by Jayde Brooks
“Do you know where the second Omen is or don’t you?” Khale demanded to know.
The Were ignored her and kept his gaze fixed on Prophet. “Who the hell are you to deserve a second chance?” he asked, angrily. “You lost your mate in one world only to turn around and find her reborn here in this one? You couldn’t fuckin’ protect her on Theia, Guardian.” His resentment was powerful. “What the hell makes you think you can protect her now?”
Prophet wasn’t going to cave to this beast’s war with words. No one knew better than he did how he’d let Mkombozi down, and no one knew better than he knew now how determined he was not to let the same thing happen to Eden.
“Do you really think it’s that easy to provoke me?” Prophet drew back his shoulders. “Then you’re way more fuckin’ pathetic than I gave you credit for.”
Runyon slowly eased into beast mode, literally. Prophet watched the male grow a foot taller. His shirt ripped at the shoulders and across the chest, and his arms swelled with muscles the size of bowling balls.
“If you have to transform to have any chance of winning this fight,” Prophet said, coming toward him, “then bring it.”
Khale stepped in between the two. “Idiots,” she blurted out irritably. She spun around and soon stood as tall as the Were. “Stop wasting my fuckin’ time, Jarrod. Do you know where the Omen is or not?”
Runyon shifted back to his unimpressive self and forced back his rage, turning his attention to Khale. “Ever since The Fall, we’ve looked after the twins,” he explained.
The twins were the youngest of the Troll Seer Sisters, Ursa Major and Ursa Minor, the Seers of Heaven and Hell, but no one really knew which one saw heaven and which one saw hell. The two had always been inseparable.
“No one has been able to find them since The Fall,” Prophet interjected.
“We didn’t want anyone to find them. They didn’t want to be found.”
“And you think that they know how to find the Omen?” Khale asked suspiciously.
“The sisters talk in riddles. They share sentences, so you never fully know if it’s heaven they’re talking about or hell or both. They sing this song.” He thought about it before repeating it: “Uh … Two for three. Redeem … something, and/or die the lamb,” he recited.
“Two for three. Bring me. Redeem me. Or die the lamb.” Eden recited it correctly as she came out of the house and stared at Jarrod.
“I thought it was just gibberish until they said the word together: ‘Omen.’ And they only said it once.” He looked hard into her eyes. “It’s up to you if you want me to take you to them, Eden. Not them, and not me.”
Prophet saw the hesitation darken her eyes and then he saw something else. He saw resolve.
Eden slowly nodded. “Take me there, Jarrod,” she finally said. All of them were speechless. Eden glanced back at Khale and Prophet once more before going back inside. Jarrod looked as if the world had come crashing down on top of him. Prophet knew that it had come crashing down on all of them.
“Be ready in an hour,” Prophet said, pushing between Khale and Runyon and following Eden inside.
STATE OF THE UNION ADDRESS
Good evening,
“This is Vice President Ronald Crawford, addressing you now as acting President of the United States of America. We’ve received reports earlier this afternoon that the President of the United States, President Lawson Reynolds, has been … lost.
“The President took ill three days ago, as did forty percent of our Senate, and forty-seven percent of our House of Representatives. Although the White House is still under government control, it has since been reinforced with extreme security measures, and trespassers will be shot on sight.
“In addition to our losses suffered here at the federal level, we are no longer in communication with the leadership from the following states:
Alabama
New York
North Carolina
South Carolina…”
LIFE IN TECHNICOLOR
Eden didn’t know whether she should feel like the queen of England being transported by the royal guard or a prisoner being taken to Rikers. She rode in the Hummer with Jarrod, while Prophet and other winged Shifters flew ahead of them and others trailed behind. They drove down every back road they could find for two hours from the beach house, traveling to Bennottsville, South Carolina.
Creedence Clearwater Revival’s “Proud Mary” blared from the speakers. Eden had memorized the very limited rotation on Jarrod’s MP3 player. Next would come “Born to Run” by Springsteen, and “Old Time Rock and Roll” by Bob Segar and the Silver Bullet Band. She’d have killed right now for a cheeseburger, fries, and a new playlist that wasn’t the personal theme music for Jarrod Runyon.
“Khale didn’t know that you knew where to find the Omen?” she asked.
She barely knew him, but the silence coming from him during this ride seemed so out of character. He had barely said two words to her since they’d begun this journey. Jarrod’s mood had turned 180 degrees since she’d spoken to him last night.
“Nah,” was all he said, staring straight ahead out at the road.
He was handsome. Jarrod looked every bit the disheveled, cowboy rocker that personified the kind of music he loved. He’d pulled his long, golden brown waves of hair back away from his face into a ponytail, and since last night the scruff on his face was noticeably thicker. He had the most beautiful brown eyes she’d ever seen, though, sort of a translucent honey brown.
“So, what made you tell me?” she probed.
They drove at least another mile before he finally responded.
“Sakarabru was a mean motherfucker,” he said. “Evil mean. He’s the kind that would peel his own mother like a grape and think nothing of it.”
It didn’t take a genius to realize that Jarrod had suffered his own losses at the hands of the Demon. Eden could hear it in his voice, and see the pain in his expression.
“Mkombozi came through like a champ,” he continued. “She took it to him in a way that none of the rest of us ever could. Put her foot in his evil ass and saved us. We all believed that she done it and we were right. She had killed the Demon only she didn’t stop—killing.” He glanced at Eden and then turned his attention back to the road. “You know the story. Right? I don’t have to explain it.”
No. He didn’t have to explain it. Eden knew it. She’d been told that story for as long as she could remember.
Khale and Prophet were always so careful with the things they’d told her about Mkombozi. They were careful to tell Eden everything that had been good about the Ancient. Jarrod seemed willing to offer up another perspective.
“There was no other way to defeat Sakarabru, though,” Eden offered. “She was Theia’s last hope.”
“Was she?” he asked quickly. “I mean, I don’t know. Maybe she was.” Jarrod shook his head and shrugged. “Mkombozi, Khale, the Guardian—they were in a different class than my kind, Eden. They were your generals in the war, but the rest of us were just soldiers. We followed orders and did what we were told. I wasn’t a part of that inner circle. I had heard rumors of a Redeemer who was born with the ability to defeat the Demon. And I saw her do that. I watched her do what none of the rest of us had even come close to doing, which was to not only destroy his army but Lord Sakarabru himself.” He looked into her eyes. “It was poetic. It was beautiful. But then we all saw that as she destroyed him, she started to become him. The ground shook, the sky seemed like it had cracked wide open. Khale was screaming, ‘Stop it, Mkombozi!’” He quietly reflected on those moments, reliving them again in his mind.
She started to become him. The words made her sick to her stomach.
“It was a matter of time before I knew that I’d have to tell somebody about the other Omen,” he finally admitted. “I never bought into all that prophecy/destiny/fate shit, until Sakarabru came back. I didn’t want to believe that he would.” Jarrod swallowed. “I don’t know how or why she did it,
but for some reason, Khale decided to dump all this shit on your shoulders. Ultimately, you’re caught in the middle of cleaning up the fallout from a world you don’t even know. You’re a scapegoat for the bullshit we created. And you shouldn’t have to be. I said that it’s up to you how you want to do this, or if you want to do it. Not Khale, not the Guardian—but you. That’s why I told you. So that you could decide what to do next.”
“No,” she protested, “it’s not up to me, Jarrod, because it’s not just about the Ancients or Sakarabru. If I don’t do this, my world is dead. He’s destroyed everything I know and love, and it’s never going to be the same. We won’t recover from this.”
Families had been left devastated. Governments all over the world had fallen. This wasn’t just a New York thing or an America thing. Sakarabru’s destruction touched every corner of the globe. And if she was the only thing standing between him and what was left of it, then Eden didn’t have the luxury of walking away.
“It’s said that Andromeda created the Omens,” she continued quietly. “Do you know what the Omens are?”
He shook his head. “Not really. Spells. Trinkets. Hell, I don’t know.”
Eden pulled her sweater down off of her shoulder and showed him the brand that had formed there after the first bond. It had long since healed: a starburst with a small circle in the center.
“I think that they are all a part of Sakarabru,” she explained.
Jarrod stared at the symbol.
“The first one connects mind or soul or whatever to his.”
Jarrod raked his hand down his face. “Like now?”
She shrugged. Eden didn’t know if this was a figurative thing or if it was literal. If she was aware of him, was he as aware of her? She had no way of knowing.
“So what does the second Omen do?” he asked.
“I was hoping you could tell me.”
“Shit, Eden. I don’t know. I mean, the twins sing that song, and every now and then the word ‘Omen,’ but I have no idea what it does.”
“The longer I’m in that room with Sakarabru, Jarrod,” she offered for the first time to anyone, “the less afraid I am of becoming him.”
The Were was speechless and maybe even a bit afraid too now. The Sakarabru in her mind was becoming less of a threat to her. In her thoughts, Eden saw herself coming out of that dark corner of that dark room and sitting across from him on the floor in front of his fire. It was warm.
She started to become familiar with him and even drawn to him.
“I’ve never wanted to believe that I was Mkombozi,” Eden confessed. “I’d never wanted to be extraordinary or powerful. But from a very young age, I think I’ve always known that being Eden was never more than a fantasy. Being plain old boring, underachieving Eden was my dream come true. But she was never real. She was never meant to live forever.”
Eden stared out of the window, letting the background noise of Springsteen’s voice fade away like a whisper. Rows of timber flashed past her sight, hypnotizing her and taking her back to a place she had never seen with Eden’s eyes. Eden saw Mkombozi, young, athletic, and beautiful, running parallel to the Hummer. She carried something in her hand, but Eden couldn’t make out what it was. She ran barefoot through the shrubbery, moving as quickly as that truck moved. Long hair whipped across her face as she turned and looked at Eden. Mkombozi leapt into the air like a gazelle, stretching out long toned legs and pointing her toes and then faded away.
Eden remembered that day, the way the air smelled, the way the ground felt under her feet. Eden remembered her lungs filling to capacity as she’d run for miles and miles—running away … running to … That part was a mystery.
The fire is warm.
The Demon nodded. I keep it warm. It comforts me.
It comforts me too.
It should. It is a part of you now.
She should’ve been afraid. She should’ve wanted to run away. But she didn’t.
TIGHTROPE
“Hey, Dad.”
“Hay is for horses.”
“What?”
Paul laughed. “That’s a joke from the old days.”
The boy laughed. “Hay is for horses. That’s dumb, Dad.”
“Yeah, but it made you laugh.” If it made the boy laugh … The boy. His son … What was his name?
“You promised to pick me up early this weekend. So, don’t forget.”
The boy had been an unplanned event in Paul’s busy life, but he’d never regretted him. Not for a second.
“Mom and Todd are leaving for Hawaii tomorrow and I don’t want to stay here with boring old Consuelo.”
Consuelo. The housekeeper. Paul remembered her, but how come he couldn’t remember the name of his own son?
“I’ll be there bright and early on Saturday morning,” Paul promised. “You just be ready.”
“I’m already packed,” the boy—his son—said nonchalantly.
Paul laughed. He was as excited to see the boy as the boy … was to see … him?
* * *
“Aaaaaaaagh!”
This … thing. This dark and terrible … thing pressed in around Paul from every corner of the room like a vise. It had a face, cloaked, but he could see its mouth move, uttering a continuous whisper of words that cursed the blood surging through Paul’s veins.
Paul lay naked, curled into the fetal position on the concrete floor of the abandoned warehouse he’d found to rest for the night. He’d fallen asleep and started to dream of another man’s life—of his life before … before he’d …
Where was his son? And how come Paul couldn’t recall the boy’s name? He had loved him more than his own life, and yet for some unexplainable reason, he couldn’t remember his name or his face.
“My boy!” he called out, his voice echoing in the hollow and wide-open spaces of the warehouses.
They had taken things from him. They had violated Paul in the worst ways, stripping him of his life, of the people most precious to him. And in his dreams, Paul fought to get back to his son—his life. He fought to get back to the man he had once been, the fighter—the champion.
If only he could drown out the deafening sounds of the phantom’s whispers. The words were silent to his ears but clanged together like metal inside him. Blood began to seep from his pores, and Paul knew that he had soiled himself more than once. He had been a man. He had been … human. He had been a father. And now this damn thing was trying to turn him into something else.
“Sakarabru. Sakarabru. Sakarabru.” The word, his name, burned like a brand into Paul’s memory, replacing … replacing … his son’s name, his son’s face. Paul rolled off of his side and onto his knees. His muscles thickened under the pressure of the pain building from within. The phantom came close to him and put his face close to Paul’s. Paul fixed his gaze on its lips, moving faster, speaking faster in a language that Paul didn’t understand except for the one word—“Sakarabru.”
“You have forgotten your first commandment, Paul.” It was her voice.
He would know it anywhere. Paul took a deep breath and inhaled the scent of her perfume. It was the phantom that he saw, but it was Lilith that now had his undivided attention. The unyielding burning of pain pulsed inside him, but it was her touch that lighted on his skin and raised goose bumps on his back and arms.
“Sakarabru,” she said in unison with the phantom, who continued chanting in his own language, “has commanded you to find the reborn, and yet you stray, Brood,” she said seductively.
He closed his eyes and shuddered as she swept her fingertips through the strands of his hair touching his shoulders.
“You’re dwelling on the wrong things, baby,” she whispered in his ear, leaning close.
The sweet warmth of her breath against his skin was like nectar to him. The anticipation of Lilith was a drug, a narcotic that mixed beautifully with the agony still boiling inside him.
“Find her, Brood,” she told him.
Paul opened his eyes and
watched as the phantom drifted away from him, leaving just her. Beautiful waves of red hair cascaded down her shoulders and created windows for erect pink nipples peaking through them. The delicious nakedness of Lilith instantly made him hard. The phantom still chanted, but the sight of her and Paul’s desire for her had overcome the sound of the words that had been so deeply embedded in him.
Lilith got down on all fours and slowly crawled toward him seductively, like a lioness stalking her prey.
“Promise me that you will find her, sugar.” Lilith rolled over on her back and spread her soft thighs, exposing the sweet treasure hidden between them.
Paul growled low and deep in the back of his throat, rolled over on top of her, and slowly eased himself inside her. Lilith was the drug he needed to ease his pain and to bring clarity to his mind.
“Promise me!” she demanded, thrusting her hips against his.
Paul stared into her ocean-blue eyes. She had taken away his pain. She had bought him back to his purpose. She had given him more pleasure than he had ever had in his life. “I promise.”
* * *
“We know where they’re taking her.”
The next morning, Paul emerged from the warehouse and saw three men standing outside. They were Brood. He studied each of them and finally reached the conclusion that he had allies. Either Lilith had sent them or maybe even Sakarabru. But in any event, if they had come with a lead on how to find the reborn, he’d take what he could get.
“Where?” he asked, focusing on the one who appeared to be the leader.
“South,” he told him. “They’re staying close to the coast but not getting on any of the major roads—sticking to backcountry mostly.” He looked back at the other two men. “We can get you onto their trail easy enough.”
