Abyss of the Fallen Read online

  Savila’s kin became silent, all except the tallest. This Seraph stood proud, defiant.

  “Why do we follow these two?” said Lunion.

  His poisonous, contagious words spread, for soon other voices grew brave and roared in agreement. In unison, hands moved to their swords, which were sheathed in what looked like thick strands of hair.

  “We have just as much authority as Magethna and Dorian have,” Lunion continued over the voices. “More, if it comes to that, for it was our kind that forged the vials of the eternal flame. It should be we who lead.”

  Savila laughed before becoming abruptly still. She stroked the hilt of her sword, her fingers within reach of unsheathing it.

  “My sister comes,” said Savila. She smiled at the approaching Seraph, though not in a pleasant way. “Nuvila, I will never deny you a place by my side.”

  “It is not yours to offer,” said Nuvila. Raven curls to her waist, her gown of deep blue, Nuvila turned and faced the onlooking Seraphs. “I am Head Guardian and can offer power to whom I please.”

  “What power do you mean, m’lady?” said Dorian.

  “Guardian of Wisdom and nothing more,” answered Nuvila. She turned to Savila and lowered her voice. “You have always been too ambitious.”

  Instead of replying, Savila pushed her way between Dorian and Magethna as if opening drapes to look at Mark. “How sweet to see the boy here.”

  The dream paused as Mark rustled his sheets, breaking Magethna’s contact with his forehead. A breeze carrying a fine scent of gardenia blew through the half-opened window. That meant—

  “Focus, Magethna,” Dorian interrupted. “We came here for the sole purpose of guarding Mark Bennett. Nothing more. Show us what he sees.”

  She breathed in the scent of gardenia and again placed a hand on Mark’s forehead.

  The scene shifted.

  Inside a spacious sanctuary, a tidal wave of wind rushed over the audience of Seraphs, filling the place with a splendor of warmth. Five thrones stood against a wall of bright flames. Savila stood in front of them, waiting. “I present your new guardian, Lord Dagon!” Her voice resounded throughout the sanctuary. A deep rumble ensued as the One Voice spoke. Mark, who sat next to Magethna in the back of the sanctuary, covered his ears.

  The multitude of angelic beings stood, and Magethna drew Mark to stand with her. Serene music played when the new guardian appeared. With outstretched arms, the guardian, wearing a long white cloak, somberly walked down an aisle scattered with flowers. He climbed to the top of the raised platform and turned to face the throng. Bare feet peeked out from his ceremonial attire. Being light-complexioned and fair-haired, the guardian resembled a pillar of light.

  Like ring bearers in a wedding ceremony, Dorian and Magethna with Mark between them, carried enormous gems on platters down the same aisle, gifts they bore for the new guardian. The focal point was a ruby, a gift to humanity and its new steward. Magethna spotted Nuvila in the front row. The light around her glowed safe and warm, in contrast to Savila, whose face darkened with shadows. Placing the platters on a columned stand, they proceeded to stand before Dagon. Rays of red light from the ruby spread over the sanctuary. At the same time, blackened crimson shadows surrounded Savila. Her glory smoldered with the investiture of her subordinate.

  Savila took the ruby from the stand and held it above Dagon’s head. “With duty comes sacrifice. Lord Dagon, will you sacrifice what you hold most dear?”

  Dagon turned and stepped up to face her. “Yes, My Lady, I am ready.”

  “You know not what you promise.” Savila turned the ruby toward the thrones, and a soft light illuminated from it, casting the image of a bridge arching across the sanctuary. Upon the bridge, human figures traveled in throngs back and forth. One figure shone bright as the rest faded in the background. A woman. She paused, holding onto the railing and stared off into the distance.

  “Beautiful,” whispered Dagon.

  “Who is that?” Mark whispered to Magethna.

  “Hope,” Magethna answered.

  “Sacrifice,” said Savila. “I will hide what you love within history itself. Only then will I know your heart belongs to me.” Savila stepped down to Mark and held out the ruby.

  Hands trembling, Mark took the sparkling jewel.

  “No!” The guardian’s pupils became distorted, a ring of scarlet flames encircling his pale blue irises. His head tilted back, and a burning roaring hiss came from his youthful mouth. In a mechanical sort of way, his head shifted into place. “Mark Bennet, bring the Stone to me!”

  Mark thrashed in his bed, held down and fighting an unseen image.

  Magethna stepped back, gasping, hands at her temples. “Wait, that’s not how it happened. Dagon’s eyes? His words? No.”

  Mark sat up, dripping with sweat. “Dorian! Magethna!” Mark then flopped down on the mattress.

  “Lord Dagon fell. The brightest Seraph among us, and he fell.” Dorian placed a hand on Mark’s shoulder, easing him back to full sleep. “Lady Savila, Queen of the Abyss as her title is now, sent this dream to frighten the boy as she has with all his fathers before him, all previous custodians of the Stone. Make no mistake, Dagon can be just as frightening as Savila depicts him to be. He was created in the light but has since been lost in darkness.”

  “But something from the light must remain.” Touched, Magethna faced the window at the coming dawn. Mark had not called out to his human family, but to them. “In Dagon’s humanity, his heart beats without purpose. By protecting the boy, there is still hope for Dagon.”

  Just as the sun peered over the horizon, Magethna discerned a faint heartbeat. She turned to find the others listening, too.

  Dorian stepped closer to the window. “For the sake of the Second Land, pray he finds her.”

  1

  Dagon

  Dagon struck out every day from the Abyss in hopes of finding her, unsure if he would meet success this day, this year, this century. Who exactly was she? Well, he wasn’t quite sure. He didn’t even know her name. She was to be an integral part of a plan to doom humanity. A plan Dagon went willingly along with. A plan which did not include him falling in love with her. Finding her was one hurdle, the second hurdle, they had to be united. United in name only or in love. He hoped for the latter. The worst-case scenario? Dagon finds her, she rejects him, and humanity becomes eternally enslaved. He wasn’t quite sure what she looked like as he only saw a brief blurred image of her. His heart saw more than his eyes. Enough to never give up.

  His most recent activities centered on watching Mark Bennett, whether sitting on a bench, standing by the boy’s house, or following him here, there, and everywhere. Jazzing up his routine, Dagon pretended to be a CIA agent, inventing all kinds of corny scenarios and whacky gadgets that seldom worked. He did, however, become quite good at picking locks. All this to not go stir crazy while keeping surveillance on Mark, the current custodian of Dagon’s ruby, half-forgotten within the boy’s writing desk. The ruby, coming to the Bennett family’s possession by immortal intervention, had been passed down from generation to generation. If prophecy worked the way it was supposed to, why go through all of this? Because Savila liked to torture him, that’s why.

  But now the boy’s house had become infested with boring Seraphs, leaving Dagon on a park bench—his park bench—to contemplate sleeping for another century. Not knowing when he would find the woman he had searched eons for, he had reworked his strategy of style and flair to impress and woo her, shoving aside the nagging suspicion that this could all be another of Savila’s cunning lies. The 1950s came and went, and then the 1960’s flower power generation swirled by, as did the 1970s. The ’80s rocked on with its big hair, one-hit-wonder bands, preppy fashion trends, and great rock-n-roll music.

  Dagon got up and shuffled along the streets of Mark’s familiar neighborhood. Buds had started to open on the trees and flowers. The heels of his black loafers scraped along Kenilworth Avenue, the street behind Mark’s house. His sil
very trousers fluttered with the spring breeze. Instead of reaching for his usual cigarette, he looked to the crisp afternoon spring air for reassurance. Inhaling refreshed his body but did little to assuage the despair in his soul. With nicotine jitters, he rummaged through his black trench coat, finding a lemon drop. He shuddered as he crunched it, pulverizing it in seconds. He wanted his mind blocked from Savila or any other nosy Seraph. He had laced the lemon drops with his own concoction to aid in covering his thoughts.

  Not paying attention and needing a smoke, he found himself at a familiar house when he dropped to his knees, hitting the pavement hard.

  There she was, right in front of him.

  A rash of goosebumps raced across the skin of his arms. He would recognize her by her eyes, deep blue with flecks of gray along the rims of the irises. The instant feeling that had gripped him when he first saw her on the bridge all those eons ago, flooded his heart and rendered him useless. Scenario after scenario raced through his mind of what he had planned on doing when he found her. None of them showcased cowardly, nervous fear. Bravery planned in darkness is not the same as true bravery in the light. She came out of the house that held many memories for him. It was his heart that recognized her.

  Maybe she’s visiting someone here? Odd, I don’t hear anyone else in the house.

  Dagon was not going to use his vision to see inside where she lived. He would have to learn about her the way everyone else learned about someone, by talking. For him, this wasn’t the most pleasant prospect. He wasn’t even sure what the rules of engagement were regarding communication. How frightening. Who starts it? Who ends it? Is there a natural break, a closer? How long can one talk before mouth paralysis kicks in? Well, if I survived this long, then surely I can survive some point-blank question and answer sessions. Yeah, it will work out just fine.

  Dizzy, he stared at her. He would walk over any minefield to let her capture and interrogate him, being her prisoner of war any day. Had he known how truly stunning she was, he would have gone completely insane.

  Petite, she had flaxen hair, cascading in a shimmering waterfall down the middle of her back in loose wavy curls. Her hair drew his eyes over the curves of her body, which modeled a teal dress. Topping off the look, black stilettos tensed her calves and lengthened her legs.

  Compulsively, Dagon looked around for the line of suitors. He was shocked not to see any but glad, nonetheless.

  Locking her house door, she shook and turned the door knob several times. With keys jingling in her hands, she moved along the porch.

  “Steps!” Her voice shook. Her feet wobbled as she stepped down with black stilettos she clearly lacked practice wearing.

  Like a true knight, he recovered from his love-saturated, cowardly, nervous, fearful stupor and walked closer when she stopped. She turned her head toward him, practically stopping his heart. She looked at him and smiled. There was no way she could have seen him, as he had rendered himself invisible, but still her smile seemed directed at him.

  On what might as well have been a skating rink, her stilettos navigated the treacherous concrete stairs. He placed an arm around her waist. Giving her support, he guided her down the steps. To his relief, she straightened up and found her balance.

  At the bottom of the steps, she walked on a concrete path, which wrapped around to the back of the house. Her house. His arms quivered, and for once it wasn’t because of nicotine jitters. He followed her behind the house and over to a two-toned blue car. Like a gentleman, he helped her open the door. She smoothed her dress. He diverted his attention from her hemline, which was too short and too distracting, and he was way too close to her.

  The keys accidentally dropped on the ground, and Dagon picked them up along with her and placed his hands over hers. With the keys in her hands she stopped, and just as before, she appeared to be looking at him. Face to face when a breeze kicked up, the waves of her hair blew in his face. The scent which lay on her skin, to his amazement, was gardenia, which happened to be one of the fragrances in his personal blend of nicotine. When he had designed his cigarettes, he wanted something feminine in honor of her, and here she was wearing the exact scent he had chosen to represent her. Incredible.

  It appeared she stared at him for hours, but mere seconds later, she closed the door and started the car.

  “So, you found her?” said a Cherb, as three others materialized out of the ground.

  “Yes, I found her.” Dagon sighed. “Mr. Cool, don’t you fellas have anything better to do?”

  “Heck no, we have to keep up with the times. Always changing and rearranging.” Blond spikes stood up from the top of Mr. Cool’s short-cropped hair. “Do you like my snazzy tailored silk suit? Razz found a BOGO.”

  “Check out the bling.” Razz looked like Elvis Presley as a rapper. “The brighter the better. Sledge tore up my last suit.”

  “I still enjoy crashing, breaking, removing, and fixing stuff.” With the word “Sledgehammer” stitched onto the name patch of his zippered, one-piece suit, his jet-black ponytail convinced Dagon that Sledge was the lovechild between Thor and the janitor. “I needed the last suit to fix Friar.”

  “Got too close to one of Savila’s fire pits and singed all the hair off my body.” Friar’s doleful eyes inspected the flame designs on his leather biker outfit.

  “The bald head suits you, but the missing eyebrows will take some getting used to,” said Dagon. “Why are all of you … um … back?”

  “You must need us back,” said Mr. Cool.

  “You mean, you need money.”

  “Yes, that, too,” said Razz.

  “Through all the centuries, have none of you ever asked why your existence has been unharmed by Savila? Why can all of you come as you please in and out of the Abyss?”

  “Maybe you should ask the same question,” said Sledgehammer.

  “I know the answer. It’s in my job description.”

  “And exactly what is your job description?” asked Razz.

  “You were at my investiture.” Out from his coat, Dagon unsheathed his sword. “Guardian of the Earth. Pay attention.”

  “You need us,” said Friar.

  “So why you lot? Is it because I’m the only one who’ll talk to you?” Dagon sheathed his sword, tucking it back inside his coat.

  “We’re special,” said Razz.

  “Yeah, you’re all special.” Dagon rolled his eyes. “And now, I’m your boss again.”

  The greedy, conniving, rambunctious fallen Cherbs said nothing. Their scowls turned into crazy fake smiles.

  “Fine. These are your duties. You are to guard that woman’s house. This house. Watch for malicious attacks on her thoughts of night. As she sleeps, she has no control or knowledge of what she ponders and, thus, is vulnerable. Stay alert to any human prowlers, be it day or night.” Like a commander, he paced in front of them with his hands behind his back.

  “Thoughts of what?” Mr. Cool said, ignoring the rest of what Dagon said.

  “Thoughts of night,” chimed Razz.

  “Dreams? Does the boss want us to guard her dreams?” Friar said.

  “Dreams? That’s boring,” said Sledge.

  “This job is anything but boring. Didn’t you hear anything I said? This job is highly classified, practically undetectable, and highly valuable.”

  Mr. Cool shook his head. “Nah, it’s boring. We get the highly classified and highly valuable stuff. Even the lovey-dovey sentiment is fine, but what’s this practically undetectable business? It’s going to be our you-know-whats hanging out on the line. It’s either detectable or undetectable, which is it?”

  “It’s only highly classified if it’s undetectable, while it will always remain highly valuable. If you four slackers take the certain safety measures I invented to block your minds, then it will most definitely be undetectable.”

  “The ancient junk in those lemon drops is nasty!” Razz insisted. “Maybe they’re rancid by now. Hey, what do you mean you invented it? It was a flu
ke how you came across that mind-blocking stuff.”

  “Horrible taste aside, they’re not rancid, and they work. Fluke indeed, didn’t I have to invent how and what to place the ash in?” said Dagon.

  “Sounds kind of dodgy.” Friar smoothed a non-existing eyebrow. “Before we proceed, we need to know if you have the right to protect her. Because again, it’s going to be our you-know-whats hanging out there.”

  “She is my bonded mate, my earthly wife, hopefully. One day. And I was never commanded not to, so I will protect her.”

  “What accompanies a job, boys?” Sledge crossed his arms over his nametag.

  “Money,” said the others.

  “This better be a paying job,” said Mr. Cool. “Don’t try and weasel your way out of this. We don’t like freeloaders, or is it front loaders?”

  “Yes, this is a paying job, you cheapskates, and I will be using a front loader later for your information. I might just stuff you inside one, if you keep at it.”

  “We’re not cheap, just practical.” Razz pinched an imaginary piece of lint off one blinding lapel. “I think if a qualifier like ‘high’ precedes a word, then the pay should reflect that, and be high.”

  “All of you will be generously compensated as always. You will also have a new job, for now I will be busy trying to figure out how my beloved and I will stay alive. I want your swords spit-shined to gleaming perfection, the way I would do myself. Dirt, as you know, is disastrous. I will personally clean my dagger. Is this clear?”

  “Yes, as clear as the greenbacks that will accompany this new job.” Mr. Cool smirked. “Do we have to clean as methodically and neurotically as you do?”

  “I may clean my weapons methodically, but I don’t clean them neurotically.”

  “You most certainly do. Why, you’re always looking at the metal and rubbing it, like you’re trying to get a genie to pop out and grant you a wish.” Mr. Cool momentarily went silent. “What kind of ugly car is your beloved sitting in?”