First of the Fallen (Neophyte Series 1)

22. Hell Hath No Fury

        MICHAEL LAY AWAKE IN his bed, gazing intonothingness that night, his blue eyes seemingly locked on the ancient mapmolded on his ceiling. The dim torchlight created dancing shadows of islandsand shorelines along every textured surface, every intricate detail painted infire. The oddly shaped continents were unlike the common maps he'd seen in thepast, much narrower by comparison.

    What began as drifting thoughts of hellfire and worry of the mission to come suddenly dimmed as he noticed a second Neophyte symbol, identical to the one that marked the Sanctuary's location just above Lake Ontario. Though the land masses were unlabeled, Michael recognized the island as what would be modern day Ireland on a normal map. He considered the possibility of another Sanctuary, possibly located across the Atlantic.

    Losing himself in the thought, his mind wandered yet again.

    He thought of the promise he had made to Samael the night Leviathan had attacked. He was never to put his life in jeopardy to save him ever again, and the planned rescue mission was in direct violation of that oath. However, Michael highly doubted that the Immortal was aware of just how much his guidance was needed, or how much he was missed. Though the team was certainly capable, each of the Neophytes dealt with this loss in their own way, and the thought of doing nothing was far more ghastly than the rescue mission itself.

    His absence lingered behind every vacant seat, every conversation that was cut short as heartfelt memories were too painful to relive, knowing the unofficial father of the divine family was in Hell suffering.

    Sleep was out of the question, stress and anxiety nipping at the heels of every attempt to silence his mind.

    'This is fucking hopeless.' he sat up with a frustrated jerk. He had laid there for the better part of an hour, the gears in his head turning relentlessly. 'Air.' he sighed. 'Fresh air will help.'

    Michael slipped his jeans on and tightened his belt, then stepped barefoot over the warm stone floor, and approached the double French doors that lead to his personal balcony. Into the bright glow of a full moon he moved, taking in the glow of light pollution over the lowest point of mountains and forestry beyond. There he could see the distant forms of Belleville's city hall and sections of the downtown core that lined the Moira River.

    The humbling chirp of crickets set the peaceful tone, and Michael leaned against the rail and sighed his worries into the still night air. A strange vibe seemed to curse the entirety of the grounds, and a silent warning in the pit of his stomach prophesized the coming of a violent storm, though there wasn't so much as a single cloud in the night sky. This was the calm before the storm, he was somehow positive. Their departure to the underworld was not scheduled for some time, but something beyond his comprehension hinted that the moment was closer than he could possibly predict, the fight of his life raging forth like a steaming locomotive—so fast and powerful that it rocked off the rails and out of control.

    'What the hell have I gotten myself into?' he asked rhetorically as a single firefly pulsed its sea-hued glow nearby, strangely high for its usual nature. He reached forth, hoping it would land on his finger, but before it had the chance, a massive set of black wings swooped out from nowhere and swallowed it whole.

    Michael jumped back, the raven's swift dive startling him.

    'You nearly gave me a heart attack!' he calmed his nerves, watching Samhera perch herself upon the railing. 'Come on then.' he gestured, and the bird happily hopped onto his forearm, her dense weight always surprising. 'Can't sleep either, huh?'

    She let out the slightest of chirps, her head tiling from right to left considering her new friend. It was then that he noticed the slightest glow in the base of her neck, the firefly still alive and pulsating within.