***
ONE HUNDRED FRESH NRI demons, sent out on supplemental orders by the lieutenant, circled the skies over False Bay. They were looking for prey, looking for—if it came to that—remains. The master hadn’t specified.
They had started at the island, though, which he had specified. They had scattered seals and seagulls to the water, scooping some of the seals up and ripping them apart in midair for sport. But there were no humans on the island.
Reportedly there had been three of them, at least according to what little had been communicated through the ranks. But if there were indeed three, there were no longer any. They were either gone or dead.
The master would not be pleased with that report.
As a result, the detachment flew sorties all over the bay, throwing caution to the wind, ignoring normal protocol and rules of engagement, even allowing themselves to be seen and heard, observed by some citizens, fishermen returning home in the dark.
But it was clear to the lieutenant from the moment they had discovered the island was unoccupied: the three had slipped the net.
CHAPTER V
BASED ON HOW LONG it had taken me to get to where I had been at the halfway mark, I had crudely estimated that I might make landfall by dawn. That is, if I wasn’t eaten by sharks, seals, the Loch Ness Monster, stung by jellyfish, run over by a gigantic ship that didn’t know to look out for crazy girls swimming in their underwear in the dark, or even some rogue demon that had been watching and waiting.
The life of a half-breed. So exciting.
But at last, I finally looked up to see not an abstract far-off cluster of light representing some unreachable town or city, but genuine individual lights and shapes and buildings and cars. Even a train went by, its light swinging a wide beam over me in the bay, and I could hear its horn sound off. I gave a muffled cry of hope.
I swam. Kicking and paddling, I moved my arms and legs with purpose. This was the finish line, and I would make it.
***
Cape Town, South Africa—Present Day
IF THE BUILDING HAD been observed from the street, it would have appeared that the lights within were being snuffed one floor at a time from the ground upward. It was not some bizarre atmospheric fog or smoke from some impossible fire. It was just nothingness. Taking over. Moving methodically. Quick. Unexplainable.
The presence that stalked floor by floor through the skyscraper citadel was killing off host after host, and by extension stalking the Nri Brothers—the demons who were still, as of this moment, scattered across the principality engaged in their own mischief. Though the Nri were powerful, being bound by the superstition they so willingly exploited to advantage, they also could not escape its consequences. Their subscription to the religious tenets of ancestor worship created a very strong bond between Brother and host: if one suffered an injury, the other one did as well.
But the demon mind was a powerful thing; sometimes in the individual, it could produce unforeseen anomalies. Some of the Brothers were strong enough to will their way out of mortal danger. Those were a rare breed, and what few were able to flee to more hospitable parts of the world did so—to the west.
In reality, though, that was a mere deferment, a trifle. There was nowhere for the Nri Brothers to hide, no matter what temporary allegiances they might make. The full force of that which worked its way through the tower was striking the Nri with duplicative effect all over the city. Not since the early days had such a thing been seen under the sun. It was reverberating through the atmosphere in tremors, signifying the beginning of the end—that terrible reality that all fallen angels had denied for millennia.
The angel Kreios was ushering it in. And El was beginning to assert Himself.
***
NWABA COULD FEEL IT now—it was unmistakable. For the first time in thousands of years, his fear became genuine again. It was a flash in the pan, fleeting, but still, deny it as much as he might, he could not tell lies to himself. Such a thing made fools of the sane—he would not cross over.
If this is indeed true, he thought, if El is beginning the final judgment … He stalked the floor of the penthouse living room, his resplendent, shimmering white form, both hideous and beautiful, covered in scales as well as skin, a lizard with human face, a fully intentional contradiction in terms, designed to be an affront to truth and beauty. To El Himself.
What shall I then do? He mulled over the possibilities.
If the list of possibilities was narrowing, he would eventually be left with two choices. These two choices every fallen angel had known from the time the manifestation of El had fulfilled all prophecy. Before that they could only guess, but now they knew—they could either fight or die.
For thousands of years, they had chosen to fight. Still in rebellion, a third of the host, the full number of them that had chosen to rebel and cast their lot with Lucifer, had for thousands of years been fighting a war of mitigation. Though they had failed to defeat El at every point along the way, still they fought, they resisted. They knew they were doomed to lose. That was why they fought. That was what made their cause ultimately moral, ultimately just.
They fought against the great heavenly tyranny, and at heavy cost. So many of their number had been snatched off to eternal punishment over the centuries, and so few were now left.
Nwaba’s anger kindled afresh as he thought of the Sons of God. They too were fallen. Yet El favored them. They claimed to leave Him for love, for women. But the Nri at least had just cause, rights, they worshipped their own morality. They occupied the high ground, and for this reason the Brotherhood would never stop hunting down and killing the Sons of El. Not until they were all dead.
CHAPTER VI
“COMFORTABLE, JOHN?” MR. EMMANUEL asked the girl’s father. It was one of those things people said. He actually wasn’t the slightest bit interested in John’s comfort level.
John made no response; he lay on his back under the restraints.
Mr. Emmanuel had known all along, of course. He had many levers to pull, and he had pulled enough of them in America to get Harry—his agent and a member of the Nri—inserted, with another, a helo pilot, into the FBI investigation on the girl Airel. It gained him the inside track, got him closer to the Daughter of El through her desperate and unsuspecting parents.
It was a thing of beauty, really.
There had been considerable collateral damage, about which Mr. Emmanuel was completely indifferent. And of course Harry had always been expendable, which Harry hadn’t needed to know. He had served his purpose; he had lured the bait man John all the way to Cape Town. Soon, the girl would come and the Sword could be … appropriated from her.
For Mr. Emmanuel, the ends justified the means, if they were pragmatic to him. There were those who were born to serve, and others who were born to lead. And then quite apart from all that, there were those who crushed both the servers and the leaders and enslaved them to a whim.
History was replete with examples of the stupidity of sheep. Ignorance is its own drug, he thought, it needs no catalyst. It simply is.
He chuckled.
There sits the mosquito, engorging itself upon human blood, completely ignorant of all peril. It does not know of the vampire spider, hunting for human blood by proxy. The mosquito does not know that by indulging in its drone-like instinctual tracks of behavior, it is in fact attracting, by the very scent of the blood it consumes, a most fearsome hunter. The spider cares not for the mosquito, only the blood. But sometimes the circle of life produces a two-for-one deal.
The mosquito could not know of the trap that had been laid for it. But indeed, dear friend John had stumbled into the web, and perfectly.
It was a funny thing, coincidence. It was too good. Who would have thought that John, Mr. Emmanuel’s special weapons sales rep, would be the blood father of the girl? Speaking of blood, that is. Anyway, it was staggering; it was indeed a small world. These things simply happened sometimes, and it was best to just let them play out, le
t them detangle on their own.
As the various pieces of the puzzle showed themselves, they fell perfectly to the spider’s hand. “Well? Aren’t we on speaking terms, John?”
John, becoming semi-lucid, finally regarded his captor, though he did not look at him. “Mr. Emmanuel, I regret to inform you that I am no longer your sales representative.”
He was interrupted by a burst of laughter from the spider.
He continued, “You’re going to have to call the company and make the necessary arrangements.”
“Oh, John. You bossie; crazy man. I knew there was some reason I liked you.” He sat down in a chair by his bound captive. “Still …” he looked around the room, “we simply must come to a meeting of the minds.”
Mr. Emmanuel was gazing at the hypnotic dance of fire. The room in which he sat—at the side of the examination table to which John was bound—was big and dark. Its ceiling was dark and domed, a large hole at its center that emanated darkness. Its circular perimeter was only delineated by a trough of white stones, in which orange-blue flames licked mildly upward at the highly polished black stone walls all around. It lent an evil cast to the atmosphere of the room, for there was no other source of light there. In fact, it looked like hell’s own drawing room.
“I’m just looking for a little bit of intelligence, John. Surely if you’ve come this far, you must know something I don’t. Surely you must have something with which to barter her life.” He paused. “Or yours—I don’t care. Come now. Can we not compare notes?”
John did not look at him. “Nope.”
“John, you must know me better than that. After all these years providing some of the most delightfully effective weapons in the world? I wish your daughter no harm. No, certainly not. It’s simple. She only has something I want. I wish to find her and then retrieve it. It’s just a little trinket, a souvenir.”
John cursed at him. “I do know you, Mr. Emmanuel. That’s the problem. I know all my clients.”
For the first time, Mr. Emmanuel began to show irritation because the ruse wasn’t working. His facial features dropped into a scowl. “Be careful, John.” He stood so he could pace, lecture. “I have some choice items from your own catalogue. I might use them on you; I might not. Listen. I’m being serious. Just tell me where she is. Then I will recover the item and bring her to you, and you both can live.”
John sighed.
In truth, Mr. Emmanuel had always planned on using John as a hostage. He was terrific leverage, and the girl would certainly come running if Daddy needed her superheroine help. Of course, John didn’t need to know that; even if he had already deduced as much, he didn’t need to hear it from his own lips.
But Mr. Emmanuel changed tactics again. “The fact is, I will find your daughter before you do. Just look at you. You’re bound to a slab, John. It was a game; you’ve already lost. I have you. We pitted you against me, your motivations against mine. You lost because you seek to preserve …” He shrugged, thinking of a new button to push. “Seems noble. To preserve the flower of her youth, her … purity.”
John struggled against his bonds, but said nothing.
“But my motivation is stronger. And I have many, many more resources.” Mr. Emmanuel drew near and began to talk into John’s ear. “And I know something you don’t know.” He said it in a singsong voice. He couldn’t resist.
John looked up at his captor now, hatred and a lust for vengeance burning through his eyes at the man.
Mr. Emmanuel feigned shock, gasping. “Oh. What? Did you think I was going to tell you?” Laughter. “Oh, no, John. Oh, no.” He turned aside briefly and drew an object out of his pocket. “You know what this does, right?” He held the object before his prisoner’s face.
John’s expression revealed the slightest amount of recognition and fear, but it was gone just as quickly as it had appeared.
“Yes, you do.” Mr. Emmanuel laughed insanely. “Yes, you know precisely what this does. It applies pressure. Gets me what I want.”
“Tell you what,” John said. “How about we make a deal.”
Mr. Emmanuel arched his brows and leaned over his prey.
“How about this: How about we dispense with the theatrics, you release me from this table, and then I kill you with my bare hands? How about that?”
Mr. Emmanuel shook his head in amazement. “Wow, John. You surprise me.” He removed the protective cover from the syringe he held in his hand, primed it, raised it high, and then slammed it straight down, the needle piercing John’s heart, injecting the drug straight into his system. Through bared teeth, Mr. Emmanuel said, “It’s always the quiet ones, isn’t it?”
John gasped for air, eyes wide.
Mr. Emmanuel withdrew the syringe with contempt, throwing it across the room.
John faded and then passed out.
Mr. Emmanuel kicked the chair over, walking for the door in fury.
CHAPTER VII
IT WAS UNAVOIDABLE NOW. Nwaba stood to his feet, alarmed. Alarmed? No. Surely not. He was not alarmed. Not even concerned. His troops would soon bring him word, bring him the girl, bring him the Sword of Light—that cursed and wretched blade that had been stolen from Tengu by the interloper Kreios.
But he could feel the presence of El now, and indeed he was concerned. Even alarmed. Because for Nwaba, the presence of El was not a good thing.
He began to lose control, to act irrationally, to succumb to inevitable fear. He felt like a small child, a child unattended who’d been intentionally disobedient while Daddy was gone, in full knowledge of the coming punishment.
And now Daddy was home.
Nwaba scurried from his chamber down the corridors of the penthouse, toward the room where Mr. Emmanuel was keeping the bait man, John.
Nwaba met his host at the door; he was just closing it.
“We have not much time.” Nwaba spat at Mr. Emmanuel, his color and form becoming slightly blurry as his mind wavered over the possibilities. “What are you doing?”
“Applying pressure.”
“Fool; El’s agent is coming. WE MUST ACT NOW.” He roared and flung the door open.
As he entered the room, he saw John in deep unconsciousness, bound to the slab. He was enraged. “What did you do to him?” He made large strides across the polished black tiles.
Mr. Emmanuel was following close behind. “He will be all too ready to spill his guts soon,” he said. “The drug needs time to take effect.”
“I need him to be coherent now, pawn.” He cursed, roaring his displeasure at Mr. Emmanuel. Nwaba had closed the distance to the bait man. John. He grasped the edge of the altar slab, threw back his head, and let out a shrill and terrible call, like a bird immense enough to roar. In response, the flames rose in the trough that ringed the room, licking upward on the wall. Nwaba’s wire-thin tail whipped around.
From a dark recess in the ceiling, there descended eight dark shapes crawling downward. They scratched their way outward in a radius from the hole, making a circle as they hung upside down above the room, enclosed within their blood-red wings. Joining these were three jittery fungus-encrusted anti-Cherubs. They crawled upside down on tubule fingers that suctioned them to the black domed ceiling, creeping in spastic movements, their faces sniffing at the putrid air, observing what could be observed.
“Mr. Emmanuel,” Nwaba said, his gaze unflinching, “bring the transition host. Whether we have the Bloodstone or not, we must begin the ritual.”
The eight figures on the ceiling then began their animalistic chant, the three anti-Cherubs vibrating with pleasure at the spectacle.
***
THE MASTER WAS CALLING.
From Nordhoek to Muizenberg, from Simon’s Town to Morningstar, Strand to Camps Bay, the call rang out. From behind rubbish bins in alleyways, from under rocks, from the vineyards of Stellenbosch to the urban wilds of the Tokai Forest, men joined with their Nri Brothers and rallied to the call of the master Nwaba. It was time. The Nri would rise.
***
KREIOS HEARD IT. HE knew what was coming. Ten stories below the penthouse, he stopped and waited, listening. He had only taken a few, perhaps a hundred. There would be thousands more now, and they were all converging upon their evil master, Nwaba.
Kreios quieted himself and waited for El. Everything hung in the balance now. What he did next would seal—or unseal—the next thousand years. And it would only be a beginning, but it must be the right one.
***
MY FEET HIT BOTTOM. A wave rolled over me, toppling me forward. I had to give one last burst. Come on, Airel, you can finish. Push it. I did. With a few more strokes, I was in the shallows and the surf was receding. I made a clumsy, exhausted run for it to avoid the next incoming wave, stumbling up onto the beach until the waves could only kiss my ankles.
I was breathing very hard. I was completely spent. I sat down on the beach in my underwear in the darkness and rested for a moment. I couldn’t believe I had done it. Now I could concentrate on trying to get some help. And some freaking clothes? I was glad it was dark.
Judging by the state of activity around me, I figured it was well after midnight. The witching hour. When all the freaks were out.
I looked around me, trying to figure out where I was. I was on a beach that was studded with massive rocks and boulders. There was all kinds of activity going on, little shapes darting here, there and everywhere. Penguins. Okay. That’s weird. Penguins? Really? They were kind of cute, though. Little black-and-white waddlers. I had to smile, even though I was just about as naked as they were.
The Airel Saga Box Set: Young Adult Paranormal Romance Page 62
