The Blood Is the Life

by Sharon K Gilbert

  Beth’s ribs ached, and her nose and throat felt raw from the chloroform. “Where am I?”

  “Here, there, and everywhere. Actually, it’s an old and familiar place to you. Historical in some respects. It struck me a few months ago that this would be the perfect place to begin the next phase of the rituals. The place that brought you such joy will now cause you much pain.”

  The room was freezing cold, for the fireplace hadn’t been lit since Mary Wilsham’s departure. Elizabeth kicked as Trent’s approach, but he proved too strong. “You are a heartless fiend! I hate you!”

  “Yes, I know you do. And as much as I would love to have first turn at your beautiful body, my dear, another claims that privilege. I’ve brought you a groom, Elizabeth. Every bride needs a groom. Shall I introduce you?”

  A second shadow flickered into the cold room, and its form resolved into that of Rasha Grigor. “I always said you’d be my wife,” he whispered huskily. “And now you will be. My eternal bride and mother to all my children.”

  “No!” she shouted, pressing against the wall. “Leave me alone!”

  “Eventually, I will, but first I intend to take what is mine.”

  Grigor removed his jacket and waistcoat, and Elizabeth began to scream.

  “How much farther?” Paul asked as they passed Bishopsgate Station.

  “Five minutes, perhaps. My old home is several blocks to the north from here. Wait! What is that?” Sinclair shouted.

  The carriage had stopped abruptly, and now began to sway back and forth upon its springs. Both men could hear the horses neighing as if panicked, and in another second they understood why. A team of hybrids had attacked, their unnatural claws raking through the horses’ flesh and eyes. Screams split the night air as a pair of wolfmen mounted the driver’s seat and were now tearing the poor man apart.

  Paul and Charles began firing into the melee, hitting purchase every time, but each creature required many bullets to take down.

  “Charles, look out!” Aubrey shouted as a gigantic hybrid leapt towards the window. Another pulled at the earl’s door, and both men soon exhausted their supply of ammunition, but mercifully the wave of hybrids had finally halted, apparently beaten.

  The two cousins stepped out of the coach onto a cobbled street streaked in blood, and flesh, and gore. Locals were screaming and shouting for police, and Charles could hear a chorus of constables’ whistles summoning comrades to their cause.

  Behind them, the other coaches halted, and the duke and the rest of the circle rushed to the overturned brougham. “Are you all right?” he asked his nephews, his face flushed.

  “Yes, for the moment,” Sinclair called in return. “We’re out of ammunition, though.”

  “Take these,” Drummond told them, handing each a new weapon and plenty of cartridges—and just in time, for a second wave of hybrids had emerged from the south side of the train tracks. The three Stuart men began firing as teeth, claws, and fire-red eyes descended upon them.

  “You may take my body, but that is all. I loathe you both!”

  Rasha Grigor unbuttoned his shirt, smiling as he tormented the duchess. “I’m sure you do, but it makes no difference.”

  Trent watched, his lips twisted into a sneering smile. “Such a pity.”

  Grigor nodded, reaching for the pearl buttons on Beth’s gown. “That our comrades aren’t here to see this, or that she’s so very pitiable? Which?”

  “I meant you, Rasha. I pity you.”

  The hybrid prince turned to stare at the baronet. “Why would you pity me? I have all I’ve ever wanted.”

  “Yes, but your father is displeased with you, Rasha. Aren’t you, my lord?”

  A shadow moved in the next room, blotting out the faint moonlight. “I warned you, Razarit. Your impetuous actions reveal too many flaws in your character. I fear that your time is up.”

  Beth said nothing, praying inwardly that all this was but a nightmare.

  “I may hate my brother,” the Shadow continued, “but he is right about you. You are a failed experiment. I considered allowing Samael remove you, but as you are my creation, that duty falls to me.”

  “But Father!” the wayward prince cried out. “Why?”

  A bright flash illuminated the upper storey. Rasha Grigor’s body jerked with a thousand spasms, his skin cracking and splintering—the flesh burning. His final, plaintive words echoed within the now empty space. Razarit Grigor had disappeared, leaving nothing but glittering dust and sparks.

  Trent clapped his hands together, as if wiping the residual particles of the now-dead Romanian from his palms. “Well done, Lord Raziel! Rasha had become overly proud and irritating, if you must know. And with him gone, you’ll require another human to take his position within the round table.”

  Grigor’s head tilted to one side. “You imagine that replacement should be you, I presume?” he asked. “Why? What actions qualify you for such an honour, Trent?”

  Sir William answered proudly. “I’ve served as a vanguard, my lord. Hoping for your release—all these many years. I’ve prepared this girl for your use!”

  “And I hate you for it!” Beth shouted. “I hate you both!”

  The baronet grinned. “Yes, your mother hated me as well, did you know that? Oh, Patricia never loved me, not for a moment,” he bragged. “Not even during our mad affair. Oh, perhaps you were unaware of that.”

  She stared at him, her mind processing this tease of information. Is he trying to keep me off balance? Is this a trick? “What do you mean?”

  He laughed as he bent down, deciding to continue what Rasha had begun. “Surely, even as a child, you noticed your parents had grown apart. Not that your mother ever really cared for Connor Stuart. Not really. I met her in Paris. Long before your father’s death.”

  Raziel stepped towards them. “I’ve never heard this tale. Do continue.”

  “And then I may take her?” Trent asked.

  “Prove your worth, and I shall consider it.”

  William sat upon the floor as he continued the confession, his breath clouding the air of the unheated bedroom. “It took me a very long time to plan it all out. Trish was such a willing dupe. Luring her into bed was far too easy.”

  “You lie!” Elizabeth shouted.

  “Do I? Yes, I suppose I do, but not about this. There is no need. Patricia and I began a torrid affair six years before the beast took your father’s life.”

  “You are the beast!” she shouted, kicking her feet as he grasped her legs.

  “Am I? Perhaps, but not as you imagine it, my dear. Another had the privilege of devouring Lord Kesson’s flesh. I was not even there that night, though it benefited me. I was entertaining your mother in my bed whilst your father breathed his last upon Drummond’s heath. Isn’t that true, Lord Raziel?”

  She’d gone quiet, her mind shutting down, and she tried to summon up her husband’s image in hopes it might calm her. Captain, where are you?

  Trent leered at her, lifting the hem of the gown and running a hand along her right calf. “There. That’s the spot,” he said, touching the long scar that ran along the back of her leg. “That’s where the wolf bit you, isn’t it? Did your flesh taste warm, I wonder? Was your blood sweet? You would know, wouldn’t you, Lord Raziel?” he said, looking at the shadow. “Did you intentionally mangle her leg, or was your animal nature too strong that night?”

  The other offered no reply, so Trent continued. “How your mother began to loathe me after a time,” he told Elizabeth. “She never truly loved me, of course. Not of her own free will. I’d hypnotized her, and I tried to do the same to you, but your mind would never yield to mine for some reason. However, controlling your mother allowed me to control you, for when under my spell she would do whatever I commanded. Well, except for one thing. I demanded she give you to me, and she refused. Patricia simply would not see
it my way. Such a shame. She had her charms, but not enough to keep her alive. It’s been a very long game, this one, but so worth it. And no one will come to your rescue. If, however, that wretched detective does make it past my creatures, then he will die. And you, my dear, will get to watch me tear him apart.”

  “Charles will be here, and so will Paul!” she shouted.

  This last surprised Trent, and he froze, his face less certain, and he glanced at Raziel for assurance. “Is she right?”

  The Shadow said nothing.

  “No, I don’t think so,” Trent whispered, almost to himself. “The meddlesome earl is lying in the seductive arms of my friend, Lorena MacKey, this night. Your faithful Scottish guardian has deserted you for another, Elizabeth. You are all alone in this world.”

  “He is coming!” she shouted as bile stung the back of her throat. “He’d not left, William. Paul was still at Queen Anne when you took me!”

  Trent began to laugh. “Then that interfering Scotsman has died on the streets of Whitechapel, alongside your husband!”

  In the distance, Elizabeth could hear wolves howling, and shouts; hundreds of gunshots echoing in the nearby streets. “Spare them, William, and I’ll go with you! I’ll do whatever you say! Please, Prince Raziel—I’ll not fight you. I beg you to spare them! Please, call off your pack!”

  “You would bargain for their lives?” Trent sneered. “What a pretty mouth to speak such lies. You would save your knights, but you’d never give yourself to us willingly, not whilst your husband lives. No, that will not do. Charles must die, Elizabeth. He must. Now, to our pleasures,” he said.

  Trent’s large hands ripped at the dress, popping the pearl buttons and satin thread. It came apart, and he tugged it free of her body, tossing the gown into the cold fireplace.

  “All mine,” he said, Trent’s eyes turning yellow like a wolf’s; the sharp teeth clicking as hot breath fell upon her face.

  Reid had emptied his shotgun and revolver, but the duke continued firing. Every man’s pistol smoked, and now all of Leman Street had arrived—brave men in blue, most armed only with billy clubs, smashing at the wolfmen, breaking teeth, skulls, and legs.

  “Get to the house!” the duke shouted to his nephews. “We’ll manage here!”

  Charles needed no more encouragement. Tapping Paul on the arm, the two cousins ran northward into the darkness, praying they’d reach Columbia Street in time.

  Elizabeth kicked her feet as hard as she could, doing all within her strength to fight Trent’s powerful weight. His hands had moved to her underskirt, and she screamed.

  Raziel’s image then did a very strange thing. It began to shimmer, altering form, as though he could no longer maintain his human guise. All ambient light instantly snuffed out, and the room went completely black.

  Trent paused. “What are you doing, my lord prince? Raziel?”

  Slowly, a faint light pierced the pitch darkness, and a pair of red pinpoints appeared, floating within something large, dense, and blacker than any night.

  “You think me Raziel?” a familiar voice whispered. “Who is the fool now, Trent?”

  “Samael!” the baronet shouted in terror. “But how?”

  “Do you imagine that I do not keep watch on your round table, Sir William? That the deeds of my brethren go unnoticed? You thought me weak, only because it is what I wanted you to think. I told you that if you ever touched her again, I would kill you. Do you think me so limited in my vision that I did not foresee this? You thought to make devious plans with my brother? Never, little human. Never!”

  Romanov’s voice boomed like thunder, and Elizabeth trembled, pushing against the cold wall, trying to put as much distance betwixt herself and the horrifying apparition as she could manage.

  “Let me go!” Trent’s voice cried out, blustering. “Raziel will hear of your treachery! He will tell Lucifer!”

  The angel’s grip tightened on William Trent’s throat, long fingers of smoke and fire squeezing muscle and sinews. “Raziel is not my master, and neither is Lucifer! Now, as your kind is so fond of saying, Sir William: Go to Hell!”

  The fiery elohim shook the human as if he were nothing but a dry leaf caught in a maelstrom, dashing the bloodied body about the room—crashing it into corners, closet doors, and walls—breaking every bone. Then he threw the splintered remains out the bedroom window. Trent’s mortality smashed through the thick mullions and panes of glass, and then crashed into the small courtyard below.

  Gently, Samael bent beside the cowering duchess. “Elizabeth, my sweet one, forgive me for not interceding before—for allowing him to hurt you. But he will hurt you no longer. Not ever again. Here, let me take you from this place.”

  Beth felt herself lifted, carried, and cold wind chilled her entire body as they passed through the ceiling, into the night air. As they sailed aloft, snowflakes began to fall, quickly accumulating upon the grass and cobbles below.

  “Snow,” she whispered, tears filling her eyes.

  “Yes, my dear friend. Snow.”

  Beth clutched at his long arms. “Charles?” she asked him as he landed upon the roof of a nearby building. “Where is he?”

  “Are you all right? Are you undamaged?”

  Elizabeth looked into the eyes, no longer composed of fire and smoke, but now icy blue.

  “Anatole?” she asked, her mind shutting down from shock.

  “Fear not, my beautiful friend. I shall take you to a place where you may rest and recover.” He waved his hands, and a woolen cloak appeared out of nothing. He wrapped it around her, pulling her close to further warm her. “I cannot remain, Elizabeth. Close your eyes now. You will be warm soon.”

  Below, the falling snow had already blanketed the ground in white, and Beth obediently closed her eyes.

  Without warning, the real Raziel Grigor materialised upon the roofline of Sinclair’s old house. Two gargoyles emerged alongside their master, clenching their sharp teeth angrily. The elohim’s face contorted with anger. “Deceiver!” he shouted. “I shall see you dead for this, Samael!”

  Anatole didn’t dare put her down, for fear that Raziel’s powerful minions might try to take her. Instead, he ascended into the air, calling out a single word: “Flames!”

  The home ignited into a raging fire, and Raziel and his followers screamed as the rapidly spreading blaze forced them to retreat.

  Anatole Romanov flew high into the night sky, the high-born prince, known in ancient times as Samael, poison of God, angel of death, primordial elohim, one of the Seven. He gently carried the duchess to a secret place, far from the reach of his fallen brethren.

  Charles and Paul turned the corner and found the house completely engulfed in flames.

  “No!” Sinclair cried out as he reached the courtyard.

  Trent’s torn and bloodied body, the eyes open and empty, lay several yards from the door, and Sinclair looked up to see the smashed window to his bedroom.

  “Beth’s up there!” he cried, rushing at the door, but the entire house was ablaze, and the intense heat threw him back against the earl. “I have to try!” Charles shouted above the roar of the inferno, rushing again towards the door.

  He kicked it in, but a massive explosion threw him backward several feet, and his head struck a metal hitching post. He lay there motionless, and a deep wound at the back of his head slowly beginning to bleed, the thin stream of red staining the white snow.

  Bells clanged as the local fire brigade arrived along with dozens of policemen. The duke and Kepelheim ran to Charles.

  “Is she out?” the duke shouted, finding the earl kneeling beside his cousin.

  “We cannot get up there,” Paul said, tears streaming down his face. “Trent is dead. We have no idea about Beth, but…”

  Another explosion hurled glass and shattered wood into the street, and the firemen pulled everyone back
.

  Though they saw her not, the explosion caused Beth to open her eyes, and she helplessly watched from the angel’s arms.

  “Snow,” she said as he carried her higher. “Red snow.”

  To be continued in Book 4:

  Planned Release Date: April, 2018

  About the Author

  Science, writing, opera, and geopolitics are just a few of the many ‘hats’ worn by Sharon K. Gilbert. She has been married to SkyWatchTV host and fellow writer Derek P. Gilbert for nearly twenty years, and during that time, helped to raise a brilliant and beautiful stepdaughter, Nicole Gilbert.

  The Gilberts have shared their talents and insights for over a decade with the pioneering Christian podcasts, PID Radio, Gilbert House Fellowship, and View from the Bunker. In addition to co-hosting SkyWatchTV’s flagship interview program and SciFriday each week, Sharon also hosts SkyWatch Women and SkyWatch Women One-on-One. She and Derek speak several times each year at conferences, where they love to discuss news and prophecy with viewers, listeners, and readers.

  Sharon’s been following and studying Bible prophecy for over fifty years, and she often says that she’s only scratched the surface. When not immersed in study, a writing project, or scouring the Internet for the latest science news, you can usually find her relaxing in the garden with their faithful hound, Sam T. Dachshund.

  Learn more about Sharon and The Redwing Saga at her websites:

  www.sharonkgilbert.com and www.theredwingsaga.com

  Other Books by Sharon K. Gilbert

  Ebola and the Fourth Horseman of the Apocalypse (non-fiction)

  Blood Lies: Book One of The Redwing Saga (fiction)

  Blood Rites: Book Two of The Redwing Saga (fiction)

  Winds of Evil (fiction)

  Signs and Wonders (fiction)

  The Armageddon Strain (fiction)

  Contributing Author: