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

by M. H. Hawkins

  Her wings flared even wider before pulling back into a more relaxed position. A random gust of wind stirred her golden brown mane over her shoulders in gentle waves. And while she was no angel, she sure did look angelic. “Vincent, end this now… Or you’re going to be short another six reapers.”

  Mea had her reasons for saving Raven. He’d done it for her, twice. Cast down to Hell—Irkalla to the ancient Babylonians—Mea began her journey of taking the flesh and become mortal—and to atone for the sins of her would-be mother. But atonement takes its toll, and her mother’s sins were heavy. The atonement would cost Mea her memories and would literally take her through Hell. Lost and vulnerable for the first time, Raven became her only ally. And she wouldn’t have made it through without him. And in the end, he sacrificed himself so that she could escape.

  While Mea thought him to be dead, Raven somehow survived and re-entered her life eighteen years later. And again, he arrived when she needed him the most. Though it was only a few months ago, it felt like ages.

  As her powers began to surface, Mea had found herself being betrayed and trapped by her best friend, Anna Berstack. Lurching in Anna’s shadow was Azazel, the Fallen. And apparently, he was still bitter about being cast out of Heaven, and he still had his own axe—a very large and very sharp axe—to grind with Mea.

  Putting up a good fight, she still found herself facing death. And as Azazel stood over her, she was all-but-dead—lying on the floor bleeding. With her shoulder pinned to the floor by two oversized thumbtacks, Azazel’s blade and one of her own; Mea found herself facing death, once again.

  The scene flashed through her mind, and for a moment, it felt like she was reliving it. She saw Azazel standing over her with an oversized smile on his face as he prepared to test his theory. Were the gods truly immortal? Azazel was about to find out.

  But Raven saved her again. Inexplicably appearing out of nowhere, he swooped in to kill ten outcasts before wounding Azazel himself and rescuing her. And again, Mea owed Raven her life.

  So, she owed him. And she wasn’t about to just let Blackwell kill him, regardless if Raven had broken their deal or not.

  Mea’s face remained cold as steel. “Vincent.” She squeezed the grips of her swords even tighter as she continued staring him down.

  With a huff and eye roll, he got the message. “Fine.” Turning towards his wounded reapers, he gave them a nod. “Let him go.”

  Then, they got the message and eased away from Raven.

  Yanking the crystal shards out of their shoulders and claws, they angrily flung them aside. As they exploded on the concrete, they crashed like broken glass but exploded and lit up like fireworks.

  Half-face still wasn’t happy about Blackwell’s command. And, still on one knee, he let out a throaty growl to share his feelings.

  Flexing his injured claw, the hole punched through it was already healing. So was his face. His jawbone was slowly returning and looked like cloudy ice. Snake-like scales and skin were slowly appearing over the corners of his cloudy jawbone like weak spray paint. And his mask, his once-thick black armored mask, was now a thin smoky veil that barely concealed his grotesque appearance.

  And he wasn’t happy. Half-face scraped his talons across the concrete ground like it was a whetstone. His eyes twitched to the side and saw his broadsword. It was close, really close.

  “Harlot,” gargled half-face, the sound coming somewhere from inside his throat. His injured claw scooped up the nearby sword. Then, charging Mea, he gripped the blade with both claws and lifted it high above his head.

  Blackwell looked like he was going to say something, but he didn’t. And when the other reapers snapped their heads towards him for orders, he settled them with an open palm. Don’t worry about it.

  Half-face was three steps in before he got the worst leg cramp ever and found his foot stuck to the concrete. Looking down, he realized that there was sword stuck in his leg.

  And now Mea was charging him. Closing in, half-face timed it perfectly. His muscles tightened as he slammed down the sharp edge of his blade at Mea’s head. But his hands got painfully stuck, and his broadsword was now summersaulting through the air. And when half-face’s eyes finally opened, he saw the gleaming tip of a blade dangerously close to his face.

  “That was stupid,” said Mea, who was now holding him like a human shield while his claws were oddly dangling where his jaw used to be.

  As half-face was attacking, Mea had decided to use her blade as a skewer. So, as he brought down his giant broadsword, she stepped forward, and then, with a twirl and stab of her blade, she speared both his wrist bones. As a result, half-face could no longer move his claws, and Mea had just created the most painful set of handcuffs ever. Tilting the blade downwards until the tip was close enough to tickle his face—his claws painfully followed the blade wherever it pulled them. “You called me a harlot.”

  She yelled out to Blackwell, “He called me a harlot? What is that?”

  Smirking, Blackwell rubbed at the corner of his eye with his index finger. A harlot was another word for a prostitute. He decided to keep that to himself. “He’s old. It’s an old word.”

  He’s old? Mea pulled half-face back towards her and looked at his chest. Like all reapers, a number was engraved on his armored chest, just below his collarbone. “A hundred and twelve years? A hundred and twelve year sentence? I thought souls went for a hundred-a-pop.”

  Blackwell shrugged. “Different deals for different souls. His original one was for two hundred years—you going to kill him?” He turned his head towards Raven and glared hatefully at him. “At least one reaper should die tonight.”

  Selling souls, it made her think of Raven. He still had a 59 etched into his armor. As her eyes locked onto the number, it lit up in a fiery orange before dimming to the color of charred lumber. She checked the other reapers’ chests for their numbers, and they did the same. 25, 34, 92, 134, and 43; the numbers reminded her that these monsters, these reapers… They were once human, like Raven had been. And she wondered if they all had sold their souls for love, also like Raven had done.

  42 years ago, when Raven was still a human, he sold his soul to save his the soul of his wife. With her trapped in a vegetative state, neither Raven nor his wife had any good options—she could stay trapped in a brain-dead body or her husband could pull the plug. No good options.

  Mea had no any trouble remembering this incident, not any more. She was there. And for some unknown reason, she agreed to take the woman gift, her image. And now, she looked almost identical to her. Why? That was another question that she didn’t have the answer to.

  Mea looked down at half-face, the black blood leaking from his wrists trickled down the edge of blade and sizzled as it did so. Who sells their soul for 200 year? Why? What’d you do? What’d you get? Who’d you do it for? Something told her that it wasn’t for love, but she wasn’t going to ask a question that seemed to have such a scary answer.

  His eyes, they almost looked human. And they were shaking with fear. Despite his still grotesque appearance, he was still human…. was human… once. Mea pulled half-face closer to her then pulled him lower to the ground. First yanking her sword out of his leg, she then slid her other one loose from his wrists. And as the blade freed itself from the reaper’s wrists, half-face pirouetted away before crashing to the ground. “Go,” Mea commanded.

  Blackwell had a different idea. Unpleased with his behavior, Blackwell turned to his ill-mannered reaper, “I’ll deal with you later.” The mangle reaper bowed to him, as both a show of respect and to communicate his understanding.

  Blackwell bobbed his head to the side, signaling for half-face and the other reapers to leave. And they did. Yet one reaper lagged behind and looked to Blackwell for any final orders. And he had one. Blackwell ordered, “Keep him close.” Glaring hard with disdain, Blackwell watched half-face as he stepped away. “I may have told him later, but I think that I may be able to fit him into my schedule. And for him, la
ter is going to come very soon and will last very long.”

  Mea was sheathing her swords but could still hear them talking. And she realized that she didn’t particularly like the tone of Blackwell’s voice. “Wait. What are you going to do to him?” More worried she said, “You’re not going to torture him, are you? Are you?! Don’t!”

  Blackwell looked at her incredulously and waited to see if she was joking. But she wasn’t, so he huffed in defeat. “Fine.”

  “Hey!” he yelled and gestured for half-face to come back. “Twenty, twenty additional years. You understand?” Half-face bowed to him again but was interrupted. “Don’t bow to me. Bow to her.” He huffed, “Twenty years.” He huffed again. “Twenty years, you got off lucky. You should be kissing her feet while giving her a lottery ticket in the middle of a casino, you’re so lucky.” Then Blackwell went back to mumbling about the twenty years again.

  Half-face bowed to Mea, his body language significantly more passive before. As she waved him off, she watched the numbers on his chest change. The middle number burned red as it changed from a one to a three. Then, the whole number flashed in a fiery red, as a 132 replaced the 112 that was there before.

  Meanwhile, the other reapers awkwardly limped around and retrieved their blades, glaring at Raven with their flickering reptilian eyes as they did so. Then they bowed to Blackwell before fading into the shadows.

  “There,” said Blackwell, shaking his head in frustration. She makes me do this, but she won’t let me buy her a dishwasher, he thought and almost said aloud. But he didn’t and wisely decided to keep it to himself. He shook his head again and tried to cool down. “Now, are you happy?”

  “Yes. Thank you.” Mea smiled before a bright light swallowed her. Flashing brighter and faster than before, it disappeared in a snap and the darkness of the night returned, and Mea’s armor disappeared and she was once again wearing her sweatpants and t-shirt.

  Raven scooped up his sword and sheathed it. Walking towards Mea, he kept his eyes glued to his dark master as he crossed his path. He couldn’t resist. “That’s a good boy. Do as you’re told, and you might get a treat.”

  Blackwell didn’t appreciate that, and as he made a fist, he casually lifted his hand into the air. And as his hand closed, Raven froze and lifted off the ground as well. With that, Raven hovered limply in the air before floated over and in front of Blackwell. And from the way that Raven was gritting his teeth, the whole ordeal seemed quite painful. Blackwell spoke, his words coming out soft but spiteful. “You have bold words for someone who is property, my property. If you recall, you sold your soul to me. You, reaper, are my lackey, my minion, my pawn. And while there may be holes in your memories, you should know that I was a more than generous when I underwrote your deal.” 100 years of servitude in exchange for love—a second chance at life for the woman he loved—a past love from a past life, that was the deal.

  Blackwell’s anger began bubbling over. He snarled and squeezed his fist tighter and twisted it. And as the tension in his forearm increased, so did the pain inside Raven. The air was pulled from his lungs until he could only gasp in silence. His insides burned like hot coals inside an iron furnace. Smoke began seeping from the corners of his eyes, more trickled out and up from his nostrils. Then more seeped out from the corners of his mouth. Starting as a just a trickle, it soon grew into clouds of thick black smoke.

  “And now…” Blackwell took a deep breath to control his anger. “And now you renege on our deal. You made a deal with the devil, and then you have the moral insolence to—”

  “—Vincent,” Mea interrupted.

  Reluctantly, he snarled again before finally loosened his fist and dropping Raven to the ground.

  Raven, with the air finally returning to his lungs, gasped for breath while coughing out whatever black smoke remained inside him. Finally able to stand, Raven again shared mutual looks of hatred with his dark master. His armored fingers curled into a fist before spreading out wide, and his razor sharp talons grew longer and sharper.

  “And you too. Cut the shit.”

  Raven’s claw snapped shut, and then, he did as he was told. Continuing towards Mea he said, “So as I was getting ready to say—before I was so rudely interrupted, I have information.”

  Blackwell was still steaming from the altercation. He could barely hold back mentioning Mea’s involvement in Raven’s deal. He took a few more deep breaths to regain his composure then said, “Mea, I must be going. It has been a pleasure as always. I’ll see you soon.” He stepped off towards the shadows, preparing to vanish as he often did. Then, something gave him pause.

  “Hey. You should stick around. This affects you too.”

  It was Raven’s voice.

  CH 2: The Man in the Mirror

  On the roof, Raven told Blackwell and Mea what happened, something so important that he was willing to tolerate Blackwell’s presence.

  It was Dr. Patterson, Mea’s old high school philosophy teacher. He was dead.

  Dr. Patterson was an odd looking man. Dark skin, heavy set, with short legs. He had long gray streaks in his hair and always wore tweed sport coats. For a time, he was one of the nicest teachers at the school. And despite the rumors that he had spent time in a psych ward, he was relatively well-balanced. He was well-balanced, at least for a while he was. During Mea’s last semester in high school, Patterson gradually grew stranger by the day. And more than coincidentally, it all started around the time that Mea’s powers began to manifest.

  Regardless, Patterson was too odd to ignore. So when Raven re-entered her life, Mea asked him to spy on Patterson. And since Raven didn’t sleep, he often didn’t have anything better to do.

  Most nights were noneventful, and they soon became monotonous and nearly identical to the prior night. Raven would slink in-and-out of the shadows while blending in with them. And aside from those that truly had the vision, he was all but invisible to mortal eyes.

  To most people, Patterson may have seemed normal, mostly normal, but behind the heavy dark curtains of his home, he was anything but. Alone inside his small two bedroom house, he was an entirely different person.

  Once upon a time, Patterson was the type of a man that always seemed a little too happy, but not now. Now he was different. Faking a smile outside his house, once inside, and once the door closed and the deadbolt locked; he became someone else. His face became a blank slate, wiped clean of any and all human expression. His eyes became glossy pools of ink and mud. His movements were robotic as he began to continuously mumble to himself.

  Up until the past few days, Patterson’s mumbles had remained indecipherable. But now, while most of it was still incoherent, roughly every 15-20 minutes; he’d mutter something that was actually intelligible, something that Raven could actually understand. The Queen is coming… In her glory, she will wash away the filth of the earth… Men will bow, or they will bleed… Filth doesn’t float but drowns in the ocean of retribution… And when they beg to kneel and worship before her, they will find the ground littered with thorns… And thorns will prick their feet and flesh and they will not find relief… For those that wait and seek redemption at too late an hour, there is no relief… The kingdoms of men will crumble, and their wealth will turn to ash.

  Strange, Raven thought, as he continued spying in silence. Almost as still as a statue, most nights, he would just follow and watch Patterson and observe his bizarre mannerisms until the large man finally went to bed, systematically at 11 P.M. each and every night. All the while, the oversized man remained clueless and blind to his presence.

  It was a small house, and due to Patterson’s idiosyncrasies, it seemed smaller than most. Small enough as it was, Patterson’s clutter and books occupied as much space as an elephant and made the living conditions narrow and awkward. Stacks of books, magazines, and loose papers filled the living room and overflowed into the bedrooms. Old leather-bound books with frayed edges and brittle pages lined the walls and overflowed his bookshelves and covered the to
ps of his dressers and tables.

  The walls of the second bedroom were plastered with odd posters, pictures, and labels. Maps, newspaper clippings, religious paintings. Pictures, pictures of angels and demons, others from Greek mythology, others from Middle Eastern stories. The old gods and the new ones—both the popular ones and the lesser-known ones. It was like a yearbook of every theology and myth known to man.

  A rainbow of brightly colored twine connected the dots between the motley collage of myths, religions, and tales from the various cultures and times. Whether the connections were real or imagined, Raven didn’t know. But as far as he could tell, there was no rhyme or reason to any of Patterson’s patterns.

  At the center of the epic mural of madness, there was a large golden coin. Slightly larger than a silver dollar, it hung down from the ceiling by a thin black rope. Hanging strangely and loosely, the coin seemed to shine and spin all on its own, glowing even when there wasn’t any light. It really was a beautiful coin.

  And apparently Patterson thought so as well. Each night, he would walk into the room and just stare at it. Seemingly hypnotized, he looked like a statue with glowing, unblinking eyes. He watched it spin then watched as it glowed and let its light reflect off his dark glossy eyes like tiny spotlights. It was particularly odd, and Raven didn’t understand any part of this ritual either.

  The strangest part of Patterson’s daily routine was yet to come. Daily, he spent roughly fifteen minutes staring into a mirror, an antique full body mirror. Oval with a wooden trim that stood on large, dark, lacquered legs; it was ominous, mysterious, and beautiful. The wooden frame was covered with deep engravings that were clearly done by an expert craftsman. Crashing waves ran up the sides before crashing into a crude carving of a woman’s face at the top. The wooden cradle was chipped and aged, but the mirror itself was streak-free and flawless.