Sword- Part Two Read online

  The creature kept coming. His gaze blank and pitiless.

  In all my wildest dreams, I couldn’t imagine any nightmare that could equal this horror – this hideous evil – that was slouching towards me. Slowly. Inexorably.

  I felt the last measure of hope drain from my body as its steady advance on solid, rough thighs clad in tailored tuxedo trousers – an irony of civilisation – brought the danger ever closer. Every instinct screamed at me to run away. But I couldn’t. Not without Fi. My fists clenched uselessly by my side as I refused to flinch before this monstrosity. But I hated every second of waiting as the Fravashi readied itself for the kill.

  Yet when it happened, even with the knowledge my life was bound to the Seed and had some kind of protection, I was still unprepared for its devastatingly swift attack.

  It moved with a lithe grace and speed that left me gasping – one moment I was readying myself for the strike, the next I was thrown backwards yet never even hit the ground as the Fravashi erupted into the air, faster than the eye could follow, sweeping me up into a fast embrace and carrying me backwards with his momentum.

  Sariel soared across the street, performing an elegant landing whilst, with the thrill of the hunt, gleefully slamming me against the front of a building, the back of my head hitting the solid brick wall with a resounding crack, so that I saw dancing lights and stars and felt a sudden shock of clammy darkness close around me. Convulsing as his left hand encircled my throat and he lifted me up so that we were eye-to-eye, I still tried to resist, feebly kicking out at his shins. But it was useless.

  ‘Enough play. It’s over, Wise One. Tell me. Where is the Seed?’ His voice was a cruel, hissing whisper in my ear.

  Squeezing slowly, the Fravashi pressed the advantage though I wrestled against him, trying to pry his hand from cutting off my windpipe, even as his spiteful face swam inches from my own. Agony burst in streaks of red and orange behind my eyelids as blood vessels were felt popping in response to the torment which travelled down my throat and radiated through my body. Then darkness encroached upon my vision, staining the circumference and creeping inwards like the inversion of spilt black ink on blotting paper.

  Sariel’s face floated in front of mine, a distorted image of dark malevolence contracting until only a pinpoint of light remained. And from that shrinking image, something flashed brightly in the gloom.

  ‘Get away from her!’ Fi’s voice rose shrilly as she landed a blow to the back of the demon’s neck with the rigid silver and black side pannier that fitted to the Ducati. But it was as effective as a flea bite, a momentary annoyance but not enough to stop or even hinder him.

  With one sweep of his enormous wing, Fi was flung to the side. She screamed as I tried to reach out to her – but she was far beyond my grasp and Sariel still had his strong fingers tight around my throat.

  Gasping for breath, my eyes smarting, I managed to squeeze out, ‘When? When was it?’

  Sariel gave pause, relaxing the tight pressure on my throat for the briefest moment, his voice emotionless as he responded, ‘What are you talking about?’

  My voice came out as a croak. ‘When did you turn?’

  Sariel looked upon me with fathomless eyes; then his mouth quirked up at the corner in the semblance of a smile, and he said, ‘You’re a fool, Wise One.’

  ‘And you’re a traitor, Mighty One,’ I threw back at him from a throat scraped raw, taunting him with my knowledge. ‘You’ve betrayed your calling – you, the mightiest of them all, the Gibborim. You’ve failed in all that you promised to uphold. And for what? The Grigori? Belladonna? They’d sooner put a seraph blade through your heart than remain true to their word. Look to your own reflection and see what dishonour truly means.’ I sneered at his scar, which could only have been made by a seraph blade.

  Utterly still, the Fravashi stared at me. Nothing, not even the slightest flicker of emotion, passed across his ruined face. Then, mercilessly, he wrapped both hands around my fragile neck and, with all the force of a machine crusher turning rocks into rubble except that he was crushing my bones, he began squeezing, throttling me.

  Enough! I told myself as I strained to break free, the shallow gasps of breath loud in my ears. This was not how I was meant to die!

  With a final burst of strength, intuitively, I raised my right hand and drove my palm into Sariel’s forehead, experiencing a searing sensation like none other, as if molten metal was pouring through my veins. Golden ribbons of liquid light glimmered in between my fingers and spilled out from the Fravashi’s skin. He opened his mouth and was consumed by golden flame, even as he let out a bloodcurdling scream to match my own.

  Sariel’s hands immediately fell away from my throat and I dropped to the ground as he yanked himself away from my scorching touch, clutching at his head like a wounded animal. A savage sound was torn from his throat. There was fear and a distant horror in his wide, dark eyes now, and he staggered backwards, his knees buckling beneath him. Crashing to the ground, the force of his fall splitting the asphalt wide apart, he writhed and thrashed as he fell into the newly-formed abyss. Howling. Moaning. Until even this horrific sound was swallowed by the underground eruption.

  The shuddering earth made me fall to my knees, but I quickly began to crawl then scramble to my feet to reach the edge of the abyss on shaky legs, peering over to see the fallen Fravashi. In the vast emptiness, at the bottom of the chasm lay an inert, forsaken thing.

  At first, my mind couldn’t process it. This terrible creature. Lying at the bottom of this deep pit. And the pain – the pain was gone.

  And then I felt it slam into my body with the force of my emotion. I was alive. I was alive. And the tears of relief finally came.

  ‘Sage! We did it! It’s over! Bloody hell! What did you do to him?’

  Trembling in reaction, I whipped my head up to see my twin sister – only slightly battered and bruised, her new leather outfit scuffed and torn – standing on the opposite side of the gulf, her body bent over and leaning out to get a better view as the mist began to disperse, disappearing as if it had never been.

  ‘Fi! You’re okay!’ I exclaimed, swiftly running around the edge of the crater to greet her. ‘Oh my God! Fi! I can’t believe we’re still alive!’

  Somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew I should have felt elated, proud, bold, fierce, something – something that any hero should feel upon defeating an enemy – but all I could feel was relief as the tears dried in dirty mascara streaks upon my face.

  ‘Do you think he’s dead? Did you kill him?’ Fi turned towards me, her face stupidly blank as if she couldn’t believe our luck. ‘Are there more of them coming after us? More Fravashi?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ And it was true. I really didn’t have a clue. ‘It was just him, I think. Do you think he’s dead?’

  ‘Honestly, do you care? He tried to kill us. He’s a Fravashi. I won’t be shedding any tears at his funeral.’ Fi shrugged impatiently, looking around us. ‘Look, do you really want to stick around to find out?’

  With a jolt, I realised I desperately wanted to get as far away from this place and from the Fravashi as possible.

  ‘Come on! Let’s go!’ I said, pulling Fi away from the appalling sight of the lifeless Nephilim below us. ‘I need a favour! You think we can reach Tunbridge Wells by midday?’

  ‘Are you kidding?’ she huffed, offended. ‘This bad boy will get us there, even though he’s a little worse for wear.’

  Fi tossed me my helmet as she made her way over to the Ducati with the now dented side pannier. Keeping a tight grip on the handles as she righted the motorcycle, the Ducati leapt forward with an angry roar like a panther ready to attack. Then it stalled. I wondered if we would ever get to Kent as Fi swung into the saddle, keeping up a flow of soothing words addressed to the motorcycle as if calming a crying baby.

  Rolling my eyes as I wondered at my sister’s nurturing of this lump of metal – it was a motorbike for heaven’s sake! – I would never understand F
i’s attachment to the Ducati. She acted as if it was alive and had a personality all of its own – well, if it did, it was an absolute bitch; with its tantrums and petulance and idiosyncrasies.

  But still crooning words of endearment and encouragement, Fi was somehow able to start up its Testastretta 11° engine. And, as it roared back to life, even I – with all my misgivings – had to breathe a sigh of relief.

  ‘Here.’ Fi unzipped her leather jacket and tossed it at me. Her arms were powerful and well-defined like a dancer or athlete, and she sported the toned, tanned suppleness of celebrities such as Pink or Beyoncé in her black tank top. I was impressed. Her days of eating disorders and skeletal thinness seemed behind her and in its place was a fit, sexy, Badass female.

  I was just about to compliment her when she ruined it.

  ‘Put it on. Mum’ll have a meltdown if she sees your boobs hanging out like that.’

  Now I was the one offended, even if it seemed the most ludicrous thing to discuss in that moment, though I did as she ordered. ‘It’s a designer dress, Fi! You can hardly talk – look at what you’re wearing! What did you do – raid Catwoman’s wardrobe?’

  ‘N-o-o-o, but someone’s going to pay for ruining my new leather outfit. I’m gonna get me some payback.’ She flipped down her visor, effectively ending all conversation, and waited for me to get on.

  Donning my scratched-up helmet, I mounted the rumbling bike behind her. The Ducati wobbled under me, threatening to unseat and knock me sideways – this was Fi’s way of letting me know that she wasn’t altogether pleased with me. Grabbing at her waist, I stared down the stretch of asphalt as she suddenly let the Ducati have its head, snarling as it flew forward.

  If I’d eaten any food at the Ostara Festival, it would have been left behind as we sped along; the streetscape racing by me, blurring into a wall of indistinguishable browns and greens. And though I hated to admit it, I was grateful for the added warmth of the leather jacket that cut the wind chill considerably.

  To Fi’s credit, she got us to our destination in record time. She’d propelled around corners and through traffic like a professional, and virtually flew down the motorways; leaning almost over the handlebars, face forward, head low, moving with the rhythm of the bike, she was attuned to all its quirks. I almost envied her. But I sure as hell wouldn’t be getting on the back of one of these things by myself.

  The breeze shifted around us as I alighted from the motorcycle, removing the confining bike helmet; the light of the sun dabbling the cherry trees and intensely coloured bluebells from nearby Calverley Grounds, suffusing the air with floral scents, warmth and sunshine. The sun was now high overhead and insects buzzed in the aromatic air in a high-pitched electronic whine. The street was empty. The sounds of spring the only thing filling the vast emptiness of familiar space around me.

  Everything seemed so ordinary after the horrors we’d been through. And I could only breathe a sigh of relief as the full implications of what Sariel had demanded hit home – luckily, so far, St. John had not cracked under the pressure and revealed the location of the Seed, but I knew it could no longer remain in Paris.

  My first priority, however, was saving St. John from the poisonous possession of Isabella Donnatelli.

  ‘So you’re going to wring information out of Ellen Jacobi?’ Fi demanded, coming to stand beside me in front of the gate.

  I was aware of her eyes on me as she spoke but I didn’t look at her.

  ‘Want me to come with you?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘You know it’s not going to work, don’t you?’ Her voice held a pitying frustration. ‘It’s desperate, Sage. You know it. I know it. Ellen knows it. That’s why she taunted you – to get in your head.’

  Listening to Fi, I knew she was trying her best to reason with me – but I didn’t want to accept what she was saying. There was always hope.

  ‘I have to know,’ I said, determinedly.

  ‘You’re the eternal optimist.’ was all she said in reply, but at least it was meant in a kindly way.

  Tossing a brief smile at her, I grabbed hold of the gate and pushed it open. The front door was unlocked as usual. I took off the heavy leather jacket and hung it up on the coat rack, and made my way to Ellen’s quarters where I knew Barak would be. Full of doubts, full of questions, full of accusations, full of fear and anger, I stoked the fires of my rage, adding more fuel with every step I took. Yet, for all my inner turmoil and distress, my approach was silent as the thick hall runner absorbed the passionate intensity in every footstep.

  Again, I did not knock. It was my right to be here and I pushed open the door and went straight in.

  And, for a faltering second, I was left in confused shock.

  It was pandemonium.

  There was blood pooling under a shivering Ellen Jacobi as the physicians desperately attempted to stem the flow between her legs, her private parts thankfully shielded from my view by a large blue sheet. She was crying out in pain as an obstetrician muttered terms like “could be placental abruption”, “foetal oxygen deprivation”, “the EDC is inaccurate”, and “advanced gestational age”, which were completely lost on me. A cardiotocograph beside the bed printed readings of the baby’s heartrate in foetal distress as, around Ellen Jacobi’s swollen belly, a stretchy, rubber-looking belt strapped the tranducers in place.

  My presence slipped by unnoticed as several physicians, including Barak, attended to the patient. The tense, urgent atmosphere swelled in the suffocating space and there was no room for anything or anyone else. Then all the significant details you notice without really noticing, without paying attention, came together in that moment.

  Stepping back, my spine pressed against the bedroom door and the place where my skull had hit the brick wall throbbed crazily with pain, but I only stared at the drama being played out before me, extraneous to my own drama. This was outside of my sphere of influence – I did not have control over life and death. A space, wider than the chasm made by Sariel, yawned inside me.

  ‘... not going to wait for a flatline. Save the mother or save the child?’ The physician hesitated on the final word, glancing at the unavoidable distorted, distended belly in a manner that expressed his perplexity at such a decision.

  ‘Try to save them both. The child is innocent ...’ Barak’s deep baritone trailed off, his attitude highlighting the unusual circumstances in which they were placed.

  Another physician nodded in agreement.

  ‘Five milligrams sodium thiopentone ...’

  I hovered at a distance, watching anxiously as the eldest and possibly the most experienced amongst them, a specialist in his mid-thirties with a shock of red hair, administered an injection and organised further analgesics. I’d always believed that the Nephilim were virtually indestructible – but it seemed otherwise. Later I would wonder whether it was because the infant wasn’t fully formed yet and, just like a normal human foetus, wouldn’t be able to live outside of the womb with immature lungs or heart, but not having St. John around to ask, I kept these thoughts to myself. At that moment, however, my mind was a blank.

  And then I realised that it might be too late.

  With an anxious fervour, I flew across the room, closing the small space between us, and almost fell to my knees by the bed. Barely managing to stand upright, ignoring the protests of the physicians, I gazed at Ellen Jacobi’s closed face. Nothing really had changed since I last had looked upon her. Her hair was a coarse stubble on her head; her cheeks gaunt and hollow; her lips chapped. I touched the liver-spotted hand and found that it trembled beneath mine.

  Surely I could reach her?

  It was her hand, clenching and unclenching in mine, that convinced me that she could hear me, that she knew I was present. It was her rasping breath that brought frantic words to my lips, and they tumbled over into her ear, impatient to be heard.

  ‘Please. Tell me what you know. Tell me how to save him. Tell me–’ The words came out broken, fragmented, di
sconnected, choking. They launched themselves from my lips with an urgency I couldn’t contain. Fi was right – I was desperate.

  And it made no difference. Ellen Jacobi wandered mindlessly in the labyrinth of memories, all tangled up beneath the blue sheet and the thing that was growing inside her, unaware of my presence.

  She cried out but one word. ‘Darkness.’

  It floundered in the air, as under ether.

  Memories and meaning moved through her but never to the child, like maternal blood through an umbilical cord. The two would never circulate together and there was no means to pass on her knowledge to her offspring.

  I was too late.

  The induced coma they had placed her under had brought up a ruthless divide. Under their ministrations Ellen’s distress seemed to lessen. She stopped shivering uncontrollably and appeared calmer, her cries slowly fading. They lifted her body gently from the bed to remove the stained sheets with a clinical composure, and the stench of something like ammonia and faecal matter and metallic blood rose in a sharp wave. I quickly turned my face, gasping and swallowing down the rising bile as Barak led me away.

  ‘Let it go.’ I felt the light touch of Barak’s hands on my shoulders, drawing me into an awkward, loose hug as we stood in the hallway. He wasn’t unkind, but it was obvious he hadn’t much experience with emotional women. While I cried over the waste – wasted words, wasted time and wasted opportunities – he said nothing but held me in a brotherly embrace.

  He could have evicted me from the room. Any one of them could have. But they didn’t. Perhaps they had sensed the desperation seeping from my every pore or heard it in my strident voice, but they had let me stay and watch and understand that it was futile to try to get any sense out of her as she was beyond hope.

  Eventually I dried my eyes, wiping away the tears upon tears that had run together with the smudged mascara and dirt on my face, using the back of my hand like a small child, afraid of the dark and of monsters. My sobs quieted to hiccups. But still I felt the stirring undertow of neediness beneath the still waters like a riptide that would drag me out to sea.