BETWEEN HEAVEN AND HELL

BOOK TWO: SHADOW

In Shadow four hundred years have passed and the mist-covered hills of Donegal have been replaced with the shadowlands of the Under Realms of Hell. It is a hellish kingdom divided between the three remaining Fallen Angels: Shaddock, Proteus and Gabriel who rule their domains like feudal lords and where the Dead serve their every whim. Behind the black gates of Shaddock’s fortress collared Thralls are branded with his standard while Reapers harvest the essence from Wraiths to feed Demon Overlords and use their ashes to build Killoween’s walls. It is a world of hopelessness and despair, and Shaddock is its master.

One of the seven Fallen Angels to take up dominion in Hell, Shaddock is an immortal with the power of the gods at his fingertips, and all the forces of Evil at his command. Since the Breaking of the Universe he has waged an endless game against his Fallen counterparts to gain dominion over the Under Realms, and there is nothing he will not do or anyone he will not sacrifice to gain his victory, including his own son.

Unchanged by time, the Unpledged are still young men of the highlands. Cursed by the Fallen’s blood that gives them godlike strengths and immortal life, only the Fairie Star branded onto their arms and the bonds of brotherhood keep them from falling. But always Shaddock seeks to break them, and Bain knows it is just a matter of time before he takes claim of their souls. Their only hope is to find a LockSmith who can open one of the seven Doors leading into the Upper Realms of Heaven. They must find her before Shaddock does or he will use her to gain access to the Book of Names that will give him dominion over Heaven and Hell.

With the help of a leprechaun and his faithful puca, and a bit of fairie gold they wage a war of deception against the Fallen, but nothing in the Under Realm is as it appears and no one can be trusted, not even themselves.

CHAPTER ONE - THE ABYSS

Night fell hard on L.A.’s warehouse district. The moon closed its eye to the graveyard of bunker like buildings and the stars turned away from the narrow alleyways, leaving the darkness of the night and the foul creatures that sought its comforts. Shadows were the first to arrive, rising up around halogen street lights that cast a ghostly glow upon all they touched, cavorting like hellish imps they slipped around bolted buildings that hovered like tombstones above them.

At night the warehouse district was their playground. A dark world where dark pleasures can be found, and the private club hidden behind its bunkered walls made avail those pleasures to all.

Walk the narrow alleyway in the broad of day and the Abyss would not be found. Stalk it in the dead of night and it would lead you to the nightclub’s steel doors. Clever camouflage or artful ruse, no one dared to ask, nor did they ask questions of the Abyss’s proprietor a man known only as Virgil. To some the name conjured images of the Devil, others of a blessed Saint. The two agreeing on naught but one thing that he was aptly named. Like Dante’s guide into Hell, Virgil was their guide to untold pleasures.

An invitation to participate in the evening’s frivolities was a coveted prize many killed to possess. Virgil chose his clients carefully and with great discretion. The black envelope delivered by Ravens at the stroke of midnight; a drop of the bearer’s blood needed to open its waxen seal. The vellum pressed card had a single line penned in Virgil’s flowing blood. Abandon all hope yea who enter here.

And they did.

Limousines lined the streets in front of the Abyss. Their tinted windows dark and steamy as the rich and the beautiful waited for Hell to throw open its doors. Twenty feet tall, each door a slab of black iron engraved with sinful promise: Lust bared her breasts boldly, Envy watched Greed count his gold, Sloth and Gluttony made decadent meal. But, while the world’s elite waited for Wrath and Pride to ring out the midnight hour, at the rear of the nightclub a different clientele waited. One that needed no invitation other then the glow of hellfire in their eyes and a Fallen Angel’s mark upon their souls.

The hidden cameras above the steel enforced doors made ready as Death’s Gong struck out the midnight hour. The first strike sounded like thunder through the air, the second shattered the darkness, and the third saw a silver Aston Martin shoot out in a flash of lightning from the night sky.

The cameras laser eyes turned to the car parked in the alleyway; the doors thrown open, and both driver and passenger lie face down on the pavement. Both men were young, no older than twenty and very attractive. The taller of the two had the refined looks of a European aristocrat with tousled bronze hair, moss green eyes and chiseled chin; features that complimented the corded muscles that strained under his shirt. His companion had the mark of the Black Irish stamped onto his handsome face with piercing twilight colored eyes that hovered on the edge of night.

Bain staggered to his feet avoiding the pool of vomit. “Need a hand?”

“Do you have one?” Drake retorted..

“Two actually.” Bain pulled him onto his feet.

“This suit cost me a damn fortune!” Drake shouted as he wiped the vomit from his pants and jacket. “I’ll be taking it out of Rolfe and Quinn’s hide. Them two rotter’s lied straight to me face.”

“Tell it to the rotter’s yourself!” Bain said as he tossed a small disc over to Drake. “And try to keep the shouting to a minimum. Virgil’s got eyes on us.”

Drake gave the disc a hard twist and instantly Quinn and Connor appeared before them; the holographic images so real they could hear the cameras swivel in their chambers. The wild young men stood fresh-faced and shorn of braids. Connor the more handsome with sandy color hair and deep set blue eyes, and Quinn with his boy next-door good looks and easy smile. Both dressed in jeans, white t-shirts, and had wolfish grins on their faces and a feral like look in their eyes.

“How’d it go?” Quinn asked Drake.

“This is how!” Drake shouted, pointing to the pool of vomit. “That’s me dinner yer looking at yeah bleeding rotter’s!”

“Actually its dimensional dysplasia. The Cloak must have fried out on the jump. Rolfe won’t be liking that much.”

“Rolfe won’t be liking it! I’ve just had me guts ripped out.”

“Yeah look right enough tah me. So what’s the occasion anyways?”

Bain shot Drake a dark look.

“Virgil’s holding a table for us,” Drake said.

“Yeah we heard yeah two had a bit of fun when we were gone.” Connor grinned. “Sorry I wasn’t there tah lend yeah a hand.”

“Be glad you weren’t,” Bain replied. “So, how’d it go?” A tiny flick of his hand warned Connor that Virgil had ears and eyes on them.

“It was cold, and you know how Aidan hates the cold. But we got what we needed.”

“Good. Tell Shea to leave the porch light on for us.”

“Will do,” Connor promised.

“And give our regards to the Ferryman… It’s been a while.” Quinn added, ending the hologram.

Drake groaned in misery. “I’m a dead man walking.”

“If we don’t get this done you’ll be wishing you were dead,” Bain said, slamming the car door. He set the alarm even though it wasn’t necessary. Only a fool would steal from Virgil, a dead fool! The Abyss was his private domain and once you stepped through its doors you played by his rules, and Virgil was old school. An ‘eye for an eye’ was his motto, and pity the hand that stole from him or wielded a blade. He was not a merciful man nor was he incautious.

They stood before the steel enforced doors with their arms stretched out to their sides. The cameras turned eyes to them. Where Virgil’s human patrons passed through security scanners at the front of the nightclub, at the rear his less-than-human patrons passed a different kind of test. Laser sharp beams of white light shot out from the cameras cutting through skin and bone to the essence lurking within. Only the branded Star on their arms kept the light from turning the soulless black color of the Under Realm, instead it turned the murky color of Limbo; the eternal void stretching between Heaven and Hell that had served as the Unpledged’s prison for over four hundred years.

The steel doors slid open and the Ferryman appeared. 

He was the mythical bearer of souls across the river Styx and for the price of a gold coin their guide into the underworld of the Abyss. The very sight of him could make a demon tremble, and for good reason, for the Ferryman was Death itself. A cloaked figure draped in darkness; his black robes woven from the sorrows of all those poor souls who lacked a coin to pay his fee. For the lack of a gold danake the Dead were forced to wander the shores of Limbo for a hundred year’s time until the Ferryman returned to carry them to Hell. Their sorrow was his fee, and all paid it heavily.

The Ferryman spoke no words; the long arched sickle spoke for him. His skeletal hand reached out to them.

Drake begrudgingly handed him two gold coins. “Use to be yeah could get into a club with a fiver and a handshake. What’s it gonna be next, a pound of flesh?”

The moment the coins vanished under the Ferryman’s robes the sickle took on a golden glow indicating that the fee had been paid in full. The Ferryman motioned with his sickle for them to follow him through the doors and inside a dimly lit corridor carved out of volcanic rock.

The steel doors closed silently behind them.

“What yeah think he’s got hidden under ‘em robes?” Drake whispered to Bain.

A warning bell sounded in Bain’s head. “Don’t even think about it!”

“I wasn’t!” Drake lied.

“I know when you’re lying,” Bain reminded him.

“You know of all your spidy like abilities I hate that one the most. A mate should be able to cop a lie once in awhile.” 

“Well this isn’t one of those times.” Bain told him. 

The air began to thicken. The steamy heat caused the tunnel’s rock walls to drip with sweat. The tunnel came to end at an arched door with hieroglyphics etched above its threshold. It was an ancient language only the Ferryman could read, and a Fallen’s bastard. Though the Fallen’s blood in Bain’s veins was diluted, the language of the Dead posed little challenge for him.

Bain read the markings. “Lay aside hope and take up sorrow. Embrace grief for there will be no more tomorrows. The long of night is now upon you.” Each time he read those words they left him feeling bereft. Today was no exception. Cold dread filled him as he entered the Abyss.

Carved out of obsidian rock the nightclub was cavernous in size. Heavy steel beams cut across the room’s forty foot ceilings where industrial spotlights hung from thick metal chains on pulley’s that are in constant motion; their light dances across the black marble floor that stretches the room. In the center, a silver dance floor set with celestial shapes turns the ceiling into a starfill night above the dancer’s heads. Loud music sounds from the DJ’s booth raised high above the rafters, to the side are steel stairs that lead up to a balcony, and behind it is the dark rooms; rooms reserved for even darker pleasures. Heavy steel cages move soundlessly up and down steel tracks set into the cement walls. Between the bars flashes of flesh can be seen as patrons participate in their choice of pleasures.

A partially naked couple stagger out of a cage drunkenly.

Drake flashes Bain a predatory smile. “Take’s yeah back don’t it. What’s it been anyways?”

“Not long enough!” Bain muttered drily and ran his fingers through his thick wavy hair in frustration.

Heads turned in their direction. Eyes darken with fear around Bain and then with hate, for that is the price flawless perfection commanded. Even in a room packed with beautiful people they stood out: Drake’s dark looks drew every woman’s eye, while Bain’s flawless perfection drew the Under Realm; every curve of his face marked him for a Fallen’s son.

“Ignore them, Bain.” 

“I’m trying! But I’d rather face a pack of Miranda’s Wolves than this lot.”

“You’re just out of practice is all. It’s just like riding a bike.”

Bain snorted. “When have you ever ridden a bike?”

“A horse then! The point is things could be a whole hell of a lot worse. Shaddock could have sent us to the Purges. Then we’d be knee deep in entrails instead of here with these lovely…lovely creatures.” Drake raked his eyes over an attractive woman standing at the bar with a man. She gave him a sly wink.

“We’re not here for that! We’ve a job to do.” Bain told him. 

“No harm in mixing a bit of business with pleasure,” Drake said, flashing another pretty woman a quick smile.

“It was your pleasure that got us in this mess,” Bain said irritably. “If you hadn’t gone after that Shade...”

“Hold it right there! This mess is just as much Miranda’s fault as it is mine. An Overlord should know to brand her Shades. If she’d followed protocol this would never have happened. Not that I’m saying it was mistake, because if you ask me one less Shade in the Under Realm is not such a bad thing. The way they go around staring at yeah with those black eyes… it’s bleeding unnatural!”

“So, how do you want to do this?” Asked Bain.

“Well you won’t be doing anything looking like yer going to yer death.” Drake dusted the dirt from Bain’s jacket. “Try smiling!”

Bain gave him a weak smile.

“Forget smiling! It’s overrated anyway. What yeah need is a little demonstration. See those two lovelies over there?” Drake motioned to two scantily dressed women. “Watch and learn.” He melted into the crowd and reappeared a moment later, standing between the women with arms wrapped around their waists and a drink in both his hands.

Bain left Drake to his pleasures and made his way to the far end of the bar. Winding through the entire nightclub was a bar of obsidian rock that twisted like an enormous black snake across the polished floor. Set into each of its curved nooks was an apple red stool, filled and with a crowd waiting to take their place. He watched from the shadows as a small army of bartenders worked to meet the needs of a demanding crowd: a blend of public and private figures, fashion models, musicians, celebrities, and politicians. He recognized one of the bartenders as a former child actor whose brief brush with fame had led to a lifetime of sordid headlines and disgrace. A sad life etched upon his face; his once wholesome good looks that appealed to millions now faded, replaced with the starved look of a man haunted by a life he can never reclaim, and worse, now must serve.

The Bartender prepared a round of drinks for a group of wealthy businessmen. He was like a skilled magician setting up his trick. His hands flew over the glasses, a glib smile and fast talk distracting his audience from the slight of hand as he slipped tablets into their drinks. The businessmen threw a wad of hundred dollar bills at the bartender. The slick smile turned to gleeful triumph as he pocketed the money and the men stagger away.

Even from a distance Bain could smell the reek of poison. It wasn’t enough to kill, but enough so its victims would wish to be put out of their misery. He had found just what he was looking for.

He slid into the newly vacated stool. “That bottle of McCallum for show or sale?” he asked the Bartender, pointing to a dusty bottle of whiskey on the top shelf behind the bar.

“If it’s here, it’s for sale,” the Bartender replied curtly as he wiped down the wet counter. Bain placed a black credit card down in front of him and instantly he stopped wiping. He picked up the credit card. “I read somewhere that a man bought an island with one of these,” he remarked.

“Yeah but it was just a small island,” Bain said casually.

The Bartender snorted. “Well aren’t you the ruddy Prince of England,” he muttered, greed flared his eyes as he looked up at him, his eyes making a quick appraisal of Bain’s tailored suit and fine watch.  

Bain glanced at the wall of mirrors behind the bar then quickly looked away, waiting for the bartender to make his opening bid. He quoted a price five times what the bottle was worth.

“Pour yourself a glass while you’re at it,” he insisted.

In the mirror he watched as he poured generous amounts of whiskey into the snifters, greed seeing his glass fuller by half a measure. For a moment Bain thought he’d underestimated the man and then came the ever slight of hand.

The bartender dropped the tablet into his drink, stirred it quickly to give the poison time to dissolve and then without a thought to regret placed it on the bar. “There you go, your Highness.” The slick smile of triumph returned to his face.  

Bain raised his glass to him. “To the Slainte!” he said, downing the whiskey in a single swallow.

The bloodcaul heated in his veins as he placed the glass onto the counter and picked up the credit card. He looked away from the mirror; he didn’t need to see his reflection to know that his eyes were crimson glow or that his hands were taloned claws. Taking a deep breath in, he exhaled slowly. The air heated with the intoxicating power.

He turned to the bartender. “Time to pay the tab!” he said.

An hour later Bain walked away from a small group of stockbrokers, shoved the black cards into his pocket promising to keep in touch. He had collected a hundred souls and if he’d wanted to he could have collected more. Next to each name on the black card was Shaddock’s mark: a black serpent. They belonged to him now. Three marks was all a man or woman was given; and with each mark the serpent tightened its coils. One strike most could live with, two brought an overly friendly Broker to your doorstep to make barter for your soul, and three saw a not so solicitous Reaper come to collect what was due: your soul.

He made his way across the nightclub to the bone bleached tables and chairs that stretched along the far wall. He found a small table in a darkened corner set away from prying eyes and unwanted attention.

An attractive blonde moved across the dance floor towards him. Every head turned in her direction: men, women, and demon kind, for all are drawn to great beauty and the woman wore it like a sensual pleasure. The silvery slip of a dress clung to curves that swayed in time to the music; pale curls cascaded in ripples down her back, while creamy legs perched upon stiletto heels made every step seem like a sensual act. No one would guess that a demon lurked behind her heart-shaped face and violet colored eyes, and not just any demon, she was one of Miranda’s lieutenants, a demon Underlord.

“What are you doing here, Celine?” Bain asked rudely. Unlike most men in the room, his eyes did not darken with desire at the sight of her. Her beauty left him cold; the shiver that coursed through him unfeigned.

“Why Miranda sent me of course!” she said sweetly. “I’m to make certain Shaddock kept his word. One can never be certain when it comes to the Unpledged. Shaddock has such a weakness for his little pets.” She held a lacquered hand out to him, giving him a dimpled smile. “I believe the blood mark was set at one hundred.”

Bain tossed the stack of black cards onto the table instead. “The mark has been met,” he said coldly.

“True!” she sighed. “And it’s a pity. I would have enjoyed watching you bask in the glory of the Purges for the next hundred years. Still, I have to admit your little faux pas with that Shade was most impressive, however did you manage it?”

The scent of her trademark perfume heated in the air. For five hundred years Celine had used seduction to gain what she desired. Talents she’d learned as a courtesan to the Russian Tsar Ivan the Terrible then perfected under Miranda’s skillful hand. The cloying scent of her perfume one of her many weapons used to ensnare her prey. The heady aroma meant to rob a man of his senses so she could bend him to her will.

Bain grimaced in disgust. “Save it Celine! Your talents are wasted on me, and if you want to know about that Shade you’ll have to ask Drake. It was his kill.”

“Drake has many talents. I should know! But he could never take down a fully turned TheoMorph on his own. I doubt a pack of my Wolves could do the job.” She took a long sip of champagne, peeking up from under her thick lashes to see if her barb had hit. She smiled to herself when she saw the look of surprise on Bain’s face. “Shaddock did mention that Shade was a TheoMorph?” she asked, feigning innocence.

“It must have slipped his mind.” Bain replied.

“I have to admit I’ve never seen Miranda quiet so furious. She’d spent centuries turning that demigod and the two of you snuffed him out like a common Wraith. If it was anyone else she would have had them sent to the purges or worse.” She shivered, her lithe body rippled provocatively under her dress. “By the way, where is he? I can’t make out his signature.” She craned her neck to see out over the crowd.

Bain turned to her. “I think you should leave! There is nothing for you here, Celine.”

They both knew why she’d really come. Drake! He had left a trail of broken hearts wherever he went, and though Celine was a demon Underlord she was still a woman, a woman scorned.

Celine rounded on him. “You may be a Fallens bastard but you are not my master! Unless of course you want to be.” She moved closer to Bain, looking up into his moss green eyes. “I’m sure Drake wouldn’t mind sharing. Simon didn’t seem to mind, but then he wasn’t like you. He enjoyed his pleasures, he took what he wanted.”

Anger overtook him. He slammed her against the wall; her stiletto feet dangled two feet above the floor. “If you had a heart I would rip it from your chest,” he hissed in her ear.

Her violet eyes softened with desire and then with pleasure. “Spoken like a true Fallen. Only your father likes to make the pain last a bit longer.”

“I am nothing like Shaddock! If I were… I wouldn’t allow you to live.” He tossed her aside like a ragdoll.

She primped her hair and straightened her dress. “Well that was lovely. I only wish we had more time. Tell me Lord di Gordeneau, how many more of the Unpledged will have to die before you decide?” She smiled sweetly. “Your love is as poisonous as mine.”

She faded into shadow before he could reply. The look of triumph in her eyes the last thing he saw before she returned to the oblivion of the Under Realm.

CHAPTER TWO - THE GUARDIAN

Loud techno music pounded the air. Bain pushed his way through a sea of arms and legs dancing to the quick beat. Half way across the dance floor, the music switched to a popular love song. The sea parted as couples entwined themselves around each other. The overhead spotlights went dark. One by one they dimmed until only one remained, it’s ghostly glow filled the night sky. Thick mists began to swirl up from hidden vents in the floor. The wispy tendrils whirled about, making it difficult for the dancers to see; they step into each other, the sound of laughter and apologies competing with the soft music.

A couple danced directly under the spotlight. The hairs on the back of Bain’s long arms stand. He slowed his step and looked cautiously around. Through filtered light he caught a quick glimpse of a heart shaped faced cradled in auburn curls and eyes the colors of the shifting sea.

The woman looked over her partner’s shoulder at Bain. She reached up and brushed a stray curl from her cheek. The silver fleur-de-lis dangled from her wrist, the charm glistening like a star in the artificial moonlight. She smiled, and then blew him a kiss as her partner moved them out from under the spotlight and back into the mist.

Paralyzed. Bain stood in the middle of the dance floor as couples danced around him. One accidently stepped into him breaking the trance. He tore free from his bonds and fought his way across the dance floor, racing up the stairs two steps at a time to the landing. He leaned over the railing and scanned the dance floor; the green color of his eyes burning with the bloodcaul that cut through the mist like a laser.

The music ended and the overhead lights snapped on temporarily blinding everyone. He groaned in fury and then again in frustration, pounding his taloned fits into the metal railing as if it were made of clay, leaving deep rents in its steely surface. A couple at a nearby table picked up their drinks and fled down the stairs.

Drake appeared at his side. “Mustn’t scare the humans, mate,” he said good-naturedly. “It’s bad for business!”

Bain turned to him, his eyes still burning. “Alora!” he gasped.

Instantly Drake pulled the bloodcaul to him and scanned the nightclub. The bloodcaul passed through flesh and bone to the essence within. The outlines of the people and demon-kind blurred into shimmering swirls of color, each signature unique as a fingerprint: shades of red, yellow, green and blue belong to human kind, and the shades of gray, brown and black belong to the Under Realm. He released the bloodcaul. The cool in his veins matched his eyes as the crimson glow faded to a worried blue. “Not a pure light in the crowd,” he said.

“She was there, Drake.”

Drake sighed. “That’s what you said last week on the docks and the week before that at the airport… was she with him?”

Bain nodded yes.

“Did yeah get a look at him?”

“You know Soledari’s don’t show their faces.”

“You don’t know fer certain it’s a Guardian. This could be Miranda trying tah fook with yer head. It’d be just like that she-wolf tah do something like this.”

Memories were all the Unpledged had of the lives they led before the Star had been branded into their flesh, before a Dark Angel had taken claim of them, and before Hell became their home. They were the Unpledged’s most precious possessions and their greatest weakness. Alora Bain's, for each memory of her was more precious to him than life.

Bain fingered the silver ring. “Maybe,” he lied.

In truth, Alora had been no illusion or conjuerer’s trick. She had been real, and from the glow in her eyes she was a Guardian bound to Heaven. As she had looked upon him she would have seen him, seen the demon’s face in the mirror, for a Guardian’s glowing eyes saw beyond the exterior to the soul. No creature of the UnderRealm could hide their true nature, and all feared them. Bain understood their fear. Would that he had never laid eyes upon Alora again, for her to see him as he was now, for her to think of him other then he had been, was almost more than he could bear.

“Look I know yeah don’t want tah hear this, but maybe we should take this tah Shaddock. If a Guardian has yer name…”

Bain cut him off. “If a Guardian has my name Shaddock already knows. Just like he knew that Shade we killed was a TheoMorph. By the way Celine dropped by.”

“Celine’s here?”

“She’s gone! And lucky for you, because she’s out for blood,” Bain said.

“Tell me about it. The only thing scarier than a woman scorned is a demon woman scorned. Bloody terrifying what happens when they get pissed at yeah.”

“Well make it right! Because not even the Unpledged can deal with Wolves and Guardians at the same time.”

“Women!” Drake sighed. “So, you ready to get out of here?”

“How many?” Bain asked.

Drake handed him a stack of black cards. “One hundred. A group of lawyers had a bachelor party in the dark rooms. And they say the only good attorney is a dead one! Easy as pie!” he gloated. “And speaking of pie. I promised Rolfe I’d pick him up an apple pie. There is this small diner in North Carolina, best peach pie I’ve ever tasted.”

“Sunrise is in less than two hours, Drake” Bain reminded him.

They moved down the stairs towards the exit at the rear of the nightclub and stopped in front of a pair of steel doors. Drake waved a hand at the hidden camera and the doors slid open. Instantly their eyes contracted into tiny red dots. In less than a second the Ferryman laid a sickle at Drake’s throat.

CHAPTER THREE - WONDERLAND

Drake and Bain staggered from the rear of the nightclub. Their tailored suits hung in strips from their shoulders and knees.

Drake stripped off his ruined jacket and tossed it furiously at the steel enforced door. “Just so you know!” he shouted. “That was one of me lucky coins yeah gave him!”

“Well consider it well spent!” Bain shouted back. “He could have slit both our throats and for what, a couple of old coins?”

“It was the principle of the matter! And those danakes are worth more than this entire block of buildings. And they call me a pirate! At least when I steal a man’s coins he’s been dead a couple thousand years.”

Bain shot him a dark look. They both knew his actions had nothing to do with principles and everything to do with his consuming need to confront Death. Each of the Unpledged struggled with personal demons, and stealing from the Ferryman was just another countless risk he’d taken over the centuries so he could face Death in the eyes. Whether he meant to conquer or succumb to it, only he could say.

“Alright!” Drake conceded. “I admit it! Stealing from the Ferryman might have been pushing things a bit too far. But one good thing did come of it. I know what he’s got hidden under ‘em robes.” He grinned over at Bain. “Go on, ask me! You know you want to.”

It was impossible to stay mad at Drake for very long. Bain found himself laughing even though he’d wanted to kill him only a second ago. “Don’t tell me. I have a hard enough time sleeping as it is.”

“I think it’s about to get harder,” he said as two shadowy figures rose up from the pavement and floated towards them.

“Wraiths!” Bain shouted. “Get them into the back alley. I’ll take care of the cameras. I don’t want Virgil selling this to anyone.”

“You do that, and you’ll be off Virgil’s guestlist for a couple of centuries.” said Drake. 

“I’ll take my chances.”

“Always the hard way.” Drake sighed. He whistled to the shadowy figures, patting his leg signaling them to follow. The Wraiths followed him to the back of the alleyway where the shadows were the deepest and the only eyes upon them belonged to the rats lurking in their holes. Bain appeared a moment later; the faint glow of the bloodcaul in his eyes.

“Get anything from them?” he asked Drake.

“See for yourself.”

The Wraiths struggled to take their earthly forms. Vaporous limbs and headless torsos faded in and out of shadow, and not a face amongst them. “They’re unbound,” Bain said. “Throw me a Link.” Drake tossed a thin metal cuff over to him. With the Link in his hand he lunged at a severed arm. But the arm vanished before their eyes. They stood waiting and watching for the Wraiths to materialize, but they could only manage parts: an elderly man’s head, a limbless torso, a tatted neck, and a pair of handless arms.

“We’ll be here till dawn!” Drake groaned in frustration. “If I don’t get Rolfe that pie, I’m a dead man.”

“I can handle this, Drake,” Bain insisted. A Wraith began to materialize in front of him. He lunged at the severed hand but it vanished before he could attach the link.

“I can see that!” Drake quipped. “Watch and learn.” He grabbed a headless torso as it materialized in front of him. Before the Wraith faded he punched a fist through its chest ripping out its essence. “Not much there. Must have been a politician,” he smirked, tossing the squirming black mass onto the pavement.

“What the hell was that for?”

“Getting me pie,” Drake replied. As the other Wraith materialized he grabbed it by the neck and shoved its shadowy face into the oily mess. “See that!” he shouted. “That’ll be yeah if you don’t pull yerself together and give us that message.”

The Wraith instantly materialized. He was a young Hispanic man, no more than nineteen or twenty, and a ganger judging from the tats on his arms and neck and his sloppy appearance: he wore low riding chino’s, an oversized Laker’s jersey, and black bandanna tied around his head.

“He’s all yours,” Drake said to Bain.

“Thanks." He stepped cautiously towards the Wraith. “I know you’re scared. A few minutes ago you were alive and now…”

“Now yer sporting a nine millimeter between yer eyes,” Drake quipped, and then laughed as the ganger groped at the wound, dropping to his knees moaning in terror.

“You’re what we call a Wraith and that’s called fading,” Bain explained calmly as the ganger’s hands faded to blackened stumps. “Your essence is trying to reconnect with your body. This will keep it from happening.” He snapped the Link onto his arm and instantly the ganger began to scream in agony, trying desperately to claw off the Link as the stench of burning flesh filled the alleyway.

“Check him!” Drake shouted. He clamped a hand over the Wraith’s mouth and another around his thrashing form, holding him hard in his arms as Bain tore his shirt away.

“We bonded him!” he shouted when they saw the black serpent branded into his forearm.

“Miranda must have been more pissed off about that TheoMorph then she let on.” He released his grip on the Wraith.

“Celine said she’d been trying to turn it for centuries.”

“Then why didn’t she fooking mark the damn thing? That fooking she-wolf is playing at something. If she sent unbonded Wraiths she wants us out of the game. We’ll be spending the next ten years in the Purges if a Warden gets a look at that Link. I don’t know about you, but that’s ten years too long for me.”

“This is definitely personal,” Bain agreed. The Wraith held out his branded arm to him. “The black serpent is Lord Shaddock’s standard. He’s your Master now.”

“Welcome to Wonderland mate,” Drake muttered.

The Wraith began to sob. “This Shaddock…is he the Devil?” he cried.

“We should be so lucky,” Drake snorted. “The Devil works for Shaddock. Only we call them Wardens, and in about two minutes, they’ll be coming for you, so we’re going to need that message now!”

“Kella wine!” the Wraith cried. “Your to come to Kellawwwine! I swear I don’t know nothing more!”

A large shadow descended upon them, growing along the walls. The shadows started to glow crimson.“Time to go,” Drake warned Bain. “Now!” he screamed as a red robed Warden stepped from the shadows.

“Don’t leave me!” the Wraith howled in terror.

Drake snatched the Link from his arm and threw the Wraith onto the pavement. “Sorry mate, but we’ve got our own problems.”

They raced towards the car as a red robed Warden emerged from the shadow. The Wraiths screams reached a fevered pitch as they leapt into the car. The doors slammed behind them. Though it took only a moment to reach the car, it was a moment too long. A red-gloved hand shot through the car door window. Before it could pull Drake from his seat, the car’s engine roared to life, throwing the hand from him.

Drake turned to Bain. “Let’s get the hell out of here!” he shouted.

“Hell it is!” Bain said. And with a punch of the accelerator the car shot off the curb vanishing into the night.

CHAPTER FIVE - RUINS

The motorcycle shot out from the sky, it’s powerful engine silent as it hit the dirt road, sending up a hailstorm of dust and rock into the air. It was a road Bain had traveled countless times over the centuries, every twist and turn known to him as he rode through the open countryside up into the mist covered hills.

He knew what to look for, and when the hills swept down to a low vale he pulled the bike over parking it on the edge of an embankment. For a long moment all he did was sit, staring out over the rolling green hills. In the distance he saw a hill where a castle had once stood; it’s turreted towers rising like stone blades, its proud parapets looking out over the Highlands, standing guard over its people. It was in this very place he’d taken first sight of Donegal.

The morning mists lifted to a noonday sun that sat warm and high in the azure blue sky. He tossed his helmet and black leather jacket onto the back of his bike. His sweat drenched t-shirt clung to his chest then dried a second later as he pulled the bloodcaul to him.

A near summer’s day, but though the breeze was warm it was naught compared to the heat of the bloodcaul. It came easily to him now. The burst of molten heat coursed through his veins at his command, infusing him with God-like powers. It was a power born from the souls Shaddock had torn from men since the beginning of Time. He hated it, and if he could he would drain every last drop of blood from him. But it would serve no purpose. Slash his throat and he would be healed in seconds, set him to flames and he would walk from them. It was an immortal fate he could no more escape than he could escape the truth. He was a Fallen’s son, a Dark Angel’s bastard, born to earth and bound to the Under Realm of Hell. Demon cursed!

He pulled the bloodcaul to him. The rush of power so seductively intoxicating he could taste it at the back of his throat. He channeled the flow of power to his hands, watching as his fingers stretched into taloned claws.

He used the steel tips to cut the tracer from his arm. The wafer thin transmitter was another of Quinn and Rolfe’s many inventions. From anywhere in the Under Realms and Middle Earth the Unpledged could be found.  It was an invaluable device that had saved their lives more times than he could count, but today he didn’t want to be found. Today he wanted to pretend just for a few hours that the Under Realm didn’t exist, that he wasn’t a Fallen Angels son.

He crushed the tracer between his fingers, counting the seconds as he held the holographic disc in his hand. Seven he counted, surprised it had taken that long as Drake appeared before him, his holographic image so real Bain could see the worry in his twilight colored eyes.

“What the hell?” Drake shouted. “You damn near gave me a heart attack!”

“Where’s the bloody bastard” Aidan roared as his broad face filled the screen.

The tavern master of the Dark Horse had changed much over the centuries. His long brown hair was shorn close to his head, his full face shaven of beard, his ale-stained jerkin and breeches replaced with army fatigues and a tight fitting t-shirt that stretched over his bull like chest. But Aidan’s quick temper was the same.

“Are yeah dead?” he demanded. “Skewered, flayed or had yer arms ripped off by a snapjaw?”

“No to all the above,” Bain replied.

“Then yeah better have a damn good reason fer taking a century off me life!”

“Let me speak yeah ruddy ox!” Drake yelled at Aidan, pushing him away. “You realize Shaddock’s expecting us?” he reminded Bain. “And patience ain’t his long suit.”

“I’ll be there. I just need to take care of something first.”

“Well get it done fast! Because it’s me arse that’s on the line here, and I’d like to keep it attached to me body.”

Bain glanced at the ring on his finger. “I will,” he said softly. “Keep the porch light on for me.”

“Will do!” Drake said, ending the transmission.

Bain stuffed the disc into the pocket of his fitted jeans and with a clap of his hands the Cloak vanished the motorcycle from sight. He walked down the side of an embankment to a hand-hewn fence that had fallen to rot. Leaning against the boards he looked out over the meadow following the tree line down to the river, stopping at a cluster of scarlet foxglove sitting in the shade of an old apple tree. A small smile spread across his handsome face and his moss green eyes softened at the sight.

Over the centuries much had changed for all of them. The Fallen’s blood flowed through his veins honing their natural skills and acuities beyond the scope of mortal men. It made them stronger, faster, sharper, every sense heightened even to his very thought, but there were some things not even Time could change.

He put a hand onto the decaying fencepost and with one effortless leap left the cursed world of the Under Realm behind him. Time turned back its hands as he released the memories he kept locked in his heart. The low grasses under his boots became a rutted road traveled by horse and wagon, his white cotton t-shirt and jeans replaced by a linen tunic and buckskin breeches, and there was a blade of Irish steel in his hands. The memories surged through him vanishing four hundred years.

The steady beat of his heart quickened as he walked along the bank of a slow moving river so clear of water a boy could catch his breakfast with a sweep of his hand, and where an apple orchard begged to be climbed. The flowing meadows of barley grass parted before him, pushed aside by a warm breeze that caressed his skin and left the honeysweet taste of magic on his lips. The crossroads was gained in a few moments time, his memories returning him to that moment when he’d taken sight of the bustling village of thatched roof cottages for the very first time. He saw wood smoke curl up from chimneys and colorful flowerboxes at their windows, heard the sound of a fishmonger calling out his daily catch, and the sound of children’s laughter as they ran down cobbled streets with dogs yapping at their heels. The steady pound of Rolfe’s hammer sounded from the forge, and the sweet peal of church bells rang out the early morning hours.

Then he was racing, his feet flying across the market green up a hill to where a castle took rise from the shattered ruins of his heart. Its stone and mortared walls stood strong again. Its battlements a place where once again he could stand with Des and look out at all that once was Donegal.

“Would that I could return to it,” Bain whispered, longingly as he stood on the castle’s crumbled walls staring out at an azure blue sky that stretched out to the horizon. 

But not even a Fallen could turn back the hands of Time.

The Donegal he’d known and loved was buried with the past. It’s thatched roof cottages and cobbled streets were now grazing fields for cattle and sheep, and its once mighty castle a graveyard of crumbled stone. Only the amulet around his neck and the ring on his finger remained of a time and place that would never come again, and soon they too would be but a memory.

He pulled the amulet from under his shirt, cradling the silver disc in the palm of his hand. It warmed his skin, the soft warmth like that of a mother’s touch or a father’s hand. Bain smiled softly. The Reverend’s plain face seen as he traced the ancient marking etched into the amulet’s silvery surface.

Three lines capped with three circles. The Druid marking for everlasting life, and life was what Reverend Michael and Sybilla had given the Unpledged at the sacrifice of their own. Without the Star’s protection Shaddock would have enslaved the Unpledged to the Under Realm.

No day passed Shaddock did not try to break them in both body and spirit, and with Des and Simon he had succeeded: Des torn apart by the Fallen Proteus’s Wolves, and Simon to the intoxicating lures of the Under Realm. And he was to blame for it!

He clasped the amulet in a tight fist that should have crushed the disc into dust, but it left no mark upon it. Forged by the Aes Sidhe at the Time of the Breaking, the Star of Arawan was Old Magic, unyielding to those born of Hell, and a powerful safeguard for those born of Druid blood. His mother’s blood! A Druid magician’s daughter Eala reborn again, courageous and beautiful, and not a moment passed he did not strive to prove himself worthy to be called her son, worthy of the countless sacrifices that had been made for him.

And, he would begin by freeing the Unpledged from the cursedness of the Under Realm.

Leaping down from Castle Donegal’s crumbled battlements. Dried thistle cracked under his boots as he picked his way through the broken rock walls and rubble to where a Great Hall had stood. A feasting hall of ancient kings where bardic stories had sounded up to a barreled ceiling and an Oak Throne had made king of common men born of uncommon courage. It was here he would bury the past: at the feet of those who had sacrificed everything to protect their lands and their people. And he ever at kneel before them.

He did once again. Dropping to his knees, he dug his fingers into the broken earth until he felt Ireland’s rich loamy soil against his fingertips. It sifted through his fingers like sand through an hourglass. Time that would never come again. Time that had been stolen from them.

He called the swift summer breeze to him. He filled his lungs with it, holding the sweet taste of apples and wildflowers to him before he released it in a soft breath that saw the dirt lift in a swirling cloud from his hand. They were the pieces of his shattered heart, carried away by a wizard’s wind up and over Argoneh’s towering treetops to a hidden glen where once a caretaker’s cottage had stood. It was there he laid his heart to rest along with a whispered promise that the love he and Alora had shared would never be forgotten.

“Ever and always,” Bain swore, laying a gentle kiss on the silver band.

The ring was melded to his flesh by a magic he didn’t understand and to his heart by a love he knew would never come again.

Soft sobs tore from his throat as grief swept over him. Tears wept for the love of a girl with eyes the color of the shifting seas and the life they might have shared together, and for Des and Simon who’d died for him. Even at the cost of his soul, he would honor them.

Digging a hand deep into his pocket, he pulled out a dried acorn no bigger than the tip of his finger. For over four hundred years he’d carried it with him, taken from Argoneh’s woods that fateful night when they had slogged through the hellish bogs together. A lucky talisman he’d carried with him always. And now, like Seamus had done that long ago day he would bury it. He placed the acorn deep into the earth, packing the moist rich soil around it. Five thousand years ago his ancient grandfather, the wizard Maghodian had done the same. Laying each of Argoneh’s seeds to soil with a drop of his blood so they would take root in magic, watering them with a faerie’s tears to give them everlasting life. He prayed his tainted blood would do the same as he watched his black red blood soak into the earth, and then he added his tears as he buried the past and all its sweet memories with it.

Bain slipped the amulet under his shirt as the morning sky darkened above him. He rose slowly to his feet, eyes fixed upon a storm speeding across the horizon.

A summer storm was his first thought, and then the wind returned to him. Not the soft summer breeze he’d called forth but a winter gale that pushed the sun from its path as it charged in fury towards him.

“Guardians!” A voice screamed in his ear. Fear’s voice chastising him for a fool.

His tainted blood had called them.

Guardians were the chosen champions of the Ascended, Shaddock’s counterparts who had ruled the Upper Realms of Heaven since the Breaking of the Universe. Like a Fallen’s Overlord, Guardians stood right hand to the Ascended, and to the left stood their ever-faithful Soledari; warrior knights chosen for their wisdom and strength as well as their unfaltering devotion. Together they were the forces of Heaven. But where Shaddock’s Overlords used the powers of Hell to strip away Mankind’s soul, Guardians used the forces of Nature to restore it. It was said a Guardian could rekindle the light in the blackest of hearts with but a touch of their hand. It was an unimaginable terror for the foul creatures of the Under Realm who craved evil as a babe craves its mother’s milk. It was also a terror the Star had protected the Unpledged against, for neither the forces of heaven and hell could be used against them.

But Bain knew something had changed.

The storm struck at him in a vengeance of hurricane winds and bone chilling rains. A maelstorm of hail poured down upon him, violent gales ripped from the earth sending clods of dirt into the air. Within minutes the grazing pastures were turned into a battlefield. The earth cracked open under his feet and bolts of lightening struck down at him from a black sky.

He had no choice but to use. It was always a risk to use outside the borders of the Under Realm, for it called the dark creatures of the night to him. But as Nature waged war against him, it was a risk he had to take.

The bloodcaul flamed his eyes as he fought his way back to the parked motorcycle. Every step seemed a victory as he crawled through a river of mud up the side of the embankment. The motorcycle appeared before him, the Cloak’s shield had protected it from the storm.

Its powerful engine roared instantly to life as he pulled himself into the seat, throwing the bike into gear.

One final look was all he had time for, a final glimpse at a place that he would never come again. The Donegal he’d known and loved was gone, buried with the shattered ruins of his heart, and never again would he return to it.

“May peace find you,” Bain whispered gently.

The wistful words held little hope for him. He punched the accelerator, and then like a shot the motorcycle surged down the dark road leading to the Under Realm. 

CHAPTER FIVE - RUINS

The motorcycle shot out from the sky, it’s powerful engine silent as it hit the dirt road, sending up a hailstorm of dust and rock into the air. It was a road Bain had traveled countless times over the centuries, every twist and turn known to him as he rode through the open countryside up into the mist covered hills.

He knew what to look for, and when the hills swept down to a low vale he pulled the bike over parking it on the edge of an embankment. For a long moment all he did was sit, staring out over the rolling green hills. In the distance he saw a hill where a castle had once stood; it’s turreted towers rising like stone blades, its proud parapets looking out over the Highlands, standing guard over its people. It was in this very place he’d taken first sight of Donegal.

The morning mists lifted to a noonday sun that sat warm and high in the azure blue sky. He tossed his helmet and black leather jacket onto the back of his bike. His sweat drenched t-shirt clung to his chest then dried a second later as he pulled the bloodcaul to him.

A near summer’s day, but though the breeze was warm it was naught compared to the heat of the bloodcaul. It came easily to him now. The burst of molten heat coursed through his veins at his command, infusing him with God-like powers. It was a power born from the souls Shaddock had torn from men since the beginning of Time. He hated it, and if he could he would drain every last drop of blood from him. But it would serve no purpose. Slash his throat and he would be healed in seconds, set him to flames and he would walk from them. It was an immortal fate he could no more escape than he could escape the truth. He was a Fallen’s son, a Dark Angel’s bastard, born to earth and bound to the Under Realm of Hell. Demon cursed!

He pulled the bloodcaul to him. The rush of power so seductively intoxicating he could taste it at the back of his throat. He channeled the flow of power to his hands, watching as his fingers stretched into taloned claws.

He used the steel tips to cut the tracer from his arm. The wafer thin transmitter was another of Quinn and Rolfe’s many inventions. From anywhere in the Under Realms and Middle Earth the Unpledged could be found.  It was an invaluable device that had saved their lives more times than he could count, but today he didn’t want to be found. Today he wanted to pretend just for a few hours that the Under Realm didn’t exist, that he wasn’t a Fallen Angels son.

 He crushed the tracer between his fingers, counting the seconds as he held the holographic disc in his hand. Seven he counted, surprised it had taken that long as Drake appeared before him, his holographic image so real Bain could see the worry in his twilight colored eyes.

“What the hell?” Drake shouted. “You damn near gave me a heart attack!”

“Where’s the bloody bastard” Aidan roared as his broad face filled the screen.

The tavern master of the Dark Horse had changed much over the centuries. His long brown hair was shorn close to his head, his full face shaven of beard, his ale-stained jerkin and breeches replaced with army fatigues and a tight fitting t-shirt that stretched over his bull like chest. But Aidan’s quick temper was the same.

“Are yeah dead?” he demanded. “Skewered, flayed, or had yer arms ripped off by a snapjaw?”

“No to all the above,” Bain replied.

“Then yeah better have a damn good reason fer taking a century off me life!”

“Let me speak yeah ruddy ox!” Drake yelled at Aidan, pushing him away. “You realize Shaddock’s expecting us?” he reminded Bain. “And patience ain’t his long suit.”

“I’ll be there. I just need to take care of something first.”

“Well get it done fast! Because it’s me arse that’s on the line here, and I’d like to keep it attached to me body.”

Bain glanced at the ring on his finger. “I will,” he said softly. “Keep the porch light on for me.”

“Will do!” Drake said, ending the transmission.

Bain stuffed the disc into the pocket of his fitted jeans and with a clap of his hands the Cloak vanished the motorcycle from sight. He walked down the side of an embankment to a hand-hewn fence that had fallen to rot. Leaning against the boards, he looked out over the meadow following the tree line down to the river, stopping at a cluster of scarlet foxglove sitting in the shade of an old apple tree. A small smile spread across his handsome face, and his moss green eyes softened at the sight.

Over the centuries much had changed for all of them. The Fallen’s blood flowed through his veins honing their natural skills and acuities beyond the scope of mortal men. It made them stronger, faster, sharper, every sense heightened even to his very thought, but there were some things not even Time could change.

He put a hand onto the decaying fencepost and with one effortless leap left the cursed world of the Under Realm behind him. Time turned back its hands as he released the memories he kept locked in his heart. The low grasses under his boots became a rutted road traveled by horse and wagon, his white cotton t-shirt and jeans replaced by a linen tunic and buckskin breeches, and there was a blade of Irish steel in his hands. The memories surged through him vanishing four hundred years.

The steady beat of his heart quickened as he walked along the bank of a slow moving river so clear of water a boy could catch his breakfast with a sweep of his hand, and where an apple orchard begged to be climbed. The flowing meadows of barley grass parted before him, pushed aside by a warm breeze that caressed his skin and left the honeysweet taste of magic on his lips. The crossroads was gained in a few moments time, his memories returning him to that moment when he’d taken sight of the bustling village of thatched roof cottages for the very first time. He saw wood smoke curl up from chimneys and colorful flowerboxes at their windows, heard the sound of a fishmonger calling out his daily catch, and the sound of children’s laughter as they ran down cobbled streets with dogs yapping at their heels. The steady pound of Rolfe’s hammer sounded from the forge, and the sweet peal of church bells rang out the early morning hours.

Then he was racing, his feet flying across the market green up a hill to where a castle took rise from the shattered ruins of his heart. Its stone and mortared walls stood strong again. Its battlements a place where once again he could stand with Des and look out at all that once was Donegal.

“Would that I could return to it,” Bain whispered, longingly as he stood on the castle’s crumbled walls staring out at an azure blue sky that stretched out to the horizon. 

But, not even a Fallen could turn back the hands of Time.

The Donegal he’d known and loved was buried with the past. It’s thatched roof cottages and cobbled streets were now grazing fields for cattle and sheep, and its once mighty castle a graveyard of crumbled stone. Only the amulet around his neck and the ring on his finger remained of a time and place that would never come again, and soon they too would be but a memory.

He pulled the amulet from under his shirt, cradling the silver disc in the palm of his hand. It warmed his skin, the soft warmth like that of a mother’s touch or a father’s hand. Bain smiled softly. The Reverend’s plain face seen as he traced the ancient marking etched into the amulet’s silvery surface.

Three lines capped with three circles. The Druid marking for everlasting life, and life was what Reverend Michael and Sybilla had given the Unpledged at the sacrifice of their own. Without the Star’s protection Shaddock would have enslaved the Unpledged to the Under Realm.

No day passed Shaddock did not try to break them in both body and spirit, and with Des and Simon he had succeeded: Des torn apart by the Fallen Proteus’s Wolves, and Simon to the intoxicating lures of the Under Realm. And he was to blame for it!

He clasped the amulet in a tight fist that should have crushed the disc into dust, but it left no mark upon it. Forged by the Aes Sidhe at the Time of the Breaking, the Star of Arawan was Old Magic, unyielding to those born of Hell, and a powerful safeguard for those born of Druid blood. His mother’s blood! A Druid magician’s daughter Eala reborn again, courageous and beautiful, and not a moment passed he did not strive to prove himself worthy to be called her son, worthy of the countless sacrifices that had been made for him.

And, he would begin by freeing the Unpledged from the cursedness of the Under Realm.

Leaping down from Castle Donegal’s crumbled battlements. Dried thistle cracked under his boots as he picked his way through the broken rock walls and rubble to where a Great Hall had stood. A feasting hall of ancient kings where bardic stories had sounded up to a barreled ceiling and an Oak Throne had made king of common men born of uncommon courage. It was here he would bury the past: at the feet of those who had sacrificed everything to protect their lands and their people. And he ever at kneel before them.

He did once again. Dropping to his knees, he dug his fingers into the broken earth until he felt Ireland’s rich loamy soil against his fingertips. It sifted through his fingers like sand through an hourglass. Time that would never come again. Time that had been stolen from them.

He called the swift summer breeze to him. He filled his lungs with it, holding the sweet taste of apples and wildflowers to him before he released it in a soft breath that saw the dirt lift in a swirling cloud from his hand. They were the pieces of his shattered heart, carried away by a wizard’s wind up and over Argoneh’s towering treetops to a hidden glen where once a caretaker’s cottage had stood. It was there he laid his heart to rest along with a whispered promise that the love he and Alora had shared would never be forgotten.

“Ever and always,” Bain swore, laying a gentle kiss on the silver band.

The ring was melded to his flesh by a magic he didn’t understand and to his heart by a love he knew would never come again.

Soft sobs tore from his throat as grief swept over him. Tears wept for the love of a girl with eyes the color of the shifting seas and the life they might have shared together, and for Des and Simon who’d died for him. Even at the cost of his soul, he would honor them.

Digging a hand deep into his pocket, he pulled out a dried acorn no bigger than the tip of his finger. For over four hundred years he’d carried it with him, taken from Argoneh’s woods that fateful night when they had slogged through the hellish bogs together. A lucky talisman he’d carried with him always. And now, like Seamus had done that long ago day he would bury it. He placed the acorn deep into the earth, packing the moist rich soil around it. Five thousand years ago his ancient grandfather, the wizard Maghodian had done the same. Laying each of Argoneh’s seeds to soil with a drop of his blood so they would take root in magic, watering them with a faerie’s tears to give them everlasting life. He prayed his tainted blood would do the same as he watched his black red blood soak into the earth, and then he added his tears as he buried the past and all its sweet memories with it.

Bain slipped the amulet under his shirt as the morning sky darkened above him. He rose slowly to his feet, eyes fixed upon a storm speeding across the horizon.

A summer storm was his first thought, and then the wind returned to him. Not the soft summer breeze he’d called forth but a winter gale that pushed the sun from its path as it charged in fury towards him.

“Guardians!” A voice screamed in his ear. Fear’s voice chastising him for a fool.

His tainted blood had called them.

Guardians were the chosen champions of the Ascended, Shaddock’s counterparts who had ruled the Upper Realms of Heaven since the Breaking of the Universe. Like a Fallen’s Overlord, Guardians stood right hand to the Ascended, and to the left stood their ever-faithful Soledari; warrior knights chosen for their wisdom and strength as well as their unfaltering devotion. Together they were the forces of Heaven. But where Shaddock’s Overlords used the powers of Hell to strip away Mankind’s soul, Guardians used the forces of Nature to restore it. It was said a Guardian could rekindle the light in the blackest of hearts with but a touch of their hand. It was an unimaginable terror for the foul creatures of the Under Realm who craved evil as a babe craves its mother’s milk. It was also a terror the Star had protected the Unpledged against, for neither the forces of heaven and hell could be used against them.

But Bain knew something had changed.

The storm struck at him in a vengeance of hurricane winds and bone chilling rains. A maelstorm of hail poured down upon him, violent gales ripped from the earth sending clods of dirt into the air. Within minutes the grazing pastures were turned into a battlefield. The earth cracked open under his feet and bolts of lightening struck down at him from a black sky.

He had no choice but to use. It was always a risk to use outside the borders of the Under Realm, for it called the dark creatures of the night to him. But as Nature waged war against him, it was a risk he had to take.

The bloodcaul flamed his eyes as he fought his way back to the parked motorcycle. Every step seemed a victory as he crawled through a river of mud up the side of the embankment. The motorcycle appeared before him, the Cloak’s shield had protected it from the storm.

Its powerful engine roared instantly to life as he pulled himself into the seat, throwing the bike into gear.

One final look was all he had time for, a final glimpse at a place that he would never come again. The Donegal he’d known and loved was gone, buried with the shattered ruins of his heart, and never again would he return to it.

“May peace find you,” Bain whispered gently.

The wistful words held little hope for him. He punched the accelerator, and then like a shot the motorcycle surged down the dark road leading

CHAPTER SEVEN - THE DOEPPLER

Drake parked his motorcycle in the vehicle port. “I know! I’m late!” he called out to Bain. “There was this waitress, and well, one thing led to another… and another.”

Bain ignored him. He stalked out of the vehicle port without so much a glance in his direction.

“Damn it,” Drake muttered as he followed Bain out of the vehicle port and into the crowded courtyard. In every direction brown collared Service Thralls were at work, either on moving equipment or fixing vehicles and machinery. They worked under the watchful presence of Supervisors.

“So where’s the welcoming committee?” Drake asked Bain when he finally caught up to him. “Not like those lads to be late for the inspection.” He glanced over at him when he still did not reply. But all he saw was his reflection; Bain hid behind a pair of mirrored sunglasses that gave nothing away.

Instantly four of Vulterian’s Sentry Thralls materialized before them. The Sentry Thralls stepped towards them and Bain retreated, one cautious step back and then another, putting distance between him and the Sentries.

“Damn it!" Drake muttered. "Why is it always the hard way?” He delivered a sharp kick to the back of Bain’s right knee pitching him to the ground. He pinned him down with his boot as he ripped the mirrored sunglasses from his face. For a second he thought he’d gotten it wrong when he saw moss colored eyes stare back at him, and then sunlight struck upon them and they changed to the color of liquid amber.

The Sentry Thralls moved in, their retinal scanners flashing red, their Strikers set to kill.

“No!” Drake screamed. He snatched a Striker from a Sentry’s hand and tossed it across the compound. Immediately his hand exploded in pain, coursing waves swept up his arm nearly knocking him from his feet. “We need him alive!” he shouted. “Scan him!” he ordered the Sentries.

A Sentry Thrall scanned Bain and instantly the retinal scanner turned the color amber. He pointed the Striker at Bain’s head “A Doeppler, my Lord,” the Sentry reported in a dead voice.

“Damn it!” Drake muttered.

Doeppler’s are Old Magic and one of the most dangerous creatures in the Under Realm. Each creature born of Old Magic was gifted with a drop of magic taken from the very essence of life. The Doeppler’s gift was that it could take the form of anything born or bred in the Under Realm, even to a Fallen. It was a lethal illusion, but though they can imitate their avatars to perfection, they are possessed of their strengths and weaknesses. Human pain and shock had caused this Doeppler to lose its hold on the illusion, and once broken it can never be regained.

Drake pressed the heel of his boot into the Doeppler’s shattered knee. “Who sent you?” he demanded.

The Doeppler gave no reply. A stony look on his face and a gob of bloody mucus spat at his feet.

“Fine! But sooner or later we’ll get it from you. And believe me, it won’t be pleasant. So save me the time and you the discomfort and tell me what I want to know! We’ll start with an easy question: Who sent you?”

The Doeppler looked up at him and for a moment Drake thought it would reply, and then its amber eyes faded to the color of steel blue and a blood smeared hand reached out to him.

“Help me cousin!” Des whispered in a refined Irish brogue. “Don’t let them take me!”

Drake reeled back in horror. “Des!” he cried out.

The bloody hand stretched out to him, the hair blackened, the flesh turned to harden scales, and the tapered fingers morphed into razor sharp horns and spinacers. The Tarantis rose up from the Prince of Ireland.

Like everything in the Under Realm the Tarantis was a corruption of earthly creatures: part spider and part praying mantis. Its sack body was supported by six appendages each rigged with sharp horns and spinacers that shot out a toxin resin that rendered its victims paralyzed. Two enormous convex eyes allowed it to see in every direction, while below them hung snapping mandibles and fanged teeth that gleamed with acid.

Even with its injured limb the Tarantis moved with incredible speed. It scaled the compound's walls to the rooftop taking flight towards the castle doors. The courtyard was pitched into instant panic. Service Thralls ran in every direction as their Supervisors tried to get them back in order. The Sentry Thralls materialized from the courtyard and followed the creature.

Drake pushed his way through the mob, charging across the compound in the opposite direction to the grease pit. The pit was reserved for the repair of vehicles and cluttered with tools and equipment. It was also the place he’d thrown the Striker; he had hoped the thin metal rod would go unnoticed in the mess.

He peered under a pair of Desert Rats propped up on braces; the engines had been recently overhauled. Next to the back axel laid a pile of greasy rags, he pushed the pile aside with the toe of his boot and caught the familiar glint of metal under them. “Come to papa!” he whispered as he crouched down and removed a cigar shaped tube from his jacket; the tube was another of Rolfe and Quinn’s many inventions, and it was a damn good one, it protected against the agonizing touch of a Striker.

He slipped the tube over the Striker and placed it back into his jacket. A slight movement and a brown robe sticking out from behind a large utility container caught his eye. He stepped over to the container and grabbed the cloth in his fist, pulling a terrified Service Thrall from his hiding place.

The Thrall was young, no more than sixteen or seventeen, and small of build. His face was old Hanoi. The graceful tilt of his eyes and his delicate features in stark contrast to his round swarthy face and broad features. The inked tats on his neck and forehead claimed him a child soldier of the Khmer Rouge.

Drake threw him behind a Rat, face down onto the ground boot planted in the middle of his back. He heaved a sigh of relief when he heard a loud commotion from the other side of the compound broke out. A squad of Sentry Thralls materialized and began to herd the Thralls from the courtyard. He hauled the Thrall up by his work overalls, and pulled up his sleeve. “Fantastic!” he muttered in frustration. “You belong to House of Borghiani.”

The Thrall wrenched his arm free. “To thuoc ve khong ai!” he said in rapid Vietnamese.

Drake’s eyes narrowed.

Thralls are trained to adhere and obey. Trained hard and broken in by Red Wardens until the light faded from the eyes. Failure to comply was a one-way ticket to the Purges where Reapers ripped out their essence. It was a merciful fate compared to the Thralls who’d dared to fight back, they were made example of: entombed in Killoween’s walls. “

Ten cuan ban voi nhung gi?” Drake asked; the gift of languages owed to the Fallen’s blood flowing through his veins.

“Hoang,” the Thrall stated proudly. “Ten toi la Hoang,” he yelled up to the sky.

Drake clamped a hand over his mouth, whispered in his ear in English. “You are going to forget you and I ever met. Understand?” The Thrall hesitated. “Understand?” he pressed him.

The Thrall nodded yes and he released him. “Good! Because if I hear otherwise we’ll be having this conversation again,” he promised. He picked up a rag and wiped the grease from his hands. “You working on these Desert Rats?” he asked, not surprised when all he got was a stony look in reply. “Well if I were you. I’d check the cab systems. They’ve been compromised.” He tossed the rag onto the pile watching for a sign that the Thrall knew the Striker had been under them, but the stony look never left his face. “See yah around Hoang!” He turned and walked away as a Supervisor hurried towards them.

The Thrall plunged a hand into the pile of rags. The look of surprise on his face vanished as the Supervisor materialized at his side. He immediately assumed the pose of abeyance, bowing his head, keeping his flat dull eyes fixed to the ground. “My name is Hoang,” he said. “My name is Hoang,” he repeated as he was herded into the Tombs.

........................................

The silence in the courtyard was the first thing Bain noticed; the compound usually crawled with brown collared Service Thralls and overbearing Supervisors. He parked the motorcycle next to Drake’s and cut the engine.

Drake stepped from the shadows. “About time!” he called out to Bain. He walked towards him followed by four Sentry Thralls with Strikers in hand; the red glow of the blade set to kill.

Bain stared at the Strikers then looked away. “I made a little detour,” he said carefully. He shrugged out of his heavy leather jacket, threw it over the seat, shaking the dust from his wavy hair. “What’d I miss?” he asked.

“Yah know,” Drake said casually. “Same ole same,” he grinned. “A Doeppler impersonating you dropped by for a visit. Interesting bloke until he sprouted tentacles and legs,” he shivered dramatically. “Bloody hate spiders! I blame it on that time we were in that rainforest in Belize.”

“Brazil!” Bain corrected him. “If I recall you fell into a rather large nest of goliath tarantulas. I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone scream so loud or for so long.”

“You’d have done the same if all ‘em legs were crawling over yeah,” Drake said sourly. He turned to the Sentries. “You can put ‘em away, lads. Its him!”

The Sentry Thralls would not stand down. They moved into a four-point position around Bain, strikers drawn. “Lord Vulterian’s orders, my Lord,” the Sentry told Bain. The Sentry activated his cornea implants. He slowly scanned Bain from head to toe until its eyes turned the soulless black color that marked him for a Fallen’s son. The Sentry nodded to the other guards and weapons disappeared into their robes.

Instantly, two Sentry Thralls materialized into the vehicle port. “We’ve been instructed to escort you and Lord Morghain to the Castle,” one of the Sentries reported.

Drake and Bain walked down the long and narrow corridor known as Dead Man’s Alleyway. The corridor that connects the Castle to Shaddock’s private domain was fashioned like a Greek portico; black marble colonnades decorated open archways that served as windows lining both sides the corridor. It was a cruelty, for it offered all who walked Dead Man’s Alleyway a final glimpse at the sun before it was quite possibly darkened forever; few returned from a summon to Shaddock’s office.

The alleyway ended. They stopped and stared up at a pair of towering black doors. Twenty feet tall, the black slabs of wrought iron were bitter cold to the touch and terrifying to the eye; carved in such graphic detail was the story of the Dark Angel’s Fall from Grace.

It was a story that struck fear in all who gazed upon them. But where most men fell at the sight, Bain drew strength from it, his resolve hardened each time he looked upon the Dark Angel’s descent into Hell.

“You ready for this?” Bain asked Drake.

“Do I have a choice,” Drake replied.

“Not really,” Bain sighed. He threw an arm over Drake’s shoulders. “Come on! Lets see what me loving da wants with us this time.”The heavy doors swung open.

CHAPTER EIGHT - THE DARK ANGEL

Shaddock’s domain was sleekly elegant. Perched above a roiling sea, it was more aerie than office. To the right, a wall of windows offered unparalleled views of the waters; blue as ink, their color made more dramatic by a blood smeared skyline and eclipsed sun ever hovering on the edge of darkness. To the left, a wall of screens each of different size and shape. They were the Fallen’s eyes and ears into the Under Realm and Middle Earth, glimpses into worlds and enemies he sought to conquer and destroy. Beside the metal desk that sat in the center of the room there were scant furnishing in the room, two grey leather couches sat in the corner and a table. But they merely served as backdrop for the painting. All eyes turned to it when they walked into the room. The Persistence of Memory by Salvador Dali was a portrait of the Fallen himself. The artist had captured Shaddock perfectly: shadow and light, metal and glass bound in endless time, and equally endless despair.

Shaddock leaned back in the blood red Moroccan leather chair that served as his throne.

He had been waiting for them.  

Dressed immaculately in a black tailored suit, from a distance he could be taken for a high-powered businessman. It was a look that was furthered by streaks of silver in his sleek hair and fine lines at the corners of his eyes. Both features were a deception for Time has no effect upon a Fallen. He is flawless perfection.

The screens blackened as Drake and Bain walked into the office. They immediately presented the Fallen a stiff bow, a formality that he insisted upon and enforced if necessary. The cool look in both their eyes matched to the tone in their voices as they gave Shaddock their courtesy but nothing more.

Shaddock folded his arms across his chest, his black eyes narrowed to pinpoints as he stared at them in silence. The air grew hot as his dark gaze infiltrated their mind and heart. A spark of anger flashed in his eyes when he failed to breech them.

“You’re late!” he shouted. His crisp tone set an instant chill in the air.

Bain did not flinch. He walked towards him, laying a stack of black cards onto his desk. “Two hundred souls as ordered, my Lord,” he told him.

“I understand there were complications.” Shaddock looked at Drake.

Drake shrugged and stood up right. “More like a misunderstanding.”

“You grow bolder every day, Lord MacMorghain,” Shaddock said, lacing his hands behind his head. “Tell me. Now that you have faced Death, what do you think of him?”

“To be honest,” Drake replied. “I think he needs to work on his skills with that sickle. Bit of a disappointment that was.”

“Then we must give you a harder challenge,” Shaddock replied. The hard look in his eyes softened as the doors opened and Matias entered the room, giving the Fallen an awkward bow.

Matias had changed the least over the centuries: his ginger color still worn in the same bowl like fashion, his round face still freckled, and the bookish look in his owl like eyes still bright.

“It’s about time!” Matias called out as he hurried towards them, his arms overflowing with the usual assortment of books, scrolls, and rolled up maps. “You’ve missed all the excitement!” He dumped them onto the glass table. “Apparently there was report of a Tarantis in the compound, which is ridiculous because evry idiot knows Tarantis feed off the larva of the Mandingo bloodfly, they can’t survive without it. And as the Mandingo is found only in Proteus’s region, ipso facto, it could not have been a Tarantis, a goliath pincer perhaps.”

“Try a Doeppler,” Drake said.

Matias’s face brightened. “Really, however did it get in?”

“It has been dealt with!” Shaddock said in a curt tone that silenced the room.

“My apologies, my Lord,” Matias stammered nervously. “Shall I begin?”

Shaddock nodded. “By all means” he said, giving a thin smile he reserved exclusively for Matias and Seamus.

The young men had claimed the Fallen’s favor: Matias for his mind and Seamus for his innocence. Where Shaddock laid heavy hand upon Bain and the others, he forgave the two boys’ every indiscretion, making few demands of them, allowing Seamus free access to his stables and Matias to his private libraries.

Steel panels closed over the wall of windows. The backdrop used to display an aerial shot of a snowcapped mountain.

Matias directed a red laser onto the projection. “This is Chomo Lhari!” he said almost reverently. “It ranks behind Everest and K2 as the third highest mountain in the Himalayas. Over ten thousand meters high, its borders between Tibet and Bhutan, a dubious position as those two countries are on unfriendly terms at the moment.” He directed the laser onto a snowcapped peak. “The Tibetans call Chomo Lhari The Bride of Kanchenjunga, loosely translated means, The Five Treasures of Snow.”

Drake instantly perked up. Time had not cooled the pirate’s blood in Drake veins, rather the Under Realm had served to enflame it into a passionate pursuit of treasure.

“According to legend each of Chomo Lhari’s five peaks was a repository for one of God’s treasures,” Matias continued. “Gold, silver, precious gems, grain, and holy books.”

“Holy books?” Drake said disappointedly.

“Yes!” Matias exclaimed. “And that is where we’ll find them” The aerial shot switched to a topographical view of the mountain. “This is Dzo’nga monastery,” he said, pointing to a shadowy image hidden behind a back of clouds. “Set one hundred fifty kilometers up the east side of the peak, it’s cut into a sheer rock face with no perceivable exits or entrances.” 

Bain stared at the blurred outline. “Is this the only photo you have?” he asked, stepping closer to get a better look at it.

“Yes, and we were lucky to get it,” Matias replied. “Rolfe sent in four Hawks. Three of them flat-lined the second they entered that cloudbank. The fourth managed to transmit this photo before it went down.”

Bain and Drake traded blank looks.

Sky Hawks are nearly indestructible. Designed to function in the harshest climate: arctic temperatures, sandstorms, hurricanes, blizzards, even tornadoes posed no problem for them. That a cloudbank should bring them down was definitely cause for concern.

“What caused them to go down?” Bain asked.

“Rolfe thinks the clouds emitted an electrical current that damaged the Hawks circuitry,” Matias replied. “And if they were ordinary clouds I might agree. But they’re not. I believe they are the heavenly steps Lao Zi rode when he ascended to the monastery in the year 600 B.C. According to legend only those seeking the One Truth can ride upon them, anyone else will be struck down by cumhacht na deithe, the power of the gods, which explains why the Hawks’ circuitry fried.”

Drake looked at Bain. “He can’t be serious.”

“Of course I’m serious!” Matias said irritably. “I know it may be difficult for someone of your limited acuity to understand…”

“Try lunacy! Drake laughed. “And who’s this Lousy chap anyway, I’ve never heard of him”

“That’s no surprise,” Matias said sourly. “And the name is Lao Zi,” he said, pronouncing each syllable slowly as if he was talking to a child.

“Lao Zi was a Chinese philosopher,” Bain explained. “He’s the author of the Book of Changes. Its one of the oldest books of divination in existence.”

“Exactly!” Matias cried, giving Bain a beaming smile. “The book consists of sixty-four images each associated with a number that when read properly can predict the future. It pre-dates recorded history so there are naught but stories and legends to go on, but from what I’ve been able to piece together when Lao Zi Ascended he gave the Rinpoche the only known copy that contained instructions on how to call forth the Five Emperors of Han. The legendary sage kings are believed to be the wisest of the wise. It was said they alone held the key to unlocking the Book of Changes’ secrets.” He suddenly began to rummage through the pile of maps and scrolls lying scattered across the tabletop. He held up an ancient scroll in hands, and unrolled the scroll. “Ah ha! Here it is,” He began to read aloud. “And the Bride trembled as the Diviner was born upon heavenly clouds into Time’s hands, the weight of the future too great even for the might mountain to bear. She wept from it, great tears of rock and ice, sealing the Divinier inside his tomb for all time.”

“There’s a woman for yeah,” Drake muttered under his breath.

“There is more,” Matias said. “According to Tibetan lore, Lao Zi challenged God to a game of Go. When Lazo Zi won he was rewarded with a divination song that could summon the Five Emperors from their graves. But Lao Zi decided that to know the future was to lose the past, so he hid the song within the Book Changes then removed it from Middle Earth. He gave it to the monks of Dzo’nga monastery for safekeeping.”

“So what are you saying?” Drake asked. “Because my limited acuity is thinking you’re asking us to scale Chomo Lhari to a monastery that is not only cut into sheer rock, but is also protected by some cosmic crap that’ll probably kill us just so we can steal a holy book that can summon dead kings and predict the future.”

“I merely wish to borrow it,” Matias said haughtily. “I have every intention of returning it, and I think you’ll change your mind when you hear what else is in that monastery,” he said excitedly. “As valuable as the Book of Changes may be, there’s something else in that monastery I think will prove worth the risk.” He paused for a moment and looked over at Bain, his owl like eyes aglow with excitement. “A LockSmith!” he cried.

The color fell from Bain’s face, stunned. “How long have you known about this?” he demanded.

Shaddock answered for him. “Matias had only just discovered the LockSmith’s existence. He brought it to my immediate attention, which is why I’ve summoned the two of you.”

A baseball size rock appeared in his lacquered hands. The room fell silent as he tossed the ball causally between his hands.

Bain glanced up at the blackened screens. He had been a fool to think he’d escaped so easily. Shaddock had eyes and ears everywhere.

Shaddock crushed the rock to dust. “Pray do continue,” he said in a casual tone dripping with menace.

The laser shook in Matias’s hand as he returned to the map. “Finding a way into the monastery will be difficult,” he said nervously. “As you can see the mountain is buried under a tone of snow and ice. But factoring in time and climatic changes, I would say Lao Zi Ascended there!” He pointed to a ledge on the east side of the mountain. “But I don’t see how that will help us. There must be twenty feet of ice buildup on that ledge.”

“But not above it. See that shaded area?” Drake said. “A quid says em monks put out the welcome mat for dear ole Lousy.”

“Lao Zi,” Matias murmured as he peered closely at the image. “What is that?” he asked.

“It’s a tunnel,” Bain said quietly.

“Then we have a way in!” Matias said excitedly.

“Getting in isn’t the problem,” Bain sighed. “It’s getting out! When Uruk Khun Evanished the borders shifted. Chomo Lhari now lies in Red Dragon territory!”

The Under Realm is a world unto its own. Divided amongst the Dark Angels at the Breaking of the Universe, each of the Seven was given a kingdom to rule. Over the milleniumns four of Hell’s Dark Angel’s Evanished into the Neverworld, and their Thralls and lands were divided between the remaining Fallen’s: Gabriel, Proteus and Shaddock. Like feudal lords they stood guard over their dominions. Gabriel’s with his Red Dragons, Proteus’s with his Black Ravens, and Shaddock’s with his Wolves. Those bearing Shaddock’s brand moved freely through his lands, but would be instantly detected if they crossed either Proteus or Gabriel’s borders. But the Unpledged were bound to no one but each other. The Star of Arawan allowed them to move freely between the Realms and borders without fear of being detected. It was a freedom few creatures of the Under Realm possessed, and the reason Gabriel and Proteus had placed bounties upon their heads.

Bain walked over to the couches and sat down. The dent in the buttery leather owed to the countless times he’d sat on that very same spot worrying to the very same problem he faced now: how to keep the Unpledged alive.

Matias and Drake must have thought the same. Bain felt their presence at his side, Matias taking seat beside him and Drakes’ hand on his shoulder. It was a show of solidarity that helped to steady his nerves as he lifted his chin and met Shaddock’s dark gaze. “Before I ask the Unpledged to risk their lives we’ll need assurance the LockSmith is in that monastery.”

“If my word will not suffice, perhaps another’s will,” Shaddock replied.

The doors flung open. Vulterian marched into the room followed by a red-robed Warden, and two Wraiths.

Shaddock’s Overlord stood seven feet tall in his steel tipped combat boots. He was a brute of a man, thickly muscled and bullish of face. Camouflaged behind the broken features was a razor sharp mind honed upon centuries of military intrigues and open warfare. He cut an imposing figure, dressed severely in military fatigues and a standard issue white t-shirt that strained across his bull like chest, and bore Shaddock’s black serpent and Rome’s Double Eagle proudly on his corded biceps.

The ex-Roman Centurion had been general to the Legio di Nex. The Legion of Death was responsible for the extermination of the tribes of Germania under the rule of Emperor Caligula. When his master was assassinated on the steps of Rome’s illustrious Senate he’d followed him in death, cutting out his own heart for all to see. It was the same loyalty the Overlord demanded from all who bore his standard, and those who failed suffered his wrath.

Vulterian gave Shaddock a fisted salute before he moved to his side. “These are the Wraiths, my lord!” he said in clipped tone. “Bring them!”

The Warden led the Wraiths to the desk.

“That Warden is one of Celine’s Cossacks,” Drake whispered to Bain.

Celine had a fondness for all things from her native homeland of Russia: champagne, caviar, and Cossacks. Swarthy, dark, with long plaited hair and moustache, Cossacks were war-hardened men of the tundra, bred on horseback, raised with a sword in one hand and a bow in the other. They cared nothing for life beyond the feel of steel in their hands, the cut of it against a man’s throat, and the cries of their enemies as they fall; skills that served them well in the Under Realm.

Drake nudged Bain with his elbow. “He’s wearing a Mentor.”

“I noticed,” Bain replied.

The metal plate imbedded into the Cossock’s right wrist was a complex sensory mechanicisim that linked a Warden to his charge. With a single touch the Warden could administer sensation or emotion: pleasure, pain, joy, sorrow, despair, even love can be channeled. The careful application of pain or pleasure was used to train new recruits to become one of the hundred of thousands of Thralls utilized in Under Realm. Thralls were used in every capacity, and judging by the expensive suits, watches, and manicured nails, the Wraith’s would not end up on latrine detail. 

“A fiver says they’re bookies,” Drake whispered to Bain and Matias. .

“You don’t have a fiver!” Matias scoffed. “Besides, anyone can see they’re lawyers.” He motioned to the heavy gold rings on their fingers. “Harvard…Class of ’98 if I’m not mistaken.”

The Wraiths made an odd couple. The Wraith in the blue suit was in his mid thirties; tall, lean, attractive with an olive complexion. The Wraith in the grey suit was older; short heavyset, with unusually pale skin, ash colored hair, and blue eyes. Both Wraiths were clearly confused, equally terrified, and undeniably dead.

Shaddock greeted them like they were old friends. “Gentlemen,” he said, smiling amiably over at them. “Won’t you have a seat?”

Two glass chairs materialized in front of the desk. The Wraiths flinched then turned to the Warden. He nodded and they scrambled into their seats.

A thick file materialized in Shaddock’s hand, done for dramatic affect of course, for there was nothing a Fallen did not know. “Which of you is Mr. Kruger?” he asked as if he were conducting an interview.

The shorter of the two Wraiths raised his hand slowly.

Shaddock looked at the other Wraith. “Then you must be Mr. Morongello,” he said as he perused the file. “It says here you are employed, excuse me, were employed by Donitello DeRosa. Attorneys! Harvard Law! Your parents must be very proud." He laid the file aside. “Now you work for me!” The polite smile now replaced by rows of needle sharp teeth.

The Wraiths cried out in terror.

Shaddock continued the interview. “Mr. Kruger, perhaps you could tell me what services you provided Mr. DeRosa?”

“We are…we were Mr. DeRosa’s personal attorneys,” Mr. Kruger answered, his voice so strained it was barely above a whisper. “I swear we had nothing to do with his business. We took care of his personal affairs: wills, deeds, trusts, real estate.” He began to weep unaware that he had no tears to shed. “It’s the other guys you want not us! We didn’t do anything wrong! We don’t belong here! I’ve been a good Catholic all my life! I was a fucking altar boy for God’s sake!”

“Well in that case” Shaddock said smoothly. “I’m afraid you are of no use to me.”

In a blur of movements, the Warden swept across the room and punched a taloned fist through the Wraith’s chest. He stood over the prostrate Wraith clutching a wiggling mass of essence in his fist.

Bain felt Matias flinch. “Look away,” he told him.

But the warning came too late. Shaddock inhaled the oily mass from the Warden’s hand drawing the whispery black tendrils deep into his lungs. The power surged through him, flaming his eyes.

“Pocket,” Matias croaked, his face pale.

“Got it!” Drake said, pulling a peppermint from the boy’s pocket and popping it into his mouth.

Matias sucked desperately onto the candy as they waited and watched the Warden sift through Mr. Krueger’s disintegrated remains for the Link, wipe it off, and resume his position on the far side of the room.

Shaddock turned to the remaining Wraith. “Now, Mr. Morongello,” he continued. “Were you also an altar boy?”

The terrified Wraith sobbed, shaking his head over and over again.

“Excellent! What can you tell me about this Frankie d’Molto and Zhuan Xu Lo?” he asked.

Mr. Morongello stopped sobbing, and turned to Shaddock stunned. “Is that what this is about?” he said in shock. “Mountain climbers? We got our fucking heads blown off for a couple of adrenaline junkies?”

Shaddock smiled. “Apparently!”

The last of the Wraiths will drained from him, his eyes replaced with the dull despair that marked Thralls. The Cossack took notice. The Link on Mr. Morongello’s arm shimmered signaling it was no longer operational.

The Wraith fell limp in his chair. “All we were told was that they were mountain climbers,” he said. “Mr. DeRosa was sponsoring an expedition to some mountain in Tibet, Chomo Lhari I think. He asked us to arrange for diplomatic passports and visas for two of the expedition members. Frankie d’Molto and Zhuan Xu Lo,” he stated. “There had been reports that the People’s Liberation Army were scouting the mountain villages for insurgents. He wanted to make certain they could leave the country if fighting broke out.”

“And it didn’t seem odd to you that he requested papers for only two members of the expedition?” Shaddock asked.

The Wraith shrugged. “Mr. DeRosa is an eccentric man, very private. There hasn’t been a published photo of him in thirty years. Roger and I never met him. If he needed something, we were contacted through an associate, and never the same person twice. Funds were deposited into untraceable offshore accounts accessed by a code that changed hourly. After each assignment we were instructed to destroy all data and replace our hard drives.” He laughed bitterly. “That was supposed to be for our protection!”

“Tell us what these climbers looked like,” Shaddock demanded.

“I don’t know!” the Wraith stuttered nervously. “We never saw any photos. The documents were delivered to a third party. We never saw the finished product. That’s what I kept telling that Egyptian, but he wouldn’t listen.” He lowered his head. “He fucking tore our office apart then started in on us.” He scrubbed at his eyes. “We gave him everything: names, dates, addresses… and then he shot us! Roger first…then me!”

Vulterian put his hands on the desk and leaned forward, towards the Wraith. “Describe this Egyptian” he commanded.

“Well at first we thought he was just some nutcase off the street that got passed security. It’s New York, you get all kinds of wackos,” the Wraith explained. “But he was different. He looked like he’d stepped off the wall of a pyramid: white robes, leather sandals, black eyeliner. Oh, and he wore a gold ankh around his neck.”

Matias walked quickly to the desk and sketched an ankh on a piece of paper. He held it up to the Wraith. “Did the ankh look like this, Mr. Morongello?” he asked politely.

The Wraith glanced at it. “Yeah that’s it! Only the one he wore was old. Everything about this guy was old, even his smell.

“Smell?” Matias queried.

“Yeah, my brother’s a coroner so I’ve seen my share of stiffs and I’m telling you this guy smelled like death.” He sniffed the air, realizing he no longer has the sense. “I don’t know! Maybe it was my imagination,” the Wraith cried. “There was a lot going on, but the mirror was real. I saw it tucked into his belt when he made us kneel. That was old too.”

Matias held the pen and paper out to Wraith. “Would you be so kind as to draw this mirror for us, Mr. Morongello?”

The Wraith hesitated then took the pen and pad into his hands. “I can try.” He made a child-like drawing on the paper. “It was attached to the front of his robes. At first I thought it was a large magnifying glass but when he got closer I could tell it was a mirror. It was maybe five or six inches in diameter, set in a gold frame and had hieroglyphics around the edges.” He sketched for a moment. “The Eye of Horus was the only one I recognized,” he said, handing the sketch to Matias.

Matias studied the drawing. “Were there any markings on the back?” he asked finally.

“Tarot cards! There were Tarot cards!” the Wraith exclaimed. “My ex-wife was into that psychic crap. She was always dragging me to readings…never predicted this though.” He stopped and looked nervously around the room. “She isn’t here, is she?”

“Not yet!” Shaddock assured him. “Is there anything else you’d care to add Mr. Morongello?”

“I don’t think so,” the Wraith replied. “Everything happened so fast. I can tell you this, before he shot us he made us kneel then started chanting.” He pulled a gold ankh out from under his shirt. He stared at it for a moment. “I was a good man,” he whispered. He clasped the ankh in his right hand, instantly his face contorted in a mask of agony. The smell of burning flesh filled the air. He clasped his other hand over the ankh and held them up as if in prayer and fell to his knees at Matias’s feet. “Forgive me,” he pleaded. The Wraith pressed the ankh to his chest and began to chant in an ancient voice. “Asundi amundi.” The voice grew stronger. “Arun Allah mah” he continued chanting.

 The bloodcaul ignited in Bain’s veins, a terrible power unlike any he’d felt before. Immediately the overwhelming stench of decomposing flesh began to strangle him. Bain materialized to Matias’s side and pulled him away.

Matias, Drake, and Bain fell to their knees clutching at their throats, choking. Light and air poured into the room as the steel panels slid away and each of the windows imploded, sending glass and the toxic gas far out to the sea. They gasped, staggering to their feet.

Demonfire erupted around the Wraith and Warden, and separated them from everyone in the room.

A shrill cry of agony pierced the air. The Wraith writhed in agony as the demonfire melted his flesh like tallow wax… revealing the Egyptian that lurked inside.