Authors: Nic Widhalm
Distant cries shattered the vision, dragging him back to Earth like man clinging to driftwood.
Wait!
Just a little more time. I can almost see it, how the whole thing fits together.
But the vision was gone, the figures becoming one with the gray mist and fleeing from Hunter’s sight until all that was left was the fading image of Lucifer’s twinkling eyes.
Hunter opened his eyes, gazing once again upon Oriphiel, the last Throne.
“You knew all along. Didn’t you?”
Oriphiel rolled her eyes. “You really don’t get this whole ‘Throne’ thing. Of course I knew.”
“How?” Hunter asked, knowing Oriphiel would catch his meaning.
A look of doubt crossed the Throne’s face, the first uncertainty Hunter had seen since he met the silvery-haired woman. “They weren’t sure it would work,” she said. “The Grigori, the Order of Venus—it was a gamble. Back then they hadn’t created an Apkallu yet, there was just the theory…”
“How?” Hunter repeated, his voice steel.
Oriphiel pursed her lips. “There was only one way. They needed a volunteer—someone strong enough to survive the transfer into a human body, but also receptive to merging with another. Someone who had grown disillusioned with the war. Someone willing to sacrifice themselves.”
Hunter suspected he knew the rest, but allowed the Throne to continue.
“The Grigori didn’t know if the Seraphim would ever remember, would ever regain his full powers. And for the last forty lifetimes you haven’t, Hunter. You’ve been Herchel, the Power, member of the sixth order. The one who volunteered to join himself with a Seraphim that was all but dead.
“But now I remember.” Hunter whispered, his voice husky.
“Yes, Morning Star. Now you remember.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
“No,” Hunter said softly, his eyes on the ground. Then looking up at Oriphiel, “No!”
The Throne said nothing, her eyes hooded, unreadable. Then, glancing over at the dusty cuckoo clock hanging on the wall, clicked her tongue in irritation. “So soon?”
Hunter’s face clouded. “Are you listening to me, Oriphiel? Is this funny? My life’s a fucking joke now? I won’t have it—I
won’t
! You and the Order can take your ‘Morning Star’ bullshit and shove it right up your ass, cause I’m not buying it. I’m not
him
!” His voice cracked and he stopped, his eyes brimming with unshed tears.
Standing, Oriphiel picked up the mugs and strode toward the kitchen. As she walked, she said, “Pay attention young man, because I won’t have another chance to say this. You can deny your heritage all you want, I expected nothing less—you’ve been whining ever since you found out you were Apkallu—but Mika’il and Bath know who you are, and it frightens them like nothing in a thousand years. That makes you dangerous. But it also makes you useful.” She disappeared around the corner into the kitchen, and Hunter heard the clinking of dishes as they fell into the sink. A brief running of water, then Oriphiel came back around the corner and waggled her fingers at Hunter. He thought it was meant to appear sympathetic
“You’re not ready. I know. But nothing’s fair in this world, you goose. For you more than most.”
“I didn’t—”
“Ask for this? Yeah you did. You’re like every other person on this planet—you all want to be
special
. Well, wish granted. What else you’ve got?”
“You can’t ask me—” Hunter sputtered.
“I’m not. The first order is. Make of it what you will, but if I were you—and I remember you, Luk’faer…you’ve got something cooking in that ol’ noodle of yours, whether you know it or not—I would make the most of a bad situation.”
Oriphiel sat back down, her eyes fixed expectantly on Hunter. Under her gaze he stopped his protests and slowly sank back against the soft cushions. “What am I going to do?” He asked softly.
“Find the Sword,” Oriphiel said immediately, almost before Hunter could finish the question.
She’s seen all of this,
he realized.
Everything I’m about to say. Everything I’m about to do.
“What Sword?” He asked.
“Your sword. The weapon of the Morning Star—the Sword of Fire. You almost conquered the beyond with it last time. If you can find it again, you might be able to stop them.” Oriphiel’s eyes flashed to the clock and widened for a second before swinging back to Hunter. It was so quick Hunter almost missed it, but when Oriphiel looked at the clock he could have sworn he saw fear in her eyes.
“Stop them from doing what?”
Oriphiel clicked her tongue again. “Opening the bridge. Finishing what they started when you marched on paradise so many years ago. And Herchel—Luk’faer—if they succeed, all of this,” she swept her hand at the apartment, “is over. It’s something Mika’il and Gavri’el can unite over, and as long as you’re alive their truce will continue. They’ll hunt you to the ends of the Earth. Beyond if they need to. Find the Sword, Hunter Friskin—before they find you.”
She looked again at the clock, nodded to herself, then smiled at Hunter. Her eyes were bright and clear. “You were always a cocky one, Luk’faer, crafty and troublesome as the day is long. I still remember how you taunted Mika’il, driving her crazy with your questions, your snide remarks. That bitch never had a sense of humor. And Gavri’el… you were the only one who could get him to stop day-dreaming.”
She stood. “You don’t deserve all the blame that’s followed you, Morning Star, though you’ve certainly warranted some. No matter—you were always my favorite.” Walking to the iron-wood door she reached out and gripped the handle, then looked over her shoulder at Hunter. “Be careful,” she warned, “and mind who you trust. Betrayal did you in last time. Make sure it doesn’t follow you again.”
“Wait. You haven’t explained a damned thing!” Hunter jumped to his feet, following Oriphiel. “Where the hell am I supposed to find this Sword? What do I do when—”
Just then there was a dull thud against the door. Oriphiel shuttered slightly, then her face smoothed into a peaceful expression and she turned the handle.
An explosion of shouting and guttural screams filled the room as the door flew open. The thick, rusty smell of blood assaulted Hunter’s nose. Diving across the room, Hunter crashed into Oriphiel, knocking the silver-haired Throne to the ground and covering her with his body.
Shouts sounded on the other side of the door and an explosion suddenly rocked the room, sending a shower of wood and stone chips raining down on Hunter’s back. He covered Oriphiel as best he could, bending his body protectively around the Throne as the tremors shook the ground.
Once the ringing in his ears had subsided, Hunter raised his head to survey the damage. A foot away, smoke streaming in thick black clouds, was the tattered remains of the giant door. Twisted hunks of metal marked the place it stood a moment earlier, blackened, sooty wood jutting from the hinges.
“You…could have…knocked,” Oriphiel coughed, pushing herself up and away from Hunter.
A dirt-streaked face crept into view, peeking around the corner of the decimated doorway. The green eyes glittered in the smoky light, searching the wreckage until they fastened on Hunter. Blinking, Hunter rose and stumbled forward, shoving blackened debris effortlessly out of the way. Without pause he swept Karen into his arms. She fought at first, her slim arms beating at his back, but when Hunter refused to let go she finally gave up and dissolved against him. Her face sank into his shoulders and he turned to bury his nose in her thick auburn hair. She felt perfect—like she was sculpted to his body.
This is it
, Hunter thought.
Right here. A reason to fight
.
As the ringing continued to fade, Hunter heard the cries of battle echoing in the distance. He reluctantly pulled away from Karen and surveyed the damage. Beyond the twisted wood lay three bodies in various states of dismemberment. Hunter held back his bile as he noticed what he’d first taken for a piece of torn wood was in fact the remains of a black-clad man. The body had been shredded like string cheese, an arm torn brutally from the shoulder, the head hanging from a tiny thread still attached to the body.
“Jesus, Karen,” Hunter said, equally amazed and disgusted. “What did you do?”
Karen turned to follow Hunter’s gaze. She shrugged. “You pick up a few tricks fighting Apkallu. It’s amazing what a simple vacuum can do.”
Hunter took a step back, staring at Karen in horror. For a second, lost in her embrace, Hunter had forgotten what kind of creature the Arch was. Karen met his eyes and flinched. She stepped back, crossing her arms defensively. “What? Sorry, I didn’t stop to politely ask if I could spring their prisoner.”
“I’m not their prisoner, I
asked
to come here. Those men,” Hunter swallowed, looking away from Karen, “were just doing their jobs. They were guarding the door.”
“From what? This is their
home
, Hunter. What were they guarding the door against?”
Before he could answer, Hunter was interrupted by another scream. This one was closer, and followed by a sharp bang that sounded like gunfire.
“Jesus, what’s going on out there?” Hunter moved toward the gaping hole that was now their exit, but stopped when he felt something pull weakly at his leg. Looking down he saw Oriphiel crouched against the wall, a hand held tightly to her abdomen. Blood leaked between her pressed fingers, collecting in dark-red pools around her torn shirt. Hunter dropped to his knees and placed his hand upon hers, his gaze darting back and forth between the oozing blood and Oriphiel’s strained face.
The Throne gave a weak smile. “Not without me, boy. I still have some kick left.”
“You need a doctor.”
Oriphiel shook her head faintly. “There’s a Principality a few rooms down. He came here years ago, fleeing the war.” She smiled. “He said it insulted his craft.”
Hunter reached down and tenderly lifted the Throne, shocked by how little she weighed. It was as if he held a child. “Tell me where to go.”
“Hold on,” Karen blocked the exit. “I didn’t fight my way in here so you could play boy scout. We don’t have
time,
Hunter.
” Urgency filled her voice as she threw a hurried look over her shoulder and down the dark corridor. “I’m not the only one who’s found you.”
“Karen…what did you do?” Hunter asked, trying to focus past her shining green eyes and ruby lips.
“I didn’t
know
,” She wailed suddenly. “Hunter, I didn’t know. I’m sorry, Hash said—”
“Hash is here?” Hunter leaped forward, pushing Karen aside and knocking Oriphiel’s head lightly against the smaller woman. He looked out on the corridor, scanning the corpses, praying he wouldn’t see Hash’s heavily muscled body among them.
“Maybe. I don’t know. I…I think I was followed. Bath must have had an inkling what I was doing, and now—we don’t have any time, Hunter we’ve got to get out of here!”
Hunter shook his head. “First, the Principality, then the priest and the detective. I owe them that much.”
“Fine,” Karen said, crossing her arms. “Lead the way, Superman.”
Ignoring Karen’s frown, Hunter stepped carefully over the rubble and began down the tunnel that led into the heart of the Order of Venus.
The echo of Valdis’ footsteps followed him through the long corridor, mocking his slow gait. His captor cuffed him once again, bringing a strangled yelp from the priest. His captor, a thin man with jet-black hair, grumbled something under his breath and continued to prod Valdis down the tunnel, the shadows of their party growing dim in the distance.
“Damn it!” The man pushed Valdis again. “Can’t you move any faster, old man?”
“Perhaps if you dragged me?” The priest suggested, immediately regretting his words as his captor’s eyes narrowed, considering.
He wouldn’t actually drag me,
Valdis assured himself, but his gut twisted anyway.
Luckily, the black-haired stranger apparently decided it wasn’t worth the effort, and settled for giving the priest another cuff and motioning him down the tunnel. Valdis smiled faintly, sweat breaking in clammy relief as he began his awkward shuffle down the corridor. It might be slow and unpleasant, but at least he was moving under his own control. For now.
Another thirty minutes passed before Valdis noticed that the tunnel was changing. In the distance the shadows of their attackers began to narrow as the light morphed. The yellow glow darkened to a greenish blue, spreading slowly across the damp stone walls until Valdis felt like he was walking beneath the ocean. Blinking his eyes, he tried to shake the feeling that the walls were undulating.
Is that salt
? Valdis’ nostrils flared, his lips pursing at the pungent scent of seaweed and saltwater.
That’s new.
Nothing really surprised Valdis anymore, though. His capacity for shock had worn down over the past few weeks, leaving behind a perpetual state of numbness. At this point the priest wouldn’t have been surprised to look up and see a school of fish following them.
This is what they do to humans,
Valdis realized.
Why they’re so alien, so instinctively disliked. Our ability for wonder, for delight, surprise—it can’t exist in the same world as the Apkallu. They’re like us, but so unlike us at the same time. How can Hunter stand it?