The Descendants (Evolution of Angels Book 2)

  The Descendants

  By: Nathan Wall

  Copyright © 2014 by Nathan Wall

  All right reserved

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  The characters, events and world created in this Novella are the sole property of the author. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means-electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other-except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner and author.

  Epigraph lyrics from the song Carry on my wayward son by Kansas, from the album Leftoverture (1976). Copyright © 2013 by Kansas

  ISBN: 978-1-941714-02-7

  Dedication

  For my wife, family and friends.

  For those who came before me,

  and the treasures not yet revealed.

  Epigraph

  Masquerading as a man with a reason,

  My Charade is the event of the season...

  Lay your weary head to rest,

  Don’t you cry no more.

  - Kansas, “Carry on my wayward son.”

  Advisement

  The majority of this story takes place during the events of the previous novel: “Evolution of Angels” (between Episodes 8 and 9).

  While “The Descendants” is a self-contained story, certain events, references, characters and plots might make more sense with the appropriate context.

  Knowledge of previous events is not supremely imperative to the enjoyment of this story, if you choose to proceed without having read “Evolution of Angels.”

  Thank you.

  Table of Contents

  Dedication.................................i

  Epigraph...................................ii

  Advisement...............................iii

  Prologue...................................1

  Chapter 1..................................7

  Chapter 2..................................13

  Chapter 3..................................19

  Chapter 4..................................25

  Chapter 5..................................33

  Chapter 6..................................39

  Chapter 7..................................45

  Chapter 8..................................51

  Chapter 9..................................57

  Chapter 10................................63

  Chapter 11.................................69

  Chapter 12.................................75

  Chapter 13.................................81

  Chapter 14.................................85

  Chapter 15.................................93

  Epilogue....................................97

  Acknowledgments............................a

  About the Author..............................b

  Prologue

  The tires of the jet-black sports car squealed along the asphalt. The street turned to cobblestone and the car rocked back and forth as it continued tearing through the night. The downtown skyline of London became a fresh memory in the rearview mirror. Emma Brighton and her partner, Jonas Reid, were responding to a late night call—or early morning depending on one's view—in the uptown neighborhood of Edmonton.

  Jonas yawned, still shaking the sleep from his eyes. The coffee in his left hand swayed along the rim of the paper cup, responding to Emma's aggressive maneuvering. “Aggressive” is a word Jonas would use, but not Emma. She called it being “proactive.”

  "The body isn't going anywhere." Jonas rubbed his face down, pressing his palm firmly on the bridge of his nose. He attempted to sip from the cup, but every time his lips got close enough to the vanilla-flavored coffee, Emma would needlessly swerve and laugh at his misery. "Goodness, woman. Could you at least not murder us?"

  "I've not killed us yet," she laughed with a slight grin and tightened her grip on the leather steering wheel.

  "Hardly reassuring." He sipped from the cup and raised a brow. "I'm not so sure you aren't trying."

  A splash of coffee tipped over the rim and landed on Jonas’ newly purchased khaki pants, stretching along his left inner thigh and over his crotch. He sighed, shaking his head, and grabbed a wad of napkins out of the bag that housed his Danish. He rubbed out the stain as best as he could.

  "You should dab it, not rub it." Emma smiled, moving her raven-black hair out of her face. Jonas rolled his eyes, glancing over at her. Her milky-toned mocha skin glowed under the street lights, showing off her natural bronzed tone. Her pink pouty lips perked up in yet another smile as the sarcastic words crossed her tongue. "Your fiancée can always have it dry-cleaned."

  "She'd rather not bother." He shook his head and threw the napkins to the floor of her car. He leaned back and looked out the side window. The low-hanging cotoneasters reached their hands out over the street, caressing the numerous cars parked along the sidewalk.

  "I'm sorry. That one was an accident. I swear." She squeezed his shoulder, reaffirming her apology. Her left hand moved back to the gearshift and shifted into neutral. The car glided to a stop. "I'll pay for the cleaning."

  A flood of flashing blue lights poured in through the windshield and numerous individuals from the Metropolitan Police Service, locally known as “the MET,” drew lines along the sidewalk with yellow tape. She opened the door and stuck one foot out.

  "Can we get on with it?" Jonas got out of the car and moved around the front hood to Emma's side. A constable in a yellow and white checkered vest approached the detectives, handing them a clipboard. Jonas took it and ruffled through the papers. "Chief Inspector wants a call."

  "Doesn't he always?" Emma started up the steps of a small red brick residence built into a row of similar looking houses with shared walls on either side. The local residents wandered out from their front doors or poked their heads through their curtains, trying to look on as the scene unfolded. Emma unsnapped a pouch that hung on the side of her belt and removed two plastic gloves. She slid them over her hands and pulled a small torch out, clicking the light on.

  They walked inside and the dim lights from the rusty chandelier illuminated a small area in along the foyer. The light bounced off the blood-smeared, dirt-encrusted walls. Several brown-infused crimson slashes spiraled in different directions. Across the entryway was a narrow staircase, painted white and coated with dirt, leading up the left side of the wall. Emma noticed the house had a baked-in scent of several distinct spices.

  "We received the call around a quarter to two," the constable said, leading the pair down the hall and toward the kitchen. The wooden floorboards squeaked beneath their steps with small plumes of dust erupting from between the cracks. He stopped and took a sharp left, opening the door underneath the stairs heading down into the basement. The constable kept talking. "The victim's cousin grew suspicious when she didn't call."

  Emma looked into the kitchen and at three officers who stood over an elderly woman. She was dressed in a white burqa covered in dirt. They questioned her while she cried into a handkerchief. On the steps of the backdoor was an elderly man, presumably the family's grandfather, yelling obscenities in Kurdish at the officers. She looked at him closely, noticing the dirt and dust that drenched his face and clothes. She turned and followed Jonas and the constable.

  "Why would the cousin be suspicious?" Jonas asked, s
tepping down from the last stair and into the concrete basement. He turned to the left and noticed the dead body of a young girl, about fourteen, naked and draped over a wooden bench with her hands bound to cement blocks.

  Her back was beaten into a bloody pulp and her face was swollen and bruised. A few men took pictures of the scene. Sprawled out in a circular fashion were hundreds of burning candles. Strange looking symbols had been painted on the floor. Among the drawings were stars, crescent moons, oddly shaped circles, squares with oblong waves in the middle, and a large egg-shaped smear underneath the girl.

  "The cousin said the victim wasn't interested in living under the Islamic fist of her father who was due to join the family sometime in the coming months. A pair of rail passes for Manchester—scheduled for 9 a.m.—provided by the cousin coincides with a receipt found in the victim's room." The constable walked around the body, stepping over the smears on the floor. "Seems we have a case of Sharia law."

  "What are these of?" Emma knelt down, pointing the light of her torch over the painted symbols. "Doesn't seem to resemble anything I've seen in these cases before."

  "That's why we asked for you two when we called for the MIT," the constable said, referring to the shorthand name for the Murder Investigation Teams. He took a pad of paper from one of the photographers and signed it, then handed it back. "This isn't really our cup of tea."

  "Not hers either," Jonas replied, squatting next to the body and looking under the bench she was lying on. He pointed at the large egg-shaped painting. "You've got pictures of all this? Can I take a sample?”

  "Yes, we have."

  "Good." He removed a small pocketknife from the inside of his navy blazer and scratched off a section of the painting. He smelled it, then touched it to his tongue before spitting it back out. “Looks like it’s made up of tiny little square drawings."

  "What is it?" Emma asked.

  "It explains the smell of the walls," he replied, standing up. He ran his large hand through his short, spiked up blond hair. He looked at her with his evergreen eyes, rubbing the dimple on his chin deep in thought. "I guess it was a homemade paint crafted with those spices."

  "Turmeric, cumin, and ginger." Emma nodded, speaking to herself.

  "How do you know?" the constable asked.

  She looked at him, collecting her breath before allowing her mind to scroll through the memories of her mother.

  "My mum cooked with them all the time." She sighed with hesitation, standing up. Her eyes carried a hollow stare. She looked back at the constable, feigning a smile. "Mind if we have a second alone?"

  "Of course not," the constable replied, stepping to the side to engage in conversation with one of his direct reports. The constable then walked up the stairs alone, responding to a question from someone on the upper floor.

  "Out with it. You're thinking something," Jonas said, tiptoeing over the many candles and walking over to the wall. He did his best to avoid the photographers who were snapping pictures.

  "This doesn't look like any honor killing we've come across." She sighed and folded her arms. Her eyes zeroed in on the girl's swollen face. The mouth, to be more specific. She gently brushed a swab along the girl’s cheek and lips, taking a picture with her phone in the process.

  "What is it?" Jonas asked, looking over his shoulder while he examined the wall.

  "It seems her face was cleaned." She wiped a small trickle of mud from the corner of the girl’s mouth and rubbed it between her fingers. "But they missed a tiny spot. Very strange."

  "Not too strange; the entire house is covered in the filth." Jonas smeared his hand along the wall and pulled it back, revealing his caked-over hand. "Just look at this."

  "But why clean her face?" Emma looked at Jonas. "They left the crusted blood on her back and the blood stains along her limbs. They just removed the dirt from her mouth."

  Loud thunderous yells collected on the streets. A brick smashed through the window and hit Emma in the shoulder. She stumbled forward, grabbing her arm. She turned around just in time to avoid a burning torch that had been tossed into the basement. Several of the Crime Scene Investigators began putting out the fire and the room filled with smoke.

  "Detectives," the constable said, yelling from the top of the stairs. "We have a situation and we could use your assistance up here."

  Jonas examined Emma for any further injuries before leading the way to the ground floor. A large crowd gathered along the street, waving brooms, cricket bats, and other objects in the air. They yelled in unison, protesting the intervention of Sharia law. Emma was more certain the death was part of a different ritual, but there was no way for the angry mob to know that.

  What has them acting this way? she asked herself. Breaking their laws or not, why would they dare assault officers?

  "The prophecy has come," the grandmother said, yanking on Emma's arm. Emma pulled her left hand away and kept her focus at the street corner, barely paying the old woman any mind. Again, the grandmother persisted, still speaking in Kurdish. "There is no Sharia here."

  "What did you say?" Emma asked, looking at the grandmother. She spun around and moved the old lady into the kitchen. "Can you repeat that?"

  "My precious Zari… I wish they'd left her alone." The woman trembled, falling to her seat.

  “Shut up, woman,” the grandfather grumbled, grinding his teeth together. “Keep quiet or else…”

  "I wanted a different fate for her. She deserved better," the old lady cried, but her moans were drowned out by the ruckus on the street. The enraged neighborhood began pushing their way into the house. A large rock smashed through the front window, followed by a Molotov cocktail. She looked at Emma with eyes a mournful red. Her hands trembled as she clasped to Emma’s jacket sleeve. “Her soul... she’ll never reach the stars.”

  "I told you to be quiet," the Grandfather growled, frothing at the mouth. Though his hands were bound, he grabbed a knife on the counter. Emma went to stop him, but he bit her neck and shoved her away with abnormal strength. He lunged for his wife and stabbed repeatedly, driving the blade into her face. He pulled the knife from her flesh and spurts of blood gushed from the wound. "Die, you insolent whore."

  "Jonas," Emma cried out, lightheaded and holding her neck as blood seeped through her fingers. Her heart slammed in her chest, pounding furiously. It took her a moment to remember to breathe. She looked at the two officers who were supposed to be watching the grandfather and found that their necks were snapped.

  Jonas ran into the kitchen and put the grandfather in a chokehold, slamming him into the wall and removing the blade from his clutch. The old man laughed, opening his eyes. They appeared to be solid black. The laughter seemed to belong to a beast, not to a human being.

  Emma got up on her knees, her hands shaking, and brushed her fingers across the grandmother’s lifeless knee.

  I should have done more, her lips shook. The memory of her mom getting in the back of a taxi kept flashing in her mind. Emma took a deep breath and slowly pushed herself up, shoving the memory deeper into the black hole it crawled out of. The commotion in the front of the house still had the others occupied. She looked out the backdoor at the two dead officers and saw a figure standing in the shadows, watching.

  "There's someone in the garden," she said to Jonas, but was unable to make an audible sound.

  "The Giver of Day returns," the grandfather said as Jonas pressed a knee down on the old man's back, snapping cuffs over the ankles. Again, the old man yelled, "Death will be his guide."

  "There's a man in the garden and he's watching us." Emma moved toward the door. The man remained standing in the shadows, smiling.

  The mob climbed through the broken windows, shoved their way through the front door, and fought with the police force and CSI. Their eyes were all solid black like the grandfather’s. Emma shook her head in a feeble attempt to correct her cloudy sight. Emma was unsure, but through her blurry eyes, she saw the man mocking her with a slow clap.

&nbs
p; "Constable," Jonas yelled, pulling the old man up to his feet and slamming him into the table. He looked back at Emma who was meandering out the back door almost as though she was being drawn. "Emma, wait."

  She snapped out of her daze, determined to do more this time, and jumped off the elevated wooden deck. She landed and immediately rolled across the grass, springing to her feet. The man kept smiling—the moon bouncing off his pale skin. She pulled the CS spray from her belt and aimed it at the individual. He quickly slapped it out of her hand and smashed his palm into her diaphragm. She soared backwards several yards and bounced off the muddy ground. The wind rushed from her lungs.

  Jonas ran down the steps to her side. She wheezed, pointing at the man in the garden. He slowly walked up behind her partner. Her eyes widened, her gaze fixed on the man’s transforming hand. It dripped with mud, taking the shape of a large dagger. Jonas pulled Emma up, leaning his ear toward her mouth.

  "What is it?" he asked.

  She let out a deep gasp. The makeshift blade-hand pierced through Jonas' back, through his spine, and into her chest. Jonas collapsed forward, lying on top of her and pinning her down. The man moved the long strands of his clumpy hair away from his rigid face and exposed his radiant blue eyes.

  "Jonas," Emma screamed with all her might, but was barely able to muster a sound. The area around her slowly soaked with blood. The man knelt over her, stuck his hand to her face, and squeezed her cheeks in a playful manner.

  The group of screaming protestors pushed their way through the back fence and stormed the house that was now on fire. Flashing lights and sirens approached from the back, coming to reinforce the situation. The extra officers and firemen rushed behind the wild group and attempted to hold them off.

  The grandfather jumped through a window and landed in the garden, yelling as he broke his cuffs. Emma didn't take her eyes off the man as he slowly walked backward into the group of yelling protestors. He blew her a kiss and jumped backward onto the roof of the three-story house on the other side of the alleyway. She noticed the further he got from the crowd, the more they regained their sanity and the calmer they became.