Nephilim Rising: The Complete Series, page 136
part #0 of Nephilim Rising Series
26
Feeling like he doesn't have a choice, Lucas teleports back to Mercy City to see what fate has in store for him. When he gets there he finds a city that resembles some post-apocalyptic landscape, full of smoking, burning buildings, people walking around in a blood and dust-covered daze, wondering what the hell happened to their once comfortable and monster-free normality. Broken bodies were strewn everywhere like so much rubbish. He doesn't see any sign of the great black demon that haunted the skyline and caused so much destruction before. Either someone has stopped it, which he finds hard to believe, or it has moved on elsewhere to continue spreading its mayhem and destruction. Either way, he should be thanking it. The demon unwittingly saved him from the clutches of Leonard. Where is the old bastard now? Lucas wonders. He would have to be careful, as Leonard and his drones could show up anytime, anywhere. He also wonders where Frank is. Did he get himself killed by Tolloch? If so, where is the archangel feather? Still on Frank's dead body somewhere inside the impenetrable Watcher Warren? Lucas hopes not.
His eyes go to the sky to a television news helicopter hovering above a burning building, and he wonders how the media are going to explain all this to the world. No doubt there is plenty of footage of the giant rampaging demon that destroyed half the city, but Lucas doubts any of it will make it on to the news. The human government drones are not completely in the dark about the supernatural beings that exist in this world, but they go to great lengths to ensure that the sheeple they rule over are kept ignorant about it all. Lucas knows the President and his cronies will concoct some ridiculous cover story to explain away everything that has happened, and the sheeple will swallow it all whole without a word of protest. It is easier to think that terrorists caused everything rather than a giant demon from Hell. Most human brains just couldn't fathom that. They are not built to fathom such things.
When Lucas' phone rings in his jacket pocket, he is surprised. Firstly surprised at the fact that the phone is even still intact after all the battering he has taken. Secondly surprised because it is Frank phoning. "Frank," Lucas says upon answering. "I didn't expect to hear from you. I thought you were dead."
“I don’t die easily,” Frank says, as droll as ever. “Besides, someone had to stop that thing rampaging through the city.”
“You killed the demon?”
“Fucking right I did. And Tolloch.”
Lucas is astounded. “Tolloch? How?”
"Another Watcher killed him, with help from Eva and me."
Lucas shakes his head. "I should call you Wonder Watcher from now on."
“How about not.”
“Sorry, Frank, I’m just…do you have the feather?”
“Yeah. You have what I need?”
“Yes,” Lucas says, but he isn’t looking forward to telling him. “Where do you want to meet?”
They meet in the mountains, not far from Frank’s cabin. The Watcher’s car is parked on the grass verge of the dirt road that leads down the mountainside. Obviously Frank had abandoned it in a hurry at some point. Frank himself looks in a worse state than Lucas does. The two of them look at each other and shake their heads. “An eventful few days for both of us, I see,” Lucas says.
“You could say that,” Frank says, leaning against the driver’s side door of his black Chevrolet. He reaches inside his torn jacket and pulls out a long white feather, still gleaming and pristine despite the abuse it must have taken as Frank carried it around with him. “This what you’re looking for?”
Lucas tries not to look too eager, but he can’t help himself and walks over to Frank to take the feather, who says, “Not so fast. You first.”
Shit, Lucas thinks. He was hoping to have the feather in his possession before he delivered the bad news to Frank. “I found what you were looking for, but I don’t think you are going to like it.”
Frank sighs and shakes his head, obviously hoping to be free of any more bad news. "Tell me," he says.
“I found out the name of the demon who took your friend’s soul, as you asked.” Lucas pauses, his eye on the feather. Maybe he should just snatch it from Frank right now before he delivers the rest of the information. But then he thinks, No. He has too much respect for Frank to do that, which he realizes has to be a first. Maybe his humanity hasn’t been completely eradicated after all.
“Go on,” Frank says, a dark look in his eyes like he knows what is coming.
“The problem is Frank, that the demon who had her soul no longer has it.”
A deep frown crosses Frank’s face. “What the hell do you mean he no longer has it? Who does then?”
“Mordred. The King of Hell.”
Frank remains perfectly still for a moment as that particular knowledge bomb shatters whatever hopes he had of rescuing his one time sweetheart from the clutches of Hell. Then he does something Lucas doesn’t expect. He rushes forward and punches Lucas hard in the face, sending Lucas reeling back a few steps. “How long?” he demands.
Lucas rubs his jaw, too weary and weak at this point to even be mad at Frank for hitting him. “How long what, Frank?”
“How long have you known?”
“A couple of days. What does it matter?”
“You could have told me sooner.”
“A lot was at stake, Frank. I didn’t want to put you off your game.”
Frank gives a bitter laugh and shakes his head, then he throws the archangel feather on to the gravelly road and turns and walks to his car.
Lucas bends down and picks up the feather, all of his previous worry and anxiety vanishing in an instant the second his fingers touch it. "I hope this doesn't affect our friendship," he calls to Frank, though Frank isn't looking at him. The Watcher guns the engine of his car and does a tight turn on the road, almost hitting Lucas in the process. Lucas watches the black car speed off up the mountain road leaving a cloud of dust in its wake. "He'll come around," Lucas says to no one before teleporting to the Demon Ecstasy club with his new prized possession.
27
Archangel feathers are one of the rarest things in existence, at least in this world. There hasn't been an archangel on the earth since the Big Dude flooded the place millennia ago. Archangels prefer to sit up in Heaven, lording it over the lower angels, making them do their bidding on Earth. And even when the archangels were on earth, they were not in the habit of losing too many of their precious feathers. The ones they did lose, they lost in battle as they wiped out hordes of filthy humans in places like Sodom and Gomorrah before the Big Dude finished the job with all that water. How any of those precious lost feathers even survived to this day, Lucas will never know. In his two hundred year search for one, half the time he went on blind faith that a feather even still existed. It was blind faith that allowed him to keep running from Leonard, that allowed him to keep searching for the "holy grail". It was only recently that he heard that the Watchers had acquired a feather, validating all those decades of faith he so desperately held on to. And now, here it is, finally in his hands.
Lucas strips naked and kneels in the middle of the carpeted floor in his suite in the upstairs of the club. The feather has many applications when used with the right magic, but the only application Lucas is interested in at the moment is the one that will make him a Divine Being. The spell involves channeling the divine energy within the feather into himself, forging it with his demon spirit. It takes him an hour or so to complete the complicated spell, and once it is done he stands, his human body completely healed, which is a nice side benefit to having all that divine energy running through you.
Lucas is now something that no other demon has ever been before. Demonic and Divine at the same time. A one of a kind. And untouchable to any other demon, even to the King of Hell himself. Even to the Great Adversary…as long as he stayed out of Hell, which he planned on doing for the rest of eternity at least.
“I’m sure you are very pleased with yourself.”
Leonard is sitting at the bar in the club, Lucas having summoned the demon only moments before. The two of them are drinking vodka, the bottle on the bar between them.
“That’s one way of putting it,” Lucas says, unable to keep the smile from off his face. “I’m a Divine Being now. You or no other demon can touch me. I could probably destroy you right now.”
Leonard is back to wearing his “handsome face” again. He smiles. “But you won’t, will you? That’s not who you are, Lucas.”
“No, it’s not.”
“You are something of an enigma, for a demon, I mean. Have you always been so?”
Lucas thinks back over his long life for a moment, then nods his head. “Sometimes, I don’t even understand myself.”
“And I was so looking forward to torturing you.”
“Life is full of disappointments, Leonard. You of all demons should know that.” A sly smile crosses Lucas’ lips. It felt good to say that. “But look on the bright side. With all the time you’ll have not chasing after me, you can put all your energy into going after the throne again.”
Leonard drains what is left in his shot glass and slams it down on to the bar. "Mark my words, Lucas. This isn't over. At some point, I will have the power of the Adversary behind me, and I will use it to find a way to drag you back to Hell where you belong, Divine Being or not."
“You mean only if you hold on to the power long enough this time?”
Leonard’s face hardens, anger boiling behind it. Lucas holds his stare.
“Go back to Hell, Leonard. I never want to see your face here again. If I ever do, I won’t hesitate to destroy you utterly next time.”
Leonard stares, but he has nothing left to say. Neither has Lucas, who turns his back and pours himself another shot of vodka. When he turns around again, Leonard is gone.
For good this time.
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Before You Go…
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Sorcerer’s Creed Series
Sorcerer’s Creed is my other urban fantasy series, featuring the magically endowed August Creed. The series is dark and gritty, with a generous amount of snark. Check out the sample chapter below.
SPELL BLASTED
The sheer force of the magical energy that crackled through the air was so powerful it slammed me against a brick wall as surely as being punched in the chest by the Devil's fist. I slid down the wall to the stinking floor like I'd just taken a hard right hook to the jaw. The invasive magic took hold within me, initiating a chain reaction that I couldn't stop. The spell blew through my every defense: the talisman around my neck, the protective tattoos on my body, and the Druidic runes etched into my trench coat. I might as well have been a goddamn Sleepwalker with no protection at all.
What am I even doing here? Where am I?
The faint smell of decayed flesh mixed with sulfur hung thick in the air, signifying that black magic had just been used, which is never good. It’s like turning up at a children's party to find Beelzebub tying balloon animals with a shit-eating grin on his face, from which nothing good can surely come. It’s the same with black magic; nothing good ever comes of it.
I sat dazed on the floor, blinking around me for a moment. My mind was fuzzy and partially frozen, the way it would be if I’d just woke from a nightmare. It appeared I was inside an abandoned office space, the expansive rectangular room lined with grimy, broken windows that let cold air in to draw me out of my daze somewhat. It was night, so darkness coated the room, the only real light coming from the moon outside as it beamed its pale, silvery light through the smashed skylights.
Confused and more than a little uneasy, I struggled back to my feet and blindly reached for the pistol inside my dark green trench coat, frowning when I realized the gun wasn’t there. Then I remembered it had gone flying out of my hand when the spell had hit. Looking around for a moment, I soon located the pistol lying on the floor several feet away, and I lurched over and grabbed it, slightly more secure now that the gun’s reassuring weight was back in my hand.
There were disturbing holes in my memory also. I vaguely recalled confronting someone after tracking them to where I was. But who?
Try as I might, I couldn’t get a clear image. The person was no more than a shadow figure in my mind. I didn’t even have a clue as to why I was following the mysterious person in the first place. Obviously, they had done something to get on my radar. The question was what, though?
The answer came a few seconds later when my eyes fell upon the dark shape in the middle of the room, and a deep sense of dread filled me immediately; a dread that was both familiar and sickening at the same time. Swallowing, I stared hard at the shape lying prone in the gloom. Then, over the sharp scent of rats piss and pigeon shit, a different smell hit my nostrils—the heavy, festering stench of blood.
When I gingerly crossed to the center of the room, my worst fears were confirmed when I saw that it was a dead body lying on the floor. A young woman with her throat slit. Glyphs were carved into the naked flesh of her spreadeagled body, with ropes leading from her wrists and ankles to rusty metal spikes hammered into the floor. I marveled at the force required to drive the nails into the concrete, a feat that surely could only have been achieved through magic.
Along the circumference of a magic circle painted around the victim was what looked like blood-drawn glyphs. The sheer detail of them unnerved me as I took in a quality that could've only come from a well-practiced hand. The tingling in my spine from all these factors combined with a vague recognition, one inhibited by whatever spell I’d absorbed.
I breathed out slowly as I reluctantly took in the callous butchery on display. The dead woman looked to be in her early thirties, though it was difficult to tell because both her eyes were missing; cut out with the knife used to slice her throat, no doubt. I shook my head as I looked around for a few seconds in an effort to locate the dead woman’s eyeballs. Not finding them, I surmised the killer probably took them; or worse, used them in some way. Sick bastard.
Staring down at the woman again, I noticed she looked underweight for her size. She was around the same height as me at six feet, but there was very little meat on her bones, as if she were a stranger to regular meals. I also noted the needle marks on her feet, and the bruises around her thighs. This, coupled with how she had been dressed—in a leather mini skirt and short top, both items discarded on the floor nearby—made me almost certain the woman had been a prostitute. A convenient, easy victim for whoever had killed her.
If the symbols carved into her pale flesh were anything to go by, it would seem the woman wasn't so much murdered as ritually sacrificed. At a guess, I would have said she was an offering to one of the Dimension Lords, which the glyphs seemed to point to. The glyphs themselves were not only complex, but also carved with surgical precision. The clarity of the symbols against the woman’s pale flesh made it possible for me to make out certain ones that I recognized as being signifiers to alternate dimensions, though which dimension exactly, I couldn’t be sure, at least not until I had studied the glyphs further. Glyphs such as the ones I was looking at were always uniquely different in some way. No two people drew glyphs the same, with each person etching their own personality into every one, which can often make it hard to work out their precise meanings. One thing I could be certain of, however, was that the glyphs carved into the woman’s body resonated only evil intent; an intent so strong, I felt it in my gut, gnawing at me like a parasite seeking access to my insides, as if drawn to my magic power. Not a pleasant feeling, but I was used to it, having been exposed to enough dark magic in my time.
After taking in the scene as a whole, I soon came to the conclusion that the woman wasn't the killer’s first victim; not by a long stretch, given the precision and clear competency of the work on display.
“Son of a bitch,” I said, annoyed now that I couldn’t recall any details about the case I had so obviously been working on. It was no coincidence that I had ended up where I was, a place that happened to reek of black magic, and which housed a murder that had occult written all over it…quite literally, in the victim’s case. I had been on the hunt, and I had gotten close to the killer, which was the likeliest reason for the dark magic booby trap I happened to carelessly spring like some bloody rookie.
Whoever the killer was, they wielded profoundly powerful magic. A spell that managed to wipe all my memories of the person in question wouldn't have been an easy spell to cast, or even to come by for that matter. The killer was also an adept of some kind, of that that there was no doubt. And given the depth of power to their magic, it also felt to me like they had channeled magic from some other source, most likely from whatever Dimension Lord they were sacrificing to.
Whatever the case, the killer’s spell had worked. Getting back the memories they had stolen from me wasn’t going to be easy, and that’s if I could get them back at all, which depressingly, I feared might just be the case.
After shaking my head at how messed up the situation was, I suddenly froze upon hearing a commanding voice booming in the room like thunder.
“Don’t move, motherfucker!”
**The Sorcerer’s Creed Series is available from Amazon.**
