by Jamie Magee
Considering Gwinn had kicked everyone out of her garden where Zosime had conducted some whacked out magic, Thrash had it in his head the day was done and wanted nothing more than space. Finding Dagen parked out in one of the wing-backed chairs before the fireplace fucked all kinds of peace and quiet plans Thrash had.
Dagen was slow to look up at Thrash, even when he did meet the fierce stare of Thrash he questioned if he had spoken at all as he watched him march to the bar next to the balcony doors, when Thrash returned he wasn’t gripping spirits, but massive blunts that could pass for cigars at first glance. Dagen knew they were not only because he could smell Mary Jane dancing through the air, but also because the stainless steel box they rested in was one of his favorite perks about this room in particular.
Being a dark angel, smoking never did much for Dagen, but he admired the aroma. When he made it back to the reality side of things after he left here, he discovered where this scent lingered, so did exaltation—the quiet kind. Still, it was a promise he’d find satisfaction once the herbs met fire.
Blankly Dagen stared at the blunt as Thrash lit it up and took a seat in the matching black leather wing-backed chair, a furnishing that should’ve clashed with Thrashes stone washed jeans that fell over his shit kickers, a fitted red t-shirt, and his Kut that proudly claimed where his brethren resided. It didn’t, though. Instead, Thrash looked more at home where he was sitting than Dagen had ever noticed.
Curious, it was.
Dagen lifted his stare to the swords crossed high over the fireplace.
“I’ll get bored enough sooner or later, then we can get those down and have a bout,” Thrash said slowly exhaling the cloud of smoke from his lips. Almost instantly, his eyes glazed and his shoulders relaxed. Good shit was written all over his peaceful expression.
“How long can you hold a high,” Dagen asked, wondering if it was worth him even trying.
“On this shit,” Thrash said lifting the blunt, “for a bit. None of the vices hit home,” he admitted. “Not like they did before,” Thrash made a cutting motion across his throat. “You?”
It was a simple question, one Dagen almost answered with an absent sway of his head. There was only one way for a dark angel to get high, and that was to feed. Could he answer the same way now? Instead of pondering the question he reached his hand toward Thrash asking for a hit.
“What the fuck happened to you, man?” Thrash asked watching Dagen draw in the smoke, hold it for a second then cough his way through the rest. The instant calm Thrash watched wash over Dagen, how bright his eyes became as they reflected the fire before them was not a promising reflection of what was to come.
Thrash’s temper may get the best of him most times—okay all the time—he still pays attention, though. Not much gets by him, next to nothing when he’s furious or trapped for that matter, he’d been the former since he first laid eyes on Bastion, the latter, theory, since he first laid eyes on Evanthe.
Dagen didn’t say a word; he was too astonished by the coughing sensation roaring through his body, and the determination to smoke the blunt as cleanly as Thrash had done.
“All right, then. How ‘bout you tell me what went down before you got here. In your words.” Thrash didn’t want a fairy tale run down that Bastion liked to dish out, and he didn’t want a bullet point warrior report that Dagen had been known to give. He wanted the reality of it all.
Dagen handed the blunt back to Thrash. “Sven has been the one stationed to your boys. I was handling Ambrosia.”
“You know something,” Thrash said pointing the smoke at him. “You didn’t jump in this cell with us for kicks.”
Dagen’s mood grew sullen as he recalled why he did come flying into an unknown. What the hell was he thinking? He didn’t have a romantic bone in his body. There was a host of females who would back him on the matter. Dagen knew how to be friends with any female, at least any female that didn’t expect all the mush of emotions he couldn’t feel. He’d stand up for them, do what had to be done, with his own limits, of course. Limits like always making sure the Helco Faction was first.
Dagen flipped his stare to Thrash, “Talon’s right now. Ambrosia is gone.”
“Because of this Throng shit my son keeps barking about?” Thrash asked giving him the blunt back.
“Well, he’s not dying. Not the way you knew him to be anyway.”
“What the fuck does that mean?”
Dagen lifted a shoulder as he drew in a hit, this time managing it all without the roaring coughs. “I don’t anymore.”
Thrash’s glare pushed Dagen to go on.
“That Akan fuck, he was in a Throng too. Ate ‘em all.”
“Like Hannibal shit?” Thrash spouted, totally appalled.
“When it comes to Vim, yeah. He just kinda sucked them dry. All it did was make him a powerful fuck, even more dangerous than the others like him that were out there. He hid his power. Made himself seem like an everyday punk.”
“You sayin’ he ain’t a Rogue?”
Dagen scowled in distant thought. “I’ve seen him shift, he has traits of first generation immortals, but I doubt he got them the same as the rest of you.”
“Fuck me,” Thrash said reaching for the blunt. “I never liked that ass.” He pointed at Dagen. “That’s where Reveca’s focus should’ve been, not this Scorpio shit.” When he saw doubt hit Dagen’s expression Thrash leaned forward. “They were really going to kill her, weren’t they? Scorpio and some chick none of us have heard of before.”
When Dagen didn’t say a word, Thrash pushed on. “They’re not now, though, right? We stayed here so they couldn’t.”
Dagen settled a bit in his seat. “I don’t know what just happened.”
“You’re lying to me. You hit the floor like a bag of sand the second that chick floated in the air. You went with her, wherever she went.” Thrash’s tone dropped as his expression turned deadly. “You got something you want to confess to me?”
“I wasn’t with her. I was dying.”
“What. The. Fuck. You are dead. We are all dead. Why does everyone march around acting like that is the worst thing that can happen? No, it’s not a rock and roll party, but obviously, we all know that is not the end of the road.”
A growl rumbled in the center of Dagen’s chest. “Fine. I was cut from grace. My best friend sliced our bond and sent me floating into the abyss.”
“King?”
One nod.
“Why the fuck did he do that?”
Dagen angled his stare at him. “I have a few assumptions.”
“Bout sick of dragging answers outta you,” Thrash warned.
Dagen’s smirk was weak and reflective of the sullen high he had taken on, proof his was not wrong about what King had done. “He could’ve done it to stop me from betraying him against my will.” He slanted his head. “He could’ve done it to weaken the Throng. My fall would have sent shock waves through the vim we shared.”
Thrash ticked his chin toward Dagen. “Are you tryna tell me you would’ve killed Reveca? That Scorpio would’ve gone through with it?”
Dagen’s chilling stare landing on Thrash’s clearly stated there was no ‘would’ve’ to the matter.
“It happened?” Thrash asked in a ghostly whisper.
Dagen pressed his lips together before he spoke. “When King made the cut, it’s my natural path to soar back to him, to plead or whatever...I didn’t want to plea, no matter his reasons, they were good ones when it came to his and his own.” Dagen paused in dark reflection. “I saw the wounds—supernatural ones, more than could be healed in time, before the darkness took me.”
Thrash fisted his hands he wasn’t so sure if he believed any of this, or rather if he believed anything or anyone could destroy Reveca’s body, and therefore her stance in existence. He’d seen her heal too many times, from too many wounds that should’ve taken her life instantly. None of those moments destroyed her as much as the dark moods that overtook her, the ones that wou
ld set in right as the goriest of wars had ended.
“And so what now, we perish here. Shade and me?”
Dagen quirked a brow at him confused by Thrash’s conclusion.
“I’ve been told we’re linked, at least by magic,” Thrash said.
“The coven stands.”
Thrash narrowed his stare at him in question.
“It was the coven’s magic, ancient magic, that Reveca used to bring Talon back and then so on. It must die for you all to feel the effects.”
“Who told you that?”
Dagen didn’t bother to put effort behind his answer. It wasn’t a truth that needed to be proven as far as he was concerned. “It is known. What is not known is how the Dominarum coven has ensured its power.” Dagen reached for the blunt still chasing the sensation of exaltation and coming up far too short. “The dark gods have targeted them for eons. They wanted their knowledge of the coming Rapture and to disable their power, they come up short each time.”
Thrash still wasn’t satisfied he and his brotherhood were nice and safe. If he did believe Reveca had met a gruesome death, then he’d have to take into consideration the troubled look Jamison had in his eyes right about the time Talon and Reveca hit the rocks once more. They told Talon something, something believable enough that he gave up with little fight. Only a handful of things would’ve made him do so. “How do you know the ticket to taking down the coven wasn’t through Reveca?”
“I don’t. But I do know those witches were not marching around like doom was lurking.”
“You said you were with Ambrosia before here, witches change their mind at the turn of a dime,” Thrash said rather coldly thinking of his own encounters.
“I woke in Saige’s house. They were all having a council downstairs. I could hear them, all they wanted to do was make sure Reveca didn’t make a barter with a dark god.”
“Because the dark god would whack her,” Thrash retorted.
“Because a barter has to be honored. The coven did not exist as long as it has in good favor with the Creator if they did not honor balance, more so their word. Whatever Reveca bartered would have to be given.”
“So the coven was on Scorpio’s side? What was Reveca bartering for? His death, right?”
“She didn’t get a chance to do anything. Even King wasn’t lovesick enough to give into her paranoid fears.”
“How could they be paranoid if Scorpio was after her head?” Thrash roared.
Dagen shrugged. “No matter what Scorpio was intent on doing, it did not merit reaching out to a dark god for a barter.”
Both of them glanced to the shaking south wall that leads to the master bedroom. Not a single painting was on the wall. The bookshelves left no room.
“Oh yeah,” Dagen murmured. Remembering why even though he favored this room for a time when this castle was his home, he never stayed long. Haunted books would scare the daylights out of any being. Not to mention an empty playroom that centered a majority of the rooms had the whispered sounds of children.
On a good day, it was the smell of bread baking or meat swimming in juices as it roasted that drove Dagen from there. As heavenly as the aroma might’ve been, there was nothing to cause it. Still, on most days Dagen felt better when he sat there and smoked. He always felt like he was in good company and for that moment, he didn’t have to worry about any coming battle. And when the time came that he did, it would be just and balanced. Who could argue with such emotions?
Nothing felt very ‘just’ today...but the time for battle had come. Ending’s and beginnings were crashing into each other.
Glaring at the wall, Thrash himself was not a fan of books, in particular. He had seen too many witches make shit happen right after reading one. He was even less a fan once he was told his Evanthe was trapped inside one, of all places.
“Akan,” Thrash said trying to focus on a forward plan and not a reality he was nowhere near accepting. “If it’s as you say, and...and Reveca and Scorpio have had their fight, where does that leave the fuck? What is he after? Running Black on the streets? Or was that just his bullshit cover story?”
All immortals had a mortal gig. Identity is something everyone needs to walk the Gaia plane. Some took higher roads, some took darker ones. No matter the road, all immortals took one that had authority.
Dagen pursed his lips before he spoke. “I doubt Black was for kicks. A drug that could transform a mortal body into having immortal traits without death had to be made by someone with a lot of power. If I had to guess, I’d say Akan spent his bank of vim on the project. He timed it all to line up with when,” Dagen paused and grimaced, “our Throng would be facing a moment of jeopardy.”
“You don’t seem too thrilled with your new rank title there, that big of a downgrade?”
“Far from a downgrade,” Dagen said bleakly moving his stare to the fire.
Thrash’s moved to the wall of vibrating books, he was now questioning if it was the books moving on their own or what he first thought, the vibration was coming from something Gwinn was doing down the hall.
“You believe what my son said about the obvious and the seventh?” Thrash asked not liking the odd tingle he felt in the air.
“You deny you’re a seventh?”
“In another life, sure. Not now. I’ll promise you this: Shade surely denies he’s obvious.”
Dagen grinned, or so it seemed he had, even Thrash could tell the male was nowhere near who he once was.
“You held me here, Shade brought me back,” Dagen surmised. “Bastion can’t be that far off.”
“I didn’t do shit to you,” Thrash scoffed.
“You may not know that you did, but I felt you yanking me back here when I should’ve faded. I fought you, I’ll admit it.”
Thrash hadn’t replayed any of what went down once Zosime had floated up. As long as he saw it as only that, him zoning out and Dagen passing out he could keep his cool. What went down at home wasn’t real until he saw it with his own eyes as far as he was concerned.
But like with everything since he’d gotten here, Thrash knew all he wanted to happen when the latest drama went down was for someone to help him put the breaks on.
“I think I would recall fighting you,” Thrash grumbled. “It was Shade that handled you.”
“Shade knew I was listless, and he knew I was close enough to see my body. He gave me a reason to come back this way.”
“So you were good with vanishing and leaving Zosime to fend Akan off, but not good with Shade choking her to death?”
Dagen shifted in his seat. “I wasn’t so good with anything right then.”
Thrash turned fully to his side when the wall vibrated so much that books hit the floor, even more disturbing, the swords on the opposite wall were shaking. “What the fuck is that witch doing?”
“It’s not Gwinn,” Dagen said as he leaned forward to ash out the blunt. He slowly took a stand despising how weighted gravity felt now.
Thrash eyed him. “If it’s not a downgrade to be what you are, what’s your deal. That bud is good, but not that good.”
“This spell in play now took my vim.”
“But isn’t letting you say what to do with it?”
Dagen shrugged.
One of the swords hit the ground bringing Thrash to his feet.
“It won’t come after you, but it’s usually best to leave right about now,” Dagen said. Otherwise, you will end up watching those swords go at it...
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“This wing. When I stayed here before it had a pretty good vibe that always drew me here.” He glanced around. “But it was like a glove that never fit. It would let me chill for a bit, but then those swords would walk me out.”
As he spoke the sword that fell rose then soared through the air landing before Dagen, with the handle tilted out back toward Thrash.
“Ah, it likes you,” Dagen said with a tired grin. “It always charged at both King and me.” Just t
he thought of King dampened Dagen’s grin just before he turned and made his way to the doorway, once he crossed it the heavy door swung closed. The process was slow enough not jolt Thrash but discernable enough for him to eye the sword not far from him.
Once he was alone in the room, the sword fell from it stance landing closer to him. It was then the fire gleamed across a family crest Thrash had long since forgotten. The seal of the Seventh Son, a lion’s head with seven locks of his mane pronounced with swords crossed under his roaring mouth.
“What th—” he breathed as he leaned down to grasp it. The room shook, the fire roared, all threats that pushed him to grab a weapon that had the comforts of home. The stones around the never-ending fire jumped in place as the intensity of the fire burned so fiercely that sweat dampened Thrash’s skin.
He stepped forward prepared to turn it down or put it out in any way he could. The haunt in this place was fucking with the wrong element as far as Thrash was concerned.
“Let it go,” he heard a soft voice carefully articulated with accents changed by time and sensual education that beckoned to humble all those who heard it.
He didn’t want to turn around. It was easier to be furious, easier to plot all the ferocious, well-pointed arguments he would have. All the words that would make him right, and her wrong.
“You look well, Thrastion.”
Thrash winced knowing for sure that either all the liquor he had downed and the bud he smoked had finally made landfall on his senses, or Evanthe was standing just behind him.
Of course, he wasn’t lucky enough to be hallucinating, he never had been. This witch of his made it a point to make eerie entrances like this one. She was a haunt long before she ever was a lover. When he barely glanced over his shoulder seeing her form as strong as the last time he had held her milky white flesh in his hands his body stiffened as he pulled his shoulders back.
