West Berlin Safehouse

1986

2:47 a.m.

A storm raged outside. Lyn secluded herself, curled into a ball, and donned her headset, wearing nothing but panties and an oversized dress shirt that fit like a blanket. But it brought a small measure of closure, with Drake’s scent lingering in its fiber. In her other palm, she clutched a silver crucifix, points tipped with sharp steel.

Lyn drowned her woes in music, tossed and thrashed in bed. Earlier, Godfrey had placed a platter of food on her night stand that went untouched. Thunder boomed and rain rumbled the warehouse as if it would collapse the roof. Lightning flashed through her window, illuminating the room before returning to pitch black.

She lifted a curtain and peeked at the sky, an unusual gray with midnight colored clouds and no moon. With every streak of lightning on the horizon, it seemed it would tear through the fabric of reality. Then it would settle and reappear, each roar creeping closer.

She chastised herself, suffering in silence. It had been thirteen years since the rebellion of ‘72; the same rebellion that brought the mighty Drake to his knees and ultimate banishment to Tartarus. She relinquished religion long ago, believing such things as abstract interpretations by man to explain the unknown. The hatred in her heart poisoned her, fueled her to continue living, dwarfed only by her love for Drake.

Her grip around the cross tightened. I’ll find you… I swear it…

Predawn light awakened her. She wiped the grime from her eyes, released a giant yawn, and stretched her arms. Disheveled hair covered her face, and she tied it in a messy bun. She instinctively reached behind her, feeling only sheets. She stared over her shoulder, frowned.

It was a peaceful morning as Berlin came to life. Cars rolling down the streets would splash through puddles, skid to a halt at traffic lights, and take off. When she left her bedroom and entered the main garage, she found Kalen at his desk, slouched in his chair.

She stared up, lifted an eyebrow at the opened panels. Godfrey…

Lyn formed a scowl, wrapped herself with the shirt hanging past her knees. Kalen snored, both arms dangling off the chair. On his face rested a magazine, in the other, an empty flask. The stench of alcohol accompanied his person, stung Lyn’s nostrils. She hated that aspect of her predatory evolution, which heightened her senses tenfold.

Kalen once explained. “Shaitan are basically evolved predators. Our eyesight is different; our hearing and sense of smell. Each Shaitan is distinct, yet together we all compose a gestalt centralized around one being, Drake…”

With a smack, Kalen blanched, lost equilibrium and fell. He scrambled to his feet, brandishing wolf-like fangs and claws. Long hairs grew on his neck and face, but when Lyn came into view, his demeanor softened.

“I was having a pleasant dream,” he said, meekness in his tone.

Lyn rolled her eyes. “You’re supposed to be on watch. Where are the others?”

“Well… Godfrey’s making breakfast I think and Chess — He paused, pondered. “I don’t know…”

An exasperated sigh escaped Lyn. “You’re unbelievable…”

Kalen shrugged, propped his feet on the desk, and retrieved the fallen magazine. He immersed himself in its content, oblivious to Lyn as she shot him looking daggers. She snatched an extra seat and sat next to him. The hulking fellow flipped a page, occasionally glanced at the monitors beside him. She snooped the lightning shaped scar above his right eye. As if knowing her thoughts, he turned, said: “Wondering how I got this?”

Lyn nodded.

“I was a human when it happened, Arabia 1918, if I recall…”

Lyn raised a brow, scooted closer. “You fought in the Great War?”

“Sure did…”

“So then?”

Kalen rolled the magazine, began thumping it against his leg. His view wandered to nothing in particular. “I was a mercenary, a hired gun for the Brits… until the bastards turned on us, ‘voided’ our contract they said. Coincidentally, Drake was a mercenary fighting for the Ottomans.”

“What was Drake like back then?”

“A damned monster, that’s what,” he said curtly, “but that monster saved my life…”

2:55 a.m.

Kalen remembered the agonizing screams of dying soldiers that drowned Lyn’s voice. His gaze caught a page in the magazine, a landscape view of Dubai in the United Arab Emirates. A vast desert surrounded the oasis city built with numerous skyscrapers and glass buildings that reflected the sky. An Arab man in traditional white garments and red shemagh posed by a luxury car. He relived that period in 1918 even if it meant breaking the forbidden rule all Shaitan must adhere: never dwell on the past.

Kalen did just that.

When Kalen and his comrades retreated, a barrage of machine gun fire and artillery trapped them in a crossfire of two opposing armies. The initial attack struck his thigh, and a stray round ricocheted off his helmet, incapacitating him. A radiating sun marked the battlefield, accompanied by scorching sand, corpses of men, horses and burning tanks. Anarchy enveloped Kalen as explosions pelted him with hot metal and sand. Strafes of gunfire zipped past as he stumbled through the carnage, ear drums bursts and eyes blinded by sweat.

Their original objective, an Ottoman citadel a football field away stood before them, its front gates breached, smoke billowing from the inner walls. Yet on the battlements, the Turkish flag flapped in the wind defiantly, enticing them to sacrifice more men for a lost cause. Ottoman forces charged past him, their soldiers a flurry of white uniforms and helmets obscured by a sandstorm. One stopped, grasped Kalen, and shielded him from an incoming explosion. The ground shook, showering them with flames, earth, and vibrant sparks.

Kalen observed his palms, burnt and bloodied to hell. The shock wave tattered his attire, but he was otherwise alive. But cheating death that day didn’t leave him astonished, seeing the man before him did.

I saw deep blue eyes glaring in the dust. He wore an Ottoman uniform; a bandoleer with ammunition and gear strapped to his chest, a rifle on his back. In one hand, he aimed a pistol; in the other, I could only describe as a scythe with a hellish colored blade. Smoke anointed him like some specter… and he planted himself there before his enemy without trepidation.

Drake peered at Kalen, still groveling in the sand. A shemagh partially concealed his bearded face and dark curly hair that brushed his shoulders. The gold belt fastened on his waist shimmered, embellished with golden embroidery of a scarab. The scythe’s steel rang as it collided with flesh; a group of Drake’s enemies — Kalen’s enemies fell. Then Drake extended a hand, smiled.

And Kalen joined without vacillation.