Rise of the Giants: The Guild of Deacons, Book 1

by James MacGhil

  Shaking her head and subtly laughing as we traversed the dimly lit compound, she said, “The Armory Pub, huh? That is so you.”

  “Not sure if I should be flattered or offended,” I muttered with a smirk. “Tell you what, you ever get tired of playing doctor — we may even have an opening for a bartender. Pay sucks but you’d have some high quality clientele. And you wouldn’t even have to shower regularly. I mean this is a real win-win proposition here.”

  “Yeah, that sounds really great. I didn’t realize such a visionary entrepreneur lurked beneath that battle hardened solider facade,” she replied dripping of sarcasm.

  “You laugh now but watch — before you know it, armory pubs will be popping up in third world countries all over the globe. Don’t say I never gave you an opportunity to get in on the ground floor. This could be big, Doc.”

  “Well, I guess it couldn’t be any worse than tending bar at the Irish Rose,” she said with a hint of pride.

  “Whoa, The bar in Boston — Irish Rose? You worked there?”

  “Yep. How the hell do you think I paid for medical school?”

  “Damn,” I muttered adding yet another reason why my Erin infatuation was well founded. “That’s impressive.”

  With her demeanor slipping toward something like a veiled remorse, she said, “In retrospect — probably should have just stayed with bartending.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked unsure whether or not she was joking. “Not sure slinging Guinness at drunk Bostonians is quite as noble as being a heart surgeon.”

  Looking me straight in the eye she softly said, “Maybe not. But it’s easier on the soul. That much I’m sure of.” Snapping back to her jovial self, she added, “Who knows? Maybe they’ll take me back when I finish up over here. New beginnings, right?”

  “New beginnings,” I solemnly echoed as I watched her disappear into the tent, “I’ll drink to that.”

  Chapter 27

  The sound of screeching brakes followed by a rapid succession of horn blasts snapped me from my moment of melancholy reflection and back into my peculiar reality. Wondering what happened to Rooster, and thoroughly confused as to why there was a taxi in the miniature shadow realm tethered to Skip’s apartment, I turned my gaze to the irate cab driver enthusiastically waving his hands while shouting various obscenities at me in a foreign language. Backing out of the street and onto the nearby sidewalk, I watched my new friend stomp on the gas pedal and speed off down the side street like a middle eastern Vin Diesel.

  As a stiff gust of wintry air howled through the towering buildings surrounding me, I pulled the collar of my peacoat around my neck and started moving toward the nearby intersection which was dimly lit by a series of frost covered street lamps. Reaching it within a few hurried steps, I looked up at the sign and muttered, “State Street. Son of a bitch.”

  As my brain registered where I was, I slowly turned to my right to find a familiar Boston landmark on the nearby corner.

  Blankly staring at the contrast of glossy red doors, signature green exterior, and pointed arched windows decorated with more whiskey signs than should be legal, I said, “New beginnings.”

  And boldly crossed the street to see a bartender that I used to know.

  Taking at seat at the rather empty bar, with absolutely nobody paying me any attention, I couldn’t help but think that the Irish Rose in all its old-world charm and lustrous dark wood didn’t hold a frigg’n candle to the Quartermaster. I bet they didn’t even serve RoosterBragh. Damn that ginger bastard for turning me into a bar snob. Glancing at the clock hanging next to the rather impressive collection of liquor stacked on the wall behind a manly row of taps, I noted it was almost midnight.

  “It’s always dead on Tuesday nights, bro,” said a rather large dude wearing a gray hoodie as he took a seat on the stool next to me. “They said I’d find you here. Rooster was kind of freaked out when you up and ported from Skip’s place like that. How’d you do that, by the way?”

  Pulling the hood back to reveal a rather handsome, rugged looking gent with some seriously gelled hair and impressive mutton chops, I did a triple take before saying, “Mick?”

  “Yeah, bro.”

  “You — you shaved. You getting married or something?”

  Chuckling, he replied, “No way, hommie. This is just my ‘Caveman about town’ look. Don’t really dig it to be honest. Feel naked.” Running a comb down his sideburns, he said, “Although the chops are epic.”

  Not really sure what to say to all that, I asked, “What are you doing here?”

  “I’d ask you the same question,” he replied giving me a somewhat concerned look. “Not sure you’re going to like what you find here, bro.”

  Before I had a chance to respond, the sound of a familiar voice just about made my damn heart stop.

  “Hey, Mick. You want the usual?”

  Turning in disbelief to see none other than Doc Kelly standing behind the bar in a tight green tee-shirt bearing a big white shamrock and jeans that hugged her petite frame flawlessly, I felt all the air instantly leave my lungs and a blast of adrenaline race uncontrollably through my entire body. Amazingly, she didn’t look a day older than when I last saw her fourteen years earlier.

  “You know it. Thanks, Erin,” Caveman happily replied. Turning her attention from Mick and looking me square in the eye, she just stared for a long second or two. Wishing like hell she could see me but knowing damn well she couldn’t, I sat perfectly still lost in her brown eyes until something very unexpected happened. She said, “And how about you?”

  “Ah, me?”

  “You,” she said smirking. “Tall, dark, and brooding. You want a drink or just plan on staring at me all night like a creep?”

  “Oh, sorry. I’ll have whatever he’s having.”

  Giving me a casual nod, she turned and strolled to the far end of the lengthy bar to pour a couple beers. Turning to Caveman, in a state of astonishment, I blankly said, “She can see me. Why can she see me?”

  “She was touched by an angel,” he replied leaning on the bar looking rather pensive. “It leaves a mark, bro. Same reason she hasn’t aged since the last time you’ve seen her.”

  “You’re talking about when Azazel put the mind whammy on her.”

  “Yeah, man. Fourteen years ago.”

  With my mind swimming with questions, I gave him a stern glare and said, “So explain to me how she knows what your ‘usual’ is.”

  “Whoa, easy there, big guy. It’s not like that,” he said grinning. “Ever since that throw down in Bosnia, the Guild has kept a close eye on the Doc. I’m here most nights during her shift. Truth be told, she never goes anywhere without one of our folks in close proximity.” Pointing to the very far end of the bar, he said, “See that dude down there?”

  Casually turning my head, I spotted an burly guy in his mid-fifties with dark shoulder length hair and well groomed mustache softly playing piano in the corner. Sporting a leather biker jacket and designer sunglasses, he very casually scanned the crowd while doing one hell of a nice rendition of an eighties song I couldn’t quite place. Somewhat perplexed by the peculiar faux beret looking thing on his head, I said, “Yeah, what’s his deal?”

  “That’s Grayson,” he replied. “He’s Erin’s shadow tonight.”

  “Is he wearing a beret?”

  “Yeah, bro. Legit, right?”

  “So, Erin’s under surveillance,” I grumbled without further commentary. “Why?”

  “More like she’s under protection. Our protection.”

  “Why the hell does she need protection?”

  “We figured it was only a matter of time before the Maradim tried to snatch her up after Bosnia. Doctors are primo targets. And she’s had success.”

  Thinking back to the church where Erin was forced to deliver the junior giants, I said, “With the anakim births.”

  “Yup. We’re guessing they’ve left her alone all this time because she kind of dropped off the grid for a while aft
er you exited stage left. Although that list you found seems to suggest she’s back on the radar.”

  Walking back and sliding two pint glasses of Black and Tans in front of us, Erin said, “You guys want anything to eat? Kitchen’s open for another half hour.”

  “No, thanks,” Caveman replied. “I’m just swinging through.”

  “Ok, See you tomorrow then?”

  “You know it,” he said raising his glass. “Best Black and Tan in town.”

  “Damn straight,” she agreed. “I hope you bring Duncan by. I need my beagle fix.” Shooting me a curious glance, she walked off and disappeared into the kitchen area adjacent the bar.

  “Beagle?” I said giving Caveman a confused look.

  “Yeah, bro. Lil’ D’s a creature of many disguises. The ladies love the beagle,” he said shotgunning his beer in about two seconds flat. “I gotta bounce. Got rounds to make. Big A wanted me to tell you to get your bahooky back to the Quartermaster pronto. Wouldn’t keep him waiting too much longer. Uncle Skip’s been spilling his guts since you guys stuck him in Ward Nine.”

  “Think I’ll hang here for another few minutes,” I said as my gaze noticeably drifted toward the kitchen door. “Got some catching up to do.”

  “Careful, broseph. You’re treading in dangerous water. Erin’s had a rough few years trying to cope with what happened in that church. She’s been upside down, man. A woman apart. After a couple months of some serious depression, she walked away from her life and been working right here ever since. Nothing good can come from you hanging around.” Throwing a few bucks on the bar for a tip, he asked, “How’d you know she’d be here anyway?”

  “Hunch,” I muttered still trying to process what he’d said.

  “Well, you’re not going to like this, but — Deacons are not part of the world of the living, bro. Erin’s human. And you’re — not so much. All you can do for her at this point is cause more damage. Especially if she realizes that you’re — You.”

  Although I knew he was probably right, it pissed me off to hear it, just the same. Giving him an unfriendly glare, I reluctantly nodded and said nothing. Taking the hint that it was one hell of a sensitive topic, he gave me a rather heavy handed yet encouraging slap on the back and gracefully left. Staring at my untouched pint, I just sat there stewing. This was not a scenario that I was remotely prepared for. Thinking Big A and the rest of the Guild could collectively kiss my ass for the next few hours, I took off my coat to reveal the black RoosterBragh tee-shirt I was still wearing and made myself comfortable. It was time to get drunk. Really frigg’n drunk. Epically drunk. Not sure how much alcohol was required to get an undead, semi-divine super solider liquor’d up, but I was hell bent to find out. Slamming my glass of beer like it was a shot, I slid the empty pint across the bar.

  “You drinking to remember — or forget?” Erin asked appearing unnoticed from the kitchen area.

  “Ah, not sure yet,” I awkwardly said somewhat taken aback. “Maybe another drink will help me work it out.”

  “Spoken like a true drunkard,” she said while grabbing the glass and smiling at me. “Another Black and Tan?”

  “Please. And a double shot of Jager. Actually, just bring the bottle if you’d be so kind.”

  “Man on a mission,” she said as she turned and pulled a bottle of Jäegermeister from the liquor collection lining the wall to the rear of the bar. “That bad, huh?” Putting a shot glass in front of me, she proceeded to pour a healthy dose. “So what are you drinking to?”

  Raising the glass, I looked her squarely in the eye and said, “To old friends — and new beginnings.”

  Downing the burning liquid, I placed the glass on the bar as she gave me an intrigued glance and poured another one. As I reached out to grab it, I noticed her eyes drift to the sizable scar running down the length of my right arm. Although it had long since healed, it was still more than noticeable. Fixated on it, she began to say something and abruptly stopped.

  As her pensive gaze shifted to my face, she studied me for a long second and softly said, “Chicks dig scars.”

  Longingly meeting her gaze, I was about to say something very witty, when the moment was broken by the manifestation of a floating, translucent screen to my immediate left. As an image of my otherworldly ginger colleague appeared, my pocket started to violently vibrate.

  “Hey, buddy. Firstly, nobody beside you can see or hear me. Secondly, that vibrating sensation in your pocket is your phone. Take it out and answer it so it doesn’t look like you’re talking to yourself.”

  Thinking that his timing seriously sucked, I dug around in my pocket and pulled out the small plastic device he’d given me earlier in the day. Flipping it open, I asked Erin to please excuse me for a moment and grumbled, “This had better be important.”

  “You need to get back here,” Rooster quickly said. “We figured out the link between the coins and the anakim raiding parties. The Alpha’s called for a Gathering. First time — ever. This is big. We’re going on the offensive.”

  “Understood,” I muttered as the intensity of Rooster’s words snapped me back into a somewhat rational mindset. Although I wanted nothing more than to stay here with Erin and fill in the blanks of the last fourteen years, I knew it was futile. The situation had changed.

  I had changed.

  As the screen began to dissipate, Rooster said, “Don’t worry about Erin, man. She’s well protected. Oh, and there’s some cash in the pocket of your coat. Leave a tip. Hurry Up.”

  Snapping the phone shut and begrudgingly stuffing it in my jeans, I grabbed my peacoat and found a wad of hundred dollar bills in the pocket that I’m pretty sure wasn’t there earlier.

  “I, ah, gotta go. Thanks for the drink,” I reluctantly said to Erin as I dropped the entire stack of money on the bar.

  Still staring at me with a somewhat blank look, she said, “This may sound really strange, but — do I know you?”

  Feeling like my heart was being pulled from my throat with a pair of pliers, I took a deep breath and lowered my head. Burying all the things I wanted to say to her in a dark place in the back of my mind, I looked into those big brown eyes and muttered, “I never did find out if chicks dig scars. I’ll be seeing you, Doc.”

  Turning to give Grayson a nod, I abruptly left the Irish Rose with a lump in my throat and a scowl that would stop an anakim dead in its tracks.

  Chapter 28

  Raven Spire was just as creepy as the last time I’d been there. Fortunately tho ugh, in lieu of having to make the repeat trip up the frozen trail of tears to Stephen’s bolt hole atop the First Realm, all I had to do was step through a nifty portal Rooster opened from the Quartermaster. Sometimes it was the little things in afterlife that put a smile on my face.

  What can I say? I am but a humble dirt soldier.

  “Everyone’s assembled,” Rooster said as we entered the dark rotunda lit only by the roaring hearth blazing in the center. “We need to take our post with Abernethy. This way.”

  “Who are all these folks?” I asked with a whispered voice following him around the perimeter of the medieval-like room.

  “I’ll explain later,” he replied with a hushed tone. “We’re late.”

  Surrounding the pit-like hearth in a semicircle were seven distinct groupings of humble stone seats occupied by what appeared to be Deacons in the first row and what I presumed to be clerics in the second. Regardless of who they were, everyone was sitting like solemn statues with their heads bowed in perfect silence. And if we were the last to arrive as Rooster alluded, several seats were ominously vacant. Quietly making our way to where Abernethy sat alone on the end of a row of six empty seats, we took our respective places to his side and back.

  As if they were awaiting our arrival to get started, the towering flames subsided and a pedestal-like podium formed in the center of the hearth. Rising to his feet, Stephen humbly stepped onto the platform and removed the hood of his cloak to reveal his signature stoic gaze, complimented b
y eyes burning with intensity. As if on command, each Deacon amidst the circle slowly raised their heads and followed suit. Focused solely on the Alpha, they continued to sit in reverent silence in clear anticipation of his message.

  A quick scan of the faces revealed an eclectic group of men spanning all variations of ethnic composition and physical stature spread across all known periods of history. Ironically, no one looked a day older than forty. Although each man vastly different, their eyes were the same. Not in color or shape — but in spirit. They were the eyes of warriors. Cold — with a hint of compassion.

  As I settled in, I suddenly felt an inexplicable prickling sensation on the nape of my neck. It was like somebody was watching me. Staring at me. Eavesdropping. Somebody that wasn’t — here. Quickly looking around the room in attempt to locate the source, I came up empty. It was weird as hell.

  Turning quickly, I whispered to Rooster, “Do you feel that?”

  “Feel what?”

  “This is a call to arms,” Stephen said somberly not giving us the opportunity to finish the conversation. His voice echoed in a surreal manner throughout the circular structure. “The likes of which, there has been no equal.”

  Pausing and slowly turning on the pedestal to meet the intent gazes of his followers, he said, “For two millennia we have stood upon the brink of the delicate Balance between the light of mankind and the abhorred beings that draw the Earth into darkness. Beyond the call of our mortal existence we have sacrificed, bled, and upheld our solemn oath without flaw or falter. But our task is not complete. It begins — Now.”

  With his voice steadily increasing in volume and intensity, he said, “Sitting amongst you is the Seventh of Seven. The last of forty-nine souls bestowed with the mantle of Deacon. The last of which to join our humble ranks. The Lines of Seven are complete — hence by definition, the Balance lies in the greatest of jeopardy.”

  Stephen spoke with a fervent eloquence to which I’d never heard an equal. The energy in the room was indescribable. Almost electric. Whether it was the combined presence of all the Deacons congregated in a single place or something else entirely, I couldn’t be sure, but it was intense. Rippling, surging waves of intangible forces billowed through the crowd as Stephen continued in a more reserved tone.