“You? You will try to stop us. And you will fail.”
“And Vincent?” asked Mea.
Lilly watched a group of students pass by, her eyes glued to them. “Vincent? Death will sweep across the land. The wicked and innocent will be eliminated. And him?” Lilly snapped back towards Mea with a look as fierce as a tiger’s. “He’ll kill everything you love.”
Another clump of students, ten in all, passed them and piqued Lilly’s interest. Not a care in the world, they laughed among themselves while staring down at their cellphones while punching numbers into them. “Why do you even care?” asked Lilly. “There’s nothing you can do about it. The world will get what it deserves.”
Still staring at the group of students, they reminded her of someone. Whore. That, that was it. The four yuppies in the white convertible. Any and all of Lilly’s lightheartedness disappeared into rage and hatred. Eying the spilt ice from her drink next to the trash can, she rubbed her right hand against itself, like she was kneading something in her palm.
The ice from her drink flew through the air and began levitating above her palm. Quickly melting in balls of floating liquid, they danced above her twitching hand before thinning into thin shards of broken glass. “See them?” Lilly jabbed her chin at the group of passing students, the cattle. Now the glass shards were spinning rapidly above her now-opened, swaying palm. “They’re cattle, too stupid and too blind to see the real world, too distracted to care. Them, they’re just bodies, nobodies. Specks of dust in the sea of time. Living or dead, they are nothing.”
Lilly’s herd had thinned from ten to four: two boys and two girls. After waving goodbye to the others, one of the boys threw his arm over one of the girl’s shoulders, pulled her close, and kissed her. The other boy and girl were staring at the girl’s cellphone, laughing at some video clip. Nothing but cattle, Lilly thought, stupid cattle. “Hmm,” she said, grinning. “I think it’s time to make some steaks.”
“Don’t.” Mea clenched her fist.
“Or what?” Lilly’s lips curled in a mischievous smile. They’re cattle.
Cattle. The word reminded Lilly of a Austrian mistress she once knew. Greta, Greta was her name. Ages ago, Greta was the side-piece of an Austrian butcher. He wooed her with sweet words, thinly sliced beef, and promises of running away together, one day.
The butcher’s wife was clueless and careless. Heavy-set and bitter, she cared more about her wine and sister’s children than her cheating butcher husband.
But Greta, Greta loved him. For all is faults, she loved the thirty-five-year-old shyster all the same. But she was a foolish girl of eighteen and as naïve as she was hopeful. The butcher was more of a realist. So when she became pregnant with child, his child… he yelled, manipulated her, and paid for the abortion. And that, Greta did not love. In fact, that act became the seed of bitterness that began growing inside Greta. And as that bitterness grew within Greta, it darkened her heart and her life. Anyways… it all ended one night, Greta’s bitterness and anger had boiled over and she showed up unannounced at his butcher shop. After some arguing and few hard lumps on the back of the butcher’s head, Greta shoved him headfirst into the spinning blade of his meat slicer. Like cattle.
Hearing the ruckus, the butcher’s wife came downstairs. The first thing she saw was Greta. She was puddled on the floor, wailing and crying. The second thing she saw was the sticky parts of her husband scattered all about. But the wife, Ida—Ida was her name, after a moment of strange calmness, didn’t freak out. In fact, Ida was as calm as can be as she walked down the stairs. And Ida calming walked over and sat next to Greta and put her arm around her.
Then Ida revealed a secret, her secret, why she didn’t care about her chopped up, cheating husband. Years ago, the butcher had done the same to her, convinced her to get an abortion. Forced to use some back-alley doctor for privacy, the practice wasn’t exactly clean or precise. As a result, Ida’s abortion was filled with complications, and after that, she couldn’t ever have children. Ida held Greta, and the two women found comfort in each other’s arms and in their shared pain.
That night, Ida and Greta took the butcher’s money that he had stashed away (where he didn’t think Ida knew about), packed two suitcases, and took two pounds of thinly sliced beef with them. They left town that same night, two women bonded by their mutual sorrow.
“Just like cattle, thinly sliced.” Lilly had an evil, almost possessed look on her face. “Just the way Greta and Ida always liked it.” Her hand slid back as the glass platters spun like buzz-saws as she readied them for launch.
“Don’t,” Mea repeated.
“Don’t? Why? They’re cattle, and there’s nothing you can do about it. I’m stronger than you.”
A sharp light flashed before Lilly’s eyes, and her sunglasses fell from her face. The glass buzz-saws fell and shattered on the concrete and quickly melting. “But my blade’s sharper.”
CH 10: Midwest Swing
The Gateway to the West, that’s what they called it—the St. Louis Arch. Silver and shiny, it became an icon synonymous with St. Louis. But St. Louis had many other wonders, as well.
Abandoned houses were abundant, but so far, they were not abandoned enough. Too small, too many memories. The walls told stories; holiday dinners, movie nights, first kisses, teaching the kids arts and crafts, carving pumpkins, birthday parties, laughter, happiness. Yes, families had lived there… At one time or another. They may have even been happy ones, happy families… at one time or another. They wouldn’t be here. Not a good fit.
The same could be said for the schools, the abandoned ones. Laughing and innocent children once learned and shared knowledge with each other. They were a breeding ground for hopes and dreams. Meeting grounds for future best friends, pre-teen crushes, and a momentary haven for those that hated their homes. Now they were nothing more than asphalt fields filled with bursting bushels of weeds and crabgrass growing through rusted and dented chain-link fences. They were the future of the nation… at one time or another, not now. Too many memories in a place like that. No good.
Warehouses were a plenty, as well—on both sides of the river, the Mississippi river. And in truth, Mea’s side of it, the Illinois side, had the good abandoned warehouses. East St. Louis was a modern-day blight, the winking nod of progress, an inside joke. Either way, warehouses weren’t any good either. They were too often used for illegal dumping from the shady landlords of low-rent apartment complexes and filled with half-rotten photo albums and broken childhood toys and dreams. Memories, relics, feelings, photos; the aura of humanity stuck to them like rust on iron, and they were sad to look at. Painful reminders for any and all of those involved. Well, all those except the landlord. Although, they could hardly be blamed. Illegal dumping was cheaper than paying for dumpster service.
Abandoned factories, textile factories, that’s where he needed to go. Cold, abandoned, emotionless; such places were mostly devoid of humanity and thus perfect squatting grounds for the fallen, fallen angels. Outcasts. Physically perfect, they dressed like stylish homeless people. Humanity had grown too painful for them. While emotions are easy enough to feel, they’re also too complex for generic understanding… and painful. While demons were feral beasts devoid of any humanity, angels only understood absolutes, absolute righteousness—righteous in their eyes at least, at least how they understood it. The mistakes of mortals were punishable by exile or death, but only if they had permission to do so.
Abandoned textile factories, they were the best place for hunting. And the surrounding area, a few miles southeast of Baysville, was plentiful with both hunting grounds and prey. So, that was where Raven was.
The shadows were just weak shades of darkness as the sunlight fought through half-broken windows and dirt-soaked glass. On the far side, a shattered skylight provided too much light—for both Raven and the outcasts.
Avoiding the brightly lit side, the fallen kept to the spacious right side of the factory. Scurrying about the rust
ed and abandoned equipment, their movements were sad, slow, and labored. Some of them were half-grouped in half-circles, spending most days reminiscing of Heaven and of their time in Heaven. And although most called it Elysium, all of them had called it home, at one time or another.
Still, they struggled on earth. With no need to eat or sleep, life was a living hell of eternity for them. Right now, there were suffering in groups, large groups. Raven counted roughly a hundred-and-fifty outcasts inside the factory, give-or-take the few that left to scavenge. That’s half of what attacked Mea, Raven thought. And now… better now than later, that was his next thought—a self-rationalization of his addiction, his bloodlust.
With gusts of outside wind seeping through broken windows and missing doors, the fluorescent lights hanging high from the rafters swayed and flickered as they often did. Then they flickered again, this time with a more pronounced and loud buzzing.
This time, the outcasts took notice. Alert eyes and twisting heads scanned above and around them. Fear and concern consumed them. Scampering about, they grabbed for rusted knives and make-shift weapons. Hands darted under the mattresses they used for couches and into the drawers of their chipped and battered end tables. Others clumsily reached into piles of department store junk—acquired during their failed attempts to feel human, to feel alive—and grabbed smaller knives that were half-rusted and bent.
The flickering lights and buzzing continued. The horde of fallen angels frantically looked around for the threat, their eyes turning into glowing emerald whenever the light faded dark enough. Still, they saw nothing.
Then it came. The lights turned dark, and the shadows sharpened. Dark slashes came from nowhere and cut deep.
Then, as the lights flickered back on, five fallen were squirming and collapsing to the ground while their clenched blades did the same.
Then, again the lights buzzed then turned black, and screams followed. As they came back on, five more fallen joined the other five still squirming on the ground.
“In a circle,” one yelled. The outcasts moved shoulder to shoulder to make a large circle in the middle of the factory, all the while stepping over and ignoring their fallen brethren. They frantically scanned the area. “What is it?” yelled one. “Who cares? Just keep your eyes open,” answered another. “The lights.” “It’s coming from the lights.” “No, the shadows.” The lights buzzed loudly before cutting to black again. Then, as they came back on, again, the circle grew smaller as more bodies collapsed to the floor.
Three, four, five times, the cycle repeated. The lights turned dark, and when they came back on, the ground was littered with more bodies. The fallen were too afraid to run, too afraid to be alone—alone with humanity. Strangely enough, as different as they were from them, they were eerily similar to the early humans—huddling in fear from something they did not and could not understand.
Finally the flickering stopped, and the shadows sharpened one last time. A loud, quick grinding sound sent clattering chains chiming before the swaying fluorescent lights came crashing down and against the hard factory floor, just like any-and-all of the outcasts.
Now, it was time to reap what he sowed.
Upstairs and next to some rusted over machinery and atop some grated metal steps, Raven stepped out of the shadows. Moving forward through the light and dim potions of the overlooking stairway, the sunlight cast tall and long shades of darkness on him and the outcasts below. And between both light and shadow, he looked both armored and average, casual and killer, human and demon.
“Huh.” He examined the white smoke dripped from his broadsword. “This is new.” Then, with a shrug, he spun his blade around in a circle and slid it into the scabbard strapped down his back. “Different than last time.” Then he playfully strutted down the steps while flickering emeralds and flailing bodies littered the factory floor below him.
As he strutted towards the nearest one, the dying angel futilely pushed away with his one good arm. He grunted, “Who are you?”
“I told you to stay away from her.” Raven’s talons and forearm disappeared into the grunter’s torso. As the outcast clench at the ground and grabbed at the hole in his stomach, he gasped for air. And within moments, the carved creases of Raven’s armor glowed green. “You should have listened,” he said to the dying corpse. Then, as Raven retrieving his arm from the angel’s torso, the hollowed angel turned to flutters of ash in the wind. He grinned and said, “Well, onto the next one,” then looked around for the closest one. Then, rinse and repeat.
He was halfway through silencing the dying and crawling outcasts and was busy doing so. That may have been why he missed the two sets of emeralds clenching sharp objects nearby. Far behind him and hidden in the darkness of downstairs area—between the same rusted machinery Raven had stood above earlier, they watched. Shaking and afraid, yet silently, they waited. Then, as they heard Raven move closer to them, about ten feet away, they nodded to each other. Their blades were moving fast, stabbing downwards and aimed at his back. He didn’t even see them coming, not until it was too late.
“You missed a couple.”
The green streaks shot past him and were suddenly nailed against the concrete wall, dangling from the iron rods sticking out of their shoulders.
Raven snapped his head to the side. “You?”
“Your welcome,” said Blackwell as he looked down to see four outcasts scurrying around his feet. Their emerald eyes dimmed and became white with fear.
He jerked his head to the side, signaling behind him. “Go.”
Shocked from the unexpected mercy, they scurried away while Blackwell started towards Raven. Observing the floor covered with spilt bodies, ashes, and dimming auras; he counted the dead. “Forty six, not bad. If you were human, they’d call you a serial killer.”
“I am human.” Raven yanked his broadsword out of the man pinned to the wall. “I was.”
“And now…” Again Blackwell looked at the bodies sprawled across the floor. “You are more demon than human.” Now glancing at the savagely wounded outcasts who were suspiciously easing away, he added, “Correction, you are mostly a demon with a dash of humanity.”
Raven glared at him while he stuck his blade into the other one pinned on the wall.
“Do you ever wonder why demons don’t walk the earth? Why angels don’t… shouldn’t?”
“Enlighten me,” Raven said as he yanked out his blade and let the body drop, thumping dully onto the ground.
“For starters, because of things like this. I.E. It’s unnatural. What are demons—humans that have lost their souls, lost their humanity. And what are angels? Heavenly creatures destined to serve in heaven and enlightened humans so self-righteous that they’ve ascended. Yet, only these one are...” Blackwell toed at a pile of ash then checked the bottom of his shoe. “Anyways, these ones have clearly lost their way and were left with only their own self-righteousness.”
“Get to the point.” Raven raised his sword to slice into yet another one.
“My point is…” Watching the massacre, Blackwell huffed then waved his hand. Raven’s broadsword was yanked from his claws and shot across the factory and onto the side of the room that everyone was avoiding. As it slid under one of the spotlights from the broken skylights, Raven expected it to shine and shimmer, but it didn’t. Instead, it soaked in the bright light, and the blood caked on its edge seemed to glow brighter.
“My point is…” Interrupted by something he saw, Blackwell did a double before watching the black steel of Raven’s sword drink up the bright-red blood sticking to its blade. Steaming with white smoke squiggles, the black steel still absorbed all it could, until it was all but perfect again. Apparently it was thirsty. He continued. “My point is that they don’t belong here. Hence their herding, anti-social behavior. The same goes for you. For demons.
“You broke your contract with me—to serve me, and you survived dying in Hell, or Irkalla—or whatever you crazy kids are calling it nowadays… But somehow you
survived and escaped Hell—which, by the way, you’ll have to tell me the ‘how’ behind that one, one day. But… somehow, you returned here, to the mortal plain.”
“And?”
“And ergo, it’s unnatural. Ergo, this happened—your bloodlust.”
“I’m protecting Mea.” Raven’s claw dug into the chest of another dying angel.
“Yeah, protecting her,” Blackwell agreed emptily as he looked over the outcast’s bodies flickering like half-dead campfires, all kindle and ash. Watching Raven go back to work, he huffed again. “Enough.” Then, he waved his hand again. Raven froze mid-swipe, and then—like being pulled by invisible strings, he was yanked through the air and in-front of Blackwell, dangling just off the floor like a limp puppet. “Now do I have your attention?”
Bodies were still squirming noisily on the ground, and they were growing insistently annoying. Excuse me,!” Blackwell announced to get their attention. “Anyone who is still alive, you need to leave… Now!”
And after their initial flinching, they did as they were told, and the broken and bleeding outcasts limped to stand then helped each other towards the exits. All wounded, their arms weaved over and under each other while they limped away as fast as possible. Their wounds were burning with ashy gray flakes and red blood drifting and dripping from them as they fled.
“Raven, you still don’t you get it, do you? You are a demon. You kill—you’re a killer. That’s what you do. Being in Hell, you were able to fight the urge. You were a reaper, a raven, a scavenger of the dead… And you were under contract, with me, to manage the souls of the damned. And until recently, until you went A.W.O.L., you were quite good at it. And that… is quite admirable. And you did it all to save the soul of someone you love—which is also quite admirable. But…
“When you broke our contract and returned to the mortal plain. Then… It was only a matter of time before you lost any and all sense of yourself and your humanity.”
The Long Night of the Gods: Lilith Awakens (Forgotten Ones Book 2) Page 13
