The Dark Rift: The Supernatural Grail Quest Zombie Apocalypse (The Last Artifact Trilogy Book 1) by Gilliam Ness Page B
Authors: Gilliam Ness
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dead when I arrive.
* * * * * *
“Your father has only just awoken,” said the desiccated old butler. “Your timing could not be better, Master Christian. Please follow me.”
Christian passed through the large oak doors to find his father lying within a great bed in his darkened chambers, a battery of nurses surrounding him on all sides. A bearded doctor was bending over him, his patient’s limp wrist held in his probing hands. The doctor looked up in time to see Christian enter the room. He shook his head gravely, and for a moment a feeling of relief sparked in Christian’s heart.
Is he already dead?
His hopes were soon dashed when he saw a brittle arm dart upward, its bony hand clenching the doctor’s shirt and pulling him in with uncanny strength. Christian watched the doctor’s face as his ear drew close to his patient’s mouth, noting the change in his demeanor as the words were said.
“Everyone out,” whispered the doctor to his medical staff. “The Baron wants a word with his son.”
Christian remained motionless at the threshold, a knot tightening in the centre of his chest. In a matter of seconds the entourage had flowed past him, closing the doors behind them and leaving him alone with the man he most hated in the entire world. An instant later a deep fear was welling up in Christian, conjuring the specters of childhood abuse, and reminding him of his despicable and worthless status.
The room was dimly lit now, the majority of the light having vanished when the doors had been closed. It was a massive chamber, the distant walls and towering ceilings dissolving into the gloom on all sides. The only thing visible was the four post bed; a dais like structure encased in hanging textiles and ornate cushions the colour of dried blood.
Christian stood there silently, frozen with a fear that had been nurtured in him since infancy. He could hear the scratching hiss of his father’s breath, and his knees felt on the verge of giving way. It was all Christian could do to remain on his feet. Real or imagined, his father’s customary psychic assault was working its way into his brain, and it was doing so with an unprecedented intensity.
All power is based in fear. Fear must be maintained at all costs.
These were his father’s words; words that had been drilled into Christian for as long as he could remember, and they now filled his head with the power of a swelling ocean. He had always felt his father’s malicious presence, but never before had he experienced it with such clarity. What had always been vague and hidden was now suddenly visible.
“Come,” came the hiss, and like a lamb being led to slaughter, Christian obeyed, his hatred giving way to a silent plea for mercy.
“Father,” he whispered, arriving at the bedside.
The sight he witnessed was ghastly, and he fought back a desperate urge to flee. It had been more than three years since he had last seen the man, and the transformation that had taken place in that time was nothing short of demonic. There before him, lying amidst the finest silks in the world, was the grey and wasted form of what could only be described as a lizard; a reptilian corpse that somehow still lived.
“You need not fear me any longer, my son,” said the beast of a man in a dry whisper, “for now that you have learned fear, it is you who shall be feared. You will know power the likes of which no other man has ever known.”
Christian remained silent at first, the implications of such a promise filling him with dizziness. It was only after a few seconds had passed that a full comprehension of his true identity struck him. He was no longer a misfit. He was an Antov, and this would soon be his estate.
Christian swayed on his feet. Along with this sudden realization came an unobstructed awareness of his father’s repugnant presence in him. In that moment he realized that it had always been this way. Since his early childhood, Christian’s father had
* * * * * *
“Your father has only just awoken,” said the desiccated old butler. “Your timing could not be better, Master Christian. Please follow me.”
Christian passed through the large oak doors to find his father lying within a great bed in his darkened chambers, a battery of nurses surrounding him on all sides. A bearded doctor was bending over him, his patient’s limp wrist held in his probing hands. The doctor looked up in time to see Christian enter the room. He shook his head gravely, and for a moment a feeling of relief sparked in Christian’s heart.
Is he already dead?
His hopes were soon dashed when he saw a brittle arm dart upward, its bony hand clenching the doctor’s shirt and pulling him in with uncanny strength. Christian watched the doctor’s face as his ear drew close to his patient’s mouth, noting the change in his demeanor as the words were said.
“Everyone out,” whispered the doctor to his medical staff. “The Baron wants a word with his son.”
Christian remained motionless at the threshold, a knot tightening in the centre of his chest. In a matter of seconds the entourage had flowed past him, closing the doors behind them and leaving him alone with the man he most hated in the entire world. An instant later a deep fear was welling up in Christian, conjuring the specters of childhood abuse, and reminding him of his despicable and worthless status.
The room was dimly lit now, the majority of the light having vanished when the doors had been closed. It was a massive chamber, the distant walls and towering ceilings dissolving into the gloom on all sides. The only thing visible was the four post bed; a dais like structure encased in hanging textiles and ornate cushions the colour of dried blood.
Christian stood there silently, frozen with a fear that had been nurtured in him since infancy. He could hear the scratching hiss of his father’s breath, and his knees felt on the verge of giving way. It was all Christian could do to remain on his feet. Real or imagined, his father’s customary psychic assault was working its way into his brain, and it was doing so with an unprecedented intensity.
All power is based in fear. Fear must be maintained at all costs.
These were his father’s words; words that had been drilled into Christian for as long as he could remember, and they now filled his head with the power of a swelling ocean. He had always felt his father’s malicious presence, but never before had he experienced it with such clarity. What had always been vague and hidden was now suddenly visible.
“Come,” came the hiss, and like a lamb being led to slaughter, Christian obeyed, his hatred giving way to a silent plea for mercy.
“Father,” he whispered, arriving at the bedside.
The sight he witnessed was ghastly, and he fought back a desperate urge to flee. It had been more than three years since he had last seen the man, and the transformation that had taken place in that time was nothing short of demonic. There before him, lying amidst the finest silks in the world, was the grey and wasted form of what could only be described as a lizard; a reptilian corpse that somehow still lived.
“You need not fear me any longer, my son,” said the beast of a man in a dry whisper, “for now that you have learned fear, it is you who shall be feared. You will know power the likes of which no other man has ever known.”
Christian remained silent at first, the implications of such a promise filling him with dizziness. It was only after a few seconds had passed that a full comprehension of his true identity struck him. He was no longer a misfit. He was an Antov, and this would soon be his estate.
Christian swayed on his feet. Along with this sudden realization came an unobstructed awareness of his father’s repugnant presence in him. In that moment he realized that it had always been this way. Since his early childhood, Christian’s father had
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