Dark Destiny

by Thomas Grave

  Raphael appeared at the far end of the block, almost in front of the zombie army, just as the Elder had predicted. Skillfully flipping his sword’s position in his hand, he raised his weapon. The blade reflected the moon’s glow as he stabbed the street with smooth grace. Lightning erupted in the distance, followed by a sharp crack of thunder. The street broke apart as an enormous wall of light rose from within the crevice, blocking the zombie army from advancing farther. Raphael slid his blade free from the now scorched concrete. The sword gave off a slight glow before fading back to its pearl white color.

  Loud banging boomed from the opposite side of the wall. As more zombies reached it, the cacophony became louder as individual blows blended into one gigantic force of sound.

  Raphael turned from his wall to face the Reaper, but a cracking sound forced him to spin back. A long crack appeared in the center of the wall and slithered its way across. More hairline cracks formed everywhere. Raphael placed his palm flat against it.

  “Gabriel! I need a second to strengthen the wall!”

  Beneath his touch, the wall glowed brighter until a wave of light washed over its surface, erasing the cracks that formed.

  The Reaper’s shoulders relaxed as he blew a sigh of relief. He glanced at Sara to check that she was still safe. She was crouched on the broken sidewalk.

  With Raphael busy with the zombie army, Sebastian decided it was time to deal with Gabriel.

  The Reaper adjusted his vision, searching through every haunt. A maniacal smile stretched his lips. “Perfect,” Sebastian whispered.

  Hurry. I can’t hold him for much longer.

  The air shimmered in front of him as Gabriel’s presence came through.

  “Relocate Gabriel there!” the Reaper yelled, pointing to a section of the street. Fingers appeared and hovered in mid-air. Then Gabriel appeared, ripping out of his blink, air sizzling with his arrival.

  The Reaper reeled back his scythe and sliced forward.

  Gabriel brought forth his mighty broadsword for a parry. However, Gabriel wasn’t the Reaper’s target. A foot in front of Gabriel, the Reaper continued his slice down through the air creating a flap of blinding light, suspended in mid-air, wavering as if the air itself was made of silk.

  A haunt was torn open.

  And an 18-wheeler semi-truck burst through the tear, colliding with Gabriel. Its horn blasted as its hood cratered around the Angel. It swerved, tires screeching, as burnt rubber filled the air. The diesel truck slammed into a building, causing brick and glass to blast outward. Standing on the sidewalk, Sara covered her head with her arms and scurried against the wall of a broken-down building.

  The Reaper smirked, then glanced at Raphael striding toward Sara. Behind him, the Wall of Light stood tall, lighting up the entire block.

  Wasting no time, the Reaper scanned the area and found another haunt that could help him. He brought back his scythe and was ready to tear it open when Raphael blinked directly in front of him, blocking his scythe with his blade.

  “Won’t work on me. Nice try though,” said Raphael.

  To his left, came the sound of metal bending. From behind the semi-truck, Gabriel surfaced, bricks falling around him. He put his shoulder to the truck and pushed, trying to wriggle from between it and the caved in wall, glaring at Sebastian.

  The Reaper blocked another swing from Raphael. Lightning erupted around their blades from the impact, the bolts dancing in the air before fading. He didn’t know how much longer he could keep this up. Gabriel would be free soon. How was he going to get Sara to safety?

  It came to him then: The haunts. Maybe he would have to use them differently. Would it work? The only way to find out was to try it.

  A smile crossed his lips. He had to get to one that was safe.

  All he needed was some sort of distraction. His eyes shot open when he realized Gabriel was in the line of fire of Raphael.

  He knew the robes wouldn’t let harm come to him and with Raphael being so close to him, the Reaper used a single hand to flip up his hood, reared back, and smashed forward with a head-butt. Sebastian knew from experience that nobody expects a head-butt. Raphael staggered as his eyes rolled back. He couldn’t believe that had actually worked. He tried again, stomping the ground for the extra support.

  This time, Raphael rocketed back through the air, slamming into Gabriel. They crashed into the building behind them, blowing out half of the storefront. The second floor collapsed with the rest of the debris, spilling onto the street.

  Like a bolt of black lightning, Sebastian closed the fifty-foot distance between him and Sara. He pulled her up to face him, their foreheads touching.

  “Let’s get you somewhere safe,” he said, releasing his scythe as he leaned down and cupped her face with both hands. “Sara, we’re going to blink, okay? I need you to look into my eyes. Can you do that?”

  She placed her hands on top of his and nodded.

  “Do not look away,” he said.

  Their eyes locked.

  His eyes went unfocused as a location popped into his mind’s eye.

  Everything fell silent.

  The zombies banging on the wall silenced. The Angels’ stumbling under the collapsed building ceased. The area around them dissolved. The dark colors faded as the molecules swirled and danced around them, shifting and changing into new colors, solidifying into different shapes.

  When his vision came into focus, they stood inside a building in a mildewed, filth-strewn hallway. Sara swayed on her feet and rested her hands against his chest. He wrapped an arm around her, supporting her weight.

  “Yes!” He glanced around furtively, but the Angels didn’t appear. At least, not yet.

  The walls may have been white at some point, but had now become a deadened gray. Cracks and chips lined every surface. A light at one end of the hall flickered, and water dripped from the ceiling, echoing through the air.

  Doors evenly lined each wall; their numbers displayed in rusted metal. 606, 608, 610. They were on the sixth floor of the condo apartments he had envisioned. In front of one of the doors sat a room service tray holding a dusty wine glass and a half-eaten, moldy crab.

  “Perfect,” he said. “This is exactly where we need to be.”

  She glanced around before leaning against a wall for support. “Here?”

  “Yes. I can see it.” His eyes scanned their surroundings, searching for one particular door.

  “See what?” she asked. “Sebastian, what’s going on?”

  There it was. Door 612.

  He turned back to her. “Sara, I owe you one phenomenal explanation. I know that. But right now, these guys are after you, and I’m not exactly sure why. From what I understand, my power recharges when a Soul goes into the Light. Get what I’m saying?”

  She shook her head. “No. I have no idea what you’re saying.”

  He gazed deep into her eyes. “In this world, I can see everywhere. I can’t explain it. Behind this door is the sweetest lady in the world. She needs you. Help her. If you can help her into the Light, that will give my power a recharge. Then, maybe, I’ll be strong enough to finally be able get us out of this mess. Please, trust me.”

  Sara took a second, examining his face. Finally, she exhaled a deep sigh, wrapping her arms around him. “I do trust you. I’m confused. But I do trust you.”

  “Thank you.”

  Hurry, Reaper. Incoming.

  The air crackled in two locations.

  Right beside them.

  I cannot hold them much longer. The Elder’s voice was strained.

  “Come on.” He opened the door marked 612 and glanced over his shoulder to see Sara’s wary, almost sad, expression. “It’ll be okay.”

  She took a deep breath, then stepped inside the room. He closed the door behind her. The feeling of dread crept through him that he may never see her again. Behind him, Raphael and Gabriel came out of their blinks.

  Sebastian brought his hands up into striking position, his scythe mater
ializing in his hands. He slashed forward. The blade didn’t destroy the door, but went straight through. The door hummed then glowed for a second before becoming normal and dull once again.

  Something pulled hard on his cloak, yanking him back in an arc. He slammed face first into the ceiling, leaving a half body imprint. Another tug on his cloak sent him crashing into a wall, shattering bricks and sending mortar tumbling through the air. A final jerk slammed him into the tiled floor. Ceramic dust floated through the air as he lay there stunned.

  Sebastian coughed through the dusty haze as Gabriel stepped into view. The Reaper stiffened as Raphael approached the door to Room 612. With one touch the door exploded into a mass of shards and sawdust.

  Sebastian’s heart pounded in his ears, his breath froze in his chest. “Hope this works,” he whispered.

  Raphael’s sharp footsteps rang off the ruined concrete floor as he stepped into the condo. When the Reaper tried to sit up, Gabriel pressed his thick black boot to his chest.

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” Raphael said from inside the room.

  The Reaper blew out a breath of relief.

  Well played, complimented the Elder.

  Raphael walked out of the condo with a wry smile. “He put her in a haunt.”

  Gabriel stared down at the Reaper and grunted in disgust.

  Sebastian snorted. “Try getting her now.”

  Wednesday, 1:01 am

  Moonlight shone down on what seemed like an endless field of white. The rays bled through the tree limbs casting eerie shadows on the ground. Great drifts of snow buried the tombstones, as though someone had come along and draped white sheets over them. Though the blizzard had passed, high winds gusted through the cemetery, hardening the snow and forming a crust on top. An owl hooted in the distance. The only other sound was the squeaking of the Gothic gate’s rusty hinges swaying open and closed.

  Next to one of the buried tombstones, a section of snow stirred. Then, Mr. Thompson’s hand punched through. Fumbling through the coldness, he gripped the top of the tombstone. A gasp for air followed. He used the stone marker as leverage to haul himself into a sitting position. Though he didn’t wear a coat, the cold didn’t seem to faze him.

  He rubbed his face. How long have I been out? With the amount of snow, he knew it had to have been hours. He must have passed out from the pain of Cleo’s gift.

  Gradually, with many painful grunts, he managed to climb to his feet. Though his legs wobbled beneath him, they supported his weight. He took in deep gulps of air for a few moments before pushing himself from the tombstone and taking a tentative step.

  It took all of his might to take a simple step. He stumbled forward, moving with caution. The snow hindered his progress as he shuffled along, reaching for the next tombstone as he moved.

  “Slow and steady,” he muttered to himself.

  After a few minutes of hobbling along, sensation started to return to his legs.

  Control. They were obeying him as they should.

  Once his legs realized he was back in charge, they began to listen to his commands. That’s when he gained momentum and ran.

  As he raced forward, thoughts flooded his mind. Cleo had actually hurt him. Him! And not just hurt. No, she had destroyed him with pain to the point that it felt as though his bones had shattered into a million pieces within his legs. He hadn’t realized she had that kind of power.

  And she had done it all without maintaining eye contact. That was what bothered him the most. From all of the research he had done on the subject, it was impossible. Eye contact was a must.

  On top of that, he heard Cleo wasn’t even the strongest Seal. She wasn’t the leader. Fear slithered throughout his body. If one of them was that strong on her own, imagine how powerful they would all be together. It would be a nightmare.

  Sebastian must be warned!

  Fishing his keys out of his pocket, he flew through the creaky iron gate and rounded the corner to his parked car. When he saw that his car was buried in a snowdrift, his shoulders slumped and his jaw dropped. It would definitely take time to get it out, something he did not have. Still, he needed to get inside the vehicle. He pushed and kicked the snow away from the driver’s side door. His hands shook. Not from the cold, but from the shock of what she’d done to him.

  He fumbled with the door for a minute as his fingers refused to obey his wishes, fighting off the urge to rip the bloody door off its hinges. He wouldn’t do that. It was too pretty, and he loved his car. Twenty-first century technology was one of his joys in life.

  Finally, he got the door open enough so he could slide in. He reached for his messenger bag sitting on the passenger seat. It was radiating with a reddish glow.

  “Oh, no,” he whispered.

  Opening the bag, he took out the bell whose symbols burned brightly, a clear warning something was happening.

  He picked up the bell and blinked home.

  Wednesday, 1:32 am

  Imogen Thompson sat primly but relaxed on her couch. The only source of light was the bright glare from the 84-inch, 8K resolution television. Part of her knew it was over-the-top, but she loved it. An old rerun of Doctor Who was on. This series was the one thing she looked forward to every week. Rerun or new episode, it didn’t matter to her. She’d watch it faithfully with a large, five gallon tub of popcorn filled to the top. She would eat every kernel with her eyes glued to the show. “Thank God for British television,” she always said.

  She scooped popcorn into her hand and shoveled it into her mouth. Bits of popcorn fell back into the tub as she crunched open mouthed.

  There was a buzz in the air, and it cracked a second later.

  The clattering of a cup bouncing slightly on the table mingled with the sound of whistling wind and the faint whispers of rushing water somewhere close by. A mist of golden particles shimmered brilliantly as Mr. Thompson blinked into the room.

  “Something wrong with the car, dear?” she asked with a popcorn-filled smile.

  He gave her a grim look.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “Get dressed, my peach,” he told her as he went to the light switch. Light flooded the room.

  “We’re leaving.”

  Her tone changed, more serious and insistent. “What’s wrong?”

  His expression told her all she needed to know.

  Wednesday, 2:08 am

  The Thompsons were on edge, their living room lay in a mess. Piles of their clothes were neatly folded and stacked on the couch. A hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars in cash lay in neatly stacked piles on the heavy, wooden kitchen table next to the large bowl of half-eaten popcorn. A variety of powders, herbs, oils, candles, and empty vials filled with multicolored liquids were scattered throughout the room.

  These mystical provisions had been used to block spiritual tracking in the past, but they weren’t sure if the Seals could track credit cards, ATM withdrawals or other forms of electronic spending. For now, they would stay off the grid, use physical money only, and lay as low as possible.

  Mr. Thompson gripped the edge of the table and let his head fall forward. “I’m a coward.”

  His knuckles went white as his fingers dug deeply into the solid wood table, cracking the polished wood with his grip.

  Imogen had busied herself with packing some of their essentials, such as toothbrushes, toothpaste, and face wash, into a large suitcase, but she stopped.

  She lifted her eyes to his. “You’re protecting your family.” Her tone was sweet, filled with sorrow and compassion.

  He didn’t reply. She was right of course, but he couldn’t shake this feeling of cowardice. He had failed on every level.

  “I promised,” he whispered.

  At that second, they both heard it.

  “Mommy?” said a sleepy voice.

  Paige had left her bed and made her way into the living room. Her fine blonde hair was tousled, and her Doctor Who pajamas were wrinkled and sleep-worn.

  I
mogen went to her daughter. “It’s okay sweetie. I’m sorry the noise woke you.”

  Paige rubbed one of her eyes and gazed around the room. “Are we going somewhere?”

  Kneeling on one knee, Imogen put her fingers on Paige’s chin and spoke softly, “Australia. Remember when I showed you the pictures of the Opera house?”

  Paige nodded. “Uh-huh.”

  “Well, now I want to take you to see it. And the Sydney Harbour Bridge is so beautiful sweetie, you’ll love it.”

  Paige beamed, instantly awake. “Really? We’re going to Sydney!”

  Mrs. Thompson kissed her cheek. “And anywhere else you want to go.”

  “Okay!” Paige said as she leapt into her mom’s arms and squeezed her into a tight embrace.

  Mrs. Thompson pulled back and said, “You go get dressed and start packing, okay?”

  “Yes, Mommy!” Paige said before trotting off to her room.

  Neither Imogen nor Mr. Thompson moved. They stood staring at the hallway toward Paige’s room.

  “The Seals can’t find her,” Imogen said.

  “I know.”

  “If they do, they will—”

  “They won’t.”

  “What about the Angels?” she pleaded. “Can they help?”

  “No! If they find out what she can do, they will take her as well.”

  Imogen ran her hands down her face. “What are we supposed to do? Just run for the rest of our lives?”

  “I—I don’t know. I’ll think of something.”

  Wednesday, 2:45 am

  The convertible had been abandoned at the cemetery, and most likely the SUV would be left at the airport. Mr. Thompson loved his cars, but what could he do? In the backseat, next to Paige’s pink car seat, sat the duffel bag filled with cash.

  Mr. Thompson closed the back hatch of the SUV and stood at the edge of the bumper, thinking about how he was going to tell Imogen he wasn’t going with them. He had made his decision the instant he saw his daughter, and he’d been dreading the moment when he would have to tell Imogen.