God's Gone AWOL

[1] The Beginning

Bentley had not been able to fly very far, considering the significant damage to her current form. But even just a residential street of Jericho was better than being in that now-godforsaken church. At least out here, she could heal herself somewhat without a dozen eyeballs staring at her in fear, awe, anger, or whatever the hell those emotions were. Even if it hurt more to do so, she was not in the mood for any more attention. Especially not while the one responsible for her original death was around.

In the light of a single street lamp, beneath the sweet scent of the spring's warm darkness, she pulled the angelic blade from her chest and tossed it aside. It landed against the concrete with a clatter, and Bentley promptly forgot about its existence. Then she touched the wound in her side and lifted her hand to examine the result. As she had anticipated, there was a lot of fresh blood. But that was no big deal. She had already died once and would happily die again right then and there if she was allowed to, but she knew that no matter what she did, whether it was launch herself from the highest cliff, or provoke Atticus into killing her again, it wouldn't matter. She would just return the same way. And until she did what she needed to do, she was stuck in the inescapable prison of life.

The hand at her side pressed lightly against her skin and a warm current of energy flowed forward from her fingertips. At first, the heat of the magic caused the rhythm of her pulse to increase in weight, like a series of painful beats, emanating from that horrible gash in her body. After a little while, the wound gradually began to heal itself. The blood stopped running and her ghostly white skin started to sew itself back together like new. However the process was slow, and it hurt even more than walking on it. But it was quicker; similar to ripping off a bandaid. So Bentley continued passing healing energy until she found she could walk again.

Once that was out of the way, she started making her way down the street.

But then after walking for a while, Bentley suddenly froze and stopped the steady stream of magic. As soon as her hand dropped back down, the blood started flowing anew. But she didn't care about that anymore. A horrible shiver had passed over her body, and that deep sixth-sense told her something that she really did not want to hear right then and there.

Someone was following her.

The air was so quiet, it felt as though the only sound in the entire town was the drip, drip, drip of Bentley's blood falling onto the pavement. She didn't move. She didn't speak. She didn't even breathe.

And then...

She took off running down the street. But she only made it a few steps before a glowing white cord shot out from behind, determinedly tangling itself around her legs. A numbness washed over the lower half of her body and Bentley toppled to the ground, but still remained relentless in her attempt to escape. Her pale hands clawed at the ground, dragging her crippled self along. She had to keep going. She just had to.

Unfortunately for her, that white cord continued to wind up her body, ensnaring her completely from ankles to neck. Yet despite her obvious loss, Bentley still tried running away. Although now she looked like an overgrown red inchworm, leaving a red trail of blood behind as she desperately wriggled her way forward. If she hadn't been injured, she would be able to break free of such a bond easily, but now that her power was significantly weakened, she was practically helpless.

Finally, the pain became too much and she just couldn't struggle anymore. Her body fell limp with exhaustion.

"Killing me once wasn't enough for you, then?" she said, but still refused to turn around and look at her attacker.

Atticus stood a few meters behind, gripping the same golden blade that had ended her life eighty-five years ago.

The thoughts running through his head were going too fast for his emotions to catch up, and so he let them run. Trying to control them would be more difficult than diverting a river from its course. Among all the confusion of the night, the only thing he knew was that Bentley was here —or at least some version of the Bentley he had once known. There was no saying if she was even real or if the whole evening had just been a further exaggeration of his imagination set off by the smell of cinnamon.