Number of the Beast (Paladin Cycle, Book One) (22 page)

Half of the skull was
buried beneath the stony wasteland; the top part of its open mouth
serving as an entrance into Galmoria’s lair.

Nephruch, one of Galmoria’s many
enslaved, once a behemoth golem composed from millions of the slain
holy warriors and saints’ corpses, now reduced to a living
fortress, home of the Winged Priestess.

Isaac’s mount neared the
spinal-cord like bridge that crossed a deep crevice filled with
bubbling blood from Nephruch’s still beating heart. The horse
strained against Isaac’s command to cross the bridge.

“
Cursed minion!” Isaac
dismounted. He withdrew a ceremonial blade from his cloak and ran
it through the creature’s skull. “Dare you defy the King of
Beasts!” As the winged stallion collapsed in blood-spurting spasms,
Isaac slammed himself into its flanks, sending it toppling over the
ledge and into the sea of fiery blood.

After he licked the blood
from the flat edge of his blade, he began crossing the bridge.
Below him, the blood popped and crackled, and the heat stung
through his clothing. When he arrived at Nephruch’s open mouth, a
black scorpion, three times larger than his misfortunate steed,
blocked his passage.

“
Do you challenge my
entry, Vostrict?” Isaac eyed the sentinel’s beady yellow
eyes.

It performed a scuttle-dance,
side-to-side while its stinger waved threateningly over its stone
hard carapace.

Isaac held his dagger in
front of his face. “You will obey me and remove yourself from my
path.”

Vostrict halted, but the stinger
remained erect, sludge-like venom dripping.

A growl tugged at Isaac’s
lips as he stepped forward. “Now.”

The scorpion scudded away, deep into
the living fortress.

It had been nearly two
centuries since Isaac had set foot on this world. Eons past, the
world had served as an alternate Earth, but demons led by Galmoria
had overthrown the angels.

Isaac entered the skull.
“Mother. I have come for you!”

October 21st

As with all things in and
outside the natural world, there are rules governing the realms of
morality, immorality and amorality. And for each and every decision
we make, we engage ourselves in the nexus of societal
propriety—whether we abide by, create, or break the norms. Thus,
our choices make us the people we are, or the people we are not—and
for an unfortunate, lot, the people we regret.

From stone tablets and
papyrus, the laws of our people are handed down through the ages.
The laws instruct and guide, but sometimes I fear they constrain.
For laws exist inside a black-and-white tunnel that permits limited
liberties. And these laws have passed through the scrutiny of many
centuries plagued with hands of oppression. Do we even know the
truth anymore?

Many times our liberties
are plundered by those who wear the elitist robes. Though we hold
ourselves to a much higher acclaim than the world we keep distanced
from us, we are truly no more advanced in our decision-making
politics than the so-called ‘superpowers’ of this planet. Is there
any difference with the dog who sleeps on the bed and the dog who
sleeps on the doorstep?

To our discredit—or
perhaps to our advantage—we maintain an air of nobility—as if God
blessed us above all others. So insatiable is our
piousness!

Yet, I speak of the
righteous and moral choices one must make in order to keep their
heart, mind, body and soul pure! These choices do not exist within
the narrow tunnel of absolutes, and their applications and
consequences alter from moment to moment as do the shifting tides
of life and destiny.

When a child ventured too
close to the raging river she was taken by the currents; and the
young mother cast herself into the violent waters to save her
child. But they were both no match to the powerful
river.

Would I save the drowning
child or save her weakened mother before the river carried them to
certain death?

No one can know the
appropriate moralistic decision until they have heard the crying
child and the weeping mother. And reckon the true force of the
raging river.

If obeying the dictum
lowers my ‘moralistic superiority’, then I do so choose, for the
alternative would leave my heart, soul, body and mind
poisoned.

If only I could make my
own choices.

If only the Order would
trust my intuitions as equally as they trust the arc of my
sword.

Those who raise, feed and
clothe me, are also the ones who put the blade in my hand—command
me to inflict pain, suffering and death upon their enemies in the
name of their laws, or perhaps distorted interpretations of the
laws handed down from the prophets and disciples of
antiquity.

The time will come for any
one of us to swim against the tide, when we must know the
advantages—or implications—of our choices. For if we blindly follow
the rules, obey the dictum, what is the measure of our success? Is
the price too costly?

But I caution that none of
us let that temptation possess us at every opportunity, for once it
is inside our heart, body, mind, or soul, we may find ourselves
descending deep into the shallows of evil and deceitful ways;
decisions we justify to protect our egos.

~Rourn

Atticus
closed Rourn’s journal and checked the time.
3:15 am.

 
Sparse street lights
offered poor illumination along the sidewalk, but the bright moon
guided him well. A Seeker—a Paladin informant and spy—had reported
the murder back to the Order Of Abel even before the police had
arrived on the scene. But the street Atticus strode down was now
lined with black and navy squad cars and flashing blue and red
lights.

He approached a police car parked
sideways, blocking the street, lights flashing. Two police officers
conversed beside the vehicle.

“
Jones said there was
blood and body parts all over the house,” one officer
said.

“
Yeah,” the other said. “I
saw Thomas run outta there and hurl like a rookie.”

“
Shit. I’d hate to see
whatever turned that bastard’s stomach.”

Atticus remained quiet,
concealed in the shadows. The easiest way to pass without alerting
them would be to entrance their minds and plant false memories or
mind control—but using such power against the innocent was
forbidden under the Third Law of Arcanium—a written constitution of
magic maintained by the Templar Court.

Atticus’ fingers traced
the Glorious Seal suspended around his neck. To most, it only
resembled a stone trinket, but Atticus could see the tiny specks of
arcanium sparkling within the pearl and two outer rings; raw arcane
matter placed there by Elder Cai.

Mage Master Rolland had
taught Atticus the morphic and illusionary powers of the moon—one
of elements under Heaven’s dominion.

“
You draw down the moon’s
glow and wrap that light like a robe around your body.”

Only a person with the third-eye sight
could see through a lunar guise. But hopefully, he thought, none of
these policemen had that uncanny gift.

Atticus channeled the
elemental particles within the stone. Soon a pale blue mist draped
his entire form. He wrapped and manipulated the fluff of mist into
a second layer of clothing.

Lunar essence chilled the
skin like frozen ice melting into every pore. Though perhaps the
easiest magic to control, especially at night, even lunar mana had
inherent risk. Channeling too much of the energy could cause the
worst case of frostbite imaginable.

To his trained sight, or third-eye, it
might have looked as though he wore a tightly woven shroud of mist
around his person, but to the untrained eye they would see a black
uniform. For the time being he was not going to be Selector Atticus
the Paladin, but Agent Adam.

Atticus cut through the front yard,
using the shadows to further hide his approach.

Orange tape cordoned off the
dilapidated ranch house. Flashing lights flickered against the blue
vinyl siding of the rundown residence.

He strode past a middle-aged woman
dressed in a flannel nightgown. A menthol scent, like the balm
Healer Merrick used on the warriors’ aching muscles after a long
day in the arena, billowed around the woman.

“
Sounded like a pack of
wild animals was in there,” she said to a skinny police officer. “I
heard screaming...terrible, terrible screaming. I’d have sent my
husband to check on that poor family but he’s working overtime at
the mill—or so that’s what he told me.”

Atticus ducked under the tape and
headed for the open front door.

“
Hey you!”

Atticus turned. A skinny cop strolled
toward him.

Screaming locust
. Was his illusion
not strong enough?

“
You’re gonna have to
leave. This a restricted area.”

Atticus held his palm up
as if presenting identification. The pendant sparkled. A gleam
reflected in Atticus’ palm—an illusionary badge.

“
Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t
know the FBI was called in.” The cop shuffled back to his post in
the yard next to a dying rose bush where he continued taking the
old woman’s statement.

Atticus entered the home. Men and
women wearing latex gloves picked through kitchen drawers and
dusted the counter, refrigerator and walls. A woman moved around
the room snapping pictures in rapid succession. Atticus had been
briefly instructed on modern police procedures but was encouraged
to rely more on keen observation.

You’ll
miss the obvious if you’re seeking the hidden,
Elder Cai had once told him. Until this moment, he hadn’t
understood what that had meant. Blood caked the walls, floor and
countertops, some in the form of large pools and others in long
streaks.

The crime scene unit busied themselves
with their forensic work while Atticus examined the surroundings
for himself.

Though he had never seen
modern appliances before, except in catalogs teachers had used
during Contemporary Studies, he remained focused on his immediate
duties rather than gawk at the awkward machinery.

A stray beam of moonlight filtered
through the kitchen window above the sink full of dirty dishes. The
sweet-sour scent of pasta sauce fumed from beneath the soapy brown
water. A strand of moonlight reminded Atticus that his Lunar Robe
would soon dissipate. He needed to make his own investigation quick
and get out before his illusionary garb vanished.

A burly investigator with
a scruffy face approached. “Who the hell do you think you are? This
is a murder scene. You can’t just waltz in here like you own the
goddamn place. Jesus Christ.”

Atticus caught the officer
in a steely gaze. “I’m Agent Adam Lawson.” He thrust his palm
toward the man.

The detective frowned,
paused. “The feds? What the hell you boys doing here?”

Blazing
ghost.
If only he could just plant a few
false truths inside his head this would all be much easier. Atticus
noted the man’s gray uniform shirt with the letters BSD—Buckeye
Sheriff Department.

“
This crime scene shares
similarities to other recent murders in the Arklatex region,”
Atticus said. “You can call the Houston office later, but for now
we must work together on surmising what occurred here.” Behind his
back, he crossed his fingers, clinging to his childhood belief that
crossed fingers brought good luck.

The officer looked Atticus
over. “You’re awful young looking to be an agent.”

Atticus hesitated while
thinking of another fib. “I’m twenty-eight. My father was an agent,
and his father before him.”

“
Right. Well, I was the
senior officer first on the scene. I’ve already viewed the entire
residence and have my own speculations as to what transpired
here...about five hours ago.”

Atticus patted the man’s
right shoulder. “Good work. Now let me pass, Detective?” He lifted
his brows in question.

“
Lieutenant, actually. Lt.
Ralph Chambers.” The lieutenant disappeared into a room adjacent to
the kitchen. Mesh patterns of dried blood stained the magenta
trimming, and the paint along the doorway that had peeled away in
long gashes.

Atticus stopped and looked
to the lieutenant. “Is this damage new?”

“
It was like that when we
got here so I don’t know. The blood splatter is fresh as daylight,
though.”

Lieutenant Chambers lifted his chin in
the direction of the other room. Atticus stepped through the
threshold.

Strewn about was a
dismembered body; pools of blood, and piles of entrails scattered
around the dining room. A torso without head or limbs lay sprawled
across the dark table, chest ripped open to display the jagged ribs
with deep slashes in the marrow; the stumps masked by dried bloody
gristle. A bald severed head in the corner of the room grimaced at
Atticus, its eyes gouged—but Atticus could hear its taunting
expression: “You're too late!” An arm rested on the windowsill with
several fingers missing.