First of the Fallen (Neophyte Series 1)

23. The Great Migration

        TIME WAS OF THE essence, every moment wasted a greater certainty that Samael would be dead by the time they reached him on the sixth level of the underworld. Michael took the fastest shower he'd ever thought possible, and slipped on a fresh change of clothes in record time. He had no idea just how long the journey would be, or how messy the circumstances would become, but a shower and a change of clothes were certainly a decent start, he reasoned.

    There was no time for a casual stroll through the Sanctuary—not a moment's peace to reflect or consider the certainty of something going terribly wrong. Along the journey, however brief, there was a part of him that wished he would have savoured his time in the castle, but his experience with the Neophytes felt more like a rushed meal. Training days seemed blurred together like an abstract painting with no true vision of the end result, subconsciously praying that it would make sense in the end, and some significant pattern would reveal itself at the last minute.

    With the very real possibility of failure, Michael quietly worried that his life would become just another journal entry that would serve the next version of himself—if there would indeed be another life awaiting, there was no way of knowing. His thoughts seemed glued to the mysterious book he had discovered earlier that night, fearful he would never get the chance to add his own ledger, to cement the existence of Michael Archer. But then, what would he add? He had accomplished so little in his life; nothing remotely on the same level as King Arthur, Hector, Wyatt Earp . . . any of them. He was an insect amongst lions, but perhaps that was about to change?

    The balls of his running shoes tapped along the stairwell quickly, reaching the main floor landing with a spring in his step, and great purpose in his veins. Andrew had arrived in his absence, and he and Jonathan were comparing notes, reading through forgotten literature and comparing the information with Andrew's considerably in-depth data base. Azrael appeared rather helpless, but kept herself available to look something up if requested, pointing out passages, and aiding their preparation the best she could.

    A fresh pot of coffee had been brewed, and a trey of cups, cream and sugar, as well as puff pastries sat on the edge of the fire pit, the flames within now alive and dancing about, careless and unaware of the danger approaching with every tick of the clock. Michael found it ironic just how desperately he'd been fighting to get to sleep that very evening, and now that the night had no clear end in sight, he was beginning to feel the drag of fatigue, wishing their departure could have waited until morning.

    'Grab yourself a cuppa, mate.' Shay insisted as he helped Tyler unload many metallic cases of varying shapes and sizes from a nearby cart. 'You're gonna need all the energy you can mustah.'

    'What's all this?' he gestured to the sleek-looking luggage.

    'You'll see soon enough.' Tyler replied. 'We've been preparing for this, so have a little faith, my friend.' He grinned as though he knew something Michael did not.

    Anxious and tired, a prolonged yawn persisted as he poured himself a cup, gulped downed the entirety and refilled, hoping the caffeine would see him through the next few hours.

    'Raph, tell me you got some caffeine pills for me, ginseng—anything to wake me up and stay alert.'

    'Oh, I gotta feelin' you won't have a problem where you're goin', Lad.' he grinned, handing him a small black pouch, suited to clip onto a belt. 'Hell's got a way of keepin' yah on your toes, believe you me.'

    'What's this?' he observed the small pouch, sipping his coffee.

    'A wee pharmacy and first-aid kit.' he revealed. 'You'll be able to heal yourself for the most part, I'm pretty sure. However, we don't know enough about Hell to just assume this is the case. There may be sections or crevices of the underworld that might hinder your abilities—maybe even give away your position if you use them to heal. Hope for the best, right?'