Airel

by Patterson, Aaron

  I felt really gross. Maybe my dream was about pre-season practice with the football team. Now that would be a nightmare. I shuffled to the bathroom to clean up, cool down, and try to pull myself together. I changed into my back-up pajamas: my favorite blue sweats and an old long sleeved t-shirt. They were so comfortable—but so ugly—that I didn't dare wear them unless I had no other choice.

  I felt better after that, but still had a raging headache and no idea why. Grabbing a couple of Advil from the medicine cabinet, I filled the glass by the sink with water. I tossed back the tablets and took a long drink of cool water, then carried the glass into my bedroom.

  When I sat down on the bed, with my feet dangling off the floor, the glass suddenly shattered in my hand. I gasped as shards dug into my hand and I dropped what was left of the glass. I was in total shock. It hit the carpet with a thump and I bit my lip to keep from screaming out in pain.

  Blood ran freely from two different cuts on my palm. From the looks of them, they were deep. I started to get woozy but forced myself to keep it together. Don't pass out Ariel. You've got to stop the bleeding. In that moment I wished I had woken my mom up. I jumped up, dodging the glass on the floor, ran to the bathroom holding my bleeding left hand, and got to the sink just in time to catch the first drips. Mom would have a cow, maybe a calf too!

  I turned on the cold water. It stung and I winced in pain as it flushed out the wound. Blood pooled in the sink. There were two large deep gashes in my hand; I feared I would need stitches. I pulled the largest pieces out with my fingers. There were a few that I just couldn’t get, and though I was brave, I wasn’t that brave.

  I found some bandages and gauze strips under the sink, wound them around my throbbing hand, and made a bandage that looked like something out of one of Dad’s war movies. Not the best, but at three in the morning I wasn’t about to wake my parents—at least, not now that I had everything under control. I guess I just needed a stiff upper lip and time to heal.

  I made sure the bathroom didn't look like I had just killed someone and went back to bed. I still don't know how I fell asleep with the rhythmic throbbing in my poor hand, or the thoughts running through my mind of what I was going to tell my parents when they saw my enormous gauze mitten. And what would I tell Kim—Miss Talks-a-lot?

  Stuck in the back of my mind was my new friend, whispering why did the glass break? It was a good question. It wasn't one of those thin cheapie glasses. It was heavy, thick. I could have tossed it across the living room and it wouldn't have broken. It would have left a dent in the wall. So that’s how I spent my night: horror show, sweat shower, headache, my own real-life episode of CSI, and back to bed.

  In the morning, I stood in front of the mirror in the first rays of sunshine more beautiful than I dared to be, especially after a night like that, hearing those words in my head: why did the glass break?

  I unwound the tape and bandages, wanting to assess the damage before showing Mom my handiwork. That’s when I knew there was going to be big trouble. There was more to my little mysteries than vomit and perfect skin, anyway. I stared at my hand. Impossible! Then I stared at it in the mirror, thinking that in there maybe things would look normal. I’m going crazy and that’s that! My hand was not cut, bleeding, bruised or even starting to heal.

  It was completely healed.

  The alternative version of reality was that I was never cut, the glass never broke, and it was all just a bad dream. But there were bloody bandages and fragments of broken glass in the trash can that sat next to my dresser. I turned my hand palm up to inspect it again. Nothing. It was fine. But there was something gritty and shiny on my palm. After a closer look, I realized that somehow my body had rejected the tiniest shards of glass that had been embedded in it... the ones that I could not get out the night before.

  I reached down and pulled the bandages out of the trash can. They too had little shards of glass. I looked again at my palm and realized that there weren’t even scars. I looked up into the mirror again, looking myself in the eyes, blinking as if meeting myself for the very first time.

  Then I did something I still don't believe I had the guts to try. I reached back into the trash can, took a knife-like chunk of the remains of the glass, and held it up in front of my face. There, between the mirror and me, was a moment like ripples in a pond.

  The girl in the mirror looked defiant and brave all at once. The real girl, if I could call myself that, felt scared but impulsive. The shard of glass looked wicked, dangerous. Now, I felt it down to my very bones, I knew what it felt like to be completely crazy.

  I laid my hand palm up on the top of my dresser. I grabbed an old t-shirt from the drawer and bit down hard on it. I raised my right hand and stabbed the glass knife into my left I screamed through the t-shirt with clenched teeth. If Mom heard, she would probably just think I stubbed my toe or just remembered some unfinished homework.

  Blood. Both hands were now badly cut. My right palm was sliced to ribbons where I had grasped the weapon and my left was absolutely pierced. The glass was stuck through it into the top of my dresser like a dagger.

  I pulled, and with some effort, dislodged the glass shard from the dresser top, dropping it back into the trashcan. It chimed abruptly as it hit the other pieces of glass. I looked down at my hands with a look of horror on my face. What have I done?

  Chapter XVIII

  1250 B.C. Arabia

  Kreios slept by the warm fire that had died down to coals, casting an amber glow on the hard-packed walls. Just before he had fallen asleep, he let his mind come to rest on part of his talk with Zedkiel.

  His brother had mentioned a large city, two weeks’ journey to the west, where they were building structures out of stone and granite. He remembered living in a city much like the one his brother described, but a long time ago. That was another time, another life; but he allowed his mind to dwell in those memories as he drifted off to sleep.

  It was now very late. Nothing moved.

  A dark shadow crossed the room without a sound. Kreios awoke, becoming alert without opening his eyes. He had been trained for combat, and his sleeping habits had not changed much over the years. He slept soundly, yet very lightly. The slightest sound that was out of place was enough to wake him fully, and he had disciplined himself to awaken without changing his breathing pattern in the slightest.

  He waited, unmoving. Now he could hear something moving around inside the hut. The heat from the sword that lay under his arm confirmed the danger he felt.

  Cracking his right eye open, he looked around the room. On the other side of the fire pit stood a figure cloaked in darkness, a long haggard robe draped down, dragging on the floor. Kreios’s hand rested near the grip of his sword and he moved his fingers slowly, wrapping them around it and enclosing it like a band of iron. Every muscle in his body tensed. You will only have one chance. Make this count.

  In a blur of speed and in one motion, Kreios jumped to his feet and unsheathed the Sword of Light. The hulking dark visitor screeched in pain but did not shrink back as blazing light filled the room. Kreios could feel the demon drawing on his life force. But an unexpected sensation interrupted all of this. With sword in hand, Kreios could now feel it resisting the demonic draw. It was restoring him, renewing him, and he regained what had been stolen as energy returned, flowing up his arm, into his chest. He betrayed himself with a faint smile, flashing across his face.

  From the corner of his eye, Kreios saw another filthy black figure, stepping from the next room. He decided to begin the fight by ending it. Quickly he swung the Sword and split the midsection of the closest enemy, spilling his bowels onto the ground.

  Before it could roar with indignant pain, he had begun fluidly moving the Sword back into the attack, arcing low, barely touching the dirt floor, and coming back around to shoulder height. He was poised and did not hesitate. With a backhand swing he took off its head and watched as its jagged sword clacked to the ground, its body crumpled in a bloody heap.
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  Kreios immediately felt a surge of power returning to him and his birthmark glowed up his arm as if on fire. Now for another.

  He turned toward the second intruder, closing with it quickly. As Kreios drew back to strike, the beast savagely plunged a crooked black dagger into him. Kreios felt searing pain as the blade penetrated his chest. His thoughts turned toward his precious daughter in the next room. As he fell to his knees, stunned, he prayed desperately for her safety.

  No words passed between the two enemies as they stared at each other. Kreios still held the Sword in the vise of his grip as it flamed brightly, the white light revealing the hideousness of his enemy. It was disgusting, pathetic. A dirty waxy hood concealed its face, revealing only the glow of eyes within that were fueled by the fires of Hell itself. Leaving the dagger jutting from Kreios’ chest, the demon raised its wickedly curved black sword high overhead, savoring the coming strike at the heart of his foe.

  Its stinking festering body tensed in preparation for the final blow. Abruptly, however, the thing retched; black liquid gurgled up from its throat, and its sword fell clanging to the floor. Its mouth hung open wide, and in the light of the Sword Kreios could see the sharpness of steel sticking through the beast from the back of its head, protruding from its gaping mouth.

  Zedkiel!

  Kreios pulled the beast’s dagger free of his own chest and turned it homeward, burying the smoking tip within the sickening folds of the robe of the demon. He rose up, ignoring the pain shooting through his ribcage, and swung the Sword violently across its neck, severing the head. The demon fell to the dirt floor, dead. Tacky blood spilled from its body. Zedkiel put his foot on the head and pulled his sword free, standing over the lifeless form with contempt.

  “Are you wounded?” Zedkiel looked at Kreios and leaned down to examine his injury.

  “He missed my lung. I can already feel it healing. I will be whole by the sunrise.” Kreios grimaced. “Thank you.” He struggled to remain standing. He placed a hand on his brother’s shoulder, leaning on him for support.

  Kreios wiped the blood off the Sword, sheathed it, and slung the scabbard over his shoulder, keeping the sword tight and snug to his body.

  Zedkiel placed much wood on the fire, which began to roar lustily. Then he cut up the bodies into pieces so that he could burn them. As Kreios helped his brother with this grisly task, he could not help but feel like something was amiss. He could not place the feeling, but something was not right.

  Kreios walked out the front door and looked up at the clear night sky. The air had a bitter quality. The sulfuric smell of the fuel now burning on the fire did not help matters. He listened for the sound of horses. Maybe he would be able to discern, by straining his ears, the approach of the Brotherhood coming to finish the job. The village still slept and did not know what had just transpired. It was better that way.

  “I believe they only sent two of them. It would have been an easy kill if it was not for the Sword you carry.” Zedkiel stood in the doorway and searched the sky with his deep dark eyes. The night was still and calm, completely clear. The stars illuminated the valley in resplendence and it reminded him of another age.

  Kreios did not like knowing that he had brought the demons there. His problems were not his brother’s. In his haste to save his daughter, Kreios had put the whole family at risk. “I fear you will have to move away from Gratzipt. They know you are here now. They will send more.” Kreios knew his brother would refuse, but he was compelled to speak the truth, no matter what his brother might say.

  “I cannot remove us from this life. We cannot rebuild again. Maria could not endure it, especially now. The child is nearly here and we have a good life in our little village.” He paused, and the moment was heavy. “No. We will wait and set snares to protect ourselves. With you here, with the Sword, our strategy can be adjusted. We do not need to run.”

  Kreios said nothing. He was sure that his brother would see how the decision to stay would rain down hellfire upon all the innocent villagers, punishing them for daring to live next to angels who provoked battles with the Brotherhood.

  He turned, walking back into the house. Kreios knew his brother would not listen to wisdom just now, so he decided to drop the subject. He wanted to be sure his baby girl was still snuggled in safety.

  Kreios found Maria sprawled crookedly in the corner on his brother’s bed. “Zedkiel!” He called to his brother as he ran to Maria. Zedkiel came quickly and they sat her up, cautiously. She began to sob, moaning with her head in her hands. Kreios jerked his head to where his baby girl was sleeping. He rushed over and pulled the skins back.

  She was gone.

  Maria sobbed and looked up at him with grief in her eyes. “They took her, there were four of them! Two went after you and the other two left with the child. They would have killed me as well, but ran with the baby when they heard you.” She had red puffy eyes and her face was wet with tears. Kreios wanted to scream. He filled with rage as a knot bound up the pit of his stomach.

  “I tried to scream when they took her but they struck me and everything became dark. I thought I was dead! Oh, Kreios, I am so sorry!” Kreios went to her and embraced her. He was glad that his brother’s wife was alive. She would bring Zedkiel a child soon and it was by the grace of God that the Brotherhood had not killed her.

  Kreios stood, malice flashing in his eyes. “I must go. They want me. They will not harm her as long as I am alive!” It was a pleading prayer. Kreios hoped it was true, but deep down he suspected he would never see his daughter again.

  Kreios took a sling and filled it with some barley cakes and then quickly grabbed a skin for water. He waved off his brother’s attempt to go with him. “You need to be here to protect Maria. They will come back for her... and you.” Zedkiel wandered about with a lost look on his face; the inner turmoil he felt was obvious. He pulled Maria close and watched as Kreios prepared to leave.

  Kreios donned his coat and tied his belt tight. If it was battle they wanted, it was battle they would taste.

  He stepped out and looked up at the star-filled sky. With an agile movement he sprung up, shooting into the night sky, leaving a small light trail behind.

  Chapter XIX

  The air had a cool bite to it as Kreios flew through the sky. He knew that the Brotherhood had taken his daughter and he was having a hard time controlling his anger. His thoughts were racing with recklessly crafted scenarios in which he was slicing the enemy to bits and pieces. He was shouting at them on the battlefield, running toward them, praying for more demon flesh to cleave, and when he had exhausted these fantasies his mind turned toward what he would do to the Seer when they met.

  His body was shaking with rage and his eyes burned with righteous hatred for the cowardly sneaking filthy beasts that had taken his daughter. He had every right. He would send every last one of them to Hell personally.

  After having lost his wife, he was broken and desperate. Now that he had lost his daughter, and he wasn’t sure if she was dead or alive, he felt the eyes of the heavens upon him and his quest for justice. Now vengeance would belong to Kreios, and he would deliver it without mercy.

  Kreios breathed heavy. Tears streamed down his face but he wiped them with the back of his hand. There would be a time to mourn, but this was not it; he needed to be strong for his daughter.

  He descended into the trees and alighted softly, deep in the dark woods, near the main road from Gratzipt. He could smell horse manure. The demon horde would be on horses, moving fast through the forest to make as much time as they could. He moved toward the road quickly.

  At its edge, he stopped. He could now smell dust in the air, along with the scent of the horses and the unmistakable choking signature of decay. They had passed by this spot not long ago.

  Softly, he retreated to the cover of the woods and climbed a tall tree. He had ascended to its uppermost reaches within seconds. He observed the terrain for miles around, looking for any trace of his prey. He could
sense that they were near but now he could hear the clatter of hooves on the road, toward the setting moon. He knew which way to go now.

  Kreios wanted to go in with sword drawn and slice them to pieces, but he feared what would become of his sweet baby girl. He pulled his hood low on his head and silently dropped to the ground in the dark shadows of the forest. With deceptive speed he began to close in on the enemy, running in complete silence along the roadside, dodging brambles and leaping over fallen trees.

  He could feel his strength start to fade, felt them feeding off him with every step he took. He had to move fast and with a sure hand if he was to see his little girl reach her first birthday.

  Up ahead, at a wide spot in the road, there stood two horses, black as night. Sweat was pouring from them and Kreios could tell they had been ridden hard. He could hear the murmuring of a stream nearby as he stopped to take cover and observe them. The riders were taking a drink from the stream that flowed through the center of the clearing. These two must be the rear guard of the army. The rest would have gone on ahead and probably had his daughter.

  Kreios took a moment to listen to the sounds of the woods. An owl called out. The little creek steamed as it flowed over rocks and under old logs, and the smell of snow and deep forest decay filled his nostrils. Every sound in nature, including some that were not of the world, flooded his senses. He could hear the sound of their blackened hearts beating, the lapping of their lips as they drank like dogs.

  There was a small adjoining meadow by the wide spot in the road, filled with dead moistened stalks of tall grass left over from the heat of the summer. Kreios slipped into the field and moved forward like a panther stalking its prey.