by Jamie Magee
“You stubborn bastard,” she swore, “I was the maiden at your table. Trembling so hard I could not breathe. I nearly passed out twice over and would’ve if Jamison had not slipped lavender into my tea to calm me.”
“I would’ve remembered you at my table,” he said with a curt look over her. The biggest sorrow of knowing of Bastion was the reality that Thrash’s mother would never know him, she’d never know Evanthe. Thrash wasn’t seeking approval from the woman who bore him, he just knew to her it would be a reward, a sign their blood lived on, her pain and grief were not in vain.
Evanthe spoke over him. “In your father’s parlor, I told you I was a witch, not just any witch but a royal one. I told you that my people predicted you, and I fully believed the reason those who survived my world came here over any other dimension because of you. I told you the seventh sons were slain everywhere else, the Gods and power seekers alike had tried to harvest them to no avail, and they were not an improbable myth.”
Thrash swayed his head in denial as he felt his chest burn and his mind swirl. The warrior he was then was chipping away, and the eager young boy he once was began to claw to the surface.
“I had to say it all,” Evanthe said. “My brother always returned without warning. He had spies everywhere. There were only certain times when the heavens aligned that Jamison could assure my safety.”
“And what did I say to you, witchling?” Thrash rasped.
“It’s not what you said that matters, it’s what you gave me.”
Thrash felt the ground at his feet shift, or was he swaying?
“It matters what you gave me every year until the day your mortal life ended.”
Thrash swayed his head in denial. No way, no fucking way this witch could’ve done what she claimed year after year, no way any spell could’ve hidden such a thing from him.
“Why,” he managed.
Evanthe had begun to cry, it was hard not to reach for her, but Thrash would be damned if he trusted his balance much less her right then and there. He was praying to the Gods he knew and the ones he didn’t that this was all a fucked up Zen.
“Zale returned hours after our first son was born, I had to hide him, hide us. When I left your bed the second time, Zale was waiting on me, for months he watched and questioned me. When he left, I saw you more freely, his spies told him of it, and he spelled you to forget me. Zale didn’t know of any bedding or sons, only that I adored someone, a strong male. He could have no such of a thing. No matter who you were, you were a threat to him.”
Thrash hadn’t heard much after the words “first son.” The only response he could give her slight pause was a low growl. His mind was deep in time, in a different era when women died in childbirth, when they were shunned for having no husband, when war was a breath away, famine and sickness were never far behind. Even a woman with her connections and money would not be able to outrun every threat.
“You had no idea who I was when our second son was born...I was a stranger who riled passions when you planted the seed for our third.”
Thrash grasped her arms; it was for balance but how fiercely he held her showed his rage. “Where, how—how could you let me live this long not knowing.”
To him, his sons had lived an entire life on the same earth as him, and he didn’t know them. For all he knew, they were one of the faceless boys he had taken down on a bloody field.
She reached for his face, held it with both hands. “They are here. Our first lived less than a year in Gaia, and then he was brought here. Our second was born here,” she said with a glance toward the bedrooms, “And the others.”
Thrash had to break away from her. He could not think when she was this close to him. He’d almost made it to his whiskey when she spoke. “I cannot say for sure, but there was always a chance Zale knew who you were. He watched too close, assumed too much.” She edged closer to him. “Bastion was convinced at the one and only chance we had to make him. Your immortality coupled with mine had given Zale peace of mind, no child, boy or girl, first or last, would ever come...I took the only chance we had,” her voice quaked, the heavens had its say, Sebastian, our seventh son was born.”
“You left my sons for a ghost to raise them. You hid them from me because you feared a witch,” coldly he looked back at her. “I couldn’t handle the idea of Bastion, how much I missed, and now I know this...my life blood come and gone.”
Evanthe swayed her head. “Nothing is gone.”
“I don’t believe you, anything you say,” he raged. “You are an illusion, a fucked twisted side effect to this place.”
Out of the corner of his eye, emerging from the kitchen Thrash saw a figure that chilled his bones.
“Then what am I, son,” Agatha Valkyrie said in the same formal tone she had always used with Thrash when he was a wayward child.
His mother looked as she did the last day he saw her, a woman shy of forty years who just then, after all her loss, was showing careful lines around her eyes and lips.
She moved closer, Thrash stepped back, not caring it was closer to the fire that was still showing its wrath. He’d be just fine with the flames engulfing him, maybe then he’d wake up.
“I would’ve known,” he said slinging his denial at both his mother and Evanthe. When his home burned and his mother perished, Reveca was with him. Obviously, Zale would not have brought her back.
“This place seals time for all but the children,” Evanthe said.
“Right,” Thrash said smiling at the insanity around him. He’d wake any second, he was sure of it.
At times like this, Evanthe found herself enraged at Shade for his lack of memory. It was him who built this fortress, him who understood the magic of it and him who told her that her children were safe and would grow strong. He even returned for the first few decades and taught them each to fight. He’d left with them for weeks at a time, distressing both Agatha and Evanthe, according to Shade he was teaching them to fight more than him, to become men, for there would come a time they’d have to.
Agatha moved forward eyeing her son with a mix of emotions. She was far from the prim mortal woman he once knew her to be. Now she was well-schooled on all the truths of the universe. A universe that had taken all her sons, but given her six grandson’s to raise and protect. “I’d like to meet my seventh grandson, Thrastion.”
“Might be my dream, Ma, but I’m not the one hitting the breaks on who you meet or when.”
“You are,” she said primly. “You must complete your task, once you do, we are all free to roam beyond this safe haven as we wish. I don’t care to leave what I know, but I do care to see you, to see Bastion. I care to have all my boys before me strong and invincible.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” he asked himself sure his mind was digging up something he had to do, something important enough that it would grant him a reward so rich that it would equal the satisfaction of having a life he had long ago lost the chance to have.
Suddenly, the fire exploded behind the wall of water, the impact was so great all of them rocked forward losing their balance and landing on their knees. It was over as quickly as it happened. In the next breath, the water was gone, the fire was barely visible at all in the ashes. In the center of the floor rested a knife, one Thrash knew. It was the weapon he had discarded of, dropped in the center of the ocean long ago. A weapon with the power to take down an immortal should not exist; most definitely not exist near Reveca’s mood swings.
Catching her breath Agatha swayed the lock of dark hair that had fallen from its place back, she said. “You knew who to give this to. You knew when and why...it’s time, son.”
Thrash stood staring down at the weapon. Knowing what it was and where he had dropped it would do him little good now that he was sealed away in the palace he was in. What the hell was his mind trying to tell him?
Shade charged into the room, Dagen a step behind him, their eyes falling on both women and then to the weapon at Thrash’s feet were
the first signs that perhaps...this wasn’t a buzzed dream.
Chapter Four
King braced himself for anything when he emerged in the swamps. Horrid images of his female soaked in blood kept slamming into his mind...it wasn’t supposed to be like this. He should’ve seen this coming. At least this...
Akan being anything but a piss ant villain was no surprise to him; King’s men had hunted the elusive ‘Black’ since he first heard of him. A being with the power to create and sell a pill that would give mortals immortal traits could not go unchecked. Nope.
When the natural becomes unnatural, it’s a fucked conundrum. Mother Nature does not tolerate conundrums in her kingdom. She also refuses to take the time to hunt and peck out the wrongs in her realms. It’s easier for her to destroy all and begin again. King had seen such things happen time and again. Which is exactly why there are basic rules that had to be followed.
Was he a hypocrite thinking all this considering his female stopped death and gave immortality? It depended on how one looked at the situation. Reveca was a soul who channeled the power to sustain and enhance life, but whose power was it? Simply stated it was her coven’s, those here and those long gone. If any one of those beings, which were humble servants to the grace of Mother Nature, had an issue the power would not have worked, at the very least it would’ve worked poorly, never lasted. King reasoned this was why the Club had dubbed some that had come back as Rogues.
No matter what King thought about the matter, it wasn’t his place to judge, nor his place to decide the just punishment.
Fuck this drug, his thoughts growled. Was it the drug fueling the conflict, or the conflict empowering the drug? King would have better luck figuring out what came first, the chicken or the egg.
A rich power was behind this all, that much King had known from day one. A power that would only grow to an unfathomable strength if not stopped.
Assuming it was Zale who empowered the drug never hit home with King. Zale’s power, like Reveca’s, was a collective one. At times, he may be able to pull more or exploit what he had, but in the end, the power belonged to the entire coven. They would’ve sensed and stopped a pull of force this great.
Dime store witches, even the stupid ones that would read from grimoires that should never be touched, could not hope to supply the power needed for the drug either. Tisk was a front, nothing more.
King knew the power came from somewhere else. His men had stalked Lords of Death, they had spied on every line of dark angels. They’d even found and questioned Witnesses, the warriors of the light beings. It was a stretch, but King had also spied on the few Selected warriors he knew to roam the dark universe. Nothing, not one damn lead came from any of it.
The last and only source King could dare to imagine having such a power would be a soul of a Throng. That was impossible, or was it? Like most, King wholeheartedly believed Throng’s had met their end. Worrying about how the new Sovereigns would manage their reign was not on King’s list of things to fret about. Before he gave such a thing an ounce of thought, he’d have to believe they all could rise and overthrow the present Gods.
King wasn’t a negative asshole—he was a realist. He’d walked among the gods. He’d felt their power. He’d seen their destruction and how slow they were to give mercy. The idea that mortals, young ones with barely twenty years into their current life could conquer them was not only laughable but also gave credence to the theory that the Creator had abandoned ship. Pretty much said ‘fuck it’ next time no free will!
What is it they say, when every option had been explored then all that is left would be the impossible, or some shit like that? King had to seriously take into account what kind of soul a surviving member of a Throng would be like. It was a pleasant picture. It is one thing to think a maniac could slaughter beings connected to them, beings closer than any family, quite the other to know this soul was able to feel their victim’s pain and emotions as their own as the horrid act went down.
Once it was over, such a person would be akin to a legend pulling off a heist of the century. They’d be sitting on more power than they knew what to do with but couldn’t show a soul. They’d have to go on with their existence blending in, trying to look like all the other struggling sons of bitches out there. Always looking over their shoulder, never trusting anyone.
No way in hell someone with such power would linger around New Orleans—home of the Dominarum coven, home of the mother chapter of first generation immortals. It would be the same as a heist master having a picnic in the task force office. Like the law, immortals would have been able to sense mischief close by.
There it was, though. Black, right in the center of it all. Leaving King to question why. The coming Rapture was a valid reason; under such powerful shifts in the universe, the only thing anyone can count on was the unexpected. It was still too early, though. As soon as King began to grabble with the ‘what if’s’ little moments began to have more relevance. Like how Scorpio sensed Talon’s pain before Talon ever let it be known on his expression. How easily Scorpio moved from his throne to the Boneyard. The fear Reveca had deep inside her when she visited Akan when he was a prisoner...
The rest unfolded so fast, even if King had not lost Dagen in the mix he would’ve had a hard time balancing everything at once. Hearing of Reveca’s outbursts in her past in no way prepared him for how real and violent they could be. He had no idea how the Sons had survived any of them, his level of respect for Reveca’s family doubled overnight.
King thought he had it all under control. Keep Reveca safe from everyone, including herself by locking her their home. A mystic detox followed by an intense one on one intervention seemed like the perfect cure at the time. It also gave him time to face one of the cruelest realities he could fathom. No matter how many tomorrows King may or may not have his best friend, the one being he could trust to steady the storms would not be at his side. He and Dagen would never be the same again.
Truth this harsh, one that didn’t even have a hope of existing in King’s mindset days before, had knocked King winding. He owed Dagen freedom. He also owed it to him to repay the favor and stand at his side as he pieced together a life that was once his again. King couldn’t be. The dark sense of humor the universe at large had placed him and his best friend on opposite sides of the battlefield. Fucking asshat universe.
King never expected this, to discover Reveca wasn’t sleeping soundly as he worked to fortify his legions at her side. He’d felt Reveca there, right there at his side the entire time, right until moments before the first drop of her blood was spilled. He should’ve felt her exit, her pushing through his power to leave, or someone pushing through to take her.
He could blame Windsome, blame a million other distractions, and perhaps he would one day, right now he just had to find Reveca.
Monroe had sent King to the swamp, a cruelly poetic place to both King and Reveca. The best and worst of life between them had always happened in this environment.
The air was even thicker tonight, and it had nothing to do with the humidity that was so thick you could drink it. It was the power adding gravity to the air King was standing in. Nearly every problem he had was within striking distance. Akan was to the south hidden behind an illusion of thick swamp. Talon and Saige along with a host of others were five miles east of him. The Sons had managed to cover every direction and then some.
Telling them exactly where Akan was would do no one any good. Akan could allude them for days with his tricks, in the end, the Sons would be exhausted and no use to this war. Corralling the walking dead was far better use of the Sons skills right now.
King’s men would keep Akan where he was, a force surely felt by Akan, but not seen.
If Akan chose to leave, the spell in place would break apart. Choosing to leave meant Akan accepted the outcome as it were. Scorpio and Toril were still standing; Reveca’s power was still in her possession, at least until her judgment. King knew Akan would not leave. Even if there
was no guard around him. He’d come too far to quit.
King stepped forward, a breath shuttered through his body. No amount of living could prepare him for a night like this. What words do you say to someone so close to leaving you forever? Sometimes, it is better not to know when you are saying your last words.
Reveca was on her knees; her hands were gently gripping the damp soil as she stared into the thick fog all around her. Less than three feet were between her and the muddy bank. Gators slithered by her as they roamed into the dark water without a sound. Three crows perched on a log by the water staring her way. Lightening bugs gleamed as they passed her by. What light they did have, along with King’s pristine eyesight, bared Reveca’s flawless skin, not so much as a bug bite could be seen. It wasn’t a good sign. If there were marks, it would mean she remembered, better yet accepted, what had happened. The shock would’ve made it easier for her to set aside mortal world dramas and look forward into the unknown humbly.
Step by step he could feel his soul pulse as he came closer to her. He was upon her before she looked up at him and drew in a sharp gasp of fear. When she realized it was him, her smile was pained, quick to come, leaving just as fast as her stare moved back to the fog covered water.
“This dimension is haunted,” she said filling the silence.
King arched a brow. Such an odd thing for the Queen of the Dead to say.
“Did I ever tell you I killed a seraph...a being whose bloodline had protected Throngs of eras?”
King’s body tensed as all his worries for this female doubled; he hoped she was exaggerating, fooled by her mind in some way. Such a think would be an act of evil, downright malevolent.
“I was twelve,” she said. “He wouldn’t kiss me,” her smirk was half-hearted. “I pushed him off the cliffs then went home for dinner cursing him with every step.”
It was weak, but relief rubbed against King’s emotions. No fall from a cliff could harm a seraph.
