The demon pulled away and looked her in those mischievous eyes, extinguishing the smoldering fire.
“You once had possession of a blade,” he continued, “one that was incredibly old.”
“Yes,” she said, panting longingly. She didn’t want to talk, she wanted him. “If you could call that blunt thing a blade. A sorceress had given it to us, though not her name. She said that it would allow us to commune directly with Lucifer, not only amplifying our skills with black magic, but allow us to fulfill some of our most … base desires.”
Her hand had already loosened the remnants of Dajjal’s tie, stripping it off before she unbuttoned the shirt, peeling it back to reveal his muscular chest and its bright winged heart tattoo.
Dajjal looked over to Darryl and saw him staring with desire. Waving a finger, Dajjal released him from the trap.
Perhaps it was the woman in red, he supposed, though he wasn’t sure. He would have thought more on it, but Darryl had already walked up to them, his hand working to undo Dajjal’s stylish belt.
“Where did you meet her, this woman who gave you the blade?”
“Dourdan, a French town we were visiting,” Darryl replied, successfully removing the belt. Dajjal’s zipper was open too and he could feel the demon’s thick shaft, not even fully erect, straining against the cloth.
Paige tore Dajjal’s shirt open, the rest of its buttons scattering in all directions. His abs were glorious; tight and deep, perfectly highlighted by the warm light coming off the crown. His smell was intoxicating, drowning out the others in the room.
“I-it d-didn’t work,” she said, obviously distracted by several things at once. “We tried to use it before returning home, expecting something like this…”
She dipped down, licking the middle of his chest before working her way over to one of his nipples. She teased it between her teeth, drawing it into her mouth where she continued to tease it with her tongue.
“We believed it was a fake… unlike this,” Darryl continued, guiding Dajjal’s pants to the floor. While crouched he paid attention the shaft, licking veins that guided him to the tip, where precum had started to collect.
“So, it went up for auction at Drouot, hoping that we could recoup some of the cost,” said Paige, now teasing Dajjal’s thick beard with her fingers. It was soft and she drew herself close so it could tickle her cheek. “The worthless thing ended up not being so worthless after all, selling for quite a lot of money, though we don't know to who, nor have we seen a dime.”
Dajjal had his suspicions that it could have been another reaper who made the purchase. Perhaps he was distracted by all the attention he was receiving, but doubt entered his mind and he then wondered if someone from the Order had gotten hold of it.
No, that can’t be, he thought, if that were the case Gage would have had it in Paris. He didn't.
Dajjal sighed, his questions answered for now. Turning his full attention on the two witches that were worshiping every inch of his body, he slid out from his clothes and watched them do the same. He pulled Paige, now naked, close and began to kiss her again, sliding his hard self inside with one forceful push.
She winced and moaned as he began to grind against her, Dajjal’s width spreading her apart while his length made sure to strike every pleasurable spot she had.
Darryl rose and Dajjal wouldn’t let him get far; as the demon continued to pump away way with her, the two men kissed and continued to do so as she groaned with mounting delight.
Dajjal withdrew, motioning toward the bed where he perched on the edge. He was hard and throbbing and both witches fell to their knees to service his wet shaft, flicking their tongues around his heavy balls and up his shaft until they reached the tip. There they kissed each other with it in between, making sure Dajjal didn't forget for a second who they were doing this for.
Dajjal was enjoying himself, likely far more than he should. Unable to determine if Wilson was having an influence again, he let the witches carry on, adoring every girthy inch. His eyes began to roll back in his head and just before he closed them, he spied the crossbow again. It called to him from the far wall, and he couldn’t help but smile.
NIGHT HAD ARRIVED in Wichita and no light streamed in from the expansive glass roof of the upscale shopping mall. Instead, the buzz of bright fluorescent lamps disappeared beneath the chaos of marching feet, ringing phones, crying babies, and banging cash registers swallowing crisp bills from the patrons.
It was chaotic, yet so characteristically human.
A sizable man sat by himself in the bustling food court, watching the people as they went by. Some ambled from the counters holding trays jam-packed with fatty foodstuffs and oversized Styrofoam cups, while others dashed around them, going about their daily lives in carefully choreographed disarray. It was interesting that those passing didn’t seem to notice him sitting there, eyes sliding right by as if the table were empty. Yet, even with weighty platters in hand, none had the urge to sit down. Which was exactly how the man wanted it.
He was a middle aged fellow wearing a classy suit. His short cropped hair was black, set against dark skin while his attentive eyes were piercing and bright.
“Humans…” he muttered under his breath, watching as a teenage boy and his sister trailed behind their mother, faces buried in their phones like zombies. “Your world is on the brink of collapse; the signs that it has begun could not be more evident, yet still you parade around as if nothing is happening. How woefully ignorant His creation has become.”
“That may very well be the case, Michael,” came a deep voice from behind, amidst the sound of beating wings, “but some things aside, I like to see it as one of their many gifts: resilience in the face of peril. You will see them come together before the end.”
“You always were an idealist, Azrael,” said Michael glibly, shifting in place to see an even larger man standing beside him. He too was dressed formally, but his suit jacket was thrown across an arm, his blue and white striped shirt straining against his chest and shoulders. “Why must they wait for destruction to stare them in the face before showing unity? They should act beforehand, confronting the threat head on with the same vigor as they would show rebuilding in the aftermath.”
“Well bless my soul; the world damn sure must be ending!” Azrael said with surprise, rolling his icy eyes. “You mean to tell me that after the Chorus waited this long before allowing us to proceed freely, that they have finally seen reason and understand the point I was trying to make?”
Michael couldn’t do much but let out a slight chuckle, answering with, “Perhaps.”
“Well, that is better than a no,” Azrael replied, glancing around.
“Where are the other two?” Michael asked, resuming his people watching.
“Off getting drinks of some kind,” Azrael said, shaking his head when Michael looked at him, perplexed. “I know, I know, but he insisted that it would help us better blend in.”
“We do not need to ‘better blend in.’ It sounds like he has not yet grasped what he is capable of,” Michael said, leaning forward with his arms set on the hard plastic tabletop. “Azrael he is more blessed than many of us have been since Creation and needs to understand that since he used…”
Michael fell quiet as Samael approached, still wearing his good-looking vessel with the freckles and tousled brown hair. His attire was more casual than Michael or Azrael, in fact the polar opposite.
“I see you're fond of that one,” Azrael joked. “Even dressing more age-appropriate. Still, better than when you donned old ladies I suppose.”
“Shut up,” Samael said, thrusting a large cup of coffee toward Azrael. “I am never going to live that down, am I?”
“Nope,” Azrael replied as he took the cup and set it on the table. He wasn’t thirsty. Ever.
Behind Samael, the youngster from Whittaker’s approached, having ditched his country overalls for a pair of slacks, white button up, and newsboy cap. He handed a coffee to Michael before
pulling out a chair for himself, taking a seat with what looked like a milkshake with an obnoxiously large red straw shoved in the top.
“What's that?” Azrael asked him, watching as he struggled to get any of it out.
“An Orange Creamsicle,” he replied, finally getting a minuscule taste. Then, suddenly, he had a bout of brain freeze and his left eye twitched madly. “Oh how I’ve missed that!”
“Marcus!” Michael snapped, “Enough talk about oranges and milkshakes! As much as you’ve been talking about them, you’d think you were in love with them!”
Azrael laughed, knowing Marcus’ past while the man himself frowned slightly, catching a glimpse of his new reflection across the way in one of the decorative mirrors. This was going to take some getting used to. His eyes drifted back over to his new face and he was thinking of asking Azrael if there was any way to ‘fix’ things. Perhaps later when…
“In any case,” Michael pressed on, “it seems that most of our information on Paris was correct, thanks to you all. However, never in a million years would I have expected Dajjal to have any knowledge of, never mind actually being successful in summoning a Necrophage.”
All the angels shuddered, except for Marcus, who had no idea of the brutality of the thing they were talking about.
“What exactly is a necrofade?” he asked. “I mean I know what looks like – we all saw it in kicking up the streets of Paris – but what exactly is it?”
“Firstly, it’s pronounced Necrophage,” Samael clarified, “and they are some of the most abhorrent creatures in existence. Summoned only by extreme death using fundamental magic, they are fueled by the souls of the departed and must continue to feed in order to continue their existence.”
“They are?” Marcus asked, now shuddering himself. The grip on his cup tightened. “So there's more than one of those things? Exactly how many?”
“A lot,” Azrael replied. “Enough to consume every living thing in any, if not all, of the worlds. Never before has the Earth been sullied by the presence of one, even though it has felt the taint of their progenitor.”
Marcus was again puzzled, cocking an eyebrow from another brain chilling sip.
“I'm almost afraid to ask…”
“Yet you already know,” Azrael said, “for you have felt the impact first hand. The Incursion.”
“Say what?” Marcus asked with mouth agape. “Actually, forget that I said anything. I don’t think I want to know anymore right now.”
“So the Necrophage is what prompted the Chorus to pick up their pace?” Azrael turned his attention back to Michael, who ended up leaning back in his chair hesitantly.
“Yes, that is correct,” he answered, noticing a woman in the distance lurking amongst the crowd by the pizzeria. She had been staring at them for a while, something about her different than the others.
“So what now?” Marcus chimed in. “Do we assemble an army of angels and attack Dajjal head on?”
“No,” Samael said, lightly chuckling. “If only it was that easy, but it's far more complicated than that.”
“Of course it is,” Marcus replied with a grimace. “Nothing is ever easy.”
“Well if it were, we’d already be done and back home, floating on puffy white clouds eating juicy grapes,” Samael replied. “But the reality of the situation is that we can only aid as we have been, not take charge of it directly. Call it pride, or honor, or ‘the rules.” Irrespective, we must allow those that live in this world to take control of it.”
“Oh, I get it,” he said reluctantly, trying to take another sip of his frothy shake.
Samael leaned over and dropped his voice to a murmur.
“However, that isn’t to say you can’t do anything about it,” he said, tossing out a subtle wink.
Before Marcus could ask what he meant, Michael had sent words, unspoken, to them all. The woman he had been watching was getting closer.
Azrael turned to get a good look and he recognized her immediately. It was the woman in black from his previous time in Paris at the auction house.
“What are you doing here?” Azrael demanded, bolting out of his chair so quickly that it toppled with a bang.
“Now that seems really familiar,” she replied, sweeping her hand along her black dress. Everyone in the mall seemed to move like they were submerged in water then altogether stopped, frozen in the briefest spec of time. “But for someone that was so interested in fun and games, I am not surprised you like making banging noises on the floor.”
The other angels stood up as well, their fists tight. Marcus on the other hand was clasping his milkshake, straw in mouth, wondering what in God’s name was going on.
“If you're here to sling insults…” Azrael boomed.
“I am not,” she said, raising her slender mocha arms.
“Then why haven’t you answered his question, reaper?” Michael asked through upturned lips.
“Please, my name is Kahli, and yes… I am the Reaper of another world,” she replied non threateningly. “I’ve come here on goodwill, or perhaps more out of guilt if one must truly know. It’s my brother you see…”
“Death?” asked Marcus, fascinated.
“Yes,” she replied, “though we know him by another less pointed name. In any case, his actions have become dark and I fear his plans for this world. He is veiled, even from my own vision. I no longer know who he is and fear, as others rightfully have before me, that the cosmic balance is in jeopardy. But enough with the delays… we need to talk.”
AN EARLY MORNING sun hung low in the cloudy sky, struggling to shine through great plumes of smoke as they rose from the rubble of Paris. Arrondissements One through Seven had been decimated, hundreds of rescue workers now surveying the wreckage by air, or foraging through it on the ground. All were looking for survivors; all would find none.
Off near the Western edge of the devastation, the smoldering supports that once held the Eiffel Tower aloft glinted warmly in their ruin. The rest of the monument was reduced to nothing more than a mess of iron over two miles away, strewn along the cratered Avenue du Maine. It was there that the Necrophage was brought down, felled by Journeymen airships.
A bolt of lightning tore from of the sky, striking the sidewalk along Rue Drouot. Dajjal stepped out of the indention, expecting to find anarchy, but by all accounts it looked normal, and he was disappointed. A frightened vagrant looked his way from down the street, unable to move after witnessing the demon’s arrival. The rest of the crowded street went to and fro on their daily grind, faces long and understandably guarded.
Dajjal took a step toward his destination and his skin started to prickle. Spinning in place, he looked up and down the street, his gaze halting at the spot where the vagrant had been. The man had fled, but on the wall behind him was a sigil, sparking and glowing like embers. It was a proximity ward and the demon had triggered it like an alarm.
“The Order…” Dajjal hissed, raising his arm as he continued toward a set of stone steps. The wall rumbled, cracking under his power and the ward sputtered with one last belch of sparks before it was extinguished.
Seems they expected me to return. I have less time than I thought.
Ahead, a large honeycombed sculpture was mounted over the entrance to the auction house. All the doors beneath were still locked, sealed behind a screen of latticed metal; the facility was not due to open for a few more hours.
Dajjal didn't care – he went where he pleased – and another raised hand made sure the problem was taken care of. The metal quaked, then crumpled like a ball before it was sent smashing through the glass doors like a giant fist knocking a hole clear into the building. The passers-by scattered, running for their lives and yelling, afraid that another attack had begun. Dajjal walked through the unnerved mob, their fearful gasps like music to his ears.
Entering the lobby into almost total darkness, he found it empty as expected. There were no further wards that he could see. Continuing on into a lengthy hall, the marble ti
les tapped softly under his soles.
It grew dustier the further along he went and when he arrived just outside the large gallery at the far end, there was an abnormal amount of residue stuffed into the nooks and crannies, while unassuming motes danced happily in the errant light.
“I can tell that you were definitely here,” Dajjal said as he felt a lingering magic in the air. It was feeble, but persistent. He supposed that it must have been the scythe, or at least a reaper, based on the impression he was sensing.
Striding into the auction gallery, rows of empty chairs spread out in front of him and to either side along the walls. An aisle ran down the middle of the room toward a podium. The air he breathed was stale and morbidly silent, full of powder that obscured everything in a layer of gray snow at least an inch thick.
Why is this place so unclean? It looks long abandoned…
Then it dawned on him that the building was not just closed for the day, but had been for months – ever since that fateful auction.
Running his fingers across the dust piled on the back of the closest chair, Dajjal brushed most of it to the floor. It fell with a gentle puff. He glanced at his fingers, rubbing the soot between those infamous fingers before giving them a snap. It echoed through the otherwise soundless gallery and down the hall.
“What happened in here?” he pondered, mind racing as he walked down the aisle surveying the room for clues. His hands were also outstretched, feeling for anything invisible. “I know there are secrets here… reveal yourselves to me.”
As if answering his demand, Dajjal stepped on something and there was a soft crumpling noise underfoot. Sweeping one of his now filthy shoes to the side, several catalogue sheets peeked out from the ash.
Running on Empty (Journeyman Book 6) Page 5
