Her Billionaire, Her Wolf--The Novel(9)

“We were named Nephilim, the sons of the Seraph and human women so many millennia ago. Blood drinker and werewolf are as nothing in comparison.”

The man felt his throat go dry. The voice, if its words were true, belonged to one who had seen the world before the pyramids were built. Before man had presumed to master the world.

“But, why me? Can you explain that instead of always talking in circles?”

Silence followed until the man thought that he had been left once again in ignorance.

“It is because you carry a weapon worthy of the task you have set yourself,” said the voice, at last. “I felt its coming and sought you out, curious to know who dared carry it in battle once again.

“And as I drew near, I felt your avidity, such hunger for the destruction of all abomination that walks in darkness, preying upon mankind.”

The man touched the pommel of the sword once more, gratified that the blessings it carried were of a puissance that merited notice.

“The sword has been passed down for hundreds of years. A holy man has given it to me so that the benediction of priests might protect me as I hunt.”

There was another sound, stranger than all the rest, until the man recognized it for what it was. Someone had snorted with amusement.

“Is that what you believe, human? That the mumbled whisperings of drooling old men protect you?”

Anger welled as the man heard these blasphemous words.

“If not that, then what? You cannot deny that it destroys where an ordinary sword would do nothing.”

“Ah, human...it is not the blessings of priests that imbue the blade with power. Rather, it is because that blade was forged by the hand of a singular being and when he had done he wept with chagrin for the destruction it would yield in his hands. The sword is mighty because it was quenched in the tears of an angel.

“The smaller of two blades made by him, the angel could not face the terrible violence then at his disposal, and so he cast one of them away. And, even without it, he was formidable as he dealt out his message across the ages.”

Shock rang through the man. Except that he heard the clear sound of truth in the creature’s words. The priests had lied to him, or, themselves, were ignorant of the weapon’s extraordinary origins.

“And what happened to this angel,” he asked in hopes of teasing out more of the sword’s tale.

“Why he found what we all seek,” said the voice. “In the end, he found peace.”

The man searched for something more to say, something to wipe away the melancholy that he had heard in the creature’s tone. But, he knew he was already too late. The presence had gone.

He stood alone, then, unwilling to touch the weapon at his side for a long moment, lost in thought.

And so the tree beside him suffered the fate of all things that pass into death.

It was quietly forgotten in the darkness.



~~~



The dream held her fast.

She knew that it was not real. She was lying in her narrow room upon a narrow bed with its thin mattress.

She knew this.

But it did not matter as she found herself walking down a corridor with sickly green tiles under her feet.

Sara had answered a help wanted ad, something about a temp position. But the wording of the advertisement had been strange, although, in her dream, she could not remember why she thought this.

She had called the phone number listed only to speak to an answering service.

A week had gone by, then, one evening, her phone rang. What hour it had been, Sara could not have said either, except that the sun had gone down and the sound of a telephone that never rang had scared the daylights out of her.

Still trembling, she had picked up and a voice had asked for her by name.

Sara replied that it was she and the line crackled. There was buzz and a strange thump, then the voice spoke into her ear again, saying that interviews were being scheduled and that she was appointed for the following evening.

Again, the exact time she had been given escaped her now, as the dream slipped along. Except that she remembered being struck by the way the person on the line had spoken. The way they had said she had been appointed.

The green corridor continued to roll out under her feet as she walked. Sara wore heels with the most formal skirt she owned. It was a gamble, but she had decided to skip the panty hose. Her legs were one of her best assets and the voice the evening before had been surely that of a man. At least, she thought it had been.

I need this job...I need it so much.

She unclenched her jaw for the ninth time since entering the building and followed the instructions she had been given the night before.

She had been told that most of the temp agency’s staff would be gone for the day and that she should simply go to the address, walk in without waiting for anyone to greet her at the door and take the stairs up to the first floor.

Then, follow the corridor to room number 217.

But the hour of the appointment, even if just then Sara could no longer recall exactly when, was truly bizarre.

It was late. Of that she was sure. Dark outside, after sunset. This, too, she knew.

It doesn’t matter. If I don’t get this, I’m out in the streets by next week.

If the interview had been scheduled for first cock’s crow, it would not have changed Sara’s determination to be there. The last of her savings was sifting away like sand through her fingers and if she did not find something soon, she would have to go back on her hands and knees to beg for forgiveness.

Never...I’d rather die than go back to him.

She shuddered, then resumed walking the corridor, scanning door numbers as she went.

Sara passed doors with frosted glass panels and darkness behind each one. Over and over, not finding the one marked 217 as panic began to grip her. She wondered if she had the day wrong. Or the hour.

She reached the end of the corridor, took a deep breath, then turned around letting out the air slowly, trying to calm herself.

It’s here...it must be.

She went back the way she had come, maybe seven paces, before she saw the warm yellow glow of an office light through its glass paned door.

A quick glance up and she saw the numbered plate screwed in place. 217.

Her stomach doing cartwheels, Sara seized the doorknob and let herself in.



The office was a relatively large one and Sara noted that one wall was almost entirely made up of French doors that would open onto a balcony running the length of the room. She had already seen that the building was an older one, and the balcony’s wrought iron balustrade was intricate in design, as if it dated to turn of the century.

The sole source of light was a green shaded banker’s lamp upon a leather topped desk and over the desk, a woman slumped, apparently asleep. Her face rested upon arms crossed before her and was hidden from view. Strangely, she reminded Sara of a student sleeping in study hall when she should have been hard at work instead.

Well, it is late, she thought.

Sara shifted her feet wondering what to do, then coughed gently, hoping that the woman would stir.

“Shhhhhhhh....”

It was a whispering sound that sounded like the slithering of a snake.

“Can’t you see that she is at rest?”

The sibilant voice brought a chill to the air and Sara searched for its source, except that she appeared to be alone with the sleeping woman.

There was a click and from what she had taken for a wall behind the desk, Sara saw the back-lit silhouette of a man leap up against a dressing screen. Like the balcony's iron balustrade, the dressing screen felt oddly out of place and Sara once again felt as though the 19th century had invaded the room.

“You must excuse me. I realize that this must appear quite strange, but I value discretion above all things.”

Again, his words slipped along her skin like a forked tongue and Sara felt a chill that prickled her skin.

“But, we have weighty matters to discuss, so without further ado, let us do that.”

Sara hesitated, then said, “I beg your pardon?”

There was a low chuckle, then, “Please, dear woman, no begging. Not yet. There will be time enough for that later.”

She shifted her feet again, wondering what to do next when her eyes chanced upon the folder under her arm.

“Maybe there is some mistake,” she said, “But, I was supposed to be interviewed for a data entry job.”

“Of course you were,” the silhouette replied. “Please, continue.”

Sara hesitated, then said, “I have my resumé and some letters of recommendation, if you like.”

Again, that low chuckle.

“The qualifications that you have so dutifully written down for me are of little importance, Sara,” he said.

"So let us cut to the chase. Trim away the fat and get to the marrow of it." Again, there was that low laughter that sounded like madness in the shadows.

“What would you like to hear? That you meet all the criteria that this position requires? That your experience in data entry makes you the ideal candidate?

"Well, those reasons have nothing to do with why you have been chosen.

"I decided that the job would be yours the moment I heard your voice on the telephone.

"You positively ache with what qualifies you for this position. I could not help but notice...and in time, so will he."

Ok...this is going too far. This guy is a certified whack job.

“Now, now dear woman," he said, as if he had heard her thoughts, "Calm yourself and think of the alternative. This is your last chance as you are well aware. Without me, you are less than a week away from crawling back to your beloved Mr. Woodard."