Echoes of the Past

Chapter Seventeen

It was late afternoon when I arrived at Rest Land Cemetery. The sun was still hidden behind the thick storm clouds that drizzled over top of me as I made my way through the park. Despite the massive deaths caused by the Tree of Life’s temper tantrum, and all the new burials following it, the cemetery was empty of the living. That was good. I needed some peace.

Massive piles of dirt encircled the cemetery property, forming a makeshift wall where the stone one had been erased. I could see from one end of the graveyard to the other, nothing but freshly placed flowers and steel poles set into the ground to mark the edges of the gardens. It was a somber sight.

I made my way over the wet dirt and trailed muddy footprints across the garden, stopping far enough off to make sure Rachelle wasn’t there. Once I was sure she wasn’t, I went to Abraham’s grave and dropped down on the fresh sod, which had been laid to replace the topsoil eaten away during the storms. It was soft. The smell of wet grass filled my nose. The temporary grave marker stood out dark against the brightness of the sod. It was hard to believe Abe had only been gone a few days. It seemed forever.

I ran my hand across the plastic, temporary plate, wiping away the condensation, so I could see Abe’s name. A weight seemed to settle over me as I read it, as though his loss had just found the time to sink in.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered to the ground. Reality told me there was nothing I could have done to save him from Azrael, but it didn’t stop me from feeling guilty. I could have tried harder, I could have…

I let the thought go. Azrael killed Abe. While I couldn’t protect him, I had at least avenged him. Abe could take comfort in the fact that Azrael joined him in the nothingness left behind by God’s departure.

I rubbed my eyes and let out a hoarse chuckle. Who am I kidding? As much a realist as Abe was, he wouldn’t have been happy with me murdering Azrael, especially not in his name, but the deed had already been done. Sadly, Azrael hadn’t been held accountable for his actions. I hadn’t avenged Abe. I’d only helped his killer escape an eternal lifetime of torment. He wouldn’t have to live on and slowly go insane in the misty confines of Limbo. In my anger, I’d given the angel exactly what he wanted: freedom.

That was all I could take. Frustration overran me and I crumpled to the wet ground. I’d let Abe down, and I’d let Rachelle down; I’d let them all down, and betrayed Scarlett’s faith on top of it all. Baalth had been right. I wasn’t ready; not for anything. There wasn’t any point in pretending I could live up to my uncle’s ideals, or more importantly, to those of Abraham. Once more I was in over my head and there wouldn’t be any getting out it this time. I wasn’t just waving, I was drowning.

I couldn’t even unravel my past, let alone figure out how to prepare for the end of a thousand galaxies. Defeated, I lay there with my head cradled in my hands, letting the rain wash over me.

Move!

Just like it had when Poe snuck up on me in Hell, a flicker of instinct warned me of something headed my way. It had been right then, so I trusted it and rolled away without hesitation. A muffled thump sounded right where my head had been. A puff of grass exploded at Abe’s grave.

I was on my feet and running before the grass fluttered to the ground. It was obvious the DSI had found me again. I could picture Captain Johnson’s face screwed up in an angry snarl and bitching that he missed. He probably wouldn’t the second time. The storms had screwed me by wiping out all the trees and standing headstones I might have used for cover. Now, there was nothing but an open field and a shitload of clear space between me and a bullet in the back.

Then I remembered I had magic.

I willed a shield behind me just as Johnson picked his spot. A bullet slammed into the glistening wall and was reflected away, a wisp of energy marking the spot on my shield that had been hit.

“The head again?” This guy was starting to piss me off. He was good.

My brain kicked in, motivated by the thought of having a fist-sized hole punched in it-again-so I manipulated my shield to cover more of my body and started veering off in random directions. If there was more than just one sniper out there, I didn’t want to make it easy for them to take me out. They could be leading me deeper into the trap.

I kept running, aiming for the housing area, which had escaped the storm that devastated the cemetery. It didn’t make much sense that the DSI had just stumbled across me at Abe’s grave, so they’d likely staked the place out. I’d probably caught them asleep at the wheel. They must have had agents in place, but not any kind of air support or they would have taken me out as soon as I arrived. Given that they’d only just received their funding and marching orders, I figured they were short on troops, which could only play to my advantage. They’d no doubt recruit local law enforcement to help hunt me down, but those guys would be way more hesitant to shoot first and ask questions later. They didn’t have the same kind of immunity the feds had. If I could make it to the houses, I could get away.

How’s that saying go? Wish in one hand, shit in the other?

Focused on the neighborhood ahead and the sniper behind, I didn’t see the heaping mound of dirt move until it was too late. My peripheral vision suddenly went dark. I turned my head to see a fist the size of a lunchbox right before it plowed into my face. The world exploded with light and I was flung sideways through the air, slamming into the wet ground. The mud cushioned the impact, but my head rang like an anvil.

Instinct took over and I went for my gun. A spear of agony blew through my forearm, and I watched in stunned silence as the inside of my arm exploded in a gush of blood. The pistol fell from my limp hand just as what little light there was went away. I raised my eyes just in time to see another giant fist crash into my face. This time, my shield was gone.

I heard a muffled crack as I flew backward from the uppercut, my brain sloshing around inside my head as though it were in a blender. Cold mud filled my eyes, nose, and mouth when I hit the ground. I went to raise myself up and my wounded arm gave way with a lightning bolt of pain, and I crumpled onto my side, spitting out chunks of mud. My vision blurred, I only heard the hulking behemoth stomping toward me. I willed my magic to work. Nothing happened.

There was nothing I could do but laugh. I wiped the crust from my eyes and stared at the approaching mountain, doing my best to make my eyes focus. When they did, I felt the sudden urge to pucker up to keep me from shitting myself.

The Nephilim, Jorn, stood before me.

His lips were pulled back into an ugly sneer that probably burned a couple hundred calories just to maintain. The grunting he was doing as he lugged his six hundred pound frame across the mud was probably another fifty, or so. His bald head glistened in the rain, drops of water sluicing through the crevices of fat that defined his hound dog face. Every footstep shook the ground as he came toward me, his splotchy cheeks a dark red. He looked really mad.

I guess he had a right to be.

Just a few days ago I’d put my gun to the head of the guy’s best friend, Zellick, and pulled the trigger. It probably didn’t feel good to have his buddy’s brains splattered all over his side and not be able to do anything about it. Unfortunately for me, he’d found a way to rectify the latter part of that.

My gun off in the mud about ten yards away, I thought it’d be a good idea to revisit my first meeting with Jorn. I’d set his ass on fire. I willed my power to life and was very disappointed when, once again, it didn’t answer. Jorn thumped closer as I tried to clear my head.

The worst part about magic was that it took serious focus to manifest and maintain. That wasn’t something I’d yet mastered. Still new to the power, it took a lot of effort to draw it out. Wizards like Rahim or McConnell could do it in their sleep, their magic such an integral part of their being; it was the true them. For me, my first instinct was to crack a joke or pull my gun. That didn’t work so well with a broken jaw and my. 45 a million miles away.

Jorn didn’t seem to care about my problems. He snatched me up by my throat, both of his meaty paws wrapped around my neck. That limited my third option: crying like a little girl and begging for my life.

My fourth choice was punching him in the face, so I went with that. It seemed a reasonable decision at the time. Didn’t do much good. My fist crashed into his flabby cheek and he barely grunted as folds of fat rippled at the impact. It was like hitting cookie dough. He growled and lifted me further into the air while dots danced in my eyes. Before the signal to kick him could run from my brain to my foot, Jorn slammed me to the ground.

The dots went postal and spewed across my vision when I hit. The ground being soft was the only consolation I had. I sank into the mud, every bone in my body creaking in protest. My face was buried several inches into the topsoil, and I couldn’t breathe. Jorn lent a helping hand; or foot, as it were.

His boot crashed into my stomach and launched me backwards, mud and bile spewing from my mouth. My only thought, as I tumbled through the air, was that I was racking up some serious frequent flyer miles. Oh, and that I needed to practice my landings.

I hit the ground and what little sense I’d stored up over the years was knocked loose, along with a couple of my teeth. Blood filled my mouth, adding its coppery tang to the crunch of moist dirt. Through the ringing in my ears, I heard Jorn lumbering toward me again.

I scrambled to get to my feet, but either I was moving much slower than usual or he’d sped up because I caught another boot before I’d managed anything more than getting to my knees. The world whipped by as I tumbled back, and braced for impact. It didn’t come right away. There was a strange sense of still falling just as I expected to land. The crash happened an instant later. The last of my breath rushed from my lungs as I slammed onto my back. I felt the solidness of concrete beneath me. My skull hit a split-second later and the dots came back full force. I groaned and tried to blink away the flashing lights that tangled my vision. Only partially successful, I pulled myself up and felt a solid wall behind me. I leaned into it as I heard Jorn’s huffing breath a ways above me. It seemed out of place, despite his height.

A wavering shadow encroached on my sight and something metal and heavy clanked down beside me. I’d heard my gun fall so many times I knew exactly what the sound was. I snatched it up and sighed as my fingers instantly recognized the clip had been removed and the chamber had been cleared. It was useless.

“Now it’s time for you to die, demon.” It was the first time I’d heard his voice, if you don’t count the shrieking when I’d set him alight. He sounded almost childish, his voice soft, with the tiniest of lisps, as though he had difficulty forming the words. If he hadn’t been kicking my ass, I would have laughed.

I blinked away the last of the static and found myself staring at Jorn as though he were standing on a ladder. It took a second for me to realize he wasn’t on something, but that I was in something. My gaze drifted and I saw the concrete walls of the burial liner that surrounded me. I was in a grave…again.

Dirt fell over me, and my heart ground to a halt. I looked up to see Jorn dumping handfuls of mud into the hole. He clearly intended to bury me.

Terror welled up as I remembered Karra’s zombies doing the same thing, the fear of being buried alive filling me with frenzied adrenaline. Karra had provided me with a means to breathe, knowing I would survive. Jorn had no such kindness planned. Another handful of mud struck my face and panic set in. I was suddenly sick, my skin feeling as though it had been doused in ice water. My heart sputtered limp in my chest and a tingling sensation drowned out all my pain, leaving me numb and weak.

Wisps of black wafted up inside the liner, like serpentine tendrils. I watched as they thickened and grew darker, becoming a swirling obsidian. Jorn growled but it sounded far away. I wondered if this was what death felt like. Was I having a heart attack? A stroke? I pressed my back against the wall in hopes of settling the nausea that seemed ready to boil over. The darkness grew thicker and thicker, and I could feel it against my fingertips, taste it in every panicked breath as it filled the liner and stole my sight. I glanced up at Jorn and he looked like he was shrinking into the distance, the blackness eating away at his massive shape. He howled. His dwindling face was a bright crimson.

I cried out and the mist swallowed my voice. Then there was nothing.