The Sunset Prophecy (Love & Armageddon #1)

by P. J. Day

  “This is too much,” she said, as she neared Logan and tied herself around his upper body, with joy and relief.

  Logan held Keelen with his wiry but strong forearms and massaged the back of her head with a touch of patriarchal empathy.

  “You earned it.”

  “I did?”

  “You managed to procure the sale of my pieces to the right people.”

  “All I did was create an invoice. They wanted your works without any of my input,” she said, as she pulled away.

  “A lot could’ve gone wrong. You have no clue, do you?” Logan said. “The impact your decisions have on fate?”

  Keelen chuckled. “Impact? The only impact I seem to be having on people is one of...”

  Logan placed his finger on her cherry-colored lips. “...stop being so negative.”

  Keelen walked toward her desk and smelled one of the tall red roses that looked as if it were grown in atomic fertilizer. “No pictures of all this, okay?”

  “I get it.”

  “But thank you.”

  Logan approached an easel he had next to the desk, picked it up and carried it toward his room. His bedroom door was open. Keelen peered into the room and pondered its extreme darkness. She wondered why Logan slept throughout the day. She felt compelled and comfortable enough to ask, “Why are you such a night owl?”

  Logan smiled, and unfazed by Keelen’s curiosity, his eyes percolated with confidence. “Nighttime is more fun, don’t you think? Everyone looks their best in the evening.”

  “True,” she said, sitting at her desk. “Well, enjoy your sleep and thanks for all this. You’ve made my week; actually, you’ve made my month.”

  He placed the easel in his room and turned to Keelen. “Got any plans tonight?”

  Keelen paused. She thought of Matt. But how could she say no to someone who was being so nice to her? How could she say no to someone who showed selfless initiative? Nothing wrong with a bite to eat with old friends, she thought. “No, I don’t. Are you thinking about dinner?”

  “Yeah, a fun night out among friends,” Logan said. “If you want to invite Matt and Cindy, the more the merrier.”

  “Oh, umm...”

  “What?”

  “Well, Matt and I had a little, you know...”

  “Really? Well...I’m sorry to hear that. He’s stressed and he’s got a lot going for him, you know?”

  “Yeah,” Keelen sighed. “A lot going for him...”

  “How about Cindy?”

  “She’s obsessed with this old book she found. She’s not going to want to come out with us. She’s researching,” Keelen said sarcastically.

  “Good.”

  “Why’s that good?”

  “She’s doing what she’s destined to do. When you find something you love doing, you’re doing something you were destined to do. Why would life give you strong urges to do the things you like, if there was no incentive?”

  Keelen turned her eyes downward. “Yeah, which is why I’m trying and trying to live my dream, as you know.”

  “Do you really want to act?”

  “Of course, it’s something I’ve wanted to do since I was a kid.”

  Logan nodded. “I believe you,” he winked. “All right, I need to get to bed. I’m absolutely pooped.”

  “Oh, of course.”

  “Do me a favor. Go wild browsing news sites.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “No, please do. I’m going to need a full report on what’s going today.”

  “Where?”

  “Everywhere.”

  Keelen smiled and pounded the keys with vigor. It was a good day. There were flowers and she was now being paid to fool around on the internet. Logan’s intentions piqued her inquiring heart, and fogged up her mind with pleasant thoughts. Also, it had been a long time since she enjoyed a nice, expensive dinner.

  Things were turning around, at least for the moment.

  17

  Good Night and Good Luck

  He cut the thick, metal chain with the swipe of his flaming sword.

  The old CBS studio on Sunset and Gower had been abandoned for almost a decade. No guards, patrols, or cameras; just an empty, tin, vanilla-colored husk, with a row of badly mangled palm trees on the outside. Thieves stayed away. There was no point in stealing the hard concrete on the floor, or pawning off the dirty and cracked glass from the windows. The homeless avoided the eyesore as well. Word traveled fast in shelters and on the unforgiving sidewalks and alleys that the place was haunted. CBS had closed up shop after two of their camera grips died of electrocution during scheduled blackouts. They said the ghosts of the two grips would moan the hallways, supposedly asking for some man or woman named OSHA.

  Adam knew this place’s history, as this was where the old Blondeau Tavern building once stood, where they erected Hollywood’s first studio. This place was once sacred, now it was just cursed and forgotten.

  Adam lifted the steel roll-up dock door. A musty odor of rats’ nests and flaking lead paint traveled up his nose. He scrunched his beak and tried to spit out the odors that stuck to his palate. He closed the dock door behind him and stared ahead—nothing but yards and yards of empty concrete. He walked through the large doorways. Darkness varied as some rooms were full of boarded-up windows; others still reflected the smog-filtered sunlight off the filthy glass. He flipped the switches that he’d come across, but there was no electricity.

  Adam stared into the darkness and bellowed, “Di benedicite hoc plano.” No response.

  He thought about Fisker’s words—the ones about the basement. From his faint recollection during the construction and establishment of the Blondeau Tavern, the altar and catacombs would have been built facing east. He lumbered eastward through the old news studio. He passed by old rusted rivets that were used to hold down the news desk. The plain white walls had cracks that rooted up from the floor: neglected damage from the flurry of earthquakes that had occurred during the past decade.

  Two metal doors impeded his progress. On the doors, two traditional drama masks, which had been stylized with 1950s aesthetics greeted him. He twisted the long, aluminum door handles. His wrist buckled as he tried to force the lock to break. He brandished his energetic sword, limiting its growth into the size of a dagger, and pushed it through the lock, searing a hole straight through the door. Adam used his meaty shoulder to force himself through the double doors which had stuck to themselves with time.

  A musty, abandoned theater stood before him. Large cobwebs draped the balconies above. The velvet-like material that made up the seat cushions looked almost new, untouched by the outside elements, as they were entombed the day the studio was shuttered. This was the original screening room built by the Horsley brothers—the chosen ones and the ones who were entrusted to keep the last 100 years of peace and obedience before the Prophecy.

  Adam sauntered down the center aisle. He glanced above his shoulder. He could not see anything through the projector window. He continued toward the stage. The gold-braid trimmed, red velvet curtains hung above him like symmetrical algae-bloomed waves. He rolled himself onto the stage and with a careful eye, he inspected the black wooden floor. He tapped his foot, listening for an empty echo. Adam flashed his sword again, illuminating the darkness behind the stage, revealing an old brick wall that had been painted white.

  He knew he could not continue. Israfel was here underground, where the Horsley brothers used to pray for guidance. Where those who served Adonai were buried, and promised salvation for their sacrifice.

  Adam struggled down on one knee and cocked his arm back. He was ready to use his sword like a saw and cut open a hole on the floor of the stage. As soon as he placed the tip of the sword on the opaque panels, the electric flutters of a mechanical reel resonated in his ears. He looked up toward the projector window. A bright light beamed toward the white brick wall in front of him, illuminating the small dust motes that danced in the theater, like wayward asteroids.


  Like a half-filled barrel laid on its side, Adam rolled his large body backward. His eyes were drawn toward the image that flickered on the painted wall. A large blinking eye emerged from the gooey and parched cellulose. Its enormous pupil contained a star-spiraled iris in its center. The eyelids were tan and displayed the texture of old, cracked rawhide.

  “Di benedicite hoc plano,” Adam stammered. He quickly stood up with the grace of a tranquilized boar, and repeated himself clearly.

  “Di benedicite hoc plano,” returned the echoing, synthesized thunderous voice. It then modulated itself into clear and concise English. “I don’t recognize your stench.”

  “Israfel?”

  “Who calls for me?”

  “Lelantos.”

  “Son of Jrue? God of the hunt?”

  “Yes. I seek a meeting.”

  “Apparently, your brother is testing everyone’s patience.”

  “I know, that is why I’m here.”

  “If your intentions are in accordance with the Concord, I do not mind,” said the beastly voice.

  “Do I have the same assurances from you?”

  “Nimirum.”

  The floor underneath Adam’s feet began flickering like the static of a forgotten UHF channel. He felt his feet give way. His weight pulled him down, as if he were tossed at sea with an anvil tied to his ankles. Adam slipped into a whirlwind of swirling colors and haunting yells. His fall was reminiscent of Alice’s down the rabbit hole, but instead of hitting random clocks, books, and rabbits, he felt the death grips of dull, fleshy claws tugging at his jutting rolls of fat.

  The spiraling fall abruptly ended, as Adam landed on his side on the cold, hard surface. The illumination of thousands of wax candles glowed through his closed eyelids, as he crumpled stunned on the floor. He opened his eyes, revealing a cavernous rotunda, whose high dome was propped up with tall pillars made of femurs, tibias, and piled skulls.

  Adam turned his body in a circle and scanned his newfound environment. In the darkened far reaches of the room stood a large fire-blasted granite rock, a large shadowy figure was perched on top like a nightmare from Hans Christian Andersen’s mind.

  Adam approached the figure. His arm was tensed at his side, ready to spark in defense if need be. “Israfel?” he asked.

  A large, gray, fleshy wing greeted Adam, covering Israfel. The wing was tucked like a gigantic cabbage leaf. “What is it you seek?” asked Israfel, his voice slightly muffled behind the wing’s mangy flesh.

  “I am close to finding my brother. I request you rein in the Seraphs.”

  Israfel grunted. “Do you understand that they hunt your brother, not for pleasure, but for necessity?”

  “I realize that. But you risk the wrath of Jrue if Theolodus is murdered. It is highly beneficial for all interests involved that you exhaust every last minute before you call for his execution.”

  The creature dug deep within its diaphragm and bellowed a hearty chuckle that sounded as if it were filtered through a digital synthesizer and mixed with the thickest phlegm. “There is no time, Lelantos.”

  “Of course there is, we have yet to feel the earth shake beneath our feet, the sky is still blue, and the oceans still ebb and flow with the cycles of the moon.”

  Israfel turned its large body toward Adam and opened its wing, revealing its incongruous and malformed shape. Israfel’s crouched body was at least 30 meters tall. His body was covered in the darkest and most matted fur. A plethora of red, plump, and drooling lips covered every inch of his body. A set of large, dried lips opened on its head, revealing a pair of bulging eyes from within the grotesquely positioned mouths.

  Adam glared at Israfel with a strange mix of sorrow and intimidation.

  Israfel pointed its large clawed finger toward a tall, thin, brass instrument in the center of the rotunda. A large golden pipe jutted out from its side. Encircling the cylindrical instrument were decorative angels, serpents, and Hebraic symbols. “I’ve blown through the trumpet. One of my lips will officially signal the call, but I do not know which pair of lips has been ordained by Adonai,” the Seraphim stated. “One blow per day as described by the Prophecy. I am on day three.”

  “I see,” said Adam, in a surrendered tone. “So, if it’s going to happen soon, why send Seraphs against my brother?”

  “The codex is missing,” said the creature. “Your brother is the suspect.”

  “Impossible.”

  “The Apocryphon has vanished and has been traced here in Los Angeles, in the same exact place where we have all gathered to fulfill the Prophecy.”

  “Theolodus doesn’t know about the Apocryphon. He was just a child when it was created,” Adam implored. “I plead for your reasoning.”

  “Theolodus is a demigod, his allegiance is constantly in a schism. Who was his mother?”

  Adam pursed his lips and lowered his brow. He’d realized that the Seraphim had done his homework. Theolodus was indeed a threat to the Prophecy. Adam breathed softly, “Thalia. Thalia is his mother.”

  Israfel purred, its sound traveling toward Adam’s chest, reverberating inside his fleshed cavity. “Your brother is a danger to your existence.”

  “No, he wouldn’t do that,” Adam said, shaking his head. “His allegiances are pure, but he’s rebellious and has been seduced by the pleasures of mortality. I know, I’ve been seduced by them. Look at me; this bloated flesh vessel is punishment for my rebelliousness.”

  “Thalia must not be freed. The Apocryphon and two-thirds of the key are missing.”

  Adam breathed loudly and bent over his knees. “Ah, geez.”

  “He must be terminated,” said Israfel, calmly.

  “I have candidates,” Adam said, digging into the pocket of his tattered suit. He pulled out a sheet of paper with lists of names. “These are the candidates. I have them right here. I just need to find a way to get them all in one place. They all fit Theolodus’s profile.”

  Israfel dispatched the other wing away from his body and stepped off his rock. He walked up toward Adam on all fours. Adam looked away as numerous mouths collectively breathed on him. Israfel inspected the names on the piece of paper. “Matthew Nix,” the creature hissed.

  “Yes, the boxer.”

  “I know.”

  “What do you know?”

  “His resemblance is God-like. His arrival unexpected, but I am still unsure,” said Israfel. “One of the ancient pits of Hades is underneath the ring in the arena where he’s fighting on Sunday. One of our fault lines runs right underneath the arena. Plan your interrogation carefully, Lelantos.”

  Adam grinned in self-reflection. “Yes, yes. Can you call on one of your Southern California specials during the fight?”

  “An earthquake will happen. This is your last chance, Lelantos. Your brother better be on that list. Let this event be the precursor to the harvest,” hissed Israfel. “Knowing of his partial allegiance to humanity, he will surely reveal himself when he sees his brethren in trouble.”

  “Yes, of course. Israfel, you are so noble. Uriel is such a rat bastard. You can tell him I said so.”

  All the lips on Israfel smiled in unison, as he sat on his hind legs. “Do not worry about Uriel. He has his duties.”

  Adam looked around the rotunda. “How do I get out of here?”

  The mouthy beast pointed toward the tombs. “There is a ladder on the left of the catacombs.”

  “Thank you.”

  Israfel called on Adam as he made his way toward the catacombs. “Theolodus’ mother must remain imprisoned until the harvest.”

  “Yes, course.” Adam nodded and continued toward the exit. He climbed three sets of grips before letting go. He climbed back down and turned to Israfel and panted, “Are you sure this is the only way out of here?”

  Israfel nodded.

  The bottom of Adam’s feet bubbled with energy. He glanced and grinned at Israfel with embarrassment, realizing he had to use his evocation of propulsion for such a mild escape.

&n
bsp; 18

  Fish and Loaves

  “Logan, wake up. You gotta see this,” Keelen said loudly, as she banged on his bedroom door. “Yo, sleepyhead.”

  Logan opened the door and peeked his head through the door. His, thick, silky head of hair sprouted in random directions. He scrunched his eyes at Keelen and curved his lips in a smile. “Let me guess. The recession has ended?”

  “What? Why would the recession end? No, listen. You got to see the news channels, they are going crazy. They don’t know what to make of the situation.”

  Logan followed Keelen toward the living room. The flat screen was tuned to the cable news channel’s live feed.

  Thousands of distressed homeowners have received letters not only stating that their defaults have been reversed, but that their mortgage balances have been all but been eliminated. However, the Dow has lost more than 4,000 points since this morning, putting the market in its first panic since 2008.

  Keelen raised her eyebrows with uncertainty. “Is this good news or bad news?”

  “Depends on who you ask,” Logan smirked.

  On the television, the modelesque talking head segued to a prerecorded segment of an infamous firebrand by the name of Vic Cervelli, who was known for his pro-market rants. He immediately began his trademark yells as soon as the camera turned to him on the trading floor.

  Megan, this is another giveaway to the lazy takers of this once great country. We here on the floor are tired, absolutely tired of the fruits of our labor being bandied about like peanuts at a circus. What’s the point? What is the goddamn point if the bankers are now drinking the Kool-Aid?

  The stockbrokers on the floor cheered at Cervelli’s bluster. Vic grabbed what little hair he had on his head and began tugging at as if it were a straw bale with insurmountable frustration. He stomped around in random circles. The stockbrokers began throwing tickets and receipts at him, in some sort of bizarre ritualized rally.

  Logan began chuckling loudly at the television. “This is nuts.”

  “But the markets are crashing,” Keelen said, with clueless worry.

  “So? I wouldn’t be surprised if you have a little more money in your bank account. Who do you bank with again?”