by Lee Stephen
Scott sat up in his bed and pressed a hand against its frame to support himself. He eased his other hand through his hair. It was the first time Dostoevsky had ever asked—had ever given him a choice to go. Scott looked over at his closet, at the suit of armor he’d dragged there himself.
Scott knew the choice he’d made—the answer to Dostoevsky’s question. He’d chosen it before the comms ever beeped.
The Pariah was primed and ready for flight. Inside the cockpit, Travis and Boris prepared for departure.
Conversation was virtually dead. A majority of the crew sat in the troop bay, while the four new Nightmen stood outside. But they weren’t the only ones outside. Dostoevsky was there. Jayden and Becan were there. At the far end of the troop bay, Varvara and Esther stared at the hangar’s side door.
Would he come? It was the second time that week they’d asked the question. Their answer came soon enough.
When he walked into the hangar, everyone turned to face him. They wanted to find their Golden Lion. But that was not what they found.
Where there had once been an expression that burned with confidence, they now found a stare hindered in crux. Where there once had been a stride fit for a knight, they now found a tread of contrition. Where there once had been an aura of righteousness, they now found an imprint of vice.
But that was not all they found.
They found horns. They found blackness. They found sin. They found punishment for the deeds of the fallen—the cost of a murder for love. Their Golden Lion had left them.
This new man, none of them knew.
THREE DAYS LATER
Tuesday, August 16, 0011 NE
1245 hours
Vilnius, Lithuania
As she pushed open the door to her house and stepped outside, she shielded her eyes from the glare of the midday sun. It was not an unpleasant movement, and as she brushed her golden strands from her forehead, she smiled.
The day shone with splendor. The clouds of earlier that morning had now dissipated, leaving the skies like a clear blue sea. Gentle waves of wind drifted past her as the warm fragrance of summer caressed her senses. She padded barefoot to the road.
She wore a short-sleeved ecru shirt; its lacy bodice was draped over faded jeans—jeans given to her by her mother only months before. They were designer jeans, more than her mother could afford. But they were worth it for the girl who’d come home.
As she approached the mailbox in front of her house, a young boy on a bicycle pedaled past. “Will you come play with me today, beautiful princess?”
She laughed and gave him an impish look. “And make all the other girls jealous?”
The boy grinned and sped along.
She was indeed a beautiful woman; she could pass for a princess. But it had not always been that way. Her elegance had come with maturation. It had come after her childhood had passed. It felt as though it had come too late.
There was a coldness inside her. There was a distance to her heart. She knew it, and she tried hard to fight it. But it was who she was. She was a girl with an invisible wall—one she’d built up in her youth. Only two men had been able to scale it. The first man was gone. The second man wasn’t allowed to count.
She pulled open the mailbox and looked inside, tucking her hair behind her ear as she did. It was empty. There were no letters, no papers. There was nothing at all.
Easing the mailbox shut, she turned and walked back to the house. She allowed herself one extra moment to soak in the sun’s rays that poured down above her. She closed her eyes, leaned her head back, and smiled. It was warmth that she’d missed. It was warmth that she’d missed more than anything. The feeling had yet to grow old.
She stepped inside and made her way to the kitchen. An older woman—a woman in her sixties—was sitting at the table. She was reading the paper. It was her mother.
“Mama, did you get the mail today?” the daughter asked in Russian.
Her mother turned to look at her. “Yes.” She indicated the far end of the table. “The mail is right there.”
“Is there anything for me?”
For a moment, the older woman hesitated. “Yes.” As the daughter stepped to the table to find her letter, her mother’s eyes lingered on her. Only when her daughter had begun to rummage through the pile did the mother speak once again. “It is from Novosibirsk.”
The daughter froze in her search. Her eyes moved to her mother as she held the stack of letters in her hand. “From Novosibirsk?”
“Yes.”
The young woman’s gaze distanced for a moment before she returned to the stack. After several more flips, she found the letter with her name. She recognized its sender immediately—she knew the handwriting well.
She stared at it for several long seconds before placing the stack back on the table. She offered her mother a brief, forced smile, then quickly fled from the kitchen. She made her way up the stairs to her bedroom, where she closed and locked the door.
Her bedroom was painted sunflower yellow, with white molding along the ceiling and floor. She’d painted it herself, very recently. Though the paint’s fresh scent had since passed, the room nonetheless smelled brand new. Souvenirs and photographs lined the dressers, with an occasional bright-colored sticker pasted between them. Everything was set up in a girlish display, but it was one that she liked. She enjoyed the memory of youth. It reminded her of a time when life was innocent.
Before Novosibirsk was ever a thought.
She pulled open the curtains of her bedroom window, allowing sunlight to warm her through the glass. Sitting on her bed, she crossed her legs and held the letter in front of her. She had an impulse not to open it—an urge not to know. But her fingers persuaded her otherwise.
She opened the envelope, slipped out the letter, and slowly unfolded it.
To my dear friend,
I am sorry I have not written you sooner. I hope that everything is well.
There is something I have to tell you. I do not know how to say it, and I do not know how you will feel, but I know it must be said.
Things have been bad for us here. I am so sorry to write this. Galya has died. She was killed at Lake Baikal. I write to tell you this, but I write to tell you something else, too.
Scott’s fiancee came here to visit him, but the Nightmen killed her. She was dead in his arms. I was there.
I do not know how to say what has happened, but I must try. He has become one of them. He tried to avenge her death, but killed an innocent man instead. Yuri lied to him to get him to murder.
I fear for him and this unit. I have never seen a man fall like this. His hurt is destroying us all.
He is not the man whom you knew. But he can be saved. I know what he needs to be saved, but I cannot do it. I do not know if any of us here can. We do not understand what he feels. I do not know what else I can do.
I cannot find it in me to ask you. But I suppose you already know. Only one other person has lost love here. Only one other knows how he hurts. Please, Sveta. Remember him. It is he who now needs a hero.
I am sorry I have not written sooner. Please forgive me. Please tell your mother hello.
Your dear friend,
Varvara
She read through the whole letter without stopping. Then she read it again. As she focused on each single word, a fondness recaptured her heart—a pain that had never truly gone away. It was of someone who had once saved her life, and of the debt that was yet to be paid. It was the one who wasn’t allowed.
If you will be there for me, I will be there for you. I promise.
She read the letter over and over, until she could read it no more. She read until her vision went blurry. Until her ocean-blue eyes overflowed.
E P I C * B O O K 3
HERO
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Acknowledgments
Many noteworthy acknowledgments were made in book one, and they apply here as well.
To God, for loving me when I don’t deserve it, and for making me who I am. You are everything.
To my fiancee, Lindsey, for standing with me throughout this endeavor. Thank you for saying yes! I love you.
To my family and friends, thank all of you for your support. You’re the backbone behind my creative confidence, and I cherish every one of you.
To my four-person production team of Arlene Prunkl, Fiona Raven, Francois Cannels, and Justin Durban, thanks once again for your tremendous efforts. Without you, this series doesn’t happen.
To Mike Eckert, once again, for always being willing to lend a helping hand.
To Ken Rousseau, for setting me straight medically and proving that, as is often the case, reality is more fascinating than fiction.
To Robert Fanney, for your wisdom, friendship, and encouragement. Luthiel would rock with an assault rifle!
To Robert Osborne and Adamma Ubasineke, for setting me straight with those names.
To Earl and Denise, for your constant encouragement and behind-the-scenes involvement.
To Aaron Spuler, for being an incredible fan and friend. Your excitement blows me away!
To the TBBBB, once again, for being as unbelievably supportive as you’ve been. You guys and gals are out of this world. I’m still not converting, though (who dat!).
And once again, to every fan who picked up book one, thank you tremendously for your willingness to take a chance on an unknown author. We’re just getting started.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Lee Stephen is a native of St. Charles Parish, Louisiana, and a graduate of Louisiana College in Pineville. Along with writing, he has worked in the fields of education, entertainment, and emergency preparedness.
To read Lee’s Christian testimony, please visit his website at http://www.epicuniverse.com/testimony/.
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