First of the Fallen (Neophyte Series 1)

26. The Tunnel of Improbus

        A PALE MOON PAINTED every blade of grass it's light hue of blue, the dew of early morning or late night foretelling of a sunrise not far from the horizon, but soaked the leather boots of a lone protector. Sleep had not come easy that night, nor any night since the team had been robbed of their key enforcers, but Shay rarely viewed them as such. He missed his friends more than anything, and a lingering fear that he would never see them again kept him up every night.

    The very thought of them down there, without him made him feel useless, a mere spectator ever benched in a battle for the souls of the world. He thought frequently of his death, and the portal that had come for him. Knowing his eternal path had changed, he hungered for a chance to rage into demonic battle, thirsted for the flesh of the damned, but there he remained, without purpose with all his beastly might.

    This is why he walked the grounds at night, even though the castle was more than safe without his help, but it was something—anything to keep his mind from wandering too far. Killing was easy, battle second nature to a Hakodesh; it was the emotions he feared most. He'd rather the thrill of blood spraying on the battlefield any given day than admit that his daughter was growing up without him, his wife but a memory.

    He lit a cigarette and exhaled toward the full moon, resisting the urge to howl. Stepping through the wet blades of freshly-mowed grass he let out a worried sigh, trying not to think of all the ones he'd loved so fiercely throughout his time, so many of them out of his reach.

    'I need a fuckin' drink.' he huffed as he reached into his pocket and clasped his flask, but he suddenly froze as he caught the faint odour of cologne in the air—a men's fragrance somewhere nearby. He inhaled the cool night air, and it was then that he could tell that whoever it was, he was getting closer. His first thought was of Andrew, as he commonly switched up his fragrances on the daily, but the air did not carry his scent, his usual musk that few but a Holy Beast could trace. No, this was the scent of aging skin, American cigarettes and whiskey, someone old and accustomed to cheap, drugstore cologne.

    Sensing the approach, he moved toward the front gates, thinking that perhaps it was a wandering drunk who might have gotten lost on his stumble home from the local country bar just a ways down the road. Either way, friend, foe or otherwise, he would not give them the satisfaction of his worry.

    As he sipped and smoked, seemingly wandering about the grounds, the towering Aussie spotted the impressive wingspan of Ophanim's Raven, Samhera ever the night owl, like himself. As such, she was often his only company, though she'd never share a drink with him, no matter how many times he'd nudge a shot glass full of liquor her way.

    Holding out his arm, she did not dive toward him as expected, but landed on the topmost arch of the front gates, which stood about twenty feet away. She had sensed the late night visit too, the only two souls in the castle with nothing better to do.

    'Ah, spoilsport are we? Don't wanna come have a drink with your best mate, then?'

    'What's on the menu?' said the man at the gates.

    Shay mock flinched, pretending he was startled merely to give the delusion of ignorance.

    'Sambuca.' he replied as he moved closer, spotting the rim of a black hat. 'Care for a swig, mate?'

    'I've had quite enough this evening, I think.' replied the seasoned voice with a slight British accent, not quite as strong as Ophanim, but just a splash of cockney. As the silhouette of a black trench coat came into view, so did the white of a clergyman's collar.

    'Never quite fancied the licorice taste anyway.'

    'Your loss, Padre.' He took another swig from the flask, but would not lower his eyes. 'Not to be rude, but it's a tad late for a social call, wouldn't you say?'