She must have read my mind. “I’ll look after him, girlie. Go ahead. He just needs rest; I don’t think he knows how to take care of himself.” She motioned me forward toward the cockpit.
“Hex won’t mind?”
“Hex? No, in fact he’ll be glad for a change of company. I’ll keep Bishop occupied back here.”
This is cool. I stepped forward, glad for a diversion from all the stress. “I’ll be right back.”
Muizenberg, South Africa, present day
Kreios walked barefoot along the cool empty beach in Muizenberg, the colorful swimmers’ stilt house changing rooms lining the wide sandy expanse above the high tide mark. He could no longer ignore the huge drain on his mind, his body, his will. New thoughts started to take shape in him, new ideas. They were different. Dark and ugly.
It could be that I have overstepped, he began. Like the gentle waves along the shore of Muizenberg, the thoughts were small but consistent and relentless.
He felt the draining pull toward it.
But he also felt El somewhere in the midst of it all. He couldn’t tell if El was the source of the new thoughts—which called him home to paradise, or so it seemed—or if El was in opposition.
Kreios allowed himself a bittersweet indulgence and set his mind searching along all the old corridors of pain and loss within. His bride: the day he had held her in his arms as she expired from a long and fatal childbirth; the day he buried her in the frozen ground. His Eriel: the day she had simply vanished and he could not know if she was alive or dead. Or worse, if she had been ultimately turned by the Brotherhood that had activated her. And Airel. Sweet girl. Too short, his time with her. That had been the case every time.
The depths of his broken heart cried out to El for an answer, and this for the first time since before all this insanity had been set in motion, before the episode at the movie theater, before he had been forced to intervene in Airel’s life. As the heart of the angel of El broke, as he became utterly desperate, as he asked foundational questions, a ready answer came to him.
“Stand and knock.” Kreios heard the voice of El as clearly as when he had been with Him in Paradise. He was alone on the beach, except for a few lone figures in the distance. He wriggled his bare toes into the sand and waited for more. There is always more.
He closed his eyes and willed his mind to become clear and oriented solely on El. Moments passed. And then it appeared: the door.
It was the selfsame door behind which Kreios had always been able to find answers. Of course, it had usually happened that the answer was in the form of a weapon. But this time it was different. This time it was not a weapon. It was an enjoinment. The frameless door opened to him.
The mind of El poured pure light into his angel of death, calling to remembrance all the instances of purpose and power for which he had been created and to which he had been called. Kreios recalled his forgotten itinerant works, especially in Egypt on the night of the first Passover, the night he had moved through the streets of the city of Pharaoh in the middle of the night, looking for lamb’s blood on the lintels, slaughtering every firstborn son. He had forgotten. Until now.
He had forgotten about the conquest of Canaan, too. He had forgotten about his help to the commander Joshua, to the great king David. These were righteous warring men with great quantities of bloodshed on their hands. Kreios was of the same construct.
As El poured understanding into him, Kreios remembered it all. And then the perspective shifted in regard to his current mission. It was not a desperate lone-rogue bursting fit of rage, a reaction to unconscionable Brotherhood transgressions. No. It was instinct. Kreios had been made for such a thing, such a time as this. He had been created for it.
As Joshua had held the javelin aloft, so El now lifted Kreios up. And then El said the rest; what Kreios had been waiting to hear: “See, I have given them into your hand.”
The door faded and he opened his eyes. He could feel his strength begin to return.
“Lift up your eyes.”
Kreios did, and beheld a swarm of birds darkening the sky.
They were headed west. He looked closer at the unusual sight. No. Those are not birds.
No, indeed. They looked like bats, more like. But there was some trickery going on, some sleight of hand, some manipulation of the willing.
There were only two possibilities. One was that the bats were flying low, perhaps no higher than two hundred feet above the ground, and that their wings beat slowly, not enough to keep them aloft. The second solution was that he was not seeing bats at all. He was seeing a hundred enormous demons, their wingspans not mere inches across but whole yards, beating in time against acres of atmosphere, and they were flying considerably higher.
The dark cloud moved west, against prevailing wind, out to sea as the sun set. It was a new wrinkle, and it pulled upward at one corner of Kreios’ mouth.
CHAPTER XVIII
Somewhere over the South Atlantic, present day
I KNOCKED LIGHTLY ON the doorframe.
Hex looked up and back at me and smiled. “Come on in.”
I ducked into the cramped space. There were more lights and buttons and screens than I had ever imagined. I climbed into the empty seat to his right as delicately as I could manage, scared to death I would accidentally hit the self-destruct button. After everything that’s happened so far, I wouldn’t be surprised if there was one.
“Are we getting bored?” Hex was relaxed.
“No,” I said, unsure of what else to say. I looked out ahead of us through the windscreen into the darkening sky. There were clouds peppered below in the distance, the vast dark sea beneath them, an endless backdrop.
“Pretty soon the stars will be out. Have you ever seen the stars from up here?”
“No.” I was really struggling for words; I felt my heart constricting in my chest. I was worried about Michael.
“Well…pretty soon you’ll see them. We land soon. It will be something you can never forget.”
“Are we there yet?”
He laughed. “As I said, soon. Maybe we start to descend in twenty minutes.”
I was glad about that. Michael probably needed a hospital. I pushed the fear down and looked around at the cluster of controls. There were screens with complicated readouts on them, gauges, levers, buttons, knobs. “How do you keep it all straight?”
Hex laughed. “Lots of practice! It appears to be worse than it is. Look, the altimeter says we’re cruising at forty thousand feet. Airspeed, here, indicates mach point eight. And here,” he said, motioning toward the handlebar thing, “that’s called the yoke. You have one too,” he said, pointing to the one on my side.
I shrank back from it slightly, afraid I would inadvertently crash us. Still, it was really cool and I looked out the windows into the darkness, trying to see land. Ahead, way ahead and down, I could just barely see pinpricks of light through the clouds near the horizon. It must be Cape Town.
Hex went on, “Pull back and we go up. Push forward and we go down. It is easy!” He smiled broadly at me.
“Easy, huh.” My eyes swept over the truly bewildering array of information and controls. I couldn’t see how anyone could fly a plane.
“Just like a car, but we move in three dimensions, not two.” His accent got thicker. “De Wright braddahs, dey tink of dis. Veeeery smart, dem.”
I flashed back to the rain-soaked accident on that Oregon highway. The big African I had killed had talked with the same accent. Far from being charming, as it might have been to someone more innocent, it chilled me. I looked out the window to the right and saw a cloud below us. It was different from the others; it was dark and moving in the wrong direction. The other clouds were all moving slowly front to back as the plane rocketed forward. The dark one was moving with us. That’s weird.
I glanced at Hex and he shot me a big smile.
I heard a noise from the back. Maybe Michael is coming around. I turned to look. I saw only that, if anything, al
l was not well back there. Michael hadn’t moved, but Ellie and Bishop were entangled in what appeared to be some kind of wrestling match. No, check that. It’s a fight!
I looked back at Hex, a smile still plastered on his face. That’s when it finally hit me that we had been completely set up.
The Brotherhood.
No sooner had I thought it when Hex’s sharp and massive elbow collided with my temple. I collapsed. The lights were going out.
“You cannot hide from us,” Hex said, and then everything went white.
Nwaba was a chameleon spirit. He could be anything he dared, and he was old, very old. He was one of the original rebels that had sided with the dark prince from day one. He too had been cast down from Paradise to the Dominion under the sun.
With that kind of pedigree, there were certain carryovers. He could fly faster than any other Brother, for instance.
He had been waiting in the line of succession for his chance at the Bloodstone for millennia. When it had finally come calling, he was ready. It was electrifying.
Nwaba had to confess one thing, if at all: that he was addicted to the unexplainable, the cultic ritual, the mystical. As such, his experience with the Bloodstone was unprecedented and satisfyingly addictive. From the time he had first heard the call, to which he had instantly given his consent, he had been in two places.
Part of him had remained in Africa, but part of him had been pulled to the host, the frail girl named Kim. And he had existed in duality until she had finally succumbed to the inevitability of his wooing sentiments that in fact were mere echoes of what the Bloodstone itself was saying. Once he had gained a foothold—no indeed, once the Bloodstone had gained a foothold in the host girl—he was truly master and commander; he had been sucked right in. It had happened there on the tarmac in that plane: confluence.
It had all come together there.
He had seen the look on the boy Michael’s face, knew he was too weak to continue. And he had seen the daughters of El there with him. He had seen that one with the Sword of his erstwhile companion Tengu, the weapon the outsider Kreios had stolen away from the Brotherhood. Nwaba would prevail, and the Sword would return to the fold.
To that end he had gathered up a welcoming committee. A small part of his Nri army. One hundred of his fittest and strongest that could fly out to meet the three in the air. It would be easy work. There were, after all, already two of the Nri Clan of the Brotherhood on board the plane.
“Get off me!” Ellie shouted, kicking Bishop in the face. But he tackled her again, this time taking her down onto the floor and straddling her.
He reached into his shirt pocket and retrieved a folding razor knife, opening it up. “Daughter of El, it is time to send you home forever!” He drew back to strike.
Taking advantage of this opening, Ellie punched him in the throat twice, making him gag. He weakened for a second and she scrambled out from under him. She stood and kicked his face with her heel, knocking him backward.
As Bishop howled in furious pain and groped at his eyes, she walked over the top of him shouting, “Airel!”
But Airel was down.
Hex twisted in his seat and looked directly at Ellie, pure unleashed hatred fueling the fire of his eyes.
Nwaba was easily the biggest of the Nri clan. His wingspan was over two hundred feet, when he felt like flaunting it, when he wore the right suit of clothes. Or when it was useful. Like now.
He shot ahead of the pack, upward, aiming to intercept the G550. The Nri detachment had flown west from mainland Africa and then begun to loop around and climb as they closed the distance. He would have only one shot at this. The body of his host—the one named Kim—was with him, securely bound to his belly inside the cocoon he had woven for her, pink backpack and all. He pumped his enormous dark blue wings furiously, anticipating where he would cross paths with the plane.
Shrieking by at nearly mach when he made contact, it was all Nwaba could do to rake his claws along the fuselage, grasping for it. He flicked his leg out and up. A great rapier-like talon shot upward against one of the engines as he slid by, his tail to the rear along the plane’s belly. The engine instantly flamed out and exploded, sending bits of shrapnel everywhere and producing a massive plume of smoke that stained the sky. He folded his wings tight against his body, flattening, reducing drag.
Nwaba wanted to do more. The heat of battle descended upon him, bloodlust filled his mouth, and he grasped for more of the slippery aircraft. He pierced through the fuselage with the claws of one hand, holding fast. He flipped his body around, head to the rear, and climbed backward and upward along the rear of the airplane. He wrapped his prodigious barbed tail around the vertical stabilizer. He then sunk the talons of both feet deep into the tapered rear of the fuselage.
As his clawed hands grasped the tailplane, he was ready: he unfurled his great wings.
The effect was like deploying a massive parachute on a dragster. The plane groaned and snapped in protest as Nwaba wrestled it from the sky.
As he violently slowed the plane, the Nri welcoming committee caught up.
The aircraft then split apart at the massive incisions made by Nwaba’s taloned feet.
Both pieces began to plummet to the sea below. He let the tail section go; it sputtered and spiraled, smoke pouring from its remaining engine. He drew his wings back and chased the front section, looking for flailing humans in the darkening sky.
CHAPTER XIX
Cape Town, South Africa, present day
THEY CALLED HIM MR. Emmanuel. It was the perfect moniker for him. It spoke to his penchant for self-important sacrilege, his megalomania, his fervent belief that all roads led to him. Sooner or later. Wearing a very stylish white fedora, he leaned against the wall in the international arrivals terminal and waited for the mark.
It had been boring, really. He had known Harry would fail. Like a tool, he had served his purpose and then outlived his usefulness. And that was perfectly fine. It was the same with Apartheid, for instance. It had served its purpose well enough for him and his associates. And sure, it was dead, but mostly just on paper. Blacks and whites and coloreds still distrusted one another, still collected in their ethnic cliques. In that sense then it was more alive than ever, and the people now carried the walls with them wherever they went. Success.
Mr. Emmanuel suffered himself to yawn openly, to check his wristwatch. He knew few men wore them anymore; they had become redundant with the advent of the mobile phone, but that was precisely what had brought them back into fashion as far as he was concerned. He noted the time. Any minute now.
His mind wandered, as it did habitually. Perhaps he would change his fashions and use a pocket watch instead. But that would require that he wear a waistcoat, which would necessitate a change of his personal style. Waistcoats weren’t worn with jeans. Not by him, at any rate. And then there would be the question of comfortable shoes. If he had to wear a suit everywhere he went, he would not be able to get away with comfortable shoes any longer, and that would inhibit performance. Perhaps he would have to change his car, maybe even his house as a result. No, the pocket watch was not pragmatic.
And Mr. Emmanuel was deeply pragmatic. He knew the old schools of classical philosophy and he picked and chose what he would adhere to. Was that not pragmatic? And after all anyway, he was a god, so whom should he fear? At least he believed he was. And if he believed, was he not a god? Who could say otherwise? Who would dare correct him?
Except the master.
Yes, but that went without saying. As a matter of fact, he preferred it went unsaid.
To all who resided on the downwind slope of his affectations, he was and would be a god. And that was enough.
His nostrils flared.
Here comes the mark.
Mr. Emmanuel allowed him to pass him by and then followed nonchalantly at a discreet distance.
The mark didn’t know it, but he was completely caged. Mr. Emmanuel flicked a finger and the teeming crowd swerv
ed, carrying the mark toward the mouth of a corridor where he was quickly and inconspicuously tased and then snatched by three strong men. Mr. Emmanuel smirked. A taste of your own medicine, John.
The three thugs were faithful servants. They would bundle John, the mark, into the back of a kombie and deliver him as ordered, to the building.
And Mr. Emmanuel would take the helo to the top of the city tonight, in the same building, the skyscraper his petrol company owned. It was all a shell game; it was delicious.
Sure, sometimes it bored him, but did not the gods suffer boredom from time to time? It was no matter. He would smite someone from his Olympus and then he would feel better. Sleep like a child.
Airel’s father never saw it coming. He should have, if he really knew what he was up against. But he couldn’t dream of the wickedness arrayed against him.
The crowd in the international terminal was close, and like a mob at a sports event one simply went with the flow. When the flow forced him toward the mouth of a nearby hallway, three goons came out of nowhere and tased him. His body went limp, they gagged him, bagged him and snatched him up. Then they stuffed him into the back of a van.
Very professional. But now he was at the mercy of some real baddies, and he knew it. What was more, he probably knew them. He could recognize the effects of the weapons he sold. Which client had turned on him? He had some ideas.
But then he felt the prick of what could only have been a hypodermic syringe. Great, John. Now what? Everything went dark.
Arabia, 1232 B.C.
Kreios had been preparing a lecture for her in his mind as he killed the last few members of Subedei’s stupid entourage. Of course he had known; what father would release his as-yet unformed adult daughter into the wilds without at least watching over her? He had known she was headstrong, even stubborn, but this…this had been a surprise.
Michael (The Airel Saga, Book 2) Page 27
