by Diane Capri
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
RELIEVED THAT HE’D SUCCEEDED in getting Lena to transport him safely to the ground, Nick found himself standing on the sidewalk outside the entrance of One America Plaza. Save for a group of street-gang types loitering on the curb by their pimped-out rides, there were few people out in the city at this hour.
Which is what made the very tall, very muscular quartet in black leather and dark sunglasses stand out all the more when they appeared out of nowhere. The woman was at least six feet, and the three men at least eight inches taller and built like NFL linebackers. As they approached the skyscraper, headed straight toward Nick, the woman bumped shoulders with a street gangster who stood a bit taller than she, though definitely shorter than the men.
“Oh no you didn’t!” He said, and pulled out a knife. “Whassup wit—?”
Before he could finish, the woman in black shoved her hand into his chest. He flew back with such force that his body knocked two of his friends down like bowling pins.
Without missing a beat, the leather clad crew swaggered on.
Part of Nick wanted to bolt, part of him wanted to know who these creatures were. Extraordinary humans, if they even were human.
The leader, an Asian male, stepped right up to him—towering over Nick by about a foot.
“Evening, mates,” Nick said.
But they walked right past him. One of them—an African American about six inches taller than Nick—turned around as he passed, lowering his shades just long enough for Nick to recognize him as the man he’d met back in New York at Grand Central Station.
“Goliath—I mean, Johann?”
He kept walking, rejoining the rest of the crew a few feet away. Good. Nick was still invisible.
“You’re late,” Lena said from over their tall frames. Nick couldn’t see her, but her voice was unmistakable. He whirled around just in time to catch a glimpse of the dazzling flash that enveloped the five of them, just before they disappeared.
Nick stared in wonder at the place from which Lena and her entourage had vanished. Whatever she was up to, he wanted nothing to do with it. Managing territories and all that rot—none of it meant a thing to him now that he’d committed to a mortal life with Hope.
But he had to come up with some way to bow out. Things were becoming increasingly dangerous.
Right now he was tired and wanted to go home. That meant being with Hope. He willed himself to return to her, waiting for him back at La Jolla.
Nothing happened.
He squeezed his eyes shut and tried harder.
Nothing.
A sharp pain entered his head like molten lava seeping into his eyes, his ears, nose, and mouth.
A man walking a Jack Russell terrier stopped.
“You okay, mister?”
He didn’t know how long he waited to respond, but the pain had subsided. And he was visible.
“I’m fine.” His nose was running, he wiped it with the back of his hand.
Blood.
Not again.
“You need help,” the man said.
“No, really, I’m all right.”
“Nuh-uh.” He pulled out his cell phone. “I’m calling you an ambulance.”
Nick started walking. “It’s just a nose bleed. Get lost!”
But the guy and his now barking dog followed him.
“Mister, just hold still, will you? I’ve dialed 911, just...hold on!”
Not feeling strong enough to outpace them, Nick cast a construct on the well-meaning nuisance. To his surprise, it worked. Gripping his dog’s leash with a shaky hand, the man froze in his tracks and began shaking and blubbering. The construct would wear off in a few minutes, by which time Nick would be long gone. But the unfortunate good Samaritan would never forget it. And that brought about a twinge of guilt.
Nick walked to the corner and flagged down a taxi. As it drove off, he chided himself for the construct he’d projected on the poor guy.
Really, Nick? Godzilla?
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
FOR GEORGE WALKER IT’S A HAPPY DAY. Not many of those since that night two years ago when he got home to find his wife and mother of his only child gone. Forever gone.
“You done good, George,” Frank Jones says, “I’m real happy for you.” A slap on the back and Frank starts toward the back of the bus. “You coming?”
“You go on, Frank. I’m waiting here for my daughter, we going to celebrate. My little girl’s eighteen today!”
“Woo-weee! Eighteen already? Better keep an eye on her!” Frank steps through the back door of the bus, which hisses shut. George turns around in response to a light tap on his shoulder.
“Why, Punkin’!”
“Hey, Daddy! Did you get it? Did you get it?”
“How long you been watching me, all quiet?”
She looks down. “The whole time you were talking with Mister Frank.”
George leans in close.
“You know what I told you about that kind of stuff. People see you pulling that, and—”
“No one saw me, not even you. So don’t worry, okay?” She clasps her hands, barely containing her excitement. “Did you get it?”
“Not yet, Punkin’. I just got paid, I ain’t had a chance to—”
“Not my birthday present, Daddy. The promotion! Did you get it?”
His eyes light up and his wide grin returns.
“Say hello to the new assistant manager!”
She lets out a squeal and throws her arms around him.
“I knew you’d get it, Daddy, I knew it!”
“Thank you, Punkin. Now come on, I’m hungry—how about you?”
“Uh HUH!”
“I’m taking you to Charlie’s, then dinner!”
“Milkshakes first? Are you crazy?”
“Guess I am,” he says.
Both laughing, they walk down Carlton Boulevard as the sky turns dark. Yellow streetlights illuminate the snow beginning to fall again, slow lazy flakes. She used to catch them on her tongue.
The air around them seems hushed as the snowfall grows heavier. Ice crunching under their feet, they take a shortcut through the back alley to Charlie’s. To their left and right are the windowless brick walls of factory buildings, ahead a dim glow that provides the only light.
George sees three men coming toward them. Which wouldn’t necessarily be so bad, but when they get close he sees they’re wearing ski masks.
And then they stop. Right in front of him.
“You must think you’re one really special nigger, George,” one of them says.
“I don’t want no trouble,” he says, but at the same time his arms tighten and his fists ball up. “I’ll ask you kindly to step aside and let us—wait a minute. Larry, is that you? What the hell you doing—”
That gets him a sock in the jaw—and a terrified gasp from Punkin’.
George stands defiant, prepared to fight. But then the man he could swear is Larry draws a knife. The other two grab Punkin’ by the arms. She struggles, but George shakes his head, warning her.
“You got to be the first nigger I ever heard of taking a job from a decent white man, George.”
“I ain’t take nothing. It’s called a promotion!”
The man charges forward and drives the blade straight at George’s chest. To his astonishment, George catches his wrist, stopping the tip of the blade about an inch above his heart. He twists the knife out of his grip, and throws it down the alley.
It’s followed by one of Punkin’s attackers—she’s freed herself and thrown him all the way across the alley. As his body crashes against the brick wall George hears a thud accompanied by the sound of cracking bones.
The second goon pulls a knife of his own and slashes it straight at Punkin’s face. The entire blade curls as it fails to cut or penetrate her eye socket. From the corner of George’s eye, he sees her grab his wrist and twist.
The bones in his forearm snap like twigs.
He turns his
attention back to Larry, who’s looking for the knife. George goes after him. Before long he and Larry are wrestling for the advantage of weapon and position in the snow, and Larry is winning. He has George pinned down and is raising the knife.
Punkin’ leaps over, just as it’s poised to plunge into his heart. She grasps the sleeve of his jacket, slick with snow and water.
But his sleeve slips.
And the knife plunges in.
Too quickly for her to stop it.
“NO!” With both hands she seizes Larry, swings him over her head, and throws him up high against the factory wall.
His body smashes against the fire escape rail on the fourth floor.
George struggles to stay conscious, as the sound of Larry’s blood dripping from the rail onto the snow sends a shudder through him.
Punkin’ runs back to kneel beside him, tears streaming down her face.
“Daddy, hang on—you have to hang on, I’m going to get some help.”
He shakes his head. “Forgive them...they don’t know what they doing.”
“How can you say that, Daddy! They’re animals! I’ll—”
He reaches up, grasps her hand.
“Listen to me…Lena. I love you…more’n anything. You ain’t…”
“Please, Daddy, don’t leave me alone here!”
His breath’s growing short, the final gasps.
“Be...strong. You...ain’t like...” He takes one last breath. “Like her.”
She presses her face against his...
And abandons all hope.
All alone in this world full of savages, Lena Walker has no one to turn to when the rage threatens to overtake her. And now, it has grown into hatred.
Just like Momma, she will never be able to live at peace with humans. She’s known but one good man among them all. And they killed him.
No longer will she restrain herself for the sake of “blending in” or to please her father. Nor is there any point in forgiving that which must be punished or avenged, if not eradicated like a disease.
“I’m sorry, Daddy…I am exactly like her.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
STANDING IN A CONSTRUCT CREATED for the sake of her lieutenants, Lena’s eyes slowly swept a black-walled chamber in which the candidates she’d chosen were seated. Determined to impress her supervisor no matter the cost, she’d summoned the best of the best for this operation.
Each of them possessed a unique talent born of their unique backgrounds and cultivated over the ages. These were the most disciplined and powerful, therefore the most efficient, of all the candidates. Gunther, Johann, Dan, and Serena stood in a semicircle around her as still as trees.
She clapped her hands twice. “Look alive, everyone.”
They stood at attention.
“Now, listen carefully. We’re about to meet with a powerful executive from the High Command. None of you speaks unless I say so, is that clear?” Four nods. “Good. Your only job here is to instill confidence, is that clear?”
More nods, followed by dead silence.
“All right. Here we go.”
She waved her hand at one of the walls, and the area before them was illuminated with crimson light.
“We’re ready,” she called out, and a man in a business suit with eyes and hair black as night appeared, smiling subtly.
“You’re looking well, Lena.”
“As are you, Morloch.”
“I see you’ve assembled your crew.”
She glanced over her shoulder then back.
“The very best.”
“Are they, now?” Like a panther, Morloch circled them slowly, scrutinizing each of them one by one, head to toe. He now bore the appearance of a military leader in combat attire. The candidates towered over him, but it had no effect on his stark demeanor.
“Are you sure you can succeed with so few?” he said.
“They’re not the only ones. But you’d be surprised how much I can do with so little.”
“And you’re sure they can be kept under control, once it begins?”
“Absolutely. I am an authority on their kind.”
“So you say.” Morloch stopped pacing and regarded her with interest.
“To the humans, we’re the stuff of folklore, to the rest we’re little more than unsubstantiated rumors. The less that’s known about us, the less anyone is prepared to deal with us.”
“I like the way you think.” He came and stood at her left side, hands crossed over his chest, feet spread. A commanding pose. “Are they all the same?”
“None of us are,” Lena said. “Each Nephilim possesses a unique combination of qualities, from one end of the spectrum to the other.” No need to tell him that some were born completely human, while others could be more powerful than most angels or demons. “Since this operation is to take place here on the physical plane, I’ve chosen the ones with the greatest physical abilities.”
“You’re aware that our interests lie well beyond the physical, I trust.”
“Of course,” she said. “And I trust you’re aware that you and I are here to help each other. The more effective I am in this realm, the more ground you’ll gain in yours. Once I’ve established control of my territory, we’ll simply round the humans up and send them straight to you en masse. It will be...symbiotic.”
“I prefer the term synergistic.” He stepped behind her and whispered into her ear. “But you are a crafty one, aren’t you?”
“You’re a great teacher.” She regarded him with reluctant respect. “Now, I need some assurance that after I’ve proven myself, I’ll be given the resources necessary to follow through with the new order.”
“Have you any doubt?”
“I’m full of doubt. But I’m banking on our agendas being mutually beneficial.”
Morloch placed his hands on her shoulders and began to massage them. It released so much tension that she started losing that sense of urgency over her concerns. Damn him. He always knew how to disarm her. As much as her body responded to his touch, she felt uneasy because her lieutenants were still there, though standing as motionless as monuments.
“Lena, Lena, Lena,” Morloch said. “Don’t let yourself be distracted by minutia. I personally guarantee you’ll be given the resources you need to maintain your new global order if you’re successful at the Cabrillo Stadium event.”
“It’s as good as done.” The stadium event was an easy target, disproportionate to the payoff in which she would finally set things right. With legions at her command in both the physical and spiritual realms, nothing could stop her from establishing the new order.
“Oh, and Lena.” He took his hands off her shoulders, turned her around to face him. “There’s the matter of that angel...what was his name?”
“You mean Nikolai?” She said his name casually, not letting her apprehension show.
“Our records indicate that some of the assignments we issued haven’t been completed. Why is that?”
Her stomach clenched. “I’m not sure what happened,” she said, “but I’ll make certain they’re completed. I’m sure you can understand how menial tasks can get overshadowed by something as significant as this operation.”
“Menial?” He regarded her with a glacial look. Lena backed away, but Morloch reached out and clutched her throat, holding her in extreme discomfort. “You ought to keep better tabs on your recruits.”
“I...know, I—” His grip on her throat was so tight it was all but impossible to choke out a word.
“What do you know, really?” He tightened his grip, seemed amused as she struggled to speak. She couldn’t. Finally he released her and let her fall to the ground gasping for air.
“Nikolai had no intention of joining the Dark Dominion, as you presumed,” he said. “In fact, he’s already begun his fall.”
Lena had to cough out her words between gasps.
“This has to be a mistake.”
“Your mistake. Without his supernatural abilities
he’ll be useless to us.”
“I didn’t know. I’ll fix this, I swear!”
Morloch lifted her chin.
“You’ll have to deal with him, Lena.” She tried to stand, but the best she could do was get up on one knee.
“You said so yourself—he’s of no use. So as a powerless mortal, he’s no threat.”
“All the same,” he said as he pulled her to her feet, “if there’s any chance he might still influence an unfavorable outcome at the event, I want him dead.”
The thought of killing Nick caused her a puzzling degree of regret. But she mustn’t let it show.
“Can you handle that,” Morloch said, “or do you need me to step in?”
“No! I mean, yes, I can handle it and no, you don’t need to step in.”
“You’re not likely to be entrusted with a large scale operation if you’re unable to accomplish something this simple. Because those ‘menial’ tasks have not been completed, the event is still at risk for us. You’re losing sight.”
“I assure you I’m not—I just need a little more time.”
“Terminating him is just one part of it. Because of his failed assignments, you’ll have to try harder to stop the outbreak that will happen as a result of the Cabrillo event. That’s the greater concern.” He narrowed his eyes. “I trust you know I’ve stuck my neck out for you on this.”
And without his help she’d never be able to carry out her plan.
“You have my word, it will be done.”
“It had better, Lena.” He pulled away and stepped back into the wall lit with the hue of blood. “Because if you fail at this event, I will disavow any involvement. Expect no protection from me, you’ll be on your own when the accounts are settled.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
THE TAXI HAD A CREDIT CARD SWIPER which Nick used to pay his fare and tip. It wasn’t certain that an attempt to teleport would fail, but the pain and nausea were sufficient to discourage it. The driver pulled up and let him off at the corner in La Jolla where he’d left Hope.
She wasn’t there.
A quick glance at his phone told him he’d missed a call and two text messages from her, the last of which said she was going back to the Broadmore. He called her and was instantly relieved when she answered.
