laptop. After hearing from her boss about needing to get back home; Robert Green, the General’s private pilot, had been her first call. When the retired navy airman didn’t answer his home phone, his company phone, or his cell phone, she had been forced to book a flight with a commercial airline. It was less than ideal, but it met the General’s demand to be flown home A.S.
A.P. But within hours of her booking, the freak weather system rolled in. She attempted to book with other airlines, but after long periods of being placed on hold, the end results were the same. All flights were grounded until further notice.
She’d tried to reach out to Robert, ‘Bob’ as he preferred to be called, again. But he wasn’t picking up. Bob’s absence troubled her. Though she did not know him personally, she knew him to be reliable. Always available.
She checked with San Francisco International’s air traffic control. The airport confirmed an uneventful landing. They also confirmed a routine departure. But, there were no records in any airport in D.C. or in the surrounding states of his return. How could he just disappear with no trace--in an airplane. This wasn’t the Bermuda Triangle.
Since she learned about Bob’s disappearance, she’d been scouring the network for any possible hits on the pilot. She may be the only one who realized he was gone. Thanks to her previous experience with ‘cyber manipulation’, she easily tagged his credit cards, bank accounts, vehicle registration, plane and boat logs, and cell phone account. She also found an account for a popular video streaming service as well as some social media accounts. Everything she could possible think of, she attached a tracker to. She went as far as ‘borrowing’ the General’s access codes to some Federal databases to widen her search.
After two days of continuous monitoring, no activity had turned up. Nothing. In this day and age when electronic transactions were a part of daily routine, not having at least one in a few days was odd, but not completely unusual.
She’d already accounted for the fact that Bob could be old fashioned, and preferred to pay cash or preferred to stay off line. She did a search of his bank statements which confirmed he withdrew a hundred dollars over two weeks ago, but that was the last activity. A hundred dollars in D.C. would barely last for a few days, let alone two weeks. Even stranger was the fact, there was no Missing Person report filed with local police. She’d considered that perhaps he was not missing but maybe on vacation, but nothing in his credit transactions indicated hotel reservations, car rentals, or international tickets through a cruise or flight. For any of those things, a credit card was required. She’d stumbled on a mystery, and she was determined to find the answer. Besides, Bob had always been nice to her. She hated to think that no one was missing him. “I’ll find you, Bob.”
Her cell phone trilled suddenly, making her jump. The wooden conference table vibrated with the phone accentuating the volume. “Hello, Sir.”
“Pam. Have you arranged a flight?” General Mitchell asked. She could hear muffled talking in the background, like he was in a public area.
“Sir, the east coast is frozen over. Nothing is coming in or going out.” Her tone was apologetic. She had no control over the weather, but she hated disappointing her boss. She got nervous when the silence stretched a second too long. “Sir?”
“Have you spoken with Mrs. Mitchell since we last spoke?”
“Yes, Sir. She asked when you planned to return, but she’s back to normal. No threats about getting me fired.” She cleared her throat, unsure if she should provide more information. She was well aware of the General’s and Mrs. Mitchell’s relationship. Polyamorous. She found it disconcerting, but it was none of her business.
“Oh?”
“She met a new… friend.” Her voice lowered to a whisper. She felt wrong snitching on Mrs. Mitchell.
“I understand.” General Mitchell sounded relieved. “Very well. Call me, when my flight is arranged. I look forward to your research on Isaiah and the coal.”
“Of course, Sir.” The call terminated, but she held on to her cell phone, staring at the screen as if she could see the General. “Why are you so interested in prophets?”
She moved the two office laptops to the side. One computer to monitor for Bob and the other to monitor the weather. She pulled up a chair to her own laptop--the Beast, and began to research for General Mitchell. “Isaiah,” she mouthed as she typed. Right away, the search page pulled up results, but way too many. “Prophet Isaiah,” she adjusted. Still too broad. “Seraphim and coal.” The results still showed a high number, but a quick scan of the page revealed that much of the information were duplicates. It was a place to start.
Hours went by. The work having taken her into the early evening hours before she realized what time it was. “Oh shoot.” She ran to the window and pulled the blinds open. The windows had condensed over, obscuring her view of the street behind the building. Making large circles on the window, she wiped the condensation away with her sweater sleeve. Though it was only 5:15 at night, the sky had already turned dark. With the freezing storm still blowing through the city, no one was outside and no cars were driving by. She leaned in, bumping her head lightly on the glass. Using her forehead to pivot, she looked towards the other side of the street.
Moon beams bounced against ice and snow, making them sparkle. The dome shaped lampposts looked more ornate than usual, as if touched by magic. Beautiful, she thought, but it wouldn’t be safe to walk in the dark, alone, and in freezing weather. Shoulders heavy, she yanked on the strings to lower the blinds. No need to keep looking at winter wonderland outside.
She dragged herself back to the table, and plopped down heavily into the high backed, comfortably padded, conference room chair. “Maybe sleeping here won’t be so bad,” she sighed. She stacked the papers she’d kept notes on, and began to review the information she’d jotted down on Isaiah the Prophet. She yawned, not particularly enthused about religious subjects, and again wondered why the General had a sudden interest. Solomon Mitchell was not a religious man. Not an atheist, not agnostic either. She’d seen him make the sign of the cross. He believed in God, but not in a devout sort of way.
Curious, she scooted to her laptop. Drumming her fingers on the table, she considered what she was about to do. She respected and trusted General Mitchell, but something didn’t feel right. Since his flight to San Francisco, Bob had disappeared without reason, and demons had come out of the supernatural closet. News of the demons had been dominating the news nationwide. San Francisco was being hailed as a safe sanctuary. It made no sense. We barely welcome immigrants, and yet the red carpet was being rolled out for demons? Why? Because they were beautiful and exotic? More bizarre was the fact that not one of the U.S. agencies specializing in security and protection of the nation had been deployed to San Francisco to investigate.
“Dang it!” she cursed, the need to do her own research becoming too great to deny. If her boss found out she spied on him, it would be the end of her career--forever. She closed the laptop, and pushed away from the table. She can’t. She shouldn’t. She turned away not wanting to look at the temptation calling to her. She paced, jabbing her thumb into her chin while contemplating her options. She stopped and stared at the laptop. She ran to it, unable to resist her need to know. “There probably wouldn’t be anything anyway.” She shrugged as she began typing, and accessed the General’s private files.
She recognized all the file names along with the information contained in each file. She was the one who’d compiled it all for the General. Her lips pursed. “What’s this?” The last file was labeled Seraphim Project. She had not created the file. It was nearly empty, except for the profiles of three FBI Agents from the San Francisco Bureau; Chase Sommer, Kimmer Jones, and Jackson Powell. Reading each sheet, it was easy to see why General Solomon would have wanted to work with them. Each agent was exceptional. She supposed the agents were on loan to the General for a special project, the Seraphim Project. But what was the project about? There was nothing else. Could her research on the seraph angel and the prophet Isaiah be part of this project? But how?
She twiddled with her mouse as she stared at the screen. The pointer swiped left to right across the computer screen, mimicking her nervousness. She continued to fidget, the erratic pointer accidentally highlighting a hidden icon. “What is that?” She leaned in, as she held her breath, unsure of what she ha
d just found. She moused over the area again. The hidden icon appeared momentarily. “Hmm. That’s not one of mine. General Mitchell, you have been cheating on me?” she joked. She held the mouse pointer over the small icon--a square button with a hollow circle in the middle.
Her heart raced as she stared at the symbol. First a file she didn’t create, and now an icon she hadn’t coded for her boss. She got up and walked to the conference room door. She poked her head out and looked about. She was alone. The whistling of the winds outside echoed through the vents as if emphasizing her solitude in the building. She let out a sharp breath as she started to pace again. “I didn’t think I would find anything. But now…” She looked at the back of her laptop. “Oh my god… I shouldn’t, but what could be so secret? I know about all of the General’s projects. I’m already doing research on seraphim angels. I manage his files…” She closed her eyes trying to unsee the icon in her mind. She shook her head, her instincts unwilling to let this go. “I am going to get so fired.” She headed back to laptop and clicked the mouse button on the icon. It popped up with three words, Anakim, Demon, Queen.
Confused, she typed speedily to wash any trace of her cyber fingerprints on the files. As soon as the process was done, she closed her laptop, and walked it back to her desk. General Mitchell was a good man. An honorable man. He was a war hero. Her hero. A father figure. He had been the only one willing to take a chance on her. But, somehow, someway she knew in her gut, the General was involved with the demons in San Francisco. The secret icon pointed to it.
She couldn’t prove it. But was there anything to prove?
What was the reference to the queen? What queen? She didn’t know of any queen who had governance authority. What was the other word? Anakim. What’s an Anakim?
It would not be out of the question for the General to be involved in top-level classified missions. It also wouldn’t be out of the question for military to partner with FBI. Maybe this was some black-ops thing? There was so much public support for the demons, any explicit action by government agencies could be construed as hostile. This could actually explain why there were no overt security deployments to San Francisco--no police, no military, no homeland security. It was already being handled by the General.
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