by Meg Xuemei X
“What lightning?” Ashburn pursued.
One side of the walls cracked.
“ . .. link … loophole … head—” the subprogram said.
A knife-hand made of dark lightning moved in through the crack in the wall, reaching for the flickering beam of the subprogram. Ashburn threw his own lightning toward the hand, but it absorbed his bolt.
I’m the source of your power, TimeDust said.
Cursing, Ashburn raised his arm to parry the knife. It cut a deep gash on his flesh.
“Seraphen must end her line.” The subprogram disappeared.
The walls crumbled, and TimeDust withdrew in frustration without an enemy to fight.
The throbbing in Ashburn’s head ebbed, but the pain along his left arm remained. He glanced at the black marking on his skin and brushed aside any thoughts of revenge. How could he punish an entity inside him? He sighed. Despite their “love-hate” relationship, hurting one hurt the other. That was why TimeDust wouldn’t severely damage him either.
The rebel had mentioned “lightning.” An image came. At the battlefield in Nirvana valley, he’d tossed lightning at Seraphen and unmade his protector. Yes, the lightning. It could destroy. It could also remake Seraphen.
Ashburn slid his hand through the hole in Seraphen’s chest and grasped his charred heart. Breathing out, Ashburn let out his lightning. The dark bolt hit the corpse. At the third strike, Seraphen jerked up, eyes blinking. Ashburn jumped back.
Seraphen stared ahead, his glassy eyes staying sightless.
Had he imagined the blink? Ashburn thought so, until Seraphen’s blacked heart turned pale pink.
Ashburn’s own heart slammed in his chest.
“Let there be light,” God said, and there was light.
The creation story swirled alive in his databank.
Light and lightning revived lives.
Ashburn eagerly struck Seraphen again, but was carefully not to use too much force, in case he fried Seraphen.
Despite the black lightning sizzling from his body, Seraphen didn’t respond again.
Something was missing.
After having revealed the first ingredient “lightning,” the rebel had spat out, “... link … loophole … head,” before it’d fled.
Ashburn tapped a finger on his jaw. He hadn’t shaved for days. Lucienne’s insane version was strict on personal hygiene. No, he mustn’t let his mind wander to her and then indulge himself in watching her through others’ memories. He could lose hours that way. He must finish what he’d started with Seraphen. But Lucienne … she’d once tried to kill him because she’d figured out the link between him and Seraphen. She’d found Seraphen’s Achilles' heel—if Ashburn died, Seraphen ceased to exist. So Seraphen had fought to preserve Ashburn at all cost.
Their lifelines were linked, which meant that as long as Ashburn lived, Seraphen wasn’t really dead. He’d only been deactivated. Ashburn sat back on his heels, gazing at Seraphen’s pink heart. He was certain now he could bring back Seraphen. But once he did, he’d face an immediate threat—Seraphen would spring forward to pursue Lucienne and bring about her demise. Seraphen could also summon Spike. If he reached Lucienne before Ashburn did, she’d be dead before Ashburn could create an antidote for her.
Ashburn stared at Seraphen’s body before looking away in defeat.
Time flowed by in memories brought by billions of conscious minds. Time was both tangible and abstract to him. And just like any mortal, he couldn’t stop it, not even in his memory bank. For Lucienne’s sake, he couldn’t lose another minute.
How could he solve this dilemma and preserve both Lucienne and Seraphen? He darted his gaze back to his former protector, desperate for an answer.
And the answer came like the lightning having snapped fingers.
The subprogram had whispered “… head.” The link was hidden inside Seraphen’s head.
Ashburn pressed his palms against Seraphen’s temples, his energy pouring into Seraphen’s head searching his old ally’s remaining consciousness. He felt a distant, feeble response. Their link was preserved.
Yes, head.
Ashburn knew what to do next. He had no need of Seraphen’s heart—all he needed was his head. It would be a cruel, bitter end for Seraphen. What wouldn’t he do for the girl he loved? He chose her. Always had. Always would.
“I’m sorry, Seraphen,” he murmured and rose to his full height.
A flux of black lightning sparked. Ashburn raised a hand, and the lightning shot out like a dark blade toward Seraphen’s neck. In an instant, it severed Seraphen’s head from his body. Ashburn grimaced at the gruesome sight of Seraphen’s headless body bouncing once, twice, then a third time, before it stilled.
Ashburn shut his eyes for a moment, disgusted with himself. What have I become because of her? No, it wasn’t her fault. His humanity had been leaking from the pipe because of TimeDust. She was still his light. He just needed to walk through the dark passages to be with her.
Ashburn kneeled beside the head, pressing two fingers against Seraphen’s nape where a network of nerves gathered. The invisible link pulsed inside, then extended like an endless spiral staircases.
Ashburn let a stream of dark lighting hike up the stairs.
An electric shock jolted his head, followed by a burning sensation. Ashburn recognized that it wasn’t real. It was a sensory deception from TimeDust to prevent him from performing the resurrection. He commanded his dark lightning to keep moving. The virtual stairs seemed infinite, but everything in this world had an end. So did the stairs.
The shock in his mind increased. You underestimate my increased tolerance for pain, he snorted at TimeDust, thanks to you.
The lightning finally reached the end of the stairs. A connection was made, and the link swirled online.
Ashburn removed his fingers from Seraphen’s temples.
One, two, three …, Seraphen’s golden-mold eyes flashed open.
Ashburn had been prepared this time, yet he still leapt back from Seraphen’s living head.
Seraphen’s gaze trained on Ashburn.
“Seraphen?” Ashburn whispered.
Seraphen rolled his eyes slowly to the left, then right, until he spied his discarded body. He returned his stare to Ashburn. “What have you done to me, Ashburn Fury?”
“I had to.” Ashburn said defensively, though guilt ate him up from the inside.
“You threw away everything for one girl?” Seraphen said.
“She isn’t just any girl.”
“If she were, the world would be safe.”
“You see? You’ll never let go of your obsession for murdering her. That’s why I can’t bring you back completely. I’ll keep only your consciousness alive so you can’t hurt her.”
“What do you want from me?”
“The antidote to the Blood Tear.”
“The ancient poison worked.” Seraphen chuckled in delight. “It’s taken an eon for the grand design to come to fruition.” Without his body, his throaty laughter sounded eerie amid the discarded machinery that littered Ghost House.
“Were you the one who gave the first Sealer the poison?” Ashburn asked through clenched teeth.
Seraphen didn’t answer, as if savoring his victory.
“Because of you,” Ashburn grated, “she’s trapped in insanity.”
“She won’t last long.”
“Tell me the cure.”
“Are you as mad as her?” Seraphen said. “I accept that you don't have it in you to end her. But now the circumstance has done you a favor. Let her fade away. Let the world be safe.”
“I can access your memories if you refuse to tell me the truth,” Ashburn said.
“You’ve modified the pathway in me, I see,” Seraphen said. “I’m impressed by your increasing abilities. But even you can’t change my original program. I’m still set to exterminate the Siren’s line. You’ll only create conflict in me, which will cause me to malfunction.”
“Let m
e worry about that!”
“Blood Tear has no evident antidote.”
“Then I’ll create one for her!”
Seraphen tried to cock his head, only to realize he could no longer conduct that simple act. “You’re tempting fate.”
Ashburn narrowed his eyes. “It’s funny you mentioned fate. The force that forged the Eye of Time—you called them the Exiles—picked a pair: Lucienne and me. So if there’s fate, by cosmic design or conspiracy, she won’t expire easily.” He studied Seraphen’s expression and knew that he’d hit a nerve. Seraphen didn’t have a human’s ability to lie.
“You always twisted my words,” Seraphen sighed. “And now you’re getting better at it.”
Ashburn lifted his protector’s head, eyes boring into Seraphen’s golden orbs. “Where did you acquire Blood Tear in the first place?” he demanded.
“I had nothing to do with the poison.”
“Then who?” Ashburn recalled the shroud memories. The first Sealer had called the giver an angel. And the angel had come in a vaguely female form.
“Someone older than me. I wonder who it could be. Will you let me know when you find out?”
An “angel” had bestowed the first Siren the Forbidden Glory. Another “angel” then had helped the first Sealer steal one of the elements from the Glory and handed him Blood Tear, intending to compromise the power of Forbidden Glory. Were the two “angels” from opposite sides of the same race, or were they different species? And what was the role of the ancient humans in the angels’ war, if there had been such a war?
“I can’t help you save your dear girl,” Seraphen said with satisfaction. “Even if I have knowledge of the cure, most of it was lost. As you know, some of my memories were corrupted, some were broken, and some were—simply gone.”
“I won’t listen to your excuses. You’ll assist me in creating a cure.”
“That’s beyond my ability,” Seraphen said, but one of his eyes winked.
“You can’t lie.” Ashburn didn't miss a beat. “But you skipped the truth. What is it?”
“You have to get to the bottom of it while you can still walk away.”
“What is it?” Ashburn raised his voice.
“Your prophetic dreams tell you the answer you’ve been seeking.”
Ashburn swallowed. Night terrors had visited him every night after he'd first broken contact with the Eye of Time in Hell Gate and then escaped the eternal land of nothingness where time was dead. Then, a week later, all dreams had stopped. There was no room for them once billions of collective consciousness paraded and buzzed in his mind like numerous bees. Until lately, after Lucienne had been poisoned, his nightmares had returned.
He’d tried to dismiss the recurring dreams of horror the way he bashed back dark thoughts, but they always came back, dancing around in his skull.
“You can’t tell if they are fantasies or reality when you dream them,” Seraphen said, “but often savor that one erotic dream.”
Ashburn blushed.
Between the nightmare sequences, Lucienne always came to finish what they’d started on the rooftop of Ghost House. She was atop him in her flimsy, half-white, half-red gown. There was no inhibition and no consequences. Their lust burned brighter and fiercer than any flame.
Their skin, having hungered for each other for so long, pressed against each other without a barrier. Their limbs entangled; their joining together in flesh made Ashburn feel truly alive for the first time in his entire existence.
Then their inextinguishable passion sired supernatural fire. It spread to all corners of the earth, until the land became parched, the oceans ablaze in unending flames. It was a terrifying yet spectacular sight. There were no survivors except them. Their union brought an inferno to earth.
The post-apocalyptic world was still raw when Ashburn woke up, soaked in cold sweat. No, it’s impossible. Their union couldn’t be that cursed. Their coming together couldn’t have that kind of destructive power.
Then, on other nights, he had been granted a choice in his dream.
At the end of their heated passion, he found his hands forming a noose around Lucienne’s elegant neck. Her lovely eyes met his, trusting him, then accusing him, then pleading for her life. Still, he kept throttling her. Until he heard the sickening creak of her windpipe. Until she no longer thrashed her shapely legs.
The light in her eyes dulled, and the light in him went out completely.
But the world lived. The collective consciousness cheered at their continued existence, at the cost of Ashburn’s dead soul.
That dream offered him this: he could have her once and still save the world, if he killed her afterwards. And that damned dream sickened him more than anything could.
“How do you know about those nightmares?” Ashburn demanded.
“We’re more linked than you know. Your vision—”
“They aren’t visions!” Ashburn shouted. “They’re awful dreams caused by my anxiety.”
“Lie to yourself if you want, but you know as clearly as I that those were prophetic dreams. The future of the world is in your hands, Ashburn Fury. The question is: what will you choose?”
“You call that a choice?” Ashburn’s nostrils flared in anger. “Who put that sick, sadistic game in my head?”
“Prophecy. Fate. Destiny,” Seraphen said. “They exist and entwine, yet no one knows which force is behind them. They favor some humans but detest others. I’m not without sympathy for your situation, but I have to remind you—the game is on.”
“I refuse to play. How’s that?”
“You’re already playing,” Seraphen said. “You brought me back to save Lucienne Lam, the last Siren.”
“Yeah, I’ll save her, and that’s it. I won’t pursue her. I won’t touch her after she gets well, if having her is that damned costly.”
“Now you’re excellent at deceiving yourself. Do you think the Siren being poisoned is a spur-of-the-moment revenge? It was planned eons ago. I tried to neutralize their game by playing mine.”
“Right, yours was more direct,” Ashburn snorted in fury. “The petty Sealers used poison, and you attempted to punch a hole in her chest.”
“The Sealers are pawns in this game too. Who gave them the poison in the first place? As you said, the Exiles picked a pair to erase time. The Siren won’t expire easily. She hangs in there stubbornly, doesn’t she? She’s waiting—the force is waiting for you to save her. So, yes, my intention was different than the Exiles. I wanted to end the game, but they’ve resumed it by forcing your hands. I now see their agenda more clearly. If you don’t trust me, then test my theory. Try to end her life, and see if some force will stop you.”
“Thanks for your brilliant suggestion,” Ashburn grated. “Kian and the rest of Sphinxes will skin me alive first.”
“You can handle the mortals,” Seraphen said lazily. “Now look at the stream of the events.” He seemed to want to raise a finger to emphasize his point, but he had only a head. He sighed at the inconvenience. “You fought to stay away from her in the beginning. You knew the time bomb was in you, and she was the detonator. You vowed that you wouldn’t go down the path with her to destroy the world. Have you forgotten your vow?”
Tracking down the memory lane, Ashburn looked tormented and ashamed. Then his fume resumed. “I was doing fine by avoiding her until you came along and messed everything up. You almost killed her, so I had to stop you. It wasn’t them but you who pushed my hands. You set the wheel spinning in the wrong direction in the first place.”
Seraphen gave him a pitiful look.
Ashburn looked away from Seraphen. Would he have stayed away from her if Seraphen hadn’t been so zealous to kill Lucienne? When she’d decided to leave him alone on Ghost House’s rooftop, he’d failed to let her go. Instead, he’d followed her to Sphinxes. “I choose to go with you because I can’t bear not to see you,” he’d told her. “I’m going to let my feelings run their course, so my desire won’t drive me mad. I hope
it wears off if I don’t fight it so hard.”
His feelings for her had never worn off. They amplified.
“Fine. Blame me,” Seraphen said. “But look at you. You’ve fallen only deeper and harder. If you had let me kill her at the time—”
Ashburn wanted to punch the head, but instead grabbed Seraphen’s short hair and twisted it hard.
“I can’t feel pain,” Seraphen said. “If you want to punish me or inflict pain, you should connect my head to my body.”
“So you can keep scheming and pursuing Lucienne’s demise? Not a chance.”
“If I hadn’t interfered, you wouldn’t have had a chance to stand here right now. She’d have let the Eye of Time take you. Have you forgotten the excruciating pain that was like a thousand needles stabbing at your brain when she set the entity on you? Your screaming is still fresh in my memory if you need to extricate it as a reminder.”
“Give it up,” Ashburn said, “You can’t put a wedge between Lucienne and me. No one can. We’ve put the past far behind us.”
“Sure, you both did. She hasn’t used the Eye of Time on you after you killed me and saved her. But look at what happened then.”
Lucienne had had to find an alternative to move forward. She’d ended up being poisoned.
“The Exiles won’t allow you two to stall their plan,” Seraphen said leisurely, as if none of the consequences had anything to do with him anymore, and he was just a bystander watching with certain interest. “Her being poisoned set the wheel in motion again. It brought you here. It brought me back. The game never ends until you two play your parts. Until you dance to its tune.”
“That’s full of crap!”
“Is it?”
A dark thought hovered in Ashburn’s mind. The first two scrolls had led Lucienne to the Eye of Time, and thus to him. The third predicted her poisoning. The rest of the inscriptions spreading over the three scrolls remained undecipherable.
Who had written the scrolls? Anger kept building up in Ashburn. Who had planned all this that led to Lucienne’s and his suffering?
“They want you to heal her,” Seraphen said. “You must go against your primal need to protect her. The antidote is almost impossible to come by, so ease your guilt. You tried. You can’t help her. Let her rest with her ancestors, and the earth will enjoy peace in another millennium.”
