AFTERMATH (Descendants Saga) Read online

  AFTERMATH

  Descendants Saga

  Book Five

  By

  James Somers

  *PREVIEW*

  PERDITION’S GATE: INFERNO

  Kindle Edition

  2013© James Somers

  www.jamessomers.blogspot.com

  Discover other titles by James Somers on Amazon Kindle

  This Ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. All characters and events are fictional except where taken directly from the Holy Bible or World History

  © copyright James Somers 2013

  Listen to Preview of FALLEN AUDIOBOOK

  Announcing Descendants Saga Audio Books

  FALLEN Audio Book Now Available

  DESCENDANTS, REVENANT, MILLENNIUM and AFTERMATH set to release monthly through January 2014

  Read by British Narrator: Duncan White

  Published by Sci-Fi Publishing

  Audio Books coming in October 2013: The Realm Shift

  The Order of Shaddai & The Sword of Gideon following

  Audio Book coming December 2013:

  The Serpent Kings Saga Omnibus Edition

  (Serpent Kings, Wraith Dancer, Shadow Walker)

  Revival

  Though his eyes had become fixed and dilated, there still remained the spark of life within Ishbe. The assassin’s bullet had eviscerated his heart, passing through his ascending aorta. Black had felt the pain—an interesting sensation that angels rarely experienced—and had succumbed to the numbing loss of strength and motor function as Ishbe’s chest cavity filled with blood.

  This vessel would soon expire. His anchor to the mortal world hung by a mere thread. Technically speaking, Black would have been faced with a terrible dilemma, hopeless and helpless to do anything about his situation. Tartarus waited like a cat beside a mouse hole, ready to have him back in its clutches.

  All these things would have been, except for the fact that Black had seen it coming. His long rivalry with Lucifer had taught him more than a few things about his brother. He never gave up. And Black had managed to stay a step or two ahead of him, recently spoiling his plans. Lucifer could be expected to take whatever measures were necessary to remove him out of the way.

  Black’s only weakness had been his mortal host. Only a fool would refrain from taking advantage of this. And, though he hated him, Black knew that Lucifer was no fool.

  Fortunately for Black, he had continued to look toward the future, taking advantage of the changing dynamic presented by the cherubim. He had arranged for them to be set loose, but he had not considered the possibility of merging with them until his previous talk with Lucifer, when his brother had threatened him. As an angel requiring permission to act against a human, he couldn’t do the job himself. But Black knew that Lucifer would find someone or some way to carry it out.

  A bullet through the heart? Indeed.

  Black had been waiting expectantly as he raised his Earl Gray tea in toast. He had known this would be Lucifer’s chance to do something, anything, if he intended to. As Lucifer said goodbye, Black knew it was coming. The teacup shattering as the assassin’s bullet passed out of his chest and through the porcelain had been a nice touch—unintended, but dramatic nonetheless.

  Truth be told, the whole event had been perfect. Lucifer, no doubt, expected him to be sucked back into the void of Tartarus. So, Black now had the same advantage as those who fake their own deaths. No one would be watching for him. He would be free to roam and develop his own plans. And, when he finally allowed himself to be known again, Lucifer would be that much more frustrated by his own incompetence.

  This body is in need of repair, the cherubim said into Black’s thoughts.

  Though he now shared one mind with the three cherubim, Black’s consciousness remained separate from their unusual singularity. He and they were different from one another. Their merger could only go so far. Fortunately, it was far enough. They had successfully anchored his soul to the mortal world.

  This body is dead, he replied in thought to them.

  The host spirit is separated, but we inhabit this form, they insisted. This body can be repaired.

  The heart is eviscerated. The damage is catastrophic, he said in reply.

  We will repair, was their answer.

  Indeed, he thought.

  Bystanders and policemen were presently moving his body where Ishbe had fallen forward, slumped over the table. The tile tabletop, as well as the front of his white shirt and black jacket, were smeared with a mixture of coagulating blood and Earl Gray tea. Lucifer’s assassin had done a grand job. Black made a mental note to find out who this mortal was so that he might pay him a special visit in the future.

  The bullet had passed cleanly through his back, leaving little evidence as to what had happened. However, when the police pulled him back in his chair, the cause became immediately clear. “This man has been shot!” one of the policemen exclaimed.

  Impressive powers of deduction, Black thought sarcastically.

  At present, he did not have the ability to control this body. The cherubim had gone quiet after their proclamation. He could sense them putting power into play in an attempt to restore normal function to Ishbe’s body. He expected them to be entirely unsuccessful.

  Wishful thinking, he thought.

  He had decided not to argue with them this early in their mutual venture. It would have proved unproductive. Still, he began to formulate a plan. They would have to arrange some way of taking another host body. This was more difficult than it seemed.

  Ishbe had been a prime specimen of virility and prowess. As a Lycan, he had possessed regenerative gifts that sped healing, and he could perform a ferocious animal transformation that was highly valuable. Ideally, he should search for some manner of Descendant to inhabit. Of course, getting from this body to a proper host would require at least one intermediate jump to a host in close proximity. Being bound to a mortal form did have its limitations in that Black could not simply roam around free of it.

  Since he had to make that leap from one lily pad to another, he might as well do so as few times as possible. He considered one of the policemen who was on the scene. Law enforcement personnel would have access to areas and information that might prove useful to him. However, the new host would have to touch him long enough for the jump to be made.

  Repairs to this body commencing, the cherubim said to his consciousness. We expect to regain physical consciousness within twenty-four hours.

  Balderdash! Black answered.

  Silence reigned for a moment, until he figured out that they had not understood his reply.

  Can you seriously repair this body, despite the damage that’s been done? he asked.

  Of course, they replied.

  Black would have smiled if he had possessed functioning facial muscles. However, since his host was currently incapacitated, he settled for a pleasant thought toward the cherubim. He had made a wise decision to employ them in his schemes.

  He considered how useful it would be to have a different looking host. The last thing Black wanted was to be recognized. The Descendants and Lucifer had all known him in his incarnation as Ishbe.

  Shall we change the appearance of the host? the cherubim asked, intercepting his thoughts on the matter.

  You can do that also?

  Of course, came the reply. We have the ability to change this host’s appearance at will. You may guide the process, if you wish.

  I’ll think upon it, Black said to them.

  It had taken hours for Ishbe’s body to be removed from the scene and then transported across town. With no identification, or next of kin, it had been decided that the corpse would be buried quickly in an unmarke
d grave. The shooting would be reported. The Assassin would never be identified. The case would forever remain unsolved by the authorities. The name of the unfortunate and unidentified victim had been left as John Doe.

  The wagon bearing Black’s host, made its lumbering way along the cobble lane in the shadow of the Tower of London, heading toward Newham’s City of London Cemetery. A mass grave for debtors and suicides remained open and awaited the body. Tomorrow, the whole mess would be covered over in expectation of the next layer of dead.

  The man driving the wagon was not the caretaker, only a hired hand. Though only thirty years old, Brutus Haymaker had the body of a fifty-year-old and the health of someone age eighty-five. Overweight with lungs full of soot from years as a sweep, Brutus labored for every breath these days. His hair had mostly fallen out. Still, he refused to cut the few stray strands he had left, allowing them to trail down over his neck.

  He let the horse pulling the wagon handle the majority of the navigation. Bessie, a tired old white mare, knew the way back to the cemetery as well as anyone. Only occasionally was Brutus required to correct her—mostly because she wanted more frequent rests than he was willing to allow.

  By the time the wagon pulled through the gate of the City of London Cemetery, the sun had been down for a full half hour. There was no need of hurrying as far as Brutus and Bessie were concerned. The dead had no more appointments to keep. As for unloading the body, the caretaker had sent Brutus with the wagon because this unidentified victim would receive no proper burial.

  The coffin had actually been incorporated into the construction of the wagon. A wooden flap on a well-oiled hinge served as the foot of the casket. The bed of the wagon had a crank and gear assembly, allowing Brutus to hoist the front end up into the air, placing it at nearly a seventy degree angle. The casket had been lined with a smattering of pea gravel onto which the body had been placed. Gravity did the rest of the work.

  Rolling through the graveyard on a full moon like tonight did not bother Brutus in the least. A thick carpet of fog blanketed the ground below the wagon. Headstones rose through the gathering mist. Yet, Brutus barely noticed. These sights, which caused most men’s hearts to fear, were normal for him and Bessie.

  Spending all of your quality time around the dead had desensitized him of any superstitious horror concerning mortality. Bodies with gunshot wounds, like this one, or those with broken necks, or worse, had all been seen by him hundreds of times. For Brutus, the macabre was all in a day’s work.

  Behind a far stand of trees, in the most distant area of the cemetery, Bessie slowed and came to a stop by the mass grave. A field of decaying corpses beneath a layer of white lime stretched before them. Brutus urged the old mare on to some final adjustments, gently backing the wagon near the edge of the pit.

  Brutus descended from his perch, making his way toward the back. He stood beside the crank and began to turn it over and over. The gear set worked in unison, lifting the front end of the wagon bed higher and higher. The body shifted in the coffin and slid rearward on the pea gravel.

  He cranked the handle over and over until the bed reached its highest position. Normally, he didn’t have to go this far before the body slipped out the end of the makeshift coffin and tumbled into the pit with the others. This one, however, appeared to be a stubborn one.

  Reaching into the back of the wagon, Brutus removed a metal hook fashioned for just such an occasion when the dead weren’t in a cooperative mood. He walked to the back corner, looking to see if a foot might be sticking out. He was in luck. A laced leather shoe hung out past the wooden trap door. The other might have jammed inside, bending the knee and fouling the process.

  Brutus reached around the back of the wagon, snagging his hook inside the shoe. He gave a hard yank on the man’s foot. Success! The corpse began to slide again. Then, all at once, the coffin box exploded.

  Thrown to the ground, Brutus groaned in pain. He had been cast a dozen feet from the wagon. Bessie screamed in terror, trying to flee. However, as Brutus turned back, he saw a man standing with his feet on the ground and his body through a hole blown in the bed of the wagon. Try as she might, Bessie did not have the strength to overpower the man and pull away with the wagon.

  He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. This couldn’t be the dead man. Brutus had seen the condition of the body while laborers loaded him into the wagon from the crime scene near Hyde Park. If anyone was dead, it was this man. And the dead did not rise. How could this be?

  Yet, when he looked into the man’s face in the moonlight and saw the blood stain covering his once white shirt, Brutus knew he was wrong. The corpse began to smash the wagon to kindling in his anger. He wanted free as much as Bessie did.

  Brutus clawed the ground, trying to get back to his feet. He had to get away before the dead man got free of the wagon. If stories of such things were true—and Brutus had never believed they were—then this ghoul would come for his living flesh to make a meal of him.

  The entire wagon burst into flames. Another explosion finished it off, scattering burning debris across the bodies lying in decay within the pit. Bessie screamed in agony as the old mare was tossed across the lawn. She lay on the ground, struggling with freshly broken bones and internal organ damage.

  Brutus squealed in terror as the dead man walked out of the flames, his bloodstained clothing now on fire. The ghoul did not seem the least bit worried. Still, the animated corpse had spotted Brutus attempting to get away. This would not be allowed.

  At once, the ground fell away beneath Brutus. He was lifted into the air, turning toward the dead man’s outstretched hand as he came involuntarily back to him. The corpse snatched him by the throat. Brutus couldn’t help but notice that the man appeared in much better condition now than he had been when he’d been loaded into the wagon.

  He actually looked alive again, forcing Brutus to wonder if he had ever really been dead. Had they somehow made a mistake? What had happened to him?

  Brutus gasped for air as the revived corpse regarded his own body. “I wouldn’t have thought it possible,” he said. Brutus was sure he wasn’t talking to him. After all, though he was practically choking him, holding him in the air with one arm, he hadn’t really looked at him.

  The risen corpse stretched his free arm and hand and then pulled away the stained front of his shirt where the bullet had gone through. To Brutus’s amazement, all that was left of the bullet hole was a small circular scar. Indeed this was the same man who had been shot and killed at Hyde Park.

  The man smiled and then, finally, considered the heavy oaf he was holding before him. Brutus struggled, clutching at the corpse’s hand around his throat. The undead man set his feet down on the ground again, but did release him. Brutus felt the grip on his throat relax a little, also.

  “What is your name?” the revived man asked him.

  “B-B-Brutus,” he answered, trying to fight the stutter that afflicted him anytime he became afraid.

  “Well, Brutus,” he said, “It would appear that you are the only one to witness my resurrection.”

  Brutus nodded uncertainly. Nightfall had already come, and they were standing in a graveyard. Of course, there was no one else.

  “That is unfortunate,” the undead man said, smiling, “For you.”

  Cole

  I could only stand by and watch the odd exodus that brought us from London, England to the Emerald Isle. My father had died in Siberia, attempting to stop the angel, Black, and save my mother. Mother had died a few days later. I remained numb inside.

  At only seven years old, I had already experienced more in my short time than many mortal men ever will. But I would have traded places with almost any of them at this moment. I had lost my parents, my kingdom and my master—all in a matter of days. Just as bad was the understanding that I had been fooled by the angel, Black.

  He had arranged for all of this calamity to unfold. Posing as Ishbe, the angel had been hidden these many years. Black had been
above suspicion, performing service to my parents and myself as Greystone’s Master at Arms. I had known him all my life as kind and caring—a mentor with a firm hand who had trained me and kept me in line. I had always regarded him with the highest respect, in truth rivaling the love I held for my parents. But no more.

  Now, I wanted to make him pay. My father would have told me that this feeling was wrong. I knew it was, but it remained rooted in my mind unwilling to be extinguished. But there was no way to make that desire a reality. I had no idea what had become of Black after his betrayal. My only consolation now was that the Almighty would hold him accountable for his crimes.

  Our passage from London had been uneventful, if not exhausting. The thousands of Descendants who had come to London, escaping the overthrow of the spiritual realms, made any effort at organization frustrating. I watched as my grandfather, Donatus, and Sadie’s father, Brody, did their best to bring about a peaceful leaving from London. My great uncle, Laish, had been the principle architect of the portal that now conveyed us to our new home in Ireland.

  Much like the Jews crossing the Red Sea, in Moses’ day, we had filed through the dimensional gateway, disappearing on one side and reappearing west of Britain in the Emerald Isle. It was aptly named. A lush green countryside surrounded us on all sides. However, to our surprise, there was also an army awaiting our arrival.

  Truth be told, the Leprechauns had not been present prior to our entry into Ireland. But by the time the last of us, including myself and Sadie’s family, passed through, there were at least one thousand Leprechauns surrounding our makeshift refugee camp, daring us to go any further.

  Brody, Laish and my grandfather, Donatus, were quickly ushered away to meet with the leader of the Leprechauns in Ireland. Though these Descendants dwelt in a few other places in the mortal world, it was primarily the Emerald Isle that served as their home. Unlike others, their desire to dwell in the mortal world had been so strong that they had never actually established a realm on the spiritual plane. Needless to say, they had fared better than the rest of us when the cherubim were released from the Underworld.