Exaltation (Insight #11)(3)
He spent most of his time, along with his entire faction, around the twenty-something population. He would grow bored with one dimension and move on, but lately this one had held his attention.
Rydell adored the cars, the music, and the turbulence in the air. Those here were at a point in time where old ways would no longer suffice and new ideas had yet to be born. It was a world full of gamblers, at least in their own way. A world perfect for his kind, and massive enough his sovereign would only vaguely notice how well Rydell was feeding his followers, the ones he’d stolen from him.
There was something more about this place too, a drawing feeling Rydell had felt long before he arrived…one which ripped him each time he thought to leave. A new kingdom perhaps…, he’d thought once.
The line of Exaltation was one of seven different lines that ruled dark emotions. Their purpose, at one time, was angelic. They took what human souls could not bear in raw form. Then one day, when each Escort—those in lines of anger, fear, grief, trepidation, shock, and obsession, along with exaltation—experienced the rush of taking more than what they were meant to...all hell broke loose. Now they all invoked, made the human souls feel the emotion they needed to feed on. They went from angelic to demonic literally within one bated breath.
We feed on souls…how tragic can we be…death be welcomed, he’d thought before he rose against his king, Revelin.
Exaltation was seen as the party emotion, and rightly so. Who would not want to feel that way constantly? The thing is, unless you feel it for a pure reason, a reason that furthers your soul’s purpose, it’s deadly. It gives rise to greed, separates souls that were meant to be made of one, and slaughters purity…light.
Revelin, Rydell’s sovereign, had taught each in his line the lust side of the emotion, taught them to tempt vices. Revelin never gave the souls their desire, only a taste—in some sick way he drove his victims to the point of insanity.
Rydell and his faction were striving to not only feed their constant hunger, but not to tempt souls into bleak darkness—not entirely at least. Material. All souls wanted material things for the most part, and this car was one of those.
A man lusted for it, and the second Rydell gave it to him, he would expel a rush of emotion. Each time he drove it he would, and the rush would find Rydell and Dagen, and it would last until the man’s next desire surfaced, and it would—soon. Souls are never satisfied long, especially after they have tasted such a sweet rush.
Just as the beast Rydell was manhandling reached ninety around a sharp curve in the highway, a wave of energy vibrated against the night sky, clearly aimed at him. The car lost control in an instant. Both he and Dagen opened their doors and stepped out. They could have manifested somewhere outside of the car, which had taken on a life of its own, but they had grown used to hiding their power in their day-to-day appearance.
Of course, stepping out of a car at that speed was not natural by any means. But at the very least, if someone had happened to see this epic crash, their mind would have told them the passengers dove out of the car just in time.
The Firebird met its doom a half second later as it wrapped itself around a guardrail before pushing the metal into the row of trees behind it. Before either could comment the car erupted into flames. Both Rydell and Dagen raised their long arms to block their eyes, only for the purpose of adjusting to the light blooming in the middle of the night.
“Damn. Talk about throwing a divine meal down the drain,” Dagen stated. He was unaware of the energy that had caused Rydell to lose control just before they reached the bend in the highway.
The energy would have been felt at the highest-ranking souls in the line first then would slowly be felt throughout all the ranks. By the time it reached the Escorts that had not been openly claimed, it would feel as careless as an ominous breeze welcoming a tepid summer storm.
Rydell pulled his brow together, wondering why he felt it so violently. He knew the prophecy, he knew where he stood in his line, second only to his godly king, but he felt the jolt of energy as if he was standing next to it. He felt it as if The Reaper himself had whispered his name against his neck.
Somewhere in this dimension he was in, the soul who would bring the end of his existence had just taken a breath.
Right about then Dagen felt the blow; it rocked him back on his heels. Rydell only halfway contemplated if that was due to the force or the shock factor. Every civilization lives with the threat of the ‘end of times’ lingering over their heads, a notion Rydell and his kind had often used to seduce their prey—‘you only live once, tomorrow is never promised.’ But no civilization, no breed of souls, ever believes it will occur in their lifetime, not even immortal souls such as Rydell.
To feel this right now swarmed him with every dark emotion a soul could possibly feel. He knew he was breathing the same air as his assassin. Not a doubt in his mind.
“This can’t be true. Now? Why now?” Dagen asked with rage coating his deep voice. His ice blue eyes raced over Rydell as his entire six foot three, solidly muscled body tensed. At that moment he didn’t look like a young warrior, but a force to be reckoned with.
Rydell’s eyes shifted over the night. “I suppose our sovereign has finally crossed the line with the Creator.”
“But we haven’t. We walked away,” Dagen argued, refusing to believe this.
Rydell was a First. He was the one who stood at Revelin’s side, by birthright. This revelation was telling Dagen that his best friend, his brother, was called to death, called to fall for sins he didn’t commit, not voluntarily at least. They’d walked away. That should count for something somewhere, somehow—that’s how Dagen saw it.