Fallen (27 page)

I didn’t see anyone present for several
moments. Then someone moved through the room. A spectral man walked
toward us, giving off a radiant glow. This elf had white hair that
flowed behind him, as though he was walking through water, and
piercing green eyes. Only when he stood still did his form appear
to solidify.

“You seek knowledge,” the Mystic said.

This wasn’t a question. I was sure that he
already knew exactly why we were here. How could you have a name
like
the Mystic
and not know?

Oliver glanced at the warriors flanking him
with bows and decided not to step closer to the Mystic.

“We were sent by an angel,” Oliver said.
“However, we are not sure what knowledge we are meant to receive of
you.”

“It is the key to the lock that you seek,”
the Mystic said.

“The key to what lock?” I asked.

Oliver considered the Mystic’s words for a
moment.

“Do you mean a spell lock?” he asked. “Is
that why our previous efforts to stop the dolls have failed?”

The Mystic simply smiled, giving a slight
tilt of his head. “The lock requires the key in order to overthrow
the spell.”

“I don’t understand,” I said.

“The spell that Black has cast in order to
control the dolls and imprison their human hosts is bound to
something or someone powerful enough to sustain it. We’ll have to
destroy the key in order to break the spell.”

“So the angel sent us here to find out what
the key is. Then we can destroy the dolls and free everyone!”

“Exactly,” Oliver said. “All we need to know
is what Black used as a spell key.”

We turned our attention back to the Mystic
expectantly.

“Where do we find the key?” Oliver
asked.

“The key is always with you, Oliver James,”
the Mystic said.

Oliver stared at the luminescent elf
standing there in his sand-colored robes.

“I don’t get it,” I said. “That doesn’t make
any sense.”

Oliver seemed to be in a trance. “He’s
trying to tell us that
I
am the key,” Oliver replied.

The Mystic nodded his head once then waved
his luminescent hand before us. One moment we were standing within
the Mystic’s tree temple surrounded by elf warriors with itchy
hands ready to end our lives. The next moment we were standing in
London with the Tower of London rising before us against the
backdrop of an overcast sky.

Black stood smiling at Stonehenge. He had
watched, invisible, as Tom killed Letan the vampire and assumed his
identity before using the portal to enter Greystone. The entire
Stonehenge structure emitted powerful waves of spiritual
turbulence. This ancient portal hub had long ago been mostly
destroyed. Only the vampires maintained any use of it now. But not
anymore.

Black concentrated upon the stones still
standing. He felt his power well up within. Then he released his
pent up energies in a burst that surged outward from him as a
shockwave. The first wave fractured the remaining stones. The
portals contained within the arches coalesced as a shimmer then
dissipated, becoming invisible again.

Black drew deeper from the well of his
power. The second and third waves of his rage unleashed against the
portal stones pounded them hard enough to cause several to
collapse. However, the Greystone portal remained. The angel focused
upon these stones, finally shattering them with his next two
attempts. The arch crumbled like a clod of dry dirt crushed between
his fingers. The portal would give off residual ghost-like traces
of its existence for hundreds of years to come. But the only
practical way in and out of Greystone would never function as a
gateway again.

Tom might have gone through in order to
inform Tiberius of his daughter’s capture, but it would take much
longer to establish a new portal that could allow the vampire to
unleash his army upon London. In fact, Black had every intention of
allowing them to come and take the city by storm. He had even
established a secret portal years ago. But the memory of it, which
he had placed within Tom’s mind, would only be recalled if Black no
longer had access to the mortal plane.

London’s destruction, one way or another,
would be assured. He would accomplish it personally, or Tiberius
would become his backup executioner, unleashing all of Greystone’s
bloodlust upon a mortal world unable to stop them.

Perception had always been the key, and
Black had planted his seeds of hatred long ago. Spells and
suggestion were powerful tools in the hands of a true craftsman. He
did not expect to lose his opportunity among the mortals, but one
could never tell. He still had powerful enemies, even among the
Fallen, who sought to undo his machinations, though he knew of only
one who might actually manage it.

With the portal undone, Black surveyed the
scene, taking pleasure in his own cleverness. If all went well,
Tiberius would also discover Tom’s true identity and drain him dry
for Letan’s murder. It wasn’t too much to hope for. Black smiled
and vanished, leaving Stonehenge as smoldering heaps of fresh
rubble amid debris that had long ago begun to sink beneath the
soil.

When Oliver and I arrived unexpectedly back
in London, the last people we expected to find were there amassed
before the Tower of London. Hundreds of Lycans had assembled in the
streets. A broad gateway portal, at the base of the tower itself,
allowed for hundreds more to pass into the mortal world.

King Lycean stood at the head of his
gathering army with his daughter and General Kron. A battle was
clearly in planning. And our sudden appearance in the street had
surprised them.

“What’s happening?” Oliver asked as we came
near.

The fact that Sophia wore a broad smile at
seeing me still alive did not escape me. To my surprise, she hugged
me tightly before either of us could utter a word. I didn’t know
what to do, so I just hugged her back.

“I’m so glad you did not die,” Sophia
whispered into my left ear. “I was very worried that I wouldn’t see
you again, when my father revealed where you were going.”

I was frankly at a loss. Hearing Sophia’s
concern for my well being was like dumping a bucket of candy into
the lap of a small child. I wanted to run through the assembled
soldiers shouting with glee.

Instead, I simply replied, “It wasn’t as bad
as it could’ve been. After all, I had Oliver to protect me.”

“I can’t imagine entering a place as
terrible as Tartarus,” she said. “You must tell me what
happened—that is if we manage to survive this day.”

Our attention now turned back to the
conversation between Oliver and Sophia’s father.

“Matters have gotten far worse over the past
week since you left us,” Lycean said.

“But we only left yesterday,” Oliver
replied.

“A week has passed for us, though it
appeared as only a day for you,” Lycean said. “The city has been
overrun by Black’s dolls. If something is not done to stop them,
they will spread to other cities from here. After that, what’s to
stop them from reaching the realms of the Descendant clans? The
angel’s power is growing too strong.”

“Those clans he has recruited will join him
soon enough to see that it happens,” Oliver added. “It’s in their
best interest to add their power to his while they can.”

“The king has chosen to fight this while we
still can,” Kron said. To Lycean he added, “Our warriors will soon
be ready to strike down these abominations, my king.”

“See to our final preparations,” Lycean
commanded. “I’ll soon give the word to spread out through the city
and attack.”

I turned my attention to London itself. The
city was smoldering in places already. Trash and debris were
scattered throughout the streets, blowing about on an unseasonably
harsh breeze. Building doors hung open, and windows had been
shattered in many places. The dolls had replaced their human
counterparts and brought chaos to the crown jewel of the British
Empire.

“Exactly what will you do?” Oliver asked
Lycean.

“We will take down these dolls of Black’s
one by one,” he said. “There is no other way.”

Oliver did not contradict the Lycan king. He
glanced at me, knowing that I understood what the Mystic had said.
But he did not tell Lycean. I stared back, but said nothing.

“This is no time for the faint of heart,”
Lycean shouted to us and to his werewolves. “We attack!”

The Lycan army tore through the square,
transforming on the go, from human to semi-human to fully werewolf,
sprinting lightning fast out into the city. Thousands upon
thousands, including those still coming through the portal had
answered the call of their king to invade London and sweep it clean
of the magical scourge that now plagued its populace. But in the
back of my mind, I felt sure they would fail.

It wasn’t the lack of power or cunning of
the Lycans themselves. No, they were fierce and strong—probably
able to rip these dolls limb from burlap limb without a second
thought. Even the vast numbers present within the city would make
little difference to the Lycans. But how could they succeed if the
key to this spell was still present? What would happen after this
attack?

No sooner had the Lycan’s gone on the hunt,
than we heard the commotion of fighting; the howling of the
werewolves as they shredded the magical burlap dolls. To the mortal
observer, they would have seen actual people under attack by the
werewolves. But this was only the façade of the dolls. They had the
appearance of those they had captured.

I watched Lycean as he proudly observed his
army on the move. Sophia stood nearby watching me, a look of
uncertainty on her face that matched my own. I looked at Oliver
then, hoping to ask him about the Mystic’s words to us, but
something was happening.

Oliver had grown pale and he was sweating
profusely. Every few seconds the muscles of his face twitched.
Clearly, he was trying to maintain his composure against some
discomfort he was experiencing. He suddenly doubled over in pain,
dropping to one knee. Lycean was at his side faster than I could
move.

“Oliver, what’s wrong, my friend?” Lycean
asked.

Oliver couldn’t manage to speak. Pangs of
discomfort and outright pain came and went every second, draining
him of what little strength he had left. He stumbled forward as we
tried to stabilize him. He suddenly spasmed, falling to his hands
and knees, vomiting onto the pavement. In the distance, I heard the
war cries of werewolves and the horrible screeching wails of the
dolls as they were cut down.

“I don’t understand what’s happening,”
Lycean said.

“It’s the attack,” I answered. “Oliver is
the key!”

“The key to what?” Lycean asked as we
attempted to get Oliver back to a sitting position.

“The spell that gives life unto Black’s
dolls,” Oliver said, trying to catch his breath.

“This attack against the dolls is killing
him,” I added. “You must recall your army, or he’ll die.”

Lycean stood, looking down at Oliver. His
pain continued. He vomited again, dry heaves this time. Lycean
looked to Kron who had been watching from a distance.

“Call off our attack, Kron!”

“My lord?”

“Immediately, Kron!”

Kron cried out to those within hearing,
howling a different call. This cry was soon passed throughout the
city. Gradually, the attack began to cease and the noise of battle
with it. But Oliver did not appear to recover so easily.

Even as the Lycan army reorganized over the
next half hour near their portal at the Tower of London, Oliver’s
pain increased. Convulsions came and went.

“Why isn’t he getting better?” Sophia asked,
attempting to apply cold compresses to Oliver’s forehead while
several Lycans held him down in an attempt to keep him from
thrashing and hurting himself more.

I watched Oliver’s fevered fits at a
loss.

“I don’t understand,” I said. “I don’t know
what’s happening.”

High up the Tower bridge construction, Black
stood upon an unfinished parapet, watching the Lycan attacks taking
place below throughout the city. He smiled as he heard the
werewolves now passing along a cry of retreat. Below in the
streets, thousands of his magical dolls had been literally torn to
pieces. Their hay and sawdust stuffing lay scattered in the streets
along with the personal artifacts of their host humans that bound
them together.

Sinister landed beside his master in his
raven form, changing quickly in order to deliver his report.

“My Breed warriors are ready to respond to
this Lycan attack, my lord,” he said. His hatred for the werewolves
was clear in his voice. “Shall I give the word?”

Black smiled. “No.”

“My lord?”

“Patience can be its own reward,” Black
said. “And a well laid plan cannot be so easily undone.”

Sinister followed his master’s line of sight
to the streets below where many dolls had been ripped apart. They
had been no match for the werewolves. What he saw surprised him.
But he now understood his master’s confidence.

Throughout London, where the Lycan’s swift
charge had destroyed thousands of dolls and scattered their
remains, something was happening. The shredded burlap sacks were
resealing, their rips and tears closing as hay and sawdust stuffing
flew back into them, filling the dolls again. Within minutes, the
dolls that had seemingly been destroyed were reanimated, walking
throughout the city, continuing their chaos and destruction, and
seeing to the capture of the real humans that still remained.

A day later we were back in Tidus, the grand
capital city of the werewolves. Lycean and Sophia had watched
Oliver through the night, allowing me to get some much needed rest.
Since yesterday, his condition had gotten worse until he became
unconscious—totally unresponsive.