Sentinels of Creation: A Power Renewed

by Robert W. Ross

  The cop interrupted, “I assume one of those was the assault charge I saw on your record.”

  Kellan smiled. “First, that charge was dropped so I don’t even know why you’d have a record of it and, second, the guy hit me first. Anyway, you are distracting me. The point is that the regular lane is a nightmare of accidents and violence. Not only that, but it accomplishes absolutely nothing. I totally get why you want an HOV lane on an actual highway, but putting one on the entrance ramp is just stupid. I’ve written to the city. I’ve called the city. I’ve thought about renting a sky writing plane and leaving a message for the city. Then, I thought, ‘Hey...I’ll just start using the HOV lane and eventually I’ll get a ticket from one of Atlanta’s finest and take it to court.’” He winked at the police officer and squinted at his name badge. “That’s where you come in…’officer N. Bradley.’ What’s the ‘N’ stand for?”

  The cop had been writing on his ticket pad and glanced up. “The N? It stands for ‘Not going to win in court.’ Enjoy paying that fine.” With that, he handed Kellan the pad and said, “Please sign, sir.”

  Kellan stared at the ticket a moment and contemplated asking officer Bradley to read the entire citation standing in the rain based on a fictitious learning disability Kellan thought he might have just developed. Instead, he just shook his head slightly, scrawled his standard signature that faintly resembled “R.M.Nixon,” and handed the pad back while flashing his most winning smile.

  “Oh, Nathan, I’m an optimist and you should have more faith. See you in court.”

  Officer Nathan Bradley accepted the pad, tore off the receipt, and handed it to Kellan. He paused before releasing it, his face registering confusion, “How did you...”

  “Elementary, my dear Bradley. You just didn’t strike me as a Nathaniel and you certainly aren’t a Nate. Cheerio!”

  With that, Kellan accelerated into traffic and rewarded himself with a glance in the side view mirror to see a clearly bemused Officer Nathaniel Bradley still standing in the rain.

  “A hero cannot be a hero unless in a heroic world.” The words hung in the air after Kellan whispered them aloud. That’s an interesting quote and an even more interesting tattoo. The image of the words inked on Officer Bradley’s right forearm snapped into Kellan’s mind like a high resolution photo.

  He sighed, wondering again what useful bit of information his mind was incapable of processing because of his eidetic memory. He’d never forget that forearm just like he’d never forget seeing the quote attributed to Nathaniel Hawthorne, the 19th century american novelist.

  “Interesting that Hawthorne was born on July 4th, but I guess someone had to be. Then again, he was born on America’s independence day and died in 1864, just before the end of the civil war that would secure that very Union. I mean, heck, life expectancy then was only 40 years and Hawthorne lived to almost 60. That’s like 50% over the average. Seems he could have managed another year and seen the end of the war. I wonder what the life expectancy will be in 2064. Probably around, shit, shit. Damn it to hell I missed my exit.”

  “Navigation and situational awareness, Kellan, that’s what suffers for you being a flipping genius,” he said while smiling to himself in the rear view mirror. “Of course, you wouldn’t have it any other way would you? Nope,” he answered himself aloud, winked at his reflection and started looking for the next exit.”

  The bells tinkled merrily as Kellan opened the door with his shoulder, hands full with two large cups of hot coffee.

  The girl at the counter looked up, peering over her Ray Ban eyeglasses. She tried to scowl, but her face just wasn’t built for it. She scooted the glasses back on a cute button nose whose bridge was dotted with faint freckles.

  “Do you know what time it is?” she asked with annoyance that Kellan could tell was for show - mostly.

  “Well,” Kellan began, “judging from the twenty odd clocks tick-tocking away in my field of view, I’d hazard to say 11:00 - give or take.”

  “Very good, and what time do we open?”

  “Why, 10:00 sharp, Miss Herrick, just like the sign says. “Beloved’ Books, open daily 10:00 − 9:00”

  “Kind of hard to be open if there’s nobody here to open up,” she said.

  Kellan held up the cup in his left hand, tilted it slightly in the her direction, and flashed a smile. “But, Juliet, there is someone to open up. There’s you.”

  “I don’t work until 11:00, Kellan.”

  “Right, and it’s 11:00 now. Congratulations on being so punctual.”

  Juliet reached for the cup as Kellan approached. “I’ve been here since 10:00 because Hamish called me on my mobile to tell me the store wasn’t open.”

  “Pffft…Hamish hasn’t bought a book in three years and just comes here to read and annoy paying customers with his endless stories featuring the stalwart McLeod family who are saving us all from vampires, werwolves, and assorted boogiemen.

  Kellan wiggled the cup of coffee and taunted Juliet. “Now let’s see those beautiful blue eyes look less dangerous. Tell me I’m forgiven, and you can have your coffee.”

  She sighed. “What kind is it?”

  “Hazelnut with enough cream to give you a coronary in about three years”

  “Damn,” she said, her face splitting in to a fierce grin. “Damn and no fair! You are forgiven, sir. Now gimme!”

  He did and she immediately popped the little plastic top off the cup, inhaled deeply, and took a long sip.

  Kellan walked behind the counter and patted Juliet gently on the head, which she pointedly ignored. “From your reaction, I’m assuming your parents have, once again, restricted your coffee consumption,” he said.

  “Yes, despite my protestations.”

  “Did you try my suggestion?” Kellan asked as he flipped idly through yesterday’s mail.

  “Cruel and unusual didn’t fly, but Dad did at least blame you for putting the idea in my head.”

  “Of course he did. He’s been blaming me for ideas in your head for seventeen years now and I expect that won’t be changing until someday you have a husband he can blame.”

  “Probably. Hey, you didn’t mention my new glasses.”

  Kellan glanced up. “Yeah, pretty cool. Ray-Bans, right? I remember them from Risky Business.”

  Juliet gave him a blank stare.

  Kellan sighed. “Tom Cruise. Risky Business. Dancing wearing nothing but Ray-Bans and his underwear.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Gross! Tom Cruise is old and now I have an image of him in is underwear rolling around my head. Thanks Kel.”

  “Well, his were sunglasses and they were black, if that makes you feel any better.”

  “Mine are TARDIS blue so they are nothing like what was in Frisky Business.”

  Kellan laughed and felt the coffee start to burn up his nose. “Risky, not Frisky. Frisky Business was an entirely different thing altogether and not one that we’ll be talking about.”

  “Ok, whatever. UPS came early today. It was a giant box so I had them move it back to your office.

  “Alrighty then. I’ll go check it out. You hold down the fort.” Kellan headed toward the back of the store, weaving between several massive hand made shelves stacked floor to ceiling with books of every imaginable size and thickness. As he passed through the center of the store, Kellan did his best to ignore the old burly red haired man sitting in one of the many overstuffed leather chairs.

  “Hey Boyoh!”

  Kellan cringed slightly. “Sorry, Hamish. Can’t talk now. Got a shipment of vintage books in and I have to get them sorted out. Give my regards to the VanHelsings and we can chat later.”

  “Someday you are going to regret making…”

  Hamish’s words faded as Kellan slipped into his back office and closed the door. There was a large cardboard box resting on the round side table which stood in one corner of the room. It was open.

  Kellan pulled out the first book, an early printing of The Federalist Papers, and admir
ed the hand tooled leather and binding. He held it up to his nose and took a deep breath.

  “God, I love books,” he said to no one and closed his eyes as the words which comprised the early American political work flashed through his consciousness. Kellan had only read the book once, of course, and that was when he was younger than Juliet. He never had to read books a second time - doing so tended to confuse him. The Federalist Papers wouldn’t be that bad, but books based on translations, were a different matter entirely. He shuddered a bit at all the Biblical translations he carried around in his head. Reading all those had definitely been a mistake.

  He was reaching back into the box when his mobile phone pulsed. Kellan pulled it out from his back jeans pocket and glanced at it. “Juliet Herrick: Customer wants you…he looks creepy.”

  Kellan sighed and headed back to the front of the store where he found Juliet nervously shuffling papers on the counter.

  Standing in front of her was a man wearing a suit, a long woolen coat that went to his calves, and dark glasses that obscured his eyes completely. As Kellan passed in front of the counter, he glanced back to Juliet who mouthed, “Creeeepyyyy,” and turned back to the man.

  “What can I do for you?” asked Kellan with a smile as he extended his hand. The man extended his own gloved hand and accepted Kellan’s gesture while affecting a smile that looked far more like a grimace. “Super creepy,” thought Kellan, “and what’s with a long coat and gloves.” It was a mild spring for Atlanta, but those clothes couldn’t possible by comfortable.

  When the man spoke, his voice was rough and halting. Kellan saw Juliet give a little shudder in his peripheral vision.

  “You are Kellan Thorne?” the man asked.

  “That’s me. Are you looking for something in particular?”

  “I am Mr. Landry. I have books for sale,” said the man in his strange halting voice.

  “Well, that’s great, but I actually just received a pretty substantial shipment and unless you have something really special, I’m not really in the market right now.”

  “Yes. Special. Rare books - very old first editions.”

  “OhhhKayy,” said Kellan drawing out the words a bit. “Which books do you have?”

  “Dickens, Verne, Burroughs”

  “Um, Charles Dickens, Jules Verne, and Edgar Rice Burroughs? First Editions? Which ones?”

  “All.”

  “All? As in you have their complete works. All in first edition?

  “Yes. All.”

  Kellan squinted at the man. “Ok. You got my attention, but I warn you I can pick out a fake in two seconds flat. Bring ‘em on in, let’s take a look.”

  “They are heavy and there is no place to park.”

  “No worries, just drive around back. I’ll meet you there to help carry them into my office.”

  The man nodded and quietly left the store.

  Kellan stared after him a second and heard Juliet let out her breath behind him.

  He turned to find her doing a little wiggle dance with her shoulders and hips. “Mr. Creep. Creep Creep Creepety Creep-face from Creep-town, Creepania…”

  Kellan laughed as he headed towards the back calling over his shoulder, “…and so’s your dad. Doctor Who, 2006, “Girl in the Fireplace.” I love Doctor Who references. keep it up, kid, and you’ll get a raise.”

  Kellan unlocked the back door and stepped on the the first step of the brick stoop leading into the alley and felt it shift as his weight hit it, pitching him forward, arms outstretched to break his fall.

  As he fell, Kellan felt something breeze over his head and heard a clang behind him.

  He rolled over to see Landry, struggling to pull what looked like a three foot long, wickedly curved blade from where it had embedded itself in the bricks - right where Kellan’s neck would have been were it not for his fall.

  “What the fuck!” Kellan yelled as Landry pulled the blade free and rounded on him. Kellan quickly looked up and down the alley as he scrambled to his feet. Six more men, dressed exactly like Landry advanced from either end of the alley, all carrying the same curved blades.

  Kellan looked back at Landry in time to see the blade arcing towards him impossibly fast and instinctually closed his eyes against the attack.

  Through closed eyelids, Kellan saw a flash of light, heard a tremendous clash, and was struck so hard in the chest that he flew backwards against the far wall of the alley with a “woof” as the air left his chest.

  As he opened his eyes and tried to catch is breath, Kellan saw another man standing in the alley. His left arm was still pointed at Kellan, palm up, clearly having pushed him out of harms way. In his other hand, he held a long sword crossways, having parried Landry’s blow. The sword glowed so brightly that Kellan had to avert his eyes.

  Landry screamed and moved with impossible speed trying to circle around Kellan’s unknown defender. He almost succeeded. His curved blade came within inches of Kellan when the other man restrained him with each hand grasping a shoulder. The glowing sword, Kellan noted, simply hung suspended in the air. Meanwhile a little voice inside his head whispered that he was clearly having some kind of a psychotic break.

  Landry struggled but could not break free from what appeared to be an iron grip as the man leaned in toward Landry’s left ear and said, “He is not yours to kill. Return to your hole, skin-walker.” Then Kellan watched in horror as Landry’s coat, suit, and skin was literally ripped off his body and thrown to the alley floor.

  What stood before him had the general shape of a man - of Landry, but pulsed and throbbed in a gelatinous fashion for several heartbeats before collapsing and showering Kellan in putrid slime.

  The man was incredibly tall - nearly seven feet. He bent down slightly, eyes glowing with an internal green fire that a small rational voice inside Kellan told him was completely impossible.

  “Do. Not. Move,” the man said as he retrieved his sword from where it had been levitating and used the tip to carve a circle in the cement around Kellan. “I will defend you in this battle. Do not move outside this circle or you will die. Do you understand me?”

  Kellan found with an odd sense of detachment that he could not remember how to speak, so he just nodded and crouched down while trying to appear as small as possible.

  Then the man smiled. Not a warm or friendly smile, but a smile that was decidedly neither. Kellan immediately realized that the look was directed towards the long coats who where were advancing toward them at a run from either end of the Alley.

  “Come!” the man yelled in a voice that Kellan swore to himself sounded like thunder. Then the man laughed and said, “Come and meet the very incarnation of wrath! This one is protected from your snares. I will cast you down.”

  “He didn’t just say that did he?” whispered that tiny internal voice that was what remained of rational Kellan.

  The glowing sword met curved blades as the man whirled and fought in a macabre dance at blurring speed. After what looked like one extended and fluid motion, only six gelatinous puddles remained.

  As the man turned and began walking back, Kellan’s rational mind began to assert itself by making observations, posing questions, and running through the vast amount of perfectly stored information that it had at its disposal. Fact One: “Defend you in battle.”

  “Do not turn around, Kellan Thorne,” the man yelled as he raced toward him.

  Kellan turned around and stared numbly as six long coats were wildly swinging their curved swords at him, striking sparks off of some unseen barrier that rose up from the circle surrounding him.

  Fact Two: “Protection from Snares”

  Kellan saw a shadow fall over him and a moment later the man landed beyond the six long coats. He was smiling again, with fierce joy - eyes still ablaze. This time the long coats didn’t even have time to react before they too had been reduced to puddles.

  Fact Three: “I will cast you down”

  “You are safe for now,” the man said, “but more
will likely come. The circle will protect you until my Brother arrives.”

  Kellan’s rational mind regained full control as he stared at the seven foot tall man with eyes of molten emerald, covered head to toe in shining armor, and who Kellan knew was the most beautiful man he had ever seen in his entire life.

  “I don’t believe in Angels,” whispered Kellan.

  Fact Four: “Big Glowing Sword,” his mind answered in retort.

  “Holy shit, you are Michael the Archangel”

  Michael sheathed his sword and stared intently into Kellan’s eyes.

  “You may not believe in me, but my Brother believes in you. It is because I love him that I am here. I do not believe in you. I think you are dangerous. I am seldom wrong.”

  “Do not leave the circle. Raphael will be here soon.”

  With those words Michael gestured and a oval split open in the alley before him; he stepped through and vanished.

  “I don’t believe in Angels!” Kellan yelled angrily at the now empty alley and crouched down with his arms around his knees.

  Chapter 3

  SCOTLAND 1275

  Micah brought the axe down, splitting the log in a single stroke. The three children sitting around him all clapped enthusiastically and then scurried to pick up the pieces to stack them alongside the small house.

  “Father Micah! Father Micah! Are you done now? Is it time for stories?” one of the children asked hopefully.

  “Stories! Stories!” the two youngest said in unison.

  Micah smiled. “Of course it’s time for stories. What other time would it be?”

  “Now, Liam, Donal, and Shannon, why don’t you make us all some lunch while I go down to the stream and wash up for a minute or two.”

  The children leapt up and ran into the house. Micah heard the clatter of plates and cups as he made the short walk down to the stream.

  Once there he stripped off the soiled clothes and crouched down at the water’s edge. He looked deeply at the man in the watery reflection.

  “So old,” he whispered. He wasn’t referring to his face and body which surely were lined and wrinkled with age, yet appeared to retain surprising strength. It was his eyes. As he gazed at his steel gray eyes in the water, Micah wondered if others saw what he saw in them.