Uriel: The Inheritance (Airel Saga Book Five)

Chapter III

Cape Town, South Africa—Present Day

KREIOS TRIED TO CLEAR his mind, but thoughts of past failures and losses plagued him. Uriel, his only daughter, was not dead but alive, and here. He wanted to ask her why. He wanted to curse her for leaving him, for allowing him to think she was dead. He was torn between his role as a father and his love for her. Duty or unconditional love? One would think that the choice would not be so hard.

But she now lay dying. "Uriel, you must not move. No matter what happens now, do not try to intervene."

Her eyes stayed half open and unfocused as a long, miserable moan escaped her parted lips. She was on the edge of consciousness; her skin was clammy white, and the stench from the Mark was strong.

Kreios closed his eyes and opened his mind to the heavens, to El, beholding his daughter with new eyes. Veins of black ran over the skin of her arms and neck, twisting, choking vines of death.

He placed his hand over her heart. "El ..." Kreios, the Angel of Death, whispered a prayer. In his mind he could see the door, dark and broken as if somewhere in time, it had been burned. Red light seeped from the corners and between the broken slats of wood. Beyond was the Mark, his curse, and maybe his very life.

Kreios reached for the door and flung it open.

***

ELLIE SAW THE EARTH open beneath her, beheld Sheol opening its gaping jaws to receive her, and though she closed her eyes to blot out the sight of it, the vision wouldn't respond. Her mind still stared on. A great cord, a black vine had grown out from the darkest recesses of the earth, its roots suckling on the surges of a blood-red stone, the vine opening its hideous tendrils to receive her, and as these wisps of blackness wended themselves around her body and constricted her, she held fast to her final strand of hope—that all was not lost.

Then a bolt of light shot past her from above and behind, smote the hideous vine with a powerful blow, and she was free. She turned to the sky—light.

Below—darkness.

Blood.

Kreios.

Breaking from the vision, her eyes flew open and she gasped for air, clutching at her chest. She coughed and spit up a dark slime that sizzled when it hit the dirt. She was alive and at once remembered where she was, who had saved her, and what that could mean.

She sat up, feeling her strength return to her in powerful waves. She looked around for Kreios, fearing the worst. "Father?"

But she was alone.

***

FRANK WISEMAN WASTED NO time. "Come here, princess," he said to Kimberley, "and help me up, dear." As his wife came near and grasped his hand, he stared into her eyes. She feels enough to fear. But not enough to know what I'm going to do to her.

Frank stood to his feet, but did not let go of her hand. He wheeled her around, jamming her hand into the small of her back as he marched her into the dawn surf, deeper. Deeper.

"What are you up to now? You fancy a swim? But you hate the water—Frank, stop messing around and let me go."

Kimberley made an attempt to break free. But Frank pushed on as the water came up chest-high. He felt her body tense up as what he was about to do started settling in. He wondered if she would fight it, lie to herself so her own reality would override her fears.

Frank leaned into her ear as the surf rose and whispered, "Shh." When the next wave came, he grabbed the back of her head and forced her under. A person can drown in a couple of centimeters of water. She struggled but he held her fast, not letting up.

When the wave had passed them by and she tried to cough it out, he covered her nose and mouth with his free hand. Instinct. She's a good girl—she wouldn't struggle on purpose.

Another wave, and as she fought harder, he held her under, letting his head fall back, allowing the red sun to bathe his face in its warmth. This was the moment, the most sublime feeling he had ever experienced. How could taking a life feel so ... so right?

Frank could feel the undertow working on his body from about the knees down. He pushed with one hand and pulled her hair with the other, getting his knee wedged into her back. He was amazed at his own strength; he wondered at how young he felt. Getting rid of the baggage was doing him wonders.

The thrashing stopped. When he felt the fingers of the undertow grasping for Kimberley's body, he released her and she slipped away from him forever. Perhaps she'll stay down under a thermocline for a while. Until the sharks get her.

Perhaps one already had. He waded back to the shore, and as he did, a sense of relief filled him.

The pink backpack was still there on the beach. He snatched it up and walked casually to the house, where he took off his wet clothes and then, naked, held the stone up to the sunlight. It whispered something he couldn't put into words; it was more of a feeling than a tangible voice.

"You know where I should go," Frank said absently, "and I know who to call." He set the stone—the Bloodstone, he thought he should call it, and chuckled at his originality—up on a makeshift shrine near the window, where it could catch the sun's rays.

The room became red. Frank giggled like he hadn't done since he was in primary school. He dialed the number and waited for someone to pick up on the other end.