The Ripple Effect: Dane

by Jodie Becker

  His grip tightened on his staff, and he turned toward the Seer. Old hag. Crossing the opulent chamber, he pressed the tip of his staff against her chin, and forced her to look at him.

  Sightless eyes filled with terror soothed his discontent soul. “When did you know she had descended?” he asked, his voice deceptively calm.

  The old woman visibly swallowed. “Only the past hour, my Lord."

  Set's lips thinned and he snapped his staff across her jaw, blood splattering along the beige tiles. “Useless old hag. When were you going to tell me of this?"

  "I ... I didn't know for certain what the shift was."

  He drew in a slow breath, and crouched until he was almost eye level with the cowering woman. “Where is she now?"

  The Seer's lips trembled, blood staining her chin.

  Gritting his teeth, he gripped her cheeks and his claws dug into the soft flesh. “Answer me."

  "She has been taken by the rebels, oh, Great One."

  Fury rose within and burned out all thought as he stood, bringing the woman with him, her feet leaving the floor. “Your lack of attention is costing me my patience, Seer. Remind me why I still let you live?"

  The woman made a choking sound, her eyes wide and swimming with dread. With a growl of disgust, Set threw her from him. She hit the ground and slid against the floor until she slammed against one of the pillars that lined the room.

  "Leave me now,” he ordered, throwing his arm toward the large, arched doorway.

  Without any more encouragement, the Seer pulled herself up and hobbled out the room.

  Set pressed his index finger and thumb against the bridge of his nose. Be damned. He was surrounded by fools. He didn't need more complications in his Kingdom. These modern humans were difficult to control.

  Upon his rebirth, the humans had been receptive to all his glory and power. He was revered above all other religions and they fell under his presence. Humans came far and wide to worship him. He laid claim to Egypt and the surrounding cities without too much difficulty, but that's where it had ended. Under his rule, his worshippers soon turned against him, claiming him as a tyrant. He snorted at the notion. He was a god. The humans now harped on their freedom of choice. His lips curled back in a snarl. His word was final and law.

  He stalked out onto the balcony overlooking the ocean and pressed the palms of his hands against the smooth limestone. Cool wind brushed against his skin and shifted the kilt along his thighs. Fists formed, and with another growl, he slammed one down upon the balustrade. The stone cracked under the force of the blow.

  Fifty years ago, the prophet had warned him that the universe would seek to balance itself out. He had scoffed at the notion. He knew of all the other gods that were once so prevalent in his time. Dead. They were all dead. Their faith was dead, their followers gone. Without believers, they couldn't reanimate themselves, or in any way equate the strength he now possessed.

  Again his mind ran to Osirus. Beloved brother, hated enemy. His death had been justified and required. If not for Set's overzealous nephew, Horus, he would've controlled the Earth with the iron fist it required. But Horus condemned him to exile, and had it not been for Paul Segrid opening his tomb and casting that reanimation spell, he would even now be living in darkness.

  He grinned as he recalled the awe on the poor human's face. He had immediately acknowledged Set's power and accepted it. But soon, he, too, fell prey to ... choice of “religion", and Set had been forced to dispose of him.

  At first, the glory of life and the power he utilized satisfied him. But now he wanted more. Needed more. Perhaps this woman will provide what he desired. A goddess to rule beside him, unlike his cheating wife, Nephthys. But Nephthys was long gone now. It was only natural that a god would want a wife by his side. This time he would choose carefully, and there would be no brother to dazzle and deceive.

  If she were as powerful as the Seer alluded to, then she would do perfectly. His lips curled back against his canines. She was in the hands of his enemies, and he knew the precariousness of the situation. He would have his minions retrieve her. She belonged to him; she just didn't know it yet.

  * * * *

  "Help me!"

  Dane struggled with the unconscious woman in his arms as he marched into the complex. Once a mall, the base was filled with refugees intent on taking charge of their future.

  Chris, a young man with eyes that had seen much horror, abandoned the ball game he played and approached them. “What happened?"

  "I found this woman in the City."

  Blue eyes widened. “You're lucky you found her."

  Dane adjusted the woman in his arms as she began to slip. “Get Doctor Prescott. Tell her I'll meet her in clinic."

  "Right.” The teenager broke into a run and disappeared around the corner.

  Marching up the escalators, Dane turned toward a store front that had once served as a general doctor's office. Pushing the glass door open, he jostled the woman in his arms to flick on the light. The pale wash of light settled over stark white walls and gray carpet.

  He turned sideways and walked down the narrow hall, then into the first office. Gently, he placed her on the small bed and stepped back. His body still shook from the recent revelations.

  "Who is this?"

  Dane jerked at the sound of a woman's voice. A woman in her fifties, Dr. Preston held a point of authority in the complex. Wearing a serviceable white robe, she entered the room, her pale blue eyes on the woman.

  "I don't know. She was in the city."

  Dr. Preston's lips parted in surprise. Without a word, she approached the bed, and after a quick check of the woman's vitals, began to remove the makeshift bandaging to reveal an angry wound. She let out a small hiss. Stepping to the side, she opened the nearby cabinet and started to tend to the injury.

  At odds with himself, Dane dropped his attention to the blood on his body. He drew in a slow, ragged breath. He didn't know how much was hers and how much was the enemy's. Guilt settled in his gut like a heavy lump of coal as he examined the soft, vulnerable features of the woman. It had been poor judgment on his part. He could've aimed somewhere that wouldn't have potentially compromised her health.

  Endeavoring to veer his focus from the shame that ate him, he searched the room for a towel. He found one over the sink and flicked it off the edge, then turned on the tap. He wet the towel and squeezed out the excess water before rubbing it along his chest and arms.

  He dropped the towel to his side and unclipped the cuffs on his wrists. The lion head embossed in the gold glinted in the soft light. An Egyptian magus had given them to him.

  He recalled the day he'd approached the Egyptian who'd lived in their apartment block. Although he was only ten at the time, he understood why everyone steered clear of the old man. Superstition and prejudice drove everyone, and being an Egyptian pretty much assured your social exile.

  But as a child with an inquisitive mind, he'd knocked on the door. It was supposed to have been something he could to boast to his friends about, having the guts to actually talk to the Egyptian, but the visit had turned into something more. The mystical old man was human, and not the monster that people made him out to be.

  His friendship with Abdul was kept shrouded in secrecy until one of his other friends discovered his daily visits to the old man, and ratted him out. He'd been ostracized from that point on, and his parents had forbidden him to see Abdul.

  A grim smile pulled at his lips. Pity, he wasn't the sort to conform easily to authority.

  "All right, I think we're done here,” Dr. Preston said, breaking into his thoughts.

  He turned to face the doctor, then glanced at the woman. “Is she okay?"

  A soft smile raised the corners of Preston's lips. “I've haven't seen you that concerned about another for a long while."

  Dane dipped his head, acknowledging his self-imposed exile. He wasn't comfortable around those who looked at him as though he were some type of freak, yet relie
d on his expansive knowledge of the Magi. He had ensured that no one would ever mistake him for anything but a magus, for he carried the mark on his body. The tattoos served as a reminder to him and to those around him who he was and forever would be. A danger.

  "I was responsible for her injury,” he mumbled.

  Preston blinked. “It's not like you to harm a human."

  "It was an accident.... Look, just let me know when she wakes up,” he said, hating the remorse that grew in his stomach.

  Stiffly, he marched from the room and exited the small shop to stalk across the aisle toward his private chambers. Turning the corner into a narrow walkway, he passed the public toilets and opened the door to a small room. Blindly, he reached up to flick on the light above and squinted at the gray bricks and single bed. The room had once served as a janitor's retreat, and it offered him the privacy he needed.

  In the semi-light, he dropped the golden cuffs on the small table beside the bed, removed the gun and bow from his bag and placed them in the corner. He slid the quiver off his shoulder and turned to hang it on the hook on the back of the door.

  Then it happened.

  A sudden sense of falling enveloped him, and he resisted the pull. Not again. His fingers clenched, and he dipped his head momentarily, his knuckles pressed against the wood in an attempt to maintain control. He didn't want to go where they wanted him to.

  A harsh breath left his body, and he gritted his teeth together. “No,” he growled.

  Blessedly, the feeling passed, but the struggle left him exhausted and shaken. Pushing off the door with arms that trembled under the pressure, he stumbled to the bed. He sat on the thin mattress, and the joints creaked under the sudden weight. Gasping, he wiped the back of his forearm along his sweaty brow. He didn't know how long he could fight them off, but he had every intention of retaining control of his life, whether they liked it or not.

  Cold metal pressed into his back, and he recalled the mirror he'd taken from the woman. He pulled it from the back of his jeans to study the item. It was clearly ancient. Before the time of Set. The paint on the piece was faded, and the mirror barely reflected his features. Why did the woman have this? No one he knew possessed an item that had once belonged to the ancients. It was forbidden to own such a thing. Much of the old world had been destroyed when Set had emerged from his prison.

  She'd said it was a family heirloom. His lips twisted in a wry grin at the misplaced boldness of the woman. If it truly belonged to her, he would know soon enough. Slowly, the smile eased from his face. He dug into his pocket to pull out the necklace. The little pictures glared at him as the pendant swung like a pendulum.

  He didn't know why he'd kept it hidden from Dr. Preston, let alone why he'd brought the woman back to the base. He dropped his head on his fist and shut his eyes. He'd just compromised their position if he'd brought in a spy. The thought that the woman was some type of mole filled him with fury. Not at her, but at himself. He had an obligation to the people to keep them safe, and he'd dealt with Familiars before. Death. It was that simple. But, for some reason, the situation he found himself in with this woman was anything but simple.

  Dane felt a connection to her, whether she was a follower of Set or not. He should've killed her back in the city, but the notion had filled him with misery and dread. He couldn't bring himself to do what he felt was right, but neither could he have left her to the beasts in New York City.

  Sliding the pendant back into his pocket, he stood to peruse the old texts he had. After a quick search, he found the one parchment he required and unfurled the scroll to read the hieratic texts. He followed the information in an effort to find anything he could about the significance of a mirror.

  The ancients possessed mirrors, but he could find nothing mystical or symbolic about them. Gritting his teeth against the frustration that spiraled through him, he scooped out the pendant once more. The pictographs glared at him. If only he knew how to read these damn things. All he knew was that all of Set's minions wore them and they were marks of their place in Set's army.

  He ran a pad over the embossed pictures, and gasped as a flash of memory seared through his mind. The necklace dropped from his hands as he stumbled back. The back of his legs hit the side of the bed, and he fell against the mattress, the back of his head cracking against the wall. Panting, he stared at the hand that once held the necklace. He noted with a fair degree of horror that his hand trembled.

  What had happened? Swallowing hard, he pressed his palm against his face. The indiscriminate image of eyes, lined thickly with kohl and filled with passion, flashed before him. His fingers tingled as though he had run them along a smooth expanse of silk. A soft moan of a woman. It was all he knew of the one flicker of ... what? A memory? A future? He didn't know.

  Fear shot through his heart as he struggled to understand what this all meant. The woman, the demons and the pendant. Within the darkness of his soul, he could almost hear the maniacal laughter that burgeoned there. The muscle in his jaw ticked with irritation. He wasn't going to let anyone take control of his life.

  He stood and strode toward the table. Quickly, he opened various wooden compartments and sorted through amulets and herbs until he finally came up with what he was after. A scarab amulet to protect him against evil. Silently, he slipped the leather band over his neck, and let the cool metal to rest over his heart.

  The tug he'd felt within began again. The attacks were happening more often now. He struggled for a breath and leaned forward. “Go away,” he commanded in a low voice. Desperate, he squeezed his eyes shut against the onslaught of power that reverberated through him.

  Give in, a voice whispered in his mind.

  His heart slammed against his ribcage. Never had they crossed over into his head before. “No."

  Gravity seemed to push against him, and Dane struggled to remain upright. A loud whoosh filled his ears, and a wind picked up within the small chamber.

  His will crumbled against the onslaught of power that rushed through his veins. Unable to hold out, Dane let out a ragged cry and began his decent into darkness.

  Chapter Four

  Jamilah groaned. Her head felt as though it were about to implode. Her body ached, but most of all, her should throbbed incessantly. Her heart rate picked up as a cold sense of falling enveloped her.

  The events prior to her loosing consciousness ran through her mind in stark clarity. Like a nightmare that just wouldn't end. God, please let it be a dream.

  Cracking one eye open, she squinted up at the florescent light. A small sigh eased passed her lips as relief washed through her. Her attention fell on her surroundings, and she took in the desk and various medical items. She was in a doctor's office. A relieved laugh bubbled to her throat. It had been all just a horrible dream.

  As she pushed herself up, pain stabbed through her shoulder, causing dread to tingle along her skin. She glanced down to find her blouse missing. Her chest rose and fell in short puffs of panic as she fingered the bandage on her shoulder.

  Tears pricked the back of her eyes as the gravity of what it meant slammed into her. Like Alice falling down the proverbial rabbit hole into Wonderland, she'd been thrust into a world far removed from her own.

  She recalled the ruins of the city that the Holyman had referred to as New York, and could only assume somehow she'd either lost her mind or was displaced somewhere in the future. The thought that in the future, New York would be overrun by mutants, and that people like the Holyman ran about toting shotguns filled her with a mixture of dread and misery. Was it a nuclear attack? Did the countries suddenly go crazy and attack each other, or was it some genetic testing that went awry?

  So many possibilities ran through her head, one of which was that she'd completely lost her mind. And although the prospect that all of this could be a figment of her imagination was perhaps the better of two evils, she couldn't bring herself to fully buy into it. The thought that she was a complete nut job didn't sit well with her.
r />   The sound of the door opening caught her attention, and she stared at the lady with ash-blonde bob haircut and warm, blue eyes.

  "Ah, you're awake. I'm Doctor Preston,” the woman said in English.

  Jamilah held out her good arm for a quick handshake.

  The woman handed her a white cotton shirt. Mumbling her thanks, Jamilah eased into it, and her shoulder screamed in protest as she did so. Once, dressed she looked at the doctor. “Where am I?"

  The woman glanced down at the clipboard in her hand, flipping the paper as she answered. “You're at Kimmel Base One."

  Jamilah blinked, absorbing the information. Kimmel was a performing arts center, not some type of military base. “What year is it?"

  The doctor gazed at her, the perceptive stare cutting through to Jamilah's confusion.

  "You don't know what year it is?” Dr. Preston asked.

  "I ... I'm a little unsure."

  The doctor hooked the clipboard under her arm as she scooped something out of her pocket. She flicked on the small penlight, then approached the bed. “Face me for a moment, please."

  Jamilah dropped her legs over the edge, and sat still while the doctor shone the light into her eyes.

  "Seeing any auras? Blurry vision? Experiencing any vertigo?” Dr. Preston asked, before dropping the flashlight into her pocket.

  Jamilah shook her head.

  "What's the last thing you remember?"

  Boy, that was a loaded question. Rubbing her forehead, Jamilah ran through the events. “I don't know what happened, but last thing I remember before the Holyman showed up was being in my office looking at this mirror I received from my grandfather. Next thing I knew, there was this loud boom, and the city was destroyed, with those freaks running around."

  "Holyman?” The momentary confusion in Dr. Preston's gaze cleared with a soft smile. “You must mean Dane. You should be thankful he found you. Those monsters are quite vicious."