The Second Coming (18 page)

***

An old,
haggard woman watched the two friars and the little girl ascend the
hill that led out of Barcelona, leaving the city behind. She buried
her head in the tattered rags that clothed her, muffling her
cackle. She wondered if they would find the Beast. She knew one
thing, someone else searched as well.

Perhaps if this friar gets there first
.
Perhaps …

She could only
hope, for hope was all she had.

The tall friar
— the heretic — took a last look upon the city before turning
around. Far above him, a winged being soared west through the
sky.

The Archangels
are awakened.

Liesel
wondered if the friar had noticed.

Liesel
.
Yes, that is my name
.
Sometimes.

The old woman
wrapped a midnight-blue cloak about her and ignited a power within
her. She groaned. The change always caused her pain. She morphed to
another form, one of a dark-haired woman with emerald eyes, and a
voluptuous body. When it was complete, she pulled the cloak about
her shoulders to ward off the night chill.

Then Lilith,
first wife of Adam, turned on her heel, and strode down the path
back into the city of Barcelona.

***

Paine woke,
his head pounding to the rhythm of Shadow's steps. He felt an
unexplained tightness around his chest and legs.

He was tied
with rope.

Solid arms
surrounded him, and callused hands held the reins.

Diarmuid.

Warm breath
tickled the nape of his neck. “Relax, Paine. You're with me.”

Paine sank
back into him, feeling the man’s chest rise and fall against
him.

“
What happened?”

His throat was
parched.

“
You destroyed that boy-thing, whatever it was, but the wolfen
escaped. The others saved Puck, but all three died in the
attempt.”

“
What was that thing?”

“
I don’t know. Truitt thinks it might be a part of the
Westwood.”

Paine
swallowed the lump in his throat. “Where's Lya?” he asked, although
he knew she rode beside him.

“
I'm here.” Dark half-circles framed her eyes and her lips
were gouged with bite marks.

He regretted
what had happened, but could not bring himself to apologize.

Lya’s voice
hesitated. “I think you should get some more rest.”

“
How long have I been out?”

“
Most of the day.”

His eyelids
weighed heavily.

Diarmuid
stirred behind him, pulling Paine into him.

“
Sleep. We're long out of the Westwood and on our way to
Haven.”

The
Westwood.

Its memories
and knowledge were lost to him with the singular exception of a
deal and the woman with whom it was made.

She would
pay.

“
Thanks, Diarmuid,” he muttered.

Sleep took him
once more.

***

Fang watched
the young man sleep once again, exhausted from the use of a power
that threatened to consume him.

If he does not learn to deal with it, it will destroy
him
.

She looked to
his sister.

She has great
power as well, and the skill to wield it.

Such power
Fang had not seen in a long time, so long it seemed like another
lifetime. It awoke something in her, something she thought long
dead.

A squirrel ran
past and leapt into a tree; one that was good for shade. Its shadow
made her think of the Westwood and of what they had found
there.

Devil spawn
.

She always had
her suspicions about that dark place, but there was something more.
She could not put her paw on it, but something was amiss, and she
cursed herself that she could not see it. The wolf retraced the
steps in her mind, but knew she missed some small thing that
flaunted itself in front of her.

It itched.

She sniffed at
the air and smelled the change on the wind. Its stench was
unmistakable.

If this is any
sign of what is coming, the others will need to know.

Not much
frightened Fang, but this made her smell her own fear. So much so,
that something inside her edged its way up her gullet and tickled
the back of her throat. She knew of only one way to voice it, but
she stifled the howl that begged to come forward.

The morning
sun was hidden behind a cloud that looked like a giant mountain,
casting a shadow upon the land. It was reminiscent of the one that
was cast upon Brahm's heart. She always hated leaving this
place.

She led her
brown charger through the gates of the Haudenosaunee village and a
voice cut through the mist.

“
Orenda, wait!”

White Feather
chased after her.

Exasperation
escaped her lips in a sigh.

“
Were you going to leave without saying goodbye?” he asked.
The look in his eyes was hopeful.

She grunted.
“I hate goodbye.”

“
No need,” he said as his appaloosa trotted up to them. He
adjusted the bags on Wind’s saddle. “I'm coming with
you.”

“
What?” Brahm failed to mask the irritation in her
voice.

A wide grin
crept across his rugged face. “I didn't think you were hard of
hearing, Orenda. I said I'm coming with you.”

She turned her
back to him and mounted. “I go alone.”

“
Mother thought you might need help.”

Brahm gave a
hearty laugh and shook her head. The Clan Mother's motives were as
evident as the twinkle in her son’s eyes.

“
Very well, but you do as I say.”

He mulled it
over. “Agreed, but not if your life is in danger. I would hate to
see anything happen to that pretty hide of yours.”

That grin
lodged itself in his face again and Brahm felt a fresh desire to
slap it clean off. She rolled her eyes instead.

“
Let's go.”

She urged Roan
to a trot, leaving White Feather muttering something about women.
They both knew she could outmatch him in a heartbeat.

If anything, she would end up saving
his
pretty behind.

Five days
later, with the land blanketed in pine, box elder, and beech, Brahm
found herself in the dales of the upper Outlands. She once heard a
saying about a needle in a pile of hay. Searching for Diarmuid was
similar. Yet something was guiding in her in this direction.
Whether it was her instincts or not, Brahm was unsure. And the
second soul within her had been disturbingly quiet.

Too quiet.

Two days
previous, her overwhelming desire to run back to the Haudenosaunee
village had disappeared— a whisper of a memory. So she followed her
gut after that, or what she thought was her gut, in the hopes it
would lead her to Diarmuid.

For most of
the trip she was gripped by the meaning of the Peace Maker’s visit.
The spirit being had placed the fear of God in her. And that made
two things Brahm Hallowstone had little tolerance for: fear and
God.

Her thoughts
were interrupted as a raven alighted in her path. It hopped twice,
croaked, and fluttered its wings. She yanked the reins, and Roan
whinnied.

White Feather
pulled up beside her. “What is it?”

Brahm
dismounted and approached the bird with a slow, steady pace. She
never understood why so many thought them harbingers of death and
bad omens; they were highly intelligent. She crouched when she was
within range.

The bird
croaked a few times and flapped its wings. Its message was short
and simple — a warning. Brahm nodded and reached into her pack for
some flat bread. She gave it to the raven with her thanks before it
croaked once more, and flew west.

White
Feather's feet padded the ground behind her. “What did it say?”

“
There are humans beyond the next ridge. The raven didn't like
the smell of them. We’re also being followed.”

White Feather
stared into the eastern breeze. “Then we should go on foot.”

Brahm nodded,
and whispered in Roan's ear as they led the horses off the road.
She tied them to the bough of a silver beech. Her gut was laden
with anticipation, and with sweaty palms she gripped the kahbeth.
She sensed their tug, their hunger for blood, reaching deep inside
her. White Feather gripped his war club, his bow slung over his
shoulder. His eyebrows were lowered in concentration, his breathing
slow and rhythmic. He wore apprehension well.

They prowled
the forest, silhouettes that slipped between the trees. Brahm moved
forward, every step carved from a honed instinct. Her iron grip on
the kahbeth pearled her dark hands. They traveled in stealth for
more than a mile, without sign of human presence.

She was about
to call a return when she sensed an oddness about the forest. White
Feather sensed it as well. With hand signals he indicated he would
go left, she should go right and they would meet up in one hundred
yards. She nodded, and he vanished into the shrub.

Time to dance
, Brahm thought, and
called upon the one skill that would serve her here. Even the
kahbeth was second to her ability as a Soul Runner.

It was time to
become one with the Great Mother.

Brahm calmed
her mind, and let the sounds of the forest beat in her ears like a
ceremonial water drum. Her lungs drank of the musty air. She
smoothed her hand along the earth, its presence seeping under her
skin. She became one with the trees, and felt their longing to
touch the sky. Her soul lifted from her body and the wind breathed
through her. She rose above the shrubs, forsaking her physical
form. She soared past birds and rustling leaves. Two deer raised
their heads, yet could not see her as she brushed past them. She
sensed White Feather, his feet dancing along the ground in a silent
waltz.

Then she found
what she sought.

The kahbeth
pulsed in the fingers of her physical form. They tugged at her for
blood. Her soul fought with them. She needed to see more. Her prey
was near, twenty yards away. Her soul danced a little further. The
hairs on the back of her neck bristled.

A Witch
Hunter.

The kahbeth
yanked, and the sensations slipped from her grasp. Brahm shuddered
as her soul reeled back to her body. A wave of fatigue stole over
her, as it sometimes did, but she shook it off and listened.

There was
nothing.

The blades of
the kahbeth warmed in her hands. She gripped them harder. The
Hunter was casting a spell or a summons; the kahbeth could smell
the blood. She waited as the wings of fate perched upon her
shoulder and breathed down her neck; its breath was rank with
anticipation.

There was a
sharp thud.

Feet pounded
the forest floor.

Brahm rose,
and grunted at the sight of White Feather chasing after a helmeted
man in leather.

Damn!

She bolted
from the trees.

Brahm leapt
with stag-like strides. Her heart thrummed. Her breath flowed. She
joined in the chase, and sped through the forest. With fluid motion
she sheathed the kahbeth as she hurdled fallen pines. Reaching to
the small of her back, she slid out a jagged knife. A smile edged
across her face as she gained ground on them. Within moments she
caught up to White Feather and bounded past him.

The Witch
Hunter was a worthy chase and Brahm howled with excitement. She
liked a good hunt. The Hunter's legs propelled him through the
forest, the trees offering little to impede him.

No matter. He
would be hers.

She gained on
him, stride by stride. She blew past the trees.

Brahm smelled
his fear now. She licked her lips.

The knife in
her hand felt like northern frost, cold and heavy.

It was time to
put an end to this. There might be others.

She hurled
it.

As the knife
cut through the air, she unsheathed the kahbeth. The knife struck
the Hunter in the back of the knee, and he tumbled to the
ground.

The kahbeth
pulsed. Brahm gave herself over to their hunger. She raised them
into the air and then pierced the Hunter's hide, thrusting it
through his back. They pinned him to the ground. The Hunter
thrashed, his soul fighting to cling to his body.

The struggle
did not last long, and Brahm shuddered as he fell limp. The kahbeth
screamed in her mind and she convulsed with their pleasure. They
were satiated. She ripped the blades from his body, flesh dangling
from the spikes. As she wiped the kahbeth on the ground, White
Feather approached, and the grin on his face faded at her grave
look. She rolled the Witch Hunter over with her foot, and stared at
the smooth roundness of his face. He was young. She searched him,
but found nothing of interest.

A snapping
noise caught her attention. The kahbeth were ready, screaming for
more, but she lowered them when she noticed a lone white horse
partially obscured by the trees. She stepped over to it, and
noticed the lack of side packs.

No supplies
.

It could only mean one thing.

“
Scout,” she said.

“
Where are the rest?”

A loud crack
sounded behind them and they rounded to find twenty Witch Hunters
on horse, armed.

“
Behold,” muttered White Feather.

“
Put your weapons down.” The leader's voice rumbled. “By the
authority of the Confederation, I command you to
surrender.”

Brahm recognized the woman, remembered her from an ancient
past — a ruthless Hunter. One that wore the finger bones of her
victims as a necklace. The half-helmet veiled a face that Brahm
recalled well, hardened with lines of age and battle. A faint
tickling sensation edged at her heart. She shook it off. She
refused to fear this woman.