Manifest (The Darkening Trilogy) (13 page)

While her abilities will probably increase if she survives, there is a serious danger in her cycling so much blood through her body while performing a will-breaking ritual three hundred times.

“Just keep the ilk coming.  It’ll be like an all you can eat contest.”

I silently brood for the next few minutes but shortly realize her sacrifice is not just for me, but for all the sentiners in Gothica.  Finally I break the silence as we near the safe house.  “I’ll call a hospital.”

R
ed scroll is the end result of an ancient ritual.  It was performed sometime in the years of the old Faction-Republic, before conglomeratic commercetocracy became the ruling system.  Chyldrin used magically encrypted messages written in their own blood to communicate clandestinely.  At the time it was necessary; supernaturals were being hunted by the government and church puritanists, but since then, it has fallen out of the collective memory.  Luckily though, sentiners remember it and, more importantly, can decipher it.

With the help of Nigel’s records, we make a list of what we’ll need for the ritual.  Naturally, it’s an assortment of rare and mystical ingredients; crushed bat testicles and shit like that, so we draw straws to see who has to get what.  I get the short one, but I guess it makes up for Sabetha having to risk her life for the ritual itself.  My portion of the list will take me to West Gothica to find the majority of the items while Sabetha will head into South Gothica for the one ingredient we may not be able to obtain.

And just because I’m a nice brother I let her take Rolla.  For my noble sacrifice I treat myself to an affair with a voluptuous red head.  Betha drops me off on the street corner and waves goodbye. “Stay safe,” she says.  “And remember… you’ve got one day.”

“You too,” I reply and then turn to face my new ride.  I run my hands over her smooth sleek lines before taking a seat and twisting the key, letting her purr to life.  Her v12 engine roars and her long sleek nose rises proudly into the air as we head for West Gothica. 

†
Sabeth
a
†

He can be such a buffoon sometimes.  Although, as I pass through the intersections, I am reminded of his hand’s absence on my shoulder, warning me about the cross-traffic.  I wonder if you can be reminded of the
absence
of something, or is it more like the expectation is unfulfilled?  Wow.  What was that?  I must really be taking all of this to heart if I’m slipping into such existential non-sense.  Put it out of your mind Betha, focus.

Dear god I hate Central sometimes.  So monotonous.  Everything is the same around here.  Warehouse, warehouse, warehouse, strip club, warehouse, convenient store, gas station, warehouse, vacant lot, garage,
condemned
warehouse…  If only I could recall a time when I peered at these brick and glass grids, these dreadful square lines, interrupted only by the chaotic blemishes of broken windows, and saw something… I don’t know, interesting? – let alone beautiful.  It has to be the mystery that’s lacking.  The darkness holds no unknowns for me.

Instead of the darkness I suddenly have time as the unknown.  How betrayed did
I
feel when that one turned on me after a thousand years.  Why is the city so up in arms all of a sudden?  And why angry at the sentiners of all people?  It has to be some kind of mistake.  I wonder what Delano thinks about it.  I mean
really
thinks.  He’s the king of suppressed feelings.  With a couple hundred years of denial built up, not even I can get a read on what he thinks about all this.

What do
I
think about all this?

…Delano’s always going on and on about taking risks for fun, but not
real
risks.  Real risks suck, especially the lingering, uncertain ones.  This Sword of Delano-cles makes even the oldest, most familiar throne, the front seat of Rolla, feel lumpy.  Focus Betha.  Put it out of your mind.  This isn’t some kind of game, either.  I oughta know.

Think of something else. 
Corey.  Ugh.  Something
else
.  The scenery has changed – that’ll do.  South Gothica.  There’s still some beauty left here, a little bit anyway.  I guess West Gothica is the only place left with a little unknown to it.  Sogot on the other hand is just a different kind of central.  Instead of tenements it has row houses.  Instead of warehouses it has abandoned factories.  The factories, though, are unique.  Each one has its own quirks.  Each one has its own purpose and with that purpose comes utility, reflected in the architecture.  On top of that, Sogot’s less densely populated than central so not every block is walled in, and not every street is straight.  I like that.  I like taking winding turns instead of just sharp corners.

Midnight comes and the night is full, and so is the moon stuck behind the cottony sky.  It’s cool but the air is humid and dew is already collecting.  Maybe it just rained.  If Delano was here, I’d ask him… 

Focus Betha. 

†
Delan
o
†

E
ach of the four boroughs has its own distinct look.  West Gothica, however, has always been a city unto itself.  Geographically, it’s the largest borough, but demographically the second smallest, and it’s where the city got its name.  West Gothica was built on what was once a mountain range.  Bulldozers and dynamite rounded it off, but what remains is a hilly spine of bedrock more than half the length of Gothica, North to South.  Rising up from the rocks are an infinite number of churches.  The buildings are so tightly packed together that their architecture interlocks and forms square miles of sloping peaks and flying buttresses.  From the rooftops all you can see is an undulating forest of steeples, towers, and turrets.  You can’t even see a street unless you’re on a ledge and looking straight down.  As to why so many churches were built, and all right next to each other – there are only theories.

The churches and cathedrals form Upper City where the largest, undisturbed supernatural presence exists, many of the churches being homes to wealthy chyldrin and gazers.

But I’m not going to
Upper
City. 

Far below the churches and even below the winding streets that weave through the cobblestone hills is a whole other submerged city full of narrow stone paths, markets and homes etched into the bedrock itself.  In some places, the paths are only a shoulder’s width wide and a man’s height deep, while in others, they go down fifty-feet below street level. Occasionally, the walkways expand, opening up into plazas where vendors and peddlers sell their crafts, but for the most part it’s just gutters with bits of churches
crisscrossing overhead.  It is in these gutters, where the vast majority of the borough lives.

To go to Lower City is like going back in time; people pull carts full of goods behind them and dress in long drapery and eat off rock tables.  It’s not for my taste really, but whenever you need to find something that you don’t think exists, you have a chance to find it in the markets of Guttertown.

Once I cross into West Gothica, I join the ranks of the elite few and the supremely stupid who drive the streets.  One wrong turn and I’m tumbling into a Lower City ditch or driving through the front doors of a church.  Despite the danger, I push my new vehicle to her limits, throwing myself around the cab with needlessly dangerous stunts and last second turns.  Finally I come to a suitable spot and slow down to find the best place to park.

There’s a wounded church just ahead.  Half its side wall is missing and rain is pouring down the edges of the hole and into the interior like a waterfall.  I slowly inch over the rubble, passing under the sheet of water, and nudging some pews out of the way with the bumper.  Inside, and out of the rain, but most importantly, hidden from view, I marvel at the vehicle.  Her sleek crimson aerodynamics dripping with water along with her modernity, make for an odd but visually pleasing juxtaposition against the ancient, dusty, pious apse.  Above her is a blossoming flower of stained glass and it glows with the flash of distant lightning.

I grab some things out of the back seat and sling a bag over my shoulder, then push the remote button on my key chain.  Now all I have to do is find a way down into Lower City without breaking my legs. 

†
Sabeth
a
†

T
he old factory is dilapidated and sad looking, like it used to be a proud beast but all that’s left is a skeleton.  Time seems to slip away as I make my way through the dirty interior, wandering the assembly lines in utter darkness.  It’s eerie, but I enjoy it, pretending at any minute that a shift of men in overalls with grease stains on their cheeks will burst through the doors and work their craft on the machines.

“Israfel?” I whisper into the darkness.  If he’s alive, he isn’t in here.  I move on to another room. “Israfel?  Israfel?”  No answer.  With my hopes beginning to weaken and the possibility of finding another raven by morning looking rather poor, I take a seat on a crate in the upper most storeroom.  City light bathes the wooden boxes in pale yellow and I take a moment to look at my shadow and smooth my hair in the black silhouette.

A seductive male voice, full, deep and vibrant, speaks from the shadows.  “If truth be vein and darkness bliss, then seal your fate with an ignorant kiss.”  It was something I wrote once…  Something I sang.

“You remember me,” I reply softly.

“Your grace is perceptible even to these blind eyes.  How could I forget?”

“How are you?”

He doesn’t respond, just stays in a shadow.

“I need a favor, Israfel.”

He speaks wearily.  “I have little to offer and less to give.  What is it you require?”

I suddenly feel selfish and ashamed.  “A feather.”

“You’re in luck my dear; a sickness plagues me.  Age has finally caught up, I fear.”

Age?
  I think to myself.

“Age.”  Israfel takes two awkward bird steps into the light.  He resembles a buzzard more than a raven with bulbous sores under his drooping white eyes.  He ruffles himself, and sends many feathers to the ground. “I’m not as beautiful as I once was.”

I speak truthfully.  “Oh no, my dear Israfel.  You have been given a gift which I have only ever dreamed of; you are very beautiful.”  I snap to attention as the sound of many feet trample towards us, echoing from all around.

“They have come for me,” Israfel says sadly, turning to hobble back to his nest.

“Who has?”

“Thanatos.”

“The
Society
of Thanatos?” They were supposed to be dissolved, and the number I hear now is far greater than what could have remained.  What could they be doing and what do they want with a Israfel?  I can’t let them take him; he is too valuable and too powerful to be in the hands of a dangerous ilk cult – and consciousness knows what they could accomplish with the magical components of his body.  I also envy the raven for his silent and dignified death and won’t let these intruders take that from him.  And above all else, I must complete my own mission. 

As fast I can, I grab Israfel who squawks wildly in surprise, and run deeper into the darkness.  I can’t risk jumping through the glass and killing the thing I am trying to rescue so I stealthily unlatch one of the big glass plates and slip out onto the roof like a cat with a
bird in her mouth.  With the city lights on the other side of the storeroom I have the advantage as I slip along the ledge and down onto a rusty fire escape.

Suddenly the window I used is pushed open and someone calls back to the others.  There’s a commotion and I am unable to hide both myself and the raven quick enough.  Following the feathers, they are led right to us. 

I make a break for the next section of roof and, after reaching the other side, kick out the fire escape which links the two sections.  Two society members follow the rusty cage to the bottom but the rest use an alternate route to pursue us.  I could easily out run, out jump, and out hide these puny beings, but I have a very fragile companion to think of.  I’ll just have to outsmart them. 

†
Delan
o
†

I
’ve wasted enough time trying to find an easy way down.  I take a breath and start jogging parallel to a Lower City path.  When it curves out ahead of me, I turn the jog into a leap and sail over the path to the walls of the opposite side, then let my feet drag along the slope as I skid down the vertical rock-face to the bottom.  When I reach the path below and roll out of the near free fall, I take an inventory of what I started with.  My bag is intact, my sword is still under by jacket but the soles on my
Phobes
are a half-inch thinner.   A couple of young filth-covered children have gathered to watch me with wide eyes.

“Don’t worry,” one of them says looking up the thirty foot wall I just slid down.  “You’ll get better with practice.”

I can’t help laughing.  “You know where I can find any of these things?” I ask, showing them my list and handing them each some cash.  They point down the path and then run off, yipping and hooting at their new fortunes.