Blood Debts (The Temple Chronicles Book 2) (5 page)

His heart was a hollow shell of ice, liable to shatter at the slightest breeze. The wind began to howl, heralding the approaching storm, but it was a distant, solemn sound in his ears. He carelessly dropped the reins to the horse and crouched over his son’s broken body. He brushed the boy’s icy-blue eyes closed with shaking fingers, too pained to do more for his fallen, innocent offspring. But what he would see next would make him realize that his son had been the lucky one. The farmer managed to stand, stumbling only slightly in the growling, approaching wind, and entered the small, humble foyer of his home. Like so many times before, his wife greeted him immediately, although those past circumstances were never as abhorrent as this.

His wife had been tied down to face the open doorway. Her dress lay in tatters beside her nude marble-like form. There were many empty wine bottles on the ground, and several piles of ash from a pipe. Enough ash to signify that several men had bided their time in this room while he had been away at market bartering higher prices for his wheat. The house reeked of tobacco. And he wasn’t a smoker. He subconsciously knew that his future path would now lead him to darker places than he could ever imagine. His life would be forever changed.

I shivered, feeling the dark story touch a part of me that I had to fight to squash down. I had enough frightening memories to fuel my recent night terrors. I didn’t need another. But I knew Hemmingway would tell this story only once. Also, this story would be my only knowledge about Angels and Demons outside of the Bible. If Angels were watching my movements, I
needed
the information. I waited for him to continue, signaling the bartender to refill Hemmingway’s glass. The storyteller nodded in appreciation.

Upon seeing his dearly beloved murdered, the farmer crashed to his knees, the forgotten purse of money that was clutched in his fist dropping to the floor like a sack of wheat. The coins spilled across the gnarled wooden planks, one coin rolling toward the tear-filled, terror-laden gaze of his wife, before briefly brushing her long lashes and settling flat against the floor in a rattle that seemed to echo for eternity. That and the desperate panting of the farmer’s breath were the only sounds in the haunted house. But they were enough to fill it completely. He had been anxious to see the look of joy in her eyes at the coins.

The sensation of pride from her meant everything to him. It lent him his own pride. Instead he received this glassy, empty stare that would forever haunt his dreams. The woman who had made his life worth living, the woman who had saved him from his own darkness, the mother of his beautiful son, the woman who had made the endless hours of toil in the fields worth it lay before him, filling his vision like a never-ending scream that tore at the very fabric of reality. Thunder rumbled outside as if an extension of his grief. He would never be able to look at a coin again without remembering this scene. He had been proud to come home. Proud of his success at market. Proud of what the money would mean to his family. The prideful, peaceful, god-fearing farmer felt a scalding tear sear his weathered cheeks.

He distantly realized that he was no longer a prideful man.

A cold, amused voice emanated from the shadows.
“Do you seek justice, farmer?”

The farmer jolted, hands shaking with fear… and something else. A feeling he had not experienced in many years. White-hot rage. He stared into the shadows, only able to see a hazy silhouette, wondering if it was one of his wife’s rapists mocking him. If it was, so be it.

Everything that mattered in his life lay dead before him. He would welcome the cold, merciless slumber of death in order to escape this haunting grief. Or he would avenge his grief on this wretched soul. It was a long time before the farmer answered, knowing that farming held no interest to him anymore.
Nothing
held any interest for him anymore. Well, one thing did…

Vengeance. The sight of
their
blood on his weathered knuckles, the scent of
their
fear filling his nostrils, the feel of
their
dying struggle under his blade. The sound of
their
endless, tortured screams was the only sensation that would appease this once prideful, peaceful, god-fearing man.

“I do.”
The farmer rasped, realizing he was no longer a peaceful man.

Lightning flashed, the thunderous crack instantaneous, rattling the open windowpanes, and billowing the curtains. With it came the downpour of rain that had been biding its time in the dark skies above. A new voice entered the conversation from another shadow of the room.

“Together, then. We must each give him a gift. To represent both worlds. He must agree to neutrality. To live in a world of grays, as the final arbiter of truth.”
This voice was deeper, more authoritative, and obviously hesitant at the situation, judging by his tone. The voice addressed the farmer again.
“After your vengeance is complete, do you agree to forget this past life, and embrace your new vocation? I cannot tell you what it might entail, but you shall never be able to deviate once the choice is made. I can promise that you will not be alone. You will have Brothers to aid you in your cause.”

The farmer nodded.
“If I can obtain justice first, I agree. I have nothing else left to me.”

The first voice grunted his agreement with a puff of stale sulfur that the farmer could taste even from across the foyer. What could only be described as a Demon slowly uncoiled into the light, red eyes blazing with anticipation, his leathery, scaly skin covering an almost human-like frame. The horned, shadowy creature, pulsing with physical shadows of molten fire and ash, handed the farmer a gift, placing it over the man’s face, which instantly transformed the approaching darkness into a hazy green, the shadows evaporating under his newfound night-vision. The Demon stepped back, appraising the man before him with satisfaction and uncertainty… even fear, before waving a hand in the direction of the other voice. The farmer turned to assess the second creature, eyes no longer able to show surprise. The man-like being that stood before him crackled with blue power, like lightning given form. An Angel. Wings of smoking ice and burning embers arced out from the creature’s back, sparks drifting lazily down to the wooden floor, dying away before contact. The Angel extended a marble hand, offering up a gleaming silver gift. The farmer took it, the item familiar in his hands.

The two creatures spoke as one.
“Gifts given. Contract made. He shall be the first. Now, ride forth into your new life. You shall find a new horse befitting your station waiting outside.”
Twin peals of thunder, and the once peaceful, prideful, god-fearing farmer was alone again.

The farmer stood in the empty house, and realized he was no longer a god-fearing man.

Over the coming year, he found every last culprit in the crime that had destroyed his life. Their screams unsuccessfully attempted to fill the empty void in his soul, and he reveled in every sensation he created from their broken bodies. Immensely. But it was never enough. Then he faded from this world, to fulfill his new responsibilities, forever regretful of his decision to accept those cursed gifts.

Chapter 5

I
blinked at Hemmingway. I could sense that he needed a moment to collect himself. I downed my drink, waving at the bartender to fill us back up. Once complete, I tried to comprehend the dark tale, leaning forward over the bar. “Wow. That was… dark. Really,
really
dark. Are you Christopher Nolan in disguise?”

Hemmingway glanced my way, ignoring my last question. “Most true stories are. I didn’t do it justice. The pain in this man’s voice was something… something I’d never experienced before. Or since.” His eyes were lost to his past for a silent moment. “Desperation can lead men to do stupid, but necessary things. Or at least it might seem necessary at the time. I don’t know what became of the farmer, but be cautious of folly, lest you face the same choice as he.” I pondered that in silence.

“You couldn’t have done anything. I know what it’s like to lose someone dear to me. If the survivor wants to disappear for a while, he will disappear for a while. Solitude is sometimes the only true solace available for that level of grief. Perhaps this guy knew the farmer. A relative or something. Had too much to drink and shared his story. Felt guilty in the middle of the night, then left.”

It sounded hollow even to me. “Perhaps.” Hemmingway muttered. “All that to say that Angels are bad news. Demons are bad news. Both together are worse than bad news. Advice given.”

“So… the moral is to not make deals with Angels and Demons?”

“No. The moral is to not
deal in any way whatsoever
with Angels
or
Demons.”

I leaned back, considering. “What did they give him?”

He shrugged. “I told you the story as I heard it. The best stories are mysteries.”

“I guess.” I answered.

He made a dismissive gesture with his hands. “So, what
really
brings you here?” He asked, seeming eager to change the subject.

My mouth began moving without thinking. And I told him my story. I told him everything. I felt like the man who had shared that dark story with Hemmingway so many years ago. Something about his presence pulled out the darkest part of my life like a moth to a flame. Perhaps he had an empathic ability to draw out the poison in one’s soul. I’m not sure if it was because of his story or the booze affecting me, but he was obviously privy to supernatural information most weren’t. Perhaps he would have some advice. I hadn’t been successful so far, so what could it hurt?

“I’ve heard the tales regarding your parents.” He answered once I was finished, raising his glass. “To Pillars of Society.” We drank deeply. “They were truly great people. Don’t let anyone ever tell you differently.”

I blinked. “Did you know them?”

“I met them once.” He studied my face. “One time, and one time only. They made a distinct… impression on me. Between black and white is not a gray area, but a quicksilver, honey shade; a shiny, enticing, and altogether beautiful dividing line. If employed correctly, that is. That was your parents. Take
pigeon
, with whom you just had the pleasure of meeting. His kind are as white as white can be. Now, there are varying degrees of white, yet for the most part, they’re
White
. Capital W. Then there are their brothers. The Fallen. Now, they’re considered as black as black can be, and for the most part, they are. But they didn’t start out that way. They just wanted more of a father figure. God upped and favored humans over them, and it rightly pissed them off. Now, end of story, right?” I shrugged uncertainly; curious of how this strange man was using present tense to describe something that had supposedly happened thousands of years ago. “Then there are the
Others
. The Policemen. The ones with horses, if you know what I mean…” I visibly started in understanding, eyes widening.

“The Riders? Are you talking about the Horsemen? Of the
Apocalypse
?” I stammered.

Hemmingway darted a cautious gaze about the bar, shushing me before finally nodding. “Them bastards have faces of justice. One look in their eyes, and you’ll shit yourself with your mouth wide open. Trust me. You ever did anything wrong, and they know it — however, they don’t rightly care. You are just a speck of dust to them. Literally. Their concerns are the Angels and the Fallen. Light and Dark. Black and White. They are the policemen of your very existence, the Universe’s Supreme Court. They are the Judge, Jury, and Executioner. And they take their jobs
very
fucking seriously.”

I waited a moment, and then spoke softly. “Our.” Hemingway’s brows furrowed. “Policemen of
our
very existence.” I clarified.

Hemmingway frowned, and then downed his drink. “Yes, that is what I meant.
Our
very existence. Are you the grammar police or something?” He muttered something in an ancient middle-eastern language, but I knew enough to catch his gist.
It’s hard getting grammar correct when you learned to speak a now dead language.
So, I agreed with him. In roughly the same language. I think. Either that or it was drunken gobbledy-gook. Same thing to my ears.

Hemmingway started, slowly turning to face me with interest. “Well, I’ll be god damned.” He began to laugh, a deep belly sound. The numerous drinks caused me to play a very dangerous hunch as Hemmingway leaned over the bar.

“Aren’t you already?” Time literally halted as I was slammed up against a warped wooden pillar for the second time tonight, my head smashing against the splintered surface with a resounding
crack
, hard enough for me to see stars. Again, my magic had been useless. Everyone around me stood still as statues, not even blinking, as if they had all been encased in Jell-O. Just like with the Angel, Eae.