Prologue
The Beginning of Time

 

The Twelve

The first existed in the void's blackness. Though lesser, the remaining followed with due haste to fulfill a prophecy none understood. None could, or would, speak to the definition of a prophecy even if they knew the definition of definition. They did not understand these things; what they intended to do here was done on pure instinct.

None of them could be described as standing, floating, or even being because they were not of anywhere as in a place. The void is not a place; it is nothing and everything. The Twelve are all and nothing, but they control and create everything. The first, He with no name, deemed it so. He created them to create all, but they were still taking their first steps as a child. It is hard to understand that which is new and not understood, but instinct pulls them forward into the void.

First, they created the Twelve Authorities (or Kingdoms)—the light spread amongst the Authorities with growing intensity. Many golden cities of light sprang into existence throughout the twelve planes of the Authorities: one for and by each Archon (King of All). Each plane grew exponentially as the Archon came into existence and began to increase its domain.

For an eternity, the planes grew: unicellular organisms that expanded in every direction. Twelve plasmids mindlessly rapidly replicating to fill the void, a feat The Twelve did not expect or intend to be undertaken, much less achieve. Before they could react, the twelve planes became twenty-four, twenty-four became forty-eight, and the growth continued to double, and even if they had the desire to do so, they had no way of stopping the exponential growth. Soon the void appeared complete, but something unexpected happened: the void doubled in size.

The outsized growth continued for several millennia, though The Twelve had long ago ceased caring for such trivial things. Their goal now was the controlled growth of the creatures they created. The Archons have Authorities of such vastness that they believe they are the true Gods of all they have wrought. They have forgotten from which they came. They commit heinous sins in the name of the Father.
The Father, or His accurate reference The First, grew tired and offended by such sinful behaviors. He created a new breed of being, Man, to inhabit one special plane; The Mortal Realm. He did so on the lowest plane to ensure the others could not invade it: the planes are designed and stacked to move up, but moving in reverse is difficult for all save the most skilled and strongest.

The First gave shape to The Twelve, so they could move freely amongst the new beings. He gave them wings of many colored feathers to easily move between the many planes. He gave them special abilities to perform their assigned duties. He created the Seven Powers (or Principalities) and one to rule them all: Armaros the High, God’s first general. Armaros ruled all who walked the mortal realm, encompassing the twelve original planes, the plane of Earth, and the principalities.

The veil between the realms is thick, but there are many locations where it has thinned. A strong demon or enterprising human can walk right through. The first level of the Twelve Authorities inhabits a realm outside and beyond the demon realm. Only an upper-level deity can move between the many layers of the planes.
He chose the special ones from the species of Man to rise and become like the Archons but lesser than and beholden to for the missions that all would be assigned. They were meant to walk amongst Man, protect and secure them, and help them prosper, but they were meant to be hidden from Man’s sight. As they were known to be, the Watchers soon discovered a new and vile trait: jealousy.

Their demands were simple: they threatened to rebel if they could not have that which Man had, a home of their own. A plane of their own, where they could live and adequately care for themselves, not live in obscurity; they wanted to grow beyond their mere existence as caretakers for lesser beings. The Father said no, and they rebelled. The war continued for a thousand years until The Father took their wings and condemned them to the Mortal Plane for eternity. Their punishment: walk amongst those they despise. As an added insult, The Father made them lesser than Man by disfiguring them, effectively making them outcasts amongst Man: soon, all called them Demons and Devils.

Armaros’s great-great-grandson Samyaza had a child with his secret lover Naamah on the desolate Prison Plane of Enoch. A wife of Cain, Archon of the Prison Plane, made it forbidden for her to leave as long as he lived, but after he ascended to the upper planes, the covenant was broken. Samyaza returned with his spawn Balam to the Demon realm, but it was an act of foolishness. The bonds between the two realms had been damaged: the compression had begun. The bonds allowed the stack of planes to stand in the void; when a bond is weakened or destroyed, the planes above compress down onto the planes below. Such a disastrous incursion is deadly to many on the planes above and below the broken bonds. Samyaza actions set off this reaction, but it was the new bore prince who grew up bearing the responsibility.
The young prince of Demons has one goal: to restore their name and raise his family to the upper planes where they belong. To accomplish this goal, he goes to great lengths. His actions are so heinous and unspeakable that they disturb the very foundations of all the planes. He needs to be stopped before he destroys all.

Daemon of Vengence: Kitchi comes forth.

The fifth decade of the 4th century BCE

Doylen

Nestled comfortably atop a man-made plateau high above the city proper of mortared stone in the oldest parish of Enoch sits the ancient sprawling central citadel; the unrelenting glare of the dual suns absorbed by the citadel’s obsidian rock. Circling the plateau of piety, a golden-walled metropolis has grown exponentially yearly for over four thousand years. A municipality sprawled in all directions, eating the roaming dunes like a child addicted to sugar cakes. Even so, the tenacious fingers of sand reached and gripped for purchase, trying to reclaim its lost territory.

Doylen’s private aerie at the top of the citadel provides a panoramic view to survey all he owns and rules. On a clear day, you can see beyond the horizon. On such a day, the baleful hot Sun beats the shifting dunes with ireful hands of radiating waves of heat.

On such a day, you’ll see the shimmering green oasis moving through the sands with its own will. A place where those who claim divinity stroll in pious dignity amongst the branches and leaves of His grace’s garden. Doylen always knew when to gaze out among the dunes to the west. This time something new stepped into the dream. The man, who favored the nomads of the southern deserts, skin the color of burnt almond and eyes as luminescent pink as the swirling sand and glittering sky, literally stepped into the dream. He went from not being there to one foot appearing out of thin air and stepping onto the sandy plane, followed by a strong, tall, stocky form of a god that made Doylen feel small.

Doylen, the only surviving heir of the throne of Cain, the only living member of the tenth generation of the Cainian Empire, opened his eyes. At four and a half cubits, Doylen was considered a giant among the people of Enoch, who never rose above three and a half. They were not much taller in the outer regions, but the man in his dream had dwarfed him. Tall and stocky, his muscles had muscles. He had stared at Doylen when he had been in the dream. A voice said, “The end is near. I am Kitchi, let me in, and I will save you.”
Doylen sat up and took in his surroundings. The opulent chamber was only starting to warm, the heat of the morning air seeping through the opening. He watched as the glittering green shimmered in the distance and darted below the horizon.

Doylen thought about his mother’s, Tanith, lessons.

His earliest memories of his mother were of his parentage and bloodline. Tanith had often said, “You are the sole descendant of Cain, my son. It is a great and noble bloodline, and you have no other above you. Below you, only the children you sire can claim that Cainian blood was coursing through their veins. Death will come to any others who claim so.”

One can adduce the integrity of this threat by the “accidental” deaths of his forty-two siblings and their respective families. All Sons of Cain shall only continue through him. Tanith, the final royal consort of the aging Saeb, left nothing to chance.

I am King of all I see.

For Doylen’s seventeenth birthday, his mother gave him the choice of any apartment, regardless if there were an occupant. He also had his pick of willing mates: male or female. Over the last eight years, Doylen collected twenty-five husbands and one wife. Technically, I’m on my fifth wife. The first four committed the mortal sin of not producing a male heir, so Tanith had them put to death. The only reason the last survived was because she gave me twin boys.

Looking about the room, he wondered why, for the millionth time, he could not leave the realm. His deepest desire was to explore the kingdom: my kingdom. He wanted to visit the tent villages near the northern border mountains. Roam the vast southern deserts with the nomads. Survey the holy lands to the east. Join a Sojourn of Holy Trek with the Soldier-Monks of The Lower Temples. It’s so dull here; nothing to do but rule, study, and copulate. I would never give up any of that, but there must be more to experience. The man’s handsome face in his dream forced its way into his musings. It disturbed him. It was just a dream. Stop fretting; nothing will come of it.

Kitchi’s words drifted on the air, quiet and fleeting, “Let me in.”

Disturbed even more, Doylen moved to get out of bed, the brightly colored silk bed dressing swishing with the sudden movement. Several of his husbands huddled in small clumps, sleeping on pillows and rugs around the chamber, stirred. To distract himself, he thought, for variety, I copulate with a different husband or several times a week. If bored, sometimes the same day. Planting his seed thrilled him and temporarily pushed his anxious feelings aside. But his favorite, Ahmed, the one he loved, is the only person I bring to my bed nightly. Not for the first time, he wished that Ahmed could good bare his children, but he knew that was not how things worked. Besides, that might put him in danger of Tanith’s dagger if he did not produce an heir. That was unthinkable.

Some of his husbands woke early to service tasks that Doylen knew nothing of—and I don’t want to know such trivial things. When those awake noticed his sudden movements, they quickly bowed, subjugating on their knees, noses to the floor, in his presence. More will awaken soon, he thought, as they should.

Doylen’s second favorite husband, Osiris, raised his head. Lithe of build, firm whipcord tight muscles, and long beautiful auburn hair, always smelled of dates. Royal decree forbade all, unless given dispensation, from laying eyes on the prince and future King under pain of death. Ahmed was the only one in the realm of Cain, other than his mother and great-great-grandmother, Naamah, to whom this royal decree did not apply. Osiris cast his eyes to the floor as he, speaking for all the lesser husbands, asked, “My liege and humble husband, we are at your service as always. What do you desire?”

“Nothing,” Doylen replied curtly.

Doylen had long ago made the servants arrange his apartments to take advantage of the westerly view, which necessitated repositioning his enormous bed to the furthest southerly end of the chamber. The expansive sleeping chamber opened onto a long-terraced balcony. The depth of Doylen’s terrace could accommodate forty of his broad-shouldered and thick-chested royal guardsmen.
In the evenings, braziers lit his dark chamber casting dancing shadows onto the dark stone walls. But, from morning to late afternoon, his apartment remained drenched with bright reddish-golden dual-glowing orbs’ of sunlight from the suns until they fell below the horizon.

Doylen had the servants cover the terrace floor with rugs, pillows, and umbrellas, Doylen’s husband’s fanning, serving, and servicing him while he lounged. A smooth, fresh morning breeze sauntered through the grand terrace archway, the aromas of freshly baked paximadia, tahini yogurt, olives, fruits, and cooking lamb gyrating around his nasal cavity like a sensuous khawal. His stomach growled.

Ahmed moaned and reached for him. Ahmed’s hand slipped under the sheet and between Doylen’s legs, expertly caressing Doylen’s flaccid penis. Doylen looked at the second: Osiris seethed. Osiris’s hatred and jealousy thrilled Doylen. Arousing Doylen’s limp member, temporarily forcing him to have a carnal hunger replace his desire for food. However, he forced all distractions away.

Doylen leaned down, his mouth sensually covering Ahmed’s. When they separated, Doylen said, “I will give you the pleasure you deserve later, my love,” and gently moved Ahmed’s hand away. “I’ve had another dream.”

Ahmed sat up quickly, “was it of the waters again?” Ahmed asked, fear clear on his face. Ahmed rarely used Doylen’s offer of freedom to address him directly: Ahmed would never exhibit such impertinence. He could not fault the beautiful one; Doylen granted such privileges because he intended to make Ahmed the King’s consort. When I become King, I only have to answer to myself; I don’t care if the Priests of the Upper Court disapprove. I have twin heirs to continue the Cainian bloodline; making a wife is irrelevant.

Doylen heard the others about the apartments stir: agitated.

“Yes, I saw the great wall, the waters, and more. The bright suns and the clear pink sky disappeared behind black clouds, and torrents of rain fell upon the world. The water and vicious winds carried the bodies of people and animals alike.”

An uncharacteristic chill wind lifted the curtains, making the fabric snap as it rushed into and through the apartments. Ahmed cowered in Doylen’s lap, his face borrowing between Doylen’s dark, muscular thighs. Often, Ahmed had commented on the beauty of Doylen’s legs. He was telling me that I’m the earthly embodiment of Cain. That I’m the most beautiful male on His earth. Any other time Doylen would thoroughly enjoy his favorite husband and future consort kowtowing to his vanity. I encourage such open admiration wholeheartedly: But not today. A ball of dread had taken up residence in the pit of his stomach.

 

He didn’t speak of the man—Kitchi—that he saw. The one that said to him after he had awakened. Today I can’t allow my need for distraction rule.

Doylen sat on the edge of the bed. One leg under the sheets, Ahmed’s creamy smooth leg rubbing Doylen’s right thigh. The sole of Doylen’s left foot on the cold stone floor: the chill traveled up his leg and along his spine. Doylen looked through the flapping fabric draping the terrace arch; the traveling green oasis shimmered and rose above the horizon again. Behind it, a dark cloud formed in a startlingly luminescent pink-colored sky. As the black cloud grew, the green mirage grew in clarity. Doylen wasn’t sure which moved toward them, a beacon of salvation or a harbinger of their death. He did not doubt that any distraction would sacrifice the former and lead to the latter.

Once Doylen had traveled, at Tanith’s instance, to the end of the known world, to the place where Cain took Abel’s life. On the spot, a monument in tribute to Cain’s act of love. Behind the statue, many years ago, slaves worked for a hundred years to hewn a set of caves from the mountain of black rock with bronze striations. The soldier-monks who stood guard over the sacred place lived simple, peaceful lives with one sole purpose to preserve and care for the monument.
The beautifully hewn statue of Cainite Marble accentuates the smooth, sleek muscular male form of his ancestor: their God on this plane. The ancient artist worked the heavy black marble with gold veins until the statue gleamed. The intricately carved supple muscles represent not only Cain’s physical strength but also his strength of spirit, his ability to survive the wandering curse. He survived. He found others wondering like himself. Cain led them to this place: Enoch. Where he started this community. The community swelled into a city. A kingdom grew from that city. Now we inhabit the entire plane.

The strong jawline and chiseled chin spoke to his determination; for men like Cain, defeat was not an option. Bowing to another; is abhorrent at best. Cain would never give up his birthright.
The colossal sculpture of Cain stood over the body of Abel. Abel’s prone body stretched indignantly across the pedestal at Cain’s feet. The work of art is situated on an outcrop: Cain is staring into the distance, majestic and Kingly. Below the cliff, the rough terrain he endured. In Cain’s left hand, a hammer across his heart, showing him to be a builder of cities. In his right hand, a trowel dripped with the blood of Abel. A dual representation. First, Cain’s knowledge of the land: his land. Second, Abel’s blood poisoned the soil Cain loved.
Every evening Cain’s deep-set eyes watch the setting suns, forever looking out at the horizon. The artist’s reasoning for facing the statue as he did was lost to history. One school of thought says that Cain is forever seeking His approval. Doylen grimaced at this thought. He preferred the second that Cain is searching for the home and garden of his parents, wanting to return but knowing that is an impossibility.

Doylen’s rugged yet handsome features bore more than a passing resemblance to Cain. Doylen, at just under two meters, is tall for an Enochian. But standing next to the enormous sculpture, he’s dwarfed. Doylen slowly caressed the smooth marble calf muscle, enjoying the stone’s cool touch on such a hot day. Doylen surveyed the ever-changing desolate sandy landscape beyond. From miles away, a traveler could see the statue standing triumphantly over the prone wispy body of Abel.

After they prayed at the feet of Cain, as the confederation of minor Cainian nobles followed, he and his coterie of husbands moved deliberately and diligently toward where the sand stopped. Beyond the rocky outcrops and the flat, desolate fields, to where land ends and the vast sea began. Doylen walked toward the waters, wanting to touch its oily red surface.

As he approached, the hair on his body tingled. As he moved closer, his shoulder-length obsidian locks rose, the silken curls dancing about his head like a scorched halo. Doylen stopped, and those behind him voiced shock at the sight.

That was when he saw his first miracle. The water did not lap at the shore of black pebbles. Doylen walked closer and reached out a hand when his skin encountered the—he wasn’t sure what to call it—it was like an unseen wall.

Doylen stopped abruptly in the knee-deep water. On his side of the invisible wall, the placid water moved only when he disturbed it by Doylen’s steps; on the opposite side, wave after wave of water splashed and lapped at the bottom of the invisible wall. Far out over the vast expanse of water, black clouds grew, gaining force, and bright flashing lights danced in the clouds. In the distance, the dark reddish sea appeared to meet the blackened sky. Black clouds stretched along the horizon. A ribbon of white formed along the crest. Moments later, there was a boom that shook the ground.

A chorus of screams and yells for savior echoed behind him, but Doylen kept facing the oncoming threat. The wall of water moved closer, growing to incredible heights. It came directly toward him and his people.
My people, I must save them. How?

He reached a hand to touch the wall. As his fingers closed the distance to the wall, a ring of tiny yellowish sparks radiated outward from his hand. It vibrated when he touched the wall, and a tingle went through his body.

Everything about him began to glow golden and bright. He heard more screams of fear emanating from behind but ignored them. Two of his guards tried to pull him from the wall’s grip, but the golden force repelled them and threw them many feet away. A deafening sound engulfed them as the black water crashed into the golden field. Doylen felt the force drawn threw him like he was powering the wondrous golden field.

He thought of Naamah and her Majiks and her words. Naamah said, “You have the Mark of Cain, great-great-grandson. Cain created this plane with his will. It is his continuing bloodline that forces it to endure and expand. There will come a time when you will understand the simple truth of my words.”
Doylen increased the size of the field as the water level rose. Eventually, the golden field became a dome over the city and land. The water covered the dome’s crown until the plane of Cain and its inhabitants vanished beneath the darkness.

It took well over two lunar cycles for the water to recede. Doylen finally understood his heritage and purpose. He wasn’t sure everyone had survived. Those he sent out to find and bring those they could to safety returned with unsettling reports. Many could not be found, as if they had vanished from the plane. Impossible, but what other explanation could there be? Lately, though, the ache of holding the water at bay thrashed the inside of his head like a century of beatings. So he visited his ancient grandmother to see if her Majiks could bolster his resolve and lessen the pain.

Naamah’s strange. She eats sparingly, but her frame and baring are complex and demanding. She never let him get away with anything. She had always been duplicitous, but this day she had scared him.

Naamah preferred a place in the base of the citadel. She says it reminds her of her home—where she and her sister Lilith were born. Like Cain, she had been banished to this realm for minor infractions to serve her penance. The chamber wasn’t just a residence; the dark and dank place was her laboratory to perfect her potions and poisons.

The circular space occupied five levels of the lowest levels of the enormous citadel. Her living quarters, two small rooms where she supposedly slept and ate, were in the south section of her chamber’s top level. Only she knew what purpose they served the rest of the rooms in the space. Doylen sat quietly on the sole stone settee in the main chamber of the lowest level. She slowly paced along the outer wall of the circular chamber. Letting her hand glide along the rough-hewn stone as she walked. When a much younger Doylen asked why she did this, “It gives me strength and allows me to speak to the plane.”

Like everyone who entered this place, Doylen knew to speak only if instructed. Her sole warning to all who entered. Her Majiks, according to her, are so powerful and volatile that the merest uttered sound may set the world’s end in motion.

Until Doylen experienced the golden field, he believed she habitually exaggerated her abilities. Now, he held a new respect for her, at least around what she did and didn’t know about his history and capabilities.
Doylen sat facing the central drain waiting for her to speak—the drain in the center of five concentric circles. The first and inner circle held the seat he occupied in its center, the others each more extensive and prominent than the last until the largest hugged the circular wall. Two linear drains bisected the circular room into quarters, forming a cross. One leg traversed the floor before his seat. The perpendicular leg forming the cross flowed under the seat. In the center of the chamber, where the two linear drains crossed, a two-foot-wide circular uncovered hole in the floor.

A thick brownish-red syrupy water trickled down the drains into the opening. An overly offensive odor inside the drain made Doylen want to ask what the liquid was and where it came from. But it concerned him that she might tell him the truth; he didn’t want to know that bad.

She imagined herself above him; Doylen hated that. Many feared her, true, but he would be King and the direct descendant of Cain. She only married Enoch. So, Cain named the city after his firstborn. I am still the next King. His head hurt. He’d break her sacred rule if she didn’t get on with it.

Naamah swiped her toes into the drain that hugged the base of the walls and mumbled words in a strange language Doylen did not understand. The soupy liquid sped up and began to glow a nasty dark red, rushing around the room, collecting at the junctions at each cross, the light intensifying, and then moving around the room, gathering and moving towards where Doylen sat. The liquid fell into the central hole making loud glug, glug sounds and glowing up at him as if in accusation of some slight.

Doylen never understood why she was partial to this place: it’s essentially the sewers. This room, the main collection chamber, was damp, drab, dark, and reeked. Enoch had enough darkness about it; he liked the suns, warm breezes, and his husband’s touch and pleasant smell. Naamah stopped suddenly and frowned at him, her fiery red eyes burning into him with their unwavering stare.

“What?” He asked, suddenly self-conscious; the first rule is broken.
“You think of them,” she said flatly.

“Of whom,” Doylen asked.

“Your coterie of husbands,” her frown deepened.

He hated when she did that, knowing what was in his head before he spoke his thoughts aloud. “Don’t do that. You know I don’t like it,” Doylen said sullenly.

“Don’t act like a petulant child,” she said sharply. “You’re a Son of Cain; act as if you are worthy of that title. The water may be gone, but your test continues; unlike any test before, you will need all of Cain’s strength in your blood. I have seen your battle. It is coming soon.”

She said those last four words with an air of desperation that Doylen had never heard in her voice before. Instead of stirring sympathy for her, it annoyed him, “What do you speak of, woman? You have been spouting dark predictions for ages. I am thirty-five summers into this blessed life. Why should I believe now? Besides, I have only come because my head hurts. Can you help,” Doylen said with little conviction, the miracle still occupying his thoughts.

“Do not mock me. I know of your dreams. I know what they portend. Heed my warnings. The waters came, did they not? Your trials and tests continue. I am not sure of the one who calls himself Kitchi. What I do know is that you must tenter the equipage. It is your right. Your responsibility to do this. When you do, then you can deflect His fury. He may not smite us all. You cannot let your gaggle of swains be a distraction.”

Her eyes glowed that fiery red again; the sight of them always made him nervous, but there was something more this time. This time she spoke her prophetic words differently. Doylen focused on the draining water. The glow of the stinky brown bile dulled slightly. It rushed into the drain and made him think of the black, oily reddish water wall that brought the plane and city of Enoch darkness for two months. The darkness terrified his people. He could not let that happen again. I must keep my people safe.

“What can I do, great-great-grandmother? I command one army against His might. He will destroy us.”

“You know what you must do,” she said cryptically.

“Do, I,” he said, a note of sarcasm in his tone, “and what would that be?

“The Soul of Enoch.”

“Come on, Naamah, that is a myth perpetuated by fouls.”

“Do you believe me a foul?”

“No great-great-grandmother, but—”

“Phenomena great and awful, deadly and evil, beautiful and ugly, and an infinite number in between is part of the world. Everything is useful if you can name it, know their properties, and how to use them.”

“As always, you speak in riddles, Naamah. What are you saying?”

“I analyze the past. I predict many future possibilities. I know all that is present. I always speak the truth.”

“And still, you say nothing!” Doylen yelled as he stood.

Spreading angrily behind her, a set of black raven-colored wings. They flapped, stirring the dust and dank of the space into a swirling torrent. Black smoke billowed around her feet. Her eyes roiled magma in their sockets. Doylen stepped back but tripped over the stone settee and fell hard. She grew, towering over Doylen by at least three meters. Now he understood her desire to have space with such a high ceiling.
When she spoke again, her voice changed. Deep and rumbling, reverberating off the stone walls so loud Doylen had to cover his ears. She stepped towards Doylen, and the citadel shook with every footfall.

“I am Naamah, twin to Lilith, daughter of Samyaza. The First One destroyed our brothers and sisters. He looks for me and my sister. I fear The First has found me and will send an emissary to enact His revenge. The Tyrant of Heaven will rain significant damage upon this plane. He wishes to rid the land of what He deems pestilence and evil. The Tyrant isn’t content with the death of the two remaining Nephilim. He wants to destroy all we have wrought, even if it means obliterating this entire realm. He wants all families of man on the plane of Cain to perish along with every vestige of the Cainian bloodline. The Waters were the first of the prophecy; they have come. Next is the ruin of all. You must tenter the equipage, now!”

Doylen tried to block out her deep piercing voice. He felt the blood trickling out of his ears and down his neck.

He yelled, “What must I do?”

“Venture below these dungeons,” she said as she shrank. “Below the crypts.”

“How will I know I’ve found what I’m looking for? What am I looking for?”

“He will find you.”

The black fog that hovered at her feet rose and engulfed her, swirling about her visage in an eddy of all compressing blackness until the apparition winked out of existence.

Shakily, Doylen rose and walked towards the heavy wooden doors. They swung open as he approached. Two slave women, one for each entry, hastened to a position of subjection out of the way of his steps, on their knees, faces touching the floor, arms stretched out to either side. Doylen barely noticed them as he strolled through the doorway, his arrogant, Kingly confidence returning. Several soldier monks stepped behind him when he entered the Great Hall of the monastery.

Father Urijah Tryphosa, the leader of the five soldier monks of the Cainian Holy Order, stepped close and whispered, “Did the mistress of Cain offer instructions, sire?”

Doylen stopped. The entire group of soldier monks stuttered to a stop with him.

“Were you eavesdropping, Father,” Doylen asked, annoyed.

Father Tryphosa feigned aghast ignorance at such a suggestion. Doylen knew for sure that the father did exactly that without hesitation. Not directly; he had one of his little spies listening in. Doylen suspected one of, or both, the young slave girls.

“I would never commit such a miscarriage of justice, sire,” the Father said with mock contriteness.

“No, of course, you wouldn’t. How could I be so thoughtless,” Doylen said sarcastically and continued walking, “We must go to the crypts.”

“Yes, liege, this is our purpose here,” the father assured.

Doylen said, looking suspiciously at the father, “Of course, you weren’t listening.”

Father Tryphosa sped up to reach Doylen and said, “We will show you the way, sire.”

Annoyed, Doylen let the Father and his soldier monks lead him through the dungeons and into the crypts. They came to a dead end after traversing the maze of skulls and bones stacked along the walls of long-forgotten citizens.

They stood before two thick granite blocks that had been carved into the shape of a large set of wooden doors. Across the blocks, in a script that Doylen didn’t recognize, a long-forgotten message. The granite doors had existed for at least a century, which made sense since there was no obvious way to open them. No knob or handle to pull. The doors had no keyhole for a key. Of course, they hadn’t one. Even hinges were absent. Even if all those things were present, the doors would likely be too heavy for even his most vital servants to pull open. Father Tryphosa stepped close to inspect the ancient script.

“Can you read this text, Father,” Doylen asked skeptically.

“Yes, I believe that I can. There is similar text in the library, sire. This says, Only the blood of Cain can open this Way In, though He can never enter the new world.”

“What does it mean,” Doylen asked.

“I believe that it means only a descendant of Cain can access this room,” the Father replied, “you and your sons are the last in Cainian bloodline, sire.”

“How would I even begin,” Doylen asked. It occurred to him that the light in the dark and dank tunnels seemed sufficient. Otherwise, the good Father wouldn’t have been able to read the text so easily. Doylen looked around. Despite a noted lack of braziers, the tunnel was well-lit. Doylen asked, “Where is the light source?”

The good Father and his soldier monks looked on in confusion. Father Tryphosa said, “You are the light source, sire.”

He said this as if Doylen should know. Doylen thought the Father was trying to make another of his digs. Doylen snapped, “Don’t be snide with me, Urijah.”

Father Tryphosa stiffened, and anger shaded his features, “I was not, sire, look at your hands.”

Doylen looked down at his hands. He was astonished by the golden glow that emanated from and around his fingers. He realized that glow floated around his body like little glistening golden stars.
“Maybe if you touched the door,” Father Tryphosa suggested.

Doylen reached for the door. Like when he created the golden wall, a tingling began at the tips of his fingers and traveled up his arm and through his body, although not as strong this time. The door glowed a gold yellow that grew in intensity. Then pillars of stone burst into a million little gold flecks and fell to the floor.

Through the opening, a sea of lush green gardens extended beyond vision in every direction. Doylen, Father Tryphosa, and six soldier monks stared in awe. Doylen had never seen such beauty in his desert paradise. Doylen stepped to the edge of the tunnel. A fresh, clean air tickled his nose, beckoning Doylen to enter Eden. Doylen accepted the offer.

Where Doylen’s foot fell, grains of sand bubbled to the surface. The lush green foliage withered and died: shriveling into black dust and falling to the ground to mix with the sand. Doylen quickly pulled his foot back, but the sand and the dead did not retreat. The earlier lushness of that area was gone.
“What are these Majiks,” Doylen yelled at the Father.

Father Tryphosa said, “I don’t know, sire. We have no records of this,” then asked, “What were Mistress Naamah’s instructions?”

“Stop feigning innocence, Urijah. Naamah’s slave girls are your spies, but the information isn’t the only way you pump them. Naamah knows they are your lovers, and so do I,” Doylen said, letting the anger and frustration color his words.

Recognizing defeat, the Father said, “You must tenter the equipage.”

“What does that mean?” Doylen yelled the question.

His words reverberated down the tunnel: skull and bones crashed to the ground. Beyond the opening, the garden shook. Cracks opened in the environment around them, radiating from where he stepped, swallowing plant life.

Another great rumble passed below them. Doylen looked down to see a crack opening between his feet. Like a fast-moving snake, it slithered down the tunnel. One side of the crack rose, and the world tilted and opened like a mouth. Red molten liquid began to seep into the bottom of the damage.
“Tenter the equipage!”

Doylen thought the Father spoke but realized the voice was deeper and more resonant than his. Naamah’s dark visage shimmered into view. Doylen was in her chamber again. “What’s happening?” He asked, confused.

Naamah’s red eyes glowed bright and menacing, “do you see your mistake?” Her overwhelming voice shook mortar dust from the chamber walls.

“I don’t know what you are trying to show me. Just tell…”

Her body increased again, and her voice boomed, “You must perform this task of your own accord! You must save your people!”

Doylen’s eyes snapped open when he heard the soldier monk fall to his death. The man screamed as his body sizzled and boiled in the river of red. Suddenly Doylen knew. The answer isn’t what he had to do but what he wanted to do. Doylen wanted—needed—to save his people. Doylen didn’t understand why this happened but had to do something. I created the wall of gold light that protected them before. I can do something, anything, to save them now.

Above him, two golden handles attached to the ceiling appeared, and two more stirrups shimmered into existence on the floor near each foot. Doylen grabbed the two above and stepped into each foothold. The golden light of the bands intensified and secured around his hands and feet, then lifted him into the air. Golden light poured into, out of, and swirled around him. The pricks of golden light were like clamps on his skin, pulling and stretching his body. The world shook and trembled, and still, the light pulled his body in all directions.

“Save them.”

First, the Father and his remaining soldier monks. Tentacles of golden light whipped around each of them and flung the men into the garden. Then Doylen’s golden light shot out through the earthen depths and into the city proper. Doylen transported all two million of the city’s inhabitants into the garden. Then he went beyond the city to the nomads of the south, the soldier monks of the north, and all peoples in between.

The golden light dimmed as he shrank and returned to The King, the descendant: Cain.
Sending Ahmed proved the hardest to send into the tyrant’s world.

Ahmed said, “Doylen, come, we must go.”

Doylen shook his head slightly, “My love, no, I cannot. I am not of His world.”

“You must,” Ahmed pleaded through the collapsing tunnel between them.

“I will be fine, my love. Mother told me the stories. Cain’s curse extended to all his descendants. We must walk these lands. If I walk that plane, it will soon become a sandy ruin like this one.”

Doylen stepped out of the stirrups. As his feet touched the floor, the ground shifted, and the crack rejoined, disappearing. The rumbling stopped. A tear fell down his cheek as Doylen bid Ahmed a final goodbye and let go of the handles. The handles and stirrups blinked out of existence, and then the wall solidified. The golden flecks floated up and reconstituted, forming a solid granite wall in the shape of a door again. It cut him off from his people.

Her black smoke swirled around him, twisting reality and pulling him out of the crumbling tunnel. When Naamah’s Majiks cleared, he stood alone on the terrace of his apartment high in the citadel. The empty terrace and rooms seared his heart with loneliness. The suns were bright and warm. The sands shifted and roiled. The green oasis sailed over the horizon like a ship over an ocean. He turned to see her. Her red eyes are more human now; although the color is unusual, it is still beautiful in Naamah’s alabaster face.

She said, “You have done well.”

“Have I,” Doylen asked sullenly.

“Your sacrifice may bode well for them on that plane.”

“Will it?”

Naamah touched his cheek and said, “Do not allow loneliness to set in; you still have work. Look out amongst the dunes. More souls will fall through; they will need you. Two young boys ran onto the terrace to stand by him. He looked down at his twin sons with love and pity. He had caused their situation. How would he care for them? How could he give them what they need to grow strong and wise?

“Your progeny will be fine with me—my grandson. It would be best to leave this empty place, find the souls who need you, bring them here, and repopulate your city, your world. You must walk. You are a son of Cain: follow in your forbearer’s footsteps and bring your people home.”

Kitchi

“So, you got your way, sister.”

Naamah turned, a devious smile on her face, and said, “Did you believe you were strong enough to stop me, young one?”

Kitchi pushed against her powerful Majiks, and her facade fell with ease. The beautiful alabaster skin dulled to an ashen pot-marked pasty white, the red of her eyes deepened and grew more fierce, the white shift she wore blackened, and her raven-colored wings spread behind her.

Naamah chuckled, then said, “Oh, please, that is a parlor trick.”

Kitchi smiled and replied, “I agree; it surprises me that you still use it.” Kitchi looked down at the twins and said, “Hello, little ones; how are you then? I am your grea-great-great-uncle Kitchi.”

The boys smiled up at him, but Naamah did an intricate wave of her hand, and the twins popped out of existence. She said, “You will stay away from my family.”

Kitchi smirked, “Now you know I can’t do that, dear sister,” and stepped toward her.

Naamah raised her left hand, and a roiling ball of black smoke hovered above her palm. “I wonder, brother, do you underestimate my powers or overestimate yours?”

Kitchi took another step closer—streaks of white-hot lightning cut through the ball of black smoke. The ball shot out toward him; feet before him, it exploded against his shield of white gold. When the smoke cleared, she was gone. Kitchi’s voice rose, echoing throughout the citadel and city, “Your disappearing act may have served you well when we were young angels, dear sister, but it won’t save you now. It only serves to delay the inevitable. He wants all of you gone from every plane. I always know or can find where you are hiding.”

He heard the opening of the Way In. Kitchi wondered if another human had fallen through again. For millennia the ignorant creatures had been wandering into places where they didn’t belong. Though annoying, fortunately, the constant disappearances were easy to manage. He started a new and more believable roomer in every century he had lived. After a millennium of searching for his highly elusive twin sisters, Lilith and Naamah, he had detected them after coming across Lilith’s twin sons, Hahyah and Ohya, in the nineteen-sixties, mid-twentieth century. I didn’t even know Lilith had found someone to partner with. I could have told him he was a fool. And not just because she is marked for destruction, she makes Naamah look sweet by comparison. Besides, where was my wedding invitation? And they had offspring? She forgot that even her offspring are detectable by beings like me.

The hot, humid free air whipped through the apartment as he considered his next move. He had more than enough time; he now has a firm connection to her. Both of his elusive sisters were living on borrowed time. So he could take his time and savor the moment. He caught Doylen’s scent and turned to see the handsome pseudo-King step into the room, dragging a bag of what must be supplies for his sojourn.

Doylen dropped his bag and said, “Who the hell are you?”

Kitchi smiled, “The handsome King doesn’t remember me? I’m hurt.”

“Addressing me in such a snide manner again will earn you death. Answer my question.”

Kitchi barked a laugh, “Death? With what army? As far as I know, you don’t have anyone to put me to death.”

“There are mechanisms available.”

Kitchi raised an eyebrow and said, “Oh, you mean my sister? Well, she hightailed it out of here when she found out I was here. So, no, there isn’t. If the powerful Naamah, the most powerful being on this plane, runs scared of me, who on this plane can challenge me? You can help me, however. Can we make a deal?”

“Deal?”

“Yes, I need to catch my sister, and you want to be with lovely Ahmed; if you help me, I can help you.”

At the mention of Ahmed’s name, Doylen perked up and stepped closer, “How, Naamah says that I can’t leave this plane. I tried and nearly destroyed this world and the one where I sent my people.”

“I agree that was a foolish move on your part, but it is fixable with the right tools.”

Naamah

She walked the path for so long, diligently doing her duty like a good little Nephilim. She grew tired of the stupidity of it all. He had banished her to this forsaken plane with nothing. If she hadn’t found the fool walking, she would’ve had nothing to do but stare at the sand. She would have been so fucking bored. They wanted to break her. They tried to silence her. They thought she would not survive.

Well, I fucking showed them: including my bitch of a twin. It had been Lilith that started it all. She wanted the demon realm for her own. She hated sharing with anyone she considered lesser, especially me. She hated that I bested her in every way except deviousness.

Lilith always coveted what her twin possessed; that went double when it came to Samyaza, the High Archon of Demons. He was head over heal in love with her sister. Naamah remembered Lilith’s betrayal clearly, even now, several thousand years later. Of course, what Lilith wanted, what she coveted over everything, was the Twelve Authorities. The Seven Powers created the Twelve Kingdoms. Samyaza, the High Archon of Demons, ruled over them all.

She has been consolidating the kingdoms and their numerous Principalities under her rule for thousands of years. Lilith’s governance over the principalities and dominance of Samyaza is near complete. Even Kitchi, with all his power, could not stop her now. The only being still wielding the ability to control her would most likely not care now. Things have gone too far.

He’d just as soon wipe the slate clean or try again. Sending the water may have seemed like a smart move at the time, but it accomplished little.

She hated only two beings more than her deceitful sister, and one had just entered her domain: Kitichi. Of course, she had outsmarted him again. She knew all her little brother’s tricks; he’d never be able to best her, no matter how hard he tried. But that wasn’t what annoyed her most. She had known at some point he would show up. No, it was his arrogance. He may be our most potent, but he has no fundamental knowledge of how to use his power.

She stopped walking and flicked a blackened finger. The pinprick of a small portal circle appeared in front of her. She made a complicated movement of her hands, and the portal grew to allow her to walk through. Before she could do so, a wave of heated air blew across her raven-colored wings. Naamah knew without looking who had just entered her lair. The insufferable Zerachiel: the other being she hated more than her sister. She turned to see Zerachiel’s feet delicately touch the stone floor. Where his feet touched the black Cainian stone, it grew darker with scorched footprints.

He walked toward her and said, “You are leaving? Are you afraid of your brother?”

“Zerachiel, I don’t have time for your foolishness. Or your ignorant riddles and nonsense answers to pointed questions.”

Zerachiel said, “Oh,” as he peered through the swirling colors of the portal, his eyes widening ever so slightly as he saw the blue and green expanse of Earth, “I see you’re taking my advice and going to enlist Bloodsmane,” his gaze lingering on the evidence of her actions.

“It is the only way to stop her.”

“Is it?”

“Please do not start with the riddles and non-answers.”

“Whatever do you speak of?”

Exasperated, Naamah stepped onto the Earthly plane.

“What if I were to tell you that I have found a way to solve both our problems with a single stroke? Would you be interested?”

Naamah looked back at him. Her form slowly returning to the alabaster beauty of a human woman. She said, “What will it cost me? Another lifetime on a desolate plane?”

An enigmatic smile danced at the corners of his mouth; Zerachiel said, “On the contrary, you will gain everything that you ever wanted … if you are patient. You are patient, aren’t you, Naamah?”

Naamah’s fierce glare held Zerachiel captive, until he finally continued, “… You’ve chosen well: this form will be useful. The key to getting close to any of them lies in portraying the other Mary in His life.”

Zerachiel stepped through the portal to stand beside her and slowly changed; he said, “If we convince Bloodmane, the last of the Builders, to help break the bonds. The demons have no choice but to flee to the Earthly plane; we both know she will never survive on Earth.”

“But that will kill Kitchi?”

“Yes, he is the bond, and it will be sad,” his shrug was barely perceptible. “You’re mother really should have told him that when she created him. I said as much, but the Builders were thoughtless beings, so I had to destroy them. Except Bloodsmane and Kitchi, of course, but only because they are still useful. Well, Bloodmane is the only useful one, now.”

Naamah stepped back from him, retreating deeper into the shadows of the alley they had stepped into. I hate him so much because he is indifferent to everyone and everything on every plane.

“If you are to sell this Mary Magdalene façade, you must walk in the light, my dear; this is not the plane of midnight from which you hail.”

“You want to destroy all the bonds, don’t you?”

“It is the only way.”

“I don’t believe you, but you don’t care about that, do you?”

“Not in the least. Lesser beings like yourself have trouble seeing all that is relevant.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes.”

Bloodsmane

The mud hovel sat high on the side of a mountain to the west of Sodom. Bloodsmane preferred it here; the river flowing below is tranquil, and the land fertile. In his current form, he is strong enough to tend his land. The land he occupied long before the five cities that have sprouted up like weeds over the last five hundred years. He wanted to pluck and pull them, rid himself of the pesky humans that invaded his tranquil retirement, but he recognized their necessity early on.

No one knew his proper form. I’ve been like this for so long; I don’t even remember what I may have been. In this solid male form, he had roamed this area of this plane for at least four thousand years by his last reckoning. Before then, he only experienced the briefest of glimpses in his dreams. At least what he assumed were dreams; it was hard to tell what was real and what wasn’t. Like all those kids he’d been told he fathered over the years since the cities popped up: he isn’t entirely sure they exist, hell he wasn’t sure the women he was supposed to have bedded exited.

At last count, I am supposed to have two hundred living children, ages ranging from six to two hundred. That’s nearly a kid every year. He puffed out a breath and said to the empty single-room hovel, “There has been a lot of women. What else am I to do here?”

When he first discovered the unexpected thing known as sex, he was initially dumbfounded. He hadn’t thought about using the thick and long pieces of skin and sack hanging from below his stomach as anything more than a way to relieve the frequent human urge to piss. It wasn’t until the first city, Sodom, started growing that he discovered its more pleasurable uses.

Many young men sold themselves for extra money to eat and feed their families. That first-time one propositioned Bloodmane did not know what was expected. A lanky young man—boy, really, he could not have been more than fifteen summers—showed Bloodsmane how to give himself over to the pleasure. Eventually, the lanky boy made regular and frequent trips up to Bloodsmane’s hovel.

The lanky boy, who called himself Ciserol, stirred feelings that Bloodsmane did not know existed within him. During one extremely passionate night of lovemaking during Blodsmane’s climax, long, thin incisors grew in his mouth, and he had an uncontrollable urge to drink Ciserol dry, which he did. Bloodsmane bit into the boy, Ciserol’s screams went on for what seemed like an eternity, and Bloodsmane had more than a passing knowledge of eternities, having lived through, from what he could remember, about ten. Of course, that negates the whole argument on “eternity.”

When Ciserol finally stopped screaming, Bloodmane assumed he was dead and planned to take the street urchin to the other side of the mountain and bury him the next night. Bloodmane was not worried about anyone missing the lanky Ciserol. He has no one.

Though the next night, Ciserol woke. To Bloodsmane’s chagrin, Ciserol decided to stay with him for a while. To learn more about their condition, as if Bloodsmane knows what that might be. The brat remained for a century before he got the hint that I didn’t want him around. The only way Bloodsmane got rid of him was his frequent trips to the brothels to fuck women. After Ciserol left, Bloodsmane bit many women. Apparently, sex with women triggered a primal urge to procreate; his sperm hit the spot often. But that urge also triggered his monster side, and he turned as many into vampires as he impregnated. Hence his Bloodsmane brood, human and vampire, roaming the lands.