Michael (46 page)

John struggled against his bonds but said nothing.

“But my motivation is stronger. And I have many, many more resources.” Mr. Emmanuel drew near and began to talk into John’s ear. “And…I know something you don’t know.” He said it in a singsong voice. He couldn’t resist.

John looked up at his captor now, hatred and a lust for vengeance burning through his eyes at the man.

Mr. Emmanuel feigned shock, gasping. “Oh! What. Did you think I was going to tell you?” Laughter. “Oh, no, John. Oh, no.” He turned aside briefly and drew an object out of his pocket. “You know what this does, right?” He held the object before his prisoner’s face.

John’s expression revealed the slightest amount of recognition and fear, but it was gone just as quickly as it had appeared.

“Yes, you do!” Mr. Emmanuel laughed insanely. “Yes, you know precisely what this does. It applies pressure. Gets me what
I
want.”

“Tell you what,” John said, “How about we make a deal.”

Mr. Emmanuel arched his brows and leaned over his prey.

“How about this: How about we dispense with the theatrics, you release me from this table, and then I kill you with my bare hands? How about that?”

Mr. Emmanuel shook his head in amazement. “Wow, John. You surprise me.” He removed the protective cover from the syringe he held in his hand, primed it, raised it high and then slammed it straight down, the needle piercing John’s heart, injecting the drug straight into his system. Through bared teeth, Mr. Emmanuel said, “It’s always the quiet ones, isn’t it?”

John gasped for air, eyes wide.

Mr. Emmanuel withdrew the syringe with contempt, throwing it across the room.

John faded and then passed out.

Mr. Emmanuel kicked the chair over, walking for the door in fury.

CHAPTER VII

IT WAS UNAVOIDABLE NOW. Nwaba stood to his feet, alarmed.
Alarmed?! No. Surely not.
He was not alarmed. Not even concerned. His troops would soon bring him word, bring him the girl, bring him the Sword of Light—that cursed and wretched blade that had been stolen from Tengu by the interloper Kreios.

But he could feel the presence of El now, and indeed he was concerned. Even alarmed. Because for Nwaba, the presence of El was not a good thing.

He began to lose control, to act irrationally, to succumb to inevitable fear. He felt like a small child, a child unattended who’d been intentionally disobedient while Daddy was gone, in full knowledge of the coming punishment.

And now Daddy was home.

Nwaba scurried from his chamber down the corridors of the penthouse, toward the room where Mr. Emmanuel was keeping the bait man, John.

Nwaba met his host at the door; he was just closing it.

“We have not much time!” Nwaba spat at Mr, Emmanuel, his color and form becoming slightly blurry as his mind wavered over the possibilities. “What are you doing?”

“Applying pressure.”

“Fool; El’s agent is coming! WE MUST ACT NOW!” He roared and flung the door open.

As he entered the room he saw John in deep unconsciousness, bound to the slab. He was enraged. “What did you do to him?” He made large strides across the polished black tiles.

Mr. Emmanuel was following close behind. “He will be all too ready to spill his guts soon,” he said. “The drug needs time to take effect.”

“I need him to be coherent now, pawn!” He cursed, roaring his displeasure at Mr. Emmanuel. Nwaba had closed the distance to the bait man John. He grasped the edge of the altar slab, threw back his head and let out a shrill and terrible call, like a bird immense enough to roar. In response, the flames rose in the trough that ringed the room, licking upward on the wall. Nwaba’s wire-thin tail whipped around.

From a dark recess in the ceiling there descended eight dark shapes crawling downward. They scratched their way outward in a radius from the hole, making a circle as they hung upside down above the room, enclosed within their blood-red wings. Joining these were three jittery fungus encrusted Anti-Cherubs. They crawled upside down on tubule fingers that suctioned them to the black domed ceiling, creeping in spastic movements, their faces sniffing at the putrid air, observing what could be observed.

“Mr. Emmanuel,” Nwaba said, his gaze unflinching, “Bring the transition host. Whether we have the Bloodstone or not, we must begin the ritual.”

The eight figures on the ceiling then began their animalistic chant, the three Anti-Cherubs vibrating with pleasure at the spectacle.

The master was calling.

From Nordhoek to Muizenberg, from Simon’s Town to Morningstar, Strand to Camps Bay, the call rang out. From behind rubbish bins in alleyways, from under rocks, from the vineyards of Stellenbosch to the urban wilds of the Tokai Forest, men joined with their Nri Brothers and rallied to the call of the master Nwaba. It was time. The Nri would rise.

Kreios heard it. He knew what was coming. Ten stories below the penthouse, he stopped and waited, listening. He had only taken a few, perhaps a hundred. There would be thousands more now, and they were all converging upon their evil master Nwaba.

Kreios quieted himself and waited for El. Everything hung in the balance now. What he did next would seal—or unseal—the next thousand years. And it would only be a beginning, but…it must be the right one.

My feet hit bottom. A wave rolled over me, toppling me forward. I had to give one last burst.
Come on, Airel, you can finish. Push it.
I did. With a few more strokes I was in the shallows and the surf was receding. I made a clumsy exhausted run for it to avoid the next incoming wave, stumbling up onto the beach until the waves could only kiss my ankles, no longer a mortal threat.

I was breathing very hard. I was completely spent. I sat down on the beach in my underwear in the darkness and rested for a moment. I couldn’t believe I had done it. Now I could concentrate on trying to get some help.
And some freaking clothes?!
I was glad it was dark.

Judging by the state of activity around me, I figured it was well after midnight. The witching hour. When all the freaks were out.

I looked around me, trying to figure out where I was. I was on a beach that was studded with massive rocks and boulders. There was all kinds of activity going on; little shapes darting here, there and everywhere. Penguins.
Okay. That’s weird. Penguins? Really?
They were kind of cute, though. Little black-and-white waddlers. I had to smile, even though I was just about as naked as they were.

How am I going to find clothes?
At least before I went off walking down the street shouting for help, I needed to cover myself.

She
spoke up.
“Bertha’s.”

I sighed. I shook my head and stood up, trying to dust as much wet sand off my butt as possible. I had to play the game. Take what I could get and watch my attitude. That was all. I looked around me. There were some buildings standing off a ways. Some of them looked like hotels, others like private houses. In the other direction there were some huge docks poking out into the water with a big navy boat parked at one of them.
Parked? I guess a Navy guy wouldn’t say ‘parked,’ but that’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

I decided to start walking. Away from the Navy guys and their battleship or whatever. Perhaps I could use their help
after
I found clothes, but not before that. Perhaps I would find something at Bertha’s like
She
had said, which, I assumed, was a clothing store with an open window or something. Trying to understand
She
was a monumental task sometimes, but I was glad for what little info I got.

After I walked up the beach a little way, past a sign that read: Simon’s Town, I saw a big, long canary yellow building with gabled green roofs pitched over its windows. It looked like a resort, so I thought it was a good place to start. I kept walking until I saw the sign hanging out over the boardwalk:
Bertha’s.

“Sweet!” I said, breaking into a run. I tried to keep away from the pools of light made necessary by civilization, but it was not easy. The closer I got to the hotel, the harder it became.

Finally I ducked into a little nook in the wall made by the shape of the building. I was wet, covered in grimy sea water, and a little desperate. I racked my brain, trying to think over what I was going to do. I was at Bertha’s; I had made it that far.
Now what?

My hand brushed the corner of the wall as I peeked out from my not-quite-dark-enough hiding place. I scanned the area for clues. And then I saw something. Not far off, draped over the fence that surrounded a large pool area, were some towels and what looked like some clothes someone had set out to dry.

Come on…be something I can use!

I ran to the fence and looked through the stuff. I didn’t hear anyone shout anything at me; it didn’t seem like anyone was out at this late hour as I glanced around. I just focused on the clothes.

A towel, another towel, some cargo shorts…
I rummaged like mad. “Yes!” I said a little too loudly. I had found a white button-up top. Sure it was a little too big, but for crying out loud it would work for now and that was all I cared about. I quickly shrugged into it and then, grabbing the cargo shorts, barefooted my way back to my little cubbyhole. I buttoned up the shirt—it was way bigger than I had originally thought, but a quick knot in the bottom hem fixed that problem.

I crossed my fingers as I pulled on the cargo pants.

I giggled. They were about a foot too long and just as wide. I pulled the drawstring as tight as I could and cuffed them up to my knees. I looked like a refugee, but I was thankful at least for clothes to wear.

A burst of laughter shot out over the boardwalk, knifing through the night. It spooked me, but I realized it was just a bunch of people partying into the wee hours of the morning in their room, the balcony door wide open. They hadn’t seen me.

I turned up the path toward the café, trying to act like I belonged there.

My hair felt slimy and gross, but I was once again a girl. It felt awesome.

Now to find help.

I stumbled a little; my head was spinning. My stomach growled.
Okay, first things first: I desperately need something to eat.
“All right,
She.
Whatchagot?”

CHAPTER VIII

Cape Town, South Africa, present day

NWABA UTTERED GUTTURAL CLICKS, a language of the damned, of the fallen. He stood in the center of the circular room, the fire ringing its perimeter augmented now, the flames enlarged and intense, licking ever higher at the tops of the walls. The eight red-winged creatures hanging above echoed the ritualistic song, amplifying its effect, the three Anti-Cherubs issuing forth upside down with exhortations in unknown tongue.

In the center of the floor below, the body of Kim lay on the slab. Mr. Emmanuel, now robed in black, read incantations from an ancient book. John the bait man, still unconscious, was now suspended directly above Kim’s body by chains that descended from the black hole in the ceiling.