Airel (8 page)

Chapter XVI

“So, Ariel, I've been told that you’re feeling a little under the weather.” Dr. Gee smiled with his bright white teeth all showing, which made him look like he should be on the set of a soap opera rather than in front of me in a dress shirt and a tie.

“You could say that! I think I might be dying.” I smiled back and faked a cough just to try to make myself feel better than I really was. Not that I was feeling like death at the moment, on the contrary, I was feeling great. That was what made it all so much worse. It was like never having a chance meeting with a cute boy when you were ready to. No, girls like me only ever met cute boys over breakfast, without makeup, wearing sweats and a t-shirt, and with our hair totally beyond help. Nothing ever worked out the way it was supposed to.

“Well, tell me what’s going on—don’t butter it up for me. And tell me what you think it
might
be as well.” He looked at me with his blue eyes and I felt like I was looking straight into a cold sky in the dead of winter. I think I even shivered a little.

Dr. Gee listened to my breathing through his stethoscope and looked into my ears as I began to explain the past few weeks in as much detail as I could, without explaining what each chunk of barf looked like. 

“And no—I know what you’re thinking—it’s not possible.” 

He nodded and grinned with just the left half of his face. “No boyfriend?” 

“No. Besides, I’m partial to waiting until marriage, if you know what I mean. I’ve got the ring and everything.” I held up my left hand and flashed him my ring finger, which had a thin gold band on it. “My dad gave it to me when I was thirteen.” I was a little embarrassed to be talking about this with my doctor, but he got the hint after I looked at the floor, leaving my sentence unfinished.

“That's great.” Dr. Gee sat back on a little round chair on wheels. The silence was more than uncomfortable as he slid back a foot or so with his arms folded across his chest.

“So what do you think about my little problem? Am I going to die?” I laughed a little, but deep down inside I was thinking I might do just that...  either from this mysterious illness or by the hand of some psycho killer. Is this what people meant when they talked about being lovesick, or what? 

“I don't think you’re going to die, Airel, but I'm not sure what it might be and I would like to run a few tests, if you don't mind. I think it might be viral and I would like to rule out some things before we dig any deeper.” He saw the look on my face, pushed forward in his chair, and leaned forward to touch my arm. His orange tie hung down like a breezeless flag. “Don't worry, you’ll be fine. I just want to be sure. I don’t want to overlook anything, okay?”

I nodded and sighed with relief. 

“Now. I’m going to have Sue take some blood, and I would like a urine sample as well. If you get sick again, I want you to call me right away, then come in. I would like to run a test when you’re feeling your worst, okay?” He pulled out his card and scrawled his cell number on the back, handing it to me with a serious look on his face. “I mean it. You call me as soon as you feel anything.”

“I will, I promise. I don't think I want to live with the ability to vomit without any warning. It doesn’t really fit into my social agenda, doc.” I winked at him, which for me, was uncharacteristic, and it made me blush.
Man, I hate when I embarrass myself like this.

Dr. Gee laughed aloud and stood up, making him seem like a giant. He left the room and once again I was alone in the chilly office listening to the only sound in the room...  the crackling paper under my legs. I was not looking forward to having my blood drawn. 

My mind wandered and came to rest on vampires, of all things. I remembered a book I read about someone who was bit and changed into a vampire—it made him sick, but he got better afterward.
If you could call it that.
Anyway, no one had bitten me—except for the
love bug,
as Kim would say. I didn't know of any vampires at my school, anyway; they weren’t even real to begin with.

I put my hand to my cheek, felt its uncharacteristically smooth soft surface, and closed my eyes. “Changed... ” I muttered in a whisper. I hadn’t had a zit in like forever. Which, contrary to everything holy, actually gave me cause for concern.
I should have paid more attention in science.
“Chaaaange, Meta-MORRR-phosis,” I said to myself, in my TV announcer voice, which made me laugh. But…my skin was smoother, and all but a few of my freckles were disappearing.
No, it can't be. There’s no such thing! Humans don’t undergo metamorphosis.
It was probably just hormones making me insane. It’s all a part of growing up. 

Sometimes life is just sucky and unexplainable. I finally had the perfect skin I'd always wanted, but along with that came the spontaneous barfing...  a package deal.
Or does all of this mean something worse?
Was I going to grow fangs and start craving blood?

As I was thinking that, the hair on the back of my neck stood up on end, and I nearly followed suit. I could feel a presence in the room with me, as if something invisible had just allowed me to take notice of it and didn’t care how I felt about it, one way or another. Whatever it was, it wasn't evil. I knew that much, because I wasn’t scared of it. In fact, it seemed like it was good all the way through to the core, filled with brilliant white light. It was just startling because I couldn’t see it. Whatever it was, I had a feeling it was here to stay.

It spoke to me, not in a real voice or audible words, or even as my conscience, but a third voice beyond my own being. It laughed a faint little giggle and shook its head like a parent who had just heard me say something incredibly naive about silly old legends.

It stretched like a cat, settled down and fell asleep. I had to laugh out loud about it. I had a new friend and I was not entirely sure if I wanted one or not. I had a feeling I didn't have a choice about it. Great. More drama. Just what I needed.

Chapter XVII

My simple life of school and the occasional pizza and movie night had been turned on its head. I not only had a genuine stalker, who seemed to like killing people and mocking me with cryptic notes, but I also had a weird disease that crept up at the most unexpected times. As for everything else, well, yikes. What was I supposed to think? I was probably certifiable now. Schizophrenic. 

I had a strong feeling that Dr. Gee wouldn’t find anything, no matter how many tests he ran. The new little voice in my head told me that it was all nothing. I had a feeling that all of this was simply pointing back to what was going on with my skin and those occasional intense growing pains. Now, as I looked in the mirror on a normal Tuesday morning, there was something more. It had been a week and still no change, ‘til last night.

I had been startled awake at three in the morning by the most hellacious nightmare I can ever remember having. I had a headache to end all headaches and my hair, dripping wet, tangled on my face as if I had just come up for air in the river. I couldn't for the life of me remember what the nightmare was about, and I was glad about that. I summoned the courage to get up and turn on the light in my bedroom, which instantly seemed to dispel most of my fear.

I felt really gross. Maybe my dream was about pre-season practice with the football team. Now that
would
be a nightmare. I shuffled to the bathroom to clean up, cool down, and try to pull myself together. I changed into my back-up pajamas: my favorite blue sweats and an old long sleeved t-shirt. They were so comfortable—but so ugly—that I didn't dare wear them unless I had no other choice. 

I felt better after that, but still had a raging headache and no idea why. Grabbing a couple of Advil from the medicine cabinet, I filled the glass by the sink with water. I tossed back the tablets and took a long drink of cool water, then carried the glass into my bedroom. 

When I sat down on the bed, with my feet dangling off the floor, the glass suddenly shattered in my hand. I gasped as shards dug into my hand and I dropped what was left of the glass. I was in total shock. It hit the carpet with a thump and I bit my lip to keep from screaming out in pain.

Blood ran freely from two different cuts on my palm. From the looks of them, they were deep. I started to get woozy but forced myself to keep it together.
Don't pass out Ariel. You've got to stop the bleeding.
In that moment I wished I had woken my mom up. I jumped up, dodging the glass on the floor, ran to the bathroom holding my bleeding left hand, and got to the sink just in time to catch the first drips.
Mom would have a cow, maybe a calf too! 

I turned on the cold water. It stung and I winced in pain as it flushed out the wound. Blood pooled in the sink. There were two large deep gashes in my hand; I feared I would need stitches. I pulled the largest pieces out with my fingers. There were a few that I just couldn’t get, and though I was brave, I wasn’t that brave. 

I found some bandages and gauze strips under the sink, wound them around my throbbing hand, and made a bandage that looked like something out of one of Dad’s war movies. Not the best, but at three in the morning I wasn’t about to wake my parents—at least, not now that I had everything under control. I guess I just needed a stiff upper lip and time to heal.

I made sure the bathroom didn't look like I had just killed someone and went back to bed. I still don't know how I fell asleep with the rhythmic throbbing in my poor hand, or the thoughts running through my mind of what I was going to tell my parents when they saw my enormous gauze mitten. And what would I tell Kim—Miss Talks-a-lot? 

Stuck in the back of my mind was my new friend, whispering
why did the glass break?
It was a good question. It wasn't one of those thin cheapie glasses. It was heavy, thick. I could have tossed it across the living room and it wouldn't have broken. It would have left a dent in the wall. So that’s how I spent my night: horror show, sweat shower, headache, my own real-life episode of CSI, and back to bed. 

In the morning, I stood in front of the mirror in the first rays of sunshine more beautiful than I dared to be, especially after a night like that, hearing those words in my head:
why did the glass break?
 

I unwound the tape and bandages, wanting to assess the damage before showing Mom my handiwork. That’s when I knew there was going to be big trouble. There was more to my little mysteries than vomit and perfect skin, anyway. I stared at my hand.
Impossible!
Then I stared at it in the mirror, thinking that in there maybe things would look normal.
I’m going crazy and that’s that!
My hand was not cut, bleeding, bruised or even starting to heal. 

It was completely healed. 

The alternative version of reality was that I was never cut, the glass never broke, and it was all just a bad dream. But there were bloody bandages and fragments of broken glass in the trash can that sat next to my dresser. I turned my hand palm up to inspect it again. Nothing. It was fine. But there was something gritty and shiny on my palm. After a closer look, I realized that somehow my body had rejected the tiniest shards of glass that had been embedded in it... the ones that I could not get out the night before. 

I reached down and pulled the bandages out of the trash can. They too had little shards of glass. I looked again at my palm and realized that there weren’t even scars. I looked up into the mirror again, looking myself in the eyes, blinking as if meeting myself for the very first time. 

Then I did something I still don't believe I had the guts to try. I reached back into the trash can, took a knife-like chunk of the remains of the glass, and held it up in front of my face. There, between the mirror and me, was a moment like ripples in a pond. 

The girl in the mirror looked defiant and brave all at once. The real girl, if I could call myself that, felt scared but impulsive. The shard of glass looked wicked, dangerous. Now, I felt it down to my very bones, I knew what it felt like to be completely crazy. 

I laid my hand palm up on the top of my dresser. I grabbed an old t-shirt from the drawer and bit down hard on it. I raised my right hand and stabbed the glass knife into my left I screamed through the t-shirt with clenched teeth. If Mom heard, she would probably just think I stubbed my toe or just remembered some unfinished homework. 

Blood. Both hands were now badly cut. My right palm was sliced to ribbons where I had grasped the weapon and my left was absolutely pierced. The glass was stuck through it into the top of my dresser like a dagger.

I pulled, and with some effort, dislodged the glass shard from the dresser top, dropping it back into the trashcan. It chimed abruptly as it hit the other pieces of glass. I looked down at my hands with a look of horror on my face.
What have I done?

Chapter XVIII

1250 B.C. Arabia

Kreios slept by the warm fire that had died down to coals, casting an amber glow on the hard-packed walls. Just before he had fallen asleep, he let his mind come to rest on part of his talk with Zedkiel. 

His brother had mentioned a large city, two weeks’ journey to the west, where they were building structures out of stone and granite. He remembered living in a city much like the one his brother described, but a long time ago. That was another time, another life; but he allowed his mind to dwell in those memories as he drifted off to sleep.

It was now very late. Nothing moved. 

A dark shadow crossed the room without a sound. Kreios awoke, becoming alert without opening his eyes. He had been trained for combat, and his sleeping habits had not changed much over the years. He slept soundly, yet very lightly. The slightest sound that was out of place was enough to wake him fully, and he had disciplined himself to awaken without changing his breathing pattern in the slightest. 

He waited, unmoving. Now he could hear something moving around inside the hut. The heat from the sword that lay under his arm confirmed the danger he felt.

Cracking his right eye open, he looked around the room. On the other side of the fire pit stood a figure cloaked in darkness, a long haggard robe draped down, dragging on the floor. Kreios’s hand rested near the grip of his sword and he moved his fingers slowly, wrapping them around it and enclosing it like a band of iron. Every muscle in his body tensed.
You will only have one chance. Make this count.

In a blur of speed and in one motion, Kreios jumped to his feet and unsheathed the
Sword of Light.
The hulking dark visitor screeched in pain but did not shrink back as blazing light filled the room. Kreios could feel the demon drawing on his life force. But an unexpected sensation interrupted all of this. With sword in hand, Kreios could now feel it resisting the demonic draw. It was restoring him, renewing him, and he regained what had been stolen as energy returned, flowing up his arm, into his chest. He betrayed himself with a faint smile, flashing across his face. 

From the corner of his eye, Kreios saw another filthy black figure, stepping from the next room. He decided to begin the fight by ending it. Quickly he swung the Sword and split the midsection of the closest enemy, spilling his bowels onto the ground. 

Before it could roar with indignant pain, he had begun fluidly moving the Sword back into the attack, arcing low, barely touching the dirt floor, and coming back around to shoulder height. He was poised and did not hesitate. With a backhand swing he took off its head and watched as its jagged sword clacked to the ground, its body crumpled in a bloody heap. 

Kreios immediately felt a surge of power returning to him and his birthmark glowed up his arm as if on fire.
Now for another.
 

He turned toward the second intruder, closing with it quickly. As Kreios drew back to strike, the beast savagely plunged a crooked black dagger into him. Kreios felt searing pain as the blade penetrated his chest. His thoughts turned toward his precious daughter in the next room. As he fell to his knees, stunned, he prayed desperately for her safety. 

No words passed between the two enemies as they stared at each other. Kreios still held the Sword in the vise of his grip as it flamed brightly, the white light revealing the hideousness of his enemy. It was disgusting, pathetic. A dirty waxy hood concealed its face, revealing only the glow of eyes within that were fueled by the fires of Hell itself. Leaving the dagger jutting from Kreios’ chest, the demon raised its wickedly curved black sword high overhead, savoring the coming strike at the heart of his foe.

Its stinking festering body tensed in preparation for the final blow. Abruptly, however, the thing retched; black liquid gurgled up from its throat, and its sword fell clanging to the floor. Its mouth hung open wide, and in the light of the Sword Kreios could see the sharpness of steel sticking through the beast from the back of its head, protruding from its gaping mouth. 

Zedkiel!

Kreios pulled the beast’s dagger free of his own chest and turned it homeward, burying the smoking tip within the sickening folds of the robe of the demon. He rose up, ignoring the pain shooting through his ribcage, and swung the Sword violently across its neck, severing the head. The demon fell to the dirt floor, dead. Tacky blood spilled from its body. Zedkiel put his foot on the head and pulled his sword free, standing over the lifeless form with contempt.

“Are you wounded?” Zedkiel looked at Kreios and leaned down to examine his injury. 

“He missed my lung. I can already feel it healing. I will be whole by the sunrise.” Kreios grimaced. “Thank you.” He struggled to remain standing. He placed a hand on his brother’s shoulder, leaning on him for support. 

Kreios wiped the blood off the Sword, sheathed it, and slung the scabbard over his shoulder, keeping the sword tight and snug to his body. 

Zedkiel placed much wood on the fire, which began to roar lustily. Then he cut up the bodies into pieces so that he could burn them. As Kreios helped his brother with this grisly task, he could not help but feel like something was amiss. He could not place the feeling, but something was not right.

Kreios walked out the front door and looked up at the clear night sky. The air had a bitter quality. The sulfuric smell of the fuel now burning on the fire did not help matters. He listened for the sound of horses. Maybe he would be able to discern, by straining his ears, the approach of the Brotherhood coming to finish the job. The village still slept and did not know what had just transpired. It was better that way. 

“I believe they only sent two of them. It would have been an easy kill if it was not for the Sword you carry.” Zedkiel stood in the doorway and searched the sky with his deep dark eyes. The night was still and calm, completely clear. The stars illuminated the valley in resplendence and it reminded him of another age. 

Kreios did not like knowing that he had brought the demons there. His problems were not his brother’s. In his haste to save his daughter, Kreios had put the whole family at risk. “I fear you will have to move away from Gratzipt. They know you are here now. They will send more.” Kreios knew his brother would refuse, but he was compelled to speak the truth, no matter what his brother might say.

“I cannot remove us from this life. We cannot rebuild again. Maria could not endure it, especially now. The child is nearly here and we have a good life in our little village.” He paused, and the moment was heavy. “No. We will wait and set snares to protect ourselves. With you here, with the Sword, our strategy can be adjusted. We do not need to run.” 

Kreios said nothing. He was sure that his brother would see how the decision to stay would rain down hellfire upon all the innocent villagers, punishing them for daring to live next to angels who provoked battles with the Brotherhood. 

He turned, walking back into the house. Kreios knew his brother would not listen to wisdom just now, so he decided to drop the subject. He wanted to be sure his baby girl was still snuggled in safety.

Kreios found Maria sprawled crookedly in the corner on his brother’s bed. “Zedkiel!” He called to his brother as he ran to Maria. Zedkiel came quickly and they sat her up, cautiously. She began to sob, moaning with her head in her hands. Kreios jerked his head to where his baby girl was sleeping. He rushed over and pulled the skins back. 

She was gone.

Maria sobbed and looked up at him with grief in her eyes. “They took her, there were four of them! Two went after you and the other two left with the child. They would have killed me as well, but ran with the baby when they heard you.” She had red puffy eyes and her face was wet with tears. Kreios wanted to scream. He filled with rage as a knot bound up the pit of his stomach. 

“I tried to scream when they took her but they struck me and everything became dark. I thought I was dead! Oh, Kreios, I am so sorry!” Kreios went to her and embraced her. He was glad that his brother’s wife was alive. She would bring Zedkiel a child soon and it was by the grace of God that the Brotherhood had not killed her.

Kreios stood, malice flashing in his eyes. “I must go. They want me. They will not harm her as long as I am alive!” It was a pleading prayer. Kreios hoped it was true, but deep down he suspected he would never see his daughter again.

Kreios took a sling and filled it with some barley cakes and then quickly grabbed a skin for water. He waved off his brother’s attempt to go with him. “You need to be here to protect Maria. They will come back for her... and you.” Zedkiel wandered about with a lost look on his face; the inner turmoil he felt was obvious. He pulled Maria close and watched as Kreios prepared to leave. 

Kreios donned his coat and tied his belt tight. If it was battle they wanted, it was battle they would taste.

He stepped out and looked up at the star-filled sky. With an agile movement he sprung up, shooting into the night sky, leaving a small light trail behind.