Redemption (12 page)

“Because they are related.”
 
Fane winces as he steps into the room, blasted by the heat billowing out from the fire.
 
Nicolae rushes forward and tosses a bucket of dirt onto it, dousing the flames.
 

Fane smiles his thanks as he moves to the bookshelves and traces his finger along the leather bound bindings.
 
He plucks random books from the wall, looks at them and then replaces each as he continues his search.
 
“Immortals never look upon their own flesh and blood as food.
 
That would be…disgusting.”

“Oh,” William gulps loudly, rubbing at his neck.
 
“Good to know.”

Sadie sticks out her tongue at him.
 
“See. Told you.”

Fane clears his throat.
 
No one realized he had shifted to join their group. Nicolae frowns, reminded of how eerily quiet immortals can be when it serves their purpose.
 
“William may be safe, but Nicolae is not.
 
Sadie’s control over her thirst is impressive, but it is not infallible.
 
One of these days she will fail, and when she does, I pray that she does not regret it.”

His words hang heavily over the silent room. The only sounds are the howling of the wind beyond the castle walls and the sputtering of the dying fire.
 

“What are in those books?” Nicolae asks, trying to break the somber mood in the room.
 
He can tell Sadie is caught between fuming and fear that Fane might be right.

Fane turns and hands a book to Nicolae.
 
Its cover is made of supple black leather, obviously much newer than the other books housed in this great library.
 
“This book will tell you everything there is to know about the Senthe base.
 
They are no different than Sadie or me.
 
The Senthe is an organization, a secret society among my world, if you will.”

“Oh, great,” William groans, sinking back to lean against the wall.
 
“Because history has shown us that secret societies only exist for the good of the people.”

Fane’s lip curls with humor.
 
“This one actually does.
 
We were created by a noble founder.
 
I believe even you, William, can find no fault in Roseline.”

“Hang on a second,” Nicolae says, gripping tightly to the book.
 
“You’re saying Roseline helped form this group?”

“No.” Fane turns to look at him.
 
“I’m saying it was her idea to create it in the first place.”

***

T
he sound of dripping has returned.
 
Roseline groans, rolling to her side. The dirt floor is cold beneath her and the light dismal.
 
She is back in her pit.
 

“Roseline,” a voice nearby rasps.

She bolts upright, instantly wishing she hadn’t.
 
Her head spins as pain lashes out with a vengeance against her mind.
 
She clamps her eyes shut, praying for the torment to end.

“I knew it was you.”

Barely opening one eye, she searches for the voice.
 
It comes from a person hanging from the far wall, nearly fifteen feet overhead.
 
Thick, rusted chains hold the boy aloft.
 
Blood clings to much of his bare skin, evidence of the earlier torture she passed out before.

His face is a mess of gashes and his right eye is swollen completely shut.
 
Numerous knife wounds slit across the flesh of his throat and arms.
 
Crimson droplets trail slowly but steadily down his leg, pattering onto the floor.

She groans and buries her head in her hands.
 
She can’t handle this.
 
Not this.

“Are you ok?” He calls down to her.

“No,” she croaks, releasing her head to clutch her arms about her curled knees as she begins to rock.
 
It has been too long since she last had a bloodletting with Malachi.
 
She can feel the poison beginning to take control.
 
“You shouldn’t be here.
 
This is bad.
 
Very bad.”

“Tell me about it.
 
I had reservations for dinner tonight.”

Her mouth gapes open as she lifts her head to stare at the boy.
 
“Are you…did you just make a joke?

“Yeah, it’s just this thing I do right before I pee myself.”
 
He tries to look down to see if that has already happened, but his chains keep him from seeing.
 
He goes limp, giving up.
 
“My uncle always said I’d make a terrible prisoner.
 
Guess he was right.”

Roseline opens and closes her mouth, unsure of what to say, or even if she should believe he is here.
 
“Are you real?”

“Afraid so.
 
Can’t you smell me?”
 
When she swallows roughly, he winces.
 
“Sorry.
 
Poor choice of words.”

“I agree.”
 
She releases her hold on her knees and presses her palms back against the wall, inching her way to her feet.
 
She can feel the weakness in her legs but refuses to acknowledge it.
 

“I’ve seen you before.”
 
She leans back to rest against the wall.
 
Just the effort it takes to stand is exhausting, but she needs to see his face.

The boy nods.
 
His chains shift, casting him just far enough into the light to confirm it for her.
 
“I remember… I nearly snapped your arm in half when you tried to touch Gabriel.”
 
An irrational rage begins to simmer in her stomach, intense and highly explosive.
 

“My name is Enael.”

She is only vaguely aware that he spoke as she closes her eyes and sways, remembering the dart that burrowed into her chest, leaving her paralyzed and helpless to save Gabriel.
 
Her lip curls into a snarl.
 
“You took him from me.”

Roseline stumbles forward, her arm outstretched to try to grasp his foot.
 
He cries out as her nails graze his big toe.
 
He thrashes about as her face contorts with anger.
 
“You took him from me!”

Her cry echoes through the room as she swipes wildly at him.
 
He bucks his legs to remain out of reach.
 
She growls, pacing beneath him like a wild animal, desperately trying to figure out how to sink her claws into him.

Even as she moves beside the wall, beating her hands in frustration, she knows she is overreacting.
 
The lucid side of her brain tells her that she needs to stop, screaming that this boy could help her find Gabriel, but she can’t seem to break free from her rage.

“We never hurt Gabriel.
 
We helped him,” Enael shouts, tears streaming down his gaunt cheeks.
 
Roseline pauses to stare up at him.
 
“He was my friend.”

Her hands slide off the wall.
 
“What do you mean?”

“Gabriel has a destiny.
 
One that he couldn’t fulfill if he remained with you, so my uncle Sias and his men brought him back to our monastery.
 
Sias taught him how to fight and how to understand the changes he was going through while he waited.”

Roseline pulls back the matted hair covering her face to see him clearly.
 
“Waited for what?”

“The angels.”

The quivering begins in her feet, slowly working its way up her ankles and calves.
 
By the time it ripples up to her head, she knows she’s about to lose control again.
 
She tries to slow her breathing and to regain some sense of calm, but her own body is fighting against her.

“His destiny was with me,” she growls.
 
Her head lolls to the side as the whispers come, crawling from the shadows to torment her. Their guttural growls and hisses consume her mind.

“Go away,” she moans, clutching her head in her hands as she doubles over.
 

“Of course his destiny is with you, but not in the way you think.”

Her moaning cuts off.
 
She uncurls her fingers from around her head as she slowly rises to look up at him.
 
“What do you mean?”

“The prophecy is very specific about the fact that you are as much a part of Gabriel’s success as he is yours.
 
He can’t win without you.
 
You and he are meant to” His eyes bulge as the manacles around his arms begin to shift, the chains clanging as they are retracted into the wall.
 
They pull from opposite directions like an old fashioned rack.
 

“No!”
 
Roseline screams, clawing at the wall.
 
Enael’s cries shift into desperate wails as the chains pull taut.
 
As his joints begin to crack, Roseline searches for the winch that controls the chains.
 
Her gaze runs along the metal links until they disappear into the wall.
 
There is no way for her to shut down the machine.

“Help me!”
 
Enael screams.
 
His face contorts with pain as his muscles and tissues begin to tear.
 
It’s only a matter of seconds before his shoulders dislocate and a few more before his flesh begins to split.

Sudden clarity returns as she contemplates leaping and grasping onto his feet to yank him down, but that would shatter everything below his waist.
 
Her only chance is to climb to the chains and pray that they aren’t wrapped in angel hair.

Enael’s screams rise to sickening levels as his right shoulder pops out of socket. “Roseline!”

“I’m coming,” she growls.

Digging her fingers deep into the stone, she refuses to acknowledge the pain of dislocating her own fingers as she frantically tries to climb.
 
She slams her toes repeatedly into the wall, trying to carve out footholds.
 
She howls in frustration as her bones shatter and her footing gives way, leaving her dangling from the wall.
 
There is nothing she can do to reach him.

She plummets to the floor as Enael’s shriek cuts off.
 
Her head whips up to see his left shoulder popped out of place.
 
Enael’s head bounces against his chest as he finally passes out.
 
Urine trails down his leg, pattering into the floor below.

Roseline crouches to the side and pushes off the floor, her crooked fingers stretching to reach his feet, but he is too far out of reach now.
 
She collapses to the ground, tears of defeat swimming in her eyes.
 
She has never felt so helpless.

She closes her eyes as Enael’s flesh begins to tear, knowing that it will all be over soon.
 
She covers her ears and buries her face in her knees, unable to watch.
 
The last of the candle flickers out, leaving her in complete darkness.
 

Eleven

A
cluster of Eltat scatter as Malachi shoves his way through the crowded hallway.
 
“Get out of here,” he growls, kicking at a scrawny creature beside him as his boot connects solidly with its spine, sending it sprawling to the floor.

It turns and hisses up at him.
 
Its forked tongue is black and swollen, flitting out of its lipless mouth.
 
He ignores the idle threat as he turns his back on the little monster.
 
It won’t touch him.
 
None of them can.
 
Not until Lucien gives them the order and, for now, that hasn’t happened.
 
  

As he reaches the base of a wide double door, he shoos away a small olive-skinned creature, a midget among his kind.
 
It stands only three feet tall.
 
Its scales are bleached much lighter than the others.
 
Its tufts of hair are brown instead of black.
 
Malachi can’t help but wonder if he was the bastard of the bunch.

“Off with you, Phio.
 
You know he doesn’t like it when you snoop.”

Its beady red eyes narrow as a low growl rises from its throat.
 
It doesn’t speak.
 
Ever.
 
It hasn’t since the first day it arrived at Malachi’s home and that is just fine by him.
 
He never has liked the grating tone of their voices.
 
The Eltat language is nothing more than disjointed hissing and clicking of tongues.
 
He finds it to be rather annoying.

He waits for the sound of Phio’s clacking claws to fade away before slipping through the doors.
 
They open silently on well-oiled hinges.
 
A human wouldn’t even hear his entry, but he knows Lucien has already sensed his presence.
 

The entry to Lucien’s chambers is narrow and the ceiling low.
 
Although Malachi doesn’t have to duck, there is little space between the top of his head and the stone above.
 
His footsteps are silent as he moves steadily along the passage.
 
He peers through the dark, noting the disturbing lack of light.

His unease grows more intense as he senses an odd rise in temperature.
 
The air in the room feels close and humid against his skin.
 
Lucien’s chambers are normally kept cool.
 

“Master?”
 
He calls, stepping from the hall and descending three steps to the main floor of Lucien’s chambers.

The room opens up into a nearly perfect circle once out of the hall.
 
The walls, from waist height upward, are adorned with bookshelves, each one heaving under the weight of an enormous collection of ancient books.
 
Malachi has never been allowed to touch a single one although he would dearly love to.
 
His own collection is far inferior.
 

“I am here,” a raspy voice drifts from above

Malachi cranes his head back to peer into the great heights of the room.
 
Much work went into creating this space to widen the caverns to give Lucien a mansion like room.
 
Stone arches have been carved from the bedrock, providing an excellent vantage point for anyone capable of reaching such heights.

If it were not for his ability to see in darkness, Malachi would have struggled to pinpoint Lucien’s location.
 
Finally, he spies him in the far corner, his large shadow hunched and turned away from him.
 
“You sent for me.”

“Indeed.”
 
The shadow moves, one second there, the next slithering along the ceiling and toward the bookcase.

A single lamp rests in the center of the room.
 
Its mellow light offers a warm golden glow on a small circle of chairs, each set low to play mental games with anyone who enters.
 
Lucien has always enjoyed games and loves making his victims feel less than they really are, not that he ever needed chairs to accomplish this feat.

When Lucien reaches the far wall, he turns and begins to climb down the ladder-like bookshelves, head first.
 
Malachi frowns, disturbed by Lucien’s new trick.
 
“Are you well?”

“Never better,” his master hisses, leaping backward from the wall and landing on all fours before Malachi.
 
His grin widens, revealing multiple rows of teeth, as he raises up.
   

Up close, it is impossible not to notice the changes in Lucien.
 
His arms and legs are nearly double their original size.
 
His scale-like skin is transforming into something reptilian, almost like living body armor.
 
Each scale glows an iridescent red, even in the dark, as if a fire burns deep within.
 
His eyes are a deep scarlet, vacant of eyelashes.
 

His lips have receded to the point of being nearly non-existent.
 
His ears are shrunken at the sides of his head and his hair has begun to fallout in great clumps.

“It just that you seem a bit…different,” Malachi hedges.
 
He forces his muscles to relax, even though every fiber of his being says to flee.
 
He scolds himself for not noticing these changes sooner, but he has been consumed with his work.
 
It took much longer to kill the old monk than he would have liked.

“Humans believe in evolution, and although I find their theories to be highly flawed, I do think they are intriguing.”
 
He lifts his arm and turns it this way and that, grinning at the way the light glints off his scales.
 
“Perhaps they are not entirely wrong after all.”

Goosebumps rise along Malachi’s neck. Whatever is happening to Lucien is not good.
 
“How did this happen?”

Red eyes shift to stare at him.
 
Malachi refuses to show the fear growing in his chest, threatening to suffocate him.
 
“Roseline did this to me.
 
It is a gift.
 
Soon I will be able to share the joy of this transformation with her.”

“She’ll be like you?”

Lucien’s gaze narrows at the obvious tremor in Malachi’s voice.
  
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“Not at all.
 
Just…clarifying.”
 
Malachi’s brow grows damp.
 
He clears his throat and tries to focus on why he is here.
 
“The monk didn’t give up any information on the boy’s whereabouts.”

Lucien nods, slowly turning his back on Malachi.
 
He weaves back and forth, more snakelike than human.
 
“That is because he did not know.”

Malachi blinks.
 
“You knew this?”

“Of course,” Lucien laughs, deep and throaty.
 
“The man was a fool.
 
Nothing more.”

“I skinned him alive,” Malachi whispers, haunted by the memory.

“Yes,” his master hisses with delight.
 
“Pity I couldn’t be there to watch his final moments.
 
I’m sure they were…excruciating.”

He has never seen a human withstand such pain before.
 
It was a relief to finally shove the knife into the old monk’s heart to ease his suffering.
 
“I disposed of the body as you asked.
 
The old man should be found in the Thames within the day.”

Lucien’s chuckle sounds wet as he turns around to face Malachi.
 
“That will keep the local police busy while we move to a more…suitable location.”

“You have yet to tell me where that will be, Master.”
 
Malachi bows low, aware of Lucien’s critical gaze.
 
A tiny bead of sweat escapes his brow, betraying him.

“You need not know all of the details for now.”
 
He waves off Malachi’s questioning glance.
 
“You have another job to perform before we begin to pack.”

Malachi rises slowly, tilting his head just enough to make the sweat drip into his eyebrow instead of running freely down to his cheek.
 
“Another job?”

“Why yes,” Lucien says, sounding surprised as he turns back.
 
“Have you forgotten that we have another monk staying with us?
 
Surely he knows of Gabriel’s whereabouts.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

A jagged, toothy smile spreads across Lucien’s face as he gazes down at a quilt of leathery flesh that adorns his floor.
 
The large patches have been sewn together, each one varying in pigment.
 
The newest addition is still moist to the touch.
 
“Then I will have another skin for my collection.”
  

***

N
icolae grips his armrests tightly.
 
The foam padding escaping from his bucket seat tumbles about the floor as the plane lurches in the air.
 

“We’re gonna die.
 
We’re gonna die.”
 
William chants with his head buried in his hands.

“I promise I won’t let that happen.”
 
Fane clasps him on his arm.
 
“I’d never hear the end of it from your sister.”

Sadie sticks out her tongue at him before dipping her head to look out of the window again.
 
Nicolae relaxes a fraction as the small by plane rights itself and they begin to slow.
 

He hadn’t really stopped to think about their final destination.
 
The Northwestern Territory of Canada had sounded bad enough, but when you add in the bit about being above the arctic circle Nicolae knows he greatly underestimated his ability to adapt to his surroundings.
 

Nicolae notices that Fane failed to mention anything about the perpetual twilight that covers the land.
 
“What time is it?”
 
He asks.

“Who cares?” William groans, clutching his stomach.
 
His skin has taken on a sickly green hue.
 
“I just want to be on the ground again!”

Nicolae shoves a small metal bucket toward William.
 
The pilot handed one to each of them when they boarded this internal flight only a short time ago.
 
William has already filled two and is working on his third.

“It’s a little after noon,” the pilot calls over his shoulder as the plane shudders and turns for its final approach to the small airport terminal.
 
It is tiny, far smaller than any Nicolae has ever seen.
 
In the blustery winds, it looks deserted.
 

The plane jolts suddenly as it is caught in an updraft, causing William to shriek and Nicolae to dig his fingers into the seat yet again.
 
He can hardly feel the shudder of the wheels as they lower into place.
 
His eyes focus only on the wheel as the pilot calls for his final permission to land and lines up with the runway.
 

The landing itself goes much smoother than he could have anticipated, but the icy slide afterward leaves his stomach back on the runway.
 
Finally, the tiny plane slides to a halt less than a hundred yards from the terminal.

“And thank you for flying Air Canada.”
 
Their pilot chuckles to himself as he begins powering down the engines.

William clutches his bucket, glaring up at Fane as the immortal pries it out of his hands.
 
Sadie grunts as she works to unbuckle the belt from around William’s rotund belly.
 
“I think you’re taking this a bit to the extreme.”