The First Male (3 page)

Addie shook off the shadow magic, conjured a force as powerful as the one she had been hit with, and blasted the Shadowman. He crashed into the wall, his shadows howling; the part of him that was flesh took the lion's share of the blow.

Addie stood up and called for the child. He floated easily through the air into her arms as the Shadowman stood.

Why do you resist what is meant to be?
The voice came from the faceless blackness under his hood. His question sounded sincere, as if he had struggled to understand her resistance. When he spoke, his voice sounded musical to Addie's ears, but she knew it was another trick.

“You cannot have this child,” Addie retorted forcefully.

He belongs to me
.

“He is of my blood. He belongs to me.”

He is The One
.

“He will never be yours.”

By prophecy he is mine; the first male born of the first male. You could not prevent his birth; it has been ordained. He is mine
. This time when he spoke, thunder cracked so loudly that the shack clattered.

“You do not scare me with your feeble tricks, Eetwidomayloh.”

Be not afraid of what is and what will be
.

Addie looked once again into the face of the child. She could not imagine this beautiful child as the destroyer of worlds; she simply would not have it. The spiraling colors in his eyes dimmed a bit, which told her that her blood and her magic were taking root; maybe his powers could be bound.

Then, Addie felt her body stiffen, as if encased in stone. The child floated out of her arms toward Eetwidomayloh. She looked on in panic, fearful that she would not be able to prevent him from taking the child. If he succeeded in stealing the child, he might be able to undo her very immature binding spell. She could not let that happen. She would not let that happen. She focused the last bit of her strength and freed herself from his stranglehold.

She was breathless and dizzied, but she continued to use the ancient power. As the child reached his arms, and as she had years
ago with her son, she snatched the child away. In a harrowing split second, she opened a portal on the back wall that looked like a portrait of slick, black oil; the portal vibrated like waves in a still pool that had suddenly been disturbed by a pebble tossed into the water.

With the child in her arms and with her last bit of strength, she jumped into the portal and vanished, as did the portal.

No!
The Shadowman's cries poured deep into the night; the ground beneath his feet trembled, and every living thing—every plant, every blade of grass, every tree, every bug and every swamp creature in the near vicinity—died.

The child was gone.

And so was Addie.

C
HAPTER
2

20 Y
EARS
L
ATER

Simon Cassel dreamed of serpents.

They covered his body with their cold scales and slithered arrogantly across his bedroom floor. Snakes of every kind and every color, in numbers far too great to count, commandeered his home, as if they had no plans to vacate the premises; they claimed his tenement as their permanent residence.

Colorful coral snakes, with their deadly red, yellow, and black combination, wriggled in his bathroom sink and tub; black mambas, with their intimidating speed, darted across the floor of Simon's kitchen, curling themselves around the legs of his table; rattlesnakes, making good use of their bone-chilling sound, lay in wait in the half-open drawers that contained his socks and underwear. Huge Burmese pythons hung from the railings in his closet and balled themselves in the corner on the floor, covering his sneakers and the only pair of dress shoes he owned. Aggressive king cobras, flaring their trademark hoods, hissed loudly and attacked and cannibalized a few smaller members of their species. A massive ball of red-sided garter snakes spilled from the top shelf of his kitchen pantry and swirled around each other, seeking to mate with the lone female among them; green tree snakes made themselves at home, blending in with the pine branches of Simon's anemic Christmas tree that stood against the bay window that overlooked the busy sidewalk below. An indistinguishable
combination of large and small snakes squiggled and squirmed around each other on his bedroom floor, almost playfully, giggling and hissing his name as if they were seasoned friends. They crawled across the massive stacks of medical, historical, and technical books that occupied space against the walls around the perimeter.

Ssssss-simon. Ssssss-simon. Ssssss-simon
.

Hundreds of serpents writhed carefully over Simon's bare body as he lay in bed, asleep. By their casual movements, they seemed comforted. They hissed his name with care, as if they wanted to wake him, but did not dare startle him.

A black snake, who had been satisfied to watch the orgy from the darkest corner in the room, slowly began to crawl across the floor. It slithered haughtily, in no particular hurry. It was completely black, except for its dull, yellow eyes, and it looked to be carved from solid black marble; it was glossy and void of scales, its body having the appearance of a long, gleaming oil slick. It moved with purpose and ego, and the other snakes parted like the Red Sea so that it could pass, unobstructed.

It slithered up one of the legs of the bed and crawled across the blood red comforter that was tangled up at the foot of the mosaic queen panel bed. It moved calmly toward Simon's face, pausing momentarily before it continued its forward motion. It crawled unhurriedly through his legs, past his ankles and calves, between his thick thighs and over his exposed genitals. When it reached Simon's chest, the serpent raised its head and looked on, as if in admiration, with its forked tongue darting rapidly in and out of its mouth.

Ssssss-simon. Ssssss-simon. Ssssss-simon
.

There was no venom or malice in its sounds; instead, the hissing was like a gentle whisper tickling the neck of an old friend. It was tender, almost nurturing; yet, Simon awakened from his dream
in a panic, clutching his chest. He sat straight up in bed, and looked around the small enclave that served as his room. His chest heaved rapidly, and his body was drenched in sweat. He tried to cut the darkness with his eyes, but the black of night was too thick. The only light that shone in the room was an eerie green glow from the digital alarm clock on his nightstand that illuminated only a small section of the cramped space. Simon steadied himself and remained alert, but he was afraid to move, almost petrified.

The corner of the room nearest his closet was completely shaded in black.
Shadows
. Something about that corner unnerved him and wouldn't allow him to completely release the panic that held him. Then, his breath froze and his lungs tightened as a pair of sinister yellow eyes slowly came into view. In fright, he clumsily reached over and clicked on the lamp on the nightstand, his elbow accidentally nudging Brooke in the middle of her back. She moaned grumpily. A dim radiance spilled into the room.

When the light banished the darkness, Simon exhaled. There were no dangerous eyes lurking in the corner of his room; only a pair of sweat-soaked gym socks that he had yanked from his feet and tossed carelessly in the corner after his evening run through the park.

“What's wrong, baby?” Brooke asked in a sleepy voice, her eyes still closed tightly to block out the light.

“Ummmm, nothing. A bad dream.” His reply was flat and contradicted the fear in his heart. He lied; he knew how she was. Usually, if he explained his dreams to her, she'd force him to stay up while she eagerly applied the knowledge she'd gained from three years of college psychology classes to make a rudimentary and crude diagnosis. Not tonight. Simon didn't have patience for psychology and its Freudian ramblings about the meaning of
dreams. Sometimes, a dream is just a dream, although his dreams of late had taken on a much darker hue.

“Fine then. Turn the light off,” she said as she buried her head underneath a big fluffy pillow and rolled onto her stomach with much more motion than Simon thought was necessary. Clearly, she was still angry from their fight earlier in the evening, but he didn't care—it had all been her fault. Why she was talking about the size of his dick and what they did in the bedroom to her silly sorority sisters—who he knew from now on would stare at his crotch each time he entered a room to see if they could sneak a peek at the snake between his legs—was simply beyond his understanding. He didn't want to be objectified anymore. He knew all too well about women and their secret desires. All his life women had been drawn to him like he was honey; often pulled in by his mesmerizing eyes. They savored his flare, but were often startled by the power of his sting when he carelessly let them go. Nevertheless, they loved him anyway; they always had. Beauty was a curse, he often thought. Sometimes he simply wanted to blend in instead of standing out from the crowd because of his physicality.

Simon looked down at Brooke. A wave of emotion swept through him as he recalled the rage he felt when he overheard her conversation about him to her sisters. He still wasn't sure how he had been able to hear the conversation—through the dense noise of the boisterous party—even before he stepped out onto the patio where they sat, but he had. He heard every word. He listened as details about his body, his techniques, and the movement of his tongue, slipped easily from her mouth, while she sat in the far corner of the patio sipping on wine and laughing with
those women
. She knew he was very private, sometimes reclusive, and never desired the spotlight, especially regarding something so innately intimate.

As he watched her sleep, he felt that dark feeling creeping up on him, threatening to send his mind to a place he didn't want to go. Simon was so disturbed by his own twisted thoughts that he retreated to the techniques he learned as a young child from a therapist, after the school counselor labeled him as “troubled” and having “anger management” and “rage” issues. He closed his eyes and slowly counted to ten, hoping to banish the rising tide of anger that sought to overtake him.
One. Two. Three
. He had to control the rage that was slowly gripping his heart, tightening like a vise grip. How dare she! And she had the nerve to be pissed at him, for being angry at her, for running her mouth.
Four. Five. Six
. A part of him want to yank her out of bed and shake the shit out of her, demanding to know what right she had to be angry. She was the one who had screwed up, discussing his body parts like he was a porn star. She should be apologizing to him!
Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten
.

What the fuck am I thinking?

Onetwothreefourfivesixseveneightnineten. Onetwothreefourfivesix seveneightnineten
.

Simon realized he wasn't giving himself enough time to relax. Still, he counted.

Breathe, Simon
, he thought to himself and then took several deep breaths, inhaling and exhaling slowly until he felt the grip loosening. The counting and his breathing techniques still worked. If they didn't, his next step was to walk away. Lately, the anger issues he thought he had mastered in his teens came flooding back to him. Just last week, when he was on the bus on the way to work, he became so enraged at some kid who refused to turn down the volume on his iPod that it was all he could do to keep himself from snatching the device from the teen's hand and tossing it out of the window. He literally saw himself doing it and forced
himself to get off at the next stop, which was more than fifteen blocks from his destination; he didn't trust himself not to act on his anger.

As a child, when Simon found himself in the throes of anger, he often broke things, especially pretty glass items like vases or mirrors. He couldn't help himself. His therapists thought he was acting out; he was an orphan and had been bounced from foster homes, to group homes, back to foster homes, in a jagged pattern that never allowed him to plant himself and grow roots. Through the help of some talented therapists, he learned to control the rage and not let it control him. But, that was then, this is now. Something was going on with him. He felt angry all the time these days.

He took a few more breaths and counted until he felt relaxed. As the anger arose, it dissipated, much to Simon's relief.

He slid out of bed and walked pretentiously toward the bathroom, his muscles flexing with each step. His body was in perfect form. He looked back at Brooke to see if she had unburied her head to gaze at his glorious nakedness as he glided across the room—something she usually did when his full body was on display—but, this time she didn't stir; his ego would not be stroked tonight. He hovered in the middle of the room for a few seconds and stared at her, wondering how she could punish him for her folly. Women, he thought to himself. He'd never admit it—his pride would never allow for such a confession—but right now he'd give almost anything to have her wrap her arms around him and tell him that everything would be all right. The dream shook him, far more than his anger.