The imp nodded, rushing out of the hall to do the king’s bidding.
Several hours passed before Vincent was brought before the king. Queen Staci was in her chambers sobbing, while the king sat at his throne, visibly shaking with rage. He was barely keeping his composure, and it seemed he would let it all fall apart at any moment.
Adrian’s corpse was displayed on a large slab of obsidian raised from the floor by the king’s magic. His arms lay crossed over his chest, one hand clutching his sword, the other holding a single black rose. He was still dressed in his light armor and dark clothes, almost as if he had fallen asleep. If not for the blood staining his ruined armor and shirt, he could have appeared alive. But the color had drained from his already pale skin and he was unnaturally motionless. Several demons and devils stood nearby in solemn silence, awaiting the order to carry the prince to his final resting place.
Vincent was brought into the hall and forcibly pushed to his knees. His face was devoid of emotion, seemingly struck senseless by his own actions. His hands were bound at the wrists and a strong rope was tied around his neck. His bonds had been magically enchanted to strip away his angelic abilities and leave him weaker than a human child. With a wave of the king’s hand, the knights moved away from their commander and took up positions nearby. They looked to the kneeling angel and felt torn between loyalty to their king and their loyalty to their beloved knight commander. They respected both of the men, but they knew that disobeying the king would lead to a grim death.
Dante leaned forward in his throne, placing his elbows on his knees. His eyes scanned Vincent’s downward looking face for any hint of an expression. Finding none, the king sighed and felt his composure slipping. “How could you?” was all he could manage without breaking.
Vincent remained silent. His hands were still and his body was slack. His feathered wings lay limply on the stone floor.
“He was your brother!” Dante shouted. “And you killed him!” The king stood from his throne and took several heavy steps, bringing him to the angel he had once called son.
The bound angel was still motionless and expressionless, never shifting as the broken king approached.
Dante knelt in front of Vincent and roughly grabbed the angel by the jaw. He forced him to look into his burning eyes. “I am well within my right as king and father to kill you here and now, without any trial, jury, or lament.”
“Then do it,” Vincent said quietly, a tear slipping from one eye. His expression never changed, but Dante could swear he saw something different and terrifying in the angel’s eyes. Behind the remorse for his actions was a sense of calm acceptance of the inevitable, that much the king could tell. “Kill me like you killed my father.”
Dante shook his head. “What you have done this day is as truly unforgivable as what your father did. But I am not going to kill you. Your death will not come any time soon. Instead, I am banishing you from my kingdom. I am hereby stripping you of your rank and title, as well as your inheritance of my kingdom. Upon pain of suffering in the Pits, you shall never return here as long as you draw breath. One day, you will look back on what you’ve done, and it will haunt you to your dying breath. When that day comes, I hope you realize what kind of monster you are, and I hope it kills you.” Dante released the angel and returned to his throne. “Throw him to the vampires.”
Adrian’s elites were stunned to silence when they heard the news. The same imp that had delivered the news to the king was back at his post among the informants working under the master assassin. Berron and Vurga swore vehemently, while Kizrack and Loran stared into blank space. Only Cheal and Zhun were able to form any questions.
“What in the name of sanity is wrong with Vincent?!” Zhun fumed. Her feline features twisted into a hateful scowl and she paced angrily about the main room.
“You say it was in retaliation to his killing Anna?” Cheal demanded, his wolfish face bearing a puzzled look. “It does not fit with the Knight-Commander’s personality.”
“Who can say when it comes to love?” Zhun hissed, sarcasm dripping from her words like venom. “The fool should have known it would never work. A lowly demon knight and an angelic heir to the throne?” She trailed off, mumbling about freakish offspring and the loss of her favorite lover.
The rest of the assassins paid her little heed, focusing instead on the details given by the imp messenger. Eventually, Zhun calmed somewhat and sat down to listen as well. After they had fully questioned the imp they conferred amongst themselves.
“It makes no sense,” Cheal commented. He had been the demon in charge of personality profiles and psychological analyses of nearly every important person, target or otherwise. “Vincent is not prone to violent outbursts. That was always Lord Adrian’s wont.”
Loran grunted his agreement and made a slicing motion across his neck with a questioning look on his face.
Kizrack shook his head. “No, an execution is not likely. Am I right, Cheal?”
Cheal nodded. “Our king is swift to execute traitors, or even condemn them to the Pits, but he raised Vincent as his own son. He would have shown some form of mercy, even for this heinous, unforgivable act.”
“But even our beloved king has a limit to his mercy,” Vurga commented. “Could he even show mercy in the face of such treachery?”
Zhun breathed a heavy sigh and shrugged her narrow shoulders. “Our king is in pain. He will need all the support we can muster. Not only are we without a leader, so are the knights. Someone will have to step up on both sides.”
“But,” Kizrack mentioned, “what about the potential implications?”
“What do you mean?” Cheal asked.
“Civil war,” Berron chimed in, following Kizrack’s line of thought.
The assassins all nodded in agreement.
“We’ll need to put all of our contacts and connections to use quelling the upcoming rumors,” Kizrack stated. “The king, while secure on his throne, is weakened now with the loss of both his sons.”
“Word will undoubtedly spread,” Zhun replied. “As will the false claims. We will not only suffer from a potential civil war, but maybe a coup as well.”
“Then there’s the vampires,” Vurga said, shoulders slumping.
Loran grunted unhappily, causing the rest to nod their agreement.
“Time to make the rounds, then,” Zhun muttered.
Adrian’s body was lowered into a stone sarcophagus by somber demons. The funeral was short and populated only by his grieving parents. The queen sobbed into the king’s chest as he held an arm around her bobbing shoulders. His own eyes were similarly filled with tears, but he remained outwardly stoic, staying strong for his wife and kingdom. He would allow himself the freedom of grief behind closed doors. The sarcophagus was then sealed and slid into a waiting slot within the wall of the royal tomb. Bas reliefs of his heroic endeavors during the civil war and vampire attacks were etched into either side of the slot. A statue of the dead prince rose out of the stone floor in front of the wall, standing tall and proud as the man had in life. The statue was one of many others lining the wall of the royal tomb, part of a collection of other members of the bloodline. Adrian was the first to be interred in the royal crypt in over three hundred years, the last one being Satan himself.
Dante and Staci stood silently as the other demons and devils not connected to the royal family filtered out of the crypt. Staci’s heavy sobs echoed quietly in the stone chamber. The sound seemed to add a haunting feel to the place. No other sound could disturbed the solemn silence of the tomb. When they were alone, the king and queen stood awhile longer, lingering in the sadness of their son’s passing.
“Why did this happen?” Staci whimpered.
Dante shook his head. “I don’t know, my love. I have no idea what possessed Vincent to do such a horrible thing. Nor do I know exactly why Adrian attacked that woman. I know he believed he was doing the right thing, though. He would never just kill an innocent person.”
S
taci sobbed harder. She clutched at Dante’s shirt for support.
The king felt a tear slip down his cheek. He felt broken inside. His son was dead, his adopted son was banished, and his wife was in more pain than she could bear. Nothing he could do would make any of this any better, and he knew it. All of his pain and anger washed over him, flooding his mind with thoughts of vengeance and hate. His fist clenched at his side as he stared at the stone depiction of his son. Thoughts of the invading vampires drifted past the pain, and he made the only decision that seemed right. Silently, the king vowed to see the vampires pay for their crimes. He would see them destroyed at the hands of his army and driven to extinction.
“So the little prince is dead,” the vampire lord mused. He sat in his tower on Earth, casually swirling the blood in his goblet. A large marble desk sat between him and his informant. He was the leader of an international business in charge of bringing new, cutting edge technology back to the world in order to properly rebuild and recuperate from the terrible war. His tower was one of many placed throughout the world in each of the largest cities. It took him several decades to build his business empire, and even longer to build his reign over the humans.
“Yes, my lord,” the informant nodded confidently. “And the other, younger prince is banished. He should be roaming Earth as we speak.”
The vampire smirked, taking a sip of blood. “Very good. The king of Hell is weakened. Taking his throne should be much simpler now. More so, now that his best tacticians are gone.”
“Very true, my lord,” the informant replied. “What shall I do now that our deception has succeeded?”
The vampire lord thought for a moment, allowing himself to bask in the success of his admittedly ridiculous plan. He had planted false information, framing a simple knight for a crime pulled off by one of his own agents. He purposefully left loose ends for the demons to follow up on, thus wasting precious time. Now, with the ability to locate and open the secret weapon stashes scattered around the world, the vampire and his armies could easily take Hell from the demons. Once upon the throne, he would begin production of weapons and creatures. Eventually, even Heaven would be his.
“Go to our strongholds,” the vampire lord commanded. “Spread word of the wayward angel boy. I will offer a reward to any person who brings him to me. Preferably alive, but I am flexible as to his condition. Luckily, no one stays dead in my kingdom for long.”
The informant nodded, bowed, and turned to leave, eager to carry out his lord’s commands.
The vampire lord sat back in his chair, taking another sip of blood. His wry grin showed his amusement. A thought occurred to him, then. He pressed the call button on the console on his desk and waited.
A flushed, heavyset woman came through the door, breathing hard. She had run to answer the vampire’s call. “Yes, Mr. Ibsen?” she asked, regaining her composure. This poor human was a recent hire and eager to impress her new boss.
“Mary, was it?” Ibsen asked casually.
“Yes, sir,” Mary smiled.
“Hm. Send word downstairs to the research and development team. I wish to pay them a visit later.”
“Yes, sir,” Mary nodded. She stood awkwardly waiting for additional orders.
“That is all,” Ibsen stated, annoyed at the human woman.
Mary smiled and left to do his bidding.
“Stupid humans,” Ibsen muttered. He shifted his focus back to his earlier thought. His scientists were hard at work developing a special project that would greatly help in his plans for the conquest of Hell, and the discovery of the weapon caches helped make several leaps forward in the creation of the new technology. Ibsen was growing more and more excited by the progress being made. Before long, the patient vampire would finally be able to fully invade Hell and seize the throne from the current ruler.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“I put tulips in all the pots outside, and then I set fire to the house,” a young man said, his blank stare barely noticing the doctor across from him. “My mother had always loved tulips. I remember watching her in the garden, tending her beloved flowers. I was only a child when she apparently lost her mind. She rambled on and on about demons and other creatures slaughtering people in the streets. It was devastating to our family. We were forced to put her in an asylum. On my last visit to the asylum, she took my hand in hers and explained to me what I was supposed do. Her eyes were clear, clearer than I’ve ever seen them, and she begged me to burn the house down. I couldn’t help myself. She was my mother. What else could I do?”
The doctor looked at the young man and asked, “And what happened after that, Jake?”
Jake took a deep, steadying breath and continued his story. “On the following Friday, we packed our bags and planned our escape. I told my dad what Mom had said, knowing he’d believe me. He and I were always on Mom’s side when it came to her wishes. I helped my younger sister pack her suitcase. She was still too young to remember what our mother was like before the asylum. I made sure to pack her favorite stuffed animal to help her keep calm in the days to come. I always made fun of her for that silly stuffed tiger. She always had it with her when things were going poorly. She even had it with her the day our mother slapped her face. Poor Megan was a wreck after that. She was with me one day on a visit to the asylum, talking with Mom. Mom was on one of her tirades about demons and how they were going to come up from Hell to slaughter innocents. Megan, clutching that stupid stuffed tiger, asked Mom why she was talking like that. How could demons exist? Why not stop acting insane and come back home? Mom slapped her across the face and scolded her. Megan was still far too young to understand, so she broke into tears and ran out of the room, leaving me alone with Mom. I held her hand, comforting her, while she sobbed for what she had done to her daughter. Mom had always had a clear head, no matter what. Her demon ravings were born from a warning she’d seen in a dream. At least, that’s what she told all of us.”
The doctor took off his glasses and wiped his brow. He had heard about Jake and his fantastical story of demons and premonitions, but he was not prepared for all of this. His time in the psychiatric ward of the hospital had shown him many different kinds of psychotic people, but none were so clear and level headed. He felt inclined to believe every word of Jake’s story. “Tell me more,” the doctor implored. “When did this all happen?”
“It was November in Rome, colder than normal,” Jake said. His eyes continued their blank stare, but now seemed to see something else entirely. “The sky was an icy blue where it showed through the dull grey clouds. The air smelled of rain and wet grass. The light breezes that occasionally kicked up were bitter, cold, and harsh, even though they only lasted a few seconds. I could almost physically feel the weight of what I was supposed to do upon my shoulders. I was about to burn down my home, a place I’ve lived all my life. I looked up, trying to sort through my chaotic thoughts. I saw a bat circling the sky. Its wings flapped and fluttered about, keeping it aloft amid the blowing breezes. It squeaked in protest and tried to get its bearings. Eventually it flew off over some buildings. I felt like that little bat was an omen, but I quickly dismissed it as my mind running amok. It was bad enough that I was already feeling apprehensive about setting fire to my only home. I was beginning to feel as crazy as my mother seemed.”
The doctor was now leaning forward in his chair, arms resting on his desk.
“I was on my way through the front door when I noticed something was off,” Jake continued. His voice came out almost as if of its own volition. He narrowed his eyes and it was clear he was becoming more and more disturbed over the course of the telling. “The upholstery on my mother’s favorite chair by the fireplace was ripped. Nothing else in the front room was different. The chair was the only thing disturbed. I ran my hand over the rough, aged fabric. It still smelled of mothballs and Mom’s perfume, even after all these years of sitting vacant. It was an old chair, of Victorian design, much like the rest of the house. The previous day’s Wall Street Jour
nal sat unfolded on the mahogany end table next to my father’s chair nearby. Its ink was smudged in places. Dad must have been crying again. He loved Mom with all that he was, and having her in the asylum was breaking his heart. He tried so hard to hide it from Megan and me, but I knew.”
“Wait,” the doctor interrupted. “’Wall Street Journal?’ That publication hasn’t been around for a very long time.”
Jake shrugged. “You wanted my story, doctor.”
The doctor nodded, motioning for Jake to continue.
““Your mother lied to you,” I heard my father say behind me. “That’s the truth.” I turned to look at him and asked him what he meant.” Jake’s eyes welled up with tears as he recalled the look on his father’s face.
“Dad set his suitcase down, removed his glasses and wiped them with a cloth from his pocket. “She lied,” he repeated. “She’s not in the asylum against her will. She’s there because she feels safer.”
“Safer?” I asked him. “Than in her own home with her family?” I demanded, “How can a building full of crazy people be safer than our home?”
Dad shook his head and replaced his glasses, sighing in the process. “I don’t know. All I know is what she told me. She gave you instructions, right?”
I nodded, wondering where my father’s line of questioning was going. I had a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.
“She gave me instructions as well,” he told me. The feeling in my stomach grew worse. “She told me I am to die in the fire of this house. Only then can I truly help keep her safe.” I lost all feeling in my body. I barely felt my knees hit the wooden floor. I was to kill my father when I burned the house down?”
The doctor sat back in his chair and breathed a heavy sigh. “And then what happened?” He clutched at the case file for Jake and opened it, flipping through the pages.
The Assassin and the Knight Page 6
