Young Writers Society

Prologue:

-Prague, 1635, St. Vitus Cathedral

The gate to the entrance courtyard creaked slightly as it was inched open. A black gloved hand appeared from the dark recesses of the shadow’s cloak for a mere second, before it vanished again. The hooded figure glanced up at the torches that flanked the gate. The light would surely give him away – some darkness was needed. The hooded shadow raised his gloved hand once more, and like the blink of an eye, the torches burnt no more.

As he made his way across the now darkened courtyard, the stranger in the hood glanced back at the gate he had come through. He’d always admired the Garden of Paradise, the serenity it provided. It allowed him to think of the issues that so often seemed to flood his mind of late. The war to come, the pain it would bring – her safety. Every molecule in his being tensed at the thought of her. It was something inexplicable, like the drawing of a moth to flame. She was his flame, the very bane of his sad existence.

His eyes almost visible inside the cover of the hood, the figure glanced up at the Gate of Matthias – a unique structure, tall and foreboding; an archway carved out of dark stone. He noted the sigils that were carved into the gable above the arch way – Enochian script, hidden behind the human titles that Matthias himself had once borne. It was child’s play to him. He raised his hand and with a swift motion the sigils glowed for a second before dissipating into nothingness.

Even with the simple sigils gone, stepping through the archway took concentration. The mortals called it hallowed ground, but to immortals it was nothing but a nuisance. The interference in the air made it feel as if the land was under immense gravitational pressure. It was a palpable field in the air, less than it was a tangible smoke.

Once he stood on the other side of the archway his heart stopped beating. There she sat, staring right at him from her perch on the fountain’s perimeter. Her golden eyes glowing faintly, her sable-black hair cascading across her shoulders in a soft tangle of curls. He could feel her eyes watching him, yearning for him. She was the very reason for his existence, the coil that kept him sane, anchored to a world not his own. He smiled, it was an involuntary reaction, and watched as she started to stand. Her dark blue dress slipped free from its bunches and haloed out around her, like the rays of the sun, if it were water. It suited her, standing out against her almost olive complexion. The hooded figure remembered the day she first saw the dress.

They had just reached Prague, stowed away on a merchant’s ship with fakes names and masked reasons. Slipping away unnoticed, they made their way into the city proper. It was a bustle of merchants and buyers and pickpockets, all mixed into a city as beautiful as could be. None of which had caught her eye as much as the dress. It was a rich, deep blue silk, like a liquid lapis lazuli. It was as beautiful as she was. And he could see the longing for it in her eyes.

He had bought it for her that day, but as beautiful as she was in it now, it felt more like funeral attire, a beautiful goodbye. He dismissed the thought from his head. He didn’t want to think about it. Not this time round.

Chapter One – A fall from grace

A fireball - a big, blue tinged, hot-as-hell fireball, was heading straight for his head. Michael let loose a primal growl of frustration and side-stepped it as fast as he could. On instinct, his hands were already up, fingers denoting intricate designs in the air before him. With each complex motion, he could feel the magic stitch the very fabric of reality around him, like little sparks of unhinged energy. It raced through his veins like a form of heroin: lighting up the synapses in his brain, and he was but the addict, willing to meld into the universe with each thread of the spell woven. In his current state, there would be no way that he’d deny the rush it gave him, not that it mattered at this moment.

All around him, Michael saw them advance: mirror images of a single daemon, their eyes as red as the fires of hell, their skin as pitch as night.

“Yield, Moloch, and I’ll let you walk away from this unscathed. Look at yourself, even your mirror images are starting to falter. Maybe, if you had done this 300 years ago, you would have been a more formidable opponent. But we both know that demons are losing their strength. You’re going to run out of steam a lot faster than I will.”

The demon stepped forward from between his own reflection. “For eons, my kind have fought yours. Do not think that I will stop now, because you call for a surrender. You immortals are as untrustworthy as the self-righteous pigs that call themselves angels,” Moloch spat the words out with pure hatred; the malice in the air almost palpable. “I don’t plan on walking away from this, either you die, or I do…”

As if possessed by his rage, the demon rushed forward, his sword of fire sparking to life from his very finger tips.

Michael had been counting on the demon to rush, and rush he did. The immortal muttered a single word beneath his breath and felt reality bend at his command. Streaks of blue and purple static crackled around him as the molecules in the very air started to transmute. The demon had but a second to decide on his actions, before the lightning struck. A decision that he would never end up making.

Moloch was flung aside as if he weighed nothing, hit the wall of the alleyway and crumpled to the ground, barely conscious. His splendid sword of fire dissipated, dissolving into dust.

Michael knelt down beside the demon and whispered, “You know me well enough to abide by the rules of the treaty we set. So, what’s been drawing the demons this far from their nest? What’s been terrifying your kind this badly, that you would attempt to enter an immortal’s territory?”

The demon’s response was barely a whimper, “Mephisto... found your weak spot…. The girl, we know she lives. She will be your unraveling once more. And the balance will tip in our favor. We are not afraid, oh no, we are alive now, more than we have ever been.”

Michael pulled the demon to its feet and drew a needle point dagger from the inside pocket of his jacket. He admired the handiwork: the precision of the immortal symbols grafted into the top of the blade, the meticulous threading of the handle, the dark, sapphire stone set into the pommel, engraved with the symbol of a raven. But what he admired most, was its composition; it was made from Mercurial Silver, forged by the old gods themselves. It was made for one purpose – to destroy anything it touched at the wielder’s command.

Grabbing the demon by the arm, he held the knife to its neck.

“I might not be as powerful as I once was on the battlefield eons ago, but you can tell Mephisto that I still have enough power to kick my own brother’s arse.”

With a final sneer, the immortal carved the blade into the demons neck, whispering in Enochian as he went. Blood turned to smoke as the demons veins started to burn with power; light surged through its husk, flaring out from its varying orifices, as with a gurgled scream, the demon was sent back to the realm it had come from.

Michael sheathed the blade and leaned heavily against the wall where the demon’s head had been only moments ago. He could feel the ache in his soul; he was getting too old for this. He had spent eons upon eons fighting, running, surviving; trying to break a curse that he knew, deep inside, was his fault. He had become weary of it all. Encounters like tonight had started becoming increasingly frequent.

In the back of Michael’s mind, the memories flooded to the surface once more.

Babylon – 5000 BC, Egypt – 3000 BC, Athens – 1200 BC, and many more. Eras where he had been driven out of hiding by one of his relentless siblings. They had waged war on everything he held dear – on every one. Stripped of his power, his spirit they had cursed him to walk the earth for eternity. He bore witness to the rise and fall of empires, he had seen cities fall to ruin and left to be remembered in stories. From the creation of the great tower of Babyl, to the rise of the modern world.

Immortality had become little more than an excuse for him.

₹               ₹               ₹

The diner was a dingy little thing, just off the highway. Its interior was a greasy as they come, with one or two late night customers. The neon lit sign above the door flickered like a candle on its last breath: 666 Drive. Lucius glanced out the large front window, in time to watch a black 1960’s Buick Riviera pull in to a vacant parking space. The driver was dressed in a similar fashion as himself: light grey fedora coupled with a long, dark-black trench coat. The two met eyes, and at a slight nod from Lucius, the driver had joined him at his seat.

“From the look on your face, brother, it seems you bring bad news?” Lucius questioned the stranger. Absentmindedly, he flagged down the waitress behind the shabby counter for a refill of coffee; his cup suddenly seemed a bit too empty.

“If you knew why I came, you’d never have agreed to this, Lucius.”

“I’m merely borrowing you two minutes of my time, Morpheus.”

Lucius smiled intoxication at the waitress as she refilled his cup. He loved the amount of control he had over humans. The way they eyed him as if he were a prized possession; it was look of hunger, of need. He merely had to smile - to blink. He didn’t even have to wear the stupid fedora or the ungainly trench coat, they’d have remembered his face anyway; his dark blue, almost purple eyes, the stubble that always shadowed his strong jawline, or even, his light pink, soft-as-a-baby’s-skin lips. He was the living vessel of seduction - humans saw only what they needed, what they craved.

“Then I shall make this quick,” said Morpheus. “The accord has been violated and the treaty broken. The war has started, and we are losing more of our numbers with each day that passes.”

Lucius looked back at his companion, his lips thinning as Morpheus’ words sunk in.

“Management has sent me to hand you their instructions.”

For a moment, Lucius felt the urge to cackle, but instead gave his acquaintance a once over. From where he said, things seemed to be quite fine, just not his comrades. He had to admit, Morpheus seemed worse for wear than he had ever seen him. His dark red eyes had a sunken feel about them - almost devoid of strength, or faith. His jet black hair seemed to be thinning. Even his posture had all but dissipated. The situation had to be bleak, especially if the messenger of the angels had been sent for him. Truth be told, there had been a time when Lucius had wanted them to call on him, time when he had prayed to his father, begging to be taken back – to be allowed to walk through the golden gates of his childhood. But that had been so long ago, he could barely remember it.

“And you, my dear brother,” said Lucius. “Can tell management, to go to Hell.”

“You and I both know that it’s a bad idea to turn down instructions that come from the Archangels, Lucius.”

“I don’t essentially care then. I was cast out of Heaven at the end of the War, exiled into torment, out of the desperation of my own siblings. After the treaty was put in place, I heard neither head nor tail of Heaven, even though I spent eons praying for a message. So no, I don’t give a rat’s arse about what the Archangels want.”

Lucius chanced a glance around the room before turning back and whispering, “Look, whatever it is they’re selling, I want no part of it.”

“Not even if it concerns the immortals? Or the Horse-men? Or the Gods themselves?” Morpheus leaned closer, pulling out a small leather-bound book from the inside of his trench coat. “Like I said, Lucius, a war has started and it’s only getting worse.”