AWEN RISING, E5: Chapter Nine
A New Start
Hi there, I’m glad you’re here! You have landed on Episode 5 of Awen Rising. If you are just beginning the story, or looking for a different episode, follow the links. Otherwise, you’re in the right place. Read on!
Episode One (Chapters 1 - 3)
Episode Two (Chapters 4 & 5)
Episode Three (Chapters 6 & 7)
Episode Four (Chapter 8)
New Awen Rising episodes release every Monday at 4:44am MT. You can subscribe to receive new chapters as they release, and share them with your friends. This story is free, but paid members also receive a copy of the Awen Rising eBook, plus access to my new paid serial, Crossed, Cursed, & Nearly Dead*, an urban fantasy thriller spun off from the Awen Trilogy. Read about it here. *Sneak peek at the end of this post.
🎶Now, on with the show, this is it!🎶
Chapter Nine, A New Start
A white limo collected Emily and Ralph at the airport, driven by a swarthy man in a dated plaid suit who met them at the escalator with a sign. Disappointed, Emily stared out the window and examined the miserable feeling that swirled inside her.
She had known her birth father wasn’t scheduled to pick her up, but that hadn’t kept her from hoping he would. And, not for nothing, but the attorney was supposed to be there. Even he had left the job to someone else.
The weather had turned nasty in Los Angeles, but in Atlanta the sun shone, and the traffic moved fairly well. Sniffing back tears, Emily focused on the tents and cardboard boxes dotting the green space along the route.
Housing for the displaced and homeless, she guessed. Here and there, decaying buildings were surrounded by chain-link barriers or left to the mercy of scavengers.
Just short of downtown, the interstate ended. According to her driver, a sinkhole had taken out all eight lanes of Northbound I-75. They detoured through a crumbling neighborhood and moved at a crawl on the congested street. Emily opened a game on her iBlast to take her mind off the depressing surroundings.
When she heard loud voices, she looked up. They were at a green light, but rather than proceeding through the intersection, the limo was swarmed by a sea of bodies yelling in protest.
“What’s happening?” she asked the chauffeur.
“Nothing, ma’am. Just street people looking for a handout.”
Emily dug in her purse and extracted several small bills. The rabble pounded on the glass as the limo inched into the intersection. Emily tried to open her window, but the driver flipped a switch and rolled it back up.
“No’m. That’s not a good idea.”
“Unlock my window, please,” she said through clenched teeth. “I’d like to give them what I can.”
The driver shook his head vehemently. “No’m. It’s never enough, no matter how much you give ‘em. And I promised Mr. Wainwright I’d bring you home safe.” The limo picked up speed, and the crowd parted to besiege the next car in line.
Emily stuffed the money back in her purse. The signs of deterioration were less obvious as they neared their destination, and the rest of the drive was uneventful. Fifty-five minutes after leaving the airport, the limo arrived at Wainwright’s office.
The quaint three-story edifice faced a bustling street across from the high walls of Emory University. Wainwright’s assistant showed Emily to his suite, where the driver settled Ralph’s carrier and her luggage. With a gracious nod, he dismissed the tip she tried to give him and backed through the door.
The assistant returned with a cup of steaming water and an assortment of teas, along with lemon, honey, and creamer. A few minutes later, she returned to announce the attorney was stuck in traffic.
Settling in one of the not-so-comfortable wing chairs, Emily sipped Earl Grey and studied the attorney’s décor. Classic style downplayed rich furnishings, as did eccentric touches here and there.
Most intriguing was a painting in which a full-canopied oak towered over a dark forest. A diminutive deer danced in the foreground before a cave that drew the eye to enter. Emily shuddered. Caves were not her thing. Nor was the dark.
She thought of her little apartment overlooking the beach. If she focused hard, Emily could almost imagine the cars rushing by on the street below were waves crashing over the Venice breakwater. She glanced at the clock. Where was that freaking attorney?
She shivered and pulled her lapels together. She had not been prepared for this kind of cold. Her coat was too thin and her shoes were open-toed, leaving her pink-tipped toes exposed to the frigid air.
Would her new father be well enough, and wealthy enough, for a shopping trip? Emily could hope.
A built-in bookcase filled with leather-bound books and stone carvings loomed behind the mahogany desk. Emily circled the massive heirloom, reached for the closest trinket, and turned it over in her hand. Flat and carved with a stick figure, she recognized it as a rune. What kind of lawyer played with runes? She traced the lines, one vertical with a right-pointing ray at the top, like an arrowhead.
Emily’s rune-reading skills were on par with her divining abilities—basically nonexistent. But she did know a thing or two about stones. Some of the runes were made of moonstone, while others were labradorite. Both were worth a pretty penny on the open market. Like gems, the price of semi-precious stones outstripped many currencies.
As she studied the runes, Emily noticed something else. The lines were similar to the hand-written symbols in the manuscript in her mother’s box. She weighed one in each hand, wondering if there was a connection. Then she placed them over her closed eyelids and let the cool, polished surfaces calm her rising irritation.
Then her stomach growled and her composure crumbled. Where was Mitchell Effing Wainwright? Replacing the runestones on the shelf, Emily flounced to the outer office. She needed to eat. Thirty minutes ago.
“Excuse me, miss,” she said from the doorway, hating the high-pitched tenor of her voice. The woman looked up with a smile so wide Emily immediately felt like a petulant child. “Will Mr. Wainwright be here soon? If not, would you please arrange transportation and accommodations for Ralph and me? I’m sure he’s beyond ready to get out of that cage, and I haven’t eaten since morning.
“He just texted that he’s five minutes away. I have nuts if that would help?” The woman smiled.
“No,” Emily said, then changed her mind. “Well, actually, yes.” The attorney might be close, but she had reached the weepy stage. If she didn’t eat soon, the mean would follow.
The secretary held up a canister of nuts. “Tamari almonds?”
Emily nodded, thanked the woman, and returned to the inner office to munch and wander. She noted framed degrees and business licenses, awards, and even a medal from the USAF. Mitchell Wainwright had been in the service. Huh.
In a place of prominence on the wall in front of the mahogany desk hung a large picture of Wainwright in a judge’s robe. He was flanked by an older couple, his parents, Emily assumed, the woman adoring, the man cold and distant. She could imagine the attorney sitting at his desk, reliving what would have been a glory moment, tempered by a taciturn father.
Moving to a picture-lined alcove, Emily peered out the window. Against the high walls of Emory, a scruffy band of Rastas played drums. She bounced to the rhythm and smiled when the youngest finished a solo with a toothy grin. Then, the sun broke through a cloud to glint off a picture frame, drawing her attention.
This photo was older and slightly faded. A young boy held aloft by a man displayed a stringer of fish—the same man from her mother’s photograph. Emily looked from boy to man and back again. Their eyes were the same.
What was her birth father doing with a boy she assumed was the attorney? Were the Wainwrights old family friends?
Out the window, fluffy clouds scurried across a pale blue sky, and the sun rode low. A BMW convertible, sleek and sexy, cleared a security gate and screeched into the parking lot. Mitchell Wainwright, Emily bet.
The top went up, and the door opened. A man with disobedient hair, the color of night, unfolded from the front seat. He tucked his shirt into tailored trousers, straightened a red power tie, and buttoned his svelte, charcoal jacket.
Emily approved. Suits and ties might be considered old-fashioned, but they were still apropos for the courtroom. The man hefted a thin briefcase and jogged to the entrance, disappearing from view.
☼☼☼
Draig Ooschu rolled from side to side in the storm-fraught sea. No matter how keen her sensing abilities, the water dragon could find no trace of the Awen. The trail had gone cold. Again.
Against her deepest instincts, Ooschu admitted defeat. She needed help. But Draig Talav was on the east coast, along with the sleeping Keepers. If Ooschu could fly or walk, the nearest wormhole would be a quick trip. But by water, it was thousands of miles.
She had a vague premonition there was a shorter route. But when Ooschu tried to focus, it slipped away. There was nothing to do but to start swimming.
Sinking beneath the stormy surface of Catalina Channel, she headed south with strong, sure strokes. She would ride the California Current to the tip of Baja, then turn north and make for the cleft in the Gulf of California.
☼☼☼
Emily was in the bathroom repairing her makeup when the attorney finally pushed through the door of his inner sanctum. Heavy footfall announced his presence outside the bathroom door.
“Ms. Hester? Are you in there?”
For a moment, Emily froze and met the reflection of her eyes in the mirror. She gulped and mouthed, “You’ve got this,” then fluffed her hair and opened the door.
Wainwright stood, jaw agape, as if Emily was some mythical creature. A cherubim, or mermaid, or something of that ilk. Something the attorney had never seen. She, on the other hand, had seen that look before. Mostly from men. It was the hair.
When the stare continued, Emily squirmed. An attorney should know better, especially one that had kept his client waiting for much too long.
Then Emily’s blood sugar crashed despite the nuts. The heat of cortisol surged through her, and God help them, the mean took over. Her bottom lip pooched out, and she let him have it.
“About time you got here. I was beginning to think you weren’t coming. And one hears so much about Southern hospitality and all. Do you always leave your clients waiting? I bet you don’t have many, do ya?”
Oddly pleased when Wainwright’s jaw dropped a half inch further, she flounced out of the bathroom and pushed by him. In the middle of his office, she wheeled and planted her fists on her hips.
Wainwright almost smiled, but the look in her eyes must have stopped him. Smart man. Emily could be dangerous when provoked. Lethal, if you factored in the years of jujitsu and aikido her mother had forced her to take.
The attorney’s ears reddened. “I’m sorry.” His tone matched his hue and his words. “I did try to get the case postponed or expedited, but the judge wouldn’t do either. If it helps, she took delight in torturing me all afternoon, then tore me a new one before we recessed.”
Emily huffed, only a little mollified.
“I’m sorry if you were inconvenienced. I had every intention of picking you up personally at the airport.” Then, condescension crept in, and the dark eyebrows lifted. “You are my top priority, Ms. Hester, but you are not my only one. Didn’t Rochelle take care of you?”
“It’s explanations I want.” His barely veiled disdain rankled.
The attorney winced. “Touché. How about I answer your questions over dinner?”
Now, food was something Emily could get behind. That, and answers.
“Jocko’s is just down the street, and I promise it’s the best pizza you’ll ever eat. Will that work? Pizza and answers?” He flashed a conciliatory smile, no doubt to diffuse the ticking bomb in front of him.
Emily blinked, trying not to glare. Jocko’s Pizza was worth reining in the mean. Failing, she eyed the taupe carpet and mumbled a strained, “That’ll work. My blood sugar bottomed twenty minutes ago.” She looked up and extended a hand, chagrin warming her cheeks. “Hi. I’m Emily Mayhall. And I very much need to eat.”
“Mitchell Albom Wainwright the Third.” The attorney took her proffered hand, and a jolt of electricity sizzled up Emily’s arm, straight to her heart.
Startled, she let go and backpedaled, retreating to the comfort of a purring Ralph, who eyed her from his cage. Emily had read about such jolts but had never experienced one. What did it mean? That this man was her soulmate? Surely to God not.
The thought sent an unpleasant shudder through her. The attorney had felt it, too, she was certain. His soft hand had recoiled at the exact moment, and the familiar blue eyes had sparked with astonishment, then something akin to knowing.
Her surreptitious glance caught him rifling absently through a stack of folders in his inbox. What did the attorney know that Emily didn’t?
☼☼☼
Back in his quarters, Nergal perused the details of Shalane Carpenter’s dossier on his personal device. If reptiles could blush, he would. He had never seen a human female with the voracity this one exhibited.
Nergal paged through the information, most of which pertained to Carpenter’s life after joining the priesthood. There was little information on her family or early life. He pored through the list of friends and acquaintances, cross-referencing ages and addresses, looking for a clue.
When he saw Camille’s name, Nergal’s lizard heart leapt. And when he found more references, it nearly burst from his chest. Camille had been something to this woman.
Searching for her birth data, he finally saw it. Shalane Carpenter was born to Lila Snow and Lloyd Carpenter but lived with her maternal grandmother, Camille Bernstein Snow, from the age of eight until eighteen. Nergal stared at the screen, mind racing. Was this woman descended from his Reylian lover?
At her memory, Nergal’s gut twisted. He glanced at the syncranometer. It was not yet feeding time, so it was not a hunger pang. Nergal stared at the mixed-breed humanoid. Did she carry his blood?
A deeper pain shot through him then, a dagger twisting and turning and ripping his heart from its cradle. And in that crystalline moment, the Draco comprehended something that had eluded him from his first footfall on Earth—he was no better than the humans they reviled.
But swift was denial, and hate replaced the aberrant weakness. Nergal slammed his scaled fist against the screen. The mixed-breed woman repulsed him. When they were done with her, he would tear her to shreds, one excruciating bit at a time, and feed her to the hellhounds.
Only icy determination kept him from pulling the plug now. Shalane Carpenter knew magic and had a large following. Through her, they could manipulate many humans. Then, when Nergal was done, and AboveEarth belonged to the Reptilians, the abomination would die—along with the rest of the humans and mixed-breeds.
~ To be continued in Episode 6, Chapter 10 & 11, Jocko’s Pizza & Palm Springs.
Sooo, there you have it, folks! What do you think? Like it? Love it? Hate it? Want more? Please drop a comment to let me know.
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From my heart to yours, Olivia
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Now, here’s that preview I promised:
did you also change the header "awen's porch" image recently? the font looks so pretty!!!
i can't believe you just left us there, I NEED ANSWERS TOO!!!! 😭