Michael (The Mark) (The Airel Saga, Book 4: Part 7-8) (14 page)

CHAPTER XIX

Cape Town, South Africa—Present Day

THEY CALLED HIM MR. Emmanuel. It was the perfect moniker for him. It spoke to his penchant for self-important sacrilege, his megalomania, his fervent belief that all roads led to him sooner or later. Wearing a stylish white fedora made of straw, he leaned against the wall in the international arrivals terminal and waited for the mark.

It had been boring, really. He had known Harry would fail. Like a tool, he had served his purpose and then outlived his usefulness. And that was perfectly fine. It was the same with Apartheid, for instance. It had served its purpose well enough for him and his associates. And sure, it was dead, but mostly just on paper. Blacks and whites and coloreds still distrusted one another, still collected in their ethnic cliques. In that sense it was more alive than ever, and the people now carried the walls with them wherever they went. Success.

Mr. Emmanuel suffered himself to yawn openly, to check his wristwatch. He knew few men wore them anymore; they had become redundant with the advent of the mobile phone, but that was precisely what had brought them back into fashion as far as he was concerned. He noted the time. Any minute now.

His mind wandered, as it did habitually. Perhaps he would change his fashions and use a pocket watch instead. But that would require that he wear a waistcoat, which would necessitate a change of his personal style. Waistcoats weren’t worn with jeans. Not by him, at any rate. And then there would be the question of comfortable shoes. If he had to wear a suit everywhere he went, he would not be able to get away with comfortable shoes any longer, and that would inhibit performance. Perhaps he would have to change his car, maybe even his house as a result. No, the pocket watch was not pragmatic.

And Mr. Emmanuel was deeply pragmatic. He knew the old schools of classical philosophy, and he picked and chose what he would adhere to. Was that not pragmatic? And after all, he was a god, so whom should he fear? At least he believed he was. And if he believed, was he not a god? Who could say otherwise? Who would dare correct him?

Except the master.

Yes, but that went without saying. As a matter of fact, he preferred it went unsaid.

To all who resided on the downwind slope of his affectations, he was and would be a god. And that was enough.

His nostrils flared.

Here comes the mark.

Mr. Emmanuel allowed him to pass him by and then followed nonchalantly at a discreet distance.

The mark didn’t know it, but he was completely caged. Mr. Emmanuel flicked a finger and the teeming crowd swerved, carrying the mark toward the mouth of a corridor where he was quickly and inconspicuously tased and then snatched by three strong men. Mr. Emmanuel smirked.
A taste of your own medicine, John.

The three thugs were faithful servants. They would bundle John, the mark, into the back of a Kombi and deliver him, as ordered, to the building.

And Mr. Emmanuel would take the helo to the top of the city tonight, in the same building, the skyscraper his petrol company owned. It was all a shell game; it was delicious.

Sure, sometimes it bored him, but did not the gods suffer boredom from time to time? It was no matter. He would smite someone from his Olympus and then he would feel better. Sleep like a child.

***

AIREL’S FATHER NEVER SAW it coming. He should have, if he really knew what he was up against. But he couldn’t dream of the wickedness arrayed against him.

The crowd in the international terminal was close, and like a mob at a sports event, one simply went with the flow. When the flow forced him toward the mouth of a nearby hallway, three goons came out of nowhere and tased him. His body went limp; they gagged him, bagged him, and snatched him up. Then they stuffed him into the back of a van.

Very professional. But now he was at the mercy of some real baddies, and he knew it. What was more, he probably knew them. He could recognize the effects of the weapons he sold. Which client had turned on him? He had some ideas.

But then he felt the prick of what could only have been a hypodermic syringe.
Great, John. Now what?
Everything went dark.

***

Arabia—1232 B.C.

KREIOS HAD BEEN PREPARING a lecture for her in his mind as he killed the last few members of Subedei’s stupid entourage. Of course he had known; what father would release his as-yet unformed adult daughter into the wilds without at least watching over her? He had known she was headstrong, even stubborn, but this … this had been a surprise.

Had he not tried to instill more sense into her? Had he not spent himself in her childhood, trying his utmost to raise her to be prudent and wise? What she had done this night felt like betrayal.

He swooped upward toward the treetops, thinking on all she had done. She deserved a stern word or two, and he would not fail to deliver. But as he approached the bough where he had left her, he knew she had gone. He cursed himself. He had placed her there in the hope she would be both safe and unable to flee easily from him. But she had found a way.

How had she managed that?

Unless she had been taken. His heart suffered the pang of anxiety as he circled the treetops in the vicinity, double- and triple-checking that she was indeed not there. He descended to the path below, where the leaders had circled to discuss the incident.

Yamanu was among them. “Have you seen Eriel?” Kreios grabbed his tunic gruffly.

Yamanu turned to him, surprise and concern showing on his features in the darkness. “Is she not safe?” he asked.

“I do not know,” Kreios said, panting a little. “I thought I had left her in a safe place during the skirmish.”

“The one called Subedei escaped,” Yamanu said. “That was the one Eriel had come out to meet …”

As he said the words, Kreios knew in his heart what had happened. “What are you not telling me?”

Yamanu did not speak immediately, and still more angels gathered roundabout, awaiting further orders, further action.

Kreios extended a hand and placed it on his shoulder. “Tell me, friend.”

Yamanu shook his head. “I am afraid, Kreios, that I am responsible for this debacle.”

“Why do you say such a thing?”

“Because, friend, I had been teaching her how to use the gift of the Shadowers. Perhaps before she was yet ready.” His face was downcast. “I could not help but see a predilection in her for the gift. She has much potential, Kreios; you should be very proud of your daughter. After one lesson, she escaped through the defenses of the great city and found her way to liberty.”

“Are you telling me that she is still somewhere near? Perhaps hiding from us even now?”

Yamanu’s face betrayed the deep fear and pain he felt in regard to Eriel. “My friend Kreios, there is more that remains to be revealed to us. I am sorry. I started her training too soon. She was not ready. She does not yet understand the purpose of the gift; she cannot properly bear its attendant burden.”

Kreios grasped Yam by both shoulders and looked deep into his eyes, his own eyes begging without words for a morsel of bare truth.

“I am afraid she could be anywhere, Kreios.”

“We must find her.” Kreios turned to bolt; he wanted to begin the search and make sure she was not taken by the boy.

“Kreios,” Yamanu said, touching his arm from behind, “we cannot.”

“What do you mean?” Kreios asked him incredulously. “This is absurd. We cannot?”

Yamanu nodded quietly.

“Why?”

Yamanu paused before answering. “Because, friend, she does not want to be found.” He waited yet another moment for this new and profound information to settle.

Kreios slumped.

Yamanu grasped his shoulder. “She is that good. Until she wants to be found, we will never find her.”

CHAPTER XX

Somewhere Over the South Atlantic—Present Day

EVERYTHING EXPLODED.

I had been knocked unconscious.

When I came back around to myself, the air was filled with an enormous roaring sound. From the instrument panel behind me, there was a gaggle of loud buzzers sounding off. I peeled my eyes open, and they were instantly stung by a thousand needles of thin atmosphere. I was dizzy; it was difficult to breathe. One arm was hooked through the supporting structure of a seat, and one leg was cocked up and wedged behind me in the doorway to the flight deck. I looked out the closest available window, one of the windscreens in the cockpit behind me, and I saw what looked like blackness with an occasional pink-orange stripe passing vertically from right to left.

That’s the sunset. The horizon.
We were sideways and cartwheeling through the air.

My body was being pulled. I looked back to the direction I was facing, the direction I was being pulled. There was Michael, still buckled to his seat and passed out. More importantly, though, there was wide-open nothingness where the back of the plane had been.

And I was being sucked toward it.

Where is Ellie?
Hex and Bishop were gone. I could see Michael, and I tried to make my way toward him. I knew I would be able to use the sucking momentum to get to him, but I had probably only one shot. If I messed up, I would be sucked straight out the back without him. And I needed to rescue him.

I wasn’t sure of the details, but I knew I had to get him out of the plane.

Pressure pulled relentlessly at every part of me. I had to get across the aisle and move … fly … about ten feet toward the rear of the plane in order to connect with him. It was very difficult to breathe. I felt my body flirting with another blackout.

I had to make my move.

It was ugly. When I let go, everything happened so fast. I became airborne and hurtled backwards. I almost missed my shot. If I hadn’t pushed off with my legs a little, I would have gone straight out the back.

But I didn’t. I collided with Michael’s chest like a 98-pound football, startling the crap out of him and waking him up. He grasped me in a bear hug, looked around with wild eyes, saw me, saw the foggy atmosphere in the plane. and craned his head all over the place like a bird. “Airel, wha…” His eyelids grew heavy, his grip on me weakened.

He passed out again.

Oh, no.
I clung tightly to him, trying with one hand to reach the release on his buckle.

“Hey.” Ellie screamed into my ear and I jerked back a little in surprise. My eyes asked the question for me. “Never mind,” she screamed above the roaring noise. “Just grab the parachute.” She was standing in the aisle, her feet braced hard between two seats.

Parachute. I didn’t think we would need those.
I thought about the inflatable raft I had seen in the cupboards as well; the survival beacons. Everything suddenly became far too real.
This is life and death. In a wrestling match.

I grabbed the chute from Ellie; it was an enormous thing. I slipped my free arm through the straps, grabbing Michael with the other.

“Ready?” Ellie screamed again.

I nodded.

She let herself go. She was sucked violently from the plane. I decided it was a very scary thing, but I didn’t want to die, either.

Holding fast to Michael and the parachute, I found the seatbelt release and pulled.

***

Cape Town, South Africa—Present Day

KREIOS FELT THE DRAW on his strength as he neared the center of the principality of the evil prince Nwaba, the enormous high-rise citadel of the Nri. He did not wanted to admit it to himself, but he could feel himself weakening, feel the longing for the Sword, wondered why he could not retrieve it now of all times. He consigned himself to the strong possibility of a suicide mission.

But now everything was different.

When he had seen the great demonic horde flying west, he was struck. In his impetuous youth, he would have given chase, which would have ended in a sound defeat. Instead, he bided his time and thought it over.

He had guessed Nwaba was at the head of his westering detachment then, and now he was quite sure. He felt his strength returning in waves. The prince was away. The city was unguarded. And Kreios could attack in strength.

He would do what El had done to Sodom and Gomorrah. He would burn it to the ground.

CHAPTER XXI

Somewhere Over the South Atlantic—Present Day

IT WAS LIKE WE were shot out of a cannon. Everything around us was completely dark, and if it was difficult to hold on to both Michael and the parachute in the confines of the plane, it was seriously close to impossible while falling through the sky. All the problems I had inside the plane were now magnified: it was louder, harder to breathe, more physically demanding, and I couldn’t see because I couldn’t open my eyes.

She
said,
“Let Ellie help you.”
It was a good thing I had ample warning because before I knew it, Ellie was shouting in my ear again. Something about getting the parachute on. Clumsily, I gave her one arm at a time as she helped cinch everything up.
This is insane.
The straps were either big enough to bundle me together with Michael or there was an extra set. I didn’t care about details—I just wanted the madness to end.

I worried that we were going to hit the ocean at any minute, that I wouldn’t see it coming. It was really bizarre that my number-one instinct was to see it when it came. Now that there was at least a parachute, though, everything should have balanced out. But it didn’t.

She
was going berserk in my head, Ellie was shouting, the wind from our descent was debilitating.

I forced my eyes to open. My tear ducts were emptying themselves in the fierce wind and my vision was blurry. It didn’t help that we were falling through the last dying embers of the sunset, either; it was almost pitch black.

Except for a weird cluster of light off to one side, that is. As my brain tried to process this new information, I became sick with fright: I was looking at the city lights of Cape Town. From like, thousands of feet above it. I could see the outline of the coast of South Africa below, but it wasn’t directly below. It was below and far away. We were going to fall into the ocean.