by James Somers
They looked at one another, gauging each other’s reaction to what I was saying. But I knew they had no idea of what awaited us in that terrible prison for the Fallen. I couldn’t allow it—would not allow them to be harmed.
I stared at Sophia, and she met my gaze. “I love you, Sophia,” I said for the first time.
A smile parted her lips. She started to reply and then saw the terrible purpose in my eyes. She lunged for me desperately as my hand came up, and a flash of fiery light took me from their presence.
In reality, I had only vanished from sight in that room within the infirmary. I could not allow my friends to risk themselves in Tartarus, so I had taken the choice out of their hands. This was the hard way, but also the best way.
Sophia had screamed my name when I disappeared. They had all supposed that I had created the portal to Tartarus and been sucked through it into the prison of angels. But the matter of creating that portal would take much more effort and certainly more than a single moment to accomplish.
Still, Sophia had been inconsolable for the few minutes they remained in the anteroom. I had wounded her by my profession of love just as I left, but I knew that the words had to be said. I did not know with certainty of my return.
The anteroom was now empty. It had been empty for nearly an hour, and I was sitting in a chair in the corner contemplating my next move. To enter that place was daunting enough. I did not wish to go without a plan for finding Oliver and retreating back to the mortal plane.
Finding him, it seemed, should be relatively easy since the blood bond would bring me into proximity with him. By far, the greater matter was how to leave quickly and avoid a fight with Black. Technically, as an angel, Black should be bound to his fate there while Oliver would be free to leave. I had thought on that matter for the better part of the year since his imprisonment. Even though Oliver had bound himself by a spell to Black, he would not have remained bound, and the physics of Tartarus should override any power we might possess to the contrary.
At this point, I had some ideas, but it would all depend upon what condition I found Oliver and how Black responded to my intrusion. I stood facing the open room. This would be as good a place as any to create the portal. I had no need to travel home first, no one else to bid farewell. I returned to a visible state, conjuring a fluid armor beneath my clothes. This would help to protect me against Black, in addition to the extension techniques Oliver had taught me.
Angel Fire reverted to its hidden form as an ebony cane with the silver lion’s head. There was no use giving away the game any sooner than necessary. I began to work through the mechanics of creating the portal in my mind and then Donatus came through the archway.
“I supposed you had not really gone on to Tartarus,” he said. “A flashy exit and a bit of invisibility?”
“How did you know?” I asked.
“I’ve been around for a long time, Brody,” he replied. “You possess amazing gifts, but I doubt even you could produce such a portal so quickly.”
“And the others?” I asked.
“They were suitably convinced of your departure,” he said. “The girl is hurting, of course, but I understand your reasons. Tartarus is far more dangerous than they suspect. You were right to refuse them.”
I sighed. “I only hope I can rescue Oliver and make it back.”
“That, my young friend, you must leave in the hands of the Creator,” he said.
“You believe?” I asked.
“Even before you told me,” he said. “I thought I might test your faith. There are not many who believe among the Descendants, but there are some. My son never agreed with my unpopular position.”
“Is that why you seem distant with one another?”
“I suppose it’s noticeable more than I’d like to think,” he said. “At the very least, he no longer serves Black. For that I thank you. You’ve been a wonderful influence on him.”
“I should be going,” I said. “Tartarus is waiting. If I don’t go now, I may never go.”
“I understand and I’ll be praying for your safe return.”
Donatus left the room then, leaving me alone with my thoughts and my unpleasant course of action. I took a moment to pray for myself and for Oliver and for the will of God to be done in all of this. Concentrating upon the blood connection shared with my older brother, I pushed out with my power, searching the spiritual plane for Tartarus. All too quickly, I found it. A connection with Oliver had been made much easier than I would have guessed.
A black void opened within the room like the maw of some nightmarish creature ready to devour my soul. There was no turning back now. The invisible vortex churning within had hold of me through the blood bond. This force desired to bring Oliver and me together. I let go of my resistance and surrendered to its power. The portal drew me in and then closed upon itself again.
Grayson Stone stood within the library of his home, scanning the many shelves that lined the high walls. At least one thousand books stood upon those shelves—all manner of histories of both mortal nations and peoples and the realms of the Descendants. Languages and customs, ancient religions and dark practices had all been studied over the course of his young life. He had memorized every word, and could recall the information at any moment.
The books would all stay in his home in North London, as well as his other possessions. He intended to make a fresh start in America. An emerging new world awaited a worthy ruler to conquer and direct it. He had spent the first part of his life learning and growing into his power. Now, he would assume the mantle of his royal heritage.
“Have you instructed the caretaker?” Grayson asked without turning to the person who had just entered the room.
The diminutive form floated just above the polished floorboards. Long blonde hair cascaded over her shoulders and down her back. In reality, gender was an uncertain factor with sprites. They all possessed slight frames, luxurious long hair and soft facial features. Their names were androgynous as well, and most people who saw them simply assumed they were looking at a human female possessing heavenly beauty. Since they did marry and reproduce, it was understood that they must be male and female, but sprites seemed to like the mystery surrounding them and they were in no hurry to explain the differences.
“The caretaker has been persuaded to carry out your instructions,” the sprite replied.
Her voice and manner of speech, barely more than a whisper, possessed a timbre that was both lyrical and hypnotic in nature. This was the great power of sprites over others. People did what they said—almost anything they said. The average human male would gladly cut his own throat at the bidding of a sprite, making them one of the most dangerous Descendant groups in existence.
Grayson turned then, staring at his associate. Like all of their physical attributes, her eyes were doll like and extremely inviting. Grayson found himself drawn in like so many others. He shook himself mentally.
“No doubt, he was taken in by your beauty, Lux,” Grayson said.
“As they all are,” she replied. “Otherwise, why employ our services?”
Just like a sprite, Grayson thought.
Some might have accused them of vanity, but such persons simply did not understand sprites. These Descendants knew their beauty and used it to their advantage in more ways than one. This was simply who they were, without pride and without prejudice. And, in their eyes, the ends always justified the means.
“My ship is leaving within the hour,” Grayson reported, gathering himself as he turned from Lux toward a window overlooking one of the gardens of his estate. He did not trust anyone that might have the ability to sway his mind. Only angels had been found to be completely unfazed by their charms.
“Surely, there is something more you would have me do,” Lux said, watching Grayson’s face reflected in the window pane.
Grayson turned again. He found that even a sprite’s reflection held the same power. “Yes,” he said. “My father assures me that my enemies will
come for me here.”
“Your father is wise,” Lux said.
“I want you and the others to wait for them here and greet them when they come,” he said.
“What shall we do with them?”
“I leave the matter to your discretion,” he said. “Just don’t let them leave here alive.”
Lux nodded as Grayson walked out of the room. He would tour his home one last time before leaving for the docks. He tried not to be sentimental about his departure, but he had enjoyed living in England and had thought for most of his life that this would be the seat of his power. He had long held hopes of ruling the world through Britain.
Still, Father knew best, and dreams could easily be modified to suit new developments. America was seen by Lucifer as the rising power in the world. Britain was the waning, and there was no harm in helping it to die in order to speed the process along. The warring vampires and werewolves would see to London’s demise, while the rest of the empire languished and came apart at its delicate seams.
The house was empty aside from the sprites and himself. Grayson had enjoyed the servants he’d grown with and saw no reason to simply dismiss good help. There was no telling what sort of domestic disasters he might find in America, so he had ordered them to pack their meager belongings and board the steamer ahead of him.
For a moment, he thought he saw reflections in the mirrors. He had grown in this house under the sheltering wings of his parents. They had loved him dearly until their deaths. Lucifer had then revealed himself to be his true parent. From then onward, Grayson’s education had taken a drastic turn toward realizing the true power of his royal heritage.
He had been shocked to learn as a young boy that he was the son of the Shining One. Of course, his parents had raised him with a proper understanding of occult history, but this revelation about himself after the deaths of his mortal caregivers had been nearly too much to accept. Still, it did not take long for Grayson to acclimate to this newly found reality. The world was far from what most mortals perceived, and he was at the top of the food chain.
It was enough. After a few moments of reminiscence, he decided to put it all behind him. The past was exactly that, and he had no time to bother with it anymore. His future in America awaited, along with glory and power and wealth untold. This was the promise of his father.
Grayson walked through the front door, willing it to close behind him. He crossed the pea gravel to his waiting carriage and climbed inside. The driver returned to his seat, released the brake and cracked the whip at his team of black stallions. The carriage lurched forward, setting Grayson on the road toward claiming that promise.
Kron tensed as the elf physician applied more medication to his wounds. Despite Laish’s great power with the dark arts, there had been nothing that could be done to save his arm and leg from amputation. He muttered to himself, walking around the table, examining his work in an unsatisfied manner.
“This is far from pretty,” he said.
Kron gritted his teeth as the pain increased for a moment while the medicine preventing infection seeped into his wounds. “I only require functionality,” he sneered. “Can you do it, wizard?”
“The conjuring is relatively basic,” he said. “However, I cannot guarantee that it won’t remain continually painful to you. Are you prepared to suffer through it?”
“Pain has little meaning for me,” Kron said, taking in deep breaths.
Laish laughed to himself a little as he watched Kron. “Yes, I can see that.”
“Just do what business I’ve paid you for,” Kron retorted.
Indeed, a great sum of gold had been piled in leather sacks against the wall of the cottage that Laish called home. That, together with many precious manuscripts from the library vaults of Tidus, made for a considerable fortune the elf had received for this service. Then again, everyone knew he was the only one to go to for such things.
Tarik and the other soldiers had been left waiting outside while Laish went to work on the Lycan king’s very severe wounds. The arm had essentially already been severed by the falling debris during the palace explosion. However, the leg had seemed viable for a while. But Laish, expert though he was, had not been able to restore adequate blood flow to the limb, leaving little choice but to remove it as well.
“What will you do?” Kron asked. “Some apparatus—a pole with a hook on the end for my arm and a stump to stand upon?”
“If that was all you were expecting, you didn’t have to bring so much gold,” Laish said. “Still, if you mean to disrespect me after all this time, then I’ll be glad to hack off a few branches from the sycamore outside and leave you and your soldiers to it.”
Kron glared at the old elf for a moment before relenting. “I apologize,” he said. “It’s not you, really. I’m just—”
“I understand,” Laish said. “I do not know what I would say in your position, either. However, I mean to see you standing and fighting again.”
Kron sighed. “How can it be done? Don’t you see what I’ve become?”
Laish smiled, patting him on the shoulder. “Be still, my friend. I see potential.”
He turned to one of the shelves on the wall behind the table where he had done his work on Kron. Retrieving a small vial, Laish handed it to the Lycan king.
“Drink this and sleep,” Laish said. “When you wake, we will see if I am the wizard you came to see, or the charlatan you called me a moment ago.”
Kron started to apologize again, but Laish thrust the bottle into his good hand. “Drink,” he commanded.
Kron turned the bottle up to his lips and drank down the foul smelling liquid within. He laid back onto the table and waited to see what the potion would do to him. Before he even realized, he was asleep on the table.
Laish wondered through his cottage, perusing his shelves and tables looking for just the right ingredients for his task. “Something living…yes, it must be living,” he muttered. “And strong, too. Kron is a warrior. No, that won’t do…not pliable enough.”
Finally he stood back, unsatisfied. He hadn’t come up with any good solution to the problem. He tapped his chin thoughtfully for a moment. Then his eyes caught sight of the purple blooms outside one of his windows.
The elf wizard weaved quickly through his work space, past Kron’s unconscious form, and through the back door. He turned to look at the wall of his cottage from the outside and smiled delightedly. Wisteria vines had covered most of the back wall, decorating his home in violet blooms.
“Of course!” he exclaimed. “Living and strong!”
Laish raced back inside. He cut the catgut stitches he had previously placed to close the skin over exposed muscle and bone. When he was finished, and the torn flesh was exposed again, he took his place a little apart from Kron’s damaged body.
Muttering his incantation, Laish began to draw upon his natural abilities as one descended from angelic powers, pulling upon spiritual forces ready to his commands. His bony arms came up, and his fingers began to work in concert with his conjuration—complex movements meant to focus power in particular ways upon his subject.
The cottage trembled as wisteria vines, long intertwined with brick and mortar, disengaged themselves and began to push through the walls into the room where the wizard’s subject lay upon the table. Like the tentacles of an octopus, the vines crept along a meandering path over shelves, down across the floor, around tables and chairs, until they found the wounded Lycan king.
Minute filaments grew out from the vine branches, attaching themselves and infiltrating the exposed muscle fibers and bone, forming a matrix to support what was coming. In both his arm and leg stumps, plant fibers began to assimilate with Kron’s tissue, taking in blood from his vessels and fusing with cut nerves. The vine branches released the hairy fibers to his body, giving up life from the vine to the process now working to make man and plant combine in symbiosis. The branches died and fell brittle to the floor.
Kron awoke screaming as he b
egan to feel what was happening to him. His nerves were receiving sensory information from the growing vines fusing with his body. He saw green growths churning at his stumps, extending themselves, and began to panic and cry out.
Tarik appeared at the door of the cottage, wanting to know what in the world the elf was doing to his king. A wave of Laish’s hand caused the iron door to slam shut in the soldier’s face. He wasn’t about to let anything stop his masterwork in progress.
“We’re not done yet!” he yelled toward the door.
Meanwhile, an arm and leg began to take shape on the table. Kron stopped screaming. He was now fixated on the limbs molding before his eyes. Many Finger-thick vines grew from each stump, intertwining and taking the shape of the lost appendages. Fingers and toes formed at the ends, beginning to wiggle with life as Kron watched awestruck.
Laish lowered his arms, finishing a series of symbols that added the semblance of skin to the new arm and leg. He stumbled backward, bracing himself on the back of a large chair. A wave of his hand allowed the front door to the cottage to open again. A bewildered Tarik stood on the other side with his Lycan soldiers.
Bewilderment turned to astonishment when they laid eyes on their king. Kron was standing next to the table where he had been brought a day ago in a butchered condition—barely alive. He worked the fingers and toes, bending the arm at the elbow and the leg at the knee.
“I can’t believe what you’ve done,” Kron said, unable to take his eyes off of his restored limbs.
“Before you start tearing up, I’ve some things to warn you about,” Laish said, taking a seat in the chair.
“Warn me about?” Kron said, still flexing the arm with a smile on his face. “What are you talking about?”
“It may look like flesh and blood, but it isn’t,” Laish said.
“I know that already,” Kron replied.
Laish grinned at him. “I suppose I won’t wait until you find out the hard way. Reach for the door.”
