Vigil: An Urban Fantasy Thriller

  Vigil

  Russell Newquist

  VIGIL

  By Russell Newquist

  Published by Silver Empire

  https://silverempire.org/

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2017, Russell Newquist

  All rights reserved.

  Get an exclusive look at my upcoming novel Spirit Cooking, book 2 of The Prodigal Son series, by joining my e-mail list at:

  SwordOfTheArchangel.com

  Chronology

  This tale takes place roughly five months after the events chronicled in War Demons. However, it is not necessary to have read that book to enjoy this story.

  The story in chronological order:

  War Demons - The Prodigal Son Book 1

  Vigil

  Spirit Cooking - The Prodigal Son Book 2 (Coming in 2018)

  Who's Afraid of the Dark? - The Tales of Peter Bishop Story 1

  Knight of the Changeling - The Tales of Peter Bishop Story 2

  Chapter 1

  La Ferté-Bernard, France

  Saturday, April 7, 2007

  Peter Bishop found himself crouched beside his bed gripping the Sword of Saint Michael the Archangel tightly before he'd awakened enough to process the unearthly cry. When the second scream followed, the southern boy instantly recognized the distinctive roar of the dragon. After two previous encounters with the beast, he'd never forget the way that unique sound pierced his brain.

  His Texan roommate fell in beside him as Peter rushed to the hotel room's small window. Gabriel McCann's loud sigh and creaky joints belied his age, but he managed to keep up with his younger traveling companion. Together, they surveilled the small French village through the old, discolored glass.

  “There.” Peter pointed upward.

  Gabriel's older eyes took a moment longer to focus in the dim pre-dawn glow, but he grunted as he, too, recognized the dark silhouette of the beast. They couldn’t make out the green coloration that covered the beast. Nevertheless, the jagged spines clearly protruding from the slender, bat-winged form confirmed it to be the beast they sought.

  “Looks like we've come to the right place,” the septuagenarian said.

  “And it only took us five months to find it.” Peter watched the beast grow closer as Conor Foley and Friar Stefan burst in from the room next door. “It's heading downtown.”

  “We'd better get out there, kid,” Conor said. The Irishman wore a full combat kit, including a harpoon gun slung across his back and a pistol at his belt.

  Peter wondered if the redheaded man had slept in his gear. Friar Stefan wore his habit as always. He'd probably only taken five seconds to don it. Peter looked down in embarrassment at the boxers and t-shirt he wore but decided he wouldn't let it slow him down.

  Peter pried the window open and jumped out onto the fire escape. He didn't bother to look behind for his companions as he slid down the cold steel ladder. When he reached the next landing, he hopped the rail and jumped the final story to the ground. His bare feet stung as he hit the pavement, but he ignored the pain and took off at a run toward the commotion.

  On a good day, Peter could run a mile in under four and a half minutes. Today was not a good day. He picked his steps carefully, taking care to protect his unshod feet. He kept an eye on the dragon as he ran, watching it swoop down and spray the village streets with fire. Two small shops burst into a roaring flame. Peter knew it would spread quickly in the dense old European-style construction.

  A car screeched to a stop just up the road. The driver poked his head out of the window. An awed expression contorted his face as he shouted. Peter didn't understand the driver’s cries, but he caught the gist. Thankfully, the early hour kept traffic light. Peter crossed himself and said a prayer of thanks.

  Peter’s companions ran up beside him before he closed with the dragon. He noted that Gabriel had taken a moment to dress and gather some gear. The Texan shook his head and pointed down at the youth's feet as they ran. Peter grimaced but didn't slow.

  The Sword glowed in Peter's hands as they approached the town square. The blade of an archangel passed from chosen Knight to chosen Knight throughout the ages. The last owner had passed away in Afghanistan in 2001.

  Since then, it had resided in the care of an ancient and holy order dedicated to its preservation. His companions, the only remaining members, had brought the holy relic to Peter’s home of Athens, Georgia the previous fall.

  One of Friar Stefan's visions had led them to suspect that Peter's friend Michael Alexander would become the next Knight of the Sword. Instead, the blade chose Peter right before their second confrontation with the dragon that now terrorized the panicking locals.

  When none of their other weapons had even hurt the beast, the Sword had provided a ray of hope. But the dragon had escaped with a local student as a prisoner before they'd managed to slay it. Peter and his new friends had spent the last few months following the beast, first across the Atlantic to Europe, and then all over the continent.

  They’d finally tracked the dragon to this village in France, but Peter had seen no sign of the dragon’s prisoner. He prayed that they would still find Faith Palmer safe, and rushed into battle invigorated by fresh optimism.

  That hope sputtered as Peter stepped into the town square and realized he had no plan whatsoever. He skidded to a halt and stared up at the dragon. The few villagers out this early stopped to stare at him. He imagined he made quite a sight, standing barefoot in his underwear, holding a medieval bastard sword at the ready.

  Unfortunately, the dragon turned its gaze toward him as well. Unlike the locals, however, it didn't stop to gawk. Instead, it opened its jaws wide and dove in for the attack, raining unbearable light and heat upon the village from above.

  Peter’s companions scattered behind him, each moving away from the oncoming wave of dragonfire. Peter followed suit, ducking behind a parked delivery truck. The far side of the vehicle melted under the assault, but the air inside acted as an insulator. It shielded him from the worst of the heat, but not all of it. The cool spring air around him quickly warmed to match a blistering Georgia summer's day.

  The beast executed a tight climb as it passed overhead, beating its wings hard to rise for another pass. It passed mere feet over Peter’s head, giving him an excellent view of the majestic creature. He'd had a better vantage back in November when he'd ridden the beast above the skies of Athens. Still, he had to admire the dragon’s deadly beauty.

  It resembled the stereotypical European dragon in base form, but diverged in all the details. The head, more serpentine than lizard-like, poked out from a long, scaly neck. But the reptilian scales ended at the neckline, merging into dark green fur that crossed its back. Arm-sized quills poked out from the fur, giving the creature a spiny look. The fur retreated into scales once again along its stubby, tortoise-like feet and its long, snaking tail.

  The dragon banked hard, coming back around for another pass. Peter leapt into action, knowing that his cover wouldn't last a second direct hit. The beast homed in on him. Conor jumped out of his own cover into the square, hooting an
d hollering and waving his arms. The monster ignored him and stayed locked on the threat.

  Another noise caught the dragon’s attention. A young girl no older than seven ran out into the open, shrieking in terror. Her father called out in French as he chased after her. The dragon altered course, choosing a new prey.

  “No!” Gabriel yelled.

  Peter swerved toward the girl. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Stefan closing in beside him. To his other side, Conor yelled louder and tossed things into the air. The dragon still ignored him.

  The Sword burned white in Peter's hand as he raced toward the girl, but he couldn't close the distance in time. A large dog appeared out of nowhere, leaping to the girl’s defense. Peter thought he recognized it as a German Shepherd, but he couldn’t be certain. It yelped and howled at the dragon, to no avail.

  Peter watched in horror as the dragon’s reptilian foot grasped the girl, snatching her from the ground. Her father screamed. A matching feminine scream rang out to Peter's right from a slender woman with the same dark hair and eyes as the little girl.

  Peter fought the blowback from the dragon's giant wings as he continued his push forward. But a moment later, the smell of burnt hair brought him back to reality. He hurled his own body on top of the pooch, using it to smother the flames. The dog whimpered at him, but he turned his attention back to the dragon.

  The beast had risen beyond his reach. Peter came to a stop where the girl had been standing. Stefan fell in next to him, breathing hard. The girl's father cursed in French as the creature carried his little girl away, sailing over the rooftops into the distance.

  When Peter looked back, the dog was gone.

  Peter turned to face the man. His wife ran to join them, shrieking. The Frenchman took her up in his arms. Her cries subsided but the tears didn't.

  “We're here to help you,” he told the couple. He raised the Sword and pointed to the still-shining blade. “I am a knight. It's what I do.”

  The man gave him a blank expression.

  “Chevalier,” Stefan translated, pointing at Peter. “Il est un chevalier.”

  “Chevalier?” the woman asked. She raised her head to look at the strange crew as she wiped the tears away. Peter nodded.

  The woman paused for a moment before letting out a string of French.

  “She says we need to go to church,” Stefan translated.

  Chapter 2

  Faith Palmer tried to climb her way out of the lair the dragon had left her in. She’d performed the same ritual nearly every day for five months. The cavern opened wide enough for an escape – after all, the dragon himself flew in and out regularly. And she had plenty of light. The beast left her all the candles she needed. Yet still the attempt proved futile, as it always had before.

  She didn’t lack for creature comforts. The dragon brought her plenty of food and water. He’d provided her soft silk bedding, furniture fit for a queen, and tableware to match. An exquisite pair of matching silver candlesticks, carved in the shape of angels, rounded out the collection.

  Faith wished he would bring her some antibiotics. The muck and storms of that night in Georgia and her lack of proper cleaning supplies had combined to give her a rather nasty infection. She'd long since removed the diamond studded nose-ring that had once made its home there, but she still couldn't bear to look at the nasty, purple mess on her face.

  Still, he had brought her clothing to replace the worn swimsuit she’d been wearing when Abigail kidnapped her. Despite her rage at her captivity, she actually felt grateful for the clothing. The trip across the Atlantic might have given her hypothermia if the dragon himself hadn’t put out so much heat.

  Today, however, she wore a long blue chiffon dress, extravagantly embroidered with exquisite, precise white and gold spirals, flowers, and starbursts. Long sleeves covered her arms, turning sheer around her wrists. The whole thing came together in a vaguely Middle Eastern look. Even Abigail, a billionaire’s daughter, had never owned a dress this beautiful.

  Faith struggled with anger as unbidden memories rose to the surface. She’d known Abigail Covington for years. Her sister Grace would have served as bridesmaid to Abby’s sister Catherine. But she hadn’t really bonded with the older girl until both of their sisters had perished in the collapse of the World Trade Center. They’d become inseparable after that.

  Now, Faith wished she could walk back that friendship. Abigail had betrayed her, kidnapping her for some ritual Faith didn’t completely understand. In her own defense, Abigail had kept her drugged through most of the ordeal. All she remembered was Peter Bishop fighting through the hordes to rescue her.

  For all his valiant effort, he’d failed. For months Faith had held out hope that he’d find her and rescue her. But as time passed and he didn’t arrive, she’d begun to believe the dragon’s claims that Peter didn’t care. She’d tried hard to woo the young man before her abduction, but he’d never seemed particularly interested in her. His image rose unbidden into her mind and she found herself daydreaming about his sandy blond hair, dreamy blue eyes, and his lean, muscled form.

  Faith pushed thoughts of Abigail and Peter from her mind. That path led only to self-pity. Pity might feel good, but it wouldn’t help her escape – and neither would this dress. Beautiful as it was, it impeded her attempts to climb in every way. None of her other clothing suited the task any better.

  At least the dress kept her warm. Like most caves, the dragon’s lair kept a nearly constant temperature. On the plus side, it never dropped much below freezing. On the other hand, it always felt like it had. Faith guessed that the temperature hovered around the high fifties with the dragon present to warm it and dipped into the high forties whenever it left. Mother Nature hadn’t built her slender frame for those kinds of temperatures. She belonged in a hot Georgia summer – preferably lying out in the sun by a pool.

  Not that the dress really mattered much for the climb. The smooth walls of her large prison pit presented few handholds. Even if she made it out of her pit, Faith didn't know how she'd get out of the massive cavern surrounding it. Yet she refused to give up. She made it ten feet this time – a new record – before she collapsed down into the heap of bedding she’d gathered on the floor below.

  Shrill, tinny laughter rang out at her from above. The nasty little impish creatures that attended the dragon always found her escape attempts humorous. She didn't share their mirth. It sent shivers down her spine. Even if she managed the climb, what new terrors would she find above?

  The noise of the dragon’s approach drowned out the creepy sound. She hurried to replace all of her bedding. Not for the first time, she asked herself why she bothered. The creature knew she tried to climb out. It had merely laughed maliciously when it found out, and then pointed out that she had no hope of climbing the smooth walls. Maybe she covered her tracks to avoid his incessant taunting.

  A gust of wind picked up in the cavern as the dragon beat its wings to slow its descent. It whipped her hair into a tangled mess. She tried unsuccessfully to hold the tangled mess out of her face.

  The beast dropped a young child next to her before it landed. The skinny French girl scrambled over toward Faith and wrapped her arms around the young woman’s legs with a sob. Faith dropped to her knees and wrapped the girl up in her arms. Elbows and knees poked her everywhere as she ran her fingers through the girl’s dark hair and made soft shushing noises in her ear.

  “Are you going to eat her?” Faith asked snidely.

  “Yes,” the beast answered simply. “Unless you finally submit and do as you’re told.”

  Her heart sank. For all the creature comforts the beast had provided, she remembered her status as a captive every day when it forced her to feed it. She shuddered at the thought of the things that it ate; the creepy creatures it forced her to touch. Disgusting as they looked, their touch burned her down to her soul. She could feel the corruption oozing through her body.

  This morning Faith had refused to feed it. The monst
er had informed her that she would regret her decision before it huffed off in a rage. Now, as the little girl looked up at her in desperate fear, the American wished she’d simply followed through. She struggled to remember the French she’d studied in high school less than a year before.

  “Comment tu t'appelles?” She managed to remember how to ask the girl’s name. She got only tears in reply. “Je m’appelle Faith.” She supplied, placing her hand across her own chest.

  A moment later the girl gave a hesitant answer.

  “Je m’appelle Nicolette.” She then rattled off a long string of French.

  “Sorry, dear, I’ve just about exhausted all of my French.”

  The girl looked up at her quizzically.

  “Je suis américain.”

  The girl nodded.

  “Touching,” the dragon intoned menacingly. “But one way or another, I’m about to eat.”

  Faith let the girl go and made her way to the pit that held what passed for the dragon’s food. She felt the darkness fall around her as she approached – not a physical gloom, but a spiritual shade. She forced her hand in and drew one of the creatures out.

  Nicolette trembled when she saw the shadowy form writhe in Faith’s hand. Faith wanted to scream. The first time, and many times after, she’d done exactly that. This time, however, she stifled her cries.

  I must stay strong for Nicolette now.

  The wispy, eel-like form slithered across her skin as she carried it across the lair and placed it in the dragon’s open mouth. The beast chomped it down, devouring it quickly. Faith’s old puppy had eaten like that, making a mess everywhere. Though the shadow eels didn’t seem to have any blood or guts to leave as a mess, she found it even more disturbing to watch.

  She repeated the ritual three more times before the dragon roared in satisfaction. It declared that it had eaten its fill. The beast then promptly curled up and went to sleep.