Michael (The Airel Saga, Book 2) - By Aaron Patterson Page 0,125

into John’s ear. “And…I know something you don’t know.” He said it in a singsong voice. He couldn’t resist.

John looked up at his captor now, hatred and a lust for vengeance burning through his eyes at the man.

Mr. Emmanuel feigned shock, gasping. “Oh! What. Did you think I was going to tell you?” Laughter. “Oh, no, John. Oh, no.” He turned aside briefly and drew an object out of his pocket. “You know what this does, right?” He held the object before his prisoner’s face.

John’s expression revealed the slightest amount of recognition and fear, but it was gone just as quickly as it had appeared.

“Yes, you do!” Mr. Emmanuel laughed insanely. “Yes, you know precisely what this does. It applies pressure. Gets me what I want.”

“Tell you what,” John said, “How about we make a deal.”

Mr. Emmanuel arched his brows and leaned over his prey.

“How about this: How about we dispense with the theatrics, you release me from this table, and then I kill you with my bare hands? How about that?”

Mr. Emmanuel shook his head in amazement. “Wow, John. You surprise me.” He removed the protective cover from the syringe he held in his hand, primed it, raised it high and then slammed it straight down, the needle piercing John’s heart, injecting the drug straight into his system. Through bared teeth, Mr. Emmanuel said, “It’s always the quiet ones, isn’t it?”

John gasped for air, eyes wide.

Mr. Emmanuel withdrew the syringe with contempt, throwing it across the room.

John faded and then passed out.

Mr. Emmanuel kicked the chair over, walking for the door in fury.

CHAPTER VII

IT WAS UNAVOIDABLE NOW. Nwaba stood to his feet, alarmed. Alarmed?! No. Surely not. He was not alarmed. Not even concerned. His troops would soon bring him word, bring him the girl, bring him the Sword of Light—that cursed and wretched blade that had been stolen from Tengu by the interloper Kreios.

But he could feel the presence of El now, and indeed he was concerned. Even alarmed. Because for Nwaba, the presence of El was not a good thing.

He began to lose control, to act irrationally, to succumb to inevitable fear. He felt like a small child, a child unattended who’d been intentionally disobedient while Daddy was gone, in full knowledge of the coming punishment.

And now Daddy was home.

Nwaba scurried from his chamber down the corridors of the penthouse, toward the room where Mr. Emmanuel was keeping the bait man, John.

Nwaba met his host at the door; he was just closing it.

“We have not much time!” Nwaba spat at Mr, Emmanuel, his color and form becoming slightly blurry as his mind wavered over the possibilities. “What are you doing?”

“Applying pressure.”

“Fool; El’s agent is coming! WE MUST ACT NOW!” He roared and flung the door open.

As he entered the room he saw John in deep unconsciousness, bound to the slab. He was enraged. “What did you do to him?” He made large strides across the polished black tiles.

Mr. Emmanuel was following close behind. “He will be all too ready to spill his guts soon,” he said. “The drug needs time to take effect.”

“I need him to be coherent now, pawn!” He cursed, roaring his displeasure at Mr. Emmanuel. Nwaba had closed the distance to the bait man John. He grasped the edge of the altar slab, threw back his head and let out a shrill and terrible call, like a bird immense enough to roar. In response, the flames rose in the trough that ringed the room, licking upward on the wall. Nwaba’s wire-thin tail whipped around.

From a dark recess in the ceiling there descended eight dark shapes crawling downward. They scratched their way outward in a radius from the hole, making a circle as they hung upside down above the room, enclosed within their blood-red wings. Joining these were three jittery fungus encrusted Anti-Cherubs. They crawled upside down on tubule fingers that suctioned them to the black domed ceiling, creeping in spastic movements, their faces sniffing at the putrid air, observing what could be observed.

“Mr. Emmanuel,” Nwaba said, his gaze unflinching, “Bring the transition host. Whether we have the Bloodstone or not, we must begin the ritual.”

The eight figures on the ceiling then began their animalistic chant, the three Anti-Cherubs vibrating with pleasure at the spectacle.

The master was calling.

From Nordhoek to Muizenberg, from Simon’s Town to Morningstar, Strand to Camps Bay, the call rang out. From behind rubbish bins in alleyways, from under rocks, from the vineyards of Stellenbosch to the urban wilds of the Tokai