Children of Semyaza Read online

  The world had seen the last of Grigori and Nephilim.

  “Or so it seemed. One Nephilim stood out—the son of the Grigori General, Semyaza. His child’s powers were subtler—more insidious. He shared the rage of his kind but, unlike them, he overcame it. Because of this, he was able to live among humans without incident. This child of Semyaza lived on. He survived the flood because of his power—a power no one would ever understand. His name is lost yet we are certain that he was the very first Incardian, or better put, his existence paved the way for the Incardians. This Nephilim, still exploring the limit of his power, discovered a rare and magnificent gift. He had the gift of creation—a power only the Creator possessed. But his creative powers were not perfect. The world he created was a barren wasteland parallel to the more superior one of humans. And he could not create people.

  This limitation led to an obsession. He spent ages hidden on earth attempting to create beings to populate his world. He never accomplished what he sought to do, but his failure led to the discovery of yet another power he possessed. He successfully tapped and imprinted himself onto the ageless power of the Creator in order to have a partial influence over procreation. With some help from a member of another set of powerful beings called Magirevs—I’ll tell you more about them later—he was able to create the Oneness—a power source hidden within his world from which he could link a part of him to unborn human children who would grow to be children of Semyaza like him.

  He called his world Terraincardia.

  He called these children Incardians.”

  Garrick was oddly captivated by the story. “I do not understand,” he said. “How exactly did he tap into the Supreme's power and have an influence over procreation?”

  “The Originator’s power is a mystery to us all. The key to it may come from Semyaza’s mythic power as leader of the Grigori but we cannot know for sure. The mystery of his power is as lost to us as the mystery of his name. There was a catch to all he had done, however. His influence over procreation was random and incredibly minute. Minute in the sense that any child born with a trace of the Originator’s influence was still, essentially, human. Because of their similarity to human beings, the Originator could never differentiate between human and Incardian. And so, the world he had created remained uninhabited for decades.

  “It seemed his efforts led to naught, and he continued to roam this world aimlessly. But there is one certainty about Incardians—they’ll always be drawn by a link. Sooner or later, they find themselves. And he finally found his first Assenter. An Assenter is any Incardian who is still locked in a human reality. Simply put, the Originator unknowingly made it so that potential Incardians are linked. There is no known arrangement to it. All that is known is that once an Incardian sees a human and feels a trace of the Originator within him, he is turned. Yet, ten Incardians could come across a human with a trace of the Originator and only one would be able to sense it. It is random yet specific and personal. The process is easy—the Incardian is only required to ask the Assenter a simple question. ‘Do You Want More?’”

  Rumsfeld had walked in with a tray balanced on his left hand. Without a word, he dropped a glass bottle of Octavius’ wine on a table and a bottle of freshly squeezed orange juice for Garrick who was still prohibited from drinking alcohol—this irked him. While Rumsfeld was in the library, the two were silent. Garrick, because he was attempting to make sense of what he was hearing; and Octavius, because he felt the story was for Garrick’s ears only. Rumsfeld knew about Incardians, but not about their origins. Octavius preferred to keep it that way.

  As soon as he bowed his head and walked out, Garrick spoke. “Do you want more? That’s all?” Octavius nodded. “And an answer is needed to make it work?”

  “A simple yes would suffice.”

  “But what if an Incardian asked a regular human being?”

  “It wouldn’t work. And even if you were a potential Assenter, simply asking wouldn’t be enough. The Questioner, the Incardian posing the question, is only allowed to ask the Question if the Assenter is aware of the reason behind it. For example, if I was your Questioner, I would have to let you know that I wanted to turn you into an Incardian, and you would have to accept the Question willingly. Otherwise, it would have no effect and you’d go on living your life as a human being.”

  “Interesting. So, what happens to an Assenter if the answer is no?”

  “Nothing—the Assenter would go on living life as a normal human being. It is rare, however. A Questioner is only drawn to an Assenter by an unexplainable emotion which has been described by some as greater than love, hate and absolute sadness. Because of this, a Questioner could never harm a potential Assenter. However, it also means the Questioner would find it incredibly difficult to let go. The dedication of a Questioner is unbreakable. Eventually, they all say yes.”

  Octavius stood up as he poured himself a glass of wine. Garrick seemed unusually impressed. He was more anxious to know how Octavius would prove all of it. “So, what does this have to do with you being Colin LeGrey and seeing a werewolf?” he asked.

  “I can see how you would think I’m digressing,” he said as he sat back down. “That night, clan LeGrey took the life of the werewolf in recompense for the lives it took—the lives of my parents, among others. This opened our eyes to what was out there. It opened our eyes to the existence of Atrumans. Atruman is the word for any creature of supernatural origin. But mostly those which cannot trace their origin to heaven. Therefore, they are often called demons—even though they hate such a characterization. For example, Werewolves and Incardians are just different kinds of Atrumans. For years, my clan hunted down and killed all sorts of Atrumans.”

  “Exactly how many types are there?”

  “Too many.”

  “So why are you sure that Vampires don’t exist?”

  Octavius chuckled. “You’ll know why soon enough,” he said. “As years passed, clan LeGrey’s reputation had begun to spread and we were soon approached by the Shimshonites.”

  “Shimshonites?”

  “Members of the Order of Shimshon, a Chivalric Order which, unlike most orders of the time, was not established to spread Christianity, but was dedicated to the eradication of all Atrumans. Volant Kesgaila was a prominent Shimshonite himself. A statue of him was one of a few that adorned the Shimshon Strong—a hall where the greatest of Shimshonites were honored. Tell me, when you observe the portrait of Volant in your room, do you ever notice the emblem of an Asiatic lion on his torso? That is the symbol of the Order.”

  Garrick took a moment to remember. He had seen the portrait every day since he moved in. It wasn’t difficult because it was the first thing he saw when he woke and the last he saw before he slept. “So, what you’re saying is the former owner of this mansion was an—what was it? —Atruman killer?”

  “Initially, yes.”

  “Initially?”

  “Volant was the Master Commander of the Order. It was the second highest rank in the Order, but he was the most influential because he commanded its military forces. And he was worshipped by them. At a young age he’d already attained the status of a legend. However, he was also spurred by an obsession. Unlike most Shimshonites who were born into it, Volant’s parents—already active Shimshonites—had done everything in their power to keep him away from the Order. I believe they wanted a normal life for their son. Alas, they were killed by Atrumans when he was still a child. And with their death, he was forced into the life they protected him from. But killing all those countless Atrumans did nothing to satiate his hunger for vengeance.”

  Vengeance. Would that ever be a possibility? Thought Garrick. Celina always had her way—and she’d keep having her way—she was born fortunate. He poured himself a glass of juice and swore under his breath. “What made him such a formidable Shimshonite?” he finally asked.

  “Great question!” said Octavius animatedly. “The Knoxian Heightening spell.”

  “A spell? Magic?”
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  “The Knoxian Heightening Spell is a rare and exceptional spell created by an extremely gifted Magirev called Knox. The spell heightened every skill of its conjurer. Only Knox himself could cast the spell—no imitators could manage it. Despite this, many warriors had approached Knox for the chance to wield such great power, but none could handle it. Many died at the first stage of its power. While others…”

  “Wait!” yelled Garrick, with his hand raised in exasperation. “What exactly are we talking about? You’ve gone from you being an Atruman hunter who has lived since the sixteenth century, to the history of Incardians, to Volant being a formidable Atruman hunter himself, to some spell!”

  “I admit I am approaching this haphazardly. It’s all coming to me like a stream of several thoughts and I can’t seem to help it. I’ve never been one to keep to a cohesive narrative structure.”

  “Shorten this story, please?!” Garrick implored. He looked through the window. What initially amused him had suddenly turned into a major source of irritation. Living with a creepy man he knew very little about was one thing. It was something else entirely to discover the man in question was also insane.

  Octavius scowled for a moment, but almost instantly grinned. “I understand. The rest of the story can wait, I suppose.”

  Garrick had turned to look back at him to speak when he noticed a sudden change in Octavius. “What… what happened to your eyes?” Octavius’ eyes were no longer blue. Instead, his pupils looked thick and mercury silver. He said nothing and turned to pour himself another glass of wine. “The reason I’m absolutely certain that Vampires are not real is because they are a misinterpretation of Incardians. Fictional representations of Incardians born out of ignorance and misunderstanding. Some Incardians have been known to occasionally imbibe human blood but not all. We are not dependent on it; it’s only a frivolous pastime. Quite akin to a soft drug which doesn’t lead to any serious addiction.”

  Garrick turned and fixed his gaze on the gate through the window. He took a moment to calculate his route of escape then looked back at Octavius who still had his back turned to him. He edged toward the door as he asked his next question. “We?”

  “Pardon me?” said Octavius. “What was that?”

  “You said ‘we’re not dependent on it.’ What do you mean by we?”

  Finally, Octavius turned to face Garrick. “What? You haven’t figured it out yet? Or you’re doubting yourself?”

  Garrick gulped. He noticed something different in Octavius’ teeth. They were longer and sharper; his skin was paler; his eyebrows had vanished completely and revealed a more pronounced brow. His once stern yet comforting face was replaced by a disturbingly malevolent countenance. This was no longer the handsome and calm substitute teacher. Before him, was a monster.

  Garrick trembled uncontrollably and his eyes had begun to water. None of his foul experiences growing up could have ever prepared him for what was coming—his own death. Octavius merely laughed lightly. “This is the first time I’m noting an emotion other than anger from you. Pure and genuine fear.” Octavius took one more sip from his glass of wine, but his elongated teeth made it somewhat difficult to keep it all inside his mouth as a stream of wine went down his chin. “It’s been a while since I’ve displayed myself in such a manner to anyone, Garrick,” he said, his voice noticeably deeper. “I just felt it apt to do so now. To prove it.”

  Garrick remained quiet. Octavius was right, he thought. This devilish transformation was all the proof he needed to believe everything he said. “I won’t hurt you,” Octavius said reassuringly. “Please sit down.”

  Garrick seemed to have forgotten how. Octavius noticed this and approached him. Garrick felt colder as each step brought this devilish man closer to him. As soon as he was able, Octavius placed a hand on Garrick’s shoulder and gently pushed him down until he was seated again.

  “Yes,” continued Octavius. “I am an Incardian. I have been since 1513. And my Questioner was none other than the owner of this mansion—Volant Aurimas Kesgaila.” Octavius stopped talking for a moment to note Garrick’s reaction to this piece of information. The disheveled young man stared blankly at his demonic face. He was listening but was too shaken to show any other emotion. He was petrified. “Volant,” Octavius said, “was Questioned during his tenure as Master Commander of the Order of Shimshon. It was a great loss for the Shimshonites. They were never able to find anyone as capable as him. And for him to suddenly be turned to the other side made him an even greater foe than he was an ally.”

  “Why are you telling me all this?” Garrick finally asked. His voice was a soft whimper and it took Octavius’ supernatural acute hearing to discern his words.

  “You, my young quivering friend, are the last of the Kesgailos. You are Volant’s heir.”

  “You see,” said Garrick somewhat hastily. “I’m a Hartmann! I can’t be a Kesgaila, Mr. LeGrey. You have the wrong person!”

  “Garrick...”

  “Maybe you’re looking for another Garrick, Mr. LeGrey! Maybe this was all some misunderstanding and you thought I was…” he wiped a warm stream of tears from his cheek and looked at the demonic Octavius whose eyes were transfixed on him. He seemed to be growing impatient—furious, even.

  “You take pleasure in that?” he asked incredulously. “You would rather be kin to vile and unforgiving people? You would prefer to call them family? After all they did to you?”

  Garrick was so overcome by fear to hold back his tears. He was angry and embarrassed at once. Octavius’ words struck him like daggers. His eyes looked within his heart and spurred him like spark plugs. Yet, despite the truth he spoke, Garrick was not ready to give into his hate. Not again. The last time he did, he almost committed murder.

  “Please,” Garrick begged, “let me go. I’m not the one you’re looking for.”

  Octavius sighed in exasperation and his features gradually returned to normal. His eyebrows returned as if the hair grew at an accelerated rate; his teeth shortened; and his skin became ruddy yet again. “I understand,” he said. “This is obviously too much to handle. I’m afraid that old age has made me tactless. Please, sleep on it.” He walked up to the door and pulled onto a rope that hung beside it. “I am drawn to you, Garrick. You are my Assenter—Ambler or not. Your human shell will die after the Questioning.” Garrick opened his mouth to speak but was silenced by a wave of Octavius’ hand. “I will not force you. I can only trust that you will come to me willingly.” Rumsfeld walked into the library. “Rumsfeld here will show you to your room. Goodnight.”

  10

  Garrick did not sleep that night. He couldn’t. He sat on his bed contemplating and replaying his entire conversation with Octavius in his head. Incardians—never heard of them—yet he acknowledged their existence like he had always known of them. He took another look at the portrait of Volant. He could not deny it. It was like looking into a mirror. Except this mirror showed him what he would look like in thirty—maybe thirty-five—years from then. It felt like a glimpse into his future.

  Questions spiraled in his mind. But events of that night only proved logic would not help him. It was all beyond the realms of logic. He was to become an Incardian. A demon… or Atruman. “Live Free or Die,” he muttered. Death had become an option. Giving himself up to the Question would put an end to life as he knew it. Would death lead to his freedom? Did he have nothing left to live for? An understandable question considering his past. But he did have something to live for—or rather, someone.

  He looked out the window and considered Arianne’s whereabouts. Was she standing by her window and looking into the distance as well? Why could he not remember what happened to her? Octavius said her house was already empty when they got there—but he felt something, like a feather tickling the back of his brain that made him doubt his story. Something else must have happened—something unexplainable. He had to leave.

  Without thought, he leaped out of his window and landed hard on the lawn. Octavius must have f
orgotten there were no bars on his window, he assumed, and he ran steadily and urgently past the mighty estate gate, for the first time since he was brought to the manor. He found his way into the city of Kaunas, putting Octavius and Incardians behind him.

  Octavius watched Garrick run past the gate with tremendous speed. A perfectly natural reaction, he thought. A slim brunette with purple highlights on the base of her shoulder-length hair, stood beside him. She smiled at the urgency of Garrick’s escape. Behind the two of them was Rumsfeld, hands clasped on his back.

  “Shouldn’t we bring him back, sir?” asked Rumsfeld.

  Octavius shook his head. “He cannot escape from what’s coming. His Questioner is revealed.”

  Rumsfeld nodded as he understood.

  “If he comes across any humans, they’ll be driven by an instinct beyond their control to kill him. This is his last night as a human being. He has no control over that,” said the lady as she looked back at Rumsfeld with her purple feline eyes.

  “Unless, of course, he chooses to answer no,” said Octavius, not taking his eyes off Garrick who was supposed to be well beyond the vision of a normal man. “Would you mind keeping an eye on him, Ingrid?”

  The lady, Ingrid, did not hesitate as she jumped out of the window and ran after Garrick. Her speed sent the leaves afloat. She was spurred by an excitement; she wanted to see her Volant again. Her dearest Volant.

  It wasn’t long before Garrick had begun to regret his impulsive actions. He had left the manor without his passport or money. All he had in his possession were five one-dollar notes folded into his back pocket—five dollars he’d had since he left Reading. He hadn’t spent any money since he moved in with Octavius because everything he needed was provided. His escape was not premeditated, and he was beginning to feel the sting of his lack of foresight. Where on earth was he going? He had considered heading back to the manor despite how foolish he would have felt walking back in with his head down, but he could not find his way back. He was either terrible with directions or the manor had vanished completely.