Homeward Bound (Journeyman Book 1) (17 page)

THE MUSIC WAS NARCOTIC,
its deep base spilling out well above the evening streets. Inside Club AfterNight, sat atop one of the tallest buildings in Shoreditch, the wild beats coursed through the veins of everyone on the dance floor and lining the bar.

In one of the private suites attached to the club, available for high paying clientele to use for whatever purposes they saw fit, two bodies writhed under silken sheets in the cool blue hues cast by the dim floral lamps overhead.

Their moans were muffled by the ongoing dance music, bodies rising and falling with the beat until one of them sat upright. The shimmering covers fell away from her nude body and there she continued to grind on him, taking pleasure from the thickness filling her and ensuring he felt the same way.

He was gorgeous, as if a fashion billboard had mated with a fitness magazine. Piercing blue eyes looked back up at her own and his short cropped hair was so neat and trim, with nary a stray hair in sight despite the rough action.

Feelings upon ecstatic feelings were mounting; his abs began to tense, veins spidering their way across them as his back arched. As he grabbed her hips, his arms were swollen with veins and he guided her where and at the pace he wanted with those massive biceps.

Faster he went and faster she took it, taking his bare skin all the way to the base.

“I… I'm about to…” he said, deep voice still a tremendous turn on despite the stutters.

And then he did, filling her with himself as it spilled out onto his balls with satisfaction.

Satiated, she rose, his still huge dick flopping over to one side, glistening with their emissions.

“Thank you,” she said walking over to the nightstand and opening the topmost drawer. A flicker of light danced across her eyes.

“That felt amazing,” he said, sitting up on the edge of the bed. His member dangled invitingly between his legs, twitching and growing as the blood started to flow back into it for another round. “Want to go again? I'm sorry I didn't catch your name earlier.”

“Oh that's fine, it's Keli,” she said meekly, straddling him once again and giving his large pecs a rub with her left hand.

“That's a pretty name, Keli,” he said with such boyish charm. Pity.

“I'm so sorry, Chris,” she said with a hint of remorse, “but round two will have to wait; I have a call to make.”

“Right now?” he asked, slightly puzzled.

She nodded and with a quick strike, she cut his throat.

Desperately he grabbed at it while falling forward to the decorative carpet, a massive red stain growing out from his lifeless body.

She looked down to the damp floor, letting out a sigh as she stepped into the warm liquid. The wet fibers squished between her bare toes and as many times as she'd done it before, she couldn’t get over how medieval this method of communication was. She would often joke with herself that she could rest assured knowing it would always be cheaper than cell phone bills.

“Spiritum meum, victor erit, in malign positus, loquar!”
The words she spoke knocked loose the abstract art from the walls. Her eyes grew darker and her voice deepened as if calling from the very pits of hell as she cast it out to the demonic legions that were spread across the planet and beyond.

Raising her arms out to the side as if standing on a high precipice in front of thousands, she looked out the expanse of windows over the twinkling lights of London and spoke,  “This is…  Onoskelis and I address you all now with a message and a mission. You have done your part to get us to where we stand today – from a loose and ragged rabble into a primed and well oiled machine. As components needed to be replaced, we eliminated the old and brought in the new. Now look at us: nearly unstoppable by our sheer will alone.

“The Journeymen are now fearful, frightened that they may have overlooked this pathetic little assembly of demons and what we are capable of; that they no longer have the power they held in the days of old.”

She spat on the floor. “The arrogance and pride of these humans, newest to the worlds but the most wanton.”

Raising her voice, the speech continued, “They may be onto our plans, but that will not stop us. What they know is limited and fragmented and it must remain that way at any cost. In response to the Order’s increased interest in our affairs, I shall be sending a small contingent to Bennett Peak for closer… involvement in things there. Perhaps we can show the Journeymen how demons take to being underestimated.

“All of you take heed of my words, now: they cannot stop the oncoming tide poised to rush over this earth, suffocating all who oppose us. This world is ours for the taking; time of demon kind has come!”

With that her speech concluded, the last words echoing across the globe, soaring on the wings of cacophonous cheers. The world was about to change.

THE SUN HAD CRESTED
its highest point of the day and was well on its return journey back to the horizon. Flocks of starlings whirled overhead, twisting and turning like living clouds playfully riding currents in the sky. It was all a gorgeous spectacle: the orange sunlight, the dance-like movements, the flow of air past the open window. All worked in beautiful consensus, holding Adrienne’s attention as they entered the the outskirts of Denver.

Not long after they left the highway in lieu of more sweeping country roads, the sight of whooshing gray that had become all too familiar was slowly replaced with nature’s own greens and browns. Stubby hills of grass rolled gently out to the north toward the city’s skyscrapers and also to the west before rising sharply into the mountains. Green shrubbery and equally tall boulders mingled with the sprinkles of far off lights that began popping in against the darkening landscape. To the south, a thick row of bushes streamed by and blocked the view, but through fleeting gaps in the branches a similar sight extended out into the vast open country.

However, the scenery wasn’t the only thing changing with the diminishing roads. There was a notable shift in Gage’s demeanor, his expression now a disproportionate mix of happiness and consternation.

The truck swerved along the now dirt paths as he looked ahead, keenly scouting the right hand side for familiar sights. After a good stretch of nothing, they rounded a corner and a rusty mailbox with the number sixty-four perched on top came into view. Barely clinging onto its oxidized sides were a line of stickers spelling out the faded name ‘Crosse’ in block letters and adjacent to the mailbox stood five jagged poles moving up the property's gravel driveway, each affixed with diamond shaped reflectors.

“We’re here,” he told Adrienne as he steered the truck over to the right.

Ahead, the path disappeared into a thick line of pines and the loose stones beneath them sputtered and clinked on the chassis. The trees bobbed in step with their heads as they went by, the bumpy ride made more so by the not-so-high quality shocks of the GMC.

All this churning reminded Gage of the day he had driven off in the opposite direction, much faster and full of rage like a bat out of hell. Heading back this way, along this very road, was something he had not expected to do for a long time, if ever again.

The two of them sat silently, nothing to say or do at the moment except take in the surroundings as the drive dove, snaked, and dipped through the rest of the encircling trees until finally it emptied them out into a wide open field.

Out in the rough middle of the grassy tract sat a large, two story plantation house, its symmetrical and weather-beaten facade adorned with light brick and cream clapboard siding. Porches ran along the entire front of both floors, their simple off-white railings spaced evenly between six substantial, square columns that supported the entire thing. Between each set of pillars, tall floor to ceiling windows were evenly distributed to let in the most of the south-facing light and on the lower floor, a simple staircase drew up in the middle allowing access to the front door.

The house was surrounded by oak trees, peppered with the colors of autumn, larger than any Adrienne had ever seen. A traditional white picket fence wrapped neatly around the property, enclosing the main house and two smaller buildings, one on each side, in a quaint box of rustic bliss.

As they neared, Adrienne spotted a rose garden within the fence line which brought a much needed smile to her face. It started neatly along the front beds and extended casually in sweeping red and pink curves off into the backyard. Surprisingly, the untended flowers were still majestically in bloom.

Beyond the petals, a couple of metal gates were closed and locked amongst a broad area of wire fencing that had once contained livestock. A dilapidated barn, smaller than a matchbox from where they were, peeked out in the distance.

Gage looked over into the fields, immediately recalling the squishiness of cold mud percolating up between his mischievous six-year-old toes, his rubber boots lost on purpose somewhere between there and his bedroom. A concealed chuckle escaped as he remembered one particular day when his mother was chasing after him through the pasture, gardens, and even around the entire first floor of the house, those tiny boots flapping in her hand hand while his equally tiny feet left footprints everywhere behind them. His mom was quite bothered by the end of that day; she discovered the mud he had be playing with was not so much muddy as it was fertile.

So indeed, the place where Gage had grown up could have been on the cover of any country living magazine, radiating feelings of coziness and well-being out of every wooden board and stone brick, despite the years devoid of any personal care and attention.

The truck slowed and came to rest in a circle of gravel a couple hundred feet from the porch and wearily, both passengers popped their doors open at the same time.

As Gage stepped out and took everything in without the barrier of metal and glass in between, it was quite emotionally overwhelming. Unsure if it was the freshness of the breeze at this altitude, the smells it had blown his way from the garden, or some combination thereof,  his eyes had gotten misty.

“Welcome home,” he said openly in low tones before drifting back into the comfort of quiet; it was going to take him a few minutes to compose.

Adrienne had been propped up on her door when she heard him speak. Concerned by his odd behavior, she left it open and worked her way around to his side, finding a space between his arm and locking her own into it once she got there. Nestling her head against his mammoth shoulder, always so soft yet inherently strong, she looked around while he continued to stare out across the garden.

For all intents and purposes everything was picture perfect, until a dark red symbol on the front door caught her eye. Unnoticed until now, its color nearly matched the door’s, making it practically invisible from afar unless viewed at a the right angle where it reflected a dim sheen. The design was odd as well, one she was unfamiliar with: a large circle enclosed three interlocking triangles and in the middle of the arrangement was the outline of a hand, an open eye resting on the tips of its closed fingers.

“Gage?” she asked timidly, careful not to startle him out of his thoughts. “What is that?”

“Huh?” he replied lazily as she guided him across with her finger, pointing it toward the door. He winced. “Hell,” he answered, “I can’t remember.”

Being here was definitely having an effect on him. Normally witty if not the slightest bit facetious, Adrienne could actually sense his internal struggle like heat off a stovetop; he just seemed lost.

“Think we should take a closer look?” she asked as a nicety, planning to investigate it herself should he drift off again.

He didn't answer right away, instead continuing to stare at the symbol questioningly, as if it were alive and knew damn well what it was, but wasn’t telling.

“Sure thing,” he replied, gradually settling back into his normal skin, “but before we do that why don’t you leave that cap in the truck and get a little more comfortable?” He popped his finger playfully on the brim. “I’d love to see that gorgeous hair of yours.”

She grinned, immediately obliging by tossing the cap through his open door. It spun and landed right in the center of her seat. “Is that better?”

Gage nodded as he ran his fingers through her flowing locks. “Oh yes.”

Shutting the doors, together they walked up the path and through the gate, thirsty for oil. Adrienne took that as a signal to slow down before falling back to arm's length as they neared the porch. She watched him take a slow, hypnotic step up, his right cheek popping her way. Another teasing step followed and the left one flexed gracefully over to the other side.

Mercy.

She decided then and there that this was far too unhealthy a thing to be doing, light headedness seriously setting in, but she managed to convince herself that a couple more seconds, or possibly minutes, of watching beauty pitching itself from side to side wouldn't hurt.

Damn the only thing that would make this moment even better is a roll of quarters.

Gage, unaware his tight end was the topic of so much dedicated thought, reached the decking and stepped off delicately, as if a gentler tread would help avoid a rush of memory. To either side of him sat decorative wicker furniture he had once played on and daydreamed the days away, their once ornate weaves now caked with mildew and the low cushions slowly rotted by the elements. He walked up to the front door and saw withered topiaries on either side planted in those long lost childhood boots.