Paradox - Progeny Of Innocence (bk2) (Paradox series) (2 page)

The New World – Earth

Grace is not a little girl anymore! And as a teenager, Grace’s visions become more frequent, urgent, torturing her life further still. The answers she hopes to find in her visions only leave her asking more questions... who is Juliette?

When the charismatic Damon Draco begins to take an interest in Grace, it doesn’t take long before Grace falls for his alluring charm, a charm she doesn't quite understand. However, when Riley Rivers turns up in Grace's class one day, she starts to question the feelings she has for Damon.

Then death comes knocking... and when three of Grace’s school friends are found burned to death, and their parents die in a fatal car accident that same weekend, some start to wonder if it really was just a coincidence, or a contrived plan to wipe out an entire family? And if so, why, and by whom? And more importantly, will evil strike again?

You can bet your soul on it!

For as a lamb is brought to slaughter, so she stands, this innocent, before the king.

Geoffrey Chaucer:
Man of Law's Tale
, 1386

Altair – The Royal Palace

Year – 1081 AD

The beast, nothing more than a frail lamb, lay paralyzed and trembling on the glistening silver platter. It lay there, exposed, with nothing to accompany or protect.

"Really, you expect me to feed on this, this pathetic animal?" Abaddon snorted, standing with his arms folded tight across his puffed-up chest. He stared down at the animal that had been placed before him. The tiny, beady eye of the beast reflected the flames blazing hungrily in the massive stone fireplace. Black eyes rolled frantically to and fro in their orbits, searching Abaddon’s private dining chamber in an eager bid to procure a swift path to freedom. Regardless of the desperate animal's resolve to escape this predicament, the scales of justice did not offer mercy. This creature surely was a lamb to the slaughter.

The young Mongol girl with the black-inked forehead backed slowly away from the table, her hands clasped in tight fists behind her back. Her satiny skin glistened in the muted glow from the blazing torches hanging on the high stone wall behind her. Her head remained bowed in a show of fearful respect.

"Apologies, Master," she offered, in an effort to pacify Abaddon’s mounting anger.

With a quick flick of his wrist, he flung an ornate dining chair effortlessly across the room and into the crackling fireplace. Flames and a blast of glowing embers exploded across the room.

"This is outrageous; this is a meal fit for a peasant, and yet still you dare place it before me!" Abaddon’s fist smashed down hard on the surface of the mahogany dining table, shattering a lead crystal decanter and a single goblet. The blood-red liquid, freed from its crystal constraints, made a slow passage down the deep grooves in the timber tabletop before congealing droplets pooled on the marble floor below.

The girl flinched. "Shall I remove the animal, Master?" she asked, then quickly continued. "Perhaps you would prefer the taste of my flesh?" She pushed her long, black, flowing hair away from her shoulders, exposing her throat and barely-covered breasts.

"Hmmm," Abaddon murmured, considering her proposal. "What is your name?" he asked the girl, almost interested.

The blood vessel on her throat pulsed steadily beneath her flawless skin, summoning him closer. It was certainly a worthy offer, and one that he thought about now with careful consideration.

He glanced at the animal before him. A fresh spasm of fear bent the animal's head back at a grotesque angle. White froth foamed and dripped from the beast’s twisted mouth. Abaddon scowled. The girl certainly was offering him a worthier choice. The scales tipped…

"Temulun," she answered, softly, but with a hint of something resembling pride.

He studied her as one would a bug on a sliver of glass under a microscope, waiting for dissection.

"This would indeed be an honor for your family, if I were to accept this offer, would it not?" Abaddon said, circling Temulun, tracing his finger slowly down her slender throat, then further, beneath the meager brown fabric that only just managed to conceal her child-like breasts. He felt her heartbeat quicken beneath his fingertips, and smiled. "Lead us not into temptation, dear girl, but deliver us from evil..." He murmured the words softly in her ear. "Are you evil, Temulun?" he asked, circling her tiny frame.

"No, Master," she replied. "Your father honored our family once, many years ago, by taking my sister Cheren in the last Great War, when food had also become scarce. My family has been grateful for the opportunities that your father bestowed upon us."

"Ahh, yes. My father, the mighty Lord Grig. Before my beloved father’s unfortunate journey into the afterlife. Perhaps your sister was a curse, dear Temulun? She was, after all, the last one to see my father alive. Was she not?" Abaddon feigned a remorseful sigh. Bitter memories still toyed with his thoughts, burdening him with disappointment and resentment. He was acutely aware that his father had only ever had real affection for his brother Cerberus, and Theria, his sister. The Gods would certainly not help him if anyone were to gain knowledge that it had been by his, Abaddon’s, hand that his father had died, and not by the hand of a subordinate half-breed bastard son of his father’s.

"I do believe that your brother-" Temulun began.

Abaddon’s hand snapped up and squeezed Temulun’s mouth shut. "Do not ever speak of that half-breed bastard as being my brother. He is not worthy of that title. Do you understand me?" he asked, shoving her away forcibly.

Temulun stumbled and fell backward hard against the massive dining table, but did not fall. The second goblet teetered precariously for a moment, and then smashed to the floor at her feet.

"Apologies, Master. I will not make the mistake again," she said, wiping a trickle of warm blood from her lips.

He eyed her through narrowed yellow slits, but inwardly he was pleased. Pleased that she, too, thought it had been the bastard son who had taken his father’s life. The truth about his murderous deed was indeed still safe.

"See that you don’t, otherwise I will have your head on a stick for the eagle," he said, stalking away.

He swiped his hand through the air, and watched as splintered pieces of timber from the shattered chair and broken shards of glass flew effortlessly into the massive fireplace, forcing a plume of flames and grey smoke to spew out into the room. "Yes, yes, yes, I remember your sister only too well. My father was most pleased with Cheren’s offering. She was a beauty, your sister, as indeed you are." He glided toward her and lifted her chin abruptly with his finger, then leaned in and slowly snaked his tongue along the side of her face, tasting her. He had other plans for this girl named Temulun, he decided. Death would not be her fate on this day. "Go now," he demanded, waving her off with his hand, dismissing her.

"And the beast, Master, shall I-"

"Leave it," he spat. "Doors," he commanded.

Two black-clad Mongols with massive arms heaved the heavy timber doors open wide. Their long, thin beards, twisted and braided with ivory-colored beads made from human bones, dangled below their chins.

Temulun hesitated for a moment, then scurried quickly from the room, past the leering guards, praying that they had not overheard Abaddon’s rejection of her. She would not tell her family that she had been undesired by the Master. That he had preferred the flesh of the beast to her own. That humiliation, she would keep to herself. Perhaps he would allow her to please him in other ways. His unquenchable desires were far from a secret in the Realm. She would have another opportunity, as her sister had had, to complete her task. She was determined to fulfill her destiny and make her people proud.

Abaddon waited until the doors had completely closed behind the girl before he returned his gaze to the trembling beast in front of him. He studied the frenzied, unblinking eyes as they watched him, then looked further down to where a beating heart pounded hard against a soft, woolen chest. Snow white, and pure as the driven snow on the peaks of Mount An-nasr. He ran his hand along the beast, petting it, quieting it, soothing it, then he swiftly pulled his hand away and thrust his fist deep into the ribcage of the animal. He twisted his hand effortlessly through broken bone and sinew, and separated thumping heart from beast. He watched it for a moment with morbid curiosity as it pulsed spasmodically in the palm of his bloodied hand. Then he curled his lips back and lunged into it hungrily, savoring it as one would a perfectly ripe blood plum. The animal’s blood was warm and bittersweet on his tongue; it would suffice, ward off his appetite, for now. However, it would not be long until his uncontrollable thirst returned, for human blood and the gratification obtained from the mortal soul. The mortal soul: the forbidden fruit, the personification of immortality for his kind.

He swiped his bloodied hand across his chin. Droplets of blood marked the front of his white, ruffled shirt. He tilted his head back and let a guttural howl burst from his lips. Far below, in the darkness outside, he heard others respond in kind.

It was time, he decided, letting the heart fall away from his hand and onto the ground with a plop. The animal’s blood-drenched woolly chest was still now. Only the flickering flames from the crackling fireplace were mirrored in the glazed eyeballs, relaxed now in death. A pink tongue dripping with crimson saliva hung flaccidly from its open mouth.

Abaddon heaved himself at the massive timber doors and pushed them open wide, startling the two guards standing rigidly at the doorway outside. He saw no reason to delay any longer. It had been centuries since he had left the Realm.

Pandora sashayed up the arched hall toward him; she was eager to resume their earlier encounter - before Theria’s unexpected interruption.

"Abaddon, I-" she began, eyeing the bloodied fabric sticking to his chest.

"Not now," he said, cutting her off and walking past her without any further concern. His thoughts were solely driven by his unyielding desire for human blood, and, of course, the incredible high attained from the mortal soul. The blood of the beast had only quickened his craving for more.

"Then I will-"

"Go find someone else to entertain you," Abaddon said, irritated by the conversation. "I am sure there is somebody else floating around here somewhere that will pander to your incessant needs. Your husband, perhaps? That would be a change, now wouldn’t it?" He smiled, amused by his words. Then he began chanting as he strode away. "My dear beloved Father, which art now in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy Kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. Yes, on earth indeed," he chuckled. "Forever and ever…" Then Abaddon descended the curving staircase, five stairs at a time, until he reached the bottom only seconds later.

Pandora turned away and snorted, "Idiot..." She walked swiftly toward the two men standing on either side of the massive doors, and stood for a moment, appraising them. To the larger, taller man she said, "Come, I have something for you to do." She ran his twisted beard across the palm of her hand, rolling the beads between her fingers, then tightened her grip on the man’s long, black, braided whiskers and led him away.

Abaddon swept across the floor until he came to the centre of the majestic foyer. He positioned himself on an elaborate gold engraving of a giant oak tree carved in the black marble floor. A portal to the outer worlds. He raised his arms, imitating the overwhelming structure of Christ the Redeemer, and prepared for his fall. The floor at his feet began to quiver and slowly fall away, exposing a bottomless starlit abyss below the golden oak beneath his feet. A violent spasm contorted his shoulders. Seconds later, black feathered wings shot out from between his shoulder blades and rippled with anticipation.

Suddenly, the massive timber doors, embossed with an imposing golden eagle, flew open, startling him. His head snapped around. His eyes bored into the eyes of this unexpected intruder. A guttural hissing sound seethed through his clenched teeth. His stare was met with a set of almost equally yellow eyes. The marble floor beneath his feet solidified once again. He exhaled as his massive wings slowly recoiled and were gone.

"Oh brother, I did not mean to startle you," Cerberus chuckled as he discarded his heavily engraved sword and shield noisily on the floor. He unlatched a golden clasp at his throat, whipped a black knee-length cloak, trimmed in red, off his shoulders and dragged it across his forehead and his matted fair hair. Then he wiped the heavy fabric down his chest before letting it drop to the floor beside his booted feet. He wiped his hands down his black leather thighs, then pulled his brother toward him, embracing him. He pounded his hands on Abaddon’s back and released him. "I have missed you, my brother."

"And I you, brother," Abaddon replied, with a smile that did not reach his eyes. He raised his hands and clapped them sharply together. The crack of his hands resonated off the cold stone structure bracing the high embossed ceiling overhead. Lifelike paintings of twelve winged Guardians, clothed in long flowing robes, looked down from above. Their magnificent white wings arched high above their heads and met at the apex of the domed ceiling, where a replica of the golden oak mirrored the emblem on the floor directly below.

Temulun quickly appeared, a silver-haired girl scurrying dutifully behind her. Abaddon studied the girl as she came to an awkward halt beside Temulun. The appearance of this girl mystified Abaddon. Such an exquisite little creature, he mused.

Unlike Temulun’s Khitan coloring of yellowish skin and black-brown almond eyes, typical of her Mongol heritage, Keyla’s skin was porcelain white, almost translucent. She was tiny, a good two hands shorter than Temulun, and her waist-length hair was a cascade of glossy silver strands, decorated with an assortment of tiny colored bells and ribbons. Around her slender neck was a string of shiny red beads. She had the bluest of eyes, Abaddon could tell, although she did not raise them to meet his penetrating gaze, but stood silently behind Temulun.

A Bakhna Rakhna child, Abaddon concluded, raising his eyebrows in surprise.

* * *

The Bakhna People had all but become extinct from the Imperial city of Altair during The Great War, eons past. Those few who had survived the brutality of The Great War had fled empty-handed and on foot in the dead of night. Clothed in fine silks, leather sandals adorning their feet, they began the long, arduous journey in a bid to reach their homeland in the southern mountains. Firstly, the journey would take them through a mystical realm, the Forest Of Doors, where the enemy, superstitious in the ways of old, would not follow.

The Forest People, whose bloodlines spanned thousands of centuries, were both revered and feared. Their magic was powerful and their abilities were many. The Goddess Danu, the divine mother of all Celtic Gods, wisdom and wind, ruled the Forest Kingdom and its people. Her people protected and nurtured all things flora and fauna, from the tiniest bug to the grandest of trees. They respected and lived as one with Mother Nature, and reverently protected her vast Kingdom. In return, Mother Nature provided food, clothing, and shelter for the Forest People.

The Forest People welcomed the Bakhna Rakhna as their ancestors had once done. They taught the Bakhna the ways of their forest and its people, the living and the dead. They taught them the magic of the massive Oaks, Ash, Apple, Goat Willow, and Yew, the sacred trees of the forest: which ones provided nourishment, and which ones were lethal and would kill in a heartbeat.

During the day the village men tended fields of potatoes, barley, carrots, and onions. They herded cows, sheep, and pigs. The women gathered nuts and fruit from the forest. Wild berries, melons, and roots from the Dandelion were plentiful. Herbs were gathered for healing and magic. The village centre, built on a grassy knoll on the edge of the surrounding forest, was dotted with squat stone huts, with thatched roofs that provided shelter at night. In the evenings, men, women and children, their arms full of fresh produce and other wares, would meet in the village center to trade. Long rows of timber tables and benches were arranged under a high thatched roof. In the centre was a kitchen, where pots bubbled over open fires as goose and chicken eggs bobbed up and down in the boiling water. Various others were filled with lamb stew, fish, and vegetables. Sweet breads, bacon and cabbage pies were baked in stone ovens. The women busied themselves smoking fish and goats’ cheese with wood chips from the Oak. Some of the older women nursed babes, knitted woolen tunics, or darned clothing manufactured from the pulp of the Beech tree. The menfolk tended their stills, discussed the day’s news, the next crop due, a cow in labor, the change of the weather, or simply gossiped. Tall wooden goblets were filled with warm, freshly brewed beer, wine, or goat’s milk for the children. After the evening meal, the Bakhna and Forest People huddled together around fires fueled by branches from the Beech tree, and told spirit stories of the time before time. Young men sang and played tunes on small timber flutes, drums, and fiddles. Couples danced and small children squealed with delight as fireflies danced about their heads.

And when the evening birds sang at the close of each day, beckoning the nocturnal creatures to wake, it was a signal for parents to lay children to rest. Whispery fingers of smoke from hearths drifted lazily from thatched rooftops. A mismatch of patchwork fabrics stitched and stuffed with hay and wool provided soft bedding. One by one the candles and lanterns from the huts began to burn down.

Deep in the forest, a muted glow rose from behind a dense wall of forest trees. A ring of massive stone pillars, some standing as much as forty-six hands high and weighing forty tons, stood rigid and towered over an inner circle of smaller, bluish stones. In the center of this monument stood a small, yet forbidding, castle constructed from stone and polished trunks from the ancient oak trees. Lanterns burned brightly in arched window frames, attracting masses of tiny flying insects. Small black bats swarmed frantically about the lanterns, and gorged themselves from dusk to dawn on the buzzing morsels. When the blue moons rose higher in the night sky, flanked by a million and one stars, parts of the forest slipped into a deep sleep as others began to wake. Somewhere, not too far away, an owl hooted as it winged its way high among the treetops to begin its evening rounds. Soon, from the shadows, others followed suit.

* * *

Seven days later, with sacks filled with smoked fish, cheese, boiled eggs, nuts, berries and waterskins bloated with fresh river water, it was time for the Bakhna people to begin the next leg in their journey home. They stood quietly on the edge of the thick forest, laden with their supplies, and peered out apprehensively across the vast, desolate red sands of the Utopia desert, a stark contrast from the rich, ancient forest surrounds they were preparing to leave. Babes strapped to mothers’ bosoms and infants perched high on fathers’ shoulders, they began their arduous trek into the blistering desert lands. With only remote clusters of oases to replenish their quickly diminishing supplies, the journey would be one endured with many hardships.

By day the harsh sun burnt their fair skin, and by night the bitterly cold sandstorms stung and marked their flesh like a thousand beestings. The storms were so fierce that they obliterated even the brightest of the blue moons overhead.

The Atnangker tribal people came forward on the fifth day of their journey. However, by this time many of the older Bakhna people, weak with dehydration, had perished in the sand. Some had taken to stealing away in the night, so as not to become a burden.

The Atnangker people had black, wavy hair and dark skin, a stark contrast to the pale features of the Bakhna people. Their dark faces were decorated with the traditional dots and stripes of their tribe. They had lived on these desert lands since the beginning of their dreamtime. The brutal weather conditions, that had kept them safe from all predators, they feared not. The soul of each Atnangker man, woman, and child, the legend said, had been created, each one in turn, by a single grain of sand held in the palm of the Dreamtime God of Creation.

Had it not been for Diyari, the dark-skinned tribal princess of the Atnangker desert people, and their generous offerings of plump, glutinous sand grubs and rich, ripe, bittersweet berries for nourishment, the placid Bakhna people, now short on provisions and strength, would never have survived the remainder of the long treacherous journey.

Diyari was just 18 in dreamtime years. She was a striking sight, with her round, dark eyes and long, dark legs. She wore a tight-fitting garment fashioned from the hide of a camel. A long wave of dark hair framed her face, decorated with tiny red beads made from seeds. Ancient tribal markings were flawlessly imprinted on her dark, velvety skin. She was worshiped reverently by the Atnangker tribal people across the desert lands. She was the chosen one, and held all the wisdom and knowledge bestowed upon her by the Dreamtime Gods.

It was said that on the night she was born, the Dreamtime Gods had gazed down upon her in wonder from heaven as she suckled at her mother’s breast. The Gods, humbled by her beauty, gifted her with all the wisdom from the Dreamtime. Then, on the day that Diyari took her first step, the Dreamtime God of Fire instructed the sun to shine brighter so as to cast Diyari’s shadow out across the flat desert lands, turning them red beneath her feet. Her shadow would be a beacon for her people. At night, the Dreamtime God of Air exhaled and lifted the sands, forming red, mountainous dunes to protect her from harm while she slept. The thorny sand-dragon lizards that the Atnangker children had once played with in their hands had grown overnight on her seventh birthday, and now stood thirty hands high. Her Dragon Armies were plentiful, and hers to command at will.

At sunset, when the sun melted into the horizon, Diyari ordered her people to spirit the peaceful Bakhna underground into a catacomb of caves with brightly painted rock walls depicting the dreamtime legends of all Atnangker people since the beginning of time. The dark-skinned children with their large black eyes and flat noses giggled as they ran their fingers through the shimmering silver hair of the white Bakhna children, making the tiny bells jingle noisily. At night, safely entrenched underground, the Atnangker tribal women taught the children, black and white, to make jewelry from shiny seeds collected from the Bat’s Coral trees that were spotted scantily across the vast desert lands. When sleep drew near, the children huddled together and slept silently, curled up in blankets and camel hides on the floor around small clusters of fires to keep them warm. Only the crackling fire and the occasional tinkle of a bell when a child squirmed in sleep pierced the eerie silence of the underground fortress. Outside, the winds tore and howled throughout the night, shaping and shifting the mountainous red sand dunes until each trace, each footfall was swept completely away.

During the day the Bakhna people, draped now in heavy camel skins to protect them from the scorching sun, were whisked from one Atnangker tribe to another under the protection of Diyari and her cortège of personal guards. And each night was spent safely underground around crackling log fires, listening to dreamtime stories told by the elders of the tribe.

The last days of their journey, where the sand dunes began to fall away, although still long and tortuously slow, had been made easier by traveling by camel and the thorny sand dragons.

Overhead, the giant eagles flew in from the south. Their piercing squawk called out raucously and guided the Bakhna closer toward home. Their massive bodies dipped then rose gracefully on the shifting air currents. When at last they reached the sanctuary of the Crossing and were almost home, the Bakhna, tired and weatherbeaten, knelt, and in small voices they gave blessings to Diyari and her desert people for their kindness. The Bakhna people gifted the Princess and the dark-skinned children with tiny bells and ribbons from their hair. In return, the Atnangker people gave beaded bracelets and necklaces made from the shiny red seeds.