Obsidian Son (The Temple Chronicles Book 1) (45 page)

Hemmingway simply stared at me. Like,
really
stared at me. I began to fidget.

“Okay. It’s a badass name. Terrifying.” He continued to stare. I decided to change the topic to avoid his gaze. “Why didn’t you stop me from pissing him off? He could have
smote
me…
smited
me… no, that’s not right either… Anyway, I could have used a warning.”

Hemmingway’s gaze finally broke with an amused grin. “You handled yourself well. Except for touching him. You shouldn’t make that a habit. You wouldn’t look good as a pillar of salt. Then you called him a
pigeon!
” He roared in laughter. “
Pigeon…
” He muttered again before taking another sip. “He was right, you know.” Hemmingway added, almost as an afterthought.

“About
what
?” I grumbled, still trying to wrap my head around the fact that I had just met a freaking angel. And then mocked him. Boy was I damned.

The man scouted the bar carefully. Having already scoped the place out myself several times, keeping track of the people who had entered and exited, I noticed a new face down the bar glaring pure frustration at Hemmingway. I turned back to Hemmingway and watched him nod amiably at the scarred man. The Irish-looking man continued to scowl back, but finally gave a dismissive nod in return, swiveling to instead watch a pair of particularly cute vampires playing pool. I assumed the man was one of Achilles’ generals. Playing bouncer 2,000 years later must suck after such a glorious feat as starring in
The Iliad
. Hemmingway didn’t seem concerned with the stranger, so I let it go.

Maybe I was reading too much into things. I mean, it’s not often that an angel arrives in a bar to politely tell you to ‘
cut it out
.’ How many other angels were in the bar? Jesus. I had never considered tussling with an angel. I hadn’t even known they were real, let alone on our plane of existence. Regardless, no one was close enough to overhear us as Hemmingway took a long pull from a fresh cigarette.

My nervous fingers ached to reach out for the cancer stick, but I managed to compose myself. I had successfully remained smoke-free for a few days now, and was proud of my discipline. But I had just survived a smiting. Perhaps I deserved one. Just one. I shook my head defiantly.
No
. “So, what was the angel right about?” I asked instead.

“You smell like Brimstone. It’s a pungent odor, and it could get you murdered quick if some of his more blade-happy brethren noticed it.” I sniffed myself, picking up the light sulfuric smell, surprised that I hadn’t noticed it earlier.

“I don’t know why I smell like that. I haven’t summoned any demons. Lately.” Hemmingway blinked at me with those eyes that seemed able to weigh my soul, and judge my guilt. Was he an angel too? Paco
had
seemed nervous of him. “Honestly,” I said, holding up my hands.

Hemmingway shook his head. “Regardless. This town reeks of it. And so do you. Rumor mill does hint at demons being involved in your parents’ murder.” I blinked, suddenly pissed. This stranger, among others, seemed to know more information about my parents than I did. Hemmingway continued unaware of my frustration. “Get rid of the odor as soon as possible. It will only attract the wrong kinds of attention, as you just noticed. Angels don’t make a habit of appearing to mortals, but when they do… nothing good comes of it.”

He studied me for a moment before deciding to continue. “I once heard a story from a down-and-out farmer about angels and demons. It might put things into perspective for you, as it did me. It shook me to my core. But I was a different man then. A virgin to the true ways of the world. Perhaps wiser. Perhaps less.” His eyes grew far away.

He shook his head after a moment. “Anyway, the man was distraught, filled with grief. And despite offering him a ride the following morning, I never heard from him again. He fled in the middle of the night. I’ve thought of him often as the years have passed me by, curiosity getting the best of me. Perhaps he was telling me
his
story.” Hemmingway winked. “Alas, I never discovered his identity…” He took a sip of his drink, gathering his thoughts. I nodded for him to continue and hunkered down, ready to listen. His next words enveloped me like a warm blanket. Stories from an experienced raconteur could do that.

An exhausted local farmer was on his way home from selling his wheat at the market a day’s ride away. It was drizzling, but a true rain would fall soon. He knew these kinds of things after farming for so many years. He didn’t know how he knew, but he was right more often than not. He was eager to get home and see his family after a long day, eager to share his success, and eager to revel in the more important joys life had to offer… family. He wasn’t an established farmer, with vast fields and many clients. No. He worked only for himself and his family.

A prideful, peaceful, god-fearing man.

He trotted his cart up the final hill to his home only to discover his son’s broken body on the lawn that led to the front porch. The farmer froze, unable to even blink. His boy was not even ten years old. His beautiful, daring, carefree son had been left to suffer, the long smear of blood trailing from the porch and down the freshly painted steps to the lawn a statement of his tenacity to escape. But escape from what? What could so terrify his bold, courageous son in such a way? Especially while mortally wounded? The farmer could not even begin to fathom, let alone accept the death before him.

His heart was a hollow shell of ice, liable to shatter at the slightest breeze. The wind began to howl, heralding the approaching storm, but it was a distant, solemn sound in his ears. He dismounted from the horse, dropping the reins carelessly as he crouched over his son’s broken body. He brushed the boy’s icy-blue eyes closed with shaken fingers, too pained to do more for his fallen, innocent offspring. But what he would see next would make him realize that his son had been the lucky one. The farmer managed to stand, stumbling only slightly in the growling, approaching wind, and entered the small, humble foyer of his home. Like so many times before, his wife greeted him immediately, although those past circumstances were never as abhorrent as this.

His wife had been tied down to face the open doorway. Her dress lay in tatters beside her nude marble-like form. There were many empty wine bottles on the ground, and several piles of ash from a pipe. Enough ash to signify that several men had bided their time in this room while he had been away at market bartering higher prices for his wheat. The house reeked of tobacco. And he wasn’t a smoker. He subconsciously knew that his future path would now lead him to darker places than he could ever imagine. His life would be forever changed.

I shivered, feeling the dark story touch a part of me that I had to fight to squash down. I had enough frightening memories to fuel my recent night terrors. I didn’t need another. But I knew Hemmingway would tell this story only once. Also, this story would be my only knowledge about angels outside of the Bible. If angels were watching my movements, I
needed
the information. I waited for him to continue, signaling the bartender to refill Hemmingway’s glass. The storyteller nodded in appreciation.

Upon seeing his dearly beloved murdered, the farmer crashed to his knees, the forgotten purse of money clutched in his fist dropping to the floor like a sack of potatoes. The coins spilled across the gnarled wooden planks, one coin rolling toward the tear-filled, terror-laden gaze of his wife, before briefly brushing her long lashes and settling flat against the floor in a rattle that seemed to echo for eternity. That and the desperate panting of the farmer’s breath were the only sounds in the haunted house. But they were enough to fill it completely. He had been anxious to see the look of joy in her eyes at the coins.

The sensation of pride from her meant everything to him. It lent him his own pride. Instead he received this glassy, empty stare that would forever haunt his dreams. The woman who had made his life worth living, the woman who had saved him from his own darkness, the mother of his cherished son, the woman who had made the endless hours of toil in the fields worth it lay before him, filling his vision like a never-ending scream that tore at the fabric of reality. Thunder rumbled outside as if an extension of his grief. He would never be able to look at a coin again without remembering this scene. He had been proud to come home. Proud of his success at market. Proud of what the money would mean to his family. The prideful, peaceful, god-fearing farmer felt a scalding tear sear his weathered cheeks.

He distantly realized that he was no longer a prideful man.

A cold, amused voice emanated from the shadows.
“Do you seek justice, farmer?”

The farmer jolted, hands shaking with fear… and something else. A feeling he had not experienced in many years. White-hot rage. He stared into the shadows, only able to see a hazy silhouette, wondering if it was one of his wife’s rapists mocking him. If it was, so be it.

Everything that mattered in his life lay dead before him. He would welcome the cold, merciless slumber of death in order to escape this haunting grief. Or he would dish out his grief on this wretched soul. It was a long time before the farmer answered, knowing that farming held no interest to him anymore. Nothing held any interest for him anymore. Well, one thing did. Vengeance. The sight of
their
blood on his weathered knuckles, the scent of
their
fear filling his nostrils, the feel of
their
dying struggle under his blade. The sound of
their
endless, tortured screams was the only sensation that would appease this once prideful, peaceful, god-fearing man.

“I do.”
The farmer rasped, realizing he was no longer a peaceful man.

Lightning flashed, the thunderous crack instantaneous, rattling the open windowpanes, and billowing the curtains. With it came the downpour of rain that had been biding its time in the dark skies above. A new voice entered the conversation from another shadow of the room.

“Together, then. We must each give him a gift. To represent both worlds. He must agree to neutrality. To live in a world of grays, as the final arbiter of truth.”
This voice was deeper, more authoritative, and obviously not happy at the situation, judging by his tone. The voice addressed the farmer.
“After your vengeance is complete, do you agree to forget this past life, and embrace your new vocation? I cannot tell you what it might entail, but you shall never be able to deviate once this choice is made. I can promise that you will not be alone. You will have brothers to aid you in your cause.”

The farmer nodded.
“If I can obtain justice first, I agree. I have nothing else left to me.”

The first voice grunted his agreement with a puff of stale sulfur that the farmer could taste even from across the foyer. What could only be described as a demon slowly uncoiled into the light, red eyes blazing with anticipation, his leathery, scaly skin covering a human-like frame. The horned, shadowy creature, pulsing with physical shadows of molten fire and ash, handed the farmer a gift, placing it over the man’s face, which instantly transformed the approaching darkness into a hazy green, the shadows evaporating under his newfound night-vision. The demon stepped back, appraising the man before him with satisfaction and uncertainty… fear, before waving a hand in the direction of the other voice. The farmer turned to assess the second creature, eyes no longer able to show surprise. The man-like being that stood before him crackled with blue power, like lightning given form. An angel. Wings of smoking ice and burning embers arced out from the creature’s back, sparks drifting lazily down to the ground, dying away before contact. The angel extended a marble hand, offering up a gleaming silver gift. The farmer took it, the item familiar in his hands.

The two creatures spoke as one.
“Gifts given. Contract made. He shall be the first. Now, ride forth into your new life. You shall find a horse waiting for you outside.”
Another blast of thunder, and the once peaceful, prideful, god-fearing farmer was alone.

The farmer stood in the empty house, and realized he was no longer a god-fearing man.

Over the coming year, he found every last culprit in the crime that had destroyed his life. Their screams unsuccessfully attempted to fill the empty void in his soul, and he reveled in every sensation he created from their broken bodies. Immensely. But it was never enough. Then he faded from this world, to fulfill his new responsibilities, forever regretful of his decision to accept those cursed gifts.

…
Blood Debts
- the 2nd installment of The Temple Chronicles - to be released late 2015!

About Shayne

Shayne is the guy itching for confrontation, oozing testosterone from more pores than the average male has room for. He is a published author of fiction novels and currently makes a living in the commercial lending realm for a nationally known bank in the Midwest. He hails from Denver, but has survived from New York City, to Miami, to Los Angeles, to Chicago, and even across the pond in London, before finally settling in Missouri where he not-so-secretly works on the global domination plan he intends to achieve by his mid-thirties.