Desmond

Desmond knew a terrible fate had befallen his son. He should’ve been upset by this odd and unsettling turn of events, but, instead, he found himself merely resigned to the fact.

I never really liked him, Desmond realized. He was rotten and I knew it. But, still, I used him to further The Flood’s needs.

Guilt was not an emotion Desmond wasted time on, but now it blossomed inside him like a parasitic flower, cutting into his heart and forcing him to acknowledge something he’d buried deep down inside himself.

He’d made a mistake. A serious one. A reprehensible one.

And it had happened because of her.

•   •   •

God help him, he’d loved Eleanora Eames from the first moment he’d laid eyes on her. She’d opened the front door to her grandmother’s house, pushing strands of damp brown hair out of her glorious face, her wide pink mouth smiling at him. She’d been working in the kitchen, her cheeks flushed from the heat.

She’d looked up at him, those gorgeous eyes locking onto his own, and his heart had swelled with such need that he’d almost been unable to speak. He remembered asking for her grandmother—the woman who’d contacted his superiors—and she’d led him inside the house. He’d had a job to do, and he’d done it. He was there to help save her soul . . . but what he hadn’t realized was it was actually his soul that was going to need saving when it was all said and done.

He’d tried everything he could to keep away from Eleanora. But she was too incredible and he’d failed miserably, spending entirely too much time in her company. She’d been so intelligent and kind . . . and they’d really connected. He was supposed to be watching her, making sure she wasn’t communing with the Devil—which was what witches like her did—but instead he’d fallen more in love with her.

He would’ve thought making love to her would be the most important experience they shared, but after all these years, there was another evening that stayed closer to his heart.

•   •   •

She was sitting on the cot, her back pressed into the corner, arms wrapped around her knees. She was wearing Desmond’s white undershirt and a pair of his striped pajama pants that he had given her from his own stash of clothing.

She’d twisted her long brown hair into a knot at the back of her neck, and she wore no makeup. Her eyes were thoughtful as she played with the striped fabric, running her fingers along the curve of her knee.

“I like that you think about things,” she said. “There are just so few people in this world who truly think.”

He was on the floor, a cigarette in his hand, his back against the wall. He’d unbuttoned the top two buttons of his plaid shirt and she’d watched him, eyes fixed on the bit of curly brown chest hair poking up from beneath his undershirt.

“I don’t know what any of the answers are,” he said, putting the cigarette to his lips and inhaling deeply. He so badly wanted to look “cool” for her. “But I think there’s more in this world than we can see or hear or touch or taste with our senses.”

“Like we have a sixth sense?” she asked.

He nodded and then leaned his head back against the wall.

“A sixth or a seventh—”

“—maybe an eighth sense,” she said, laughing.

“Yeah,” he agreed, and smiled at her.

Their eyes caught for a moment, held, and then, finally, she looked away. In his heart, he knew that part of her goodwill toward him was selfish. She wanted to escape and she hoped he’d help her.

This was not going to happen. She didn’t understand that she was here for a reason. She needed their help. Only with The Flood’s backing could she be cured of her condition. Witchcraft was evil and it corrupted women; corrupted absolutely. He and the others were going to save Eleanora and then the two of them could be together. Forever.

Because that was what he knew was going to happen. They would fix Eleanora Eames and then she would marry him. They would have children and be in love and everything would be perfect.

It was a naïve point of view to embrace, but he was young, barely a man, and his optimism knew no bounds.

“My grandmother used to burn me when I was younger,” Eleanora said suddenly. He was unprepared for this revelation and out came the first thing his mind latched onto, without thinking:

“That’s not right. She shouldn’t do that.”

Eleanora shrugged, the white undershirt showing off the curve of her breast. He tore his eyes away from the sight, but the image was burned into his brain, and he knew he’d think about what lay beneath that undershirt the next time he touched himself.

“She wanted to burn the magic out of me.”

Desmond had never heard anyone be so blunt about magic before.

“Because it’s evil,” he said.

She shook her head.

“It’s not evil. It just makes her remember my mom. She blames magic for her death.”

“What happened to your mother?” he asked, pulling on the cigarette again.

“Can I tell you a secret?” she asked.

And all he wanted, more than anything in the whole world, was to hear that secret.

“Of course,” he said, trying to sound nonchalant. “You can tell me anything.”

She sat forward, eyes gleaming with excitement. He was pretty sure whatever she was about to tell him, she’d never told anyone else, ever.

“I can visit other places in time.”

He wanted to clear his ears out, make sure he’d heard her correctly.

“You can do what?” he asked.

She grinned, pleased that she’d unsettled him.

“I can’t change anything, or even really talk to anyone, but I can go back in time and see things how they happened.”

He shook his head.

“That’s not real.”

She frowned, her shoulders slumping.

“It is, too.”

He tried another tack: “I believe that you believe that you can do that, but I bet you’re just having some kind of lucid dream.”

She didn’t disagree with him, but from the expression on her face, it was clear she thought he was wrong.

“Suit yourself,” he said, stubbing out the butt of his cigarette.

“It happens,” she said, a note of defiance in her voice. “Whether you believe me or not.”

He hadn’t believed her then . . . it was only later—much later—that he’d understood just how right she was.

“Have you ever been in love?” she asked, changing the subject.

He shook his head.

“Nope,” he said. “You?”

“Never.”

He caught her eye again and he felt an almost electric jolt shoot through him. He’d never made love to a woman before, but more than anything he wanted to do that with Eleanora.

“I could fall in love with you,” she said, still holding his gaze. “If things were different. I think I could.”

His heart skipped a beat, but he spoke calmly: “Why’s that, Eleanora?”

She smiled—and it was the sweetest smile the world had ever seen.

“Because I can talk to you.”

•   •   •

It had all gone to hell after that. He’d tried to fix it—after the fact—but she wanted nothing to do with him. He’d learned, too late, that she’d borne his children, twins, a boy and a girl, and then given them up for adoption. She hadn’t consulted him about any of it, and he had been devastated.

He spent many long years searching for his children.

David he found first, but he’d known immediately there was something not right about the man. His daughter he’d never gotten to meet. She and her husband had died in a car accident before he could meet her. She’d left behind one child, but Eleanora had snatched Lyse from him before he’d realized what was happening.

Once again, Eleanora had ruined his ability to connect with his family.

By then, he’d infiltrated the Witches’ Greater Council and become a trusted member of the blood sisters’ world. Out of revenge, he’d seduced Eleanora’s closest friend, Marie-Faith Altonelli, forbidding her from telling anyone about their affair. She’d begotten Daniela and he’d made sure he was a part of that child’s life from the get-go.

Now here he sat, on the back of a speedboat, racing toward the attainment of everything he’d worked so hard for: The Flood would have its day and the world would be changed for the better.

Or would it?

It was hard to even think this, but much of Desmond was starting to believe he’d been misled. All these years of wanting something, of pushing an agenda to fruition . . . and only at the end did he see the truth. That he might be on the wrong side.

But there was nothing he could do about it now. The plan had been set into motion and they’d passed the fail-safe point. The Flood was going to take control of the Earth, a war would come, and then everything would be over . . . purification and the beginning of a new order. The witches would bring about their own end as it had been written in The Book of The Flood.

Up ahead Desmond could see the decommissioned battleship floating on the buoyant blue sea. It was larger than he’d imagined, but they’d brought a battalion of foot soldiers with them, all under his control. With or without David, the next twenty-four hours would mark the end of the blood sisters and any control they had over humanity.

“We’re close, sir,” the young man who was piloting their speedboat called out over the roar of the engine.

Good, he thought. I want this done soon so I never have to think about it again.

The one positive thing that had happened was that Daniela had come out of her coma. True, she was back with her coven sisters, but that wouldn’t be for long. He would send someone to fetch her and then she’d be at his side before the bloodshed had even begun.

“Send Helen and her team around behind them. Let’s hem them in and make sure they can’t escape.”

Another young man—Desmond was having trouble remembering so many different names . . . or maybe his brain was failing him faster than he realized—barked his orders into a walkie-talkie and then listened as someone squawked a reply.

“They’re already on it, sir,” the young man said, letting the walkie-talkie fall to his side.

“Thank you,” Desmond replied.

The two women he’d loved were both dead. His son had disappeared. One daughter was dead, another injured, and his granddaughter hated his guts.

My family is in the crapper, he thought, but my work is about to bear its long-gestating fruit.

A part of him wished they were reversed. There was something very appealing about sitting on a wide wooden porch in a rocking chair, the two loves of his life, Eleanora and Marie-Faith, on either side. Their children and grandchildren coming by for family gatherings . . . meals shared around a giant table. It was a daydream he’d had before . . . but it was just that. A dream. None of it would ever come to pass, and if he hadn’t been so exhausted, he would’ve secretly wept for what could have been.

What could’ve been but never would be.

•   •   •

There was no one on the deck, but this didn’t bother Desmond. The destroyer was surrounded by his boats. It would not be going anywhere. The women were somewhere on the ship, and he knew, eventually, his people would find them.

With David missing, Helen was now his second-in-command. He trusted her to do what was necessary . . . and do it efficiently. She’d done an excellent job of rooting out Yesinia’s coven, even finding one of the rare and coveted “evolved” witches to bring back with her to the research facility. She was good at what she did, and she had an aptitude for magic . . . a talent he’d augmented with his research into witches’ powers.

“Do you want to stay on the deck, sir?” The young man with the walkie-talkie was back. “Or would you like to enter the hatch with us?”

Desmond was not well. His time on Earth was limited and he got exhausted easily by physical activity. As much as he wished he could go belowdecks with his people, he knew he’d be better served staying up above.

“I’ll be fine up here,” Desmond said.

“Shall I leave some men up here with you?” the young man asked.

Desmond shook his head. “Leave me that walkie-talkie. If I have a problem, I’ll radio down to Helen or someone on one of the boats.”

The young man nodded, his light red hair and freckled skin reminding Desmond of Devandra Montrose. He’d felt bad destroying the whole line of Montrose women, but he consoled himself with the knowledge that it was better to die now than to be smitten by the hand of the creator when The Flood took control.

He took the radio from the young man, slipping the clip over his belt. He had trouble maintaining his balance, and the cane he used to prop himself up was all he could manage. The walkie-talkie would be safer on his belt.

There was a raised partition by the gunwale and Desmond perched atop it, watching as a phalanx of Flood converts, both male and female, streamed down into the lower regions of the battle destroyer. Their black combat gear reminded him of insects—ants with guns, actually, who were about to march into battle.

As the last of his followers disappeared into the hatch, Desmond was left alone on the prow of the ship. It was silent, the beat of combat boots on metal having ceased once the last of the men and women went belowdecks. Sunlight bore down on the top of Desmond’s head and he wished he’d worn a hat. He could feel the sweat pouring down his neck, pooling at the small of his back. He closed his eyes, and the calls of seabirds and the gentle crash of waves against the hull of the ship began to lull him into complacency.

“Desmond.”

He started awake, the timbre of Eleanora’s voice reverberating in his ears. He turned his head, scanning the deck of the battle cruiser. There was no one there. He cleared his throat and then coughed up a plug of mucus. He spat it onto the ground, where it began to ooze and bubble. It was disgusting. He hated how foul his body had become as it rotted from the inside out.

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, turning the lion-headed cane slowly in his hands.

He closed his eyes, once again letting the gentle rocking of the ship lull him.

“Desmond.”

His eyes flew open. Eleanora was standing in front of him . . . but not the old woman he’d met again so recently in Elysian Park. No, this was the Eleanora of his dreams, the beautiful young woman he’d fallen in love with and lost his virginity to all those years ago.

“Eleanora?” he said, a hitch in his voice.

Her long brown hair hung loose and free around her shoulders, the soft curve of her throat visible through the wide lapels of her light blue blouse. He stared at her wide pink mouth, and even all these decades later he felt himself stirring at the sight of her.

“Why are you here?” he asked.

She floated toward him, her long blue skirt trailing along the asphalt-gray surface of the deck.

“To ask you to reconsider,” she said. “To beg you not to do this.”

Her words made him sad. He wanted to grant her wish, but it was impossible. There was nothing he could do. His hands were bound.

“It will all be over soon,” he said instead.

She pursed her lips, her skin translucent beneath the heat of the sun.

“Yes, it will,” she agreed. “But not in the way you think. As we speak, my blood sisters are breaking the morale of your people. You think you can come at us with guns, but we have magic, Desmond. And magic trumps everything.”

He was confused. What was she talking about?

“And we have you to thank for that,” she continued. “Thank you, Desmond.”

He dragged himself to his feet, using the cane Daniela had given him to hold himself up. He felt dizzy, his head swimming. He reached for the walkie-talkie at his belt but couldn’t find it. He looked down and saw that it had disappeared.

“What do you mean? What are you talking about?” he cried, taking a step toward Eleanora’s apparition.

She didn’t stay where she was but backed away from him.

He lifted his cane and pointed the tip of it at her.

“You’re not going anywhere until you tell me what you mean!” he yelled, his face getting red with the exertion.

“Hello, Dad.”

He wheeled around to find Daniela standing behind him, holding the walkie-talkie in her hands. She let it fall from her grasp and it clattered onto the deck. She lifted her foot and smashed the radio’s plastic body with the heel of her shoe, so that it splintered apart, useless.

“Daniela . . . ?” he moaned, surprised to see her here on the deck of the boat.

“Where else would I be?” she asked him, her eyes narrowing into slits as she surveyed his ravaged body.

He knew he looked even worse than he had when she’d seen him last, could see her disgust and fear reflected back at him.

“I told you I was dying,” he said.

“I don’t think you can die soon enough for me, Desmond,” she said.

Her words shouldn’t have bothered him, but they did. She was the one child whom he thought he had a decent relationship with, but he’d been wrong. Daniela hated him as much as the others. Maybe even more.

“Why did you do it?” she asked.

“Do what?” he said, his mouth suddenly dry.

“Kill my mother and Francesca . . . use Francesca’s spirit to cast the spell on Lizbeth that would destroy our world . . . ? I’m sure there’s more, but looking at you makes me sick to my stomach, so I won’t go on.”

He laughed, which sounded more like a croak because his throat was so parched. He’d always enjoyed Daniela’s plainspoken bluntness. She was a woman unafraid of saying something that might offend, and he’d appreciated that about her.

She didn’t like being laughed at. He could see the anger growing in her eyes. She stepped toward him, grasping for his upper arm with her bare hand.

Her bare hand, he thought. But she can’t . . . I’ll kill her.

He tried to sidestep her, but he wasn’t fast enough. She latched onto him and—

—they were no longer on the prow of the destroyer.

“Where are we?” Desmond asked—everywhere he looked, there was only black, empty space as far as the eye could see.

He blinked and then Daniela was standing in front of him, her rainbow-hued hair a staticky mess as she stared at him with flashing eyes. She lifted her arms in the air and electricity shot out of her fingertips.

“You’re in my head,” she said. “Only I’m not alone in here. The monster you created in your lab is here with me. And this is its true form!”

She lowered her hands and as she did, light exploded all around him. He tried to cover his face, block out the pain in his eyes, but he found that he was unable to move.

“They’re all here to say hello . . .” Daniela gestured around her and what Desmond saw chilled him to the bone.

He was surrounded by a sea of women . . . old women, young women, girls . . . he recognized some and others he did not. They were pale blue and shimmering, their bodies like floating crystals all around him.

“You created this monster,” Daniela said. “You murdered my blood sisters and stole their powers . . . but you couldn’t steal their souls.”

“I didn’t know,” he said, weakly.

“Yes, you did,” Daniela said. “And now you’re going to pay.”

The women descended on him . . . and Desmond began to scream.

•   •   •

Desmond was sitting alone on the deck of the destroyer, hands lying limply in his lap, the lion-headed cane resting against the inside of his thigh. A slight breeze blew in from the sea, carrying with it the heady scent of salt and decay . . . but Desmond, the bringer of The Flood, was no longer alive to smell it.