Michael (The Mark) (The Airel Saga, Book 4: Part 7-8) (21 page)

“Remember your lessons,” he said.

I nodded and settled down.

The demon prince spoke.

“Kreios. You have been on a little killing spree, my old friend. Some of the strongest clans fell under your hand. And now you come here. To my house.” A guttural laugh. “And the Daughter of El. She has found some new tricks to turn.” The demon looked down into the carriage and said something about a “Mr. Emmanuel” or something.

I looked into the carriage as it rocked under the weight of the monstrous demon. The wings of the beast drooped down far below the bottom of the car, and against the backdrop of the wheelhouse perched on the edge of the mountain, with its massive, arched mouth waiting to receive its travelers, the sight was medieval. Dragons and castles filled my mind.

But then two and two clicked together to make four: I recognized the hostage.

No. It can’t be him.
“Oh, no. Kreios. They have my dad.”

“Yes,” Nwaba cried. “Yes, I do. And I am unafraid to snuff out his pathetic life.” He bared his teeth and hissed at us.

“Be careful, Nwaba. You are not in a position to make threats,” Kreios shouted at him.

“Am I not?” the demon said.

With that, the goon in the car, who I guessed was Mr. Emmanuel, then shoved my dad almost entirely out the window, holding him back at the last moment.

“DAD,” I shouted, and then noticed that something wasn’t right. My dad was standing, true. But he looked like a puppet on a string, asleep, yet he still stood.

“Shall I drop him?” the goon Mr. Emmanuel said. “Or shoot you in the head?” He then aimed a pistol at me with his free hand.

“Keep moving; don’t hover,” Kreios said, and I took his advice, making little dodging movements in the air that would complicate, if nothing else, a pistol shot at that range, about one hundred feet, which I knew thanks to my new precision eyeballs.

The demon spoke up with a deep, guttural voice that made me shiver. “I want only one thing, Kreios. And you know what that is.”

“I do not,” he answered.

“Yes, you do,” the demon prince shouted. He was enraged. “How could you fail to see the most important piece of the puzzle, angel of El? Of course you know.”

Again, Kreios answered him, “I don’t know what you want. Whatever it is, demon, I will not give you anything.”

Nwaba screamed a vicious tantrum into the clear morning air. “Bring me the Alexander.”

Michael? Why would they want Michael?

“Bring me the Alexander, or I will kill her father.”

Panic started tearing at the edges of my mind.

Then I heard distant shouting, and I turned to look. There on the service catwalk of the upper wheelhouse, perched on the precipitous cliff, was Michael. He looked like he was ready for a fight.

“Nwaba,” he shouted down at us. “I am right here. Come and get me.”

Wait. What? How did he get there? And where is Ellie?

CHAPTER XII

THE DEMON PRINCE WASTED not a single passing thread in the web of time. He launched from the wires, flinging himself at Michael Alexander with a single mighty stroke of his great wings.

The cable car was thrust into severe bouncing motions as Nwaba pushed off, bobbing on the wires like a weight on a bungee. It fell, then launched upward, and then back down again violently.

The passengers inside were all thrown in different directions.

Mr. Emmanuel fell back, his grip on John broken by the forces at work. He crashed into the opposite wall of the car. The impact knocked the breath from him.

Kim, the host of the Bloodstone, slid into his feet. Either dead or unconscious, he didn’t know, and he did not care.

No, what Mr. Emmanuel cared about was John. He had lost control of him in the swinging motion of the car, being forced to watch in horror as his bargaining chip toppled over the rail and disappeared.

***

I SAW MY DAD falling and dove after him; there was nothing else to be done. It was horrifying. I managed to catch him, pulling up seconds before we hit the rocks below. He was unconscious, but he was breathing.
What is it with the men in my life needing me to rescue them all the time?

I had to find somewhere safe for him. I needed to get Kim. I had to help Michael. The more I thought about it, the more the impossibility of the whole thing became clear to me.

“I can’t do everything.” I had to do what I could do and trust El to do the rest. “Please, God. Keep them safe. Michael, Kreios, and Kim.”

I scanned the landscape and spotted a boulder-strewn clearing in the nearby mountains. But there was something there that made me gasp.

“Ellie.”

***

NWABA, THE DEMON PRINCE, plucked the boy Michael from the catwalk as easily as an eagle would snatch a trout from a lake, his talons wrapping like prison bars around the boy’s midsection. He flew off with his prey, moving swiftly for the business district of Cape Town, for his high tower.

Thoughts raced through his head; options. Perhaps the Alexander could lead him directly to what he desired most after all. Nwaba touched down on the rooftop of the tower by the big elm. He flung Michael to one side as he landed.

He scrambled away, moving toward the great elm tree, which was in full leaf.

Nwaba chuckled at his fear; it was delicious to him. “Now, boy, we can negotiate.” He now changed, the chameleon lord, into his favorite suit of clothes. His scaly skin became pure white, his tail thinned to a long wire, his face disturbingly humanoid.

Michael began climbing the tree, communicating fear on his face, in his movements.

Nwaba was amused. “What are you doing, boy? Come down, coward.” He pranced and mocked him, cackling wickedly.

Michael scampered farther up the tree, grabbing for branches, paying him no heed.

“Come now, boy. I won’t hurt you. We must talk, negotiate. I know you are the rightful heir to the Bloodstone. I just want to come to terms with you.”

“You know I don’t have it,” came a voice from within the foliage.

Nwaba was given pause. “So you say,” he said, “but that does not matter. Let us find it together.” He paused again, pacing, his wire tail whipping around. “I know it calls to you, boy. You are the heir. Surely you have heard its sweet whispers, as I have.”

No answer from the tree.

Nwaba crept nearer as he spoke. “Surely, Michael Alexander, you have heard what lies in store. You have seen and heard visions.” He was at the base of the tree, the sticky pads of his hands feeling around for a hold, the claws of his feet sinking into the green wood. He began to climb upward. “You are the Alexander.”

Silence from above.

“I know what conquests can be made. I can still choose a new host, you know that as well as I; you and I can unite and be truly magnificent.” Nwaba articulated his long wire tail upward into the branches of the tree as he climbed, probing for the boy. “Surely you share my thirst for domination.” His voice snapped in contempt for the present situation, for his apparent powerlessness to convince the boy of what he wanted, what he needed.

***

MR. EMMANUEL REGAINED HIS feet and began firing his pistol, loaded with .45 ACP magnum load hollow-points. First he had taken a shot at Airel, but she was too fast. She was there and then gone, diving after John. He growled in frustration. Then he took aim at the angel Kreios, who was the only one not moving. The first shot went wide.

The angel moved quickly. Before he could fire another shot, Kreios was inside the car, pushing him away from the door, one iron hand grasping his shirt and the other thrusting his pistol skyward.

He thought fast, waving the fingers of his non-firing hand. The hollow-point bullet he had just fired began to circle back around.

***

“COME NOW, BOY. DO not hide. You cannot hide from me. You cannot hide from the Bloodstone.”

The tail was now far above. It had threaded its snake-like way through the branches, up and over and through, and was now making its way back downward.

“You are the Alexander, boy.” Nwaba saw the boy’s foot resting on a branch before his very face. He smiled. He reached up and grabbed hold of it and then shot forward and up, thrusting his face into the face of the boy, spitting, “It has called your name.”

Michael was unperturbed.

This, for a split second, confused the demon prince.

“Yes, I know,” the boy said. He showed his hand, in which he grasped Nwaba’s tail. It had threaded its way through the tree, up and over a great limb and back down again, and the boy had shrewdly procured it for his own use. “But who are you?”

Very quickly, he looped the wire tail around Nwaba’s head, pulled it tight, and leaped from the tree.

***

KREIOS SQUEEZED POWERFULLY AGAINST the wrist bones of the man’s firing hand, first breaking them, then crushing them.

The man cried out in agony but the bullet was now on course; he smiled.

But the angel knew. He turned at the last minute, placing Mr. Emmanuel’s head directly into the bullet’s new line of trajectory. The last thing Mr. Emmanuel saw was the face of El’s most terrible angel, in most terrible aspect: victory.

***

NWABA WAS HANGED. HE struggled viciously for a few seconds, his eyes shut tight. When the visions that appeared before him became too terrible to bear, he opened them wide and beheld nothing but blackness. The host had expired. He had nowhere to hide.

CHAPTER XIII

KREIOS TOUCHED DOWN ON the rooftop of the tower to find Michael Alexander not only alive, but well.

“Michael,” he said, “I should kill you.” Kreios did not know what to think about the boy Airel loved. He had harbored so much unbridled hatred toward him since that day on the cliff top that looking at him now, he wondered where it had all gone.

“I also wrecked your truck,” the boy said simply. “Crashed into a big demon in Oregon.”

He was in earnest, which impressed Kreios. He could sense a sea of change within him. “No. I will not kill you right now. But the SUV… perhaps we will talk about that later.” He looked up into the tree as the demon Nwaba broke apart into ash and floated away in the breeze. “I will say, however, that I am now an admirer of your work.” Words were so much cheaper than actions, Kreios mused. He would see, but perhaps the boy deserved a chance after all.

“Thanks.” Michael shifted his feet, looking away. The awkwardness between them thickened.

Kreios looked at him. “You are well. How is this so?”

Michael showed him his chest, which was clear of any sign of the work of the Bloodstone. “Ellie healed me.”

“Ellie? Who is Ellie?”

“She’s a half-breed, an Immortal. We met her while we were trying to catch up with you. You know, along your trail of destruction. But—”

Kreios was grim. “Yes.” He thought for a moment. “I suppose I should apologize.”

Michael said nothing.

“Michael—”

“Look, this half-breed girl, Ellie. We don’t have time to talk. She needs help. When she healed me, something happened. And I’m afraid the only one who knows what we might be able to do is you.”

“Where is she?”

CHAPTER XIV

KREIOS AND MICHAEL LANDED in the little boulder clearing. He saw John lying in a patch of rough grass off to one side, still heavily drugged. Michael strode quickly over to Airel, who was kneeling before the prostrate form of a girl.
This must be the half-breed Ellie,
Kreios thought as he too approached them.

“Airel.”

Airel leaped to her feet and threw her arms around the boy, embracing him. “Michael, you’re … okay?”

“Yeah,” he said, looking down at the girl with eyes drenched in outsized responsibility and regret.

Kreios remained off to one side, looking at Michael’s expression.

“She saved me,” he managed, choking up. “Now she’s …”

“We have to do something,” Airel said, tears streaming down her face.

Michael pulled her closer to him.

Airel looked from Michael to Kreios with a spark of fear in her eyes. “Where’s Kim?”

“She …” Michael began. But he could not finish.

Airel’s face became white. She shook her head in disbelief, her eyes wide. She then fell into his arms sobbing. “No.”

Michael held her in his arms like a man would hold his bride of many years, consoling her, comforting her for some great loss, the grief of which he would be there to help her bear for years to come. Kreios was struck by the power of that image then, and the stock of the boy rose in his estimation once more.

So much pain and loss, and Kreios knew the taste of it well. Very well. Today one life had been snuffed. Kim was gone. Perhaps that was for the best, especially given how she had chosen … but it still didn’t reduce the sting, especially for Airel, he knew. But he could do something for this Ellie; maybe she could yet be saved.

He gently touched Michael’s shoulder. Their eyes met and Michael moved with Airel to one side.

As they moved away, Kreios looked down on the form of the half-breed girl, this Ellie.

He caught his breath, felt his legs go weak. He rushed forward and fell to his knees at her side, choking out his daughter’s name:
“Eriel?”

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

Aaron Patterson:

Aaron is the author of over ten bestselling novels. He was homeschooled and grew up in the West. Aaron loved to read as a small child and would often be found behind a book, reading one to three a day on average. This love drove him to want to write, but he never thought he had the talent. He wrote
Sweet Dreams
, his first book, in 2008. He lives in Boise, Idaho, with his family, Soleil, Kale, and Klayton. His daughter had an imaginary friend named
She
.

Chris White:

You know what they say—that behind every great man is an unstoppable rebel force—and it’s true. Like Moriarty was to Holmes, C.P. White is the reversed polarity doppelganger behind it all. Author C.P. White blogs about weirdness on the C.P. White Media Blog and spins dark tales—psychological thrillers that you’ll want to read with the lights on. Author Chris White works in the front office writing romantic YA paranormal fiction with Aaron Patterson, collaborates with illustrator Joey Zavaleta on the
Great Jammy Adventure
children’s books, and even plays sometime-editor to his award-winning author friends. Both personalities will fight to the death for a bowl of high-quality mac-n-cheese. C.P. doesn’t mind living with spiders, but only because his house is old and they were there first. Chris prefers riding bikes and playing nice; C.P. dislikes boring people on general principle and is apt to launch bottle rockets through open windows. Both agree that their least favorite thing is dog exhaust on the bottom of their shoe. You can learn more about author Chris White, as well as author C.P. White, at http://www.cpwhitemedia.com.