Number of the Beast (Paladin Cycle, Book One)

by Lita Stone

  Realizing that she heard no crickets, insects or even a single hooting owl or distant coyote caused more anxiety to coil inside her stomach. For years, she’d heard the creepy tales about the Sacred Oaks forest that happened to thrive right next to where she lived, and now she might actually get to experience the spookiness in real time all by herself.

  Behind her ribcage, her heart hammered a mile a minute. When she stepped forward her legs became the consistency of swamp goo. But she forced herself into the woods because Shane would wring her neck if she didn’t fetch Alamo.

  Branches and long grass scratched her bare arms and legs as she shambled into the accursed woods.

  Chapter Three

  Isaac, in his nude human state, sloshed from the murky pond onto the marshy bank. The Narkush stone embedded in his chest flickered from its usual vibrant crimson to a pale gray. It obviously did not liken to the polluted atmosphere.

  A black cloud of gnats and mosquitoes, along with a canine greeted him. Isaac knelt on one knee, sinking several inches into the mushy ground. A square piece of metal hung from the animal’s neck. It read: Alamo 204-6701. He gently removed the collar and tossed it into the water.

  You are freed. Take leave of me. He silently spoke to the canine, using their native tongue, but the small beast only cocked its head, ears perked, as if it hadn’t understood his command.

  Had this creature forgotten the native tongue of Beast?

  Bearing his own teeth, Isaac growled. From the tops of trees, roosting birds squawked and took flight.

  The pitiful creature whimpered, tucked his tail and scampered back into the woods from whence he had come. Such a deplorable sight to behold. If by chance Isaac should cross paths with the mortal who had enslaved the animal, he would revel in the pleasure of returning the sentiment.

  He shrugged the swamp vegetation from his shoulders and black hair. More gray-green algae clung to his genitals. He picked the herbage from his person and flung it aside. “I despise this ill-begotten land already.”

  Anxious to complete his Mother’s bidding and return to his home realm, he fell on all fours and morphed into Geminus, a lean, jet-black panther. Launching into a sprint, he arrowed through the thick forest. At the edge of the woods, Isaac unfurled his razor-edged crescent wings, wings that rivaled the span of an Eldritch gargoyle. With one final cursory glance at the enslaved canine, he soared toward the horizon well above the forest canopy.

  Roaring, he announced his arrival to the creatures of this kingdom called Texas.

  Chapter Four

  For seventeen years Atticus had been raised and trained in the compound of the Order of Abel—just one of the many sacred and hidden cloisters of modern day knights known as Paladins. Descendants of the ancient warriors who'd slew the evils of the world since the fall of Sodom.

  Atticus and his prophetic brother, Rourn, birthed on the same day under the Geminus sign and on a night where the Sun, Mercury and Earth line up in a supposed rare cosmic occurrence. They were the Twin warriors prophesied to be the only beings capable of defeating a supernatural Beast from beyond the extra-dimensional stars, prophesied to come within Atticus’ and Rourn’s mortal lifetime.

  For an ancient Order of modern day knights purporting to be the protectors of the modern world, the Elders and High Templars liked too much to trust in the ravings of divine seers long dead and buried in forgotten catacombs.

  So until that unlikely star-born Beast appeared on Earth, Atticus was going to seize any opportunity he could find to enjoy the beauties life had to offer. And at seventeen, raised in a cloister of strict discipline where every day's motto was See no evil. Hear no evil. Do no evil, he still could not curb hormonal desires.

  And Venora was the most desirable girl he’d ever met.

  He entered the barn but the ruckus he heard earlier had already ceased. Silence prevailed save for the occasional neighing of a fidgety mare. He tapped on the stall doors as he passed.

  When he reached the weathered wooden ladder extending into the loft, he announced, “I'm coming for you, Nora.”

  Slowly, he climbed.

  Nothing but stacks of golden hay, five bales high, two dozen across. Cobwebs clung to the rafters. Strands of old straw and poofs of gray dust balls were caught in the webs. A small leather-bound journal lay on a solitary bale of hay closest to the loft's window.

  Many Paladins, men and women, kept journals as it was encouraged by the Elders. Once upon a time Atticus had kept one, but he’d lost interest long ago. Writing about emotions and his intellectual interests gave him no thrill.

  But Venora gave him a thrill. He crept toward the journal. Curiosity stirred like mystic spices inside a gypsy's brew.

  He couldn't read Nora's journal. Or could he?

  His hand reached out.

  A yell echoed from behind. He spun.

  Venora swung from a rope. Her slender legs wrapped around his waist like double serpents. As she released the rope, he attempted to escape her grapple. A dainty foot hooked his left knee. He fell forward as she scurried away.

  Venora, a self-taught assassin, never missed an opportunity to prove herself worthy of such a title. Standing a few feet away, her stance wide, she brushed her hands together, as if finishing a lengthy chore. “A Twin is defeated. Defeated by a maiden no less.”

  Atticus sprung to his feet. He lunged for her. She flipped backwards, landing on the top of a haystack. From between the bails she recovered a wooden training sword.

  Feisty she-devil! Atticus had no fear of a girl, sword or no sword.

  Placing the sword between her teeth, Venora leapt to the rafter boards and, like a monkey, hand-over-hand scaled over him before dropping herself in front of the loft window directly behind him. The sword immediately returned to her hand. Atticus no longer saw a playful young maiden, but a fatalistic predator. Venora knew what he was seeing because she licked her lips before hurling her sword.

  Atticus ducked. The sword sped overhead.

  “I have you now,” he said.

  Venora smirked.

  A small force tapped his spine. Atticus whirled to witness the wooden sword floating in mid-air, wavering like a taunting finger, before it fell to the hay-strewn floor.

  Venora wasn’t just a self-trained assassin. She possessed a spark of the arcane. Indeed, one day she’d make a formidable foe. And perhaps an even more formidable wife for some unfortunate man.

  She sat onto the haystack, her legs draped over the side, heels kicking at the dried needles. “I want to leave the compound.”

  Atticus climbed and sat beside her. His gaze moved over her smooth, tan skin where only strips of crisscrossed leather covered her breasts and nether regions.

  “I’m sure many of us do,” Atticus said.

  “I want to someday be a member of the Circle of the Ark so that I can see the sea. Instead of miles and miles of desert sand there will be miles and miles of refreshing water...out on the exotic briny like the dashing pirates of yore!”

  Smiling, he gave a quick peck to her sweaty cheek. “Perhaps you will get the chance someday. But isn’t piracy a sinful thing?”

  “Only if you’re a bad pirate,” she said. “I’ll be the Robin Hood of the seven seas.”

  “Then perhaps that would be all right,” Atticus said.

  Venora sprawled on her back across the hay and stared dreamily up at the dark wooden rafters. Beads of sweat full of temptation rolled away from her bare shoulder and arms. “The Order of Grey Griffins in Romania train women Paladins to be lethal assassins. Their women wear the shadows like second skins; they can strike a man dead in a flash of smoke without ever being detected.”

  “There are duties for you here. Things you could be doing now to better serve our Order.”

  “I do not have any desire to be a wet nurse or a pastry chef. I have abilities like you and Rourn. Someday, soon I hope, to be valued by the Paladins for more than my aptness at working dough.” She squirmed a bit and turned toward him. “A
nd aren’t you one to speak about better serving the Order. Shouldn’t you be spending every waking moment training for the arrival of the Beast?”

  Atticus chuckled. “You and I both know that the prophecy is only lore.”

  “I don’t know any such thing,” Venora replied. “What if it shall come to be and you are not prepared?”

  Atticus turned to his side, their faces breaths apart. “It is not as though it will happen anytime soon. And even if it did occur, I am prepared as adequately as Rourn to deal with the foul little Beast.”

  “I pray to God that you know yourself as well as you believe so. And believe me when I say that the Order of Abel oppresses my desires. One day soon, Atticus, I will break the cage and soar away from here. Soar far, far away.” She spread her arms like a valiant hawk.

  An ache twisted in Atticus’ gut. The compound without Nora? “But I intend to come to you one night and wisp you to the chapel where I will make you my wife. We’ll get drunk on brandy and make love beneath the desert sky.” Winking, he elbowed her. “You will give your maidenhood to that of a mighty, powerful and deadly Twin warrior.” Atticus jumped to his feet. He struck a pose, flexing his arm muscles.

  Venora laughed, the sound bringing a smile to his face and a twitch to his erect manhood. He sat back down. “You will be revered as royalty. Will you stay then?”

  Venora scowled. “Has the Order stopped teaching the art of chivalry? You’re a barbaric man, Atticus.” She got to her feet, stretching her arms above her. “But alas, I cannot promise you my hand in marriage since I aim to leave soon.”

  Venora’s dreams sometimes frightened him. She could not accept her lot as a woman who was expected to do womanly tasks. She needed a warrior like him to tame that wild spirit and seal her wicked tongue with a righteous kiss.

  “Your dreams reach farther than the coyote’s howl,” he said. “But someday I know you will desire my husbandry.”

  The smile she cast was forced. “In my heart of hearts I know that someday you shall come to understand my dreams.”

  Atticus stood and headed for the ladder. “I have to return to my post.”

  Venora stepped toward him. Her lips formed into that trademark smirk that could charm a vulture into eating figs. “If you don’t believe the Beast will show itself then come with me when I leave.” She wrapped her arms around him. Her naked lips touched his.

  Was Elder Cai’s brandy this sweet and intoxicating?

  He firmly pushed her to arm’s length. “Calm yourself, Nora. We cannot allow our carnal wants to cloud our judgments. We must continue to court as we are now, until I turn of proper age to wed you in holy matrimony.”

  Though he spoke the words like a true gentleman who had mastered the elusive art of chivalry, he secretly wanted nothing more than to bed her right there in the haystack. To see the light of dusk bathe over her naked flesh would have been sheer bliss.

  Venora turned and fetched her training sword from the straw-covered wooden floor. “I do not belong here. This world needs me somewhere else that is not New Mexico—that is not the Order of Abel.”

  The explicit sorrow in her tone brought a shiver to Atticus. “Venora, please.” He crossed the loft and reached for her bare shoulder. But she darted away and with one swift motion leaped through the aperture.

  “Blasted maiden!” One of these days she would be his undoing.

  Chapter Five

  A bright light spiraled from somewhere deeper inside the forest and in the direction that Alamo had run. Just past the Hangman’s tree, named for its thick horizontal branch, Amy paused to catch her breath. Dizziness blurred her vision. A violent pain skewed her gut forcing her to clutch her stomach. Hot vomit seared her throat as she puked on a wad of tangled roots and vines. With her forearm, she wiped remnants of the puke from her mouth. Heat flashed through her body. What the heck was wrong with her?

  Female. Hear me!

  Amy glanced back, searching for the source of the strange and deep voice, but she saw nothing unusual. Years had passed since the last time she heard a voice in her head, and this one didn’t sound familiar, nor friendly.

  With the bottom of her tank top she wiped flecks of blood from arm that had been spawned by bothersome briar bushes.

  She had no time for psychosis right now, and chose to ignore the unbridled voice. “Alamo! Come back here you stupid mutt!”

  The dang no-see-um buzzing her ear was the only response to her plea.

  If she wasn’t a good Christian woman, she’d love to spout some choice words. Instead she bit her lower lip and flung herself through more briars and bramble. “Alamo!”

  Heed these callings. The Beast’s hour comes near.

  Stumbling, Amy took a hard dive to the ground. She scanned her surroundings. Nothing but overgrowth and the stretching darkness that gloomed the woods.

  Forsake the mongrel. Return now to your abode.

  Amy slapped hands over her ears, trying to drown the voice echoing in her mind.

  The voice seethed in coarse, throaty animalistic tones.

  Was this it? Was this the moment that she’d go off the deep end, never to return from the brink of sanity? Move over Aunt Carol.

  Hear me, female.

  “Female is my gender,” she hissed, submitting to her derangement. “Not my name.”

  I come to thwart the end of all worlds.

  “The only thing you’re thwarting is my grip on reality.” Amy shook her head.

  Vicki, Shane’s dead sister, was the last voice she’d heard, having landed her in the looney bin. Whatever...whoever this voice was, she wanted no part of it. Her past had taught her that strange voices only led to an asylum and she very much liked living in Buckeye...with Shane...not under lock and key...and definitely not doped up on Seroquel.

  “You’re not real.” Her legs trembled as she hugged her knees into her chest. Rocking on the ground, she repeated, “You’re not real.”

  For several moments an eerie quietness held the forest still. She reluctantly got to her feet, wishing more than anything to be back in the trailer safe and sound.

  A firm, bony hand gripped her shoulder. Screaming, she swung wildly at whatever had her in its clutches. Her long hair flung about her head, strands sticking to her sweaty face. Squeezing her eyes shut, she kicked and shook, but two hands restrained her flailing arms.

  “What you doing out here all alone, cher?”

  She calmed at the sound of Abe’s familiar and calm voice. Opening her eyes, stilling herself, she turned around and flung her arms around him. Shaky arms snaked around his neck. Salty tears dampened his black T-shirt and fatigues.

  His waist-length silver hair, usually tied into a ponytail, now hung loose over his shoulders. Some joked that Abe looked like Jesus. Only if Jesus wore military fatigues and had a tattoo of a serpent curled around his neck and chest, the beady serpentine eyes visible between the V of his shirt.

  With one calloused thumb, he wiped a tear from her cheek. “What’s got you so spooked?”

  Amy hiccupped and pointed. “A light. A voice. And Alamo is lost.” The tone of her own frantic voice unnerved her.

  Another eruption echoed off the darkened trees. The light continued spiraling toward the sky.

  Abe’s brows lowered as he peered in the direction of the strange light and sound. “Go home, cher. Now.”

  “I think it came from Sera’s Pond.”

  “Don’t be so coo-yôn! Goin’ near dat there pond or house ain’t no good thing. You be smart, cher and stay away. Let me see to the matter.” Shadows framed his hard stoic face.

  “What are you doing out here?”

  “Poaching. Now go home.”

  Normally she found Abe’s protective nature comforting, but for some reason the harshness in his tone annoyed her. “Yeah, right. You’re out here ‘cause you know something. What is it? Spill.”

  “Excuse Abe’s manners.” He threw up his hands. “But I got colon polyps older than you, mon amie, which means
I ain’t got to tell you nothin’.”

  Amy scowled, but knew it was futile to try reasoning with the coonass. His past as a U.S. Marine combined with his Wichita and Cajun heritage made him one ornery old geezer. He was a survivalist who lived off the land. The blood in his veins made him more obstinate than a two-headed rattlesnake, each head vying for the same prey.

  Abe retrieved an item from his pocket and offered Amy a small glass vial. “You be a sweet girl now and go home. You don't go worrying your pretty self over no sounds and lights in these here woods.”

  Amy smiled as she took the vial. He’d been giving her the serum since forever. She never asked what it was made of. Didn’t want to know, because if she found out it contained snake urine and frog guts she wouldn’t be able to stomach it. And she didn’t want to give it up. The effects of the mysterious concoction calmed her like Earl Grey on steroids.

  Though she hadn’t found Alamo, Amy didn’t like ignoring Abe’s warnings to return home. She turned to leave but hesitated. “Abe?”

  “Cher?”

  “Be careful.”

  He gave her a nod and disappeared into the dark woods.

  Amy hurried toward the trailer with the vial clutched protectively in her fist. She pushed the rude, somewhat scary voice from her mind, concentrating only on getting home.

  As she broke from the vine-entangled shrubbery, she spotted the acacia. A comforting warmth washed over her. Freya still remained at her post, patrolling the edge of the woods.

  Amy scooped her up. “I sure hope you aren’t seeing any wicked things in those cursed woods.”

  Hissing toward the forest, Freya pushed higher into her arms, wrapping herself around Amy’s neck.

  Standing at the far end of the front yard was Alamo. He’d come home. Thank goodness. The dog ran toward her. Something furry was in his mouth. As he neared, she noticed the rat’s defiled grave. The head was gone.

  Fighting the urge to beat the dog senseless, she knelt on her knees and held out her hand, palm up.

  With a wagging tail, Alamo crunched the head and swallowed.

  “No!”

  Fear not the vermin, boomed the harsh male voice in her head. Beware the Beast.