by Lita Stone
“Ever hear of the moon rabbit?” Abe asked. “Folks say it’s a behemoth of a jackrabbit that dwells up on the moon and pounds on moonstones to make elixirs of life. But that there rabbit ain’t nothin’ compared to Vostrict, the scorpion sentinel to the gateway of countless Hells, up on the Martian moon, Deimos. Course, some been saying he guards gates on our world, too. If Abe sees a big-ass bug like that, he be movin’ somewhere else for sure.”
Abe tilted his head to a corner of the shop where a funnel-shaped web clung to the crumbling ceiling and wall. A spindly Hobo spider waited amongst the sticky strands. “The Moon sent that there spider down to Earth to give us simpleton folk a message.” He crushed the empty beer can and tossed it into a wastebasket.
Scooter asked, “So what’s the message?”
“Fuck if I know, boy.” Abe studied the arachnid with a slanted stare. “The Moon can even drive a spider insane.” He cracked a fresh beer and walked to a shelf where dozens of Styrofoam cartons containing night crawlers were stored.
“Thanks.” Amy dropped a couple dollars on the counter.
Scooter knelt in front of the glass casing and examined a box of bullets labeled: OMEN AMMUNITION. Written in smaller print: Genuine Pure Silver Ammo.
“Are those really silver bullets?” Scooter asked.
“What do people want silver bullets for?” Amy asked. “Ain’t that what they use to kill vampires?”
“Werewolves,” Scooter said. “Silver bullets kill werewolves.”
Abe grumbled something beneath his breath. “Worse things out there than what you see on them Universal pictures.” He sipped his fresh beer. “Silver is a lunar element, linked with the moon. But I reckon it’d do as good a job as a lead bullet.”
“Interesting.” Amy knelt and examined the other items in the glass case. A small wooden box with bronze latches. A beige price tag hung from it with Abe’s handwriting: AUTHENTIC TROLL SLAYING KIT - $599.82.
“You know how curious them outsiders are,” Abe said. “Come to Buckeye on hunting trips and they hear about them strange tales coming out of the old Rawlings House and them woods. I figure I might as well make a buck off their monster hunts by offering silver bullets, wooden stakes and holy water. That reminds me.” Abe braced himself on the countertop with both elbows, looking at Amy. “Do you by chance know somebody that goes by the name Tobias?”
Amy jolted upright from her kneeling position. “What do you know of him?” Her fingers gripped the edge of the counter.
Abe plopped on the stool and rolled to the left. He rummaged under the counter. When he rolled back he set down something covered in a brown cloth. “Take this here, cher. I suspect it was meant for you.”
With trembling fingers, Amy unwrapped the cloth.
Scooter gawked at the dagger hidden in the folds of the dirty rag. “Awesome.”
Etched in gold lettering into the ivory handle was one word. TOBIAS.
“Where did you get this?” Amy asked.
Abe swiveled toward the fish tank. With his back toward Amy and Scooter, he mumbled, “Fuck if I know, cher.”
Chapter Sixteen
Atticus stood on the russet red sandstone battlement atop the rugged Tower of Tribulation. He glared across the white and burnt sandscape flecked with cacti. Sparse sun-dried shrubbery spilled over a distant ravine. Bound with a black band, his red ponytail draped down the length of his back. Hands clasped behind him, he planted his boots on the tarnished parapet, the last place Rourn, had stood before he threw himself over the ledge.
Rourn had plunged a hundred-and-forty feet where he smashed face-first into the sand.
Healer Merrick had said the Twin warrior broke his neck on impact and passed from this world without torment.
Rourn abandoned him: no warrior partner, no confidant, no blood brother...no friend of worth.
Atticus gazed over the ledge and spat. “Coward!”
Sticky hot droplets splattered on the back of his neck. His head snapped up. Hovering yards above, a charcoal leather-skinned gargoyle flapped bat-like wings. Mustard-yellow saliva oozed from its open maw. It circled the tower, screeching like a banshee—a scavenger searching for its next meal.
“Come to me, fiend!” Atticus grasped the pistol in his leg holster, but hesitated. Not that way, he thought.
With rawhide gloved fingers, he snatched the pearl encrusted hilt of his sheathed short sword, freeing the blade from its scabbard.
The beast swooped. Talons reached for his scalp, but Atticus ducked and rolled. He bent his knees and thrust forward.
The gargoyle dodged to his right flank, evading Atticus’ strike.
Atticus cursed. Then repented for the swearing, and muttered a quick prayer for aid against the foe.
The creature took to the sky. It hissed and screeched. The gargoyle’s ruby eyes glowed as it descended.
Atticus scrambled, but the creature proved cunning and slammed into his chest like a sack of iron ingots. A crushing pain burst from under his breast.
Damnation!
A claw grazed his torso, slashing his shirt open. The padding beneath shielded his belly from serious injury.
Enraged, Atticus hurled his sword upward. The blade’s tip struck the gargoyle’s underbelly, but ricocheted off the scaly hide before clattering to the floor. Hissing, it swooped down, landing on the battlement a few yards away.
Through gritted teeth, Atticus inhaled a painful breath.
Lotus-eaters alive! A cracked rib.
He spat bile and snatched the pistol from his leg holster. The gargoyle crept closer. Rancid smoke blew from its black nostrils. Lines creased Atticus’ forehead. Nose scrunched, he stifled a gag. All Paladins were trained to use firearms as a last resort.
He leveled the gun, steadied his hand.
Then he tossed the gun aside.
He flexed his fingers and stepped toward the creature. Ruby eyes flashed bright, while leathery lips stretched to reveal rows of sharp gleaming fangs.
Atticus loosened his muscles. Facing the creature but turned slightly sideways, he assumed a staggered stance. His hands glided into position near his chest and abdomen, fingerer tips slanted and partially spaced. “Let’s end this, you bone-sucking fiend!”
The gargoyle lumbered forward, tilting its head back, mouth gaping, screeching vehemently.
Atticus swept past the gargoyle’s right flank, and immediately whirled his right boot, planting the heel harshly into the creature’s backside. A loud reverberating crack, and the gargoyle staggered forward. While the creature still remained dazed, Atticus dashed to its opposite flank where he delivered another high kick to the creature’s broad, bony shoulder blade.
When the pathetic creature slashed out in blind rage, Atticus sidestepped the strikes. He continued keeping his distance as the frenzied creature assailed the air in front of itself with wild abandonment. The glowing red eyes had lost much of their previous fervor.
Taking advantage of the creature’s loss of focus, Atticus raced to his sword lying a few feet away. Just as he gripped the hilt, the creature lunged forward with outstretched arms and hooked claws. With his side facing the lunging beast, and no time to reposition his stance, Atticus speared his sword forward and slid toward the creature’s deadly embrace.
The tip of the blade pierced into the creature’s throat, tender and soft; its arms went limp, and its whole body writhed, convulsing, before vanishing into a column of orange flames, leaving Atticus standing with sword held in mid-air.
From the far side of the tower, echoed the sounds of clapping hands, measured and slow.
With one hand, Atticus braced himself on the wall, and with his other, he palmed his aching chest. “Did I pass the test?”
Elder Cai crossed the battlement, his steps graceful and swift. A black robe flowed around him. Green leather pants hugged his nimble legs; a black leather vest with pearl-laden straps crisscrossed his chest. From each ear dangled a pearl earring—the symbolic gem of the Paladins. Elder Cai
held a glass ball. Within it, lightning flickered and the tiny shadow of the gargoyle faded from view.
The dry desert wind carried the foul remnants of the gargoyle’s stench far into the endless desert.
“Superb, my boy! It is good that you resisted the use of the firearm. My cautions about relying too much on guns and bullets have embedded into your psyche; I can see that for certain. And your remarkable display of the Palakration martial arts will be more lethal than any modern weapon.”
“Yes, Elder, but it would have been so much easier to have just blown the fiend away with the gun.”
“But we are not akin to those Paladin factions who worship technology over innate skill. We can learn much from the strength of nature and the environment, and rely on its awesome and ancient knowledge, and not the marvels of the nuclear age.”
“My skills are superior but…” Wincing, Atticus holstered his sword and pistol, then cradled his upper torso. “I was a fool to relinquish my blade in a fit of rage.”
“You maintain an air of mourning for the death of Rourn that continues to obscure your judgment.”
“He was like my real brother, as you are like my real father. How can I simply forget that he is gone?”
“Because it is your duty to do so! Now get up and act the Twin warrior that you are. We must continue your training.” He extended a slender arm, palm up.
“Yes, sir.” Atticus grunted, his arm wrapped around his chest. “The gargoyle was more punishing than the vampyre you had us battle last week.”
If Rourn was still alive Elder Cai would have sent three gargoyles, and both of them would have yearned for a fourth.
“Do you think your adversaries will be merciful? If you cannot handle a gargoyle or a little soreness then how can you ever expect to face the Beast?”
“I will be prepared if the Beast ever comes.”
“He is coming soon, Atticus. Very soon. Rourn knew this, and so do I. You must be prepared.”
Atticus held his head high. “Then, I am,” he said with confidence. “If it is true that this Beast is coming, then I shall kill him in name of holy vengeance!”
“Revenge,” Elder Cai said the word wryly, “is possibly the least important reason for stopping the Beast. But go now, seek a healer, and prepare for the graduation ceremony later this evening. And we will hold a warrior’s funeral for Rourn tomorrow morning.”
“Yes, sir.” Atticus bowed before stumbling toward the mechanical lift.
Chapter Seventeen
Cinder detested politics and drama. It was the way of their people never to get involved in ridiculous things. But when the Dark Trinity appeared to him, he could not refuse, for he liked his head on his shoulders, which was the least of the promises the abomination had threatened him with.
As instructed, he entered the woods right before sunset. Just as the Dark Trinity had said, two men came trekking through the forest at exactly 4:43. Both men wore camo with orange hunter’s vest.
Cinder stepped out from behind the wide oak, obstructing the two men’s path.
“What the hell is this?” the one named Chris asked. “You’re that freak from the bar.”
Cinder puffed blue smoke from the tip of his thick cigar. “The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep. And miles to go before I sleep.”
“Who the heck is this?” Chris’ companion asked.
“He’s nobody but a dead asshole,” Chris said, lifting his rifle.
Cinder blew icy rings of smoke from his lips. The barrel of the rifle turned to brittle ice. When the trigger was squeezed the weapon shattered into millions of pieces with a sound of nothing more than a quiet poof.
“I’m getting the fuck outta here!” Chris’ companion shouted as he fled away. Chris remained, holding a small scrap of the rifle’s stock.
“I’m sorry man. I’m really sorry.” He backed away. “I was high as shit last night and didn’t mean to harm that bitch. I swear.”
Cinder scowled. “To ask if there is some mistake. There only other sound's the sweep of easy wind and downy flake.” The tree directly behind Chris became encased in scales of ice. Chris’ back clung to the frozen trunk.
“Stop,” Chris cried out. “Please don’t, man. Please don’t do this.”
White steam billowed around Chris and seconds later his frozen corpse fell to the forest floor.
Cinder knelt by the man’s icy blue body, white mist rising off the brittle flesh. “Between the woods and frozen lake, the darkest evening of the year.” Cinder blew out another smoke ring. “Robert Frost.”
#
Heading south on I45, Isaac sped toward a restaurant called Roxy’s, the location where Galmoria had said he could find The Beloved.
The low-fuel light illuminated. He hit the blinker and exited the highway. Pulling alongside pump Two, Isaac turned the vehicle off. A bell jingled when he opened the door to the Shell station. Approaching the counter, scrunching his nose at the pine scented car fresheners, a grossly inaccurate attempt at the fragrance of nature, he slid his wallet from the breast pocket of his dress shirt. “I’m going to pump sixty dollars-worth of gas and you’re going to charge me two dollars and two cents.” His yellow eyes fixed upon the long-haired clerk.
The boy blinked. “Two dollars and two cents.”
Isaac handed the cash to the clerk while giving him a curt nod.
“You have a nice day, sir,” the clerk said.
Diseased mortal, my day is of no concern to you, Isaac thought. Upon finding 'The Beloved' I shall leave this forsaken place and never return.
This land known as Texas was as tormenting as his desert planet home world with two suns. Though centuries ago, his mind recalled a lush jungle inhabited by many anthropomorphic beings, but none as mighty as himself, the sole Geminus, King of the Beasts.
Two teenage cubs approached. One put a hand on Isaac’s shoulder. “Hey dawg, got a smoke?”
He brushed the paw from his silk shirt. “You would do well to keep your germ-ridden paws to yourself.” Isaac waved the bothersome cubs away. The human teenage offspring were most irritating. Isaac would have killed them and gnawed on their bones if he didn’t have a mission for Galmoria to complete. Perhaps, he thought, after my quest for Mother is fulfilled, I will ruin this land of Texas before departing.
Across the two-lane highway, a hag in a nightgown and slippers entered the Fiesta Mart. Her body reeked from foul odor.
Disgusting peasants.
With morbid fascination, Isaac watched as the crone passed a younger female, less than three decades old. A wisp of delicious musk straddled the warm summer breeze.
A new pungent aroma replaced the old hag's stench.
A whelp!
Her pudgy arms gripped two sacks of groceries. A rose-colored blouse clung to her stocky frame, barely concealing her pot-belly. Cotton black shorts reached just past her knees. Short coffee-colored hair lay matted against her head.
A white light flashed in Isaac’s eyes. Every muscle in his body stiffened. Paralyzed and blinded, Isaac threw back his head and released a guttural scream, a fierce shriek conveying both laughter and immense joy.
“What the hell, man!” One of the cubs fled toward a side street. Mouth gaped, complexion pale; his friend chased after him.
Isaac sniffed the air. The familiar scent of a female Geminus electrified his senses. After centuries of waiting, he had finally found his twin.
And nothing would stand in his way of fusing with her.
Chapter Eighteen
Cheers, applause and chatter erupted from inside Eagle Hall, a brick building centered amongst all other structures in the Paladin compound. The aroma of fresh cooked meats, vegetables, and home-baked fruity desserts floated from the Festive Chamber.
Wrapped in a ceremonial green cloak speckled with pearls, Atticus stood outside Eagle Hall, adjusting the gold cinch around his waist. The pillar candles at the hall’s threshold bewitched him, tunneling his consc
iousness into dark and isolated despair.
For seventeen years he had lived, studied and trained, learning the sacred ways and rites of the Paladins under the Order of Abel. He had yearned for the day he would be recognized as an honorable Selector, a prestigious Knight of the Order. But this day was always meant to be shared with his Twin chosen warrior, Rourn. Without him, it was nothing more than a depressing reminder of his loss.
Atticus took a deep breath, his posture straight and rigid. He would do the Order proud. There was no other option. If the prophesied Beast came, as Elder Cai claimed it would, then it would perish at the end of his blade. And because he had been adequately trained by the wisest of the Elders, Atticus knew he possessed the strength, might, heart and soul of a warrior more than capable of slaying any evil that dared present itself to this world.
He was after all, the best, of the best, of the best. The self-indulgent jest hardly brought a smile to his face this time.
Lucid or drunk, Elder Cai believed he was ready to face any challenge. But what of the Dark Trinity that he’d spoken about yesterday? Elder Cai claimed Rourn had spoken in depth with this mysterious spirit that spoke of the future, and doom, and courses of action that had to be taken now, in present day. But was it all a figment of Elder Cai’s imagination, concocted by the gypsy’s potent brandy?
A clacking noise stirred him from his mental woes. A band of Junior Cadets, equipped with wooden swords, battled ferociously, chasing after imaginary wargs. Atticus’ focus drew to two boys lunging at each other and laughing with each cross of their weapons. Their images faded, replaced by a young Atticus and Rourn. Over a decade ago, they had slain their share of wargs, griffons, and their arch enemy, Snarlith the Bad.
From behind, the wind carried the sweet tangy scent of Elder Cai’s favorite cordial.
The Elder laid hands on Atticus’ shoulders. “You have worked diligently and are worthy of this honor. Yet, you let the troubles of the recent past still burden you.”
Atticus turned to face his mentor. “I will do what is asked of me, but I cannot help but feel that this honor does not belong to me anymore without Rourn. We should be here together.”
