《Necro Drifter》
Chapter 1: Boonless
Bran was going to vomit.
¡°Crosses! He¡¯s gonna throw up!¡± Clyde scrambled to back away from Bran who was leaning against the outside rear wall of the high school. Blood dripped from Bran¡¯s nose onto his scattered homework. He barely kept his breakfast down.
¡°That¡¯ll teach ya to blaspheme in my school, Pagan.¡± Clyde crowed.
¡°Beat the dirty Pag!¡± One of Clyde¡¯s cronies jeered.
Bran¡¯s vision was hazy. His face throbbed. His stomach roiled with fear. I can¡¯t let them win. I need to fight. Masking all of the turmoil he looked up with a smirk.
¡°Heard you and Felica were shooting up Devil''s Tongue at the Bible retreat last weekend. It¡¯d be a shame if your daddy fount ou-¡±
¡°Shut up Pag!¡± Clyde said, again he slammed a fist into Bran¡¯s stomach causing him to double over and vomit onto his shoes. Dammit, those are my nice pair! ¡°Like anyone would believe gossip from a dirty wretch like you!¡±
Wrinkling his nose at the smell Clyde steepled his fingers and intoned a proclamation in the manner of the Pastor Dei Educate, ¡°I think he learned his lesson my brothers. May he repent. Or else.¡±
The group of seniors strutted away as Bran slumped to the ground. He tipped his head down and his pale green eyes watched drops of blood soak into his dark red jeans. Rage flickered darkly in the corners of his mind. Someday I¡¯m gonna beat Clyde¡¯s head into a mushy pulp. He tried to wipe the vomit from his shoes onto the grass and wondered, not for the first time, why God had chosen to abandon him? What had he done?
At eighteen years of age every human being receives a boon from God. A holy power granted to carry out His will. A select few with powerful boons become holy warriors. Even fewer still are granted the ability to lead the church. Renowned Saints that pull the reins of history. Most boons rank between decently strong and mildly convenient. Like the ability to grow flowers that heal stomach aches or a divine magic boon that summons a small orb of light. Without fail everyone receives a boon, except for Bran.
Three months ago, at the exact moment he turned eighteen (which was 3:33am on a Tuesday,) Bran had a nightmare. In his dream he stood alone in a dark forest glade. Flame flickered from a molten rift in the ground several feet in front of him. He peered into the rift. The stench of rotten flesh assaulted his nostrils. He stumbled back and fell to the ground as a clawed hand reached up from the fiery pit and a figure crawled out. Bran was frozen in place as it approached, and became visible in the flickering glow of the pit. The monster was bug-like and each of its six legs ended in a cruel looking humanoid hand with metallic feline claws. No feet, just hands. Lava rolled off its smooth obsidian shell. To Bran¡¯s horror, its eyeless face opened its jaws. Smoke rolled out between barbed teeth and it spoke with a cruel voice like tearing flesh, ¡°Cursed son of Babelon! Fate and death call to you. Behold it comes, a mark to twist your mortal soul. Harvest the souls of the dead. Prove yourself to the Prince of Hell. Fail and be cast into oblivion! We are watching you!¡±
Then the creature rushed forward with a guttural squeal. Bran threw up an arm to protect himself and the creature''s terrible teeth bit down on it. He woke up screaming in pain. His arm seized in agony as a baleful glowing green skull seared itself slowly into the back of his wrist.
¡°What in the unholy hells?!¡± Bran¡¯s father burst into the room with a baseball bat. His mother behind him with a heavy Bible raised high and turned on the light.
¡°What¡¯s wrong Bran?!¡± His mother asked.
¡°This!¡± Bran said, holding out his arm. His parents looked at his arm and looked back into his eyes.
¡°Did you break it?¡± His father asked.
¡°What? No! The skull. The freaking skull burned into my arm!¡± Bran said. His mother stepped forward and looked closely.
¡°Sweetheart there isn¡¯t anything on your arm.¡± She looked at him suspiciously, ¡°Did you take drugs?¡±
Bran laughed in disbelief.
¡°So you see nothing! Nothing at all?¡± Bran¡¯s panic rose. ¡°No mom, I''m not on drugs. I had an awful dream and then this mark burned into my arm!¡± He waved his arm emphatically in front of her.
His father strode forward, caught up Bran¡¯s outstretched arm to examine it and then locked Bran with a stern gaze, trying to gauge his son¡¯s intent.
¡°Bran there isn¡¯t anything on your arm. If this is a joke it¡¯s not funny!¡±
¡°But-¡±
¡°Enough! Go back to sleep! I have an important address at a college later - today I suppose. You will do extra chores for waking us up.¡±
They really don¡¯t see it.
¡°Sweetie, I think you will feel better in the morning. It¡¯s your eighteenth birthday! I¡¯m sure God will bless you with something amazing.¡± His mother said with a quick hug.
If there was one rule in the Killinger house it was that his Father¡¯s decisions were final. He was a big man. His presence alone demanded respect from everyone. A man of principle and seriousness. Bran had to fall in line or face his wrath.
As they left, Bran flopped back onto his bed, shaking with adrenaline. After a moment he examined the skull closer. Dark Power? He started as a hiss of indistinct whispers filled the air and the glowing green brand morphed into gothic letters of smoke that filled his vision:
Necro Drifter - Level One
Curse Power: Corpse Drift - Weak
Touch a corpse and drift through its memories to harvest power.
Overwhelmed he shook his arm and the words disappeared. He focused on the crest and the words appeared again.
¡°I¡¯ve lost my mind. I¡¯m straight up crazy. I¡¯m too young to be crazy!¡±
¡°Be quiet!¡± His father shouted from across the hall.
Silently he paced his room trying to make sense of this insane situation. OK maybe it''s a weird boon. Ms. Mulgrem can talk to fish. Maybe it¡¯s something like that. But levels? I¡¯ve never heard of anything like that. Some boons get stronger. Maybe I can just see the numbers behind mine? Like the supernatural code they use for mobile tomes. But that ¡°thing¡± didn¡¯t seem very Godly¡ is this boon-curse-power even from God? The questions flowed with very few answers until the sun rose. Avoiding his parents, he left for school. One thing he was sure of; he definitely wasn¡¯t going to go around touching corpses.
Several days later, Bran found himself seated in a Pastoral Advisor¡¯s office between his parents. The advisor was a disapproving man with a gray suit and thinning white hair. He leaned forward and began speaking in a serious tone.
¡°What I am about to tell you may be upsetting. There are documented cases of boonless individuals. While very rare, it appears that your son is one such individual.¡±
¡°Obviously!¡± His father shouted his voice on the edge of hysterical. He rose out of his seat and put his hands on the desk. He loomed over the Pastor and continued through gritted teeth.. ¡°I apologize Pastor, I just find this difficult to believe. My family is among the most righteous in this city! Maybe the county! Why would my son be abandoned by God?¡±
The pastor leaned away from Bran¡¯s father. ¡°I understand your frustration. To be honest, no one knows for sure. The Church Supreme¡¯s official stance is that those without boons are harmless.¡±
¡°Oh so it¡¯s not so bad then,¡± His mother interjected hopefully.
¡°However, it is also their stance that those not granted a boon clearly have,¡± he blinked nervously, ¡°dark unrepented sin or a familial blood curse. They consider the lack of a boon a sign of the final judgement of God.¡±
¡°Surely there is something to be done? Some kind of special ceremony to cleanse the boy?¡± His father asked.
¡°As far as the church is aware no boonless person has ever earned a boon. No matter how much they repented.¡±
¡°What about this skull nonsense that he thinks he sees?!¡± His father asked.
¡°I don¡¯t know.¡± The Pastor peered down at Bran. ¡°Perhaps it is a mental break. As a result of unrepentant sin.¡±
¡°Seems to me a lot of Bishops should be having a ¡®mental break¡¯.¡± Bran said with a defiant sneer.
¡°Silence!¡± His father roared violently, turning Bran¡¯s chair towards him. ¡°What did you do, son?¡±
Bran said nothing.
¡°Mr. Killinger! I know you mean well, but you cannot force repentance!¡±
His father stormed out of the room.
Bran looked away flushing with shame at the way the advisor was peering at him judgementally. His mother began to sob quietly.
The ride home in his father¡¯s pristine truck was silent. So was dinner. The silence stretched on, then, that evening, Bran overheard his father ranting to his mother behind the closed door of his office.
¡°What did I do wrong Michelle? Did I not discipline the boy enough? I have half a mind to beat him until he confesses this - hidden sin.¡±
¡°No Sterling, I have hope! We have to trust God and his judgments.¡±
¡°I-I know. I¡¯m sorry for yelling. I just had such high hopes for him.¡±
¡°We both did.¡± His mother said quietly.
Bran¡¯s chest tightened as his breath came in bursts. His eyes burned as he quietly fled to his room. Foundations of trust that he hadn¡¯t known were there crumbled to dust. First God abandoned him, now his parents.
After that, it didn¡¯t take long for Bran¡¯s friends to find out the shameful truth. Excited questions about what his boon was turned into awkward condolences, which turned into awkward conversations. One by one they stopped greeting him in the hall. Julian, his best friend since childhood, was the last to stop talking to him. Whenever Bran entered a room Julian always found a reason to be in conversation with someone else. One day he confronted Julian in the bathroom.Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
¡°Hey Jules you got a sec?¡± Bran said.
¡°Oh hey. I really gotta get to class.¡± Julius tried to push past him and leave. Bran reached up and grabbed his arm.
¡°I haven¡¯t changed. I¡¯m still me. Why won¡¯t you talk to me?¡±
Julius looked up at the ceiling and sighed.
¡°It¡¯s my parents. They threatened to take my tuition money away if I was seen hanging with you.¡±
¡°Oh.¡±
¡°So yeah, sorry man. I know it¡¯s not fair but I can¡¯t throw my future away. You understand - right?¡±
¡°I - understand.¡±
¡°I¡¯m sure things will get better when you get out of here right? High School is hell!¡± Julius said with a forced smile.
¡°Sure will.¡± Bran returned the smile as his heart tore in two.
As the days passed word got out to everyone. Bran received dirty glances wherever he went, worse were the notes offering to pray for his ¡°condition¡±. It¡¯s too late for prayers. As if God would do anything for me. He thought as he threw yet another note away. Anger and grief over what was happening to him were slowly replaced by loneliness and desperation. His attempts to befriend anyone were immediately ruined when they learned who he was. What he was. The World Divine Psych-net recorded everything discussed and searched. Reaching out to others like himself was a dangerously blasphemous activity.
Bran tried to find books or articles discussing curses. The general consensus was that the less curses were studied, the better. The curse was confusing and vague. Even if he wanted to, and he didn¡¯t, it was difficult to find corpses just laying around in a major city. Especially with boon-powered holy disintegration being the usual means of body disposal. However, fate had other plans.
Three weeks after receiving the curse mark he was riding home on his bike from school. There was a screech of tires and yelp of pain. The car sped off as Bran ditched his bike to check on the dog laying motionless in the road. The poor animal whimpered with wide terror-filled eyes and feebly wagged its tail. Bran knelt and stroked its head gently. He could tell from the injuries that it wasn¡¯t going to recover.
¡°I - don''t know what to do.¡± Bran checked the collar. ¡°Daisy. It¡¯s gonna be OK girl. Just rest here.¡±
Daisy shut her eyes and seemed to relax. Her breaths began to slow, after a few minutes her breathing stilled. She was gone. Suddenly Bran¡¯s green eyes flashed and wisps of baleful green energy streamed from the dog into his chest. Indistinct whispers just behind Bran made him snap his head to look. No one was there. The whispers came again louder and rushed to a crescendo as Bran lost his grip on reality and his vision faded to blackness.
Bran was awake! Sniffing the air, it danced with many smells but he picked out the scent of his owner. It was going to be a great day! Bounding up the stairs of his home, he nosed open the bedroom door and laid his head on the bed patiently awaiting morning scritches. His owner rolled painfully to face him with kind blue eyes and a gentle smile. A gnarled hand patted his head.
¡°G¡¯mornin Daisy. Want to go outside?¡±
Daisy? Wait, that''s not right. What in all the unholy realms! I''m not a dog! The memory pulsed with greenish energy as Bran¡¯s soul tried to wrench itself from Daisy¡¯s form. He succeeded in lifting his incorporeal ghost head up from Daisy¡¯s resting form. Like a human-ghost-head hat. With rising claustrophobia Bran looked about the room.
Laying on the bed was an old man of at least eighty. It was a small room filled with a lifetime of memories. Pictures of his family, and knick-knacks from all over the Holy Christo Empire. The old man groaned and began to rise. Bran wagged his tail in anticipation! No not my tail! Before he could ponder it anymore, Daisy''s ecstatic joy of beginning the day blotted out his thoughts.
After enduring the taste of what Bran could only describe as dry meat cereal, Daisy¡¯s owner let her outside into the neighborhood. Apparently Daisy had a routine which involved smelling everything and chasing cats. Damnable cats, his mortal enemy with their lazy swishing tails. Always looking down on him. Today he would finally catch one and then - well do something to it. He was sure the cat wouldn¡¯t like it. Bran shook his head. I don''t hate cats, where did that come from? He strained to further separate from Daisy. He managed to pop out his arm. It trailed limply in the wind as a joyful Daisy dashed off to chase another cat.
Snap!
Bran collapsed on the road next to the now-deceased Daisy as the final wisps of energy flowed into his chest.
¡°What the Holy hells!¡± He gasped. Ghostly words appeared in his vision. Bran paused as the information processed through his overstimulated brain.
Corpse Drift complete.
No memory harvested. A random memory growth aspect has been assigned:
Your sense of smell is enhanced to smell feline enemies at a distance.
His entire body was alight with pinpricks of sensation, especially his nose. He needed to sneeze but couldn¡¯t. After an excruciating moment the feelings passed. Bran became acutely aware of the scent and location of every nearby cat. Feline enemies? How do I harvest powers when I couldn¡¯t even control my own body? What kind of stupid power is this?
Shaking his head in resignation he took a moment to write a message to the Seraph¡¯s Station about the accident in his Mobile Tome. With a final pet of Daisy¡¯s head he whispered, ¡°It looked like you had a fun life. Sorry it ended this way.¡± The disconcerting experience had unlocked a curiosity about his curse. It itched at him and wouldn¡¯t go away.
One month passed. Despite his efforts to ignore them Bran had accrued an accurate count of feline enemies in his neighborhood. Thirty-three cats and six kittens. No other opportunities to explore his curse ability had presented themselves thus far. Today his senior class departed for their mandatory field trip to the Hall of the Saints.
¡°Class C will proceed with the guided tour as A & B sit in on the presentation.¡± His teacher called out as the students unloaded from the buses in front of the enormous museum. The gothic building was covered in garish stained glass depicting famous bible stories and saints. Bran trailed at the back of his group as they followed the tour guide through the red carpeted halls.
Wooden display cases gilded in gold and silver held relics and ancient writings of the great saints. Many cases featured preserved body parts of those saints as well. It was weird. One particular Saint, Thomas de Soothe, was a renowned Seraph of the pagan wars. His skull sat out in the open on an ornate purple pillow on a pedestal of stone. A polished gold cross was inlaid into the forehead. Only a velvet rope barricade separated it from the tour group. Bran pretended to read the display as his group passed around a corner out of sight. Unsurprisingly, no one noticed his absence.
Seraph¡¯s were holy warriors. Their boons were always ranked as extremely powerful. They filled the roles of soldiers and law enforcement. Three years ago a veteran of the Pagan Wars was consumed by the horrors he had witnessed in combat. Who could blame him? Those wars killed millions. Fireworks during an All Saint¡¯s Festival set off his PTSD. He activated his blood rage boon and murdered several innocent bystanders in a shopping district. The local Good News station recorded psych footage of a Seraph Suppression Squad arriving at the scene. They hit the pavement like golden meteors and simultaneously skewered the former war hero. It was over in seconds.
Bran rubbed his forehead in indecision. What am I doing?! I¡¯m pretty sure manhandling a saint¡¯s skull is a special kind of heresy. ¡®Boonless arrested for desecrating priceless relic¡¯ that would be great! Then he dreamed of having an energy shield or spear. Or even better holy wings! Oh what the hells! He stepped over the barricade and carefully brushed his finger across the ancient skull.
Baleful green energy rushed towards him, but this time he could see the memories trapped in it, playing out like small psych projections. As time slowed he focused on one particular memory that felt hot and shone brighter than the rest. He felt himself drawn into it and lost consciousness.
Bran jerked his head to the side, dodging an energy-spear thrust. He could smell the searing heat of it as it passed. He lashed out with his own spear and impaled his opponent through the stomach. Blood gushed as the pinned man tried to free himself. With a lurch of willpower Bran turned away from the grisly sight and managed to separate his soul from the Saint¡¯s body. Except for one foot. He found himself landing flat on his back and unceremoniously drug across the concrete as Saint De Soothe strode forward to finish the job. Fighting raged around them in the center square of a residential block. The signs on the building were in a language that Bran couldn''t read. It was the dark of night and bazing crystals of holy power hovering in the air illuminated Saint de Soothe¡¯s golden armor so that he shone like an angel.
¡°Soothe, the slayer of children.¡± Said the dying man on the ground spitting blood. ¡°Your sins will repay you someday!¡±
¡°Perhaps,¡± said Soothe in a deep voice. ¡°But not before I purge every last blasphemer from this land.¡± He cut the man¡¯s throat with a dagger and jerked his spear free. With a casual air he began to move towards a nearby house. ¡°I will end your line first, Heretic.¡±
Bran was horrified to see children peeking out from the smashed doorway. He finally managed to free his foot from the Saint¡¯s.
¡°Stop, they''re just children!¡± Bran said.
The Saint paused as greenish energy rippled through the fabric of the memory. He turned his helmeted face towards Bran. Bran felt fear rise in his stomach. The Saint could see him! How? Isn¡¯t this just a memory?
¡°You don¡¯t belong here, Necromancer.¡± The saint said in a voice that sounded like a thousand whispering voices combined. He raised his spear and charged at Bran.
¡°Wait no!¡± Bran cried as the spear darted toward his heart.
Snap!
Bran was heaving breaths as the memory faded and he was back in the Halls of the Saint¡¯s. The final wisps of green energy dissipating.
¡°Hey Killinger! Why are you touching that skull? Gonna steal it?¡± A fellow classmate named Kathryn was looking at him with a smirk.
¡°Huh?¡± Bran said.
¡°You¡¯ve been standing there touching it for like a whole minute. Don¡¯t tell me being boonless makes you stupid as well? Teacher said to come find you.¡±
¡°Oh I uh, just wanted to know what it felt like.¡± Bran quickly stepped back over the velvet rope and rejoined the class ignoring Kathryn¡¯s glare. Then he received the good news.
Corpse Drift complete.
No memory harvested. A random memory growth aspect has been assigned:
You have six toes.
The tickling was torture as his toes transformed. He tried to mask it by bouncing a bit and humming to avoid screaming. No one noticed or cared. It was yet another useless power and now he would have to spend his birthday money on shoes that actually fit.
As the days dragged on, it was cemented in Bran¡¯s mind that no one wanted to be associated with God''s rejected son. Dirty looks from other students were replaced with spitting and shoving him in the halls. Church Supreme law forbade boon discrimination. However, one cared to stop discrimination against a vile boonless. Surely someone rejected by God himself deserves scorn. He missed the quiet evenings spent with his mother and father. They would talk about their day. Discuss the weather. Boring normal things. Now they wouldn¡¯t look at him. They only spoke to him in commands. Hatred hid in their mouths just waiting for a reason to let it out. Recently, the school bullies decided that his presence was sin itself. They were more than willing to dole out their version of righteous punishment.
Three long months had passed since his 18th birthday and now he was sitting battered and bleeding behind the school. With vomit on his shoe and blood on his clothes. Bran¡¯s chest ached as a hot tear traced its salty trail down his cheek. Hastily he wiped at his cheeks and tipped his head to rest on the school wall as the nosebleed ceased. The warm springtime sun pierced his eyes. As he raised an arm to block the light, the sleeve of his faded black leather jacket slid back to expose the skull and its mocking smile. Directing his thoughts, Bran commanded the skull crest to awaken.
Necro Drifter - Level One
Curse Power: Corpse Drift - Weak
Touch a corpse and drift through its memories to harvest power.
Memories harvested: Two
Harvest growth: Your sense of smell is enhanced to smell feline enemies at a distance. You have six toes.
Bran¡¯s thoughts rushed back to the present moment as a squirrel chittered angrily in the tree above him. The bullying was over for now. Right now Bran desperately needed to pass Holy Finances 101 and Mr. Slate did not tolerate tardiness. Bran staggered to his feet and headed to class.
The vaulted stone entrance of Eccasties Grace High School was guarded by the school Minor Seraph. The slightly overweight law enforcement officer wore a spotless white uniform with silver trim. His wings were folded neatly and the crackling holy spear he held brimmed with power. An unlucky fly disintegrated in the protective divine shield that surrounded him.
¡°Watch yourself Killinger.¡± The guard muttered as Bran passed. Compared to what I¡¯m walking into, the fly had it easy.
The main hall of the school was packed with jostling students and aglow with holy boon powers. One girl walked along the wall leaving glowing footprints. Her hair acted as if the wall was down for her and anything else she touched. Bran ducked as a swarm of silver locusts streamed down the hall towards a garbage can.
¡°No, you know that¡¯s not good for you!¡± A nerdy looking boy raced after them.
A tall boy with supernatural good looks and glowing golden hair flirted with anyone that walked by. Several students stood silently as they chatted using their holy psychic boons. As if putting holy in front of a power name makes it more morally acceptable. A strong looking girl in athletic wear was followed by a glowing clone of herself with wings and sheathed sword.
Arriving at class, Bran took his seat and braced himself for boredom. Mr. Slate was about ten minutes into a lecture on tithing law when Bran¡¯s attention drifted. Then, as if no time had elapsed, The bell rang, awakening Bran from his daydreaming. Slinking from tree to tree he fled the school. Arriving safely at home he smiled. After tonight everything would be different. He would harvest a useful power and finally make his curse powerful. With enough power he could prove everyone wrong.
He needed a shovel.
Chapter 2: Excavation
I should have worn gloves. Bran heaved another scoop of dirt which was mostly rocks onto the growing pile. I hope you¡¯re worth it Jacob Hammond III. Crickets serenaded him in the chilled spring night air. Pale moonlight lit the long abandoned graveyard. The gravestones jutted up through a shallow fog like crooked teeth. Bran left his flashlight off except to occasionally check the bottom of the hole. From where he stood, it wasn¡¯t grave robbing per se. More like a historical excavation to - honor the memories of the dead. This was important research!
Temperance Rests graveyard was a long forgotten relic crumbling in obscurity behind Holy Rollers, a less than reputable junk yard. As a kid, Bran had stumbled across it while exploring the small stand of trees. There hadn¡¯t been a burial there for hundreds of years. Sweat stung Bran¡¯s eyes and the freshly turned dirt smelled musty. His shovel hit something that snapped. Trembling, he turned on his flashlight. Among the rocks and dirt he could see his shovel wedged between several weathered and brittle rib bones.
¡°Crosses.¡± He breathed.
This was the moment he had been hoping for. Secretly a small part of him wished that he had found nothing. A much larger and more insistent part burned with curiosity. With a quick glance around he reached down and hesitantly touched the unearthed bone. Predictably the green energy and snapshots of memory rushed from the corpse towards him. Bran focused on finding a memory that would be useful to him. A particular scene called to him and he dove in.
Everything smelled of pig manure. Bran rested his arms on the recently repaired wooden fence. Several sows mucked about in the pen. There would be a litter of piglets soon. His pork empire was well on its way.
¡°Jacob! Dinner¡¯s ready!¡± His widowed mother called.
¡°Aye! Hope it¡¯s somethin¡¯ tasty!¡± He called. Bran¡¯s conscious identity coalesced. Instead of fighting the memory, this time he chose to go with the flow. Whew, that smell is so strong! Jacob meandered, as only a farmer can, towards the house and hot grubb.
The homestead was built of roughly sawed logs. Several oil lamps and a glowing fireplace lit the dim interior. Though remarkably clean, the house smelled of smoke, sweat, and pigs. The family sat around a well-built table, eating a simple stew of meat and root vegetables.
¡°The preacher came by again today.¡± His mother mentioned, dishing out steaming salt pork and turnips. ¡°Says there is a holy revolution brewing. That Jesus is gonna lead his army to take over the capitol.¡±
¡°That¡¯s stoopid.¡± Jacob¡¯s younger brother said, his mouth full of turnips.
¡°Watch yerself young man! And swallow your food before you share an ¡®pinion.¡± Jacob¡¯s mother snapped.
¡°I don¡¯t much care for his meddling in our business mum.¡± Jacob said. ¡°Ain¡¯t none of us want to join his war.¡±
¡°I think it¡¯s ¡®bout time someone fought evil in this country.¡± Jacob¡¯s sister and twin said. ¡°The Bible says God doesn''t abide an evil country. Sandy said there is a new gambling hall in town.¡±
¡°And a witch lives under the bridge!¡± Jacob¡¯s brother added helpfully. Jacob stared at both of them blankly.
¡°That¡¯s a worry for people that don¡¯t have hard work to do,¡± Jacob said. ¡°Mother, next time the preacher stops in, tell him we ain¡¯t having a part of his revolution.
Bran wondered what the year was. He searched the room for a calendar, but only handmade cross-stitch art embroidered on scraps of fabric decorated the walls. There didn¡¯t seem to be anything useful about this memory. Pig farming was not appealing. Maybe he could direct the memory somehow. He focused his thoughts on his goal. Find a useful power.
As he concentrated his perception expanded out from himself and the structure of the memory itself solidified. Swirling blue eddies of time meandered through the space around him like neurons pulsing with momentum. As the blue tendrils of time flowed around the souls of the people in the room their existence merged with time. Causation, correlation and chaos all blended together in a vibrant symphony of experience. As time was transformed by living souls it took on a green hue. It became more. It was alive.
Inspiration struck Bran. The truth shone clear as a bright blue sky, memory doesn¡¯t fade when the brain ceases to function. Memories are written into the fabric of the universe itself, forever changing reality. Bran now knew instinctively that his soul was able to sense these changes and alter the memory¡¯s structure. An awareness awakened in Bran to a reservoir of energy nestled in the core of his soul. The energy roiled like slowly boiling honey. Need overrode caution and Bran tried to manipulate the energy with his thoughts. As his awareness seeped into the reservoir the energy reacted to him. It seemed eager to obey his commands. Again Bran focused; Find a useful power. After a moment of uncertainty, the energy left his soul through the brand on his arm in a rush of billowing green smoke. A faint green glow outlined every object as time sped up. At triple the normal pace, Jacob shot out the cabin for nightly chores. Motion sickness assaulted Bran as his human soul-car sped about the farm. Panicking, he released his mental hold on the energy and time slowed to its usual pace during a moment when Jacob was asleep for the night.
Woah, now that¡¯s crazy and interesting. Manipulation of the memory caused his energy to drain faster. Likewise speeding up time felt like lifting a heavy weight. Curious, he tried to stop the flow of time. Energy flowed from him but it felt like an immovable weight blocked him. Testing the bounds he attempted to reverse time instead. He failed again. Guess pausing or going back isn¡¯t an option.
After some testing, Bran found that if he separated his soul from Jacob''s, in his now patented ghost-head-hat form, the sped up motion was tolerable if at an increased loss of energy. He noticed there were gaps in time. If Jacob Hammond III didn''t remember it happening, then it didn''t exist here. Different memories were filled with inconsistencies. The placement of objects jumped about, the colors of clothes and ages of people changed to match Jacob¡¯s own internal timeline.
After skipping through approximately a month¡¯s worth of memories Bran estimated that a third of his reserves remained. Bran decided that Jacob''s life was very ordinary. Jacob¡¯s boon was the ability to easily tame and train animals. Even a grumpy wild badger named Frank. Jacob remembered doing the same things from day to day. Raising pigs, general farm upkeep, fishing, teaching his siblings In place of a father. Birthing piglets had been a very notable event. The ambient lighting in the memory brightened as Jacob''s excitement rose. Bran, however, was thoroughly disgusted. He sped through that part.
Just before Bran¡¯s energy reserves ran out, the color drained from the surroundings. Pressure pushed down on Bran¡¯s soul. He felt dread rise. Some memories were best forgotten. Jacob rose to work like any normal day. He smelled the smoke before he saw it. It rose above the trees from the neighbors homestead a mile to the south. At the same moment A small soot-covered girl stumbled out of the woods.
¡°They burned our house!¡± She cried hoarsely. ¡°They took momma and poppa!¡±
That doesn¡¯t sound good.
Jacob shouted for his brother to take the girl into the house. He dashed to grab his father''s old war sword from the mantle.
Bran could hear voices yelling as Jacob dashed through the woods. They broke through the tree line to see the cabin consumed by fire. A group of men carrying weapons surrounded it, jeering and laughing.
¡°Death to the pagans!¡±
¡°This is God''s country!¡±
¡°Stop this!¡± Jacob said. Trembling with fear and rage he drew his father''s sword.
The men turned towards Jacob, surprised, and Bran recognized a face. The preacher. Bran rolled his metaphysical eyes. Yeah I saw that one coming. The more things change over time the more they stay the same.
¡°This madness!? This is your great revolution!?¡± Jacob asked.Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.
The preacher stood up straighter and set his jaw. ¡°Aye my lad tis! The unholy mind readers must be purged. Then God will bless this land! Jacob, you are a man of God! You should join us in destroying these sinners!¡±
Jacob realized there was muffled yelling from inside the burning cabin.
¡°You bastards!¡± Jacob barreled through the closest thugs as they dodged his wild sword swings. Continuing his charge Jacob smashed the cabin door inward in a wash of searing flames.
The couple were tied to chairs. His neighbor and friend, Mr. Milland, was unconscious. His wife screamed through a gag. Hissing with pain Jacob seized the chairs dropping his sword. A moment later he collapsed coughing outside the cabin. Mrs. Milland screamed again.
¡°Mr. Hammond, you foolishly aided an enemy of the revolution. I reckon that makes you a traitor.¡± The Pastor said leaning over Jacob¡¯s prone form. ¡°Pity, I hoped you would see the light of God.¡±
The Pastor brought a club down on Jacob''s head.
Snap!
Bran held the side of his head. Damn the hells that hurt. The pain quickly faded as his own body was perfectly fine. He swooned as his legs gave out in exhaustion. Well mostly fine anyway. He had learned a lot but his reserve of energy was completely spent. Physical changes coursed throughout his body. Words of smoke poured from the brand on his wrist.
Necro Drift complete.
Memories harvested: 3
No power harvested. A random power has been assigned.
You have greatly increased tolerance for pain.
He had been so caught up in the events of the memory that he had completely forgotten to try to harvest a power! Well pain tolerance wasn''t a bad thing. However, his grand plan to Corpse Drift several times that night was ruined. His energy was tapped and recharging at a snail''s pace. Damn. I don¡¯t remember learning about holy people starting a revolution in history class. That was an awful ending. Jacob was a hero and got killed for it. That was stupid. He had a family to take care of. I don¡¯t know if I could throw myself into a sacrifice like that. Moreover, experiencing someone else''s death was not something he wanted to make a habit of.
Exhausted Bran filled in the hole he had dug and trudged home. After a long shower he collapsed into bed and closed his eyes for what felt like two minutes.
¡°Rise and shine for the glory of God righteous Citizen!¡± His Mobile Tome blared.
¡°Shut up stupid book¡± He mumbled.
He sat up and stretched. Considering he had dug a hole for three hours last night he was surprised that he wasn''t sore. One time last summer, his grandfather made him pull weeds for an afternoon. The next day Bran could barely move his arms. Athlete, he was not. Increased pain resistance. Nice.
He summoned his status. Ethereal words of smoke materialized before him.
Necro Drifter - Level 1
Curse Power: Corpse Drift - Weak
-Touch a corpse and drift through its memories to harvest power.
Curse Skill: Memory Manipulation - weak
-You have the ability to affect the fabric of memories by bending them to your will. The greater the effect the greater the energy cost. Additional manipulation abilities unlocked at higher skill levels.
Memories harvested: 3
Harvest growth: Your sense of smell is enhanced to smell feline enemies at a distance. You have six toes. You have greatly increased tolerance for pain.
Beware, a level increase is available. Will you pay the cost?
YES / NO
The new skill was surprising, but also made sense. His inspiration about the nature of memory must have been caused by unlocking Memory Manipulation. As for the last section. Beware? What?! Can you get any more vague? Oh ho, I am the mighty curse power that has ruined your life! Will you gamble an unknown cost for an unknown level upgrade? Go blaspheme yourself.
Bran left for school in a worse mood than usual. Haven¡¯t I paid enough already? It¡¯s almost like whoever made this power has it out for me. That day he managed to avoid Clyde until mandatory afternoon prayer time. During this period students were allowed to pray wherever they wished on campus. The devoted students tended to pray together in groups. The rest of them were free to wander about ¡°praying¡±. Bran was caught on his way down the hall towards the chapel.
¡°Well hello boonless.¡± Clyde¡¯s mocking voice whispered. His iron hand grasped Bran¡¯s neck. Bran stiffened with fear, but remained silent. Maybe if I just shut up they will give up sooner.
¡°Let''s pray together.¡± Clyde said.
His gang snickered as they led Bran into an unoccupied maintenance office. Before the door shut Clyde shoved Bran against a filing cabinet. Bran felt his teeth cut into the inside of his lips as his mouth struck the cold metal. The tang of blood filled his mouth.
I bleed almost every day now. He thought.
¡°Let''s see, what should we pray to God for today?¡± Clyde said. ¡°Oh I know. I pray that this filthy pagan shall receive punishment for his blasphemy.¡±
He leaned down to look Bran in the eyes.
¡°Do you think God will answer Pag?¡±
He slapped Bran across the face. Blood streaked from his mouth across the dirty carpet.
¡°Look at that. I guess he listened to me.¡±
They punched and kicked Bran. Laughing as he curled into a ball to protect himself. He thought of Jacob. He thought of The man that the Seraph Saint had speared through the chest. They had resisted God. For what? To die heroes? Bran wasn¡¯t a hero. He wasn''t worth fighting for, not anymore.
What if?
That small thought flicked desperately in his psyche. Between punches and insults. One thought was all that remained of his capacity to hope, to have faith. It spread like venom until there was nothing left in his mind. What if? What if his life didn''t have to be this way? What if he had the power to change?
Bran opened his clenched eyes. The bullies looked surprised and stopped hitting him.
¡°Hey the Pag is staring me down! You wanna fight?¡±
¡°Clyde the boonless has a death wish!¡±
Bran painfully used the nearby desk to lift himself to standing.
Bran summoned his curse:
Beware, a level increase is available. Will you pay the cost?
YES / NO
Without hesitation he selected YES.
New skill activated: Necro Siphon - Weak
- the cost must be paid. In blood.
¡°This has been a long time coming.¡± Bran growled. Holding up two fists. His eyes flashed green and smoke streamed from his skull crest as it bathed the small room in a sickly green light.
¡°We must have hit your head too hard, Killinger. Put those fists down and take your beating like a good little boy.¡± Clyde said, poking a finger into Bran¡¯s chest for emphasis.
¡°Don''t touch me!¡± Bran screamed and threw a wild punch, feeling his fist connect with Clyde''s smug face. Green energy siphoned from Clyde''s flattening nose and coiled down Bran''s arm like a serpent. The energy absorbed into his arm and a pulse of strength coursed through his arm muscles and filled his internal energy reservoir to overflowing. That feels amazing! Buzzing with energy and brimming with pent up rage, Bran punched Clyde''s stupid arrogant face again. His arm pistoned so fast that Cylde didn''t have time to react. Bap bap bap! Three jabs to the nose.
Clyde fell to the ground, his nose bleeding profusely.
¡°Kill him!¡± Clyde wailed.
The other four hooligans rushed Bran and tackled him to the floor. But Bran was possessed by more siphoning energy, and he fought dirty. He nearly bit off the largest boy¡¯s ear, then kneed another in the groin. Rising into a feral crouch and smiling with bloody teeth, Bran said, ¡°not so much fun when the Pag fights back, eh?¡± He stomped on a third boy¡¯s knee. The longer the fight lasted the more his siphon skill drained his opponents'' stamina. Sensing the shift in power the fourth assailant wisely ran for the door leaving Clyde defenseless in the corner of the room. Bran charged Clyde and gripped his throat with a single hand pinning him to the wall. More of Clyde¡¯s soul energy flowed into him. Clyde began to go pale and flailed ineffectually as Bran choked him.
¡°Three months,¡± Bran hissed, ¡°you''ve made my life hell.¡± Bran laughed wildly drunk on power and squeezed Clyde¡¯s throat tighter. With an audible ¡°POP!¡± Something in Clyde''s neck snapped. Clyde''s body shuddered for a moment and then he went limp. Blood trickled from the corner of Clyde¡¯s mouth as bulging eyes lost their light. Bran released his grip and Clyde slumped to the floor.
The boy whose ear Bran had aggressively bit down on stumbled over pushing Bran out of the way. ¡°CLYDE!¡± He knelt down next to Clyde¡¯s motionless form and felt for a pulse. He whirled on Bran, ¡°YOU! KILLINGER¨C WHAT DID YOU D¡ª¡±
Green energy exploded outward from Clyde''s body and crashed into Bran¡¯s chest. Realization pierced him like a jagged ice shard to the heart. A memory drift had begun. Stumbling back, Bran tried to resist the energy, willing it to stop. He hadn''t wanted this! But the memory ensnared him, forcing his soul to enter. With horror Bran realized the truth; this was the cost¨Cto drift the final memories his victim re-lived as they died.
It was Bran¡¯s seventh birthday party. No one had come this year. Again.
Chapter 3: The Cost of Death
A clown. His parents had hired a clown. Clyde was terrified of clowns. Bran watched with a sinking pit in his stomach as he watched seven year old Clyde run screaming from the middle- aged man in garish clothing, a red nose protruding from his face. His parents and their adult friends laughed at his terror.
¡°Young children are so stupid!¡± the neighbor said.
¡°Yes, aren¡¯t they?!¡± Clyde''s Mother said, smiling.
Beyond the fear, Clyde felt shame. Deep and intrusive. It changed him in that moment in ways he would only become aware of now, in his dying moments. These were fundamental truths of Clyde¡¯s reality. No one cared about him. Kindness was all an act. A helping hand and a bright smile came with strings attached. They were doing him a favor. Children don¡¯t deserve to be treated with respect. Children were property to be molded. A commodity to be discarded at a whim. One brutal rule stood supreme; favors must always be repaid.
¡°You know, I thought about hurting them back.¡± Clyde said. ¡°Sneaking into their room with a knife. Poisoning their morning coffee.¡± With a casual mental push, Clyde shoved Bran¡¯s ethereal body apart from his own. The memory paused! The clown was frozen in place, blowing up a red balloon. Bran hovered, immobile, several feet away. Invisible bindings of willpower cut into Bran¡¯s soul. Razor blades of concentrated fury. Bran cried out in pain.
Where is the snap! It isn¡¯t ending! Something is wrong!
¡°A necromancer, huh? I thought those were just myths to scare kids. Like clowns.¡± With a pulse of green static, the child Clyde flickered and reappeared as his current young adult form.
¡°Can you hear me?¡± Bran said, gasping in pain.
¡°I would hope so. This is my mind. Could you butt out of my dying memories, Pag? You already killed me. Isn¡¯t that enough for you?¡±
¡°I¡ªI didn¡¯t mean to kill you. I still can¡¯t believe it happened. I didn¡¯t mean too¨C¡± Bran said.
Clyde flexed his mental willpower and the bindings constricted tighter around Bran. ¡°Now you''re a Pagan and a murderer.¡± Clyde''s voice was eerily calm. To Bran¡¯s senses, Clyde''s soul was fading away, his grip on the realm of memory failing. The swarm of energy that Clyde uniquely projected into the unseen world gradually unraveled itself into chaotic mist. Clyde¡¯s emotions, without a body to feel them, were just disconnected brain waves, ghosts of their former selves.
¡°They will hunt you down¡my family will.¡± Clyde released Bran, dumping him to the ground in a heap. Bran¡¯s anger flared to life.
¡°So what!¡± Bran said, ¡°I¡ªI was defending myself. Any court will find me innocent!¡±
¡°Jeez, you are a moron. I¡¯m royalty, Killinger! They won¡¯t tolerate a Pagan killing one of their own. They have assassins for a reason and now YOU are that reason. They don¡¯t kill people slowly, they will drag it out until you are a husk begging for the end. You''re crucified.¡± A sneer tore itself across Clyde¡¯s face.
¡°See ya soon.¡± Clyde severed Bran¡¯s consciousness from his own.
Snap!
Bran¡¯s nerves burned. His energy reserve had been forcibly drained. Murder itself administered its own punishment on his body, and even with his increased tolerance, pain engulfed him.
Corpse Drift Complete.
Memories drifted: 4
Souls Committed to Hell: 1
Homicide power granted. You have increased physical attributes. Strength, dexterity and speed can be boosted by soul reserves. Hell is quite pleased.
The room flickered back into focus. Bran¡¯s breathing heaved and his pulse was a staccato beat of pain in his temples. Clyde lay motionless. Bran¡¯s hands were covered in blood. They trembled continuously. The buzzing in his ears increased in pitch until voices broke through the shock.
¡°What in Moses¡¯s nuts are you, man?!¡± said the boy with the injured ear.
¡°Please don¡¯t kill me! I¡¯ve got a date tonight!¡± another whimpered, trying to crawl towards the door.
In the midst of the shame and disbelief of his own guilt, Bran felt a new feeling. It welled up in his soul. All at once magnificent, and horrific. He felt pride. This is what real power accomplished. Look at these boys cowering to him. No Saints, no Pagans. Just the one person with the power to take life and the others who were powerless to stand against him. Bran shook his head furiously and let out a snarl. He could feel the curse pushing tendrils of influence into his mind. A malevolent intelligence roared a command inside his mind.
ESCAPE!
Knocking the bully in the doorway aside, Bran stumbled from the maintenance room and fled from the high school. An overwhelming sense of wrongness pressed into Bran¡¯s thoughts. The curse seized control of his muscles, forcing him to run into the rainy streets of Zidon. Minutes later, he heard holy trumpet sirens in the distance. Still, the curse pushed him onward, overriding his own thoughts of giving up.
DON¡¯T STOP! YOU WILL DIE!
The voice would urge him to duck into a nearby business or under a car as Seraphs flew through the city overhead. He ran on, keeping to alleyways until his legs buckled from exhaustion. With the last of his strength, he crawled behind a dumpster in the back alley near a crumbling warehouse and collapsed to the ground, unconscious.
Gracien tapped the stack of papers on his desk lining them up neatly. Then he attached a staple at a forty-five degree angle in the top left corner. Perfect.
¡°Rebecca, please inform the Minister of Good Deeds that his petition of funds has been denied. The Church does not need to waste its limited funds on drug addicts. You know how to write it.¡±
¡°Yes, Inquisitor. If he asks to speak to you?¡± Rebecca said.
¡°The usual excuses. Emergency situation in the outer plains or something.¡± Gracien smiled ruefully. He wished he could see the look on the Minister¡¯s face when he heard the bad news. Ah well, such is the burden of someone at his station. There was simply too much to do.
¡°Here is the report on Operation Fallen Pillar that you requested, Sir.¡± Rebecca said, handing him a sealed folder.
¡°Thank you. Please lock the door. We don¡¯t need another janitor incident like last month. It took nearly a week to find a replacement.¡±
¡°Of course.¡± Rebecca left the room and Gracien cut open the seal with his ivory hilted dagger.
CONFIDENTIAL - INQUISITOR GENERAL EYES ONLY
Update by on Operation Fallen Pillar reporting from field emplacement in
Made contact with the heretical organization known to us as codename INFERNO. Will be tested for membership. Base of operations still unknown. Should have more information once inside. How they learn about potential recruits is still unknown. They found me after I had asked around at a few underground bars. Tests begin next week. Requesting additional equipment for surveillance.
The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.
¡ªJudas
Gracien nodded to himself in satisfaction. This latest operative was proving quite adept. It wouldn¡¯t be long until the heretics were rooted out. INFERNO was, up to this point, a ghost. Every agent sent to find them found nothing at all or disappeared without a trace. He got up and paced the length of his office. His office was sparsely decorated but every item within was placed with purpose. He stopped to gaze out the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the Church Prayer Gardens.
Enshrined at the center of the gardens was the Fountain of St. Horbus. Rising from the fountain, a marble angel spread its silver wings to reflect the evening sun. Over the past year, creeping vines had invaded the fountain and up the angel¡¯s torso. Before long they would ensnare the wings as well. Gracien made a note to have the vines cut down again. There was a parable in the angel¡¯s struggle with the vines, he thought. It was a fact of life that the Church Supreme held absolute power on the continent of Calenzeth. It was his duty to ensure it remained as such. Heretics were a creeping vine to be cut and burned. However, they could never be fully eradicated. Destroy one cell of rebels and two more spawned in its place. Their continued existence irked him like an itch he couldn¡¯t quite reach. With a sigh he sat down and reached for another new report.
MANHUNT - WANTED FOR MURDER
A boonless named Bran Killinger in the city of Zidon is wanted in connection to the murder of Clyde Calister, a minor Duke in the Holy Family. Last seen fleeing Eccasties Grace High School. Suspect is 5¡¯ 11¡± with black hair and green eyes. Wearing dark red pants and a black leather jacket. Suspected to have demonic magic abilities, extremely dangerous. Avoid direct confrontation.
Any information that leads to the fugitives capture will be rewarded. ¡ªInquisitor General¡¯s Office
"Well isn¡¯t that interesting.¡± Gracien mused aloud. Boonless were rare indeed, much less a murderer as well and with a mysterious demonic magic power. Gracien knew that the murder of a Royal would lead to a visit from the Holy Family. That was going to be unpleasant. It was a good time to get ahead of the curve. In his experience this sort of inciting incident had a tendency to cause more of the same, if not handled with a firm hand.
¡°Rebecca!¡±
Rebecca peeked in through the doorway. ¡°Yes sir?¡±
¡°Get ahold of Mr. Penance will you? I have a job that is right up his alley.¡± Gracien pitied the boy. He wouldn¡¯t stand a chance.
Something cold and wet dripped on Bran¡¯s lips. He startled awake. A steady downpour of spring rain soaked through his clothes. He shivered and stood, his body aching with every movement. His vision blurred at the edges. Fumbling, he pulled out his Mobile Tome.
Dad: BRAN! Where are you!
Zidon Seraph¡¯s Department: Mr. Killinger, we would like to speak with you. Please report to the Seraph¡¯s office immediately.
Mom: Dear, are you OK? What happened?
Bran felt hot tears run down his face mixing with the rain. The realization crashed down on him. He was a murderer. Even if Clyde deserved it. The law of the Church only saw one thing. Bran was Boonless. An abomination. They were going to hunt him down and kill him. Or worse.
In spite of the hell his life was, he didn¡¯t want to die. But he couldn¡¯t go home; he couldn¡¯t go anywhere. He pulled out a radiant quill and began to reply to his mother.
¡°I wouldn¡¯t do that,¡± a husky feminine voice said.
Bran whirled, flinging his tome away. A few paces away stood a figure in dark clothing. A heavy hood obscured all of its features except for a bone white mask with a red enamel ¡°7/3¡± embossed on the brow.
¡°Stay back!¡± Bran said, moving away from them.
¡°I¡¯m here to help you moron,¡± the figure said and pointed to his tome laying in a puddle. ¡°If you reply, the Seraphs can track you.¡±
¡°How did YOU track me then?¡±
¡°Smell. You curse-users have a distinct scent. Like sulfur and licorice.¡±
¡°W-what do you want!?¡± Bran¡¯s anxiety was peaking into paranoid fear. Whoever this person was, they had a way of finding him and that was very bad.
The figure sighed. ¡°How about we get you away from the murder squad flying around town first? Talk later?¡±
¡°Why would I go with you? I¡¯m doing fine.¡±
Out of the corner of his eye, Bran saw a flash of silver. A Seraph dove down between the buildings framing the alleyway, their spear whining with holy power. Bran froze in terror. I¡¯m dead. Before he could make himself react, the masked figure leaped past Bran, planted their feet, reached THROUGH the Seraphs energy sheild, and seized the haft of the spear, stopping it inches from Bran¡¯s face. As the spear was ripped from their grasp, the Seraph grunted in surprise at the sudden halt to their momentum and tumbled to the ground. Without delay, the Seraph launched back into the air, simultaneously drawing their sword.
¡°What the unholy hells was that?!¡± Bran shouted.
¡°Watch and learn, kid.¡± The masked figure spun the spear in a reverse figure eight motion and lowered into a guard position. The holy energy of the spear flickered out and blazed back to life as a crimson red flame. Floating above them, the Seraph cracked a sinister smile.
¡°Ah, a heretic. I am blessed to purge one of your kind. You face a holy warrior. God has already assured my victory.¡±
¡°Whatever, firefly. Bring it then.¡± The rain seemed to hang in midair as the masked figure lunged forward inhumanly fast. Growling the Seraph dove and swung his sword in a deflecting slash, knocking the blazing red spear to the side. The masked figure didn¡¯t stop. Releasing the spear, they bowled into the Seraph, once again ignoring the energy shield and grappling the Seraph in midair. Bran heard tearing sounds as the Seraph cried out in pain. One glowing wing had been ripped off and flung to the ground. Light and dark crashed to the pavement with a sickening thud. The Seraph thrashed for a moment, gurgling, and then lay still. Crosses ¡ª that Seraph didn¡¯t last five seconds. Bran watched as the masked figure turned back towards him. Claws coated in blood retracted from their fingers.
¡°Do you trust me now, newbie?¡± The figure said, their voice rough with battle fury.
Bran held up his hands. ¡°I don¡¯t know what is going on. But I¡¯ll stick with the person that can murder Seraphs.¡±
¡°It¡¯s not murder!¡± The figure said defensively. ¡°They deserve everything that comes to them. Flying pigs.¡±
¡°Whatever you say. After you, I guess.¡± As if I have a choice.
The figure motioned him to follow and led Bran through a criss-crossing path of alleys and unlocked doors leading through buildings.
¡°So, uh, you have a name?¡± Bran asked, scrabbling to climb into a window at head-height.
¡°You can call me Swap.¡±
¡°OK, that¡¯s an¡ªinteresting name.¡±
¡°That''s all you get, for now.¡±
The next several hours Bran attempted to engage Swap in small talk several times. He was always shut down by their curt ¡ª or blatantly offensive ¡ª replies. As dusk approached they moved out of the city proper and into affluent suburbs. Swap led him to a house that was under construction. The air smelled of fresh-sawed lumber and cement dust. Seraphs flew overhead and the two fugitives dove under a storage trailer.
¡°We wait here.¡± Swap said, declining to explain.
The sunlight faded as they hid for over an hour. Finally, Bran couldn¡¯t stand it anymore.
¡°What are we waiting for? I really have to go to the bathroom!¡±
Ignoring him, Swap muttered, ¡°Where are they¡¡±
¡°Where is who?¡±
Swap turned to look at Bran and rolled their eyes behind the mask. ¡°Our ride. They are usually late, but not this late.¡±
As they spoke, a beat-up work van pulled into the construction site. Black smoke sputtered from the rusty tail pipe. Checking that the coast was clear, Swap scrambled from their hiding place and Bran quickly ran to the construction workers'' outhouse. Exiting the outhouse Bran noticed a shorter figure with a thick build had stepped out of the van. The two strangers were speaking with one another. I really wish they would tell me what is going on. The suspension creaked as if they were much heavier than their small stature suggested. They too were dressed in black with a white mask emblazoned with red 7/3.
¡°Dammit Judd, what took so long?!¡± Swap said.
¡°Listen, sometimes old cars break down. I can only fix things so fast!¡± Judd said in a deep masculine voice, throwing their arms up into the air in exasperation.
¡°I got the kid. We need to scoot. I already off¡¯d a flyboy.¡±
Judd looked Bran up and down. ¡°Bit skinny isn¡¯t he?¡±
¡°Hi, nice to meet you too!¡± Bran said with mock congeniality. ¡°If at any point you would like to explain any of what the hells is going on, I would love that!¡±
¡°On the ride back,¡± Swap said.
¡°The ride back where?!¡± Bran said, planting his hands on his hips.
¡°The Refuge.¡± Judd replied. ¡°It¡¯s the only place left for people like us.¡±
¡°Like us?¡±
¡°Boonless, cursed, heretics¡Satan Spawn. Whatever the slur of the day is.¡±
¡°So, it¡¯s like a support group?¡±
¡°No, it''s more than that.¡± Swap cut in, ¡°It¡¯s an army and we are at war with the Church Supreme.¡±
Before Bran could object any further, Swap and Judd each grabbed him by an arm and unceremoniously tossed him into the back of the van. Swallowing his indignation, Bran watched out the rear window as Zidon grew smaller on the horizon. I guess this is goodbye.