Winter's Fury - Volume Two of The Saga of the Twelves (74 page)

The blonde-haired
Christina shook her head, vehement. “We didn’t look all that much
with those things coming and going all the time.”

“
Well, someone should,” he
proclaimed, standing erect, wiping his palms on the sides of his
pants.

“
Don’t,” mewled Alicia.
The first thing she had spoken in hours.

“
What if one of them comes
back?” Christina’s expression was beseeching.

“
Yeah, it might prove
unwise,” agreed Chum-Lee.

“
I don’t think we have a
choice. We gotta try and find another way out. We gotta find a way
to get away from those things before… you know.” He stopped,
adjusted the baseball cap still perched atop his head, pulling it
by the bill. It was a anxious gesture. “Well, we gotta do
something.”

Jeremy stood. “Why don’t
you guys stay here? Miles and I will check things out,
ok?”

The four girls huddled
together – uncertain.

Miller and Chum-Lee
remained unmoved.

Only J.J.’s orbs unveiled
a ray of hope.

“
If the chain rattles,”
began the handsome teenage boy anew, “let us know and we’ll come
running. Sound good?”

“
What if you’re too far
away?” inquired Marissa, her powerful mind unrelenting.

“
I don’t think we’ll be
too far.” Jeremy looked skeptical.

“
Why?” asked
Christina.

The boy’s chest filled
with air that he let loose in a mighty gust. “I don’t think those
things would’ve chosen a place with another exit. They seem… too
organized.”

“
Then why risk it?”
demanded his friend.

He shrugged his muscular
shoulders. “Miles is right, we gotta do something.”

“
Come on, Jer, let’s see
what’s down these stairs,” called the large teen from the opposite
end of the passage. He was at the rail. He was looking down into
what Marissa knew was a circular chamber about thirty feet deep. It
had matching stairwells that wound about either side.

“
Be right back,” he said
and was gone.

She wrinkled her nose at
the thought of what was at the bottom of that strange circular
room.

At the center of it, about
four feet in diameter was a bowl-like structure surrounded by a
seven inch ledge. It was where she and the others had been
relieving themselves the entire time they’d been there.

That’s a whole lot of pee
and poop! Gross!

“
Marissa what’s this all
about?” asked Miller, having come close to her while she
thought.

“
I don’t know for sure,
but whatever it is, it isn’t good.”

“
Are they going to kill
us?”

Even at her tender age
Marissa possessed the equanimity not to answer the
question.

~~~~~~~<<<
ᴥ
>>>~~~~~~~

~ 42 ~

A New Scheme

Monday, November
29
^th
,
1:29 am…

It was late. Every child
in the bleak, concrete hallway was fast asleep.

Although, she deemed not
one of them would have been aware of her presence if they were
awake, because she chose to mask it. After all, she was the
Stiletto of Storm, the Unseen, the Unhuman Being. She could hide
within a sliver of murk. She could mask her movement behind the
sound of a single drop of water or the odd breath seeping from her
next victim. She could go anywhere she desired. She could
investigate within mere feet of her enemies and still go
undetected.

She was the Ancient One,
among the first to roam the World of Man (after the Age of the
Serpents had passed). This was when the surface of the planet had
been remade by heat and wind and the eternal flames from the
sky.

She had watched as her
kind multiplied, learned the ways of nature, became hunted and
hunter alike. She had watched the offspring of her siblings. She
watched their offspring and their offspring as they spread about
the primordial lands of Earth. Often, she wondered if she would
ever be anything like the rest of them.

In the second third of her
fourth century, she came to understanding that she would not. She
came from a different vein of salt, a different mold. Hers was a
fundament whose origins came from an altogether different place.
She was an outcast from the day of her birth. She was nothing like
those first few, those who were, in a technical sense, her family.
They had been born with a sense of community, a degree of
compassion and protectiveness. This had allowed them to thrive when
the much larger of nature’s beasts should have killed them off
through predation. They had played. They had loved. They had
created a great many things along their journey toward
civilization.

It was not like she did
not care for such things. If the capacity had been within, she
would have cared – most definitely. She was sure she would have.
That was not the issue. It had never been a conscious decision or a
matter of choice. Such possibilities did not exist for her either.
She lacked the ability to understand what most would term what it
meant to be human. In that regard, she had always been set apart.
She had always been on the periphery.

Rasputna stood in one of
the two corners nearest the iron-bound door. She gazed over the
slumbering children a few feet from her soundless boots.

A part of her was curious.
A small part, no more than a thin slice, wondered how such things
as proximity, a soothing touch and intimacy could form those
impossible bonds between humans.

She watched the
children.

She knew a few of them had
known one another before her Loki had brought them here to her
underground dungeon. But some of them were strangers to the others.
And yet… there they were, lying close, holding hands, forming
protective shields. How could this be? Why was this so important?
How could such simple, meaningless gestures put one’s mind to
rest?

It had never worked for
her. Even now, her mind was ablaze with the goings-on of the past
few days, uncertain which course of action to pursue. Her
calculations had consumed her to the
nth
-degree. What road would benefit
her most? Which choice was most likely to earn her the top spot at
the shoulder of the Lord of the Storm? It was the very spot she
hoped would land her in his bed. She wanted more than anything to
be what Rakel had been so many thousands of years ago – The
Dronning of Storm, the Consort of Ahriman.

She had been waiting for
eons to be his lover; desperate to bear his children into what he
promised would soon be their Golden Age. Though she had taken many
to her bed (the latest being a young human), she had never allowed
herself to conceive. Her eggs were for Metohkangmi
alone.

Looking over the children,
she pondered how holding hands could garner solace. Events had
always demanded so much of her.
This is
it! The time was now!
There was no time
for cuddling.

At first, she had seethed
over what Malik dok Kór had revealed to her while he had sung
within her grasp. At first, she had wanted nothing more than to
transmute back to Storm. She wanted to let her great Lord know of
the deception unfolding right under his nose. She wanted to scream
of the potential weakening of his forces should the Gran Herra turn
against them. Rakel’s countless hordes could tip the balance. She
knew this for more than truth.

Now, Rasputna was not so
eager to run to the Citadel and tattle upon the idiot factions held
together by her master’s iron fist. As time progressed, she began
to realize the situation as it was.

Well, it was a tad more
complicated than she had allowed herself to believe at the outset.
Sure, she could serve up Ghregûr, the King of the Swûreg, Claudio
dok Kór, the Rigă-Kur of the Vülfen, and Asmodemus, Da-Magna Furia
like so many chips upon a platter. What they had done to Rakel
Angantýr was treason. There was no delicate method to define their
actions. Exiling her and all the Skrímsli upon the verge of the
greatest battle of all time was unconscionable. They had enfeebled
their ranks by more than half. Rakel’s limitless minions had been
ear-marked for the Vanguard into the World of Man. Their massive
numbers were to have been the swamping waves necessary to dull the
effects of the mighty technological weapons her human counterparts
would bring to bear upon the field of battle. Their hordes were
crucial, because they were expendable – and there were billions of
them.

And, this was thinking
along the bright side of things!

Should Rakel choose
revenge over loyalty (of which she had never known upon Storm), she
could choose make a ploy for power herself. She could go out on her
own by going after the Greater Twelve. Then, there would be a
three-sided battlefront forever mired in stalemate.

Those of Storm abhorred
stalemate.

The Wars of Chaos had come
within a Hair's Breadth of ripping their plane of existence asunder
in ages past.

As the hours passed
though, Rasputna put those notions of the future aside and began to
think more in the immediate. There was too much assumption when she
thought that far ahead.

By Maelstrom’s Maw, the
Hand had still yet to recapture the Greater Twelve. How could she
presume to know what would happen until they had those misguided
brats in their grasp, under lock and key?

She couldn’t.

She continued to stare
down at eight of the Lesser underfoot. Her mind raced at the
possibilities tumbling about. She could continue to fulfill her
part of the Grand Design. And if she did continue to abscond more
and more of the Legacy Guardians, in time she would have enough to
form a Wheel. The Kring-Hël’s, the Flĕsches, the Illuminae, the
My-Ėind, the Blytzes, the Isig-Hövans, the Skëi-Vans, the Tükiria,
the Apithükria, the Chymeraens and the Üllimëntae could be easily
interchanged between Lesser and Greater. A representative of a
given Spoke would be enough. Blood from either line would suffice.
She only needed the Lükk of the Greater Twelve to unlock the spell
that would bring her great master into the Melded World in the
flesh. All she needed to do was continue with her given task and,
with time, her actions would prove fruitful. She would hold all the
cards.

And, she would have the
power of knowledge on her side. When she and her ever-faithful
Knights had gathered enough of the Lesser, the vast partisan
landscape of the Isig-Vültriäk would tip in her favor.

By then, if only the Lükk
remained unaccounted for, then things would turn real simple, real
quick. Should Ghregûr or Claudio or Asmodemus
so much as take a step out of line again, she would have
enough cause to slice them into a thousand pieces. In the eyes of
the Lord of the Storm, she would be in the right.

She smiled at the thought.
The first movement she had allowed herself to make in a quarter of
an hour.
Only the Chance is
necessary,
she
reflected
. All the others are expendable,
replaceable. Only the Ibarra boy matters.
She continued to stare down at the unknowing creatures at her
feet. She was half-a-mind away from stomping upon one of their
skulls just to see what it would look like. But she decided
otherwise a few moments later.

True, there were hundreds
of Legacy Guardians, but why tempt fate? Too many of her colleagues
had done just that to their detriment. No, she would not be like
them. She was the Unhuman Being, the Unheard, the Mistress of
Chaos. She would not make similar errors in judgment. Her plans
were always folded in layer upon layer with caveats and substitute
schemes built within. She had always been meticulous and this time
around she would prove no less fastidious. If she wished to become
the Dronning, then she could afford no less.

Her black eyes searched
the females of the group, her thoughts wicked.
Soon, little girls, I will unleash Ricardo Charon upon you.
His training is near complete. Soon I will let him loose among you
and I will watch with relish as he twists the rest of you as I have
twisted him all these months. He will use every trick I have taught
him. He will befriend you, win your heart and part your
legs…

He will be my greatest
tool yet.

She gazed over their
sleeping forms a few minutes longer. She tried to determine which
of the females Ricardo would defile first. Her decision made, her
lips locked with a speculative smile. Her eyes heated with
inquisitiveness, she turned upon her heel and left without a sound.
She barred the doors much as her Knights had done – only she made
not a single sound.

She strode through the
sub-basement of the massive structure above her head. She moved,
making no noise, easing her way through the host of discarded desks
and chairs. It was the like detritus of every school she had ever
known. Minutes later, having traversed a few more cluttered
passageways and ascending two flights of stairs, she emerged
through a small side door. She entered the auditorium proper.
Producing a small key from somewhere in a hidden fold of her
leotard, she unlocked the outer door. She walked from the towering
building and onto the grounds of Benjamin Franklin High
School.