“There isn’t a minute that goes by that I don’t think about him,” he said, his voice incredibly soft yet weighty with grief.
There was a long pause, a nearly deafening silence within the room that kept growing and growing until—
Her ex finished pouring her drink and returned to the living-room area. He handed the glass to her, then turned to go back to the chair.
“No,” she said to him.
Craig turned.
“Not there,” she said with a shake of her head. She then moved over, kicking off her shoes and tucking her legs beneath her.
He hesitated for a moment before obliging and sitting down beside her.
They were silent then, both of them very aware of what was happening, the situation that was developing. Brenna watched him from the corner of her eye, unaware of what he was going to do. She felt her pulse begin to race, her breathing grow heavier.
Craig took something from his pocket and placed it upon the table.
The photograph was wrinkled and creased, but she saw who it was. Brenna leaned forward and placed the tips of her fingers on the photo.
“He was so beautiful,” she said, trying to hide the tremor of emotion but not doing a very good job.
Craig’s fingers were on the other end of the picture.
“My perfect boy,” he said.
She looked at him then and saw that he was staring intently at the photo, his eyes glistening wet with the formation of tears.
“I dream of him,” she told him, not wanting to share any more than that in fear that he might think she was insane.
Craig tore his gaze from the photograph, a heavy tear breaking free from beneath the lid of his right eye and running down his face. “I don’t dream anymore,” he told her, and laughed sadly as he looked away. The tears were flowing now. “I just sort of run out of gas—pass out—and when I wake up, it starts all over again . . .
“Without him . . . without you.”
He looked at her then, and it was there again.
Something that she had thought had died along with her—their—son. The love of this man . . . her husband. It had turned cold, and flinty, more hate then anything else. There was nothing worse than a love turned to hate; it was the sharpest, the nastiest. It was like poison to the spirit.
And she’d had that for so, so long. Carrying it around with her, allowing the toxin to seep into her soul, but not enough to kill her, just enough to change her.
To make her razor-sharp, and cold.
She took her fingers from the side of the photo and, sliding across the seat to get closer to him, placed them upon his face.
“He looks so much like you,” she said, thinking of her son from her dreams as she looked at his face, gazing into his brown eyes awash with tears.
He looked as though he was about to pull away, but she took the hand that had been on his face and placed it upon the back of his neck, drawing him closer to her.
“Are . . . are you sure that . . . ?” Craig muttered.
She answered his question with a kiss, soft at first, but growing harder, more needful. At first he seemed to hesitate, but it was only a short time before his passion was as strong—as hungry.
Icy hate and sorrow melting away.
To reveal the still-smoldering embers at the core.
And fanning them to life.
13
Elijah hadn’t slept since taking the girl.
Waiting for the call.
His cell phone went off, and he jumped in his seat even though he had been expecting this.
His eyes scanned the face of his cell phone, seeing the number and knowing exactly who would be on the other end and what he would be calling about.
Elijah picked up the phone, answering it.
“Yes,” he said, not wanting to show any sign of emotion.
“Elijah, it’s Francesco,” said the Coalition liaison to the Vatican. “Something terrible has happened.”
“Par for the course these days, isn’t it, Francesco?” Elijah asked. “What seems to be the problem.”
“Somebody has taken the girl,” the liaison said, certain that Elijah would know whom Francesco was talking about. “The convent was attacked and all the sisters slain. It was a total massacre.”
Elijah paused, reviewing every word before they left his mouth.
“Are we certain that she wasn’t killed as well?”
“No sign of her body amongst the dead,” Francesco said.
“And there were no survivors?” He held his breath with the last question, almost certain that there weren’t but wanting to be certain.
“None,” the Vatican representative said. “Whoever was responsible was quite efficient.”
“Do we have any idea at all who might be responsible?”
“None whatsoever,” Francesco answered. “Her identity and abilities have been kept a secret since you recovered her eighteen years ago.”
“We need to get her back.”
“Exactly.”
“This will become the Coalition’s top priority,” Elijah told him. “We shall leave no stone unturned in our search.”
“Thank God,” Francesco said. “I told the Holy Father this morning that you were our best chance of bringing the girl home.”
The girl, Elijah thought. They don’t even call her by name. To them she is just a tool, a way to keep ahead of the forces of darkness descending upon a turbulent world.
Emma Rose deserved better.
“Thank you for your faith,” Elijah said. “And please inform His Eminence that we will be doing everything within our power to bring the child home.”
“Thank you, Elijah,” Francesco said. “May God bless you and your group.”
“I’ll be in touch,” Elijah told him, hanging up on the call.
He sat there silently, phone in hand, thinking about what he had done, reminding himself that it was all for the good of the world.
For the eternal souls and lives of humanity.
• • •
Elijah wanted to see Emma Rose, but there was another visit he needed to attend to first.
He left his office with a purpose, walking past Coalition personnel without uttering a sound. It wasn’t uncommon for him to go about his business silently, it painted a certain mystique about him that served his reputation well.
It kept people cautious, on their toes. He liked that.
The elevator was only accessible to a chosen few, most of them being some of the first people chosen as agents of the Coalition.
Those who could be trusted with their most amazing secrets.
Elijah slipped the key into the lock alongside the elevator and watched as the doors slid wide. He stepped inside, waited for the doors to close, and took deep breaths as he began his descent.
He always needed to put himself in a special frame of mind when preparing to speak with the Messenger.
The elevator descended for what seemed like hours, finally reaching the final stop—the only stop—that the elevator made from the above level.
Perkins met him at the doors.
“Good morning, Perkins,” Elijah said, stepping from the elevator cab.
“Good morning, sir,” Perkins said.
He noticed the dark circles beneath the man’s eyes and figured that he was likely at the end of his shift.
Those who were assigned this task, those who watched the Messenger, were on twelve-hour shifts; anything longer seemed to have—effects.
“And how is he today?” Elijah asked, looking toward the metal door set deeply into a wall of solid stone.
“He’s been quiet,” Perkins said.
Those who were assigned this task were supposed to keep a log of their every interaction with their guest, as electronic monitoring devices failed
to function around him.
Perkins went to the log, flipping through the pages. “He’s been sleeping . . .”
“He doesn’t sleep,” Elijah corrected.
“Of course,” Perkins said. “He’s been in a fugue state for all of my shift, and in looking back, the past three shifts as well.”
Perkins went back through the book a bit farther.
“The last time he spoke was when he asked to see you,” the man said, eyeing his superior.
Elijah was not exempt from filing reports in regard to the Messenger. He was supposed to have written a detailed report of what they had discussed but had failed to do so.
Perkins knew this, and Elijah wondered how far the man would go. Would he question his authority?
“Would you like me to go in with you, sir?” he asked, picking up the pen and notebook.
“That’s quite all right,” Elijah said to him. “I’ll be fine.”
Perkins watched him for a moment, nodded, and set the notebook and pen down.
“Very good, sir,” he said.
“Why don’t you go above for a bit,” Elijah suggested. “Grab some coffee . . . breakfast.”
“But my break isn’t for . . .”
“I insist,” Elijah told him. “Go on. I’ll be fine.” The old man smiled that grandfatherly smile, projecting a warmth, despite his disfigurement, that wasn’t often seen from him.
Perkins smiled, taking his key from his pocket and going to the elevator.
“I won’t be long,” he said. “Coffee and maybe a sweet roll,” he said.
“Make that two sweet rolls,” Elijah said, and chuckled.
“Maybe I will,” Perkins said. “I’m starving this morning.”
The doors to the elevator opened, and Perkins stepped inside. Elijah gave him a wave as the doors closed.
It wasn’t necessary that the man be gone, but he knew that he’d feel better—safer—knowing that there wasn’t anyone else around who might hear, and misconstrue what was being discussed.
Elijah found another key upon his ring and brought it to the metal door. He slid the key into the lock, making as much noise as he could, to allow the Messenger to know that he was about to be visited.
Opening the door, he was greeted with a familiar sight.
The Messenger sat cross-legged in the center of a mystical circle derived from the writings of King Solomon. He looked as he had the day he was brought to the facility, the secret room below the Coalition headquarters adapted to hold him.
The Messenger was pale, his thin white skin almost translucent, stretched taut over a skeletal musculature. The burns that had covered his body appeared to be healing but were still quite noticeable, red and seeping, evidence of what he had gone through in order to get to this plane of existence.
To Earth.
The remains of his wings still protruded from his back, thick nubs that moved languidly as the Messenger sat, almost as if he might have been thinking of flying.
Remembering how it had been before . . .
The Messenger did not talk directly of what happened, only that what had harmed him in this way would soon be turning its attention to Earth.
Elijah closed the door softly behind him, watching for signs that the creature knew that he was no longer alone. Elijah was about to clear his throat when . . .
“Elijah,” the Messenger said, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Yes, it’s me,” Elijah said, stepping closer to the mystical circle that allowed the angelic creature his corporeal form. It was Solomon who taught them that the angelic, as well as the demonic, could not exist on the human world in their natural forms, that they needed to first inhabit the bodies of a native of the earthly plane.
It was incredibly rare for one such as him to exist and to be seen in this form. Without the protection of the circle, his form would discorporate completely, and he would exist no more. They had barely gotten him back to Coalition headquarters and into the circle.
“I was going to ask if you’ve proceeded with the business at hand,” the Messenger said, slowly turning his body around to face where Elijah stood. “But I can smell her on you.”
The Messenger tilted his head, his nostrils twitching.
“And violence,” the angelic being said. “You have the stink of bloodshed around you as well.”
Elijah cleared his throat. “I did what was necessary to acquire the girl,” he said.
The Messenger nodded in agreement. “As you should have,” he said. “Our time is likely short . . . the situation graver with the passing of every minute.”
“But hopefully now . . .”
“Hopefully now, with her assistance, we will be able to find it,” the Messenger said.
“The Vessel,” Elijah said. “We need to find it . . .”
“Before the infernal do,” the Messenger proclaimed with urgency. “But first a key, before the Dark Exodus is begun.”
• • •
The wail of the fire alarms made her wince as she stood in the doorway.
Theo felt no better then she had before lying down, and the piercing alarms were just adding to her discomfort. Her body was sore, bruised and lacerated, as she left the bedroom, even more injuries having manifested as a result of her struggles against the demonic hordes that called her body home.
She had been right, though, her demons had been protecting the newbies for a specific reason.
Theo’s body ached, remembering the climb up the side of the mountain where they were all waiting for her.
How dare she, they all proclaimed, all attacking her as one, attempting to force her back over the side, to plummet to the desert floor below.
But she wasn’t going anywhere, using their bodies as a kind of ladder, crawling up over their dangling forms as they reached for her, to get to the top. The attacks were frantic, desperate, there was something about these new editions . . . these newbies . . . that her demons wanted to keep for themselves.
She was determined to find out what that something was no matter what.
And she had, despite the attempts of the ravening demonic horde.
“John?” she called out over the fire alarm’s wail. She smelled the acrid stink of something that had burned, and it reminded her of popcorn. Her husband’s study door was partially closed, and she approached it with trepidation and concern as she placed her hand upon it and gave it a push.
“John, what’s the burning smell?” she yelled over the annoying sound as she pushed the door wide, and she saw the shape of the room.
“Dear God,” she said, eyes first going to the shattered window, then to scorched floor, walls, and ceiling.
John was using a broom to sweep the burned remains of what looked to be hundreds of bugs into an enormous pile. Griffin was standing on an office chair while Cassie looked on.
The alarm suddenly ceased.
“Got ya, ya bastard,” Griffin growled. He looked over and saw her there, as did his daughter.
“Theo!” Cassie exclaimed, running to the woman to throw her arms around her waist. Theo winced in pain, the physical contact making her damaged body throb.
John looked up from his sweeping, smiling sheepishly. “Hey,” he said.
“What the hell?” was all that she managed to get out.
“Took the words right out of my mouth!” Stephen said from the hallway behind her. Their personal secretary came into the room with a dustpan and plastic trash bag.
“It seems that somebody didn’t like me poking around in the guts of one of their demonic minions,” John said, sweeping a pile of dead insects toward the dustpan laid upon the floor.
“Fritz?” she asked.
He nodded. “Very likely.”
“Did you get anything?”
John made a face, and that was when she
heard the sniffling, and noticed that Cassie—who was still holding on to her waist—was softly crying.
“What is it, sweetheart?” Theo asked.
“I burned it up,” she said, crying all the harder.
“What did you burn up, hon?”
Griffin jumped down from the chair.
“It’s all right, Cass,” he said to her consolingly. “It couldn’t be helped, right, John?”
John jumped in. “Right, Cassie. You did what you had to do . . . what I wanted you to do. There was no way you could’ve avoided it.”
“Something got burned up?” Theo asked.
“The demon I was dissecting,” John explained. “I’d established a link when . . .” He looked around the room. “This is what followed. Don’t think Fritz appreciated my poking around.”
“So Cassie helped you then,” Theo said.
“She did,” John answered. “It’s just that the demon that I’d established the link with got burned up when Cassie turned up the heat on the attacking bugs.”
“Hey, you did good,” Theo told her, bending down to her level. She groaned as she did, the injuries on her body protesting.
John noticed, which she hoped he wouldn’t.
“Theo, are you all right?” he asked her.
She gave the child a peck on the head and made eye contact with her husband.
“A little sore,” she said.
“I would have thought you’d have healed by now,” he observed.
“Those injuries, yes,” she told him. “These injuries are new.”
“And you got them taking a nap?”
She shook her head no very slowly.
“I had to go in,” she told him. “I had to question the demons that . . .”
“The newbies,” John said, and there was anger in his tone.
“The newbies,” she repeated with a nod. “I know why my demons were protecting them.”
Theo remembered. The savagery of her attack, and the demons’ response in kind. The light thrown from her body was like a physical thing—a blade so sharp that it sliced their flesh, disemboweling and decapitating as she fought her way across the top of the cliff to the mouth of a cave, where Billy Sharp had been standing.
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