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“Thank you, Mayor,” Maria replied.
“Be assured, I will put our security forces on alert for a newly called devotee.”
“That’s very comforting, thank you, Sir,” Maria replied. “By their will.”
“By their will,” Blaine replied, and then hung up the line.
Giving up on getting any additional sleep for the evening, Blaine began his morning routine with a hot shower. Mobilizing his staff to search for an as-yet faceless and unnamed god-touched, who may or may not even exist, would be an interesting challenge.
As he mentally prepared for the day under the steaming hot water, thoughts of his dream intruded into his thoughts. The scent of the bonfire lingered. The timing made him wonder if his dream could be connected to Maria’s vision. Could it be a coincidence, or was there a deeper, more sinister connection? Focusing on what he recalled, Blaine remembered no faces or names from his dream. The energy was one of wildness, empowerment, sensuality, and freedom, which he supposed could be connected to a variety of deities.
Shrugging off the feeling, Blaine refocused his thoughts. He needed to be sharp for the day’s agenda ahead, which included annexing lands around the city for future industrial development. He’d do his part to manage the potential concerns posed by Maria’s vision and then move on to more productive efforts.
Little did he know, his dream and Maria’s vision would soon come crashing together, changing his life forever.
CHAPTER8
NADIR
Az and Nadir entered the main meeting room where Kobol and Orias were lounging on the couches, engrossed in a video game. They were fighting off a horde of aliens with an arsenal of futuristic weapons.
The pair’s entrance went unnoticed until Azimuth announced, “We have news.” Orias and Kobol stood, abandoning their game. “Nadir’s contact, Annamie, has identified a possible daemon lair. Something is leaving human bodies in some form of stasis. We need to move quickly.”
Kobol, a stocky, strong-looking man, chided them. “Why didn’t you say so sooner, instead of dallying in your room?”
“We weren’t dallying,” Nadir replied. When Orias arched a brow in her direction, she shrugged. “Much.”
“How many bodies?” Kobol asked.
“No idea,” she replied. “It sounded like less than a dozen. We also don’t know if they’re killing one or two at a time or taking them all at once.”
“Still, a single location and one group of victims suggest a small group of daemons working together,” Kobol concluded.
“Agreed,” Azimuth replied, his gaze narrowing on Orias, who had been silent, arms crossed, and face downcast while they had talked. “Anything to share, brother?”
“Nothing of relevance,” Orias said, not looking up. He held his stance like a tree in gale-force winds, shadows swirling around his feet.
“Why don’t we talk about whatever it is later?” Nadir suggested.
He snorted and shook his head. “Yes, add it to your list of conversations that we won’t be having anytime soon.”
Nadir grimaced, guessing he meant the conversation she hoped to have with Azimuth later. “I will. Count on it.”
“If you’re done bantering, let’s grab our gear and head out,” Kobol said, massaging the back of his neck.
Belial strode in from the library, carrying a wrapped bundle in sparkling silver leather over to the kitchen counter. Nadir recognized the rare animal hide but refrained from asking more. There were things she’d discovered she’d rather not know when it came to Sheol.
“I overheard you talking. You’re heading out on a mission again?” Belial’s eyes glinted with anticipation as he unrolled the leather.
Nadir nodded. “My friend, Annamie, called in a daemon lair. We were just heading out to investigate.” She walked closer to the counter and saw a set of four delicate-looking daggers, as silver as the moon, lined up upon the supple hide.
“New weapons?” Kobol reached out and took one, hefted it, tested for balance, and then shot Belial a doubtful look. “These dainty things won’t hurt a flea. Are they related to the tre’jor?”
Belial flashed a row of sharp fangs. “For someone who’s lethal despite his compact package, I’d think you’d know better than to judge a weapon by size alone, Kobol. The tre’jor rips a daemon apart, breaking it down into its molecular essence, and then binds that essence to the wielder of the blade. These are my newest inventions. I call them sancre.” He spoke the word reverently, his claws danced lightly along the length of the blade.
Azimuth picked up a blade and inspected it. “How does the sancre differ from the tre’jor?” He cast a brief, wary look at Belial, who was too busy admiring his handiwork to notice.
“The sancre is an entirely new class of weapon. I’ve been trying to perfect it for years, and I must brag. It’s my masterpiece. Instead of binding a daemon’s essence to the wielder, the sancre consumes the essence and dissipates it into the universe,” Belial explained with pride.
