by Diana Estell
4
The Passageway
Savila opened the Abyss, and Dagon half-heartedly went above ground into darkness. His feet sluggishly drifted through a black, formless alien place. Faint moonlight crested above Mary’s house. On one of her windowsills, a candle flickered. Its faint glow parted the dense fog in its vicinity. The small light illuminated his blackest night, raising his spirits … a little. Though no shackles bound his hands or feet and no metronome metallically marked the hour of doom, he remained a prisoner, chained to Savila’s will.
No recourse, no arguing, or opinion could release him from confronting Dorian and Magethna with Savila this night. His life with Mary, postponed.
Pragmatically, Dagon walked toward the antagonistic Seraphs, his metaphoric chains lightened at the source of what would release him and Mary: Mark. With Mary’s approval, even his good-for-nothing coat gave him confidence. Shielding his thoughts, he nonchalantly chewed on a lemon drop, causing his lips to pucker.
The soft staccato clack of his boots clipped along the sidewalk as he made his way to Mark’s house. Face to face, he arrogantly smirked at the goodie-two-shoed babysitters. They would have to acknowledge Savila, which he looked forward to.
A few inches away from the gate, a deafening scrape of blades unsheathed, sounding like metal sharpened on a wet stone. An entourage of four Seraphs guarded Mark’s house. They were not honoring him or giving him a welcoming salute.
His group of fallen Cherbs were vastly different than Mystil and Raglen. What would it be like to have these unfallen Seraphs instead of mine? Quiet, that’s what it would be like. Honest to goodness quiet. Golden silence.
“Hey, that door swings both ways you know,” said Mr. Cool, appearing next to him.
For better or worse, he would much rather have noise, for noise meant life.
“Yeah, we’ll keep you, too, as long as the green keeps flowing our way.” Sledge popped in on his other side. “No worries, boss. Razz and Friar will watch your lady. Looks like you need us more.”
With sharp blades pointed at him, Dagon stood against the gate and waited. Digging in his coat, he pulled out a cigarette and tapped it to life. Orange embers crackled away from the burning tobacco. Glinting ashes floated to the ground. The gold melted back even further after each deep drag. Playfully, he created smoke rings with each exhale.
“You know, smoking is not good for you,” Dorian chided.
“And it’s smelly,” added Magethna, her free hand waving the smoke away.
Dagon was surprised that Dorian knew so much about smoking.
“Well, it’s good for me.” Rapidly, he shook the cigarette. “Calms the nerves, and, trust me, you want me calm.”
Savoring the dramatic moment, he inhaled deeply, releasing the smoke in their faces.
Dorian said nothing, waving his hand around, trying to remove the smoke from their presence.
Only Mary’s opinion mattered, and she liked it.
A few more ashen silver flakes fell to the ground before his cigarette burned out. One lone ember fell to the pavement as the Seraphs’ swords shot up higher, silver steel piercing the fog like a flare, a call for help, perhaps. Bright silver flashes surged from the tips of their swords. Words continually wrote and faded away on their blades. The letters fading away only meant one thing to him: “Defeat.”
The battle lines were drawn. The pavement shook, causing all of those present to turn their heads toward the epicenter, the intersection of Chicago and Forest Avenues. The Seraphs sang when the pavement shook more violently. Why would they be singing, unless they wanted to end their existence on a high note? Just then, a film of light flowed around Dorian, Magethna, Mystil, and Raglen, giving their bodies the appearance of armor. Nothing, though, could protect them from the wrath of Savila.
A rumble penetrated and pulsed stronger under the concrete. Pressure pushed the sidewalk up into strange angles. Now the same film covering the Seraphs flowed over the Bennett’s house as crack after crack tore at the earth’s crust, causing dirt and rock to fall into fine fissures.
The people in the surrounding houses slept unaware of the earthquake taking place. Trees, cars, and houses sat as they always had … quietly. Even the odd driver coming down the nearby street, radio blasting with the window rolled down, would not notice the raging battle.
No armor of light surrounded Mary’s house. Probably for being associated with him. Angry, Dagon grew callous and staunch, for he would defend her regardless of anyone else’s action.
Momentarily, the shaking stopped; they were in the eye of the storm. In the calm, Mary’s voice wafted up to his ears. She was singing in her sleep.
“I love him, his name is …”
Dead silence. He waited to hear his name anywhere in her sweet song of night, but only her steady heartbeat as she slept.
Just a dream.
The Seraphs stopped singing. Dagon stiffened his shoulders and stared back at Dorian. Then Dagon softened, for Magethna smiled tenderly, causing him to falter and put a smile on his face.
The eye of the storm passed, and the ground shook with such force the air became charged with static. Wave after violent wave trembled beneath them as thunderous booms rolled from deep within the earth. Splitting the ground in two, pent up energy released to the surface. A deep jagged crack split with lightning speed down the length of Forest Avenue, with no end in sight. The ground thrashed as cement split and fell into the crack. Rocks and dirt fell fast into the widening crevice. The ground swayed severely. The crack kept racing ahead, widening into a gorge.
A tiny fleck from the concrete caught his attention. Why he focused on something so insignificant, he couldn’t say, but this small light still shone brightly though it was caught in the crevice.
One fleck of light could not remove centuries of crusted bitterness in his heart. Adding acid into the emotional mixture, Henry Bennett and his wife, Frances, stood looking out of a large ornate window of their home. The Seraphs smiled at them.
What do they think they’re watching, the moon? Yeah, their doom.
Any moment, Savila would make her grand appearance, and the smiling couple’s faces would be wiped clean.
Henry Bennett closed the curtain and picked up an heirloom gold pocket watch. His fingers warmed the gold within his hand as he paced back and forth. “About to storm.”
“Henry, he will call. He’s probably in class. Besides, with the six-hour time difference in England, he wouldn’t want to wake us,” said Frances.
“In a time like this, he would call. Frances, the watch is—”
The phone rang, and his wife smiled. Henry reached for the earpiece of his outdated phone. Taking a deep breath, he composed himself.
“Dad, are you there?”
“William, according to your mother, I have very few gray hairs on my head, but I do believe more are cropping up for the worry you gave me. Your mother and I know you are well, but to hear your voice … well … it lightens our hearts.”
“Yeah, I’m fine. I wouldn’t want to be the child responsible for your gray hairs. I’ll let Mark do that.” William paused. “I felt the shaking all the way over here, but of course I’m the only one who feels it. You know, it’s not a clever way to meet a girl when you ask if the ground is shaking underneath her feet, and she doesn’t feel it, but you do, and then she leaves, thinking you’re either egotistical or crazy! I would have buzzed sooner, but I was in class.”
“Yes, your mother said you probably were. The second hand on my watch is ticking … counterclockwise.”
“Yeah, mine has begun moving backwards, too. This is wicked, Dad, wicked!”
In slow motion, Henry pulled the earpiece away from his ear.
“What’s wrong?” Frances whispered.
Henry only shook his head.
“Remember from where our hope comes, son, and rejoice in its certainty. We love you and miss you.”
“Backatcha, Dad, and I hear that. Buzz you soon. Love ya!”
<
br /> Henry had never heard speech like that before. He muffled the phone and looked at Frances. “Is our money funding a new language in Oxford?”
Frances took the phone and briefly spoke to William, and her face looked as puzzled as his must have looked. She hung up the phone, and they both readied to return to bed.
“He is becoming independent as all children do, and I attribute his adventurous streak to my side of the family,” said Henry. “I only need to look at myself for the similarity. What my mind ponders is how his independence, his adventurous nature, will be used given the storm waging around us. It is not William my mind dwells upon, but Mark, for I believe his nature will be challenged, refined. His thoughts are slipping from me. We cling and press forward to the one great hope and there, my love, will we rest.”
“I worry for Mark. He’s been through so much.” Tears streamed down Frances’ face. “To lose his mother so young he never knew her, and when your brother …”
“I would give anything to bring Arthur back for Mark, for you, for us. But Mark has us now.”
“He doesn’t possess the angelic nature your family has been gifted with.” She smiled through the tears. “He’s quite a challenge.”
“Right now, he’s meant to be in our care.” Henry kissed her on the cheek and glanced toward the window. “I’ll be right back.”
As he walked down the passageway, he passed his father’s and grandfather’s portraits before stopping in front of the portrait of his older brother, Arthur William Bennett. He was a man whose presence in life would have never fit into a frame, for he was a formidable force in how he dealt with others: how he conducted his life in their jewelry business, with his family, and within his social circles. He had been a living example of duty, honor, and steadfast purpose. A bond of strength born by his inherited status. He was as gentle as he was strong, generous as he was duty bound. Arthur had exhibited all these qualities as a hallmark of his inheritance, unified by one voice, preparing the way for freedom.
A line of light shone from under Mark’s door. Henry’s soft knock brought a reply to come in.
“Hey, champ,” Henry said as he entered the room. “Having trouble sleeping?”
Mark sat at his desk, an opened book upon it. “You can say that. Uncle Henry … I’ve been having strange dreams.”
“What kind of dreams?”
Mark shook his head and would not say more despite Henry’s patient queries. “I’m going to read a little more before going to bed. Good night, Uncle Henry.”
Henry continued down the hallway toward his study, following a line of portraits. The gravity of Henry’s inheritance gave him pause, an inheritance that had been shouldered by others, those whose portraits arrayed the passageway. Portraits that followed Henry’s entire line back to the beginning, to paintings that would be considered religious. The final painting, which looked as fresh as if it were just painted, depicted Dorian and Magethna in full angelic garb, escorting the Fallen from the Golden Land, his own ancient ancestor among them.
5
Fire and Ash
In preparation for Savila’s entry, Dagon unsheathed the sword from within his coat, held it up, then twirled it twice. He lowered the point to the ground. Black scales wove in and out on the grip of his sword, which he rested on as he bowed and dropped to one knee.
Thunder split the ground when a beastly dragon with silver scales emerged from the gorge at the intersection of Chicago and Forest Avenue. Fire and ash spewed as the dragon soared upwards. Its wings unfolded to resemble that of a bat. Claw-like fingers retracted in and out around each wing. Two prominent horns stuck out at each of its temples, curving as they pinched in and out like weapons as strong as a vise. The movement of the horns pulled the muscles of its face tight, exposing the cheek bones. Its arms and legs had talons as long as swords. Its tail swept sideways, destroying anything in its path. Soulless eyes tore like fire at its target: the house where the Seraphs were standing guard. The dragon landed at the intersection, mocking the Seraphs as it evaluated the battle ground before it. This dragon was not of this world, transformed into a killing machine by an immortal coup d’état.
Dagon did not move, did not even look up. The wind picked up and swirled like a tornado toward the dragon. The beast opened its mouth, revealing alternating rows of razor-sharp steel teeth, the most vicious dinosaur paling in comparison. Its vast wings beat faster, spreading its arms out wide on both sides, expanding its lungs. The wings savagely thrust up and down, focusing the air around the wings into a tornado, plummeting the air pressure.
The Seraphs faced their adversary, the dragon. They planted their feet firmly for combat.
No sooner were their swords set when the dragon reared its head back and snapped it forward. The jaws opened wide, expelling a putrid stench of sulfur, fire, and ash. A blood curdling roar of grating metal reverberated across Forest Avenue, the gaping hole in the street revealed the entrance to the dragon’s lair. Its head gyrated back and forth from the pressure of the vulgar steam which spewed from its mouth. The head of the dragon recoiled back into place, its dangerous jaws clamping shut. The sound of metal gears scraped along into a sinister steel smile.
Dagon rose and faced the dragon. In a show of honor, Dagon wielded his sword in a large arc over his head. An optical illusion made the engraved branches on his sword appear to break the plane of the blade, only to rejoin the blade when his sword came to rest in front of his face. The dragon shook, blurring and obscuring itself until finally, a woman emerged from the haze. Steam sizzled in the air. A tornado-like vapor rotated toward the woman’s back, pulling the steam back inside of her.
Unlike the beastly dragon, she was drop-dead gorgeous. She walked methodically like a chess piece. Not a knight or a rook but a queen. Her knee-high boots crossed over each other as her hips swayed tantalizingly. Her black dress combined fashion elements of a mini skirt and long dress. A long swooping piece of fabric slithered down her side clinging tightly to her hips, accentuating her voluptuous body. The piece of fabric wickedly flapping and slithering behind her like a snake.
Her collar slanted to the left with feathery threads rippling in the wind along the edge. Her long sleeves had the same feathery edging, accentuating her red, manicured fingernails. Shards of glass held her golden hair in place. Her midnight blue eyes set like steel. Scintillating light shot out from the top of a massive round diamond ring, and light ricocheted off every fine cut angle.
Brazenly, she flaunted her bauble in the face of its creators, Dorian and Magethna. With diamond-hard will, she prepared to crush them while the gleam of her ring reflected in their eyes. This, Dagon couldn’t wait to see. The memories of his creation, clouded by Savila’s doctrine and charismatic lust for power, left him anticipating someone’s destruction.
She made her way to Dagon and stood in front of him.
“Lady Savila, your presence has been expected.” He pointed the tip of his sword to the ground, submitting to her authority.
Her nails subtly stroked the fabric on her hip. A wicked grin hardened on her mouth, her tongue dragging over her parched blood-stained lips, seeking moisture.
Savila was thirsty and shot a glance in the direction of Mary’s house.
Dagon’s heart raced. He needed to draw Savila’s thirst toward himself to shield Mary, but how?
Savila raised her arms over her head, then flicked her fingers toward the sky. The fog drifted past a cloud which fluttered and floated to the earth, resembling a sheet. The sheet picked up speed as it fell toward the ground. Halfway down, the sheet ripped into three pieces, each one falling together at the same pace. The three pieces twisted and thickened. Three snakes appeared to slither and coil as they made their descent. Amber slit eyes never lost sight of their destination. Fraying threads appeared from each snake. Their mouths opened revealing sharp silver teeth, fraying threads becoming their forked tongues.
The snakes writhed in mid-air until all three of them landed on the ground. They
slithered toward their appointed position, waiting for the command from their master.
Savila waved her hand over the three coils. “Arise, my kings.”
The three coils swayed back and forth with Savila, the snake charmer. The three coils, now taller than their master, were no longer snakes but Shadow Kings. Their spiked crowns glinted with lethal sharpness. In submission to Savila, three vaporous black swords unsheathed, the tips of the swords pointing to the ground.
“We are yours, Lady Savila,” said the Shadow Kings.
Dagon rolled his eyes.
“What is this? Lunion is not amongst his brothers?” Dorian’s question was perfectly timed for safeguarding Mary’s blood from Savila's blade.
“He’s dead. I killed him.” Dagon’s cold, direct, and matter-of-fact revelation repulsed the Shadow Kings, but more importantly to Dagon, it hit its mark with Savila. Her posture seethed hate in his direction.
“Jealousy,” said Lady Savila, slandering him.
“A casualty of war,” said Dagon. “A war you fueled.”
In the stagnant air, no one said anything.
Everything has its price tag. But no amount of money could replace Mary. Dagon swallowed deeply, preparing himself for the price he would soon pay. He played a scene in his mind.
“Here's your bill,”' said the voice of a waitress. Dagon took a pleasant drink from a cup. Then Mary’s voice said, “No, I'll pay it.” Taking another drink, Dagon swallowed the now bitter liquid. “No, I will pay it.”
Lady Savila sneered, and Dagon sneered back.
“You know the law and who is bound to it.” Her demeanor changed from a beautiful queen to a slick prosecuting attorney.
