Awen Rising, E3: Chapters Six - Seven

Nergal & News From Afar

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Episode One (Chapters 1 - 3)

Episode Two (Chapters 4 & 5)

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Chapter 6, Nergal

Deep within Earth’s crust, Reptilian General Nergal watched the Fomorian writhe on the onyx bench. The creature had identified and tagged a human target, one that he hoped could be used to overthrow the humans.

As the information downloaded from the Fomorian to the main server, Nergal’s anticipation grew. He tapped a clawed foot, picked meat out of his pointed teeth, then checked the console again. The computer was taking a long time.

Uncomfortable in the laboratory, Nergal inspected his digits and scraped away some of the dried and peeling scales. He flexed his hand and admired the ripple of the new olivine scales along his three long fingers and opposable thumb. Most Dracos’ claws were short and blunt, deadly enough, but Nergal kept his meticulously sharpened. A glance at the console told him the data wasn’t ready.

He sucked in his gut and ran his claws over his abs. The ventral plates covering his torso had already peeled and shone a pale flax. He cocked his snakelike head and ran a foredigit up each of the bony ridges that flared from above his eyes to the back of his skull and caressed the two top horns—reminders of his lofty status and the Elohim from whom Nergal had descended. The computer pinged.

Vice Major Ishkur swept into the lab and saluted. Nergal returned the gesture and joined his assistant at the monitor. Ishkur was similar in appearance, but shorter than most Dracos, with a larger head and vertically-slit black pupils rather than Draco red. He was a crossbreed, a scientist reared for its intellect, and an exception to Nergal’s half-breed rule.

It was Ishkur who’d perfected Nergal’s idea to harness influential humans to overthrow AboveEarth. But the targets kept dying. Time to find out if this one was viable. Ishkur’s wide mouth stretched, his flat nose flared, and his eyes blinked rapidly as the target’s memories tumbled across the screen.

“General, I believe we have our first success.”

Nergal read through the scrolling data. It appeared the Fomorian had indeed come through. Shalane Carpenter was an important human with a substantial following and a penchant for perversion. She was an evangelist, but also a sorceress proficient in both white and dark magic.

Born in a witch’s colony in Northern California, her parents were a well-known actor and actress who left the commune and abandoned the precocious child to her grandmother. She had risen through the ranks, stripping the leadership from older, wiser witches—apparently along with their clothes, Nergal noted with interest.

“She is strong, this human,” Nergal grunted, then saw something that made him stop and glare at Ishkur. The target was a mixed breed, one of the religious zealots spawned from the reptilian-human matings.

Though it was part of the original master plan to bend human light around Draconian darkness, Nergal found the practice revolting. Admittedly, he had bed more than one human female and had found them a welcome distraction in his youth. Back before all the portals had been sealed. But his intention had always been recreation. Not procreation. To Nergal and the few remaining purebreds, humanity in any form was a scourge.

Yet it was the reptiloids who’d been transferred to UnderEarth, along with the “lesser” races. Now, ten thousand years later, the Dracos had thrown off the memory veil imposed by the Old Ones and plotted to gain control of the entire planet. They had almost succeeded a time or two, but one major obstacle stood in the way: the reptilians were as effectively sealed inside the globe as the humans were bound to the top.

Until now. Nergal and Ishkur had devised an ingenious plan. By using influential humans like Shalane Carpenter, they would manipulate the humans to destroy one another and open the portals. Then the Dracos would breach the barrier between the worlds.

Soon, very soon, the reptiles would take control of AboveEarth, and with Nergal in command, rid its surface of both humans and mixed-breeds. Then Earth would belong to the Reptilian Nation, once and for all.

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Chapter 7, News from Afar

Emily peered out the window, careful to stay hidden behind the closed blinds. Since her run-in with Shalane and hearing the eerie voice, the feeling of being watched was ever present. Something out there wanted her. Something, or someone, who knew about the dreams.

The wind had changed during the night. It howled in from the ocean, shaking the shutters; the clatter had interrupted Emily’s practice. Dawn crept over the seascape, revealing thunder clouds on the horizon. A storm was brewing, and it looked to be a bad one.

She returned to her yoga routine, the last she would enjoy in this seaside apartment. But rather than relaxing, her mind was busy planning her future. She needed a home. And a job. Disaster hound was out of the question; she would likely rabbit at the first sign of trouble. Plus, there was that blacklist thing.

But surely someone needed a scientist. Even one with a doctored resume.

By the time she made it to corpse pose, Emily was ready to make the call. She perched on the arm of the raggedy chair and entered the attorney’s number into her iBlast, mumbling a quick prayer.

By the second ring, a honeyed voice answered, announcing the law office of Mitchell Albom Wainwright the Third. Emily’s throat closed around a wad of fear. The voice repeated the salutation, louder this time, and with less of a Southern accent.

Swallowing hard, Emily blurted, “Hello, this is Emily Mayhall. I received a letter from Mr. Wainwright. Could you please tell me what it regards?”

“Emily Mayhall?” The voice went up two octaves. “Thank you for calling. Please hold the line for Mr. Wainwright.”

“Oh. Okay. I guess,” she muttered to a jazzy recording and stuck a finger between the slats to stare out the window. The red-feathered fronds of the Bottle Brush tree thrashed in the wind and scrubbed against the railing.

A husky voice clicked on. “Ms. Mayhall? Emily? I’m Mitchell Wainwright. Thank you for contacting my office. We’ve had one helluva time finding you.”

Stomach curdling, Emily’s thumb covered the mic as she sucked in a breath.

“You are the daughter of Janis Alexis Mayhall Mobley, as stated in your bankruptcy petition?”

An icy numbness stole through Emily’s limbs. She had buried her mother a long time ago, along with the accompanying memories. That she had used her name in the bankruptcy proceedings was proving a bad idea. But who would be looking for her after all these years?

“Who wants to know?”

“Are you sitting down?”

Heart thudding, Emily responded, “I am, why?”

“Alexis Mayhall married Hamilton Hester of Atlanta and bore him a daughter on June 21, 2012. I have the birth certificate in front of me. We believe you to be that daughter. Your father still lives in Druid Hills and would very much like to see you.”

Like hell. “That’s impossible. My father is buried in a cemetery in California.”

Unbidden, a photograph popped into Emily’s head, the one she had found long ago in her mother’s box. The box. The shot portrayed happy people around a picnic table at what appeared to be a family gathering. Her mother had a red-headed baby on one hip. A smiling man had his arm around them.

Her mother had snatched the picture from Emily, saying it was her best friend’s family, taken the day her friend died. It made her sad, her mother said, and she wouldn’t talk about it—ever. The photo had disappeared, but until Emily got older, she had pretended those people were the extended family she never had. One that actually liked and wanted her.

“This may be hard for you to fathom, but your mother took you and left when you were four years old. Your father has been searching for you ever since. Last month we caught a break when Alexis’s name popped up in an ongoing records search.”

Emily’s heart beat faster. They had moved countless times over the years, taking new names and discarding old ones like yesterday’s underwear. Her mother had blamed it on debt collectors, and always gullible, Emily had believed her.

“Your father wants you home. At his expense, of course.” Emily hesitated and the attorney added, “Please, say you’ll come. Mr. Hester’s heart is set on seeing you.”

Not knowing what to think, much less to say, Emily stared at her trembling hands. Maybe this was the answer to her prayers. Or a load of hog manure. A trap of some sort.

The attorney continued, “I am authorized to secure first-class passage on the next flight to Atlanta, should you agree. My office will make the arrangements.”

Something in Emily stirred. A memory? Or the instinct to run? “Look, are you sure you have the right person?”

“You have a small, paw-print-shaped birthmark on your left, lower shin and a scar under your chin where you had stitches when you were two. You have a dent in the middle of your forehead where your brother Sean hit you with a, um, stick when you were three,” Mitchell Wainwright read.

Emily’s thoughts raced. She had a brother. And that was her daddy in the picture. Her real father. And her family. She had known it, even at eight. Thrilled beyond her wildest dreams, Emily jumped up to circle the room. Her heart beat a staccato solo, a million and one questions crowding her brain.

“Did I describe your identifying marks?” The voice went silky, almost smug, like the attorney had sensed her reaction from the other end of the phone.

Swallowing around a new lump clogging her throat, Emily admitted against her better judgment, “Yes. You did.”

“Emily, your father has been trying to find you for twenty-six years.” Wainwright sounded relieved. “He wants you to come home. Let me send you a ticket.” And excited, too. Probably in line for a big bonus for finding Emily.

Hot tears brimmed to trickle down her cheeks. Talk about a miracle! But she had to be sure. “Did you say you have a birth certificate?”

“I do. Check your email. My assistant sent you a copy.”

“You have my email address?”

“We have current records, yes.”

They had her records. The bankruptcy. The foreclosure. The repossession. Her eviction, too? Probably her bank accounts, her medical history, and who knew—her pooping habits?

Emily opened her inbox and clicked the email to see an official-looking Certificate of Live Birth with Georgia seal. The mother’s name was listed as Janis Alexis Mayhall Hester, the father’s Hamilton H. Hester. The baby’s birth date was June 21, 2012, 6:21 a.m. Her eyes were hazel, and she had tiny footprints. The baby’s name was Emily. Emily Bridget Hester. Well, hell.

Opening another email that appeared, Emily stared at a formal portrait that had obviously been taken at an expensive studio. It was a couple with a baby—her mother and the man from the old photograph. The little girl he cradled had wide green eyes and a head full of fiery-red hair tipped with a halo of gold. That and the grin gave her away.

“Omigod. That’s me.”

Through the slats of the faux-wood blinds she stared at the parrots gathering noisily in the Bottle Brush tree. Her brain barely registered the thick cloud cover overtaking Venice. It pressed against the windows like a wet shroud, obscuring the seascape and cutting her off from the rest of the world.

Dread-tinged anticipation joined the sick feeling that had plundered her gut since yesterday. Getting out of California was imperative now. She might as well go first-class.

“How soon can you leave?” Wainwright asked. “And do you need a car to the airport?”

“Yes, to the car,” Emily said. “And I can leave today. I just need a couple of hours.” She looked around the room. She had tidied the apartment the night before and her clothes were packed.

“Excellent. My assistant will email the itinerary as soon as the arrangements are made. I will see you at the Atlanta airport.”

Ending the call, Emily went into the bathroom and stared at her reflection in the mirror. She inspected her eyes and smile and the red hair. Dyeing, and straightening it had been a once-a-month ritual in the Mayhall house. One Emily had carried into adulthood, until recently, at high-priced salons.

After losing her job and changing her name, she had chopped it short and let it go native. She stared at the unruly curls and strained to recall the first time her mother had straightened and dyed it. A forgotten scene burst into consciousness and the weed of knowing bloomed in her gut.

It was the night of her fourth birthday—the day Alexis had taken Emily from her father. Nauseated, Emily sank to the toilet and rested her brow on the porcelain sink. Memories played across the theater of her mind, a thousand and one incidents, coincidences, and lies.

Once upon a time, she had known there was more and had ached for it with all her heart. The memory of that feeling was strong and visceral. But nowhere in the shadows of Emily’s mind was there a whisper of the man with laughing eyes.

~ To be continued in Chapter 8, Possession.

Thank you for reading and supporting Awen’s Porch!

From my heart to yours, Olivia

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