The Long Night of the Gods: Lilith Awakens (Forgotten Ones Book 2)

by M. H. Hawkins

  The flickering green flames narrowed, and the voice behind them became more contemptuous. “And a great beast rose from the desert to devour life. And as it woke, the Beast was filled with hunger, and desolation followed…

  Irritated, Blackwell puffed out his lips before rolling his eyes. But he didn’t interrupt, and despite his boredom, he let it continue.

  “But first, from under the full moon, a moon as thick and bright as blood, the Wolf will howl. Ravenous and savage, it will wake. And as its eyes are opened and it sees the sickness of the world, so shall a sickness grow inside its belly and create a hunger for darkness. Then when the moon settles, the Wolf will set out to consume the darkness. But it will find that its hunger cannot be satiated. And the more darkness it consumed, the hungrier it became. And it will moan and yell to the heavens, ‘The darkness of man does not fill me, let us feast upon the light.’ And then, it will seek out to devour the light as it did the darkness. In doing so, it will hope that it will be enough to fill the emptiness of its belly so that they can rest once again.”

  Blackwell flexed his fingers in his pockets and began fidgeting. And when the voice finally paused, with his hands still glued inside his pockets, he raised an eyebrow and shrugged his shoulders upwards as to say, “Are you finished?”

  The green flames flickered brighter, and the voice grew more aggressive. “And from a fiery pit long forgotten, a great dragon emerged with fire and flames dripping from its great scales. Consumed with desire and destiny, it stalked—“

  “—Yes,” Blackwell interrupted. “Yes, yes, yes. I remember. I want to know which ones have woken and which ones still sleep.”

  The emerald flames narrowed further with growing contempt. Ignoring Blackwell’s interruption, it continued. “And the Queen of Sorrows. Dark and beautiful, she is vengeance herself. Attached to her like shadows is the wrath and beauty of women. For their suffering was great and long, so shall their punishment be tenfold greater and longer. And as the women of ages past waited for their day of redemption, they howled and wailed to their queen, ‘How long shall we wait? Avenge us. Share our pain. Share our stories.’”

  Blackwell cleared his throat. “Azazel, were you always this theatrical? Granted it has been a long time, but really, have you always been like this? I know the prophecy. I know the words. But what I want to know, what I came down here for, is… to know which ones are now awake and where I can find them.”

  The green flames bounced lightly as Azazel chuckled. “Vincent Blackwell… That’s the name you chose? In ancient Sumer, you were known as Enki. In Egypt, it was Set. The Christians call you Lucifer, or Satan.”

  Blackwell raised an eyebrow then corrected him. “Not to be pedantic but… Lucifer was always more suitable for you. You are the fallen, and you were always the one with the more… hands-on approach.”

  “Me?” Azazel asked incredulously. “I’m the one with the hands-on approach?”

  “Well, your approach is certainly less… socially acceptable. Me? I’m just a dabbler.” Moving closer to the iron bars, he playfully added, “I dabble. That’s it.”

  “A dabbler?” growled Azazel. He flicked a pebble out of the darkness of his cell and against the iron bars—a dull dinging noise, followed by a plethora of growls, screeches, and barking, echoed throughout the stone corridor. “Is that what dabbling sounds like?”

  “Fair enough, slightly more than a dabbler. But, after all, I must admit… I am a whole different type of animal.”

  “You are a zookeeper, a prison guard.” Blackwell was no more than a watchman, destined to reign in Hell and over the underworld for no apparent reason.

  Right now, that didn’t seem to bother him. He just shrugged then brushed some dirt off his shoulder. “True, true. But…” He began examining then admiring the lapel of his suit. “Well, it’s a job. And I find the title groundskeeper more preferable and accurate than zookeeper, I mean, if it’s all the same to you. And we all have our roles.”

  “Yes, our roles,” sighed Azazel before adding, “And now you call yourself… Vincent Blackwell.”

  “Well, you know, modernization and all that. But you… You still hold onto the old ways, clinging to them for dear life.” And old grudges, he thought, while his words contained more mockery than genuine intrigue.

  Then, a puzzled look came across Blackwell’s face and he had an odd thought, a series of odd thoughts actually. The myths of men. Azazel’s words. The various world religions. Revelations. The prophecy. The other prophecies. The Beast. The Red Dragon. Seven heads. Ten horns. Seven crowns. Four beasts: the lion, the calf, man, the eagle. Six wings… Blackwell jabbed his tongue into his lower lip. “Huh.”

  Stepping closer to the prison cell, he said, “Azazel,” the warmth of his breath fogging the air just before squeezing through the prison bars. “The stories of the mortals, their myths, the scriptures… How many came from you? How many stories came from you whispering into the ears of drunken old men? More importantly, how many falsehoods have you sown?” Blackwell tssting at him and shook his head. “Azazel, always so dramatic.”

  Somewhere within the blackness of his prison cell, Azazel chuckled again and the green flames bounced heavily. “What do you expect? When you whisper into the ears of men, the stories have to resonate… Or else, they run the risk of dissolving, dissolving into nothingness. And then what do you have? Nothing. Forgotten stories are all-but-useless. Forgotten stories are no stories at all, things that never happened.” Less concerned he added, “But what men do with the whispers of the gods is not my concern, nor is it under my control.”

  “The stories must resonate?” Blackwell imagined Azazel flamboyantly telling stories to old men wrapped in togas. He licked his lips while trying to hold back his smile. “Huh.” The stories must resonate? “Yes, I suppose they must. But still, were any of them true?”

  “Of course… true-ish. We are gods after all. We have no reason to lie.” Though, all the same—and as you and I both know, we still do. “But as for the mortals… Well, they have a habit of giving their own spin on things, and fear and desperation are powerful motivators.”

  Blackwell thought about the things that frightened men do; kill, lie, cheat, steal, steal their friends’ wives, betray their brothers, betray their nations, etcetera, etcetera. Fear and desperation are powerful motivators? “Yes, I suppose they are but… I digress. So which ones have woken? The Beast? The Wolf? The Dragon?” After pausing, he added the last one, “The Queen?”

  A scuffing sound came from deep within the dark cell and the green flames shifted. The fiery eyes gave off no residual light, but they were rising, glowing, and nearing nonetheless. And despite the darkness of the cell, from the positioning of the flames and the sounds, Blackwell surmised that Azazel had, most likely, been slumped up against the back wall of his cell, sitting on the stone floor with his legs pulled to his chest. The green flames rose higher and moved closer to the iron bars.

  Azazel huffed then said, “What do you think the mortals will do when they find out that their gods are monsters, that we are their destruction—and not their salvation? What will they say when they realize that they have no hope?”

  Blackwell pursed his lips. “There is hope,” he said, trying to convince himself.

  “Who? Mea?”

  “I have faith in her.”

  “Your faith is misplaced. Do you remember the last time? She will fail, again. The gods… The gods were never meant to walk with mortals. We are monsters, nothing more.”

  His words angered Blackwell. Mea wasn’t a monster. Neither was he. Was he? He thought of all the men he’d killed, the ones he manipulated, the ones he manipulated into killing for him, all the demons and monsters he’d made over the millennia, the ones he imprisoned, the collateral damage (the innocents). He tried to care, but he didn’t, not really. He was a monster. In the past, such an insinuation wouldn’t have bothered him. But now… Now he was different. He was trying to be different. Still, he tried to shak
e off the anger. “Monsters you say? Are speaking of me… or yourself?”

  “Or her?” As Azazel smiled, two rows of eerie white fangs revealed themselves and dangled beneath the green flames.

  In a silent moment that felt too long, Blackwell’s anger swelled and his nostrils flared. “Monsters? Monsters you say?” As he took a deep breath, he realized that there was no shaking it off. “Well, considering that you’re the one locked inside a cage, my cage, that would lead me to believe that you are the monster.” Blackwell looked left then right down each side of the dark corridor before returning his focus to Azazel. “I stand corrected. It would seem that you are the only monster that does not know that he’s a monster.”

  As the words touched Azazel’s ear, his anger exploded.

  A black claw—talons as sharp as his anger was— shot out from between the iron bars and towards Blackwell’s throat. But falling just short of the unflinching neck, Azazel’s leathery claw was left grasping air.

  Blackwell’s eyes casually drifted downwards to the extended and empty claw. Wondering how prison may have changed Azazel—it affected everyone differently, he examined it. It was coated in black scales that gradually faded into a coat of thick black fur. Now containing his anger and suddenly cool again, Blackwell said, “You should retract your hand before you have no hand to do so.”

  Azazel saw the darkness swirling around Blackwell’s cufflink—dark, thin, and sharp—a shadow blade. He had felt Blackwell’s blade before and didn’t feel like doing so again, at least not today. So, after a throaty growl, Azazel did as he was told and withdrew his monstrous claw from between the iron bars and back into the darkness.

  The green flames examined Blackwell’s suit and shirt, a fanged smirk appeared again. “Black on black? With a crimson necktie? Is that the best you can do? Or are you trying to be ironic?”

  Blackwell looked down at his attire. Damn, he’s right. The blending of colors was off, but just slightly… Still, slight as it was, he hated to admit that Azazel was right. He waved his hand in front him as his old shirt and tie wiped away and his dress shirt dimmed into a shimmering crimson hue and his tie darkened to a sheened shade of midnight. He examined himself again. “Hmm, you’re right. Much better.”

  Beginning to enjoy trading barbs with Blackwell, Azazel almost forgot about his ironclad grudge. And still recovering from his injuries—from the blades of Mea, Raven, and Blackwell; he knew that he couldn’t fight him, not now, even if he wasn’t behind bars. Then, remembering what they did to him, any sense of mellowing disappeared. His thoughts shifted, and his anger and bitterness returned. And right now, words were his only weapon. So he decided to use them. Go for the soft spot, he thought. Grinning he asked, “Does she know? The Lamb that becomes the Lion, does she know her fate?”

  Blackwell snapped back, “Her name is Mea, Mea Harris.” Then he remembered what he told her. If you asked me to, I’d let the world burn. “She stronger than you think, stronger than she was.” The promise he made her. “She…” And now, his memories had broken loose and flooded his thoughts, and he began drowning in emotions. To save you, I’d burn it down myself… “She…” If it bothers you and you prefer the alternative, I will do my best to save it, that was what he told her. Again, he looked like he was trying to convince himself. Blackwell sighed. “It won’t be like last time.”

  With that, Azazel had his answer and had his victory. Using the only weapon he had, his words had effectively wounded his prison warden. And apparently he found it funny. Cackling loudly at his success, he stuttered out taunts between his laughing. “She, she doesn’t know, does she? Does she?” He goaded him further. “Ahhh, does she know what you are?”

  His question was met with silence.

  Azazel chuckled again. “Huh. What will she think? You, death incarnate. It’s the same old story, all over again.”

  Blackwell jabbed back. “What does she think of you? The Fallen. Betrayer. The failed conqueror.”

  “Eh, you win some; you lose some.” The emerald flames moved closer to the iron bars. The blackened claws wrapped around them. This time, he was close enough to not only grab Blackwell’s throat but shred it as well. But he didn’t, and Blackwell seemed unafraid.

  Azazel sighed and his voice turned sad. “And you don’t know what you’re talking about. You don’t know the whole story, and neither does she. Memories… such subjective, fragile little things—don’t you think? Her, in a mortal body, walking in the flesh. You, too love struck to ruin her false innocence with the truth—or to even get off the tracks. Or, are you just too blind to see the train coming?”

  The green flames moved even closer to the prison bars before fading into a very human set of eyes. And with a very human face, he didn’t look unlike Blackwell himself. Dark hair, dark eyes. He added, “Besides, she exiled me… and ripped out my wings.”

  “Well, you did stage a coup. The sins of Heaven are paid for on earth, and the sins of earth are…”

  “Paid for in Hell.”

  “Close. I was going to say, ‘atoned for’… in Hell.”

  Azazel sneered; his lip curled up in contempt. “And what of you… Dark One, the God of Darkness, death. Where is your atonement?”

  Blackwell shrugged innocently. “Don’t know. Guess I got diplomatic immunity. And as for your wings….” He leaned to the side and looked over Azazel’s shoulder. Patches of jet black feathers were sprouting from half-burnt, oversized avian bones—the stints for his wings. “They appear to be regenerating quite nicely.” Patchy and tattered as they are. “Although… At the moment, they are not very impressive at all.”

  Azazel growled, “Give ‘em time.” Then he went back to his condescending, “But yes, the underworld does work wonders. Look what it’s done for you.”

  “Yes it does. And you deserved exile, and this…” Blackwell gestured at the prison cell. “You killed her best friend and threatened her family. What’d you think would happen—you’d get a stern warning?”

  Azazel slunk back into his prison cell and let the darkness swallow him. “Mortal husks, huh? So touchy about life, death, all that stuff.”

  “Yes, it would appear so.” Blackwell turned to leave. His shoes clacking then stopping as he snuck in one last jab. “I’ll tell Mea that you said hi.”

  Though Blackwell couldn’t see it, Azazel chuckled silently and smiled. After pausing momentarily, he yelled, “Hey! The Wolf has stirred. The Queen is already awake, though she has not yet arrived. But soon she will break her fast in the land of milk and honey.”

  Blackwell did not turn around but said, “Thank you. I’ll send you some books, some of your own works.” Hopefully they’ll resonate, he thought. Then his shoes resumed clacking.

  As Blackwell approached the staircase, his mind was heavy with worries. And another one was about to be added onto the pile. A low grumble came from somewhere within the black hole—a low grumble, a growl, from something massive. Something ancient. The echo sounded like a creaking door and radiated from somewhere far below, deep down in the bowels of the dark pit.

  Blackwell leaned over the side and looked down into the black hole and towards the source. “Yes, I know you’re waiting. And you will continue to wait.” As he walked away, he mumbled to himself, “And if you’re lucky, I won’t just go down there and rip your heart out.” He meant it.

  From the bottom of the dark hole, two massive white eyes with gleaming black slits appeared. After two blinks and another grumble, the gleaming pools of white blinked and sank back into the darkness. And with a conceding fading growl, it patiently waited.

  CH 1: The Roof, the Roof…

  “You promise you’re not going anywhere?” Ryan asked as Mea tucked him into bed.

  “I promise. It’s community college; it’s only community college. That’s it. Nothing’s going to change.”

  “Well, how am I supposed to get home from school?”

  Mea cocked her head to the side in frustration and huffed. “You went ove
r this yesterday with mom. You’ll catch a ride with Billy on Mondays and Wednesdays, and I’ll pick you up the rest of the week.”

  “I don’t know. I don’t like it.” He gave her a suspicious look. “It all seems a little too easy.”

  Mea giggled and shook her head. “It’ll be fine. You got to grow up sometime.”

  “I’m only eight,” he huffed.

  “Eight, almost nine. And I’m eighteen.”

  “Well I don’t want to grow up, and I don’t want you to either.”

  “Got to.” Mea poked at his ribs. “And better now than never.”

  As Ryan giggled, Mea added, “You’ll be fine. I’m not going anywhere.”

  She kissed his forehead and hopped off his bed. “Goodnight, brat.” And she turned off his bedroom light and left.

  The floor creaked as Mea entered the kitchen.

  “Hey.” Diana glanced over her shoulder then went back to washing the dishes. “You know, he’s really stressed out about you going to college.”

  “You think? Yeah, I noticed.” Mea squeezed her mom’s shoulder as she bumped her out of the way and took over scrubbing the oversized pot that her mom was working on. “Here, Mom. I got it. Go take a break. I’ll finish up in here.”

  “Are you sure?” Diana asked emptily, too tired to decline. “Thanks, honey.” She grabbed a hand towel and began drying her hands.

  “Hey, no problem.” Mea grinned and had a devilish thought. “Yeah, you know, after all, I’m just a basket baby. I have to pull my weight or, you know, it’s back in the basket and down the river… like Moses.”

  At first, Diana was flooded with panic. Her eyes grew big and her head snapped to the side, directed at Mea, aghast. But seeing her daughter’s poorly hidden, cock-eyed smile, she relaxed. “That was a mean joke,” her mom said. “The meanest joke ever.” Shaking her head in disbelief, Diana sighed then wagged a finger at her daughter. “I knew it. I knew that I should have never told you that story. You think I’m crazy.”