Criss Cross (19 page)

P
recognition. Micah awoke from the blow to his neck to discover he was living his bout of precognition, live and in Technicolor in the basement of Evelyn's house.

It was dark. Pitch-black dark. Hot mist rose from the ground around Micah's feet. He struggled to free his hands and feet from the roped wired bounds. The muscles in his biceps tensed. They coiled. Micah was wired tight to a chair.

It was intensely hot in the room. The temperature soared beyond anything normal. Sweat dripped, poured into his eyes skewing his vision. He tasted the salt of it in his mouth.

His jerking around caused the wires to slice through his flesh. Red spots of blood oozed from his wrists and ankles. Then there was a sound like the roar of a rushing wind. An ear-shattering explosion burst forth. His ears popped.

Micah sat very still. He listened. He tried to identify the direction of the sound.

Red-orange light burst forth through the darkness. A flaming ball of fire rushed him. With the speed of light it was on him. He howled. A mix of denial, defiance and terror discharged from his throat.

Someone laughed. Mocked him. He heard a deep baritone voice. It held no life. It held no feeling. It echoed up to him from a deep pit. “Micah! Micah!” It drew him in, sucking him down into its tunnel. A mere instant before he would have been engulfed in flames.

A flaming “X” shone through the darkness. Molten heat seared it into the cement floor. The “X” slowly ascended. Then it branded itself over Micah's body merging with him. Gut-wrenching sounds of pure agony gushed from Micah's lips. Vomit poured forth through his parched lips.

He scooted his chair backward to resist the merger. He twisted. He turned trying to gain some distance from the frightening mark. It was all over him. He shuddered. Stark fear drenched his body. The smell of his own musk reached his nostrils.

Micah's dehydrated body jerked spastically. Sweat-dripping terror of the darkest kind drenched his body. His mind whirled in confusion.

Micah lifted his head. He found himself looking into the depths of hell. Shaughn watched him in idyllic amusement.

This time he had not awakened from the recurring dream. He was awake. The nightmare waited to devour him, ready to mark its place. To close a chapter in history that must take place at all costs.

“You have something that's mine, Micah.”

“I don't have a damn thing that belongs to you.”

“Oh, but you do. And you know it.”

Micah stared at him.

“The prophecy will be fulfilled, just as our father declared. We will become one soul. No more separate entities. Tonight we twin. And I will control the earth's greatest power. When the time comes, I and my seed will be ready to war.” Shaughn relayed the information as though Micah should have no problem understanding this.

Micah looked at Shaughn. Sheer insanity was stamped all over him. A deep and sticky darkness, like molasses syrup, oozed from Shaughn's pores. It settled on Micah's skin and body, like a cloud on a foggy day.

Micah wriggled in his chair. He was repulsed by the touch on his skin. Finally, completely losing it, he shouted at Shaughn, “I'm gonna send you back to the pit you came from! You're scum, Shaughn!”

Shaughn was unperturbed by Micah's show of temper. “Am I? You're in denial, Micah. You're living out your greatest fear. Aren't you?” Shaughn laughed. “Smoke and mirrors. Mirrors and smoke. Denial is very unbecoming of you. I thought you might be a worthy adversary. You're disappointing me, baby brother.” Shaughn filed his perfectly manicured nails.

“Micah,” a voice whispered in his ear.

Micah turned at the sound of the voice.

“Use your powers. Come with me, son,” Weeping Willow said. She stood just outside of his line of vision. Her arms were outstretched. The tears fell in waterfalls.

“Come, son.”

Slowly she drew Micah to her. There was blackness. A void. Then, Micah stepped into the recesses of another time and place. He was in the Victorian parlor. Only it wasn't the same. The furniture was arranged differently.

Directly in front of him was a mural on the center wall. A man and a woman were in the throes of ecstasy. Forbidden animal-like ecstasy.

Micah peered closer. A loud drumming sounded in his ears. Ocean waves frolicked, rolling through the inner recesses of his mind.

The man's foot was hanging off the sofa. Only it wasn't a foot. It was a hoof. It was a clawed hoof. Writhing underneath him was a beautiful woman, with flowing locks of dark thick hair. The woman in the mural was Evelyn's mother. She was Micah's grandmother.

Micah gasped.

Weeping Willow knelt before him. She stretched out her arms toward him. “Turn it around on him, Micah.”

“Turn what around?”

“Just remember my words. Quentin Curry's greatest power is that of deceit.”

Micah was confused. Before he could gather his thoughts she spoke again. “Help me.”

Micah stared at the mural trying not to gag. “How?”

“Defeat him. The pureness of your heart will erase the sin. The only way you can beat him is if you believe.”

“And if I don't?”

“Then we will all be damned. And he will win.”

Micah broke down. “Why?”

“Jezebel. She's a powerful spirit. She possessed my body. She mated with him. I didn't know 'til it was too late. By that time he had implanted the creation for a perfect womb. Your mother.”

Micah wept.

“There's one thing he didn't count on, Micah.”

“What's that?”

“Repentance. I've been repenting since I made the discovery and a small miracle has occurred.”

Micah got a hold of himself. “What miracle?”

“Quentin Curry is not your father.” Weeping Willow began to fade. “You have been given great power. Go back, Micah, and right what's wrong.”

“Grandma!” Micah yelled out but she was gone.

M
icah rebounded. His head ached. He was back in the basement. And he was still tied up.

The basement door creaked open. Quentin Curry entered. The dark, dankness of the basement faded in comparison to the presence of Quentin Curry. Diabolism seeped from the pores of his skin. Wickedness covered him in a sleek sheen. His very nature was animalistic. Looming disaster sizzled in the air.

His carriage was erect, full of supreme power. An air of arrogance encircled him. Scorching flames resided where his pupils would have been. Ruination, devastation and damnation sprung from his being, shuddering in the air.

The violation of the Ten Commandments was written in his essence. The instant he entered the room Micah knew hell was real. He was as close to hell as a person could ever come and still be alive.

Micah saw him for what he was. A third sight unfolded unto him. It allowed him to access what lay beneath Quentin's surface. The vision was so dynamic it rocked Micah in the chair he was bound to.

Millions of filmy clustered human images resided in Quentin. They screeched in eternal torment. They burned in damnation. Flames engulfed them, seared them, and scorched them.

They howled. Blistering boils covered their skin. They were seeking death. The second death eluded them. They suffered, in great agony. There was no relief.

Their parched, dry lips begged for water. They received not a drop. Then there was blood. There were buckets of it. It represented the stain of the blood of the Prophets. Quentin was wallowing in their blood.

He threw back his head and the blood bubbled up from his throat, blood from the past, his deceit of the Prophets.

The image altered. Zillions of maggots swarmed through his body. It was one form of fluid movement. A whirlpool blacker than midnight swallowed the maggots. Quentin's image transformed.

He was a beast with long strings of hair, scaly skin and beady little eyes. His feet were nothing more than clawed hoofs. Toothy fangs hung from his open mouth. Gobs of saliva ran like a stream, pouring from his lips.

He had wide flapping wings. Each was the size of a small mountain. Each was marked. Micah looked closer. The wings were embedded with an “X.”

The beast hissed at Micah. Thick, yellow saliva dripped from its fangs. It bared its sharp, pointy teeth. Then a jelly substance formed on the body of the beast. The jelly made his body slick, oily and sleek.

The beast opened its mouth; unholy foam rose up and out of it. Then he spoke, “Worship me.”

Micah saw the heads of people, more people than he had ever seen in his life bow before the beast. The beast opened his mouth devouring them whole. They joined the ones before them in eternal damnation.

Quentin smiled. Micah shut his eyes. He muttered under his breath, “My Jesus.”

“It seems the entire brood of you insist on calling the name of a man who does not exist,” Quentin said.

Micah narrowed his eyes. “He exists.”

“Really?” Quentin looked amused. “Your grandmother didn't think so.”

Micah spat at his feet. “You laid down with Jezebel, your own creation. You never touched my grandmother.”

Quentin smiled. “Okay. I'll give you that. But, I had a heck of a time with your mother. Or shall I say my daughter.”

Micah trembled. “If you force your presence on an unaccepting person and they repent, it sort of cancels you out. Doesn't it, Quentin?”

“Very knowledgeable, Micah. Perhaps, if they repented. I do stress the word if.”

“My grandmother did.”

Quentin's eyes turned to slits. “Your mother didn't.”

“Funny,” Micah said. “I seem to recall her calling out the name of Jesus! The day she called the reverend. You blanched in your spirit. Remember? You knew something was wrong but you couldn't stop it. The instant she beheld His name she scorched you. Like the demon you are. You erased His name from her memory. But, faith brought it back. When she remembered
His name
you were cancelled.”

Quentin's tongue snaked out of his mouth like a lizard. An angry, hissing sound rose from his throat. Micah's sight was keener than he had given him credit for. How had he missed that? Someone was helping this boy.

“How did you know that?”

“I know a lot about you, Quentin. And now I have something to show you.”

Micah flashed the images with the speed of light before Quentin's eyes.

Jezebel was in great travail.

Quentin's eyes became reptile slits.

“That which you sow in the spirit so shall you reap in the spirit, Quentin!”

Flowing from between Jezebel's legs was the head of a monster. Slowly it ejected from her womb, a baby beast, with fangs, claws and hoofs.

Quentin watched.

“You laid with Jezebel, Quentin. You mated with Jezebel. Here is the birth of the seed you implanted.”

The hideous child slid completely out. It was fully formed. And there was no doubt it wasn't human.

“You can't very well reproduce and plant your seeds to become human from that. Now, can you, Quentin?”

Micah panted. He was in very deep.

Quentin's eyes were lit with livid malice. They were alive with pure venom.

Micah screamed at him. “Evelyn is her father's daughter, Quentin! Like I said what you sow in the spirit that shall you reap in the spirit! You lay with Jezebel. You produced with Jezebel! Not with my grandmother!”

Quentin squeezed Micah's throat. He didn't touch him. He simply reduced his oxygen supply. He let go. Micah gasped in air.

“There's still Shaughn,” Quentin said.

“You won't reproduce through Shaughn either. He will die. He will die because he was born of a mortal woman. Sort of puts a kink in the plan. Doesn't it, Quentin?”

Malice ate its way through Quentin's body. It flew from Quentin's eyes. He had underestimated Micah's powers. The boy was not timid like his mother. He could kill him anytime he wanted. Instead he decided he would toy with him. It would give him great pleasure.

He stared at a chair located next to Micah. It burst into flames turning to ashes. Quentin watched Micah's expression as the chair burned. Micah thought about Silky bursting into flames.

“Yes, shame about Silky, isn't it?” Quentin said.

He absorbed Micah feeling him. He touched him. He touched him inside. He reduced the physicality of him. He had never liked what he saw. Micah reared back from his touch. The wires cut deeper into his wrists. Blood spurted.

Quentin said, “Whether you like it or not, Micah Jordan-Wells, you are my second son.”

Quentin turned to look at Shaughn. “Shaughn is my first.”

Shaughn merely smiled at Micah. He was extremely amused by the little father and son play that was going on. Touching little scene by what amounted to nothing more than demons. His turn would come.

“I ain't your son. I want you out of my house. I want you out of my mother's life.” Micah paused, and then as if Shaughn were a mere afterthought, he added, “Oh, and take your bad seed with you.”

“You're not a very gracious guest. Are you, Micah?” Micah's extreme arrogance was grating on Quentin's nerves.

Quentin moved a step closer to the chair in which Micah was bound. He was somewhat astonished at the nerve of a man who, while bound and helpless, still possessed the ability to display total arrogance.

Yet a part of him respected Micah's courage, although he was tired of his nonsense. He was tired of Micah Jordan-Wells. Period. It was time to extinguish him. It was time to destroy him. Yes, on this night he would be rid of him. Rid of him, and all that he thought he knew.

“I'm tiring of the game, Micah. So let me put it this way. You tried to step out of the world that's been created. Not your fault entirely. Your mother's for sure. But that cannot be, Mr. Detective. The twinning will take place. And you, Micah Jordan-Wells, will not stop it. You have no power here. Remember that. You can't be a hero in this story. There can only be one power. There
will
only be one power. It is prophecy. Micah, prophecy always comes to pass. Just as it is written.”

Quentin moved another step closer to Micah. He was seething from the look in Micah's eyes. The boy was actually looking down his nose at him. With what?

What was that? Disdain. Quentin blanched.

“I wrote the book here, Micah. As such that makes me the author of what happens. So let me tell you what is going to happen to you. You're being written out. Extinguished. Gone. Disposed of. Do you get it?”

Micah evaluated Quentin. Something welled up inside him. A torrid velocity of words rang in his ears.

“You can't beat Quentin with the laws you work with.”

“God is good. God is great.”

“Turn it around, Micah.” The “X” soared up before him.

“You can't beat Him if you don't believe.”

Micah bowed his head. He whispered two words. “I believe.”

With that he tapped into a raw supply of ethereal power. Quentin and Micah clashed for the power.

It was an almighty war. A war fought in the spirit. Only one of them could emerge with the victory.

Micah drew faith, a mighty, mighty faith. The old cross, made out of tree bark, stained with blood, rose from the depths of the earth. A thunderbolt screamed through the air. A flash of lightning streaked across the sky.

Day turned into night. Innocent blood spilled in the land. Micah finally knew. He knew what he had been given. And he knew why. He knew what he must do. The power to fight for innocence escalated in him.

Micah looked to his right. He saw a flash of brilliant, glittering white light. Quentin followed his gaze. He saw nothing. Quentin turned to look at Micah. He didn't like what he was feeling. There had been a shift in the balance of things. He could feel it.

Brightness in the form of a man stood before Micah. There were no features to his face. There was an astonishing, lustrous, shimmering light where His face would have been. He was dressed in a simple white robe.

His countenance was radiant, like the brilliant incandescence of the sun. It shined from the top of His head to the bottom of His burning feet. A striking golden glow settled in the basement. The light twinkled in Micah's direction.

There was only one power it could be. Micah had read and studied the scriptures at the reverend's knee when he was a young child. The power of the living words washed over him.

Never could he have imagined being in His presence. But, here he was. Micah knew it. A quiver shook his whole body. Tears sprung up, unashamed, and shimmered in Micah's eyes.

The light twinkled again. A pair of hands ascended from the light. Micah felt wetness on his face. The hands rose in ascension. Something splashed on him. The hands sprinkled him with holy water.

Micah closed his eyes at the wonder of it. In that time, heaven and earth moved. There was a great rumble as though a bulldozer had pushed the house itself. Thunder cracked through the room.

Micah bowed his head. His hands were bound. He mentally crossed himself. He crossed himself with the sign of a man who had paid the price. He had paid the price in ridicule and blood.

Micah crawled down deep inside himself. He buckled the flesh. He tapped into spirit. Then he summoned a raw power that at one time he didn't know he had. It was time.

When he lifted his head he flipped the script. Micah looked up. His eyes sizzled. They scorched Quentin, scaling off a piece of his skin. Micah grabbed Quentin, shaking him like a rag doll. He tossed him clear across the room. Quentin crashed into the wall. He picked him up from the floor and tossed him like a leaf in the wind.

Quentin tapped his reservoir. He threw a fireball. It flew past Micah's head. He decided it was time for Micah to burn. He stared unadulterated hatred at him, intending to turn him to ash.

He mustered his supreme power, but Micah did not burn. He couldn't scorch him. He couldn't burn him. He couldn't turn him to ash. Quentin couldn't destroy Micah.

Quentin was raging. He waved his arms angrily in the air. It was impossible that this mere mortal could block his powers. But, block them he had. Quentin unleashed all of his mighty powers, the very depths of hell lashed out to scathe Micah.

Quentin stumbled into a dark discovery. He could not equal Micah. His powers had been stripped. He was trapped inside the body of a mere man. And Micah was holding the very thing that Quentin always used to tear men down with. He was holding the ultimate weapon. Micah Jordan-Wells was holding faith.

A deep ugly sound tumbled from Quentin's lips, “No! No! No!” He tossed Micah against the wall. A light streamed from Micah's eyes creating a wind tunnel. It swept Quentin up and banged him around like he was a toy soldier.

Quentin was on the losing end of the battle. Real fear gripped him as he realized a deception so deep, so ethereal, that his mind could hardly grasp it. The “X.” It had been snatched. It was being held.

Micah hit Quentin with a gut-wrenching blow. “You're a thief, Quentin! You're a deceiver! Worse than that, you are a liar!”

“I am truth!”

“You are a fool!”

The agonizing “X” flamed between them. Quentin smiled in relief. It was back. Micah had made a mistake. The “X” was what made him eternal. It was his source of power.

Micah didn't blink an eye. He stared at the “X.” It loomed up larger, brighter, burned more intensely.

Quentin stared at the power he had created. It was his mark. He willed it closer to Micah. It would scorch him just like in his dreams. Only this time it would burn him to ash. The tables were turned. He had the edge. Micah was too smart for his own good.