Daughter of Gods and Shadows (14 page)

He took his time getting up, ready to give in to the fact that maybe his ass was actually dead and that his bathroom was his version of heaven, or hell, depending. He looked down at the dark and crusted stain on the floor that looked like it had been there for weeks. Paul stood there, feeling pretty good, actually, like he'd really managed to kick this thing, and was even feeling better than he had before he'd gotten sick. His reflection looked like him but it didn't. Shit. He looked even bigger than he'd been before he'd gotten sick; taller, thicker. Paul's shirt felt two sizes too small and the waist of his pants dug into his skin. And then it hit him. He was fuckin' famished. When was the last time he'd had a meal?

Paul rummaged through the refrigerator, grabbed a handful of sliced turkey from the package, stuffed it between two moldy pieces of bread with some mustard, and bit into it heartily. He gagged and spit the food in his mouth into the sink. That shit tasted like dirt. He tried the leftover baked chicken, cheese, even an apple damn near rotted to the core, and it all tasted like crap. He couldn't even bring himself to swallow any of that shit.

The burn in his stomach and the need to eat made him crazy. He'd never felt like this before, but Paul couldn't remember the last time he'd been able to keep anything down, either. Of course he was hungry. The shit in the fridge was spoiled, he concluded. Paul grabbed his keys and decided to go out to get something. He swung open his front door and stared into the frantic face of his manager, Ed Taylor.

“Where've you been, man?” Ed said irritably, pushing past him. “I've been blowing up your damn phone for weeks and banging on your fuckin' door until my knuckles bled! You missed the fuckin' title match! How'd you miss the goddamned title match, Paul?”

Paul stared at him like he had no idea what the man was talking about.

“I'm not speaking Japanese, man.” Ed was pissed. “You just blew the title. Do you get that? You forfeited the damn title, and now some knucklehead kid from Nebraska is walking around somewhere in the world with your shit around his waist.”

Paul inhaled deeply and smelled the savory scent of Ed's perspiration, and his mouth watered. His stomach growled again. Crazy thoughts, crazy images flooded his mind. In them, he felt satisfied, relieved.

“You can stop looking at me like I've lost it and start talking anytime now, Paul. What the hell happened? Or should I say Who? You look like shit, by the way. You smell like shit. When was the last time you took a bath?”

Paul was mesmerized by him, and by the rich, purple-black color surging just beneath the skin in the vein on the side of his neck. “This world's gone to fuckin' hell in a fuckin' handbasket,” Ed paced back and forth. “People are dropping like flies and coming back.” He raked his hand across his head. “I know. Right? Who gives a damn about a prize fight? Who the hell cares?” Paul's heart raced, and he found himself stepping closer to him, as if being pulled by an invisible cord drawing the two of them together.

“Fuck!” Ed yelled. “What the fuck's your problem? Is it drugs? Are you on something, man?”

The hole of Paul's belly burned, his bones and muscles tensed, and adrenaline surged through his body, filling it with anticipation and an anxious excitement that made him want to jump or run or fly. Drool began pooling in the corners of his mouth.

Ed Taylor fought for his life, but he lost and he never screamed. Paul expected him to, but the look on the man's face, the terror in his eyes, the realization that Paul had sliced him down the middle with a kitchen knife and then torn open his torso with his bare hands was too overwhelming an experience to warrant a scream.

Paul saw what he was doing from some distant place in his mind that made sense of it. Paul relished the savory flavors of the other man's blood and skin, and something deep inside of him that he never even knew existed could not understand or accept how wrong it was for him to do what he'd just done.

Paul stood up and stepped over Ed's body on his way to the bathroom, in desperate need of a shower. Days later, Paul had ended up here, summoned.

Sakarabru was pleased with this one. Yes, there was apprehension and uncertainty in his eyes, but there was something else there, too. There was loyalty and dependence so blind that it would never question and never waiver.

“When you hear my voice, you will know it. When I call to you, you will come. You will not hesitate. You will not question. I am all that is all. I am everything to you, and only I can heal you and take away your pain.”

He stepped back and examined his Brood once more.

“Go, Paul Chapman,” he commanded. “Find her, this new Redeemer, and end her.”

 

REELIN' IN THE YEARS

The scent of bacon woke her up. Eden followed it to the kitchen, where the Guardian Prophet was standing over the stove, cooking. He had his shirt off; his jeans hung low on his waist. Looking at him, Eden guessed that he stood at least six feet five, maybe even six seven or eight, and he was covered in tattoos, a tangled mass of faces, trees, and wild animals. But even under all that ink she could see his huge shoulder blades and two very dark lines, almost black, folds of skin that separated slightly, depending on how he moved.

Prophet's long locks hung slightly below his hips and were blunt at the ends, like they'd been cut. He was the most unusual looking and breathtakingly beautiful thing she'd ever laid eyes on, like a piece of artwork that somebody made up, that couldn't possibly be real. If he looked like this, and he loved Mkombozi at first sight, then she could only imagine how beautiful Mkombozi must've been. The Mkombozi in her dreams, her nightmares, was a hollow shell of the real Redeemer. Eden came to that conclusion just by looking at him.

“Afternoon,” he said, turning to her and taking a sip of coffee.

Prophet had prepared two plates and sat them both on the counter.

“Afternoon?” she said, confused, taking in his presentation. “But that's breakfast.”

He'd prepared what looked to be a couple of packages of bacon and at least a dozen eggs.

“Yeah, it's uh … really all I know how to make,” he shrugged. “And coffee. I make a mean cup of coffee.” He smiled and raised his cup in a toast.

She made her way over to the counter and sat down. “How long have I been asleep?”

“Long enough to eat all that, I'm sure,” he said, motioning toward the food.

Okay, so she was hungry. Eden took a bite of the bacon and moaned audibly. She was starving.

He smiled his appreciation. “Coffee?”

She nodded and shoved some eggs into her mouth. “Yes, please.”

Damn! Either this was the best-tasting bacon and eggs she'd ever had in her life or she'd been asleep for weeks and was famished!

After passing her a cup of coffee, he stood there looking mighty pleased with himself.

“Aren't you going to eat?” she asked with her mouth full.

“I ate already.”

“Whose plate is this?” Eden pointed to the plate next to her.

He smiled.

She was on her second cup of coffee by the time they went out onto the deck. The view was so beautiful. The house sat in a clearing surrounded by trees as far as you could see in every direction.

“Where are we exactly?” she finally had the presence of mind to ask.

“Vermont.”

Vermont. If she'd known that Vermont was as peaceful and surreal as this, she'd have left Brooklyn a long time ago. This place, Prophet's home, was in a bubble, protected and separated from the rest of the world. There was no traffic, no people, no noise, nothing. She hadn't even noticed a television in the house.

“I could stay here forever,” she said, more to herself than to him.

“It's tempting,” he eventually responded. “But you could go a little stir-crazy in a place like this for too long.”

“Not me,” she responded. “I've dreamed of living in a place like this my whole life. Someplace quiet and secluded. Someplace safe. It's beautiful here.”

Prophet was working hard to be patient. He didn't have to say it for her to know it. He knew that she was afraid, and he knew that Eden was content to deny that the real world ever existed. She appreciated him for not rushing her. No wonder Mkombozi loved him.

“Was she hot?” She looked at him.

“Who?”

Eden rolled her eyes. “Mkombozi. Was she sexy?”

Of course she was.
He
was hot, so it only stood to reason that
she
had to have been sexy.

He was too much of a gentlemen to actually come out and say it, but Eden could see the answer in that sparkle in his eyes and in that half smile he worked hard to hide.

“I knew it.” She laughed.

She had a ton of questions. Rose and Khale had told her so many things as she was growing up, but even still, there were things she wanted to know, things that had nothing to do with Omens or destinies or demons.

“Are you a Shifter?”

“Me? Nah.” He frowned. “I'm a Guardian.”

“Guardian's aren't Shifters?”

He shook his head. “Guardians are Guardians.”

She waited for him to elaborate.

Eventually he realized that she was waiting. “We are our own race,” he continued.

“But you all have wings?”

“Yes. We all do.”

“Do you all guard?” It sounded dumb, but how else was she supposed to say it?

“From a very young age a Guardian is tasked to choose the one he will swear his oath to.”

“Does it have to be a woman?” she asked.

“For me, yes. Women are my preference.”

Oh, thank heaven for that. “And so you swear this oath to protect this one that you choose?”

“Yes,” he nodded. “The oath is eternal, and we don't choose lightly. It's a soul thing, something deeper than a simple choice. A Guardian sees the one that is meant for him, and it's almost as if the choice is made for him.”

“Was Mkombozi a Shifter?”

“No.”

“But Khale is her mother, and
she's
a Shifter. See, that's what I don't understand. If her mother is a Shifter, then why wouldn't she be one?” Eden thought for a moment. “What was her father?”

He shrugged. “No one knows.”

Eden was shocked. “Shut the pump Dior!”

Of course she was confused. “The great Khale n
é
e Khale had a kid out of wedlock?”

“She wasn't mated to him.”

“Well, well, well,” she said, smugly. “Does she at least know who her baby daddy is?”

He laughed. “Mkombozi was no Shifter. She was the Redeemer.”

“Yeah, but, I mean, what powers did she have? Like, you fly, Khale can shape-shift. What did Mkombozi do?”

“She was strong, fast, a telepath, and a good strategist and general.”

“A warrior, Khale said.”

“When she needed to be, but not always. Khale saw what she wanted to see in Mkombozi. I saw everything else.”

The sly look she gave him nearly made him blush, if that was even possible.

“She wasn't always the warrior, Eden. She didn't necessarily embrace her fate.”

That's not the story Eden had heard about Mkombozi. According to Khale and even Rose, Mkombozi wasn't afraid of anything or anyone, and she pretty much chased those Omens down until she found every last one of them.

“She was afraid.”

He thought he was being slick. “Don't even try it, Prophet,” she said.

“Try what?”

“Try to make me think that she went through what I'm going through about all of this. Mkombozi was a badass. Eden isn't.”

He picked up a stone and threw it into the forest. “I don't know. You looked pretty badass the other day when I found you on that bus.”

“That was adrenaline and a fierce commitment to not get eaten.”

“Still badass.”

“Do you miss Theia?” she said, changing the subject.

It was a dumb question, but Rose seldom talked about how she felt about her world. Eden had grown up believing that it was a war-torn mess, with everybody fighting and dying.

“What was it like for you before The Fall?”

He sat quietly for a few minutes before answering her. “The lesser Ancients worshipped us.”

“Lesser Ancients?”

“Not all of us are Shifters or Pixies or Weres,” he explained. “Most Ancients look like humans.”

“Like MyRose,” she concluded, realizing that she'd never seen Rose look any other way besides the way she looked.

“We don't age like humans. We age much more slowly.”

“But you do get old?”

“Yes.”

“And so these lesser Ancients worshipped Guardians?”

“Guardians, Shifters … They looked to us as gods. We lived like gods and we bought into our own hype.”

“But you don't think that's what you are or were?”

Prophet was thoughtful again. “In this world, Eden, I have been a god, a slave, a soldier. I have had wives, and now once again, because of you, I am a Guardian. We are who we choose to be.”

His words cut into her. “But, according to the prophecy, I have no choice.”

He surprised her and laughed. “Prophecy. Ancients are so damn dramatic.”

“But that's what I was told, Prophet. I was told that I am who I am because of some Theian prophecy.”

“Fine, then it's a prophecy,” he said irritably.

“Well, what would you call it?”

“A Seer told Khale about the future,” he began to explain. “Larcerta is her name, and she is one of six Seers, all trolls. Very unattractive, and I'm not the only one who thinks that, but she's influential.”

“I know of the Seers.”