by Dyrk Ashton
Due to his avid fascination with all things historical, Zeke recognizes it as a World War I vintage military haversack, dirty tan canvas replete with the faded black letters, “U.S.”, stenciled on the flaps. Peter rummages inside, retrieves stacks of cash from various countries held by paper bands, peels off a 100 dollar bill and hands it to Zeke.
“There you go,” he says with a smile.
Zeke looks incredulously at the money. “That’s too—”
“Far too little to compensate for your aid and kindness, I know,” Peter interrupts, “but I’ll make it up to you.” Zeke opens his mouth to speak, but thinks better of it and stuffs the bill in his jeans pocket.
Peter shoves some of the cash, a wallet and several passports from the haversack into his pockets. He pauses, then gingerly reaches into a side pocket of the pack and pulls something out. He opens his palm and studies it. Fi and Zeke crane in for a closer look.
It appears to be a rod of gold, about the size of a roll of quarters, rounded smooth on both ends with arcane glyphs engraved along its surface. Peter whispers a single word Fi and Zeke can’t make out. The object vibrates with a soft hum and begins to roll slowly in his palm. Peter mutters the same word and the vibration and humming cease.
“What is that?” Fi ventures to ask.
“It’s been known by many names,” Peter says casually. “The Spear of Rudra, Grid’s Rod, the Lightning Bolt of Zeus—the true Zeus, mind you, not that petit god of the Greeks.” The corners of his mouth turn up slightly at the look of puzzlement and doubt on their faces. “It was originally fashioned for the All-father by Arges, the greatest metalsmith of all time. He dubbed it Gungnir, Odin’s Spear.”
Zeke lets out a nervous laugh. “Yeah, right.”
Peter’s expression sobers. “There’s something you should know, both of you.” He shoves the thing into a cargo pocket on his pants. “I may not always tell the whole truth, but I never lie.”
* * *
Peter offers a stack of cash to the nervous manager, Jenkins. “Will two thousand dollars be sufficient for the coat?”
Jenkins’s eyes light up but Hashi raises a hand, “That won’t be necessary, sir.” Jenkins is clearly disappointed.
“It’s been a great pleasure,” says Hashi, shaking Peter’s hand. “Empyrean Transnational appreciates your business.”
“The pleasure is mine,” Peter replies.
Hashi nods to Fi and Zeke. Fi offers a wave, then feels like an idiot for doing so. Zeke smiles feebly. The guard holds the door for them while they exit.
Jenkins lets out a groan of relief, wiping his forehead one more time.
“Who is that guy?” the guard asks, watching Peter depart, his haversack now on his back. Kalb glares at him for his impropriety.
Hashi answers anyway, with complete honesty, “I have no idea.”
* * *
Peter takes the clipboard from the young woman soliciting signatures, signs, and hands it back, along with the pen he’d borrowed. She thanks him and they continue along the sidewalk under a dreary sky.
“Zeke,” says Peter with authority.
Zeke cringes as if trying to hide in the upturned collar of Jenkins’s coat. “What?” he asks, his voice cracking.
Peter studies him intently, then reaches a hand toward his. His voice softens. “Let’s go home.”
Zeke hesitates, but takes it. He offers his other to Fi.
She wavers, looks to Peter. “You mean, this isn’t our world?”
To her surprise it’s Zeke who answers by shaking his head, No. She narrows her eyes at him, but places her hand in his.
“Think about nothing,” Peter instructs Zeke. “It’s very close. Just feel out with that empty part of your mind.”
Zeke takes a deep breath as they continue walking, then closes his eyes. His expression compresses into one of utter concentration, then the muscles of his face relax,
“Slip...”
* * *
An elderly couple, holding hands, stops at the spot where Peter, Fi, and Zeke had vanished. Caught up in conversation they saw nothing of their disappearance, but something else has captured their attention. A hum in the air, of the air itself, growing louder by the moment, accompanied by a vibration of the ground at their feet. The windows of the buildings shake, throwing their reflections out of focus.
They flinch from a sudden blinding flash and are rocked by a searing concussion like the sky itself being ripped apart. When they dare to look, they see an inverted cone of yellow light at the edge of the city, going from the ground to miles in the sky. At the very top is a seething black cloud. The light disappears with a rumble of thunder, but the cloud remains. It spreads and extends dark swarming tentacles earthward.
The hum increases to an unbearable cacophony of buzzing, clicking, and clattering. The first of the swarm reaches beyond the buildings several blocks away. The couple hears glass shatter, car alarms blare, metal scraping, rasping on concrete, all punctuated by scattered explosions. Then they hear the screams.
* * *
Fi’s vision is blurred by fog and her feet slide beneath her, then the sensation is gone—
HOOOOONK!!!
She jumps at the sound. Zeke‘s eyes snap open. They leap back from the street as a fire engine roars past, blasting its horn.
Fi claps a hand on her madly beating heart. “I don’t know how much more of this I can take.”
“You’re doing astonishingly well, Fi,” comforts Peter. “Better than most, I’d say.”
“So... are we back?” Zeke asks.
Peter pauses a moment, as if feeling out with his mind himself, just to make certain. “Yes. We’re back.”
Zeke breathes in relief, then realizes he alone still stands on the sidewalk holding Peter’s hand. He lets go and shoves his hand in his coat pocket.
“Zeke, are you a man of honor?” Peter asks earnestly. Zeke gets an expression like he doesn’t understand what he’s being asked. Peter rephrases the question. “Are you a man of your word?”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“Are you, or are you not?” Peter asks again.
Zeke straightens. “Yes, I believe I am.”
“Then promise me you will never do that again.”
“You mean that...” he makes a sliding motion with his hand.
“Yes, that,” Peter confirms, making the same motion. “Swear that you won’t do it again until we’ve had a chance to discuss it at length. Understand?”
Zeke nods tentatively. “Yeah, I think—”
“Then swear, on your honor.”
Zeke looks to Fi, then back to Peter. “I swear, on my honor, that I won’t do it again until we’ve talked about it.”
“At length,” Peter repeats.
“Until we’ve talked about it at length,” Zeke adds.
Peter grins, suddenly not so serious, and gives Zeke’s shoulder a squeeze. “I don’t know about you two, but I need a burger.” His eyes light up. “And a beer.”
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
Mendip Hills 4
Bödvar would really like to be holding his Mighty sword Kladenets right now, but it might appear threatening and he would rather not provoke The Leech. He’s also heard she can absorb a slash or jab from all but the highest class of Astra blade, anyway. Mortal and Mighty weapons supposedly slide right off. No one can grip her. She can’t be crushed. Except by Father.
Bödvar simply has to trust Baphomet’s word that he’s safe with her. Or trust the pledge Lamia has made to Baphomet and the Master, more precisely. Bödvar wonders what they promised to persuade her to join their cause. Maybe freedom from persecution, or a lifetime supply of tender parvulus babies to suck on. Perhaps it’s the life of The Madman himself. Bödvar knows the story. They all do.
Father had taken Myrddin’s parvulus mother while frolicking in a bog, waist deep in black water. Neither were aware that a leech had attached itself to her thigh. Nor would they probably have cared. Father’s seed overflowed
the woman, swirling in a milky cloud and enveloping the leech, which was swelled with the blood of the woman.
When Father noticed the parasite on the woman’s leg an hour later, his curiosity got the best of him. Instead of pinching it to oblivion he placed it in a basket of tightly woven reeds filled with water. Within days, a single soft cocoon had formed on the leech’s ventral surface, and eight months before the birth of Myrddin Wyllt, The Leech was born. She grew strong and healthy, fed by Father on rodents and fish. Then one night, she escaped.
Though only a foot long at the time, she followed the heat and sound to the infant Myrddin, newly born. He lay mewling in his sleeping mother’s arms when Lamia attached herself to his chest. The child made no sound, but the mother woke and raised the entire tribe with her cries. Father tore Lamia from the babe, but couldn’t bring himself to kill the wretched thing. Instead, he sealed her in a vessel made from a gourd, trekked to the coast and threw her into the sea.
No one knows where the currents took her, where she might have washed ashore and escaped from that gourd, and Lamia is one of the few Firstborn who does not tell tales. There are stories of her from many parts of the world, however, that others have been all too happy to convey. Perhaps the most famous of these comes from her time in the region of Africa now known as Libya, back when it was a tropical and damp place. Though she’s had many names, she was worshipped there by her Truename, Lamia. Cloaked as a human, she reigned as their bloody queen, reviled and supreme, for a thousand years. Then Vidar, the petit god who had stolen one of Father’s oldest names of Zeus, discovered her true identity and drove her from her throne.
Since then she’s been hiding in dark wet places of the world. When the Master and Baphomet found her almost a year ago, she was deep in the bayous of Louisiana where she’d been feeding on wayward Cajuns, lending credence to local folklore of the Cauchemar, the “Nightmare Witch.”
Lamia takes quick slithering steps toward Bödvar, leaving a slick snail trail behind her. Bödvar fights the urge to run like hell.
“Greetings brother Matuno-s-s-s-s-s-s,” she sputters in a language last spoken by predecessors of the Ancient Berber tribes of Northwest Africa.
Bödvar isn’t sure how to respond, so he keeps it simple. “Lamia.” And respectful. “Ma’am.”
Lamia bats her eyes and giggles. It’s more like a gurgle, but he takes it as a giggle.
“We he-e-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-e? He he-e-r-r-r-r-r-r-e?”
“Yes, Lamia.” Bödvar nods toward the cave. “Just give me some time to clear the entrance.”
“Take you tim-m-m-m-e, brother Bear-r-r-r-r.”
Bödvar has the most serious case of heebie-jeebies he’s ever experienced, bar none. He forces himself to take the few steps to the blocked opening of the cave, but he can’t control the shiver that runs through his body.
“You cold, brother Bear-r-r-r-r?”
Bödvar nearly jumps out of his skin and whips around to find Lamia standing right behind him, stretched tall enough to look him in the eye. “Uhhh... No ma’am.” He controls another shiver with a great force of will. “You might want to stand back, though. I’ve got to move these rocks.”
“Of cours-s-s-s-s-se.” She shimmies to the rucksack, shrinking back to five feet in height as she goes. “Thank you for thinking of me s-a-a-a-fety. This g-o-o-o-o-o-d?”
Bödvar wants to shout the most vulgar Old Germanic obscenities that come to mind (they sound so nasty in that language), as loud as he possibly can. Instead, he says “That should do it. Thank you.” He’s going to be very glad when this job is done and she’s back in that urn.
He tugs the boulder out and chucks it down the hill. Lamia could squeeze through a hole even smaller than the one he’s already made, but Bödvar wants to be able to enter as well. He’s not going to miss this. He picks up his hammer and swings away. Lamia hums a happy tune while she waits.
* * *
Stone shatters and topples into the cave. Except for the rocks strewn on the floor and the dirt in the air, the entrance is clear.
Myrddin remains on his knees, his palms pressed to the floor. The rock beneath his hands is the only thing he knows is genuine. He thought he saw the light of the moon before, smelled the fresh air of the forested hills. Then it was gone. Now it’s back, and the entrance is open. But for how long? Is it real, or just another twisted dream?
Then there’s a glow in the dusty haze, a light that’s other than diffused moonlight. A figure approaches, glimmering white, then blue, red and yellow. The colors chase each other, up, down, around. Myrddin squints to see. The dust is dissipating, carried away by the outside air. His vision clears and the figure takes shape.
“Nyneve?” he asks.
It is Nyneve. He sees her now. As lovely as ever. She hasn’t aged a day. His good sense alerts him to the fact that his beloved is, was, nearly human and couldn’t possibly be alive—unless he hasn’t been trapped here nearly as long as he thinks. Is that possible? Incompatible thoughts grapple with one another. Until she speaks.
“Yes, my love. I am here.”
It’s her voice. Her beautiful voice. There’s no more question in his mind. Tears streaming, he forces himself up on trembling legs. “Nyneve,” he sobs, “my darling Nyneve.”
* * *
Bödvar can’t wait any longer. The last of the dust wafts out of the cave as he ducks his head and enters. Once inside, he can stand upright, and there he sees an amazing sight—Lamia’s gleaming body swirling in psychedelic eddies of every hue, The Madman in her slimy embrace.
According to Baphomet, Lamia can manipulate chromataphore pigmentation in her skin to create multiple color combinations, like certain frogs. Her flesh is also bioluminescent, which gives her the ability to emit light, even in complete darkness. Bödvar didn’t give a shit when he first heard it, but now he understands Baphomet’s fascination.
The Goat also explained that the clear mucus she exudes from her body magnifies the colorful light show and contains chemicals that have euphoric and hallucinogenic effects on those she touches. When she was queen of Libya, she’d share this substance with her most loyal subjects in drug induced orgies of sex and blood.
Myrddin shudders with pleasure. The warmth of her, the pressure of supple breasts on his chest, soft hands on his shoulders, luscious lips pressed to his. The feel of something other than clammy stone. The touch of his dearest Nyneve.
Bödvar observes as Lamia slides one slippery hand from Myrddin’s shoulder down his chest and stomach to his groin. In spite of his age and condition he throbs to life. With her other hand she grabs his wrinkled saggy ass and squeezes hard. Myrddin moans.
Humming her little song, she lowers her face to his breast, where her lips and pallid tongue find the scar that never fully healed, the one she gave him when he was a babe. She slathers him with slobber that contains both a powerful anesthetic and an anticoagulant that will keep his blood from clotting. Her mouth expands and she suction-cups her lips to his chest, her naturally lubricated hand still working his Mad-manhood.
Bödvar is enjoying this. After all the times Myrddin Wyllt has misled him and made him look the fool, this death through deception is sweeter revenge than killing the bastard himself.
Lamia slides her hand up from Myrddin’s butt to brace his back. Her rings of razor teeth slice into his chest. Blood flows into her gullet. Then she stops. He’s helplessly, hopelessly, under her spell. She releases the hold she has with her teeth. Blood trickles freely from the ring of incisions on his chest. She looks him in the eye, revels in his glazed expression of false ecstasy.
Lamia has waited for this moment all her life. She and The Madman not only share a father, but The Leech’s mother had Myrddin’s mother’s blood in her when Lamia was conceived as well. By her reckoning, they are truly brother and sister. But when they were new to this world he had been coddled, nursed at a warm teat, cooed at and cherished, while she was kept in a basket and fed on rats. Then Father cast her away like trash a
nd embraced the whelp of a parvulus whore as a true Firstborn child.
Lamia remembers, oh yes, Lamia remembers. She hates The Madman. And she loves him. Now she has his blood in her once again. Sweet, sweet nectar, the most delicious she’s ever tasted. The first time she fed on him was no accident. This time he will die, and he will like it. Some grudges last that long. Some vengeance worth waiting for.
She will outlive her brother, and when the Deva are defeated and Father cast down she will be a queen again. The Madman will be only a myth, forever, like so many before him, and she will be free.
She moves her dripping mouth to his ear. “Hello brother-r-r-r-r-r-r,” she whispers. “Me am no Nyne-e-e-e-e-ve. No-o-o-o-o-o. Me am you sister-r-r-r. L-a-a-a-a-m-i-i-a-a-a-a...”
“Not... Nyneve?” Myrddin mumbles. He opens his eyes, but all he sees is Nyneve.
“Me love you, brother-r-r-r...”
“Lamia?” It still doesn’t register.
“Me love you to death...”
In Myrddin’s blurry sight, the image of Nyneve’s beautiful face dissolves to the visage of The Leech—but he’s too far gone. There is nothing he can do to stop her. Nothing he wants to do to stop her. She licks blood from his chest, attaches her sucker mouth to him once more, and begins to hum.
“Ohhhhhh... Lamia...” Myrddin closes his eyes. If it’s to be for the last time, he just doesn’t care.
* * *
Mesmerized by the shimmering rainbow of her body and the lilting melody of her song, Bödvar watches Lamia drain the life from The Madman. It’s a wonder to behold.
All Firstborn can see the cloak of another, but they can also see through it with little effort. Firstborn of a human mother, however, like Myrddin Wyllt, have the parvulus frailty of mind. A master of the art of cloaking such as Lamia can fool them easily. And she is one of the best. In addition, it is said she can hypnotize parvuli with her songs, fluttering eyelashes and wavering body—and even overpower the faculties of Firstborn who are not born of a weakling parvulus. For this reason, Bödvar knows he shouldn’t look directly at her for too long, but he’s loathe to turn away.
