Homeward Bound (Journeyman Book 1) (22 page)

IT WAS A BUSY
and brisk morning in New York City as the clock struck nine, traffic reaching its peak while the population took out their aggressions through incessant honking and shouting.

An athletic man, dressed in vintage tweed and a matching hat, rushed along Broadway, dodging oncoming pedestrians. The smells wafting off the food carts teased his senses when he passed by, breakfast having been skipped that morning due to a late alarm.

As luck would have it, he had timed his journey perfectly, catching nearly all of the crossings as they changed to red and being forced to wait. He was left to fidget with his many ear piercings mercilessly to pass the time.

Dashing a few more blocks – traffic laws be damned – he finally made it to 50th. Rounding the corner, he nearly took out an old woman and though he narrowly missed, those colorfully choice words of hers didn't miss his ears.

Letting out a little laugh at the notion that someone's grandma would be swearing that much, he came upon a large roll up door outside one of the theaters. To the left, a simple pedestrian entrance led into a car park, set behind the bars of a heavy but worn security door. It was shut tight and even had a rusty padlock on the hasp, just in case the notion of keeping out evaded anyone passing by.

Speaking of which, he thought to get inside before anyone noticed him loitering. He had no desire to enter the parking lot itself; in fact Marcus Sheridan hadn't owned a car since the middle of 1995. However, he did want to go where the massive gray door would take him.

“This is Marcus Sheridan, Journeyman XI,” he spoke commandingly.

As any normal person would expect, no reply came from the inanimate steel, but Marcus was in the Order and the lack of response took him by surprise. He coughed and repeated the statement, after which there was still silence.

Getting frustrated, he kicked at the lowest part of the door and the whole thing shook noisily. Suddenly a response came from the clatter, as if the door itself were speaking.

“Now, Mr. Sheridan,” said an altogether hollow voice, “is that any way to treat Order property?”

“Well,” he snapped back quickly, “if the guardsman’s response was faster, I wouldn't have to resort to damaging doorways to get attention.”

The voice fell silent once more.

He furiously knocked against the gray slats, the ink on his hand jostling into a blur. “Um… hello?”

“Password,” it responded, falling quiet again as it waited for his answer.

“Wha… What do you mean password? My credentials have always been sufficient!” he said indignantly.

“New requirements have gone into effect as of this very morning, sir, due to current events.”

“The Noctis?” he asked.

“I am not at liberty to say,” it replied indifferently. “Password, please.”

Marcus scratched at thick scruff, light brown and peppered with gray. “So, how am I supposed to know the password if we were never issued one to begin with?”

The Order’s methods could at times be incredibly frustrating and that morning was no exception. Marcus began to pace in annoyance and would surely be noticed by people if he didn't get inside soon.

He paused, pretending to rest against the wall while sorting through the vast Rolodex of facts stored up in his head. As Lead Analyst, there weren't many tidbits of information that got by him. Now he knew there wouldn't be many chances at a guess if a password protocol was in effect and likely, there would be only one if the Noctis did indeed have anything to do with this. He definitely wanted to be right, not only because he would be shut out of his place of work, but there was also no telling what the penalty would be for an incorrect answer.

After a few minutes spent mulling it over, he settled on a line from the Order’s creed which was recited at induction ceremonies. It was in reference to the golden mean - a position of balance between two extremes like good and evil. It was certainly a risk to choose it, plucked quite at random, but it was not any more a liability than the myriad of other possible choices. He supposed since it was part of a short phrase that all Journeymen would know by heart, it made the most sense.

“
Aurea mediocritas,
” he said with both eyes closed, half expecting to be vaporized right there on the spot. When he didn't feel a thing, he peeked an eye open and found everything still in one piece.

Or perhaps not…

The back of his neck suddenly got very hot, spreading over his entire body like a fever; the effects of an invisibility field were dousing him.

The metal in front of him curled its way forward as the corrugated door split, a gigantic shape stepping out toward him. However, instead of squashing him like a bug, it stepped off to the side to reveal a shimmering portal in the vacant spot where it had stood. Beyond that was a cavernous hall.

“You are correct,” said the guardsman, extending its arm invitingly. “Welcome back to the New York offices of the Grand Order of Journeymen, Mr. Sheridan.”

“Much obliged,” he said politely, swiftly stepping into the portal.

A tightness formed in the lower part of his back, dragging him forward at great speed as if a rope were tied around his waist. He managed to avert the oncoming blackout this time, which is more than could be said for himself ten years ago.

He had been whisked away from 50th to the entrance hall, located about a mile away in the upper levels of a skyscraper on Central Park West. Stumbling slightly when he arrived on the shiny marble floor, its glossy coating reflected back a disheveled version of himself.

Immediately straightening out his hat and other accessories, Marcus looked around the ornate and equally lustrous chamber. It was three stories tall and lined on either side with marble encased balconies capping off long corridors of identical white doors. There were expansive windows ahead of him, offering a grand view of the autumn colors and a massive dome that swept overhead. It was painted with a Renaissance mural of angels and demons locked in an eternal battle in the sky, while the modern symbol of the Order - a hammer, howdah pistol, and sword overlaid to form a triangle - was emblazoned on a large stone tile in the very center.

To his surprise, there were very few Journeymen walking about this morning; it was quite odd considering the area was normally packed with people, all sorts of creatures, and a lot of office gossip.

A sole gargoyle walked in front of the windows ahead of him, his naked and stoney skin catching flecks of the morning light. One level below, a man in similar attire to his own walked across the expansive floor, a beautiful griffin of brown and white with an owl-like face following close beside. Before heading to his own office, Marcus propped himself up on the iron balustrade and continued to watch as the man mounted the creature, flying off from a platform out and across the park, disappearing into the sky. Such beauty and grace; this was why he loved the Order.

A short time later he reached his office and opened the door to his windowless corner of the corporate world. He was greeted by stacks of paperwork sitting in his inbox, strewn across his desk, and even waiting for him in his seat.

Trudging over to the desk, he moved the stack of papers off of the ergonomic chair and placed them onto the already heaping mound on the desktop. He sat down with a look of shock; never had this many reports appeared overnight.

There was no other place to start than the top, so he began to plod through the huge reams. What jumped out almost immediately was the sheer number of reports from outposts reporting increased demon activity and the sightings of all manner of dark creatures, an abundance of them coming from the West Coast and along the northern border. All of this was quite strange, as most activity in the States was relegated to the northeast and south, with the odd occurrence happening in the Midwest or four corner states and of course the proliferation of vampire covens in Texas. Most of those had been taken care of by Gage Crosse.

Ah Gage, now there was a Journeyman living the life, not stuck between four walls analyzing statistics and reports as the highlight of his day. How the Order had changed since the Incursion. Marcus secretly longed for life on the road, despite the hazards and unpredictability of it.

He spotted some messages mixed in among the papers from longtime colleague Om Citta. The topic was all about ancient artifacts and despite his kindled interest, Marcus would have to review those later when there was more time. The priority now was figuring out what the Noctis were up to.

From what he could gather over the next two hours of painstaking review, the demons had suddenly attacked and possibly even infiltrated some of their most distant outposts in Oregon and along the Great Lakes, all of which had ties of some manner to the location and operation of the stateside vaults. Housed within those were some of the most dangerous items in the world. The demons were likely planning to raid them for powerful tools to help them gain strength and for other nefarious purposes, but Marcus couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to this, much more that laid hidden between the lines. Regardless, he didn’t like it and it made him incredibly uneasy.

He swiveled in his chair to face an elegant rotary phone tucked away at the corner of his desk, its twisted cord poking out from underneath the piled up paperwork.

“Edith,” he said after lifting the golden handset and dialing seven. “I need to schedule a meeting with the Council.”

“Yes, Mr. Sheridan, of course. When are you looking to do so? Their current calendar of events takes them to next Thurs -”

“I need to see them today,” he interrupted, the seriousness in his voice could not be denied. “I fear we do not have much time.”

There was no choice in his mind, a Grand Assembly would need to be called.

BENNETT PEAK WAS A
monolith that stood alone amongst the rest of the flatlands of New Mexico, along the cursed stretch of road formerly known as the Devil’s Highway. Although the humans renamed that stretch to the boring US Route 491, it was still known by its old name to many.

Its isolated location and natural rock formations provided the perfect cover for the Noctis and their operations, although due to the area’s public reputation and ties to the supernatural, they kept their numbers small to lessen the risk of detection. Thus far they were able to remain hidden from the Journeymen, while any odd, unsuspecting hikers would become a part of their ranks, or worse.

The sun had moved into position at high noon, uncaring for what went on underneath as it dumped copious amounts of heat onto the landscape. A sudden flash of lightning burst from unseen clouds, heralding the arrival of Keli at the secret base.

Immediately, she set to walking up to the tallest point, looking out at the drab landscape around her as a hot breeze caught her hair. The expanse stretched for miles in all directions and here she was, now able to breathe and to think – her thoughts free like the stirring sands below

She found beauty in the utter desolation and this was why she loved the Noctis.

“Your Grace,” came a gritty voice from behind. It was the demon Ronove, primary watcher of the peak. “Welcome. We have just received updates on our alliances per your request; would you care for an update?”

His skin was brown and parched like the grasses below them and he bore a rickety staff in his wizened hands. Pleats of dull fabric wrapped loosely around his frail body, rippling in the ongoing breeze.

She took a moment for a last look to the horizon before turning to him, her blue eyes meeting his sunken, colorless ones. There was an emptiness there that, unlike the desert, made her feel barren and somber.

“Yes, of course,” she said, withdrawing her gaze and stepping past him down the steps.

He followed closely behind her, stopping when faint, anguished chirping reached his ears. He paused, looking for the source of it, and soon found an ailing sparrow tucked in amongst the folds of stone. Its wing had been broken and was twisted back on itself. Its feathers ruffled and sickly. Ants were crawling over its body, biting and eating as it squirmed in the dirt.

“Poor, decrepit soul,” Ronove said calmly. He placed his weight onto the staff and slowly dropped down to one knee. Extending a hand, it hovered inches away from the suffering creature and then, with a subtle
pop
, it was dead.

A faint whorl of light rose up from its body and into his arthritic fingers, becoming a strand of his robes when he stood back up.

He carried on down the steps to meet up with Keli in the caverns, soon reaching the base of the winding stairs where she stood waiting for him.

“Delayed?” she asked pointedly.

“Only slightly,” he replied peacefully. “Helping a suffering soul be free.”

She had stopped underneath a single pillar of light that streamed down from the outside. Behind her, a great door hung from a towering frame and across its ebony surface of glass were wicked carvings of heinous things unlike the world had ever seen. From the other side, something knocked, forever waiting to be answered.