He fought the desperate urge to turn and look at his companion. To tell her to shut up and jam his sword down her throat. “No,” he grit, arguing with himself. He focused, stilling his mind, connecting with his heart, understanding the anger wasn’t his. Foreign energy was spreading through his veins, the deep darkness burrowing into his soul, chilling his fire.
Katcher kept calling. Enticing the demon. Little did she know that it was directly behind her – it was in him. His lips were curling, a menacing sneer forming with the clawing of his companion’s voice.
He knew without a doubt that any being caught in his sight would be a target. He forced his head down, closed his eyes, and repelled against the strength of the force willing him to go after Katcher. “No,” he growled as he took steps forward. “No,” he repeated in his mind as he tried to double back. Your heart will lead you. Not your mind. He could hear Will’s voice in a memory from one of their earlier lessons. But was it really Will? He doubted. He was confused. Feelings and emotions, he knew were not his, felt all too real and his own. What the hell was going on? Will had told him to feel it all. But his wasn’t what he meant.
His neck craned, the stiff, movement not by his own doing. Allowing his feelings in the Nether frightened him.
Feel it, Jarron. A strange voice, but so much like his own, coaxed. There is nothing to fear. You are in control. You are in control. The voice repeated.
Warmth flooded him, White Purity rose within his chest, as if to save him, when sharp, cutting pain abruptly replaced the familiar feeling. Instead, anger, hatred, and chaos settled inside, filling him. Control, he desperately called for it. Control. Control. Control.
There is only surrender, Anakim. The strange voice laughed.
Feeling the tickle of insanity begin to collude his mind; he turned, knowing Katcher would be there. Wicked thoughts caressed his mind like a lover as he turned to peruse the woman with new interest. An easy kill. Arm reaching over his shoulder for his sword, he took a step toward her. Expecting the normal hum of the sword made in his hand, he gasped as it hissed and burned his palm. The sword did not want to be held.
Katcher turned quickly, her posture defensive. “Stand back, Jarron St. Sebastian.” She held her sword, the long, thin elegant blade, barely a line in front of her pretty face.
His lip hooked to the side.
Her grip tightened around the hilt, her gaze narrowed at him. “You are not yourself.”
He laughed. Not recognizing the voice coming out of his mouth. He took a casual step forward.
“Hear your name. Jarron St. Sebastian. Remember who you are!” Katcher ordered, a howl-like shriek coming out of her mouth with a blast.
He leaned and dodged the sonic blow from the death rider. His interest growing. Perhaps she could be challenge. A hunt. He smiled at the realization of a chase before blood was spilled.
“Jarron St. Sebastian!” she howled again. “Anakim. High Guardian. Protector. Son.” She stumbled back, a look of confusion marring the flawless skin of her face.
“I know my name,” he answered her with an oily smile.
“You. Are. Not. Jarron St. Sebastian,” she hissed. Dark eyes widened and she turned swiftly, her silky black hair sweeping around her face like a billowy curtain. She ran fast. Her form going invisible within a few steps.
He looked down and took a deep breath, forcing his mind to return to him. His neck craned harshly. He fought against the dark internal force pushing him to chase after Katcher. “No!” he defied.
Follow your heart, Jarron. Hate can only be conquered with love. It was Will’s voice, but the angel was nowhere to be found. Feel it, Jarron. Love.
He bellowed as the dark force inside of him tried to drown out Will’s influence. He felt dark and light colliding inside of him. A clash of opposing energies were intent on winning his soul. His consciousness was wavering, his vision fading, as he felt reality slip away and he blacked out.
***
Katcher ran; her form concealed with deep layers of shadows. There was no way, Jarron St. Sebastian could find her.
Katcher, stop running.
She slowed, her breath sawing raggedly as she came to a stop. The black plain was the same everywhere she looked--an unending sea of nothingness with nowhere to take shelter or hide. “Mahalel? Is that you?” She called out.
You cannot run from darkness. You must face it.
She let out a slow breath, disappointed the voice belonged to William Koraki. “You are not a good teacher.” She hissed. She looked behind her trying to assess how far she had gone. She shook her head uncertain of the distance. Her perception of space and time in this place was skewed. Things were not as they seemed. It felt like she’d been running for days, but it could have been mere minutes. She could not discern.
Jarron St. Sebastian was nowhere to be seen. She might be safe for a time. She advanced, her hand held ready at the hilt of her sword, her gaze continually scanning the nothing. All the while, souls flew past her, their whimpers sending a chill up her spine. “You cannot possess me, like you did Jarron St. Sebastian, but you taunt me anyway.” She continued walking, ignoring the wisps growing in numbers. “I am not afraid of souls.” She shook her head as she continued on, the circling of dark smoky tendrils more of an annoyance than a challenge. This is not what she needed to learn. Frustrated, she stopped and addressed the souls around her. “You are here because it was decreed so. My kind may have delivered you, but it was not their decision.” The souls spun faster around her, their moans turning to shrieks of anger. “It will do no good.” Black sand and dirt rose around her, trapping her in a sandstorm. She raised her arm to shield her eyes and face as she pushed forward. She growled as sand morphed to tiny shards of glass, cutting her. The vortex spun faster, following her, the angered souls frantic with the scent of her blood.
The ground beneath began to shake. Cracking sounds boomed as the earth began to split. She twisted and jumped up through the swirling vortex of dirt and sand, leaping away before falling into the quickly growing crevasse. She ran again, hoping she was fast enough to outrun a natural disaster. She didn’t look back and prayed to the Creator for guidance.
Silence. Only silence surrounded her when she finally stopped. “William Koraki!” she screamed into the black void of the Nether. “What is this supposed to teach me?” Just then, dark, foreboding energy slowly crept to her location. She twisted, pivoting on the balls of her feet, searching for the demon. Brows pinched, ears perked, she attuned every one of her senses to find the demon. “I know you are coming. I can feel you, demon.”
Laughter boomed around her, hurting her ears. “Kneel death rider.” A male demon commanded.
She bent over, excruciating pain twisting her innards. She cried out in agony as she dropped heavily to her knees.
Laughter boomed again. “That’s it. Such an obedient reaper.”
The air began to chill and seemed to come alive, penetrating her pores and freezing her muscles and bones. Like she was some kind of puppet, she could feel her limbs being forced into position. Her back was straightened, her shoulders pushed back, neck bent back so she could only look up towards a black sky. Her hands were pushed together in prayer.
“Worship me,” the demon commanded next with a maniacal laughter.
“You do not command me,” she whimpered with trembling lips. The demon’s power was greater than anything she’d felt before. Worse than any demon she’d come across in the dead zone. The dark force was dominating, extinguishing any source of light she carried within her essence.
“Oh, but I can.” Cold wind whipped around her and hands began to intrusively roam over her body. “You would make an interesting spawn. A powerful one.”
She clenched her eyes shut, disgusted with the transgression on her body. Tears fell from her eyes, not because of defeat, but because of anger and hatred for the demon. “You do not have permission to touch me, demon.” She hissed, trying to summon every breath of courage she could coll
ect within the dwindling light of her spirit.
Amused laughter rang in her ears. “Hmm. I do not ask. I take, little death rider.”
Katcher’s insides were twisting, extreme pain making her want to empty her insides. She was shaking. Sensed as trauma by her physical body, she was going into shock, her vessel trying to shut down to preserve her life force. She would have collapsed if her body wasn’t being held against her will. “Re…lease…” she muttered as her mind began to fade and her vision began to blur. Her thoughts were spinning. Visions of Mahalel’s lessons and guidance flashed in her mind. A lifetime with the Dark One, and she was going to die, alone. In the Nether. Because his son, William Koraki, was a bad teacher. Her only consolation was that she would see one of her kind in her ascension.
“Katcher!” It was a male voice. Familiar. Distant. “Katcher!” The voice was getting closer. “Katcher!” The voice belonged to Jarron St. Sebastian. He’d found her.
It was her turn to laugh. Was she laughing? She could not tell. Jarron St. Sebastian had been overwhelmed by something evil that possessed him. He wanted to kill her. Death. She thought of it fondly. Death was not something to be feared. Death was the promise of peace and painless existence. A completion. She breathed out, readying herself to feel the sting of a sword. Under a master’s hand, like Jarron St. Sebastian’s, he would strike fast and mercifully. At least she hoped he would.
“Katcher.” The warmth of the voice filled her, chasing away the darkness, untwisting her insides, and returning air to her lungs. Jarron St. Sebastian was cradling her in the safety of his arms. “What happened?”
Dark lashes began to flutter as the death rider’s vision began to clear. Above her, a white glow pulsed softly around a beautiful man with one green and one blue eye. He looked concerned, the dark brows beneath a golden head of hair was tightly pinched. She wanted to reach up to touch the face of her hallucination.
“Katcher, please.” He shook her a little, but never let go. “Come on we have to get out of here.”
She was rising off the ground, being lifted within the strong arms of the beautiful man. An angel. She groaned as her head throbbed with pain. She grabbed her scalp with both hands wanting to alleviate the building pressure.
“Katcher. Try to stay awa…” was the last thing she heard before she passed out.
Chapter Twelve
January 22nd, Washington DC
Morning
Pamela Duran stretched with a yawn as she woke to a light beeping sound from her laptop. She looked about, groggy and still within the grips of sleep. The beeping continued, unwilling to let her return to a sexy dream. She swallowed, trying to wet her parched mouth and throat. She coaxed her eyes open as the beeping continued to call to her. “Okay, okay,” she groaned, and scooted the conference chair back to the table. She pulled herself in, letting her jacket, which had served as her blanket, slip to the floor. She clicked on the mouse, turning on the laptop screen. She leaned in, blinking her eyes for moisture as she stared at the information. Her mouth fell open, and her pulse quickened, as she looked at a request to chat from someone named “Flamethrower.”
She rubbed her eyes at the blinking cursor waiting for a response. The message was coming through an encrypted line through her laptop. Not the office’s, hers. That was impossible. The Beast had so many firewalls, securities, and other cyber booby traps, access was impossible unless she allowed it and she hadn’t. “Who are you, Flamethrower?” She felt both angered and curious. She poked at her chin with her thumb as she stared at the screen.
The beeping got louder, faster, the frequency becoming agitating.
Her breathing stopped as she found herself typing on the Beast. “Who are you?”
Letter by letter, a response came, “We seem to be searching for the same thing.”
What? She thought. “How did you tap into my system?” She waited. No response. “Why are you contacting me?” She stared at the blinking cursor willing for a response to appear.
“Why are you looking for information on seraph angels?”
Her eyes widened as she gasped. It was true, the bastard had accessed her line somehow. She felt violated suddenly. “You will regret this,” she typed and quickly ended the connection. Her mind was racing, trying to recount and retrace every site, every search, and every click she conducted during her search. Trying to piece together where the punk could have pinged her. With a huff, she shoved the Beast back into her messenger back, grabbed her coat of the floor, and prepared to freeze her way back to her apartment. “Two can play at this game.”
***
At The Order’s estate
Control was on Level 2 of Haven, the estate’s underground base for The Order. The glass doors wooshed closed behind him as he looked at Sirius, The Order’s resident genius, curiously. Chase walked into Control, dressed in patrol gear. “What are you smiling at?”
Sirius was normally high energy, bouncing between watching the monitors, and incoming data from god-knows-where. Right now, he was leaned back in his seat, long legs perched atop his desk. A satisfied grin plastered on his handsome face while he stared into a blank monitor. The Order’s tech wizard dropped his booted feet and swiveled to face him. Hands twined on top of his head, he looked like a kid ready to spill a secret. “Remember when you asked me to look into the Seraphim Project?”
“Yeah. Any luck?” Chase got excited too. Any information on the Project would be helpful to understanding what was happening. Perhaps they could even get ahead of it. Stop whatever the General was up to. This was what he needed to present to the High Mother.
Sirius shook his head, but had a smile on his face. The guardian’s gold-hued eyes shone with excitement. “Not at first. You were right. Going through the FBI’s system was a lost cause.” The guardian stood, his strong physique a paradox to his techy activities. He walked to a fresh pot of coffee at the end of a long console of monitors against Control’s main wall. Screens of various sizes patterned the wall. Each of the monitors was linked to a number of cameras around the estate and throughout the city. Sirius called it his god-view. “But you gave me General Solomon Mitchell’s name.” He took a swallow of black coffee. The fresh aroma smelling of sweet chicory. It was one of Sirius’ favorite. “Well, everything on Mitchell is ‘clean.’ He waggled air-quotes with one hand as he took another sip.
Chase remembered why he had come to Control. He reached for a com-disc sitting on The Order’s conference table. He affixed the disc on his tac-vest, tapping at it to test it was working. A static sound buzzed every time he tapped the disc.
“It’s working,” Sirius confirmed.
“What did you find?”
“Another name.” Sirius was in-between sips of coffee. “Pamela Duran.” He swallowed a large gulp. “That pistol is yours, too.” Sirius pointed to an M9 cased within a stiff foamed box.
“Who?” Chase asked as he slipped the M9 in a holster in his vest.
“His assistant.” Sirius turned to a keyboard, typed with one hand, and an image of a woman appeared in one of the screens. “Pamela Duran,” his friend flourished at the screen.
“She’s cute.” Chase thought as he studied the picture. The woman had dark brown hair, parted in the middle, and chestnut colored eyes. She wore minimal make-up, long lashes, a small smile on a full set of lips, and great cheekbones. “What’s her story?”
“I thought you’d never ask my friend.” Sirius slapped the table once, and plopped back down on his chair, typed a few more things, and another picture came up. The second was of the same woman in a booking photograph. Besides wearing glasses, and a look of fear in the mugshot, it was definitely the same person. “Your General’s assistant has been convicted of a felony, class d cybercrime in the great state of Connecticut.”
Chase stepped closer to the monitor assessing both images of the woman, “She looks so innocent.”
Sirius scoffed as he rocked in his seat, “Her records would say otherwise. She’s got spunk.” S
irius cradled the large coffee cup within his palms, seeming to enjoy the warmth in his hands. “She threatened me you know.” He slurped at his coffee, and eyed him ‘innocently.’
“Wait.” Chase said with surprise. “You contacted her?” If this woman was General Mitchell’s assistant, she could be just as conniving as the man she worked for.
Sirius chuckled. “Her network is brilliant. It took me forever to find a weak spot.”
Chase stared at his friend, unsure if Sirius had made the right decision.
“Stop worrying. I used a fake name.” He smiled broadly, seeming pleased with himself, “Plus, she can’t trace back to us.”
“You got into hers.” Chase pointed out. “We can’t take any chances.”
“She’s not me.” Sirius waggled his black brows playfully, though his eyes were red rimmed from lack of sleep. “Besides, if I’m right, she may be the help we need from inside the Project.” Sirius stared at the images in the monitor, his countenance going serious since Chase arrived in Control. “Just give me time, and we’ll have this little lady helping The Order.”
Chase was not entirely convinced, but he trusted his friend. Sirius would never compromise The Order. If this lead panned out, it would be a significant advantage for The Order.
Chapter Thirteen
January 24th, Washington, DC
Leaving San Francisco had not been an easy feat. Even with days’ notice, Pamela had not been able to secure his usual pilot. Highly unusual. Pamela was more than efficient. She anticipated his needs as if she knew him better than himself. She was invaluable to him. Rushing to his office, he’d neglected the handsome entrance he always admired. The strong, traditional lines of his office building, and the crisp American flags that always greeted his entrance were just patriotic decor today, a passing blur of color amidst all the snow topped landscape. He sought out his trusted assistant. “Pamela!”
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