by Mike Duran
Chapter 39
Had Zeph’s attacker appeared human, Tamra may have rushed him in an attempt to separate his kneecap. However, by the look of things, this person did not have kneecaps to separate. In fact, this person did not look human.
Its torso was fleshy in appearance. Soft flumes of atmosphere rippled behind the being, as if an invisible cape or winged appendages buoyed the body. Yet its limbs seemed pixelated, comprised of something other than solid matter. Its extremities amassed and folded within themselves, columns of fog churning and reshaping. The face glared at them, its evil eyes blazing, and as it did, its mouth yawned open, slinging drool. Then it returned and hunched over the body of Zeph Walker, like a vampire preparing to dine on its prey.
Tamra stood dumbfounded. Calling the police seemed so feeble, so inconsequential in light of the anomaly before them. And breaking the thing’s kneecaps was out of the question.
As they watched the awful thing blossom over Zeph, as Tamra fumbled within herself for a plan of attack, footsteps thumped up the steps behind them, wrenching Tamra from her thoughts.
“Brother Walker!”
A tall, barrel-chested man, biker’s goggles hanging from his neck, thumped through the door in heavy boots and stood menacingly with a crossbow positioned at his waist. His eyes were small, set deep in a large ruddy head. He wore leather gloves of the construction variety and a canvas jacket with camouflage markings. Beneath the jacket, Tamra could make out a thick army belt and various accoutrements dangling from it.
“For the land!” the man bellowed, and aimed the crossbow at the creature.
Tamra and Annie stumbled to opposite sides of the room, their eyes wide with shock. She did not have time to worry about the man’s aim. The bow twanged, and a silken strand trailed the arrow into the den. A soft pop was followed by a hideous cry, a shrill avian caw. The creature was driven off Zeph’s body in a blur of motion.
Zeph dropped limp as the entity whirled in a tortured, indistinguishable mass to the corner of the den. Meanwhile the man had dropped the crossbow and seized the cord attached to the arrow. He wrapped it around his gloved hand and leaned back as if fighting some great marlin in a tropical sea. But the thing on the end of this line was not nearly as graceful. It rose toward the ceiling, battering the walls and sending pictures and mantelpiece objects clattering about the room. Garbled titters and chirps emerged. Wing-like appendages pummeled the air, as if some great bat had been harpooned. Glimpses of its face contorted in the pale light. It struck one wall. Then the other. Then it finally slumped to the base of the fireplace, life draining from its shadowy frame.
The man tugged on the rope, which now hung limp. The thing at the other end lay in a discolored, crumpled heap. Other than the fleshy face and upper torso, it could easily be mistaken for a pile of filthy laundry.
The man loosed the cord from his gloved hand and let it settle to the floor.
Tamra’s mouth hung open. She had backed into a small, overstuffed bookcase and stood with her spine wedged there. Across the room, Annie looked similarly flabbergasted. One of her braids was frayed, and her shin appeared to be bleeding.
Zeph moaned and sat up. Upon seeing the dead creature and the thick man with the biker’s goggles and crossbow, Zeph scrabbled backward and pushed himself to his feet, gaping and wobbling.
The stranger thumped along the floor, down into the den, and toward the body, where he remained, studying it. He poked it with the point of his crossbow. Apparently satisfied that it was dead, he turned to Zeph.
“Vocal Memnon,” he said. “Ever heard of it?”
Chapter 40
Tamra was too stunned to move. She watched as Zeph stood incredulous, his gaze drifting back and forth between the man and the entity he had harpooned.
“Vocal Memnon. One of many great tales! A statue—two of them—side by side on the Nile.” The stranger’s voice was thick yet contained an exuberance, a gaiety, that enthralled Tamra. He spoke with the flair of a storyteller, but the lines on his face suggested a wisdom worn by age and a joy carved from sorrow. “It was commissioned by one of the pharaohs. Colossi carved out of sandstone. Wonders! An earthquake destroyed one of them—split it in two. Every morning, they said, at the break of dawn, it made a sound: a moan or a whistle. Temperature change or evaporation? Most likely. Yet they believed it was something sacred. Ancient man—aha!—’twas all sacred to him!”
Tamra swallowed hard. Adrenaline and fear coursed through her body. Who was this wild man talking in riddles? His skin was the color of cocoa, and Tamra was sure he had Indian blood in him. How had he joined their story? And what in the world had he killed?
She looked at Annie, but her grandmother was as still as one of those sandstone statues, peering intently at the man. She had risen to her feet and stood braced against the wall.
“Pilgrims flocked there,” he continued in his lithe baritone. “They said the lucky ones, the ones who heard it, were healed. Their prayers were answered. For hundreds of years it went on singing at sunrise, healing the lame and downcast. Ha! And then one day it just stopped.” He clapped his gloved hands and then said, “Never uttered another sound.”
Zeph stood panting, shades of emotion knotting his eyes. Finally he swallowed hard and managed to ask, “What is that thing?”
“The real question, Brother Walker, is—” The man leaned forward, as if he were whispering a secret to Zeph. “Why does the singing stop?”
Zeph looked at Tamra, but all she could do was shrug.
The man stepped back, the tools under his jacket jangling as he went, and nudged the body again with the tip of the crossbow. “It is a dark angel, a soul eater. Vile ones of the Third Column.”
Zeph blinked at the words. Then he steadied his gaze. “You’re Little Weaver.”
“You know of me. Aha! I must hear the tale of that telling. Yes.” He spread his gloved hand on his chest. “I am Little Weaver, heir to Big Weaver, guardian of the gate. Friend to all who are friends of the land.”
They looked among themselves. Finally Annie stirred and stepped cautiously toward Little Weaver. She stood at the step of the den and, even then, was only eye level with the massive Indian.
“An angel?” Annie’s face was pinched in skepticism. “That’s no angel, Mr. Weaver.”
“Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds. As do beings.” Little Weaver turned toward Annie and bowed his head slightly. “Annie Lane, I am pleased to finally make your acquaintance.”
Annie glanced at Tamra, and then said to the man, “You’re one of the remnant, the one Sultana talked about.”
“Ah. The remnant. Fine folk! Did they tell you how we met? Of course not. Such tales require days to tell, and, at the moment, time is our enemy. Onward then!”
Little Weaver reached under his coat, removed a gunnysack, and turned toward the twisted carcass. He bent down and then stopped. He rose and remained standing with his back to them, as if in thought. Then Little Weaver turned.
“You have questions,” he said. “Many of them. Mystery is good for the soul, friends. How else can we trust? Pity those who have all the answers. But alas, I shall answer what I am able.” He set down the gunnysack and, on top of it, the crossbow. Then he knelt beside the corpse and turned to them.
“It is a sad tale, indeed.” Little Weaver motioned to the crumpled remains. “Once of the First Column, they left their estate. Driven by envy. By a lust for power. And jealousy. Craving light, they relinquished the light they had. All that which is evil begins as something good.”
Tamra could hear Zeph’s breathing from across the room. She was worried he might hyperventilate.
“If y–you’re tryin’ to make sense, it’s not working.” Zeph wiped sweat from his forehead.
“Does the tale of the fallen ones trouble you, Brother Walker?” There was a hint of rebuke in Little Weaver’s tone.
Zeph opened his mouth to speak, looked at the dead thing, and remained silent.
Meanwh
ile Annie took two steps back, as though fearful she might tumble into the den and land next to the ashen angel. “What do you mean it was jealous? And why does it look like him?”
“Ah! The dark angel craves one thing—to be like man. And to be like man, it needs but one thing—the breath of life. If this one had finished its feast, Brother Walker’s body would have been disposed of—a fully formed ectype would have developed, an angel become man. It would have blended into your society without notice. In the case of Brother Walker, few would ever know it.”
A long silence passed between them.
“Then this is what’s happening at Marvale.” Annie seemed to be thinking aloud.
“There is much to speak of and little time,” Little Weaver said. “The world is growing dark. Soon the night will fall when no one can stand. All will become enemies. Friend and foe. I must take this specimen to my lab while it is fresh. You will be safe there.”
Little Weaver retrieved the burlap sack and knelt before the withering, hollow body of the dark angel.
“Hold on a second.” The color had returned to Zeph’s face. “Maybe I deserve to die—did you ever think of that?”
“Brother Walker.” Little Weaver’s tone was full of compassion. He leaned back on his haunches and peered at Zeph.
“This is all because of me, isn’t it?” Zeph drew his fingers through his hair. “Monsters. It makes sense. That’s … that’s what I am, isn’t it? A freak of nature.” He forced a dry, humorless laugh. “Maybe I’d have been better off getting stabbed through the heart than slashed across the face.”
After a long moment Little Weaver spoke. “Brother Walker, you should sit down. You do not look well, and you must save your energy for the—”
“I’m not your brother!”
The moment the words left his mouth, Zeph winced. He took a step back and reached for the wall. He drew his fingertips across his forehead and wobbled dizzily.
“Zeph!” Tamra hurried to him. “C’mon. You need to sit down.”
She took him by the shoulders and steered him to a nearby chair. He was taller than she had remembered from last night. A good eight to ten inches taller than her. He did not have the soft shoulders of a bookworm or a video gamer. There was resilience and strength in his body. She helped him into the chair, where he sat trying to gather himself.
Tamra knelt to get eye-level with Zeph. “It was Nams. She called me. She was convinced you were in trouble.” She glanced over her shoulder at her grandmother. “I don’t know how she knew it, but she did.”
Little Weaver cast a brooding gaze at Annie.
“When we showed up, everything was dark—the bookstore, the house. We heard something inside. We decided to break in. Zeph … it was tryin’ to kill you.”
Tamra turned and studied the remains. Its limbs had now become dry husks; only the torso and head remained that of a human.
“Moon Dancer calls them the fetch,” Little Weaver said solemnly. “It is the lore of his people. An evil twin or double who is sent from another world to fetch one’s soul.”
Zeph fixated upon his double.
“When a person sees their counterpart,” Little Weaver continued, “it’s said to be a premonition of their death. In the case of the soul eaters, such is true.”
A moment of silence passed. Zeph seemed to be weighing the implications of Weaver’s words.
Finally Zeph said, “It was in the shadows. Just standing there, as if it was part of them. I don’t know how long it was there, or how it got in, but I sensed it. I knew it was there. I was drawn to it. Don’t know why, but I couldn’t r–resist it.” He looked at Tamra with a shamed expression. “I went to a bad place, a dream. A nightmare. It was … feeding on me.”
“It is the only way they can live,” Little Weaver intoned. “They gorge upon human souls, your regrets. Your bitterness gives them life. And once they have your breath, they are complete.”
“Then it’s the same as the one at the morgue.” Zeph straightened. “Isn’t it?”
“The morgue?” Tamra said. “There’s one of these at the morgue?”
Little Weaver nodded. “Yes. That one escaped my lab.”
Zeph looked slightly humored. “You mean the Vermont?”
“The old theater?” Tamra glanced between the men. “Okay. So what else is going on that we should know about?”
“I had no choice but to kill it,” Little Weaver said. “Someone was passing in the street. I hid myself. The police came. Now we are being watched by more than just the Third Column.”
“Escaped?” Zeph protested. “What do you mean it escaped?”
“Brother Walker, we’re wasting time. We must hurry.”
“Hurry?” Zeph seemed to gather strength, his defensiveness returning. “Why shouldn’t we just call the police?”
“I agree.” Tamra’s voice faltered. “Why shouldn’t we j–just call the police? Besides, if they have one of these at the morgue …”
Little Weaver peered at Zeph. “Truly, the shadow is deep in you, Brother Walker.”
“Well, why should we trust you?” Zeph asked. “How do we know you’re not part of this? Maybe you’re one of them!” He pointed at the grisly angelic corpse.
Little Weaver closed his eyes. He drew a breath and straightened. “My name is Little Weaver, heir to Big Weaver. He guarded the gateway to the underworld, heir to those before him. Long before the miners came with their tools and their lust for wealth. Long before the scientists with their calculations and careless tinkering. We watched. We waited for the wielder of wild magic. The Branded One who would close the gateway forever.”
Little Weaver stepped toward Zeph, his boots thumping with his approach. Tamra stumbled back.
“Another prophet has arisen, Brother Walker. His intentions are twisted. And if he succeeds, the columns will be fused. A gateway to a world of evil! The land will be defiled. And the soul eaters will consume you like the cancer feeds upon its host. The seeds of madness already take root. And like that great madness, the end can only be destruction.”
Zeph stared at the Indian. “We’ve met before, haven’t we?”
“Ha!” Little Weaver clapped his gloved hands. “A shred of sanity!” Then he leaned toward Zeph. “At some point, Brother Walker, you will have to trust again.”
Zeph’s eyes were locked upon the Indian. Then his shoulders slumped. “That’s what I was afraid of.”
Cool night air seeped in through the open door. Somewhere in the distance a howl sounded, echoing in the foothills. Little Weaver stood.
“We should go.”
And without further dissent the three watched Little Weaver stuff the remains of the dark angel into the burlap sack, and they followed him down the street to his lab, otherwise known as the old theater called the Vermont.
Chapter 41
The dry night air seared Zeph’s nostrils. Little Weaver walked ahead with the sack containing the hideous remains of the soul eater slung over his shoulder. His bootsteps were swift, clicking across the sidewalk, and he stayed to the shadows. Overhead the autumn leaves rustled, as if chattering with expectancy at their arrival.
Tamra was at Zeph’s side. He knew she was studying him. And he knew something else about her, something that he had never felt from a woman. Something that scared the wits out of him. But her feelings could not drown out the surreal experience he had just survived. Looking into the eyes of that creature was like looking into hell itself.
The same hell that existed inside him.
The marquee in front of the Vermont cast a neon glow across the sidewalk. The Indian led them into the brick alley. On the hood of a mud-splattered jeep curled a cat that followed them with its green eyes. A vapor lamp hung low over a metal door, and trash clung to the dank corners. A thick padlock hung open on the latch. Little Weaver pulled the heavy door open with ease. The man had to be six foot seven, with considerable muscle to back up every inch. If he was Little Weaver, Zeph could only imagine what Big
Weaver looked like.
The metal door grated open, and Little Weaver motioned them inside before clanking the door shut behind them. The Indian led them through a roll-up door that opened into a backstage area, a dark cavernous expanse draped by burgundy curtains, pulleys, and dangerously frayed ropes. Wooden crates laden with cobwebs tottered against moldy plaster walls.
“Despite what you may have heard,” Little Weaver said, “I have no interest in theaters. Or renovating them. I needed a place close to you, somewhere where I could observe. Watch your movements.”
“Sounds exciting,” Zeph snipped.
“And conduct my research.”
“Research?” There was ridicule in Zeph’s tone.
“Yes.”
Annie said, “You’re not part of that military project, I hope.”
Little Weaver stopped and cast a discerning gaze at Tamra’s grandmother. “Why would you say that?”
Annie opened, then closed her mouth.
“You know of NOVEM,” Little Weaver said. “How?”
The three looked at Annie.
“I–I found something at Marvale.”
“You found something?” Tamra put her hands on her hips and glared at her grandmother.
“Go on.” Little Weaver stepped closer to Annie, his dark eyes overshadowed by thick brows.
Annie cast a hesitant glance at Tamra. “A file or journal of some sort, on military letterhead. It contained documents and charts, some of them medical, maps of the mountains. And Otta’s Rift. There’s notes, sketches, things I don’t understand.”
“You promised me you’d stop snoopin’ around,” Tamra said angrily. “Why didn’t you say something?”
“Because I wasn’t sure what it was.” Then Annie returned her gaze to Little Weaver. “There was also a picture of something that looked like …” She swallowed hard. “A cherub.”
“A what? Nams, you said you’d—”
Zeph touched Tamra’s arm to calm her. Apparently her frustration with her grandmother was reaching overload.
“You mean,” Zeph said to Annie, “an angel?”
