Abyss of the Fallen Page 11

  Through the kitchen window, she saw an overcast day, and she remembered that there was a chance of rain.

  While the coffee brewed, Mary went upstairs to let the warm rain of a shower nourish her skin. The smart tablet on her vanity played her favorite Chicago radio station through a portable, wireless speaker. She poured shampoo into the palm of her hand and sang along until suddenly chills ran up her spine. She remembered the part of her dream where her undergarments had turned to glass. As a girl, without her parents noticing, she had burned her underwear out of shame after being abused. As the ashes built up around her, they were shoveled under and tossed out as if they had never been there at all.

  This kind of flashback would have normally sent her into a tailspin, checking every window and door to make sure that they were locked. She relaxed as the warm water ran down her body. The chill left, and her body became warm, making her eager for a cup of her special blend of coffee. Nothing could dampen her happiness. Dagon, her Angel Dream come to life, infused her with the courage to leave her past behind. Because of him, she had come to life, her old chains of captivity loosening and falling to the ground. If Dagon was trapped somewhere, she would help him.

  “Rampart … Rampart … come in, Rampart! Over,” said Mr. Cool.

  “Is Mary safe? Is the situation under control now? Over.”

  “Roger that. Safe and sound. The situation is neutralized, sanitized, deodorized.” Sledgehammer sniffed his banana. “Yeah, deodorized. Over.”

  “So ... what happened?

  “Um … we need a powwow first,” said Mr. Cool.

  The guys began discussing in heated whispers amongst themselves.

  “Excuse me … this is your boss speaking, and I’m going to give you a pow on your wow, if you don’t put a sock in it. Otherwise, I’ll put my foot in it.”

  “That’s gross!” Razz looked at his reflection in one of the rhinestones.

  “What happened in the dream? Out with it or it will be in with it.”

  “We only know tidbits about Mary’s dream, though we had to stun the dream crasher with Friar’s laser beam … which was seriously awesome possum!” said Sledgehammer.

  “Back up … what laser beam?”

  “Well, he flashed his silver belt buckle at them, whoever it was, blinding them momentarily. Then they left like possums. We’re glad that you had used such kind words in suggesting that we might, when we get around to it, move our bottoms and spit shine all our weapons, and Friar did it. Now everything is shining like a mirror. He should probably be careful. We’re assuming you want this house left standing and not burned to cinders.”

  “He used his belt buckle?” Dagon chuckled. “What else did you guys use?”

  Sledgehammer rattled off all the communication gizmos each of them used. “Do you remember the spy on the television show that talked into a shoe?”

  “Yeah, I do.”

  “If humans can talk into those little screens they carry, anything should work.”

  “That’s true. Could living in the light be this simple?” asked Dagon.

  “In your case, probably not,” said Mr. Cool.

  “Not very encouraging.” Dagon’s light mood soured.

  “Just keeping it real.”

  Dagon’s mood went from sour to rotten. “A lot of years have passed since I first saw this house, and it better remain standing and in one piece!”

  “And stand it shall. You can better see the light without the dirt, boss. Clever … he was like a superhero with his belt buckle weapon … zizz … take that and that … blamo!”

  “You know, boss, necessity is the mother of invention … and what a great mother she is. Sort of gets you … right here,” bragged all the guys, tapping their fists to their hearts.

  “Well, nothing comes back void, does it, boys? Is there anything else worth reporting? Get on with it; I'm still sleeping.”

  “Yeah, there was one teensy weensy minor thing which happened ...” said Mr. Cool. A barefoot man with long white garments put himself in front of a dream crasher, and Mary … we—”

  “What? Are you sure it was a man?”

  “Pretty sure, though we couldn’t see his head. It seemed like Mary felt safe.”

  Dagon felt a sudden rage well within him.

  “Um … um … then not too long after that the dream, um … you … um—”

  “Spill it!”

  Sledgehammer clenched his fist. “Boss, you killed Mary’s parents in her dream.”

  “I what?”

  “Actually, it looked like they were—Ahh! Um, were already dead.”

  “What’s wrong, Razz?”

  “Nothing, boss, just a little banana trouble,” Razz answered. “You better hope you can clean this off my blazer, Sledge. No, not like that, now it’s wet and gooey.”

  “What’s going on in there?” Dagon said.

  “Sledge tried cleaning my blazer with a wet paper handkerchief thing.”

  “Forget about that. What happened!”

  Mr. Cool snorted into the shoe. “There was no blood when you withdrew your sword, and there wouldn’t be if they were already dead … right, boss?”

  “I did not kill Mary’s parents! Whoever is listening, that was not me. This must be a plot. Mary is going to think I killed her parents.” Dagon’s mind whizzed, landing on several key components. “Mary’s parents were dead. In the dream, my sword had no blood on it. These are not ‘tidbits’! The next time all of you are on high alert, you best report back immediately. Understood?”

  “Yeah, we understand,” said Mr. Cool. “Oh, you owe us big time. Especially with this high alert black ops mission and all … and look at the informational nuggets that we brought back. You know, you really can’t put a price tag on this, can you? Why are we doing the dirty work here, picking up what the boss can’t do or chooses not to do? Our skills, our improvisation, and digging up juicy dirt … it all adds up to wads of cold, hard cash. Pay as you go, and you will never owe.”

  “You will get paid today, you scurvy rats!”

  “Ah, there he goes again, with those nice kind words … just stabs you in the heart, doesn’t it?”

  “What happened over at Mark’s house?” asked Dagon.

  “Don’t know, don’t care,” said Mr. Cool.

  Dagon raised his eyebrows but said nothing.

  “Sledge, you’re going to need a new walkie talkie.” Friar said.

  “Yeah, something that doesn’t explode,” said Razz, still trying to mop up, brush off, or scrape off the slimy banana guts.

  Friar opened and shut the kitchen drawers.

  “Get out of Mary’s house!” said Dagon.

  “Wait … here it is. I remember seeing something like these before. You can send smoke signals—”

  “No smoke! No fire! Get out now!”

  One by one, the guys came out the front door. “We’ll find something for you, Sledgehammer.” The guys said while patting Sledgehammer on the back.

  Keeping a close watch on his Cherbs, Dagon planned to step out in boldness, like that shining cement fleck which continued to glow brightly in darkness.

  Out of the shower, Mary dried off. The awaiting coffee perked her up even more. A shattering sound jolted her. Frozen in her tracks, her heart pounded in her chest as she tried to figure out where the sound came from and what fell. Afraid, she locked the bathroom door. She didn’t know what she would do if an intruder came in. It sounded hollow, as if it were a sound effect, a remnant of something that had already happened. With this thought, she put her robe on and warily unlocked the door. Except for the basement, Mary checked the whole house and saw no explanation for the shattering noise she had heard, though she noticed a smashed banana on the kitchen floor. She didn’t remember doing that. After cleaning it up, she felt foolish for letting her mind run away like it had. As she drank her coffee, her mind ran away with warm thoughts of Dagon instead.

  The train of Savila's black dress thrashed the glass floor beneat
h her as blood swirled underneath with hurricane force. Pacing, she breathed streams of fire, recalling Shadow Kings and shadows. All of them bowed and stood at attention.

  “You did well my shadow soldiers by giving the boy a bad night.” Savila said, then addressed the Shadow Kings. “My eyes saw through yours, my kin, and I saw the arrogance in a feeble attempt to deny me what is rightfully mine. No mere blade can remove this truth, for we saw it in the dead. His blade ran clean, being already claimed by me. Now he assists in the breaking of laws and what, my kin, is the punishment for law-breaking?”

  “Death!” shouted the Shadow Kings in rapturous unison.

  “In the end, the punishment of lawbreakers is death. Blood from the Golden Land will try and reclaim what is mine. This blood will bind the light over the stones, breaking the bonds of old. As I mentioned before, this will raise me to power, by which death will be sealed.” Savila snickered at this, her mind seeing the proverbial fly being snared into her web, trapped.

  “Dagon’s decisions must still run with the will. Even a co-ruler needs a title to stand upon. No title, no co-rule. It’s not a matter of him being made to see reason to abdicate his title, he must be shown,” said King Lamel.

  12

  The Big Day

  The morning started completely overcast and threatening rain. Some of the plants in the neighboring yards appeared desperately in need of care, the yards whose owners moved from car to house and house to car at chaotic speeds.

  A water-filled sea of clouds billowed. The Seraphs’ senses pricked as the air around them shifted. The Shadow Kings may be gone, but the memory of their fight and loss of not being able to stop a shadow from casting fear into Mark.

  “If you and Mystil did not act promptly by crossing your blades when you did, the shadow could have transformed Mark’s room into a vision of the Abyss for all of us to see, and Mark’s dream would have been much worse. It could have been real.” Dorian bowed to Raglen and Mystil.

  Magethna thanked them with rounds of hugs. “Thankfully, Mark is fine,” she said. All the Seraphs were relieved. The shadow soldiers gawking at Dagon bothered Magethna. Maybe Dagon’s present state of vulnerability or his recent wounds gave Magethna desire to protect him. Even stoic Dorian voiced a concern.

  In one sense, Dagon appeared to be dead, his limbs, listless, cold as if rigor mortis set in. The only hint of life the Seraphs could hear came from his mouth, which hung open and emitted snores.

  From the vantage point of the Seraphs, Dagon resembled a marionette. One leg hung over the back of the bench while the other hung over the wrought iron armrest. His left arm slumped over the back of the bench, and his right arm dangled over the front edge of the seat, his onyx ring gently swaying like a pendulum through the blades of grass. With the light of the new day, they saw his wounds clearly, and even for them, they were hard to look upon. Dried beads of blood clung to the wound on his arm. His black stone ring, a spoil of war, lay hidden among the shoots of grass, gleaming yet tarnished. A new power consumed its once radiant glory, causing the memory of its past to be shattered into oblivion. No more than a lingering myth or legend perhaps of what once was. No detail was too trivial. Still, Magethna could not let go of Dagon’s uncomfortable state. His arms and legs looked bizarrely twisted, not comfortable at all. Magethna almost had the mind to go down there and make him comfortable. He slept like any normal man would, except Dagon sprawled on the bench with his mind blocked.

  Magethna diverted her attention, composing herself. The Seraphs turned their thoughts to other things. They were not dismissing Dagon but studying every aspect in the knowledge of what was to come as blood flowed in the shadow of the bladed spring grass.

  Mark stirred. Dorian and Magethna turned to face the boy, who looked like a miniature version of Dagon, as he lay sprawled out on his mattress. Sound asleep, he snored quietly with his arms and legs poking out awkwardly from beneath his patchwork quilt. Both sleepers should be awake, for it was well into the morning. Perhaps the overcast sky played tricks on their body clocks, keeping them unconscious. Magethna reminded Dorian of the late hour when Mark came to bed, weary from hours of chores.

  Mark was half awake. His eyes moved between the rippling waves of his curtains and the nightstand with the book he wanted to read. He yawned and propped himself with an elbow, turning around to stretch his arm up over his head. He grasped an object from the shelf on the wall above his headboard. Magethna heard clinking metal, the winding of gears. When the key would not budge any further, Mark hastily and haphazardly pushed the alarm clock back into its approximate location.

  As it rocked back and forth, the clock face opened, startling Magethna.

  As Mark settled back to sleep, Magethna gazed at Dagon again, and her mind latched onto a new theory. Dagon and Mark lay within proximity of each other, each unaware of the other’s presence. Although the Seraphs did not know Dagon’s fate, they did know that for better or for worse, he had a part to play, just like Mark, whose snoring now seemed synchronized to Dagon’s. The pair seemed charming to Magethna. The sleeping giant was harmless or at least defenseless as his wounds proved.

  “A trapped person will fight, Magethna, and more so if they are wounded,” said Dorian, sensing her thoughts. “Recent events may have woken the sleeping giant. We cannot assume that all is as it appears. If I knew you not, I would wonder if your eyes were being colored by roses.”

  “I love roses. Even the trapped can smell them.”

  The bizarre became even more so when Mark and Dagon arose at the same moment, yawning and stretching. In one last synchronized movement, they both brought their arms up over their heads, grunting slightly as they arched their backs trying to work out the kinks of sleep.

  Mark left his bedroom and went down the stairs into the kitchen where breakfast waited. His Aunt Frances said nothing about the late hour of his approach.

  Now standing, Dagon reached down into the folds of his coat. To the Seraph’s dismay, he took out a cigarette. He re-folded his coat, patting it and smoothing it several times. Then he tossed a lemon drop in the air and held his mouth open like it had been in his sleep, waiting for the fast-falling sugary treat. It landed in his mouth with a plunk and a shudder. Then he lit the cigarette and placed it between his lips. He turned and looked at the Seraphs, who stood stationary at the window. His hand lifted as if he were about to salute, then it dropped. He looked rattled, but Magethna did not know why. His cigarette quivered in his mouth. He quickly put the blazer on with his back to the Seraphs, followed by his coat, firmly tugging and pulling on its fabric. Composed and with panache, he turned around.

  “These are wounds inflicted in war,” said Dagon.

  Dagon shook his hands in front of his face. Why did I say that? Now they will know about my cutting. Am I in a perpetual nightmare? Yes, a nightmare of my own making. Silence in this case probably would have been 18 karat white gold.

  These are wounds of war, my own personal war. Yeah, get a good look at what Savila has brought onto me.

  All actions have consequences even if made with good intentions, like living in the light by removing one of his veils. He then slumped in failure, for he ate a lemon drop to block his mind. Even power has limits. And a price tag. It’s better to let people believe you are weak than to show it outright. There is dignity in silence.

  Dagon sat back on the bench, deciding to let it go. Today started scene one, take two, for he was going back to Mary’s house.

  He would do anything to dull the blinking “vulnerable” sign that haunted his thoughts. Like smoking for instance, once a classy and chic action. Years later, he had found the dangers, but by that point he was beyond hooked.

  He needed some time to adjust to thinking in the light, even if partially. Nothing in his existence seemed coincidental. He assumed where Mark was. And where Mary as his bonded mate would have to be due to the binding nature of his title.

  His fingers cradled the cigarette while he blankly stared straight a
head. If nothing has been an accident ... then ... that’s it! I’m going to quit cold salmon! He didn’t like turkey all that much. In his quest to be normal, he longed for a normal relationship. Not sure what that really was, he needed to learn, for he never even had a friend. Logic would suggest that if you were bonded mates, then all would work out. But it didn’t work this way, for a person can’t be forced to feel something for someone else. To boost his chances with romance, he had planned everything. Down to his smoking and fashion, just to prove his worth.

  He had so much that he wanted to share with Mary, but those conversations would naturally occur in time. Passing the time away, he sat back savoring this one, final cigarette. Okay, maybe two.

  The Seraphs watched Dagon smoke one cigarette after the other. They could not read his mind, but by his face they could tell that he was deep in thought. The Seraphs saw Mark’s clock on the shelf, which now read eleven o’clock. They didn’t need a human device to tell time, but people did. Time really meant nothing to their immortal minds, but they did enjoy the finer aspects of humanity, and since time was crucial to life in the Second Land, they tried to embrace it.

  “We need to get ready now, for the hour soon approaches.” said Magethna. “Are you ready to see your charming blazer?”

  “Well …”

  “I told you, it will be very refined. I do believe that this may be another talent that I was created with. Okay, on the count of three. One, two, three!”

  Her creation went into the mind of Dorian. He tilted his head back and forth, his mind seeing the potential in her creation, as his true analytical personality became woven into its fabric.

  “Well?”

  “You know, Magethna, I like it. Why, it suits the other elements of my clothing just fine. This may be one of your finest, created gifts.”

  From Dorian, the praise equaled a standing ovation.