chapter II
Cape Town, South Africa, present day
KREIOS SMILED. THERE WAS the signal; he could feel it. El was on the move.
He stepped forward toward the doors and extended a finger. The glass returned to dust at his touch and scattered to the floor, some to the wind. The door’s metal frame, which had held the glass, oxidized and corroded in seconds, crumbling into blackened slag and falling into a heap.
Kreios looked left and then right, withering every window and frame on the main floor into nothingness; dust. He stepped into the lobby, his body emitting pure white light that pulsed with his heartbeat.
His footsteps left no trace, not even the residue from the soles of his shoes followed him. Indeed, the base elements fairly cried out and abjured him, grains of sand becoming animated and scurrying off to avoid his touch, his vicinity. He moved across the lobby smoothly, without observable evidence.
The man and the Brother cowered powerless before his approach. In his wake was woe, the screams of the damned, the dust of the earth. As he passed by it overtook the two, and they were no more.
Kreios moved into the heart of the building. Up. There were no barriers.
The battle belonged to El, and it was magnificent. Now on every side of us there were hundreds of sharks breaching, pulling demons out of the sky, dragging them into the sea and then fighting over their remains. Black demon blood roiled in the salt water, producing a horrible stench that could not be described.
The remaining demons retreated with screeches of rage. They would not return to their master: to fail was to die. This night was death; a sound defeat. Something had changed. The few that remained turned to the west, disappearing over the wide expanse of sea.
Kreios moved through the corridors of the skyscraper, working his way up from ground level. There weren’t many here tonight, but those that were wished they were not. He would oblige them, then. They would be no more.
A man in a corridor staggered away from him, blood soaking into his clothes from underneath. Kreios passed him by; he was gone. Another man in an office met his eyes and then fell to his knees, begging mercy. A semicircle of blood soaked through his shirt. It was the size of his entire abdomen. For a moment it appeared that a shark had made a single bite out of the man’s torso. He collapsed and died before Kreios got to him, but in the wake of the angel he became mere dust.
More. Upward. To the top.
Nwaba landed by the enormous elm tree in the rooftop garden of his skyscraper citadel. He opened his jaws and spoke to Mr. Emmanuel, who had been waiting with salve for his wound. “We have had a change to endure.” He dropped Kim’s comatose body on the floor. “This one cannot yet be discarded. The Bloodstone is…temporarily lost.”
Mr. Emmanuel said nothing, merely stepping forward and spraying the salve on his master’s wound. It stung Nwaba like mad, but it repaired him.
Nwaba the chameleon then selected a smaller form; his favorite. The massive wings retracted and diminished, the color of his skin changed to pure white, and he became more like a lizard with the face of a man. The massive talons on his feet became mere claws, the claws on his hands became grippy pads, the wings became more like a cloak, shrouding his newly spare and diminished seven foot tall frame. His tail reduced its thickness to a mere wire, long and thin.
“The daughter of El somehow knew,” Nwaba said to his slave. “She cut the cocoon; we nearly lost everything.”
Mr. Emmanuel shrugged. “I can wait.” He placed the can of salve on a stone seating area. They stood atop the roof of his building, his skyscraper, in the garden. It was anchored visually by a large elm, easily one hundred feet high, that had been transplanted via helicopter. Roundabout this were geometrically arranged rock beds, grasses, and thorny plants. He continued, “Is it not worth the wait?”
Nwaba grunted sweetly. He made no other comment.
“Still…” Mr. Emmanuel said, “I must do something with this.” He kicked Kim’s inanimate body.
Nwaba grunted his affirmation and turned away in disgust.
“Just so you know,” Mr. Emmanuel said, which gave Nwaba a moment’s pause, “I’m actively working the other angle.”
Nwaba responded with bestial voice, “Let me know if you need me,” which was probably the most frightening thing a creature like him could have said in that moment.
But not for Mr. Emmanuel. He responded with a simple, “We’ll see.”
Mr. Emmanuel hiked the prodigiously stinky body over one shoulder and walked into the house. Through the living room, with its twenty foot tall windows looking toward Table Mountain, and into the kitchen, with its walk-in freezer. Unfortunately for his diet, this was the best way to preserve the body of the transition host—wedging it in here among his foodstuffs.
Even at the top, there were times concessions—compromises—had to be made.
Besides, as he had said to the master, would it not be worth it?
Their plan had been to procure the Bloodstone with its current, or transition host; the one that had inherited its authority by chance from the elder Alexander. Then when all was in hand, ownership could be transferred by blood sacrifice. The body of the one named Kim would be bled and burned with fire, Mr. Emmanuel would perform the rite, and then he and Nwaba would be conjoined to the Bloodstone. Simplicity was beauty.
But unfortunately, the rite required the Bloodstone to be present.
So they would have to wait.
Mr. Emmanuel closed the freezer and locked the door, thinking clandestinely of a way around the problem of power, and more of it. Perhaps the man John could provide something to him. To him alone.