by E. G. Foley
Derek stared skeptically, but perhaps he’d heard rumors about this, for he did not look shocked in the least.
He didn’t even scoff.
Waldrick’s heart sank. This was not the reaction he’d been hoping for. Oh no. Maybe his huge, earth-shattering news was no news at all.
Perhaps the Order’s spies had already caught wind of the Dark Druids’ horrid Lightrider project in the basement of the Black Fortress.
Waldrick desperately hoped not. He was banking on using this and other inside information to buy himself merciful treatment from the Order.
“Look. I know what I did to them was wrong, Stone. I-I fully admit that. Believe me, I had plenty of time to ponder the error of my ways during the past year and a half I spent in prison.”
“Till you escaped,” Derek growled.
“What choice did I have?” Waldrick cried. “When Wyvern showed up and broke me out, I didn’t want to go with him. They made me! He and Fionnula. He broke her out of prison, too, before they came and got me. I tried to decline their invitation, believe me, but that six-fingered freak would’ve killed me if I had refused to cooperate.” Waldrick shuddered. “You should’ve seen how he commanded all those vicious, wild dragons outside the dungeon. Then he marched in and killed the guards. He’s insane! He’s literally demonic.”
“What did he want with you?”
Waldrick hesitated, trying to determine which information to hold close to his vest until he got a promise of lenient treatment.
“Waldrick?” Derek warned.
“He wanted to know all about Jake,” Waldrick blurted out. “‘You’re the boy’s uncle,’ he said. ‘You should know better than most how to get to him.’ He’s determined to recruit my nephew for the dark side. There’s some sort of prophecy about him, I don’t know.” Waldrick shook his head. “For my part, I would’ve much preferred to stay in my cell and serve out my sentence. But I don’t fancy dying, so I did as he said.”
“What did you tell him about Jake?”
Waldrick shrugged. “Not much. I barely know the boy. He hates me.”
“Well, you did kill his parents.”
Waldrick started to protest, and Derek corrected the record with a long-suffering look.
“Fine. They’re still alive, so you claim. Suffice to say, your jealousy is the reason Jake grew up in an orphanage. You’re lucky I found him,” Derek added with a warning glower. “So, what else? What happened once Wyvern broke you out?”
Waldrick took a deep breath and went to sit on his cot, still shaky after his mad dash through the battle. “When we left that Order dungeon, I went with Wyvern and Fionnula to the Black Fortress. There, I was given fine rooms. Made comfortable.” He wrung his hands anxiously as he spoke.
“We know that you were with Wyvern when he went to Griffon Castle and tried to kidnap Jake,” Derek informed him. “We know you went there to try to retrieve the vial containing your extracted pyrokinesis out of the family vault.”
“You really think I want that horrid gift back? Again, I just went along with whatever they said,” Waldrick insisted, then shrugged. “I had always assumed my brother destroyed the vial years ago, just like he told me. It was Wyvern who claimed otherwise. I didn’t understand how the warlock could possibly know the vial was still there, intact, until I discovered the truth for myself. The Dark Druids have been holding my brother captive all this time.”
“You actually saw him—alive?”
“Yes! Both Jacob and Elizabeth. They’re unconscious, and Lord only knows how long they’ve been that way. But as for my pyrokinesis, good Lord, I honestly don’t want it back anymore! I did for a time, badly—I admit it. But I see now that Jacob was right; it’s too dangerous. I don’t even trust myself with it anymore.
“Retrieving it from the vault was all Wyvern’s idea.” Waldrick shrugged. “He expected me to be useful. They’re all dark magic users of one sort or another, and they wanted me to do my part. But, as far as I’m concerned, it is a dreadful gift.”
He still had nightmares sometimes about accidentally setting things on fire with the hellish talent he had inherited.
Like peasants, villages…
“Look,” Waldrick said, wearily rubbing his forehead. “I know I’m a terrible person—”
“Yes,” said Derek.
“But it turns out I’m not quite as bad as I thought! At least I’m not a murderer, because Jacob and Elizabeth are alive. So are many other Lightriders, being held captive this way. The Dark Druids have them all in glass coffins deep in the bowels of the Black Fortress. They’re in a comatose state, being kept alive by some huge machine. It seems to be one of Zolond’s infamous experiments.”
“And you know this how?”
“I went snooping around inside the Black Fortress one day. When I discovered the chamber where they’re being kept, I knew I had to come and tell the Order. That’s why I defected! Don’t you see? My brother and his wife can still be saved.”
Derek stared at him.
Waldrick waited on tenterhooks, trying to read Derek’s reaction. His heart pounded, but not like it had a short while ago, in the middle of the battle, when he had fled the Black Fortress and run like a rabbit straight into the fray.
Barreling out onto the battlefield, Waldrick had skidded to a halt and flung himself to his knees, hands in the air, voluntarily surrendering to a group of Guardians.
It was the bravest thing he’d ever done in his life.
Maybe the only brave thing.
There was no going back now, that was certain.
Wyvern had roared at Fionnula to stop him, kill him, apparently grasping his intent when he’d seen Waldrick go sprinting by.
But Derek and the other Guardians had kept him alive and brought him to safety in this squat little stone building across the grounds, away from the palace itself, and untouched by the blaze.
The building turned out to be a small jail with a few holding cells, but Waldrick didn’t mind one bit. Aye, being in Order custody was the safest place for him right now.
Provided Derek stayed on the outside of those bars.
“Why should anyone trust you after all you’ve done?” the warrior demanded.
“Bring an empath in if you don’t believe me! Find Isabelle and have the chit question me. I’m perfectly willing to have her read me so you’ll know I’m telling the truth.”
Stone’s wary eyes narrowed.
Waldrick stared desperately at him. “Wyvern’s got plans, Stone. Strange doings are afoot inside the Black Fortress. There’s a lot more I can tell you, but that’s all the information I’m sharing for now, until the Elders grant me a deal. I want it in writing that I’ll receive leniency.”
“Why, you brazen— You are in no position to be making demands!”
Waldrick cowered from him, when suddenly, an unseen female called primly to the warrior from outside the jail.
“Oh, Guardian Stone?”
Waldrick gasped and recoiled, recognizing the voice of his ancient kinswoman, Great-Great Aunt Ramona.
Oh, no. He backed against the wall of his cell.
The thought of what the Elder witch might do to him after all his misdeeds was even worse than the notion of Derek tearing him limb from limb.
A witch of her power with a grudge to bear was dreadful to contemplate.
Even Fionnula was a little afraid of her.
Waldrick had not had to face Aunt Ramona since his trial in the Yew Court. And even then, the rest of the Elders were present, so the stern old dowager baroness had to restrain herself.
Fortunately, Aunt Ramona did not come into the jail. Perhaps she did not want to see him, either.
“Oh, Guardian Stone, a word with you, please?” the Elder witch called from outside.
“Yes, ma’am! On my way!” Derek barked in a soldierly tone, then turned to Waldrick. “Behave yourself—or else.”
Giving him one last dirty look, the Guardian pivoted and marched out, sending two of
his grim-faced underlings back in to stand guard outside Waldrick’s cell.
Once the warrior had disappeared, Waldrick drifted forward again, feeling safer now. Eager for news of the battle, especially whether the Black Fortress had left yet, he pressed his face between the bars as best he could, trying to peer around the stone corner into the little hallway.
He listened intently, but the voices outside were too muffled for him to hear. Still, he was curious. Wonder what that crazy old bat wants with him.
CHAPTER 12
Another Prisoner
The Ninth Pit of Hell reverberated with the roars of the Horned One.
Shemrazul was in the throes of a temper tantrum the likes of which his strange assortment of minions had not seen since that whole embarrassing debacle on Calvary.
He thrashed his dragon tail and wrenched uselessly at the adamantine chains around his ankles. He stomped his cloven hooves and punched the canyon walls so hard that it started an earthquake on the far side of the world.
He howled and he yowled, screamed with rage and frustration, until, finally, Baphomet over in the Tenth Pit, where he, too, was chained, poked his giant goat head up over the edge of his canyon with a scowl. “Quiet down over there!” he shouted. “I’m trying to sleep here!”
“Don’t tell me what to do ever again!” Shemrazul roared back. He stood panting for a second. “You think I don’t remember what happened the last time I listened to you people? So just shut up, goat face!”
“Well, you don’t have to be rude. It’s on your ugly head if you wake up the boss,” the other demon added, before sinking back down into his own canyon.
Shemrazul flicked a sulky glance down at the river of lava bubbling by beside his massive cloven hoofs. Glowing bright orange and radiating unbearable heat, the river flowed into a fiery sea where Satan himself was bound in chains at the bottom.
Realizing he should probably be grateful for his colleague’s reminder, Shemrazul gnashed his sharp teeth but kept his mouth shut in the interest of letting the Beast get his beauty rest.
Instead, he began pacing back and forth along the flat stone landing beside the river, where he had spent countless millennia, and where he would remain.
With a pout on his long, narrow face, the demon slouched over to his skull-covered throne, flicked his once-angelic but now batlike wings out of the way, and plopped down angrily to brood.
His minions—an assortment of blue-skinned, pointy-eared imps and lesser red devils, plus a few far stranger creatures—cowered around him, anxiously watching his every move.
They could never be sure when he might lash out and throw one of them into the river, stomp them into jelly, or express his disapproval by temporarily destroying them again in one way or another.
Shemrazul was nothing if not inventive when it came to finding new ways of snuffing his minions out of existence for at least a few minutes before they popped back into being to annoy him once more.
Growling to himself, he shook his horned head at the sudden ruination of his plans—just when everything seemed to be going his way!
Typical.
The Almighty really had the most obnoxious sense of humor when it came to torturing His turncoat fallen angels.
Well, Shem wasn’t laughing. All of his best mortal instruments had flown the coop. Failed him in one way or another. He shook his head in disgust.
That was what came of having to rely on humans. Sneaky little meat sacks. Double dealers!
He could not believe Zolond had chosen his old attachment to that insufferable Elder witch over the debt he owed to all of Hades and to Shemrazul personally for three centuries of unwavering support. Some thanks!
And now his own supernatural, half-breed son, Nathan, had allowed himself to be vanquished by the old man! How humiliating.
Shem had had such high hopes that Wyvern would make him proud someday, fulfill all his plans to invade the earth with the locust army he had guided Zolond in creating years ago. Now the larvae were almost ready to hatch beneath the desert sands, and there was no one to run the show!
Useless, the both of them. When he snorted in disgust, sulfurous fumes puffed from his nostrils.
When he thought of Wyvern’s other Dark Druid henchmen trapped in their stupid chambers, unable to get out, he raked his clawed fingers on the arm of his throne, leaving deep gouges.
Oh, this was only a temporary setback, of course, and he would get it sorted somehow. But all of his followers would be punished in due time for their incompetence.
Ah well. He still had hope for his chosen grandson.
Beautiful, wicked Jake.
The raw power the boy had displayed in disabling The Dream Wraith at such a tender age had delighted Shem as he observed the former pickpocket’s heroic feats through Wyvern’s eyes during the battle.
Oh, yes, the Griffon heir was definitely the one.
Shem was not about to honor Zolond’s grandson by making Victor de Lacey his vessel on earth anymore, not after the grandfather’s betrayal.
No. Their whole family line must be punished. Wyvern would have to see to that, in due time.
Shem brought his thoughts back to his new target: young, bold Jake Everton.
Why, he would make a magnificent Black Prince and the most dreadful ruler the world had ever seen, one day.
Like all demons, Shemrazul was always thinking of the future, planning, scheming, setting things up. The only way any devil could get a respite from Hades and enjoy earthly life was through the willing service of some human or another.
But human lives were so short, while his lasted forever. It seemed like he had to replace his Dark Masters every few years.
He preferred to possess men with powers, rank, wealth, intelligence, courage, and a sketchy conscience, or better still, no conscience at all.
The young ex-thief was the perfect type of lad to become Shemrazul’s representative on earth, once he was grown.
It would take years of training, with Wyvern and Fionnula looking after the boy, molding him, and raising him as their own. And then, one day, good ol’ Jakey-boy would become the Dark Master, in turn. He’d have the world at his feet.
Oh yes—Shem smiled—Jake belonged with them. Especially now that he’d made his first kill.
That it was an accident did not matter to Hell in the slightest. It was a start.
Unfortunately, the young scoundrel had slipped away, escaping through a portal with his horrid little do-gooder friends.
Shem had sent six of his most loyal underlings to find his chosen child and bring him to the Black Fortress, but so far, there was no news.
“Report!” he bellowed into the air, losing patience. That trait had never been his strong suit.
Within seconds, a blue, pointy-eared imp ironically named Jolly appeared alongside the strangest little creature in Shem’s entourage, known simply as Eyeball.
Eyeball had skinny arms and legs attached to a round body with a single eye in the middle of his stomach. This made him an excellent observer and an obvious choice for a spy.
“Well?” Shem demanded.
The blue imp cowered. “N-nothing yet, sire.”
Shemrazul narrowed his eyes and drummed his fingers. He was tempted to blow them up—it would probably make him feel better—but he restrained himself in the interest of speed.
“Keep searching. I want him found. Did you see anything, Eyeball?”
“No, Your Awfulness,” the thing answered. “But I’ll keep looking everywhere.”
“Blast it, what’s taking so long?” Shem whined.
They both bowed and scraped in terror.
“Forgive us, master!”
“It’s a big Earth, sire!”
Muttering about excuses, Shemrazul decided to give his little monsters more help.
With a snap of his clawed fingers, he summoned a squad of Nightstalkers. A full baker’s dozen: thirteen.
True, the three phantom assassins that Wyvern had foolishly sent
to kill Jake in Sicily had failed.
What a blunder it would’ve been if they’d succeeded, Shemrazul thought, shaking his head. To be fair, though, he had not yet revealed to Nathan his eventual plan to make young Jake a part of the family.
Shem had wanted it to be a surprise; he liked to keep his followers guessing.
Still, he was well aware that the only reason the Nightstalkers had failed in Sicily was because of the sudden arrival of that ridiculous vampire, Prince Janos, and his darkling blade.
His ex-Guardian instincts had led him to the boy in the nick of time, whereupon the vampire prince had helped Jake fend off the three spectral assassins.
But this time, Janos would not be there to meddle. Shem knew for a fact that the smarmy bloodsucker was still at Merlin Hall, helping the Elders sort out the aftermath of Wyvern’s splendid attack. At least that had gone well.
Anyway, all of this simply meant that, wherever he was, Jake was unprotected.
Now all they had to do was find him.
In short order, the Nightstalkers appeared, floating up to the edge of the canyon above. They peered down over the cliff for a moment, their faces hidden, as always, by strange metal gas masks.
The charcoal tatters of their hooded robes fluttered in the hot breeze as they came streaming down over the side of the canyon in two orderly columns, gliding and weightless, silent and fast.
The man-sized spectral assassins landed in two rows of six before Shemrazul. Large as he was, they only came up to his knee.
Their leader descended slowly, taking his place in front of his troops.
They all bowed in unison to the Horned One, then awaited their orders, their slow, eerie breaths rasping behind their masks.
