The Captor's Redemption (Novel Preview - Publishing 8/8/18)

FALLEN

Hell is empty and all the devils are here.

—William Shakespeare, The Tempest

Fallen

Rain, sharp and heavy in its masses, struck the ground, relentlessly beating it into subjection. The sheet of the above was gray and deep, and all who were beneath it trembled in the cruel jaws of the gloom that clenched them. The whole world seemed alive, nurtured beneath the wing of the vengeful darkness.

Wrapped in this same darkness, the man waited.

The rain became as tears on the worn cheeks of the angels that stood on either side of him. They wept silently past empty eyes, the beads of their sorrow running down weathered faces of stone. They wept for him no doubt. The vanity of it almost amused him. For all the hours he'd been crouched between them, he hadn't even sent them a bitter glance of acknowledgment. Their tears meant nothing to him, and neither did the loft on which they stood, high above the city streets to look down on all of Ariah's children. One of those, he was not—not from the day of his birth.

Vincent knelt there unmoving, perched alertly amongst the carvings of saints, hidden by the folds of night. As he balanced there on the stone ledge, with the rain pounding his shoulders and head furiously, he thought on the events that had already unfolded tonight, and on those he knew were still to come. Though he grasped what would transpire, he didn't grieve for the future. Quite the contrary. He looked forward to it with throbbing anticipation that he felt at the tips of his fingers and even deep inside the tangles of his inner workings. Finally, after so many years of waiting and searching—and hating—things would be resolved. Though he was still unsure of his adversary's true strengths, he was confident in his own. He would fight the fight, and every bystander would fall.

But Trevan wouldn't have approved of these methods, he thought, blinking away some of the rainwater.

"It doesn't have to be the physical strength that proves our worth, Vincent. I have to believe that there's more to us than that."

Vincent still remembered those words, even now, no matter how untrue he found them. But Trevan was gone. The mouth that had uttered such wisdom had been silenced years ago. His brother was dead, and Vincent had to remind himself of it yet again, but to ponder over this had lost its value. Perhaps Trevan wouldn't have approved of his brother's plans tonight—or of the things Vincent had done to get himself here—but matters had gotten too far out of hand now. Things would have to be done his way.

Forcing his concentration back to the rooftop, he brushed away those old thoughts like soil on the shoulder of his coat. The suffering of his losses would end tonight. Tonight, all debts would be repaid.

He breathed calmly now, even with such a heavy weight pressing upon his head. With his face tilted forward, he could see everything below on the wet street. He'd been watching as the great above had grown dark, fading from its previous, unnatural red glow. Slowly, people had made their way into the cathedral entrance below him. He'd almost smiled at the fact that none of those feeble humans knew what would transpire here tonight, or that walking through those doors would seal their fate.

Everyone within these stone walls will die tonight, he thought with complete satisfaction as he sat. A cool wind rushed by and dragged across his wet skin, chilling him. Death is the only thing that can be understood anymore. It's the only worthy punishment. They'll understand this. As the last moment of life leaves them, they'll understand.

He understood. Vincent had resigned himself, and he'd soon have his punishment as well. But what else did he have to live for? He could lie to himself about that all he wanted. For eight years, the only vision he'd had of his future revolved around this night—this pending confrontation. Beyond tonight, there was nothing. There was no deed left undone, no desire to grow old, no home, no love, no family. He had once made the mistake of thinking his strict plan for himself could change and now he kicked himself for it, but this—once more—was not the time for self-analysis. At this moment, there were steps that he'd conceived, and it was almost time for the very first.