The Second Coming (40 page)

Brahm stood,
clothed and cold, in a place where time moved and the scent of
blood soured the air. Here there were no petals that delighted the
skin as they dropped, or the loving caresses of half-women that
danced naked under the moonlit sky, and neither was there a man who
knew how to pleasure her in ways no being ever had.

Or might never
again.

She found
three dead Hunters at her feet. Their bodies were hidden in shadow.
She was back in the place from which she had departed this world.
Brahm looked to the sky to find the clouds shifting across the
firmament once more.

She peeled
back her shirt to examine the brand that lay beneath. It was no
longer a fresh wound and her fingers were cool as they brushed it.
There was no pain.

She vaguely
remembered the making of it. It was different than Greta’s. Where
the thin woman’s was a dancing goat, this was a mark of a goat’s
head with horns like that of the Horned One.

Senator
Thurmond’s voice echoed upon the still air like grating metal. “And
he caused his children to pass through the fire in the valley of
the son of Hinnom: also he observed times, and used enchantments,
and used witchcraft, and dealt with a familiar spirit, and with
wizards: he wrought much evil in the sight of the Lord, to provoke
him to anger.”

Brahm reached
to her belt. The silver dagger had returned.

White Feather
and Diarmuid motioned her to the back of the stage. They had no
idea that she had been gone for what seemed like days.

Brahm’s face
pinched, in fury and in pain. She had been taken to a place of such
pleasure, only to return to a world filled with suffering and hate.
It was as if she had been teased with a taste of heaven and she
would likely long for it for the rest of her days.

Brahm
spat.

What cruel
joke was this?

She approached
the stage. Two more dead Hunters lie on the ground, their bodies
one with the dark mist that enveloped them. Dïor stood over them,
his white hands clutching a dripping, red dagger. Brahm kicked
them.

Thurmond's
voice thundered. “And I say to those that support the
witches: Let now the astrologers, the stargazers, the monthly
prognosticators, stand up, and save thee from these things that
shall come upon thee. Behold, they shall be as stubble; the fire
shall burn them; they shall not deliver themselves from the power
of the flame: there shall not be a coal to warm at, nor fire to sit
before it.”

Brahm searched
for her brother. “Where is Mason?” she snapped.

White
Feather's face was grim. “He said to tell you he is looking for the
Imp.”

“
Which way did he go?”

The
Haudenosaunee pointed towards the far side of the stage. “Orenda,
he asked that you not follow him. You are needed here.” His hand
brushed hers. “I think he left us to allow us to escape. Take the
opportunity. Leave him to his Confederation.”

Mason?
She wondered if that were
true.
Hasn't he seen enough?

“
Fine, let's get this over with.”

Diarmuid
gripped the rusty pick-axe. “Any thoughts on where to go once we
get her out?”

Dïor pillaged
a dagger from one of the Hunters and handed it to White Feather.
The hilt was emblazoned with a white cross. “The docks.”

Brahm nodded,
but she could not believe she had been swept back to this reality.
She wanted to return to the grove.

Dïor murmured
again. “Seventeen. Seventeen. Seventeen.”

Brahm stepped
in front of the Firstborn Lord, his face in shadow under the hood
of his cloak. “Are you all right?”

His eyes
stared out through the hood, cobalt flames at the end of a dark
tunnel. “I was trapped by the Westwood all this time. Seventeen
years my soul endured torture; seventeen years of my daughter's
life I lost; and seventeen years I have mourned my Sephirah. I will
never be 'all right'.” His dagger flashed before her eyes and he
melded with the shadows. “It is time.”

White
Feather's hand squeezed her shoulder, unknowingly pressing against
the brand. “Orenda, be careful with him. He kills with darkness and
shadow. His pain and hate run deep. I do not like how he looks at
you.”

The concern in
his eye eased her mind and gave her a sense that she did, somewhat,
belong to this world. His slight smile secured her in this place.
And in that moment, she knew what she felt for the man who stood
before her.

She could not
love him; not after what she had just experienced. It wasn’t
possible.

Diarmuid
interrupted her thoughts and the regret that sat in her heart.

“
Brahm, let's go.”

She followed
him to the side of the stage where she found another three Hunters
in the darkness, their gaping throats screaming out the identity of
their assailant. From her belt, Brahm pulled the silver dagger and
watched Thurmond at the podium. Lya stood back in the shadow of the
stage, surrounded by Hunters. She was unchained.

Brahm’s soul
took wing and the silver dagger tugged at her as she skirted the
shadows searching for Lya's father. Within moments she found him,
his presence not yet physical. She sensed him as he made his way
towards his daughter. When he leaned in to whisper in Lya's ear the
girl turned suddenly to look in Brahm’s direction.

Thurmond's
voice pierced the air. “And I will cut off witchcrafts out of thine
hand; and thou shalt have no more soothsayers: Thy graven images
also will I cut off, and thy standing images out of the midst of
thee; and thou shalt no more worship the work of thine hands. And I
will pluck up thy groves out of the midst of thee: so will I
destroy thy cities. And I will execute vengeance in anger and fury
upon the heathen, such as they have not heard.”

Lya suddenly
stepped from the dark and raised her hands to summon the souls of
the dead to her aid. The Hunters stood where they were, as if
unaware of her presence. The crowd sat like lead weights in their
seats, unflinching, as if awed by a part of the Revival. She strode
towards the Senator with deliberate strides and the man’s hands lit
up with green flame.

The crowd
finally responded, the cold reality of the situation settling on
them like a sudden frost.

A voice cried
out. “The Senator is a witch!” Screams filled the night air as
people tumbled over each other to flee the hill.

Thurmond
summoned brimstone and aimed it at the place where Dïor had
materialized. He waved it off, sending into the crowds where it
struck the onlookers dead.

From the north
end of the stage, green flames flew towards Brahm. It missed and
Breland hobbled across the stage, his face swelling like an
overripe melon. His fingers still alight with green fire.

“
Master, we must leave now.”

Thurmond
cleared his throat and nodded.

From the
field, Mason leapt onto the stage.

Thurmond
gritted his teeth. “So you have betrayed me, too, Mason. No matter,
you cannot stop us.”

Mason swung at the Imp and caught him unaware. His sword slid
across the Imp’s midsection, gutting him. The wound was deep and
his insides seeped from the wound. He hobbled towards the Senator,
one hand reaching for the man, the other trying to hold his innards
together.

Thurmond
called upon the elements and the dead. Then he was gone.

And with him
he had taken Lya and the Imp.

“
No!” Her brother stared agape at the place where the Imp once
stood.

Dïor’s rage
was palpable. The death cloud solidified and he stood among them,
clinging to a blackened knife.

Diarmuid left
White Feather to fend off three Hunters that scrambled onto the
stage. He unwrapped the bandage from his arm. Brahm would have
advised him against it, but there was no other choice. It was off
in moments and he yanked the leech from his arm.

Darkness
spread from its mouth and the leech wriggled upon the stage.

Diarmuid
closed his eyes as the image of the ghoul he had summoned formed
before him. It was hooded and stooped, with dripping, crooked
fingers.

Diarmuid faced
the wraith-like figure. “Take us to Senator Thurmond.”

“
The deal is set,” said an iron voice.

Brahm felt a
tug. She was pulled through a black emptiness. But the cold void
was temporary and soft torchlight filled the clear night. Crickets
chirped. She lay upon the ground, staring into a clear night
sky.

Where are
we?

They were no longer on the stage, but surrounded by an
encampment of Hunters, all looking like stunned rabbits. The ghoul
had swept them across the land with its spell, right into the heart
of the Confederation army.

Something
yanked the knife from Brahm’s hand and a voice hissed in her ears.
She was pinned to the ground by an unseen force.

-
I will not kill you, Soul
Runner.
My Sephirah lives within you
now.
But you must still pay the
price.-

Darkness
shrouded her. She coughed, and swooned.

“
No! Please!”

*Seventeen!*

Brahm screamed
as agony pierced her wrist, and the silver edge of the knife sawed
off her hand.

***

Fang had run,
for days and nights, calling to her brothers, sisters, and her
children. She pushed her body almost as far as it would go. Yet she
was successful in her venture; some had responded to the summons
and they waited in the woods on the borders of the Plains. The
urgent cry was carried across the lands. The wolves were
needed.

She waited in
a grove, unable to run further.

The clan leaders will come.
They
will all come.

A thick scent
on the air caught her nose and she turned her attention. A black
wolf approached. He was followed by another, whose wiry, tawny body
stood shorter than the other.

The first one greeted her.
*
It has been some time, old
friend.*

She sniffed the air.
-Night.
Bane.
Are you
ready?
-

Bane stepped in front of the darker wolf
. *
Where is this boy?*

Night growled at him.
*In
time.*

He looked back to Fang.
*
Are you sure about this? We will
have only one chance.*

She nodded.
-Yes.-

***

Friar John
skirted a land that was filled with dying grass and insipid air.
The Witch Plains, this place was called. He smiled at the name.
Somehow it was fitting.

He had had to
take a wide berth around a group of people that were native to this
land, mixed with Lastborn and some other humans that smelled of
necromancy and weak summoning. He was unsure of their intent, or
why they were amassing here, but he knew this was not the gathering
for which he searched. There was another, and it lay further
west.

He continued
on, well past the congregation of exhausted-looking vagrants. He
moved as if something drew him towards it. He felt something old
and familiar pulling him, guiding his steps. This path was his to
take.

The sun beat
upon him and the sweat of his head slid along his temples and down
his unshaven cheeks. He took out a blade and shore off his hair in
clumps as he marched forward. There was relief from the faint
breeze that tickled the back of his neck.

John paused.
Before him an army waited. Among them were the Witch Hunters he’d
heard so much about; mindless drones to something much greater than
themselves. None of them approached, only a small creature that
John knew to be a goblin. It was shorter than even the shortest of
men. The little beasts were known for killing for sport when left
to run amok. This one showed some constraint as it waddled towards
him.

It tilted its
head, studying John. “This place is unsafe for travelers,” it said.
Its voice rasped.

The goblin was
repugnant to him and John wanted nothing more than to kick the
little beast and beat its crooked face into the earth. He loathed
them.

John looked
down upon the thing. “I have been called.”

“
You must submit to the testing.”

“
Bring forth whatever you would, goblin.”

The creature
looked to the west. There were bodies hanging from tree limbs, some
torn, some whole.

The little
beast grinned. “Those that have failed.”

A being came
forth and John saw its wings trailing behind its long strides. They
were black and shining. Its face was terrible, yet beautiful —a
face that instilled fear and awe. In its hand, it carried a sword
of flame. John knew him at once.

“
Uriel,” he said.

The archangel
studied him and then spoke. His voice was low and cruel. “Who are
you that you know my name?”

“
An assassin of the former Pope.”

The angel’s
face was unflinching. “I did not command Aloysius to send
help.”

John
paused.

Uriel did not
hesitate, sensing the dilemma. “You were not sent by Aloysius.”

John could not
lie. “No. The Pope sent me forth, but I was tempted by the summons
in the mirror.”

Uriel nodded.
“That which calls has great power.”

“
And I have come.”

“
An assassin is useful, although your talents could be better
used elsewhere.”

“
I am yours to command. You may search my heart.”