The Second Coming (39 page)

His voice
hissed. “I do not care.”

White Feather
rose from the wooden box. “She has turned from the Confederation
and will do anything in her power to see your daughter safe.” He
nodded in her direction. “She is one of my people, and they have
forgiven her.”

The Firstborn
spoke low. “Forgiveness is beyond me. There is little left of what
I once was. I have only thoughts of my daughter. She is all that
matters now.”

Brahm stood to
face him. “Then help me free her. A demon walked out with her.” She
was close enough to smell the decay on his breath. “What is your
name?”

He wheezed.
“Dïor, I was once called.”

She held out
her hand. “Then, Dïor, help me rescue your daughter.”

He hesitated
before his hand clutched hers, cold and hard. “My fight with you is
not over. I consider this a truce. You must still pay the toll for
Sephirah's life.” His voice was stone.

She gulped
down the fear in her throat. “It is a truce then.” She turned to
Mason. “So, my brother, what is it going to be? Have you seen
enough? Do you see the truth now?”

He stood
silent as Thurmond's voice drifted through the cracks once
more.

Mason looked
towards the door. “I see only that the Imp must be stopped. He is
demonkind.” His face twisted. “I am with you ... for now.”

Brahm bandaged
the angry gash in her brother's arm with a shred of cloth she
ripped from her tunic. He winced as she pulled it, but took the
pain of it with silent acquiescence. White Feather and Diarmuid
rummaged through the wooden boxes in the storage room only to
discover a rusting pick-axe and the handle from a shovel. Dïor
waited by the entrance, listening as he flicked at the blade of his
dagger.

Through the
cracks in the door, Senator Thurmond's voice spewed vitriol like
rattler's venom. The crowd fell victim to his poison, silent and
attentive except for the occasional agreement.

“
Hallelujah! Amen!”

Brahm finished
with the binding on Mason's arm. “We need to figure out how we're
going to help Lya. I'm going to see how many Hunters are out
there.”

Her soul
soared through the door, and east up the hill towards the stage.
She sensed the sharp fear of the masses, honed by years of
misinformation and ignorance. A quick search of the perimeter
revealed a few Hunters on the outskirts, out of the crowd's sight.
Thurmond stood at the podium, his jowls and fists shaking. Brahm
decided to take a closer look. Mason’s soul was beside her as she
sailed in the direction of the Senator.

His words
floated over the crowd and with it a spell of influence. “There
shall not be found among you any one that maketh his son or his
daughter to pass through the fire, or that useth divination, or an
observer of times, or an enchanter, or a witch.”

Mason arrived
at the podium first and reached into the Senator's body. She sensed
her brother's revulsion and followed his lead, only to find the
same loathing in herself as she brushed Thurmond's presence.

Something like
a demon, but stronger.

Thurmond's
speech broke for a moment as he paused to swallow water. He cast a
hasty glance around him before continuing.

Brahm backed
away and skirted past Lya who stood behind the stage, surrounded by
Hunters. The girl clutched at her chest.

Brahm's soul
sailed the still night air, back to the secluded storage room. As
she glided back, a presence watched her. Dïor stood at the door,
his fingers playing with the dagger. He muttered to himself.
“Seventeen. Seventeen. Seventeen.”

Was it
him?

“
There are twenty Hunters out there,” she said, “all armed.
I'm not sure, but I thought I sensed something watching
me.”

Dïor
repeatedly sheathed and unsheathed his dagger. His gaze remained
focused on the door.

Brahm turned
to her brother. “Did you sense what I did about Thurmond?”

His eyes
lowered. “Demon.”

“
Not just demon, something more.”

He shook his
head. “It doesn't matter. What matters now is getting out of here.
Lya should not be left in their hands.”

And in whose
hands should she be?

Dïor shifted.
“Leave the Hunters to me.” His face blackened as he stepped into
the shadows and was gone. Two thumps were heard outside the room
and a trickle of blood seeped under the door. The rasping sound of
dragging bodies followed.

Mason averted
Brahm’s gaze and slipped through the door. The others inched out
behind him, mindful of the crowd's attention.

Brahm bent to
retrieve a dagger from one of the Hunters. She hesitated, the cold
of the dagger heavy in her hands.

White Feather
was beside her. “Orenda, we must go. Lya needs us.”

Brahm took it
and followed White Feather into the dogwood shrubs that grew in
neat rows behind the church.

A small blue
bird chirped and danced along the ground. It hopped twice towards a
dark part of the woods. Brahm paused. Then she noticed there was
nothing to be heard. Senator Thurmond’s voice was silenced, as was
that of the crowd. There were no creatures of the night, no crowd
gasping or praising the Senator’s poison words. She looked up. The
few clouds that were in the night air were still.

Thank the
Great Mother. Help at last.

Brahm thought
of the Peace Maker and strode forward. Perhaps she could beseech
his aid. It took only a few steps before she found herself in a
clearing and here she paused. It was dark and moist here, and stunk
of sweat. Something was stuck in Brahm’s throat as she stepped
forward. It took great effort to swallow it down.

She walked the
perimeter of the clearing, searching. There was no stump on which
to sit, only a swath of moss in its midst. When she had made one
complete circle she strode to the center.

Where was the
Peace Maker?

Then she saw
someone standing on the other side, in the shadows. Whoever it was,
they were taller than the Peace Maker.

“
Greetings,” she said, unsure of what else to say.

“
Merrily met,” said a low voice. It was like buttermilk to her
ears. The bearer of the voice came into the poorly lit clearing.
Brahm sucked in her breath at the sight of him. He had cloven feet
and goat-like legs that stretched up towards a body that was
carpeted in matted hair. He stood tall as the Peace Maker, but the
horns on his head made him somehow more majestic. They were covered
in a soft, mossy-like substance. He was naked and his phallus was
erect and thick.

Brahm refused
to turn her gaze from him, and found she could not help but stare
at the appendage between his legs.

She squeezed
out the only words she could manage. “We need help.”

“
And I need a bride,” he said.

The voice of
her second soul was with her. It held her.

-We are one,
Soul Runner. We are in this together.-

Brahm raised
the silver dagger to defend herself, but the blade was gone.

“
Fighting spirits,” whispered the voice. It emanated from the
whole clearing. “Attractive.”

Other
creatures appeared at the edge of the clearing — some that were
human-like in appearance, others that were not. Most were
half-human and half something else. All were naked.

Two of the
half-men played forked flutes and the others began to frolic. The
female creatures danced around Brahm, slow and sultry. They smelled
of ripe berries and sweet flowers. Brahm stood her ground, refusing
to move. One of the human-like creatures brushed her, her firm
breast pressing against Brahm. The nipple ran down the length of
her arm and paused at Brahm’s hand as if wanting something from her
fingers. It lingered there and then was gone.

Another did
the same, running her breast along Brahm’s leg, pushing harder
against her to penetrate her pants. Brahm held in place. The man
with the horns was behind her and his voice whispered in her
ears.

“
Why do you resist. My bride must be willing.”

“
Who are you?” Brahm managed to ask.

She waited for
his manhood to press against her thigh, but there was only his
quiet, firm voice.

He walked
around her.

Her eyes were
drawn downward once more. She swallowed.

“
My name should mean little to you.”

Sephirah’s
soul knew him.

-The Horned
One.-

His hand took
her own, dwarfing it. It was strong and gentle.

“
It won’t hurt,” he said.

She did not
pull back her hand, yet she held her ground. “We need help,” she
tried to mutter, but the words only dribbled from her lips.

“
I like this play,” he said and was gone once more.

Again the
female creatures were there. They danced, touching each other.
There was tenderness, but it was underlied by yearning. They
kissed. They drew in towards Brahm, caressing her arms once more.
Their skin was soft, and the smell of berries filled her nose.

Brahm’s head
swam.

The female
beings laid upon the bed of moss. Flower petals dropped from the
trees, alighting on their outstretched bodies. With red berries
they traced a slow path along each other’s limbs.

Brahm could
taste them as they bit into them, staining their lips. There was
wetness upon her tongue.

They lay with
each other, bodies pressing gently together at times, a slow
rhythmic rubbing that Brahm had to bite her own lips to watch. Some
of the male creatures joined in, mouths enjoying the taste of
crimson berries and ruby lips. They were eager, hungry, yet
restrained. Their movements were slow, deliberate, pleasing. With
thick fingers they toyed with the women, dancing in places that
desired tenderness and were forceful in places that hungered for
something more.

Brahm
moaned.

The Horned One
was with her again, behind her. He smelled stronger of man-sweat
and berries. This time he brushed against her thigh. Brahm closed
her eyes. He said nothing, but his breath was on her neck, moist
and warm. She felt him circle her. Again he pressed against her.
His breath was in her face, steady, unrushed. It smelled of
fornication.

Brahm licked
her lips, waiting for his own to touch hers, wanting it.

She tried to
resist. “Will you help us?”

He whispered.
“Will you take me?”

She breathed
her response in a sigh. “Yes.” She wanted nothing more, she cared
for nothing else.

Her body then
shuddered with pleasure as she lay upon the ground. Convulsions of
delight took her and she tipped her head back, her neck stiffening.
Her back arched, her toes curled and she moaned her ecstasy. She
was naked and every flower petal that touched her was a moment of
unique pleasure.

He was over
her, tickling her ear with his gentle voice. “Will you accept my
mark?”

She pulled him
to her. “Yes.”

-Yes.-

His body was
against hers, heavy and powerful.

She felt pain
on her shoulder. And with its burning she moaned as did the second
soul within her. And then Orenda, the twin-souled woman, spiraled
into rapture for what seemed days without end.

***

Friar John
rose from the forest floor and cleaned the mirror of blood within a
nearby stream. It was night, so it was difficult to tell if all the
blood had come off. He did not want to leave it lying about for
someone to inadvertently use it. The spell cast upon it would allow
any sort of evil to tempt its bearer. It was an open window now
that it had been used for such a purpose. He imagined what sorts of
people could be fooled into believing the whispering lies.

Almost
anyone.

He lay it out
in a clearing so that the moon could cast its rays upon the mirror
and cleanse it of darkness. As the rays of the gibbous object
struck the mirror, it took only minutes before it smoldered and
cracked.

John strode
from the clearing, carrying his pack and followed the path of the
setting sun. The Beast would be closer than he thought. Dark things
were being called to a place west of where he stood.

As he walked,
he took his fond memories and kindnesses and buried them deep
within his being. He brought forth his anger and his jealousies,
his hatreds and his scorns. They rose within him, and he immersed
his heart in their pain; for he knew his heart would be examined by
those among the darkness. There were beings that could search for
his purpose and the reasons for his allegiance to the shadow.

With pristine
wings.

John had shed
his Friar’s robes and dressed now in black cloth. He let his
thoughts wander into darkness and of things that he had once
regretted. He took pleasure in his past wrongs, and he did not
castigate himself for his impure and wicked thoughts. He hated
himself and the others that had caused him pain. And with all of
this, he marched forward.

He cast a
spell to hide his own mission, even from himself; a spell that
would raise his consciousness and the righteousness in his heart
when the truth was revealed. When the time was right, his true
purpose would come forward and he would smite that which would
bring evil to the world; the Hand of God.

He constructed
a new truth, one which he would use to fool himself; he immersed
himself in the whisperings of the mirror and let his heart be
tainted by their promises. He let himself be led into their
temptations. He delivered himself unto evil. He became what he once
was, so long ago.

Assassin.

Then, as the last of the spell was cast the man that was once
Friar John marched forward. In his hand he held a
wick.
He smiled his
pleasure at it and then sucked upon the leaf of the
Wormwood.