The Edward King Series Books 1-3

by Wood, Rick

  “Okay, okay.”

  She removed the chain, undid the main lock, went to open the door – and froze.

  If I needed it, I could get back to the kitchen and grab the knife from the drawer.

  She wasn’t entirely sure why she was needing an escape strategy. The feeling was just not going away.

  As she opened the door, that feeling of dread changed to one of perturbed surprise. She did not recognise the man standing before her. He was not a neighbour, not someone she knew, and he was definitely not a postman.

  Yet he seemed calm, pleasant even. Like he wouldn’t harm a fly.

  “Hello, I presume you are Kelly?” he asked, with a thick South African accent.

  “Yes…”

  He smiled a warm, genuine smile. He skin was a prominent black, and he wore some sort of multi-coloured robe. She was sure it was traditional South African dress; she may have even heard it called a ‘venda’ or something once, she wasn’t entirely sure. Underneath that, he seemed to be wearing a polo shirt and jeans.

  “My name is Bandile Thato,” he introduced himself, grinning warmly in a way that made him instantly likeable. She loved his accent, and the way it made every syllable sound interesting. “I am looking for Edward King?”

  “Er, Eddie isn’t here at the moment.”

  “It is of the utmost importance I speak to him. Do you know if he will be back soon?”

  “Well, yeah, any minute.”

  “May I come in and wait for him?”

  Even with the friendliness and warm sensibility he introduced himself with, she still had that feeling in the pit of her stomach that made her hesitant to let a stranger into her home. Still, he had not given her reason to be suspicious, and the name Bandile Thato seemed familiar; like it was something Derek had once mentioned.

  “Of course,” she spoke eventually, after the silence had become awkward. She opened the door, allowing him into the house, shutting it behind him.

  “I had just put the kettle on, would you like a cup of tea?”

  “That would be lovely, thank you.”

  She led him into the kitchen.

  “Please, take a seat.”

  He smiled at her once more, showing sincere gratitude. “You have a lovely home,” he told her.

  She poured the drinks and placed his in front of him, the whole time leaning herself against the cutlery drawer where she knew the knife was.

  “So how do you know Eddie?”

  “Ah, no, I just… I know of him. I have heard great things about him.”

  “Great things?”

  “I know he has become a most powerful exorcist, one to rival anyone I have ever met. Word travels fast, even in another continent.”

  They did not have to wait long. After around ten minutes of small talk, the front door opened and Eddie strolled in.

  When Eddie saw Bandile, he froze.

  “Edward?” Bandile raised his eyebrows and smiled toward him.

  Eddie nodded.

  “My name is Bandile, and I have some news about Derek.”

  30

  Despite approaching 8.00 p.m., the dark-orange sun still cast a dim light over the peaceful evening. The bushes outside the window were still, the street was empty and the lack of anything happening was almost unsettling.

  Staring out the window was almost all Martin could do. They did not have enough money to top up the electricity, so he couldn’t watch telly. There were a few tattered books on the floor behind the telly, but they weren’t really his thing. He was bored, with nothing to do, but at the same time, he was also content. Happy just to sit still and embrace the silence.

  His mother was asleep in her wheelchair next to him, having her ‘early evening’ nap. He honestly didn’t get how she could sleep so much. He tossed and turned every night, often spending hours willing himself just to get some sleep that he knew would never come. Not her. She slept so soundly.

  I suppose just living must be exhausting when you get out of breath from a few steps.

  He wondered how long she would live for. Surely in the condition she was in, her life expectancy was limited. Even more than that, what would he do without her? What would be the purpose to his life then?

  How would he even motivate himself to get out of bed in the morning, if he was all that was left?

  Deciding it wasn’t good for him to sit still and allow poisonous thoughts to stew around his mind, he stood up and paced around the room, stuffing a few cushions and picking up a few mugs, taking them into the kitchen.

  He took a dirty glass and rinsed it out, then filled it with water. He felt the water fall down his dry throat and hydrate him, drinking nearly the whole pint glass in one. He hadn’t realised he was that thirsty.

  Clang!

  His head shot around immediately.

  A noise. It was something moving, something hitting something.

  Without hesitation, he darted through to the living room to see what state his mum was in; but she was in the exact same position she had been in before. Fast asleep, her head slumped on her left shoulder, snoring away.

  Scanning the room, he saw no obvious movement.

  Shaking his head to himself and deciding he must have been hearing things, he walked back into the kitchen and refilled his glass.

  He downed another half a pint and placed the glass on the side. He opened the drawers, searching for something to eat. There was a half-full jar of jam and an almost empty box of cereal that had only the crumbs left in the bottom from its previous use.

  “Martin?”

  His head shot around.

  His mum’s voice. Clear as day. Calling him from the other room.

  Her voice was curious, rather than helpless, as if she had a question to ask.

  He edged toward the living room, peering around the doorway.

  She lay still, in her wheelchair, head rested on her left shoulder, snoring audibly. She had not moved. Nor had she awoken.

  His eyes remain on her. Maybe she was talking in her sleep? Wouldn’t be the first time.

  But the tone of the voice was just… not in keeping with the way his mum talked. She whined, commanded, never enquired.

  Shaking his head again, he turned around to leave the room once more.

  That’s when he heard it again.

  “Martin?”

  He shot around in an instant, absolutely one hundred percent sure his mum had just said his name.

  “Ma?” he offered.

  Nothing.

  No reaction. She sat still. No movement. Just snoring.

  He knelt beside her and stroked his hand down the side of her face. She felt warm, almost burning up; which was strange, as the house had an odd chill in it. Was she getting ill?

  “Ma, you say something?” he asked again. No response. Just snoring.

  He stood up and went to leave once more.

  “Maaaartiiiiiin!”

  This time it was an aggressive moan, an exclamation of sheer agitation, anger, abhorrence.

  He darted to her side and took her face in his hands, peering at her intently, adamant he was not hearing things.

  Her snoring stopped. Her eyes didn’t flicker. Her head didn’t move. But her breathing was lighter.

  “Ma?”

  Her eyes shot open, sending him flailing onto his back in terror. The black of her pupils were fully dilated, growing to an inhuman size, like night between eyelids.

  Her mouth opened and a piercing scream filled the house. Martin clutched his hand over his ears. It did not stop.

  Another scream resounded, a mix of a lower-pitched growl accompanied by the high-pitched wailing, combining into a louder combination of screams.

  Another few screams protruded from her wide-open mouth, a number of voices combining.

  “Ma!” Martin screamed out, both petrified and horrifyingly concerned.

  How the hell is this happening?

  The scream stopped. As if it was the eye of the storm, she sat still.


  Still Martin didn’t move. Not yet.

  Her chest lifted into the air. She rose with it, the rest of her body trailing upwards like the arms of a rag doll. As she levitated inches above her chair, she vibrated, seizing uncontrollably.

  Martin couldn’t believe what he was seeing. He questioned his eyes, adamant this couldn’t be happening. She was still so close to the chair, maybe she wasn’t flying, maybe she was just propped up, her chest spasming.

  He knew it was denial. He knew what he saw.

  Her head slowly lifted above her chest, freakishly slowly, the rest of her body still hanging helplessly. She focussed her dead, black eyes on Martin and grinned sadistically.

  “You’re going to die.”

  With that, she fell back into the chair, slumped down and continued snoring.

  It was hours until Martin felt it was safe to move.

  31

  Eddie set a cup of tea beside Bandile and sat on the edge of a chair he had brought in from the kitchen. Kelly was sitting back in the armchair, deep in thought, staring at Bandile with wary scepticism etched all over her face. Bandile sat back on the sofa, his large body spread out, a warm grin on his face; not an annoying grin, but the kind of grin that indicates he is a kind person who looks for the good in others.

  Eddie couldn’t sit back on the sofa, nor could he slump into an armchair. He perched on the edge of the wooden chair, leaning toward Bandile, desperate for answers.

  “It is lovely to meet you, Edward, after all this time,” he spoke, his accent thick and endearing. “Derek has spoken so much about you.”

  Eddie nodded, urging him to get to the point.

  “I don’t know if you know, but I am the one who wrote the book of prophecies and gave it to Derek, in return for him freeing my wife from a demon, a long time ago.” He looked to the corner of the room as if reliving the memory in his mind. “He did so well.”

  “And you said you know where he is?”

  “Of course, you must realise, I never knew the prophecy would be about you. I apologise for what has happened. It is unfortunate.”

  Unfortunate?

  Eddie bowed his head. He could feel Kelly watching him, almost as worried as he was. But he had a feeling there was more to the story than a simple identification of Derek’s location.

  “Tell me, Edward, have there been any strange occurrences happening?”

  “You’ll need to be a bit more specific, Bandile. I’m sure you know what line of work I’m in. Strange occurrences are everyday situations for us.”

  “Yes, I would imagine,” Bandile nodded, smiling to himself. His smile faded as he leant forward slightly. “Have there been any dead animals around here, Eddie?”

  Eddie shared a look with Kelly. He nodded.

  “And what can you tell me?”

  “Erm…” Eddie hesitated and took in a deep breath, considering whether he could trust this man.

  Surely, he could. Derek had freed this man’s wife, and this man had entrusted Derek with the biggest secrets of the future. He decided if anyone could be trusted, it must be Bandile.

  “Well, yes,” Eddie confirmed. “A dead cat’s head, hanging in the shed.”

  “And did it have any writing next to it? In Latin, maybe?”

  “Yes. Yes, we translated it, it said –”

  “Rise, devil.”

  Eddie dropped his head and feebly nodded.

  “Have you heard of The Devil’s Three, Edward?”

  “Vaguely.”

  “It requires a set of three people. One wounded, one dead, and one a prophet. It is a ceremony undertaken with the sole purpose of rising the devil. I believe someone, somewhere, is planning to do this. And I think they are planning on using your house to do this, and these dead animals have something to do with it.”

  “Well then, we should go.” Eddie and Kelly shared the same worried expression. “Get out of here.”

  “It would be no good.” Bandile shook his head solemnly. “They will track you down and find you, there is no escape from them. If anything, it will waste energy you should be using otherwise.”

  “For what?”

  “To resist.”

  “Resist what?”

  Bandile sighed. Smiled sympathetically. There was clearly so much he knew that Eddie didn’t.

  “Do you know who you are, Edward?”

  “The devil’s link to this world, or something, yeah, I know.”

  “But I don’t think you do. You are so much more to the devil than a link. He has plenty of links to this world.”

  Bandile rested his hand comfortingly on Eddie’s arm, focussing him dead in the eyes.

  “You see,” he began, ensuring he was speaking clearly. “You are the antichrist. You are the coming of the devil in this world. Once he has risen from this ritual, once he is in this world, he will take that evil out of you. You will no longer be a man.”

  “Then I will fight him.”

  “The devil is the god of hell, you cannot fight a god. You don’t seem to see it – once he has risen, he will bring out the evil that lays dormant in you, and you will be someone else. You will be something else. A demon. Of the highest order.”

  Eddie bowed his head. Kelly noticed him visibly upset, so she interjected with the questions she’d know he’d want answered.

  “And these three,” she softly spoke, “who are they?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “But you’re a prophet. Could they intend to use you?”

  Bandile looked down, then toward Kelly.

  “I do not answer to the devil.”

  Bandile turned his head toward Eddie.

  “You wanted to know what has happened to Derek.”

  Eddie’s head rose. He was tired, fed up, done with everything; he had lived with this threat over his head for too long, and now he was being told it was coming to fruition. He thought he would be full of resistance and fight, but in truth, he was tired. Lethargic. He needed Derek’s guidance, and without it, he felt like he was going to lose.

  “Yes please. Tell me where he is.”

  “There was a plane crash. It happened when Derek was leaving Cambodia.”

  “Cambodia?”

  “Derek was all over the world, searching for answers. Unfortunately, this plane went down, and…”

  Eddie’s eyes welled up.

  “… and I’m sorry, Edward. I truly am.”

  Eddie covered his face with his hands. His stomach twisted, his gut entwined. His head filled with useless denial. He couldn’t accept it. He couldn’t.

  “You’re wrong. He can’t have been.”

  Bandile smiled a sad, sympathetic smile.

  Eddie stood and aimed for the kitchen, splashing hot water over his face.

  It couldn’t be true.

  He couldn’t face this without Derek. Not now. Not anymore.

  Kelly appeared behind him, placing her hand on his back.

  “I’m sorry, Eddie.”

  “I…” Eddie turned and whispered to her. “I don’t believe him.”

  “Eddie, I – I’ve seen this man before.”

  Eddie looked at her peculiarly. He checked over his shoulder to make sure Bandile hadn’t walked in, hadn’t overheard them.

  “What?” he asked.

  “Last night, there was a figure in the garden, watching us. It was him.”

  Eddie turned wide-eyed, perplexed, not sure what to think.

  “Think about it Eddie,” Kelly whispered close to his ear. “He’s a prophet. How could he not be able to predict a plane crash?”

  “Do you think,” Eddie glanced over his shoulder again, “do you think he’s the prophet in The Devil’s Three?”

  “He must be lying.”

  “Edward.”

  Eddie shot around. Bandile stood in the kitchen behind him.

  How the hell did he do that?

  He had only just checked over his shoulder. How had he come in, unnoticed? Had he heard anything?

 
; “Bandile?” Eddie asked, attempting to conceal his shaking hands.

  “Is everything okay?”

  Eddie nodded, then realised he was nodding frantically, so readjusted himself to a more casual nod.

  “Everything’s fine.”

  “I was just going to retire to my hotel room, if that is okay. I had a long journey, and I think you need time to process all this.”

  “I… I do.”

  “I will return tomorrow. Hopefully I will be able to answer more questions then.”

  Kelly’s hand gripped Eddie’s arm, and they barely moved until they heard the front door shut.

  32

  31 December 1993

  Seven years before the millennium

  Surrounding the pill packets and broken tissues, untouched glasses of water, defunct medicines, and useless self-help books, Bandile lay helplessly in his bed. It was a familiar bed, a bed he had become well accustomed to.

  He could barely lift his hands. Such a young man, in his early 20s. The circumstances were “tragic,” “sickening,” “a real eye-opener,” as all the people who met him would say.

  Where were those people now?

  Funny. Some of them had even labelled him “brave.”

  He was anything but. He hadn’t chosen to fight this cancer. He hadn’t chosen to have every part of him infected.

  He hadn’t chosen to die young.

  These were all choices forced upon him. People told him he should pray to God.

  God?

  Hah!

  What had God ever done for him?

  In that moment, he wished he had lived his life differently. Stayed faithful to his girlfriends, maybe even married one. What if he had pursued God with more vigour? Prayed for his redemption, his path to heaven?

  He wasn’t even sure if he believed in heaven anymore.

  How could a god do this? How could someone so loving, so cherishing, commit such vile acts as to spread a cancer throughout the body of a man still discovering his place in this world? It was unfair.

  Yes, it was not his predicament that was tragic, or sickening. It was God’s. That bastard, who was responsible for the hell he had gone through.