The Dark Storm (4 page)

She was an attractive young woman with olive-colored skin and sharp facial features. Even through the baggy jeans he could see that she was curvaceous, though it would be a few years yet before she finally reached womanhood. Her dark braided hair and Latin features reminded him of an Aztec princess he’d once known, but her posture was of that of a warrior, as it was with all her lot. The old man waited until she was almost right on top of him before he stepped into the light.

The old man removed the wool cap that was doing a poor job of containing his long white hair and bowed from the waist. “What a pretty bag; might I help you carry it?”

The girl spun, braids whipping about her face and knife at the ready. After what had happened the night before she wasn’t taking any chances. “Mister, if you knew like I did you’d get lost. This is a problem you don’t want!” she
snarled. He could smell the rage mounting in her, so he took a step back, knowing what would come if he pushed.

“My stars and garters, I’ve offended you, haven’t I? Forgive an old man for overstepping his bounds, ma’am. I just thought that with such a heavy parcel you might’ve needed a bit of help.”

“It’s not that heavy; I’ll manage,” she said, and continued on her way.

“The weight of an item isn’t always a physical thing,” he called after her. The girl ignored him and kept going. The old man watched her form disappear in the direction of the campus and rubbed his hands together. “The Iron Maiden meets the Hunter. This should be interesting,” he mused before fading back into the shadows.

Fifteen minutes later, Gabriel had just about cleaned up the mess that Carter’s prank had caused. Fortunately for Gabriel, nothing was broken. As he was replacing the volumes he’d been reading through back on the shelves, he heard footsteps in the hall. He sighed. “Carter, why don’t you stop being a dick? That joke is old already.”

“I’ve been called worse,” a female voice called behind him.

Gabriel spun and saw that it wasn’t Carter approaching. The girl standing in the doorway looked to be about his age, possibly younger. She wore a black, form-fitting T-shirt and baggy blue jeans over black boots. Pushing a loose braid behind her ear, she sized Gabriel up.

“Oh, ah … sorry, I thought you were someone else.” He tried to hide his embarrassment but did a horrible job of it.

“Apparently so. Listen, I didn’t mean to barge in on you, but the door was open.”

Gotta remember to lock the damn door
, he thought to
himself. “Yeah, I planned to lock it on my way out. The library’s closed.”

“Yeah, I know.” She started towards him. “I wasn’t actually looking for a book but a person. You know a guy named Redfeather? I think he works here.”

Gabriel raised an eyebrow. “And why might you be looking for him?”

A look somewhere between aggravation and impatience crossed her face. “Look, if you ain’t him then it doesn’t concern you. I need to find him; it’s a matter of life and death.”

“Well, look no further.” He half-bowed.

“You’re Redfeather?” she asked suspiciously.

“Yes, Gabriel Redfeather.” He extended his hand.

She looked at it for a minute as if it were a trick before taking it. “De Mona Sanchez.” She pumped his hand. “Sorry, I just didn’t expect you to be so young, the way my father spoke of you.”

“Your father?”

“Yeah, Edward Sanchez.” She waited for a reaction but got none.

Gabriel shrugged his shoulders. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

De Mona eyed him suspiciously, trying to see if he was lying. She had never met the man called Redfeather, but her father had always spoken of him as some great scholar and Gabriel didn’t appear to be more than a college kid. Moving closer to him, she asked, “What do you know about Lifeless Tongues?”

This did get a reaction. Lifeless Tongues was an Internet group composed of men and women who shared a curiosity in ancient languages. Gabriel had joined the group six months prior but soon lost interest. There were only a few members who took the art as seriously as he did, so he limited his visits to the site to the occasional pop in to see what was new.

“Oh, is that what this is about? Listen, if you’re looking to join the group then you should really be talking to Harvey Klein; he’s the moderator. If you want, I could give you his e-mail address,” Gabriel offered.

“So then you’re not the same Redfeather who deciphered the infamous lost Babylonian text?”

“Yes, that was me, but it’s really not as complicated as it sounds. The guy who posted the text was a fraud. His text was nothing more than a dialect of Portuguese, with a splash of eleventh-century Romanian. The reason it read so funky was because he purposely misspelled the words, making it seem like something more than what it really was. It was a simple trick actually,” Gabriel said as if anyone could’ve figured it out.

De Mona’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Either you’re pulling my chain or I’ve made a hell of a mistake, which I’ve been doing a lot of lately. Look, I was told that a man named Redfeather would be able to translate something for me. Something my father lost his life protecting.” She tossed the sack onto the table. Gabriel looked at it as if it were a poisonous snake. “Don’t worry; it isn’t anthrax.”

Cautiously Gabriel undid the hemp and peered into the bag. The smell of cloves wafted up into his sinuses, causing his nose to twitch. It was strange that someone would stuff a sack with cloves, but it was the item inside the sack that was more baffling. It was the rusted head of a pitchfork that was broken at the shaft and missing its middle point.

Holding the fork in his hand, he looked up at De Mona. “Is this a joke?”

She glared at him as if she had been insulted. She placed her knuckles on the table, tipping it a fraction of an inch. Gabriel was so fixed on her walnut brown eyes that he didn’t even notice. “Mr. Redfeather—”

“Gabriel,” he cut her off.

“What?”

“My name is Gabriel. Mr. Redfeather is my grandfather.”

“Whatever.” She waved her hands. “My father was killed and it had something to do with that thing.” She nodded at the fork. “Now all I know is that you or your grandfather is my best bet at finding out what it is. Will you help me or not?”

There was a harshness to her voice that made him afraid, but it was the pleading undertone that struck a chord with him. He too had lost his parents tragically, so he understood her pain and aggravation. “I’ll try.” He put on his glasses and commenced to examine the fork. “I don’t see anything.” He turned it end over end.

“Hold it to the moonlight.” She nodded towards the library’s window.

Gabriel gave her a suspicious look, then walked over to the window. He held the fork up, so the light of the moon kissed the shaft. At first he still didn’t see anything, but to his surprise the fork began to vibrate slightly. The light of the moon was absorbed into the metal, revealing faint letters. “Well, I’ll be damned! There’s something written on the side, but I can’t tell what the language is. It could be Aramaic, but I don’t recognize the dialect offhand.” He rotated the fork. “Give me a day or so to consult my textbooks and—” He gasped as the markings began to change.

“ ‘The two are one, as it must always be. I am the Nimrod, release me and know my name,’ ” he read out loud.

The home office of the Titus Corporation was located in downtown Ontario. It was a massive structure that stood sixty-six stories above the ground and was the only building for several blocks around that wasn’t owned by the city. The office and living quarters of its CEO, Maxwell Titus, were located on the top floor and could only be accessed by a special card-key. The majority of the time, it was from his sanctuary on the top floor that Titus conducted his business, but that night he was engaging in pleasure.

The man, who for the last hundred years had been known as Maxwell Titus, or Maxwell Titus Jr., depending on whom you asked, lounged in his double-wide Jacuzzi, with the back of his head resting against the cool marble. He was a well-built man, with muscular arms and a barrel-like chest. The bare skin was flawless, save for the pinkish scar just above his heart. He had a handsome face, with a neatly trimmed black beard, sprinkled with gray. Though physically he looked to be in his late thirties to early forties, he had lived far longer than that. Maxwell Titus had seen more than his mind cared to remember. From the rise and fall of kingdoms to the automobile replacing the carriage,
he had seen it. But no matter how much the world around him changed, Maxwell Titus remained trapped in the middle of his life.

Before he heard the soft knock, Titus felt the presence outside the door. “Come in, Flag,” he called, without bothering to cover himself or his ladies. The first one was pale, with hair the color of sunrise, rinsed with molten gold. Her partner, in contrast, had a cinnamon complexion, with chocolate brown eyes and hair so black that it reflected no light. The attendants were beautiful, so beautiful in fact that to stare at them for too long was to risk your own free will. They were vampires. Titus had found them masquerading as whores in New Orleans’ red-light district, preying on tourists and those ignorant of the supernatural. They had been living as little more than scavengers until they had met Titus. The favorite son of the dark lord had given them shelter, purpose, and power … so much power.

The man who stepped cautiously into the room was a hair over six feet and about as thin as a pipe cleaner. Hair so blond that it was almost white hung loosely down his back and spilled over his shoulders. Behind his wire-framed glasses, his clear blue eyes went from the naked trio down to his tie, which he busied himself straightening.

“My lord,” Flag said in a crisp British accent, keeping his eyes on the tiles.

“Surely you’re not embarrassed by a little flesh?” Titus taunted him, fondling one of Raven’s breasts.

“Of course not. I just didn’t expect to find you indisposed.”

“Even the favorite son of Belthon still has mortal urges.” He kissed Helena, then Raven. “Ladies, leave us.”

“Yes, Lord Titus,” they said in unison. The women slid naked from the tub and moved for the door. Their hungry
eyes were locked on Flag as they passed him, but they knew better than to touch the mage uninvited.

“I trust you have news from Moses,” Titus said, rising from the pool. He grabbed his black robe from a chair and slipped it on.

“Another failed attempt,” Flag said, just above a whisper.

Faster than Flag’s eyes could follow, Titus had crossed the room and was standing directly in front of him. “You’ve interrupted me to bring news of failure?”

Flag swallowed and went on. “The Stalkers were destroyed and Moses lost his host’s body. Thankfully, he was able to procure another, but it will still be some time before the vessel is battle ready. It seems that the body is suffering from a severe case of withdrawal.”

Titus hissed. Flag flinched at the smell of sulfur coming off his master’s breath. “How could the so-called master of shadows and a small pack of Stalkers be undone by two teenagers?”

“The boy was slain, he was human, but the girl wasn’t. What we didn’t know until she showed herself was that she wears the mark of the Valkrin. From what I’ve gathered from my intelligence she’s the progeny of Mercy.”

Titus shook his head as he thought back on the defiant demon captain. “No matter which side she’s fighting on, Mercy continues to give me grief.”

“On a lighter note, we’ve recovered Judas’ ring. One of the goblin troops discovered it in the Dakota mountains. It’s being secured in the vault as we speak,” Flag offered.

Judas’ ring was the wedding band crafted for one of the First Guard and the eldest daughter of Judas and wielded by a warrior maiden during the siege. It was a diamond set in a gold band that gave its wearer the power to distinguish the truth from a lie. When someone lied, it would turn red, when they told the truth, it turned green.
It wasn’t the most powerful of the artifacts, but coupled with the others it was a power unto itself.

Without warning Titus had shot out and gripped Flag about the throat. Titus lifted him from the ground as if he were a small child and began crushing his windpipe. “Fool,” Titus snarled. “What care I for trinkets that can do no more than parlor tricks? I seek the most powerful of weapons, the eternal prison of the cursed Bishop, the Nimrod.”

“As do all the servants of Belthon, Lord Titus. This is just a minor setback. We know that the girl hasn’t left the city and the Stalkers are out in force searching for her. Shall I send the hag to speed along Moses’ progression so he can resume his search?”

Titus thought on it for a minute. “No, let the so-called master of shadows dwell in the hell of his new body for a time. Now, on to the next order of business, by the next full moon I expect—” Titus’ words were cut off when a sharp pain exploded in his chest. On shaky legs he staggered over to the chair and braced his hands against it.

“What is it?” Flag asked nervously.

Titus turned his now-glowing red eyes on Flag. “The Bishop stirs.”

“What the hell is a Nimrod?” De Mona asked, staring at the fork.

“I don’t know.” Gabriel continued to inspect it. “If I’m reading it correctly, that’s what the fork is called. Did your father tell you anything about the fork, maybe how he came across it?”