Authors: Jeremy Robinson
“I’m
starting to see why they were cast out,” Kainda says.
A loud
laugh wipes the smile from her face.
We both
recognize the booming mockery carried by the laugh of a Nephilim warrior. It’s
joined by several more.
A second
shriek rips from the jungle, and the top half of a
minotaur
sails into the clearing.
More
laughter follows. Trees crack. Footsteps rumble. A Nephilim war party steps
into the clearing and looks straight at us.
5
The three
warriors are short by Nephilim standards. Twenty feet tall, tops. But they’re
decked out for battle. One carries an oversized scimitar, one an axe and the
last a double-sided spear. Each is dressed in similar black leathers, the
stylization of which reveals that they are from the Egyptian clan. Blood red
hair, matted like a dirty dog’s, hangs to their shoulders. Unlike many of the
larger Nephilim I’ve seen recently, none of them have gigantes wings or Titan
tails.
“Lesser
Egyptians,” Kainda whispers, locked in place like me.
We
should probably be running, but the moment we move, I have no doubt these
warriors will spring into action. I’d like to learn everything I can about them
before that moment arrives.
“Scouts,”
Kainda says.
“Too short to be anything else.”
“Do
you know them?” I ask.
“They
would have been below even my station,” she says.
Kainda’s
master had been Thor, son of Odin, leader of the Norse warrior clan. In terms
of Nephilim hierarchy, her word once carried a lot of weight, even more than
these three. And as a hunter in the service to Nephilim royalty, she wouldn’t
have had many opportunities to fraternize with lesser warriors. That this is my
first time seeing them means they were probably shunned, possibly living
outside the major citadels—Asgard, Olympus, or in the case of Egyptians, Tuat.
“Will
they recognize you?” I ask.
“If
I got close enough for them to see my hammer, maybe,” she says, “but their eyes
are not on me.”
She’s
right. They’re looking at me. And my blond hair makes me easy to recognize.
“Don’t
worry,” she says. “They won’t be a problem for us.”
As
though in agreement, the three warriors take a step back.
Then another.
And
as quickly as they arrived, they leave, slipping back into the thick jungle.
Kainda
and I look at each other, sharing our bewilderment.
“That,”
Kainda says, “was unexpected.”
“If
they’re scouts, we’re going to have company, soon.” I bend down to Mira, give
her face another pat.
“Mira!”
Still
nothing.
I take her beneath her arms and lift. She’s tall, but not
heavy. Of course, even if she was, the part of me that is still a hunter would
never complain about it. I put her over my shoulder. “We should—”
The
ground shifts beneath my feet.
The
vibration grows in intensity and is quickly joined by a rumble. A horn blast,
deep and powerful, rolls from the jungle. The cracking of tree limbs and trunks
that follows sounds like the manic popping of a burning fireplace log amplified
through a loudspeaker.
We
back away from the jungle, our pace quickening with each step.
“That’s
a lot more than three,” I say.
The
jungle explodes. Leaves and branches burst into the air. At least thirty
heavily armed warriors charge—all Egyptian, and all larger than the three
scouts. None of them have wings or stingers, but really, thirty warriors in a
berserker rage don’t really need either.
With
Mira over my shoulder, this is more than we can overcome.
I
turn to run and start to shout for Kainda to do the same, but she’s beat me to
the punch and she’s at least five steps ahead of me. The ground shakes so
violently that I fear I will trip. And a delay of a few seconds is all the
giants will need to close the distance.
But
I forget all about my balance issues when I remember where we’re headed. Going
left or right is no good—Nephilim could lurk in either direction along with who
knows what else. So we’re headed back the way we came, which is about a hundred
more feet of grassy clearing and then about one thousand feet of vertical
space.
As
we approach the cliff’s edge, a slight grin works its way onto my face. Kainda
has not slowed, looked back or shouted her desire for a plan. She knows the
plan without asking, and she has complete faith in my abilities to execute it.
That kind of trust is rare in the world beyond Antarktos and it’s unheard of
among hunters. It’s a compliment of the highest order.
I
wish I had more time to enjoy it, but Kainda suddenly drops from view. For a
moment I think she’s gone over the cliff, and I prepare myself for the jump,
but when I reach the edge of the clearing, I find the stone slope carved by
water and peppered with griffin nests. When my bare foot hits the hard,
unexpected grade, I stumble and am carried forward by Mira’s weight on my
shoulder. Before my foot leaves the ground and my stumble becomes an all out
fall, I push off. Something in my foot twangs with pain, but then we’re off the
ground and descending hard. That is, until a gust of wind pushes us up and out,
away from the incline.
I
soar out and over Kainda, reaching the cliff’s true edge a moment before she
makes her literal leap of faith. The wind cuts out and I plummet, shifting Mira
so that she’s in front of me, my arms wrapped tightly around her back. Air
rushes past my body, tugging my hair, drawing moisture from my eyes. I turn
toward Kainda. Her eyes are on the rapidly approaching ground, still fearless
and certain in her belief that we will survive this fall.
Then, a shadow.
I
see it for just a moment, shifting over Kainda’s back. Then its source comes
into view, and passes us.
Then again, and again.
Warriors.
Thirty-foot
giants with double rows of teeth, six fingers and toes, and a penchant for
pain—a display of which we’re about to witness. The five giants, who weigh far
more than Kainda and me, reach a faster terminal velocity, and reach it faster.
They rocket past us, not one of them reaching out to attack or capture. They’ve
streamlined their bodies with the intent of reaching the ground first. But
unlike Kainda and me, they won’t slow before impact.
Then
it happens. The first of the warriors strikes the ground below us in a
startling display of gore. Purple blood sprays, bones crack in half, pop from
joints and stab out through the tattooed skin. All the while, the monster howls
in ecstasy.
It
happens again.
And then three more times.
By the time
the fifth and final Nephilim strikes the ground beneath us, the first is
standing, his body nearly fully knit back together. Purple blood coats every
blade of grass, tree branch and pebble in a fifty foot radius. The very ground
beneath our feet will kill us if we land.
When we land.
Hunters should really start wearing
shoes
, I think, but then I’m
on task, looking for a solution in the few seconds before we reach the ground
and die on impact, or from overexposure to Nephilim blood, or if that can be
avoided, at the hands of the five warriors now drawing their weapons.
We’re
falling too fast to change our trajectory fully, not without being picked off
by the warriors armed with bow and arrows. But maybe we can fly past without
changing trajectories.
“Kainda!”
I shout, reaching a hand out to her.
She takes hold of my wrist and I pull her close. “Hold on!”
She
wraps her arms around Mira from the other side. We’re face-to-face now, looking
over Mira’s shoulder. Kainda’s eyes burrow into me, searching for a hint of my
plan. But there’s no time to explain. Instead, I tip forward and we fall the
remaining distance head first.
The
confused
expressions on the warrior’s faces is
priceless. But there is no way for them to know what is about to happen, and
when it does, they just stumble back in bewilderment.
Twenty
feet and a fraction of a second before impact, the ground opens up. The hole is
just eight feet across, but it stretches down for several hundred feet and is
still deepening even as we fall inside, passing the Nephilim as a blur.
Darkness consumes us as the land above comes back together again, sealing us
off from pursuit.
We
fall in silence for another ten seconds when a strong wind from below slows our
descent before depositing us gently on the stone floor of a wide cavern lit by
an array of glowing blue crystals. Once we’re settled and Mira is in my arms,
Kainda steps away, hammer at the ready, scouring our surroundings for any hint
of danger.
While
Kainda slides away into the dark, I lay Mira on the floor and sit beside her.
Slowing a fall from 1000 feet is one thing; doing it for three people after
opening a several-hundred-foot deep passage through solid stone is something
else. Even a few months ago, an effort like that would have knocked me out. I’m
stronger now, but I feel like I’ve just run a marathon.
I
lean back on my hands, regaining my strength, and look at Mira. With her eyes
closed and her nappy white-blond hair puffed out around her head, she looks so
much like the little girl I knew so long ago. The girl that made my stomach
twist
with nervousness. The girl who made me
feel
like a normal kid.
The girl who gave
me hope.
The girl who
is
Hope.
While
I’d like to wait patiently by her side and let her heal naturally, that could
take time.
Days
maybe. But what can
I—
the
answer is found on the side of a pouch on my belt.
A dark
spot.
A
purple
spot.
At some point during our battle with the Forsaken, a drop of blood
must have found its way to my belt. I’m lucky it didn’t strike my skin. I draw
my blade and scrape it against the purple spot. As suspected, the blood is
dried and flakes off into my waiting palm. In this form, it has no effect, but
rehydrated... I put my hand beneath Mira’s neck and lift. Her mouth slips open
and I shake the dehydrated Nephilim blood into her mouth. Most of it misses or
sticks to my hand, but a few flakes make it inside. It’s not much, but it
should be enough. I
hope
it’s enough.
Nothing
happens. The reaction to Nephilim blood is usually quite sudden and violent.
But Mira hasn’t flinched. Maybe it wasn’t enough? Maybe it loses its healing
properties when it dries?
I
reach out and place my hand on her cheek. “Mira,” I whisper, but I still get no
reply. Her skin feels cold. The cavern’s ambient blue light is dim, but my eyes
have long since adjusted to low and no-light scenarios. I watch her chest for
signs of life, and find nothing.
Panicked,
I lean forward and place my ear against her chest. I don’t hear any breathing,
but her heart beat is loud and strong.
That’s
when I feel a sharp sting on my throat, followed by the words, “Try anything
funny and I won’t hesitate.”
Mirabelle
Clark...or Whitney rather, is awake. And I’m pretty sure she wants to kill me.
6
I move
back slowly, lifting my hands out to the sides in a posture that reveals I am
unarmed and am not a threat. “I wasn’t going hurt you.”
She
sits up, while keeping the knife at my throat. A trickle of warm liquid reveals
that she has already cut me, thought not very deeply. Her dark brown eyes lock
on to mine with fierce determination. I’ve seen the look in the eyes of many
hunters before. She means business. And after the things she’s been through—her
mother’s kidnapping and rescue, the global cataclysm, battling with the
Nephilim—she has a right to be paranoid.
“Enki
is dead,” I tell her, hoping the news will reduce her anxiety. It does, but
only a fraction.
“How
do you know about that?” she asks.
“I
saw it happen,” I say. “You blew him into little bits.”
Her
eyes flit back and forth as she remembers. “He dropped me.”
I
start to nod, but don’t get very far as the blade cuts a little deeper. She sees
me wince and pulls the knife back a little. I could disarm her. It would be
simple for me. But that’s not how I want this reunion to go. Of course, nothing
about this meeting has gone like I envisioned. She clearly doesn’t recognize
me, which is understandable given the beard and one hundred and thirty pounds
I’ve put on since we last met. But I suspect her memory has been tampered with.
Like with Merrill, it might have been a long time since she had any memory of
me.
“You
landed in the lake,” I say. “I saved you.”
Her
eyes flit again. “It wasn’t you,” she says, sounding accusatory, “It was...”
“Weddell seals.”
I step back so that the knife is no
longer in striking distance. She keeps the blade pointed at me, but some of the
fury has left her eyes. “They’re friends of mine.”
“Man,
I hate this place,” she mumbles to herself.
“Your
father believes me,” I say.
This
catches her attention. Her body goes rigid, like a snake’s before it strikes.
“Your
mother, too,” I say. “They’re both safe. At a U.S. forward operating base on
the coast. They’re with Kat.”
“Kat?”
She’s shaking a little bit now, caught
between relief and distrust. “But she and Wright...”
“Survived,”
I say.
“With me and my friends.
Wright...didn’t make
it. He saved us. But Kat is alive, as are the other people from your group.”
She
flinches and her face becomes angry. “You’re lying. You’re not who you say you
are.”
“I
haven’t said I’m anyone yet.”
“I
saw you change.”
She’s
talking about the shifter who captured her, stole her identity and left her for
dead.
“That
was a shifter,” I tell her.
“A Nephilim capable of changing
appearances, not to mention stealing and erasing memories.
That’s why
you can’t remember me.”
“I
don’t
know you,” she says.
“Your
parents said the same thing,” I say. “But they remember now. I was part of the
Clark Station Two mission. You were there too, and my parents, Mark and Beth
Vincent.”
“They
never had a son,” she says. “And you’re too young to have been—”
“My
name is Solomon,” I blurt out. “You liked my name.”
She
shakes her head, still confused, but then gently says, “King Solomon.”
“Yes!”
I say.
“Solomon—”
“—Islands.”
I finish the thought for her. We’ve
had this conversation before and she’s taking it in the same direction.
“Solomon
Grundy,” we say at the same time.
“The
nursery rhyme,” she says.
“And
the evil comic-book zombie super villain,” I say, quoting twelve year old Mira
verbatim.
“Are
you in my head?” she asks.
“Of
the creatures on Antarktos capable of doing such a thing, I am not one of
them.”
“Antarktos,”
she says and I’m pretty sure it’s the only word in my reply that she’s heard.
“The
Greek for Antarctica,” I say, and then I remember the word’s true significance.
“It’s what Merrill—your father—calls this place.”
She
looks me in the eyes. “You could still be in my head. You could be lying.”
“I’m
not,” I say. Thanks to my perfect memory, I could recite every conversation we
had during our time together. I could perfectly describe her house or the way
her mother’s chocolate chip cookies taste, or I could rattle off a number of
1980s pop culture references, but it could all come from her mind. There is
nothing I can say that will make her believe me, at least not without physical
contact. “I promise.”
It’s
a simple claim, the kind made between children, and it carries all the
innocence and earnest emotion I can muster, which is actually quite a lot.
She
smiles, her teeth gleaming white against her light brown skin. “You
promise
? Are you serious?”
I
hold out my left hand and extend my pinkie.
“Pinky promise.”
The
absurdity of my request and the goofy smile on my face seems to put her at
ease. She lowers the knife some. “You’re really one of the good guys?”
She
steps forward, raising her pinky.
“Actually,”
I say. “I’m leading them.”
When
she’s stunned by my wild claim, I close the distance between us, wrap my finger
around hers and recite the song lyrics she once sang to me.
“Any
hemisphere.
No man’s land.
Ain’t
no
asylum here. King Solomon he never lived round here.”
I’m
dizzied by a pulse of energy that jolts my body before flowing from my hand to
Mira’s. She jumps back, as though a lightning bolt has passed between us. With
a gasp, she stumbles back, hands on her head. She stumbles for a moment, weak
and disoriented.
“Mira,”
I say.
Her
eyes lock on to me. She squints, looking me up and down once, but then focuses
on my eyes. Her hand slowly rises to her mouth. Tears well up and tumble down
her cheeks. “King Solomon,” she whispers.
I
nod slowly, a smile forming on my lips. “It’s me, Mira.”
She
notices the knife in her hand. It falls from her grasp and clatters to the
stone floor.
“Sol!”
she shouts, and smiles so big and bright that it breaks my heart. I have waited
a long time for this moment. When she charges toward me, arms outstretched, I
find myself weak with emotion.
She
leaps at me, wrapping her arms around my neck and colliding full force with my
chest. Overcome as I am, the impact knocks me back. My Jell-O legs fail me. We
fall.
But
before slamming into the stone floor, a gust of wind creates a buffer, cushioning
our landing.
Mira sits up, face radiant.
She grips my
cheeks in her hands. “It’s really you!”
I
laugh and nod, feeling almost like myself again. Like little Sol.
She
embraces me again, crushing herself against me. Her tears mingle with my own as
they drip down the sides of my neck. Then she kisses me.
On
the cheek.
Long and hard.
If she’d done
something like that when we first met, I probably would have passed out, but
the expression of love is very welcome now. She kisses me again, on the
forehead. Then the other cheek and I’m suddenly enveloped in a wave of kisses
that make me laugh. There is nothing sexual about the kisses.
Nothing intimate.
We’re more like two puppies reunited after
a long time apart.
But
when Kainda clears her throat, there is no doubt that she sees things
differently.