Resonance 4th Edits - Bleeding Worlds Bk 3 (20 page)

The plane landed at John F. Kennedy airport where two limos waited to transport them to Quetzalcoatl’s headquarters—the previous United Nations.

The building still served its primary function, as a meeting place for representatives from the various nations of the world. While the Pantheon reserved ultimate right to make decisions, they left the minutiae of daily grind and policy to elected officials.

As Quetzalcoatl told her, “It is easier to control people when they have the illusion they are ruling themselves.”

They pulled to a stop at the main gate. A poured concrete wall obstructed the buildings from view. After a few minutes had passed, the air filled with the screeching sound of the metal plate doors sliding open to allow their access. The vehicles moved forward.

Toms, sharing a limo with Fuyuko, Jason, and Stats, openly groaned as they passed the buildings repurposed as barracks and instead made their way to the office tower.

“Do we
have
to meet with him now?” Toms said. “I was really hoping to have a shower, change my clothes, and sleep in an actual bed.”

“It’s better this way,” Fuyuko said. “If we get this over with sooner, it means we’ll be able to sleep longer.”

Toms shrugged. His expression made it clear he still couldn’t see this as a benefit.

They pulled to a stop in front of the office tower. Armed guards exited and approached the limos, opening the doors for the occupants.

Fuyuko stayed at Jason’s side. Not only did she not trust his fate without her, but she also wanted to make a clear statement this prisoner belonged to her. This defeat would be a stain on her reputation. Despite Anubis’ deceit, she would be seen as weaker than before because she lost so many Anunnaki to mere mortal soldiers. It wouldn’t matter most of those were because of bombs. The whispers behind her back would say she should’ve known Anubis wouldn’t mind blowing a major installation to hell just to save face.

The guards escorted them past the internal checkpoints and to a set of elevators protected by two Anunnaki, ten armed guards, and several metal security doors that could be sealed shut in a matter of seconds.

Aboard the elevator, their escorts pressed the button for the thirty-seventh floor.

When the doors opened, the guards motioned with their hands for the group to move forward, but did not follow.

Fuyuko took the lead, taking them to a set of oak doors. She pushed them open and walked to the center of a room filled with gold statuary and lush, red carpets. On a raised platform at the end, a throne carved with scenes of sacrifice and war sat unoccupied.

“Welcome home, Fuyuko,” a disembodied voice said.

From behind the throne’s platform, a man wearing a crisp suit the color of blood, came around and ascended the stairs. He sat on the throne and closed his eyes, seeming to relish the feel of the symbol of power.

Fuyuko stepped away from Jason and bowed.

“Lord Quetzalcoatl, I have returned.”

His eyes opened and he leaned forward.

“With far less than I sent you with.”

Fuyuko swallowed hard.

“Yes, my Lord. Anubis laid numerous traps for us. As much as I tried to anticipate his actions, they proved even more desperate than I thought.”

Quetzalcoatl nodded grimly.

“I have already set discussions in motion for dealing with Anubis. When the time comes, his head will be yours to take—if you wish.”

Fuyuko’s fist clenched.

“It would be more than my honor.”

“And this man with you,” he motioned with his chin toward Jason, “is one of the individuals who came through the anomaly?”

“Yes. This is—”

“I am Jason Pisk,” he said, stepping forward, “formerly of Suture’s North American branch, and currently a member of the resistance force Fenrir on the planet Asgard.”

Quetzalcoatl stroked his chin and regarded Jason.

“Yes, I remember you—the only Script in the North American branch until Woten’s grandson. And now you say you’re part of a resistance on Asgard?”

“I am,” Jason said. “The people on Asgard have been forced literally underground by the Aesir. I have been with them these past seven years trying to help them win back their planet.”

“And what brought you back to our fair Earth?”

Jason got to his knees and bowed his head.

“The Ageless One known as Adrastia provided me the opportunity to return here. She left me here so I could ask for your aid.”

Quetzalcoatl laughed.

“My aid? You attack my people, and you think I will help you in any way?”

“To be fair, My Lord, my team and I inflicted only minor injuries on your team. The only lives we took were those soldiers belonging to the traitor Anubis. Even as a captive, I did not flee your people. Instead, I assisted them to the utmost of my abilities.”

Quetzalcoatl looked not to Fuyuko, but to the other members of her team.

“Is this true? Will you confirm this man’s story?”

Toms stepped forward.

“What he says is true, My Lord. None were lost in the battle at the Library. And during our escape from Anubis’ forces, this man put himself in harm’s way to save our lives. He obtained the helicopter at great risk to himself and then piloted it to Cyprus where we were able to finally escape.”

The others nodded their agreement.

“And what sort of aid do you wish from me?” Quetzalcoatl asked.

Jason raised his head, his mouth drawn in a firm line.

“We need your help to kill Woten.”

Gwynn stepped into nothingness.

Aside from his own head and feet, he was in a world with no discernible features. He stood upright but didn’t actually feel anything beneath his feet. Pressing a toe harder downward provided no resistance. And yet he didn’t fall any further.

Nothing appeared ahead except a blazing white light—so bright it obliterated everything else. Gwynn envisioned it like the bright lights in interrogation scenes in the movies he used to watch. But this light was everywhere. Turning to the left, right, or looking up or down was all the same—maybe he was inside the sun, or at the center of a star imploding.

Even the door he’d used only a few seconds ago vanished under the light’s intensity.

What did Marduk even teach me?
he wondered.

Gwynn clenched his fist and bit hard on his bottom lip.

I shouldn’t have come here. I was a fool for letting Adrastia play on my fears. What good is trying to become stronger than Cain if it kills me first?

But it wasn’t just on Adrastia’s word he had come. Sophia’s dreams, her confidence this was a journey he needed to take, held the most influence over his decision. He trusted her with his life. She’d been his constant companion since they’d infiltrated Valhalla seven years ago. He was useless without her.

So of course I came when she said I had to.

Could he trust her dreams, though? Hadn’t her dreams led him to the bowels of Valhalla where he destroyed a billion worlds and lost his right arm? No, it wasn’t right to use the word
trust
. When it came to Sophia herself, he could trust her completely. But visions, god help him,
fate
, seemed damn unreliable. Sometimes he wondered if Sophia’s visions were just someone else’s tool for manipulating them. Could that be God? Or worse yet, some other false deity who intended to usurp God’s throne. Was free will a thing or just another illusion? There’d been more than one time in the past eight or so years where Gwynn felt he was just someone else’s pawn being shoved around a chess board.

Sophia would say that’s me not taking control of my life—playing the victim. She’d tell me if I didn’t like how things were, I should be more proactive instead of reactive. But could seizing my own destiny just be playing into the grand cosmic design? Maybe all of us are pawns.

Or maybe the frightening truth is there is no plan. Maybe there’s no endgame. We really are just making everything up as we go.

In the distance, a black spot the size of a pebble materialized. Gwynn reached out with his left hand to pluck it from the space in front of him. But his hand came back empty.

Now it was the size of a baseball.

Without anything else for reference, I have no idea how far, or how big, that thing really is.

Gwynn squinted his eyes against the glaring light.

I still can’t even make out any details.

Something stirred in his gut—a familiar fluttering that seemed out of place. He’d felt it numerous times before, and was able to distinguish the nuanced differences between this sensation and those of nerves or hunger. But it made no sense. Because this feeling meant only one thing—an open tear in the Veil. But he was
inside
the Veil—he was so permeated with its energies, his whole body should be vibrating. As the dark shape neared, the intensity increased.

Gwynn tried to step back, but there was nothing to step on—his foot pushed against open air. He started flailing his limbs, trying to move in the non-space. No wind pushing past his face, no change in landscape—even if he were moving, he couldn’t tell.

The shape only seemed to be getting closer—or bigger—he still couldn’t tell which was actually happening.

How did Adrastia and Marduk do it? How’d they move through this?

The White Room—a bubble made from one’s own soul—was what Marduk said. They’d traveled through the Veil shielded by his own soul.

I need my soul, it can protect me from this place.

He reached out, trying to recall a time years ago when he pleaded with some larger version of himself to help save Pridament.

Please, I know you’re here. I need you. I haven’t always felt you, but I know you’ve helped me over the years—or that you’ve helped yourself. Where do I end and you begin? And if we are connected, if we are one being, where do your connections and loyalties to Cain begin and end? Can I trust you? Please, show yourself. Help me. Give me the answers I need.

Darkness rushed at him, swallowing the light on all sides, cocooning him in nothingness.

The thudding in his chest was so loud, so hard, it caused his limbs to tremble. He couldn’t even form words around the incessant
pound, pound, pound.

Against the noise of his own heart, he became aware of something else—a rhythmic
whooshing
that reminded him of waves crashing and receding.

Two orbs, burning blue in the dark, appeared in front of him. Dark spots rolled into each of the orbs from opposing sides, falling to the center, and focusing on Gwynn.

“Is that you?” Gwynn’s voice cracked like a piece of ancient parchment—he couldn’t even be sure his question was audible.

Darkness behind, above, and to his sides, began to peel away. As he watched them move, he realized they were not random splashes of darkness as he’d first thought, but that each side was symmetrical, textured—wings.

Light spilled in as the wings parted, revealing the details surrounding the blue orbs.

In books, he’d seen his share of dragons depicted. Some were terrifying, with a countenance speaking of nature’s fury given physical form. Others carried a sense of nobility in their appearance, as though the knowledge of their awesome power put them above all other life. Looking at the images on a page, Gwynn wondered what his response would be, to be confronted by such a creature.

In all his wonderings, he could never conjure the fear he felt now.

The creature before him was so large, the blue orbs—its eyes—were taller than Gwynn’s six-foot-two. It’s wings and body blotted out the light coming from in front of him.

It lifted its massive head—covered in scales and scars—and cried into the nothingness.

Gwynn thought he’d be shattered to atoms by the roar. It filled every space, resonated on every frequency Gwynn could hear and on ones he couldn’t but still experienced as a sickening wave of nausea.

The dragon’s eyes pushed down on him—he couldn’t move or speak. Its mouth dropped open, revealing teeth so jagged and uneven, it looked more like a cave with rows of stalactites and stalagmites.

It rushed forward, a cave of dark oblivion swallowing him.

All Gwynn could do was muster a scream.

Quetzalcoatl leaned forward, his expression impassive.

“Explain to me why I should care about Woten or his fate,” he said.

Jason cleared his throat.

“If you’ll indulge me a moment, My Lord, I will do so. But first, I need to give you some back story.”

Quetzalcoatl waved him on.

“At least a century ago, Woten seized control of the planet he renamed Asgard—in honor of his mythological home. With many of his fellow Aesir, as well as several devout followers, he subjugated the people and forced them, literally, underground. Aside from his own hall of Valhalla, he purged the surface of Asgard. I’m sure you know he was the one who triggered the Cataclysm.”

“I am. Though I’m still murky on his intentions. Miss Takeda’s father was able to provide enough details so we could defend this world.”

“I see. Well, it was his belief that by utilizing the bleed throughs, he could cast a web, drawing the separate worlds together into a singular whole, all situated on Asgard.”

Quetzalcoatl nodded thoughtfully and leaned back in his throne.

“Leaving himself the lone god of all humanity.”

“Yes, My Lord. But because of your efforts, as well as miscalculations due to the Fallen’s activities, his plan failed. Asgard continues to be a barren world on the surface, and eight other worlds, including your own, still exist. I now belong to a guerrilla organization made of Asgard’s original citizens who are fighting to dethrone Woten and take back their world. We call ourselves Fenrir.”

During their conversation, Quetzalcoatl managed to maintain a stony exterior. This cracked, just briefly, at the mention of Fenrir. Jason tried to interpret what the brief shift meant.

I don’t want to press. If I overplay my hand, he’ll see me as a threat as well.