Abyss of the Fallen Page 4

  With new-found hope, he made his way back to Forest Avenue and walked through the field, noticing the details of the world around him. Each blade of grass bowed under the weight of his loafers, only to rise slowly after his foot had moved on. In the middle of the field, he stopped at a huge tree. From here, he could see the nondescript bench he sat on for hours while monitoring Mark Bennett. Other benches lined the perimeter of the field, but it was this bench he favored.

  Black obsidian steps opened in the ground in front of him, leading into the darkened halls of the Abyss. He descended, and the ground closed behind him. Coming to the end of the hall, he faced a black concrete wall with no door. He touched his ring to the wall, and a silver door appeared. He ran his finger down the middle of the door and it opened. The door sealed itself shut behind him, becoming a black wall.

  Out of habit he looked around his private quarters to see if anything had been stolen or tampered with. With everything in place, he relaxed and began putting his clothes away. Each perfectly folded item fit in his drawers. Row after row of equally spaced color-coordinated stacks of clothing lined his cedar shelves.

  Taking a quick bath, he got into bed, covering himself with two white furs.

  Hours later, Dagon, who didn’t really need to sleep, woke up. Sleeping had no effect on him, but it made him feel normal. At least it was relaxing.

  He dressed to head back to Mary. He never used his mind to dress himself, even though he could. His jeans, black silk shirt, and black-laced shoes flew on before he put on a trench coat and straightened the furs on his bed. Looking his room over, he noted where he had placed everything and walked up into the brisk yet sunny spring morning.

  He followed Mary to work. She wore a pale blue uniform and thick, black, homely shoes, and she looked nothing like she did last night. She could have worn a potato sack and would still have been breathtaking.

  He watched her all that day. She would take orders, serve, take money, and bring back change for some nice and some nasty customers. The most demanding patrons gave her small tips despite her kindness. He wanted to punch these cheap customers or at least hold them upside down to shake out the coins he heard clanking around in their pockets.

  Customers raved about her coffee. Now, how can a person louse up coffee? You would be surprised, for the other waitresses would leave coffee grounds floating around in a bitter tasting beverage. Faithful patrons had noticed the difference and would ask for “Mary’s Coffee” as if it were a menu item. Dagon didn’t try a cup, though he really wanted to. He would wait to see if Mary would make him a cup in person.

  He watched her at work for the rest of the week. On Friday after coming home from work, she left the house wearing jeans and a baseball shirt along with black flats. She looked cute. Falling out from a loosely pinned up bun, soft curls caressed her face.

  He paced back and forth in front of a bakery, trying to pluck up the nerve to introduce himself on her way out of the building.

  Her beauty gave him confidence, but with a larger dose of self-doubt thrown in for rotten measure. He waited under a streetlight, hoping she would notice him.

  She looked down as she walked, but when she looked up, she stopped. Her cheeks blushed, but, having chosen not to read her mind, he was not sure why. She continued walking toward him. Face to face, she had to crane her neck up to look at him. The love bug bit him all over again. He had so many things he wanted to say to her, but the words caught in his throat.

  “Thank you for helping me that night.” Mary broke the ice.

  “You are welcome.”

  “I knew you were there. No one else saw you, but I knew that I had.” She mumbled the last part under her breath.

  “Yes, I was there, luv.”

  “Why are you calling me, love? You don’t even know me.” Mary backed away a step.

  “British influence. They say that to everyone.” Dagon spread his arms.

  “Ok … I guess I’ve heard that.” Mary took a tentative step forward.

  “As to why no one saw me but you, I was only meant to help you. Your eyes have not deceived you.”

  The way her eyebrows drew in played on his heart strings like a harp. “So, no one else saw you, only me?”

  “Well, the deplorable man saw me also.”

  Her eyebrows drew in again. Maybe she was confused. “I like your trench coat. It’s unusual, but nice.”

  Momentarily stunned, he didn’t know how to respond. He hoped his coat had style, since he couldn’t get rid of it. She doesn’t seem repulsed. But once she finds out what this coat is made of, she probably will be.

  “Thank you.”

  With a short and polite response, she smiled as she hooked the bags of bread over her arm and opened her purse. Out came a cigarette and the pink lighter.

  “I’m sorry. Do you mind if I …” she said in a mumbled voice, as the cigarette danced up and down to the inflection of her words.

  “No, I don’t mind. I smoke, too.”

  “I should never have started.” She cupped the cigarette while her other hand flicked the lighter to life, careful the wind wouldn’t take the flame away.

  “Me either. I plan to quit. One day.”

  “I do, too. One day.”

  “I started only after losing a bet.”

  She snickered, flicking ashes and blowing smoke to the side. “What was the bet?”

  “I have to go,” he said in a flat, defeated voice as a sheath of ice flowed down his spine. She didn’t need to know. Not yet.

  “Already? Where do you live? What’s your name? Where can I find you?”

  Is she interested in me or are these just basic questions? Whichever the case, how could he answer her questions without freaking her out? All the answers led to his home in the “Abyss.” What a horrible, unbelievable place for her to find out about.

  “I’m sorry I have to leave.” He brought her left hand to his mouth and kissed it. “We will see each other again.” His heart hammered.

  “Uh huh,” she muttered while she nodded and stared up at him, her mouth slightly open. Her cigarette held suspended in her right hand with thin tendrils of smoke lazily rising.

  Hesitant to leave, he shuffled his feet as he dropped her hand and walked away. The streetlight blazed, illuminating the street ahead. Without needing to look, he watched her walk toward her house. Going dark, he alerted his Cherbs that Mary approached.

  Savila, the perpetual happy-zapper, had ordered him back to the Abyss. He had a few minutes before she expected him to arrive, so after Mary made it home without incident, he beelined for a store that had caught his eye earlier. He dissolved through the glass. He slung a pair of leather pants and a black belt with a wide silver belt buckle over his left arm. Next, he picked up two more items: a pair of black boots and an expensive black leather money-stuffer, or in human lingo, a wallet. He dropped cash on the counter, including tax, and dissolved through the door. He placed the items in his coat. His coat could hold an indefinite amount of stuff.

  Pleased with these stylish purchases, he plopped a lemon drop in his mouth. He crunched and shook until the pieces broke enough to swallow, keeping his thoughts private.

  Mary locked the front door, placed the bread on the kitchen counter, and put her cigarette out in an ashtray. In a daze, she leaned against the counter, recounting over and over what just happened, if it happened at all. Did she meet the man who rescued her? Was that really him? It had to be. He told her as much. The dance floor had been chaotic, and no one noticed him except her and the creep. Even after seeing him, she was unsure if he was real. Her heart pushed the emotional answer deeper into her soul, allowing other buried emotions to surface. Heat rushing to her cheeks, she closed her eyes, picturing his gorgeous face. He had rings on his fingers, but no wedding band. Her head tingled. Every part of her body became alive, responsive in ways that seemed impossible in any other previous relationship.

  Leaving the kitchen, she went upstairs to her bedroom. Once inside, s
he opened the door to her walk-in closet and stood there for a moment.

  Hangers poked out in strange angles with old and new clothes stuffed, shoved, and mixed together in uncoordinated strips of color. Rarely did anything get thrown out; she was a pack rat. Without intending to, she began purging her old life in preparation for the new life she anticipated. Soon, a mountain of clothes appeared on the floor of the closet to donate to a local re-sale shop.

  She put the massive bundles of clothes in several bulging bags then dragged one bag at a time down the stairs. Eventually, she packed all the bags into the hatchback of her car. She had worked up quite a sweat, relieved by her accomplishment.

  She checked the house door lock one more time and then took a bath instead of her usual shower. Finally cozy in her flannel pajamas, she settled in to watch some television.

  With the television show as background noise, her mind rested on the intriguing blond-haired man. She couldn’t help but laugh at his eager yet reserved manner, those old-soul eyes in that porcelain-smooth face. Blinking, a few tear drops soaked her eyelashes. Unbidden, more drops welled up. What was his name? Where did he live? And what the blazes is wrong with me, crying over a man I just met? All she had to go on was his promise that they would see each other again. She mulled over the confusing points and those she was sure of.

  Yes, luv, I was there. I was only meant to help you. Your eyes have not deceived you.

  The way he had called her “luv” in that British accent sent chills up her back. Anger and resentment had long ago sealed her heart shut. The excitement of her new life broke the seal.

  Standing in the middle of a darkened corridor, Savila waited in a blood-red dress. Her hemline started above her knees and flowed into a cascading train of rippled waves behind her. Web-like embroidery covered the bodice in a death-defying plunge down her neckline. Dark crimson velvet lined the hood on her head. She wore links of silver chain mail around her waist like a belt. Her sword, sheathed in a carved white-gold dragon skull, sported rubies for eyes. Dagon, as always, tried not to stare.

  Her plump lips, still satiated from the blood of the dancer her sword drank from, drifted into a smug smile. In a misty vapor, three shadow kings appeared through a black concrete wall. The kings bowed, greeting Savila and Dagon.

  After lighting his cigarette, Dagon cradled it between his fingers and bowed to Savila. His jeans added a touch of informality.

  Savila snapped around, followed by the Shadow Kings. She wore black stilettos like Mary’s. All five of them walked along the black glass of the hallway. Not even their shoes dared to make a sound.

  They walked past cell blocks where imprisoned souls awaited justice, sentenced to eternal incarceration for treason against Savila’s dominion. Souls which were honorably transformed into shadow soldiers also languished in torment. Their crime? The memories of humanity still clung to their spirit.

  Savila waved her hand in the air, opening all the cell doors. Willingly or forced, the prisoners bowed in front of Savila. Waving her hand again, the cell doors shut behind them without making a sound.

  Savila moved down the ranks, her train slithering behind her. She did not inspect her troops but continued walking, followed by Dagon and the Shadow Kings. The prisoners filed out one at a time behind the Shadow Kings. Passing by an empty cell, she sneered, but kept walking. Coming to a dead end, all of them dissolved through the wall and into the Execution Room. Dozens of charred, wooden beams lay in built-up soot of torture and death. Death chains hung on the walls eager to fetter victims with their thin but eternal shackles.

  More shadows continued flowing into the room. The last shadows to enter were her Seraph-kin. These shadows always entered last because they submitted to her authority last. Not prisoners, shadow soldiers, or kings, they were reminders of what the price of weak submission would be like. With disdainful respect, everyone else bowed to the shadows of Savila’s past.

  Dagon blew out a few residual strands of smoke from his burnt-out cigarette while Savila stood in front of the wooden beams, watching in delight as her subjects gathered around her.

  “All will see my power on the stones of my dominion. The Seraphs have come from a dream of my power to protect the Boy, who is mine. They have come from the Golden Land to oppose us, but they will bow unto my reign, for nothing can deny me this right. Blood will seal the bond forever. An eternal new order will be established under my authority. This was destined even before the Second Land’s creation. Now the old bonds will be broken and under the new, we will reign!” shouted Savila, unsheathing her sword.

  Black misty swords unsheathed in honor of Savila and in honor of the commencing of the Golden Land’s destruction. Dagon unsheathed his sword. Silver rays from the blade of his double-edged sword ricocheted across the room. A black onyx, which sat commandingly on top of the hilt gleamed, illuminating the darkness.

  The dragon within Savila slit its serpentine eyes in longing and scorn over Dagon as he came forth bearing this sword. Only his sword bore engraved branches of the White Tree from the Golden Land. She could still taste the blood of her recent kill, which fueled the burn of desire to see the White Tree fall to ashes. Now she would tighten the love strings around Dagon’s neck, fashioning it into his noose.

  “Two grains of sand will fall before the Abyss is opened,” declared Savila.

  Dagon analyzed this despicable punishment. He had enjoyed one week with Mary, though he was invisible for most of it. The Abyss would be closed for two weeks or two grains of sand to demonstrate Savila’s power over her subjects. Suspiciously, her edict coincided with him finding Mary. Savila rarely alluded to human time as it meant nothing to her, but at this moment, she knew it meant something to him.

  Savila wasted no words on recounting the trifling dream she had given Mark Bennett. Certain that she created it only for the response of fear it produced, Dagon wasn’t sure what his role would be, but he didn’t have hope it would be anything less than the star performance he had in Mark’s dream. The performance left him with the possibility of being incriminated. Thankfully, his subordinates were up there guarding Mary.

  The swords reversed, sheathed in pageantry. In silence, Savila left the Execution Room, and everyone followed her and departed to their own private quarters.

  Alone in his room, Dagon moved around ritualistically, preparing for something. Of what, he did not know, but nonetheless, he would be ready. He placed a duffel bag inside the bathroom. Within his walk-in closet, he took off his trench coat, unbuttoned his silk shirt, and hung it up. He paused to inspect two thin white scars that stood out on each of his arms, from the first two times he had cut himself—when he had tried to cut his coat. The coat was never damaged. Lashing out at himself released an overflow of anger, sadness, loneliness, and shame—emotions he had no idea how to control otherwise. It seemed weak to contemplate succumbing to this again yet brave, too. To keep Mary safe, he would rely on every form of control, even this.

  Ceremonially, he put his trench coat back on over his bare chest and sat down on an ebony chair with a thud, rocking the chair back and forth. Here Dagon sat, alone once again, even after he had found her. He sprawled out in his chair, looking at his shoes, whose charm seemed pointless. He leaned toward his headboard, picked up a blue bottle, and placed it on the floor.

  It may be two human weeks, but right now, it was painfully long. He had found her, placed his arms around her waist, rescued her, placed his mouth to her hand, and kissed it. Savoring the scent of gardenia she had worn on her soft, sweet skin … two weeks apart might as well have been an eternity.

  The preparations now complete, he was the lamb to the slaughter. With an icy will, he withdrew a dagger from his right pant leg. It was a miniature of his sword but just as sharp. Inflicting punishment on himself, he slashed at his left forearm, cutting himself through the sleeve of his coat.

  Blood bubbled up out of the fresh burning gash and flowed down his arm. The coat became a kind of bandage, slowing som
e of the flow.

  The wounds he deserved caused him intense pain as he took off his coat. He cringed at the signals his nerves were sending to his brain, reminding him he was part human. The blood loss from cutting always gave him an adrenaline rush, so with determination, he picked up the bottle and flipped the lid open. Silver Living Waters poured all over his blade. The liquid came from underneath glass lakes from the Golden Land. The watery substance clung to his blade like glue, soaking up the blood like a sponge. For precautionary measures, he concealed the liquid in a benign human shampoo bottle.

  During the two-week confinement, Dagon inflicted two left forearm cuts and three on his right forearm, always cleaning his blade methodically after each cut.

  His muscles ached, and his new wounds needed a soak. There wasn’t much to brag about living under the ground, but it did have its perks, for his bath water was steamy hot, compliments of underground geothermal heating. He placed his clothes in the duffel bag, then walked over to a crystal vase, which stood along the wall next to an archway. The vase contained small rocks level with the lip of the vase. Silver cigarettes stuck out of the rocks like incense sticks. He reached down and took one, placing it to the side of his mouth, lighting the end with a tap. He left the cigarette in his mouth, puffing away when he picked up a fluffy towel next to the vase, placing it at the side of the tub.

  He eased his aching body into the deep hot waters. Fully submerged, the cuts on his arms began to sting, a reaction from the heat and mineral composition of the hot spring waters. The springs were continually being refreshed by a series of aqueducts he had installed, all compliments of Roman ingenuity. He fell in love with this form of relaxation after his first undetected visit to Bath, England. The Roman baths were built during the reign of Emperor Claudius, who was an ambitious builder across the empire. He was an okay emperor as far as emperors went. Nothing like his nephew Caligula or his great-nephew Nero. Those were two devious bird-brained idiots, but Savila was quite fond of them. The baths were one good thing that came from that flea-ridden den of iniquity. Medicinal or not, this felt fantastic. Cigarette still in his mouth, smoke pouring out the sides, he began to clean his wounds. Tilting his head back, he puffed away, pouring water over his head to wash his hair. He flicked out his cigarette as he dried off.