by M. K. Gibson
“Ow, damn it!”
“Big baby.” Twitch sighed as she reached down, took my drink, and downed it on one gulp. “In the meantime, I have work. I’m helping your dad—weird, by the way—and that T guy with creating a digital presence device to see if any of Khlabra’s cognitive functions can be restored.”
Twitch gave the slightest of hugs as I rubbed at my stinging face. “Welcome home. But if you think my welcome back hurt, you’re really in for it.”
“What’s that mean?” I asked.
A fist clocked me in the back of my head. Then I was pulled backwards and slammed into the ground.
“Ouch.” Khurzon smirked, sipping her drink.
Something fast and strong was on top of me in a flash while clawed thumbs pressed against my throat.
“Yeela, be nice. Like we talked about,” Vali said with a tone of mirth.
“Hi,” Yeela purred.
“Hey kid. Glad you’re not dead,” I said.
“Can’t say it’s mutual. My mother is dead because of you. My sister is . . . how she is because of you.”
I wanted to tell her it wasn’t my fault. That Gh’aliss sold me out to Dantalion and only came to Flotsam as part of his schemes. But that wouldn’t matter. Yeela had to be angry at something or someone. Let it be me.
“I’m sorry. I honestly am. I can’t bring her back. But I’ll do everything I can to make those who took her suffer.”
“Vali already did. You’re lucky I like him,” Yeela said, getting off me. As Grimm refilled my glass, Yeela took it immediately and curled up in Vali’s lap.
The god looked down at me and shrugged. “It’s complicated.”
I looked at the pair of them, opened my mouth, then shut it. I had a feeling that Vali honestly had no choice in the matter. Poor guy.
Taylor stood from the table and bent over to help me up. “Come on up there, hoss.”
“I saw you too,” I silently mouth to Taylor as I got to my feet. “The real you. I saw what you did for Vali.”
Taylor looked me dead in the eyes. In my head, I heard his voice:
“Another time. I thank you for bringing my son home, mostly safe and sound. When he touched The Tears, things changed. Others are aware of him now. So for now, let him just be my son and we will not speak to him of his parentage. Not yet anyway.”
I nodded. “OK.”
We drank and we laughed, filling one another in on what happened over the last couple of months apart. Vali told me of a possible inside threat. I didn’t want to believe him, but the facts he detailed and Vidar confirmed were undeniable. I told him I’d run a complete diagnostic of the security system and see what I could find.
Damn it. Homecomings were supposed to be happy times. Not times to ferret out a mole.
“Oh, we took your advice,” Vidar said, trying to remove Khurzon’s hands from his thigh.
“Oh?”
Vali smiled while Yeela purred. “While you were away, we opened up our borders. Some of the folks have found work within the city proper. And thanks to some help from Tesla, we now have a squad of new cybernetically-enhanced warriors. As of yesterday, we have an official Mercenary License to conduct operations within the city. We’ve already started operations.”
“Wait, Maz authorized that? After . . .?”
“I can be persuasive.”
“What kind of mercs?”
“Protection. Augmenting local police forces. Lightrunning.” Vali smiled, sipping at his water. “Selling off some of the stuff in your vaults.”
“My what?”
“Don’t worry.” Vali laughed. “Grimm found your manifests. Your best stuff is safe. It’s surprisingly lucrative.”
I thought about it. Moving items was a good way to make money and build up rep. “Well, expect more shipments coming in. I’ve acquired a rival collector’s vaults as well. Once we have it, catalog, price it, keep the best, and move the rest.”
“Not a problem.”
“So how did you convince you men to undergo the cybernetic enhancements? Do they want shorter lives? T’s good, but he isn’t a miracle worker.”
Vidar laughed from my left and nodded to Vali. “While I am far from an expert on your human technomancy, I do know that the cybernetics shorten human lifespans. But if they were implanted into . . . let’s say, a werewolf, who regenerates, then the sky’s the limit.”
“You’re shitting me. Viking cybernetic werewolf warriors?”
“Yes,” Vidar rumbled.
“That’s it, I’ve seen it all,” I said, lighting a smoke. Vidar eyed me and I lit two. “So, what do you call your merc group?”
“The Lunar Cykings.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes.”
“Because ‘The Viborgs and the Moon Troop’ was taken?” I laughed.
“Shut up. It’s the best we could think of on the spot. We’re not human, you know.”
“I know. You’re my family,” I said with all sincerity.
********
Several hours later, it was just Grimm and I sitting at the table in the mead hall. Most of the partying was done, and only a few of the heavier drinkers were still coherent. I poured us both a fresh glass of whiskey.
I leaned further back in my chair and closed my eyes while I smoked. “When I was in prison, I wondered where you were. Man, I was pissed at you.”
“Excuse me?”
“When I was taken to Flotsam, tortured, and starved. Freezing cold, naked and alone, I waited for you to teleport in. To save me.”
“I am sorry. I was preoccupied,” Grimm said, resolute.
“I know. I had a vision of you as well.”
“Oh?”
“In my visions, when I touched The Tears. I saw you, in the Hitherlands. I know why you never came, because you were a prisoner yourself.”
Grimm waved a dismissive hand. “Think nothing of it.”
“I saw your . . . I saw Agatha.”
His face darkened. “I see.”
“Do you want to talk about it? About her?”
“No.”
“Grimm, I—”
“No,” Grimm repeated, then his hard face softened slightly. “She—she is safe. That is what matters. The rest we will discuss another time.”
“OK,” I said, knowing he would not bend.
Grimm stood then gave me a hug. “I am sorry. I am so, so sorry I was not there for you,” he said in muffled tones as he held me hard.
I wanted to push him away. I wanted to hit him. I wanted to scream. But instead I hugged my friend, and I let it go.
All the pain and anger.
The fear and aggression.
I just let it go. And I felt my body shudder at the emotional weight that was gone.
“Please do not cry on my robes,” Grimm said.
“Don’t make me laugh or I’m going to blow snot on you,” I said, breaking the hug and wiping my eyes and nose.
“Grimm.”
“Yes?”
“Why were there bags of blood in the back of your Outrider?” I asked, sitting back down.
“You lost my car,” Grimm noted as he sat. “You owe me a car.”
“Don’t change the subject. Why were they there?”
Grimm sighed. “Do you truly wish to know?”
“No. But tell me anyway. In my vision I saw you. A darker you. Are you a . . . you know . . .”
“A vampire?” Grimm asked.
“Yeah.”
Grimm turned to face me. “No. I am not. But I am their creator,” he said with a slight smile on his face.
Oh . . . shit. I had a sudden urge to cross myself and rub my neck in garlic.
“I will tell you this, and then we will not discuss it again. Understood?”
“Unlikely, but go on.”
Grimm sighed and poured two more glasses. He handed one to me and then also took my smokes and lit two of them, handing me one. Then he sat across from me and took a sip of the whiskey and a drag off the smoke.
“I was once a man, like you. I died a victim. Betrayed. Murdered. An angel came to take my soul. But I was angry. So angry. And sad. The angel took pity upon me, exhumed my body, and placed my soul within it. But only God may grant true life. So, I became something else. Not alive. Not dead. A Revenant. Because I had died and been to the other side, I saw the world differently. I saw the fabric of creation. The angel then became my tutor in the ways of magic.”
Grimm paused to take another sip and a puff, and I did as well.
“And the blood?” I asked.
Grimm nodded, thinking before he spoke. He took off his stetson and set it aside as he ran his hand through his long hair and specifically through the four gray streaks, the last of which appeared after Ricky brought him back to life in the Tower of Abraxas.
Grimm then placed a hand calmly on his chest.
“This body is alive, yet dead. I don’t sleep unless I choose to. My heart only beats when I choose. That is why you cannot sense me when I approach you. I don’t need to breathe, except to be able to speak. My cells absorb their required oxygen from the air.” Grimm took a deep pull off the smoke, then held the cigarette out in front of him.
“I feel, but I don’t feel. I taste, but I don’t taste,” he said, holding up his scotch. “But blood, blood heals me. It makes me feel almost alive again.”
“And the vampires you spoke of?”
Grimm nodded and downed the scotch and finished his smoke. “In my many, many mistakes over thousands of lifetimes, I inadvertently gave birth to monsters. Monsters like me, who require blood to exist. Even . . . even my daughter, Agatha.”
I nodded and sipped my scotch. “In the legends, a revenant would possess its own body to accomplish a goal. Was yours to get vengeance on the one who killed you?”
“No. Although I did. Several times in fact. But that is another story. No, my goal was more . . . lofty.”
“Which was?”
“The preservation of all mankind against evil.”
The words hung in the air, silent, with an almost tangible weight.
I laughed right in his face.
“Hah hah hah! Seriously? Couldn’t you have picked something attainable?!”
“Oh shut up. Drink your whiskey and go to sleep.”
“One last question,” I said.
“What?”
“Who is Ricky?”
Grimm looked at me. “Why?”
“Because Gh’aliss and Riggs both claimed to know. Which means, you know. I’m not an idiot. I know he has to be something . . . epic.”
Grimm took a deep breath and stared me dead in the eyes. “Salem, I cannot tell you.”
“Can’t or won’t.”
“Either,” Grimm said. “Rictus is . . . who he is. It is my belief, that in time, he will tell you himself. For your sake, drop it.”
“But—”
“Drop it. Please.”
I looked at my friend, unsure of what he was trying to say without saying it. But, I was honestly too tired to think about it. I filed that mystery away for another day and focused on what I had to do next.
“I’m going to head down to my lair soon. But, I’m expecting several delivery trucks to show up anytime now. I have to make sure they gain entrance and the contents unloaded.”
“Trucks? What is being delivered this late?” Grimm asked.
I smiled. “Beds.”
Chapter Fifty-Four
Redemption
Hours later, the beds were delivered. They were taken to every home with a child. Afterward, I lumbered into my underground lair. I passed by my work station and old couch and ran my hand across them, feeling the nicks in the wood and the frayed stitching of the couch. I picked up one of my old paperback books and felt the cracked and curled cellophane tape under my thumb.
Touching them again brought back the feeling of being home.
Of being safe.
I wasn’t in prison anymore. I wasn’t cold. I wasn’t afraid. I wasn’t looking over my shoulder for an inferium shiv in my back. By the time I reached my room, I had tears in my eyes. I collapsed on my bed and balled up, with my knees in my chest.
“Honey, are you OK?”
“Mom?” I asked.
The holographic display of my mother, Elena McMillan, appeared in the doorway of my room.
“I heard you crying, Isaac. Are you OK? Your father and I are so happy you’re home. By the way, thanks for seeing us right away,” my mother said, laying the guilt on thick.
“Mom, come on. That’s not fair.”
“Because we’re not real?”
“Mom, there is something I need to say to you,” I said, ignoring her question. “You won’t understand it. But it needs to be said anyway. As I touched The Tears of God, it showed me an old memory.”
“Go ahead, dear,” my mother’s projection said, sounding concerned.
“A long time ago, there was an accident. And . . .” I paused to find my courage and face her. I needed to repair this breach between us.
“You mean the night I died,” my mother said. “I remember, honey. It wasn’t your fault.”
“What?” I asked, shaking my head. “How? How can you remember?”
“Honey, your father’s program didn’t work on me. I don’t know why, but it was unable to replace my memory about my death. So, I let him believe. His implanted memories keep him happy. And I let you believe as well.”
“Mom, all these years? These centuries? You just . . . pretended?”
“I’m your mother, as it were. You’d be amazed what a mother is capable of.”
I smiled and wiped at my face. “Dad told me that he . . . never . . . wanted me.”
“Your father was . . . complicated, dear. But he loved you. In his own way.”
“I love you, Mom,” I said
“And I love you,” she said with a smile. My mother picked up my paperback book and looked it over.
Great. T had installed the hard-light cameras in my room. Now I’d have no privacy.
“You should read more,” Mom said, putting the book back down. “You spend far too much time not exercising your mind.”
“OK, Mom. I will. Tell Dad I love him as well and I’ll see him in the morning.”
After my mother left, I took out the last bit of business I needed to take care of. Reaching into my coat, I took out the letter Riggs gave me and looked at it. It was kind of crumpled, but the seal was still intact. I broke the seal, opening the letter.
Well, nothing eerie like an ill wind or a flickering light happened, so I reckoned I didn’t just start an apocalypse. I unfolded the letter and read it.
Isaac,
Well, how do I start this? Long and flowery? Riddled with esoteric secrets, a roundabout way of telling you who I am and what I want?
Nah.
Maybe one time that was me. But not now. So, here it is.
My name, my true name, was Qayin.
Or, as history remembers me, Cain.
I was the first son of Adam and Eve. The tiller of the land. He who killed his brother. The first murderer.
That is why they call me “The Killer.” Because I was the first. The first murderer.
I was encouraged by the serpent to smite my brother, the Shepherd, for the Lord found his offering more pleasing than mine.
And I did.
His blood soaked into the earth and the land cried out to God.
And well, you’ve read your Bible; you know the rest of the story. After I lied to God’s face about my brother’s death and the not-being-his-keeper thing, I was forced to leave and I went to the land of Nod. I built a city because the land would no longer obey my will. Growing things, my first love, was forever gone. So I married, I had my son, Enoch, and then eventually died. And that was when His curse really kicked in.
Imagine an old man, with grandchildren, happily looking back on the city he built. The family he built. All built off the mistake he made. To better himself and better his li
fe and better the world around him. What would you call that? You’d call that redemption. An old man dies happily in his bed, at peace. And then the old man’s spirit sees Heaven. And instead of being allowed entrance, he is turned away. Denied. Even Hell won’t touch him.
So the spirit returns into a new form of flesh. Over and over. Each time the old spirit tries to live a better life than the one before it, hoping to finally make peace with his creator, who used to speak to him.
And each time, denied. Marked.
The spirit grows angry. Resentful. And yeah, I got a little out of control in my wrath against God.
I tried, so many times, to unmake creations. I learned magic. I learned technology. I learned politics. Countless lives I’ve lived and countless times I tried to bring it all down.
Through history I lived. Powerful men. Powerful women. All with an agenda to bring it down, whether that was through nuclear war, The Awakening of the Great Deep Ones, or just plain old Armageddon.
And thankfully, for humanity’s sake, I failed.
But my one last swing for the fences to bring about the end times was Project Re-Genesis. A cloned Jesus, the Anti-Christ. I died long before it happened, but I ensured it was done.
Instead of The End, it was only the beginning. This new world. The Reign of Hell. My fault. And I am sorry for that. I am sorry for the pain and suffering you, and the world, has suffered due to my foolish hubris.
I know no apology will ever make up for it. I am beyond redemption. And now that Heaven is closed to all, I have only succeeded in passing my curse on to the world.
So I have chosen to live as a simple man in the waste. I run First Heaven as a farming community. I give people hope.
As for you and me, if you wish a relationship, then I am only a call away. I know that knowing all this now may make you want to avoid me, and I understand.
Until we speak again, know I wish you well. Use the Ring wisely.
Always,
Your Grandfather Ken,
AKA, Lucien Riggs
P.S. - Ricky, don’t trust him. I wish I could tell you more. But I am forbidden. So let me end with this. Things are going to get way shittier before they get better. And there are going to be times when you want to quit. But if you want things to get better, you’re going to have to fight, kid. So never forget the words of the immortal bard Johnny Cash and his song “Redemption.”
