THE FERRYMAN CHRONICLES, BOOK TWO
BY J.B THOMAS
Prologue
The cloudy waters of Cold River churned, pushing dark ripples across its calm, reflective surface as the Shadow Wolf burned his way towards the City. To an observer, it would have looked like a violent, unseasonal wind tearing up the river. The beast’s roar sent dogs squealing into their dens and terrorised birds into unkempt flocks – dark blurs that screeched away from the scented trees and into the rich blue night.
The Shadow Wolf breached the City streets, leaving a wake of frost along the mirrored sheen of the grand towers, finally slowing outside the Bonaparte Club, the gathering ground of his favoured fifty: hell-born demons who’d broken through a Dark Rift just hours before.
His essence began to take sharper, thicker form – and Mammon was confined within flesh once more.
Doormen watched, their eyes glinting in the neon light. They grinned at the naked man striding towards the thick double doors; one of them lifted his hands. ‘Sir– you can’t come in here like that!’ His eyes dropped to the blade in the man’s hands. ‘Hang on!’
Mammon threw down the blade. He shot out his arms and grabbed both doormen by the necks. His fingers gouged through flesh, muscle and cartilage – scooping a cavern in their throats to the sound of a last breath, wheezing out. Their heads dangled to the side as the remaining flesh collapsed, unable to support the weight.
The high demon growled, and let go. With a flick, he removed the gore from his fingers, picked up the blade, and entered the Bonaparte Club. Striding through the crowd, he smiled as his generals threw him a roar of approval.
His fifty.
How quickly they had adapted to earthly life.
The thought calmed his rage as he progressed through the room, eyes locked on the ornamental chair that sat on a dais. As he passed, he watched the slave women drop to kneeling positions, their foreheads pressed to the floor. His generals dropped to one knee and hailed the high demon by throwing their fists into the air.
Halphas was waiting, silk robe in hands. ‘Master.’ With trembling fingers, he slid the robe over Mammon’s shoulders, taking note of the blood on the high demon’s fingertips. Two young women hurried forward and began dressing the high demon, sliding rings on to his fingers and slippers on his feet.
Mammon took his throne. Smiling, he lifted his hand to the crowd. ‘Rise, Brethren!’
His generals stood up, and watched, calm and expectant, through a veil of cigar smoke. Wine waiters hurried to the edge of the room and formed a line near the wall. The musicians put down their instruments and sat, heads bowed.
Mammon leaned forward and rested his elbow on his knee. ‘Welcome. Your presence pleases me. Our party will not be as full as I wished, but you who have made the journey will serve strongly. And for those who serve, there are always rewards.’ His hand drifted to the woman kneeled to his left. He weaved his fingers through her hair.
‘Enjoy these gifts. But do remember one thing.’ His voice dropped to a growl. His fingers tightened in the woman’s hair, drawing a gasp from her lips. ‘This planet is mine. You are my guests. You will benefit from this association. This will not change, unless you cease to serve me.’
A chill ran through the room.
Smiling, Mammon threw the crowd a wave. ‘Enjoy yourselves! Tomorrow, we begin the next leg of our journey!’
Halphas watched as Master’s new right-hand-man, Bathin, approached the throne. The old servant recognised the host body that this particular Hellborn had taken. Paul Ryan. Senator Paul Ryan, to be precise.
Mammon relaxed his hand on the woman’s head again, stroking her like a prize pet. A servant rushed across, chair in hands. The high demon watched his men enjoying his welcome gift: an array of young women, doused in thick, musky perfume and wrapped in sultry chiffon – mingling through the crowd like desert concubines.
Bathin sat down and took a glass of whisky from a hovering tray. He tapped his fingers on the armrests. ‘What’s next, Mammon?’
The high demon sighed. ‘Right now, Bathin? Pleasure. But, if you must know, I’m going to call on your diplomatic skills.’ He leaned closer. ‘I need you to liaise with the Senate and force the rezoning of protected land. I want my new casino built, post-haste. Can you do that?’
‘Definitely, Sire.’
‘Halphas!’
The old man leaned closer. ‘Yes, Master?’
Mammon snatched his shirt and pulled him close. ‘Nobody gets that close to me again. Understood?’ His grip intensified, and Halphas coughed. ‘Master.’
‘Do what you have to do! But I don’t ever want those filth near me again.’
‘Yes, Master.’
Mammon let go, and turned to Bathin. ‘It is enough to say that very soon, I will determine the balance of power on this planet. You shall do your part to assist me.’
He sat back, and gazed out at the room. ‘Tonight, we indulge.’
* * *
Copyright © J.B. Thomas 2012. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
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