It was a gut-wrenching fate of their kind. To die out as a forgotten whisper. As opposed to the old way, where they’d fought bloody, violent wars and killed each other off at the height of their powers. Now that had been a problem. If two gods in their prime went at each other and one killed the other and didn’t manage to absorb the powers before they were released back into the universe, it could cause the entire fabric of creation to come undone.
Which meant all life, in all realms, ceased. Everything was reset.
Total annihilation.
The world would fracture, and all life would end.
Nibo shuttered in memory of the Primus Bellum that had led to the death of the Malachai race and all the Sephirii who’d been created to fight them. Those had been wretched times that the world had barely survived.
It was what most of them were trying to avoid now.
Being one of the survivors, he was in no hurry to repeat it. Sadly, not everyone here shared his memories.
Or sanity.
Kalfou was one of them.
As with all those who were young, their blood and Kalfou’s ran hot, and they were too eager for war. A war they wanted when they didn’t fully understand the cost and consequences. Once that genie came out of the bottle, you couldn’t put it back in. For that was the thing about acting in the heat of the moment and letting your emotions lead you astray.
You have to live with the total fallout of your stupidity.
Careful the fires you start in the heat of fervent anger. For once lit, the flames of destruction are just as likely to double back and consume you as they are to engulf the ones you set them upon.
Neither words nor actions could be taken back, and there were a lot of things in life that “sorry” couldn’t fix. While words had the power to destroy, they seldom had the power to heal.
Valynda’s fate was just one of many of his own mistakes he kept on his conscience.
Not wanting to think about it or any harm he’d done the one person he loved most, he poured himself another drink. “Are the petro still going at it?”
She nodded. “They want to join the Malachai and help him in his madness. They think if they side with him, they’ll have a place in his new world.”
Choking on their stupidity, Nibo rolled his eyes. Of course they did. What was it with people ever ready to believe such lies whenever they dripped from the tongues of those they had to know were liars, out for themselves? And to be so willing to hang up their lives for them? It made no sense to him that anyone would so recklessly throw away their own life for such obvious idiocy. “There will be no place for any of us if there are no people left.”
“You know that and I know that. Sadly, they don’t understand the Malachai. In their minds, he’s one of us and therefore he’ll be merciful and won’t kill them.”
Nibo cursed. While it was true that Adarian was a demigod who drew half his powers from the same place they did, the father of the original Malachai had been a Sephiroth. Independent creatures the gods had used as warriors and protectors to fight their wars for them so as not to weaken themselves when they attacked other gods. Insidious, really. Therefore, the Sephirii didn’t draw their powers from humanity or by being worshiped. The source of their powers came from conflict.
Bloodshed.
Just like the Malachai’s. And that was what made the Malachai so destructive and invincible. So very different from them. The more you hated him—the more you fought him—the more powerful he became. It was also why his son was the only one who could destroy him. Because the son was the only one who didn’t hate him fully. No matter what a father did, there was always that core bit of love in a child’s heart for its parent that made the child stupid.
But it was also what made the Malachai lethal, for a father didn’t always feel the same for its offspring. Not the way a mother did, at least when she wasn’t demonic born. The Malachai would kill its son to protect itself, without hesitation. Hence why Adarian was so old. He’d slaughtered any and every son born to him that he’d learned about. Long before that child could grow to an age to pose a threat to his reign.
Meanwhile, the Malachai existed because Apollymi, being a true mother goddess, had sacrificed everything for her child. She’d even given up a portion of her powers to her firstborn to ensure the other gods didn’t renege on their bargain with her. To safeguard him from their capricious wrath. There was nothing she wouldn’t do for her child.
The same for her son Acheron. She was imprisoned to this day because the only way she could free herself would be upon his death, and she would rather rot for eternity in Atlantean hell than see her child harmed for her freedom. For all her vicious nature and brutality, her lack of regard for any living thing, she would never harm her own child. It just wasn’t in her.
In fact, she would gut anyone who caused Acheron to shed one single tear. And that had been proven, too.
Like Nibo’s own mother upon his death, Apollymi had mourned Acheron’s premature demise the whole of her life, and it was why he held so much regard for women and for what they went through in their lifetimes. The wretched hand that fate had dealt them all.
There was truly nothing like a mother protecting her young. The sacrifices she would make, or the lengths she would go to. For that was an unbreakable loyalty that nothing else could ever match. The fiercest power ever created. A bonded love that knew no judgment. Asked no sacrifice.
It simply gave because it wanted to.
And because of that, the Malachai had grown more and more powerful with every generation. More so due to the fact they hadn’t just bred with other gods and humans. They’d bred with demons and all manner of preternatural creatures, inheriting the strengths of them all with each subsequent generation until they were an amalgam of the most lethal, unfeeling beings that had ever belly-crawled from the depths of every hell realm. So that now, the Malachai’s power was a source unto itself.
The only thing Nibo knew that could still kill Adarian was either the last Sephiroth who was being held in captivity, or Adarian’s son.
Slim pickings for their side, especially since a curse prevented the last Sephiroth from killing Adarian, and if his son killed him, then he’d rise to replace him, and usually whenever a new Malachai took his father’s place, he was even more psychotic than the last. Worse, he was more powerful, given that he’d not only inherit his father’s powers but would have the addition of whatever his mother had been, and she was seldom human, and never born of anything weaker than a demon.
Usually, the Malachai settled down to hide for awhile after the rest of them united their powers to kick his ass, but that took centuries of senseless battle.
Something Nibo didn’t want to repeat.
Nibo sighed. “How do we get through to them?”
Maman shook her head. “How does one ever get through to obstinate asses who reinforce their own stupidity with blindfolded sycophants? As soon as you speak reason to insanity they shout you down with their concocted lies and misconceptions that they repeat to each other.”
True. They lived in perpetual echo chambers. “Aye. That is the real definition of madness, isn’t it? When you turn your ear from the truth to embrace a lie and willfully close your eyes so that you can continue to do wrong for the sake of pride.” Too many fought against the sense formally known as common.
Damn them for it.
Maman reached across the table and placed her hand over his. The contact was so unexpected that it caused him to look up and meet her gaze.
“You know I wanted to help you with your Valynda, don’t you?”
Odd how they’d all said that and yet no one had done a damn thing. Rather, they’d just stood by and let her die. Stood by and watched him suffer.
Pain rose up inside as he felt the anguish, raw and hungry, gnawing like a sick madness in his gut. There was nothing worse than to love someone and know they needed you and not be able to get to them. To know you could have and would have done somethin
g had you been there.
Unlike the ones who’d gleefully remained on the sidelines and taken pleasure in the suffering. Or worse, those who’d gloated over it. Surely, there was a special place reserved for eternal torment for those bastards.
And it took everything he had not to lash out at the goddess he considered a second mother. But then she wasn’t his real mother, and this proved it. His real maman would have never allowed him to hurt like this. She would have done something to help them.
That was the difference, after all.
No mother would stand by and see her child suffer. It wasn’t in them.
“Merci, Maman.” He choked on those words. They were as false as the ones she offered him.
Nibo took a deep breath and rose slowly to his feet. With one last shot of rum, he lifted his hat and headed for the door, unable to stand the false company for another heartbeat.
As he left the stifling hall, he heard the petro in the street as they argued for the war they wanted.
It figured that his brother would be among them, egging them on. If ever there was trouble, his brother gravitated toward it like a bear chasing after honey, bees be damned. It’d ever been his nature to cause conflict.
“He came from the womb trying to choke himself on my umbilical cord!” As a boy, Nibo had thought his mother hysterical whenever she’d denounced Qeenan’s behavior with those words. But as they’d grown older, he’d begun to wonder if the story hadn’t been true.
His brother was just that contrary.
And that suicidal.
Shaking his head, he watched the group that appeared to be entranced by his brother’s rampant stupidity. Proud in bearing, Qeenan had the outline of a skull painted over features that were identical to Nibo’s. His black coat was ragged with ribbons of bloodred and purple trailing from it as he railed against the others.
But then that was what Qeenan did best. Complain. Everything was always unfair. To a ridiculous level.
So much so that even before Nibo’s death, back when he’d been engaged to his Aclima, Qeenan had gone out and claimed Aclima’s twin sister, Avan, as his fiancée. Yet even that hadn’t satisfied his ever competitive brother. Nibo couldn’t even begin to count how many times Qeenan had found Avan lacking, even though the sisters were identical in looks. Within a year, he’d turned a sweet, precious girl into a harping shrew because of his endless and needless comparisons.
But then ruining people and their lives was Qeenan’s specialty.
“I’m telling you, brothers and sisters, our time is here. The time is now! Our followers are crying out to us, more and more, every day. And we must act! We grow stronger, while the others grow weaker. We rise with the Malachai and we can own this world!”
“To all things there should be balance.” Papa Legba rose to stand at the top of the stairs that led to the main hall where he kept wise counsel. “We are only spirits. The Bondye teaches—”
“The Bondye sleeps!” Qeenan growled. “As do all the gods. They don’t care what happens in this world or to our people. This is why we must make sure our wrath is felt and that we teach them to respect us!”
Nibo sucked his breath in sharply as he remembered a time before when such rebellion had been spoken.
It hadn’t worked out for those participants either. Such things never did. While there was a time and place to shake up the system, there was also a time and place for negotiation. That was the secret of life. To know when to speak and when to fight.
Never strike at a trained warrior or natural-born fighter when you thought them weak or when they were down, as that only motivated them to defeat you. Like the Malachai. And never fight if you didn’t have to. That had always been his brother’s biggest mistake, like the day Qeenan had killed him. He had yet to learn the art of finesse.
Strike fast, with a heavy blow, and run—that was Qeenan’s motto.
The trouble was, if your enemy got up, and they would, they came at you with everything they had, and you had no choice but to keep running and then die tired once they caught up to you. And catch you they would. Because they would be more determined than ever to ruin you for blindsiding them.
It was why the two of them warred to this day. Nibo had done nothing to warrant Qeenan’s hatred. Other than breathe. He’d even tried to make peace, but there was a hatred inside his brother’s heart that he’d never understood, and he was grateful for that.
“We are not to start this fight, Qeenan!” Legba swept his gaze around the gathered petro spirits, and the handful of rada who’d come out. Roughly fifty different members of the nanchon had gathered to argue whether they should join Adarian’s army or sit the fight out.
Qeenan saw him over the crowd. “Nibo, you’ll join me for this fight, won’t you, brother?”
Oh … now they were brothers. He’d choke on that if he wasn’t too busy tasting bile.
“Have you nothing to say?” Qeenan couldn’t quite pull off that innocent look he was attempting.
Nibo scratched at the back of his skull where his skin was crawling with distaste over the very thought of what they were planning. “I think you rattled me wits when you clubbed me to death. What can I say? My brain hasn’t worked right since.”
They burst into laughter.
Qeenan glared at him.
Legba smiled in approval. “Brave Nibo. Such wisdom spoken. We should all heed it. Now off with you. Pay no mind to this madness. Let the Malachai have his war. There’s no place in this for us.”
“Bah!” Qeenan flung his hands out in frustration. “You’re a fool, old man. You’ll rue this, I tell you!”
Nibo felt his brother’s hatred slide over him like a knife, but there was nothing new there. Since the hour of their birth, they’d competed for everything. Such was the way of twins. Ever confused for one another, it was a struggle to find their own identity. Their own place in the world. Everyone assumed because they looked alike, they were the same.
Yet he and Qeenan had never shared much of anything in terms of interests. While Nibo had loved music and poetry, Qeenan had preferred hunting and sports. Nibo had always been slow to anger with ne’er a thing to aggravate him. Qeenan’s temper erupted like a volcano, with the slightest provocation and an ever-changing trigger for it.
Hence what had caused his untimely demise. He’d turned his back on his brother and Qeenan had risen up in fury to strike him down. Because Nibo, like a fool, had thought that his own twin, the one person in life he should be able to trust, would never do him harm.
That was what hurt him so much with Valynda. He’d failed her that same way his brother had failed him, and he knew that betrayal. It was an unending burn that should never be dealt to any human, especially when one had done nothing to deserve it. He’d loved his brother, had shown him nothing but loyalty and kindness, and his brother, out of petty jealousy and unfounded lies whispered by others, had struck out against him and severed a sacred bond that could never be healed again.
Not fully. For trust, once shattered, was eternally gone. Not even time could heal it. No amount of anything could ever bring it back.
And he knew that he’d lost Vala’s because of what they’d done.
He couldn’t bear the thought of losing another woman he loved. Not after Aclima had killed herself because of Qeenan. His idiot brother who had gone after her the instant Nibo was dead, demanding she marry him instead.
Aclima had refused. Unlike his brother, she’d been loyal to the end.
And her death had caused her sister to hate Qeenan all the more. Not just because she’d lost Aclima, but because Avan had known the truth. Her husband hadn’t loved her. He’d only married her because Nibo had been engaged to Aclima.
Four lives ruined because Qeenan was a selfish asshole.
Unshed tears choked him and burned raw in his throat. In that moment, he wanted to join Adarian and help burn the world to the ground for what it had cost him. Aye, he understood the need to strike out. Better than Qeenan or
any of the petro spirits in front of him. He knew their anger. The rage that wanted to rise up in indignation over the injustice of it all.
He walked that path every day.
Life was pain and it was brutal. He’d done nothing to deserve any of it.
There for the briefest moment, he’d touched a bit of beauty. Had held paradise in his palm.
Closing his eyes, he reached up and clenched Vala’s cross in his hand. Even now her laughter rang in his ears as he’d watched her dance in the surf along the shoreline of her beach in the late-night hours when they’d met long after her parents had gone to bed and she’d snuck out to meet with him. Her bulky dress hiked up to billow in her arms so that she could spare its hem from the tide. Her ample bosom had teased him as she laughed, and it threatened to spill out the top of her corseted bodice. She’d always worn her hair swept up into an elegant chignon with wisps of curls that fell around her face and neck. Wisps that had teased him to madness.
He’d never seen anyone enjoy something as simple as dancing in the surf so much. Her innocence had beguiled him even more than her beauty had seduced him and left his entire body hungering for hers.
“Keep playing, Xuri!” she’d fussed the instant he’d stopped playing his guitarra to watch her frolicking.
Sadly, the cherished image of her vanished as someone shoved into him. Opening his eyes, he caught Qeenan’s fierce glare.
“You could never keep faith with me.”
Those words left him aghast and gaping at his brother’s audacity. “Faith with you? You’d dare throw that in my face?”
Qeenan curled his lip. “Aye, you futtocking bastard! Because of you and your vanity, we’re both cursed.”
Nibo ground his teeth at Qeenan’s irrational stupidity. The rank bastard would never see truth. Not even when it was held up in front of his face.
Or bashed against his head.
“This fight is tiresome, brother.”
Qeenan’s nostrils flared. “And so’s your need to always show off. Look at me,” he mocked in a nasal falsetto. “I’m so futtocking special. I’m the best at all I do!”
At Death's Door (Deadman's Cross Book 3) Page 9
