Sourtiarius - Chapter 2

Sourtiarius

Chapter 2: The Opening of Hostilities

(To View Chapter 1, click on "Sourtiarius - Chapter 1" )
(To View Chapter 2, click on "Sourtiarius - Chapter 2" )
(To View Chapter 3, click on "Sourtiarius: Chapter 3" )

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The five minutes turned out to be two and Michael was soon knocking on Ezekiel’s door. As he opened it to let his friend inside, Ezekiel immediately noticed an unnatural gleam in Michael’s eyes and a slight brilliance to his skin. It wouldn’t have been apparent to most people, but Ezekiel wasn’t like most people. Immediately thereafter, the subtle change in his friend’s voice shone through.
“Ziek…I’m more freaked out than I’ve ever been in my entire life.”

There was a certain play to the inflection of the words; it was not singsong, because to call it that would imply a sarcastic edge to a serious statement. Nevertheless, it seemed as if every word he spoke was a song all it’s own. It left empathic impressions upon Ezekiel’s spirit that he just couldn’t ignore. He felt himself drawn into the sentence, and had to literally will himself to snap out of the enchantment that befell as Michael spoke.

“Let’s have a seat so you can tell me what happened.”

He led Michael to his couch, sat him down, turned off the television and pulled out a bong. They sat in silent contemplation, passing it between them, as Ezekiel patiently waited for Michael to begin.

“You know we had that gig tonight?” he asked nervously. Ezekiel nodded his response.

“We were playing the show and I started going into a solo. One moment it was a normal show and the next…well, I don’t know, man! The music took over or something and we couldn’t stop playing. At first, I felt like I was tripping; I heard every fucking note we were playing so clearly that it was almost in slow motion. Then I got so into the music that I was in a kinda trance. These lights flew around the band, most coming from my guitar. By the time I had almost finished the solo, everything had came to life, as if I was hallucinating. The very walls were breathing and everyone had different colored auras around them. The moment we finished the set, I passed out and woke up in my pad.”

“What did it feel like? I mean, inside, you know?” Ezekiel asked, as he finished rolling a joint.

“Well…it didn’t feel bad, if that’s what you mean. I just dropped into a trance that was totally connected with the music I was playing.”


They sat in silence once more, the bubbling sound of the bong providing adequate background noise to a meeting amongst these friends. After a minute or so, as Ezekiel opened his mouth to speak, a thunderous knocking sounded at his door.

“This is the Police! We have a warrant for the arrest of Ezekiel Profanti and Michael Murdock under the Patriot Act.”

Ezekiel let out a great cough of smoke. They looked at each other, terrified at their dilemma.

The knocking came again, louder this time, as if the police meant to enter by force. They were both staring at the pot on their table, terrified that it was the reason for the intrusion.

The door burst open and ten policemen rushed inside, guns cocked and aiming for the head. Ezekiel and Michael both fell to the ground with their hands behind their heads. Looking up, Ezekiel saw that the cops had taken no notice of the pot on his table and were all nervously keeping them targeted.

“You’re both under arrest. I know what you can do and if I see your hands move or hear anythin’…unnatural come out of your mouth, it’s your ass, boys.” This cheerful voice belonged to a heavyset officer in a trench coat who was smoking a filthy cigar and grinning at them in a bemused fashion. They were dragged out of the house and placed into a paddy wagon with six armed guards trained on them.

***

The journey to the local police station was an unpleasant one. Ezekiel didn’t have such a bad time of it, but if Michael would so much as breathe deeply, the sound of guns being cocked would be followed by muttered threats.

Upon arriving at the police station, they were violently thrown into a prison cell with no regard for due process. Armed guards remained stationed in the room, never blinking or looking away from the two in the cell.

Twenty uncomfortable minutes went by with nothing to hear but the sound of a clock ticking down the hallway. Any request for an explanation would be answered with glares and a loud “Shut up!” from what was presumed to be the most senior guard stationed around the cell.
Eventually, Michael couldn’t stand it any longer…

He began whistling.

Four shots were fired. One hit his left shoulder, another his kneecap, but the final shots struck true on his chest and punctured his lungs. There were shouts for backup coming from the cops as Michael fell to the floor, blood gushing from his wounds. Ezekiel ran to his friend, regardless of the consequences, and looked into eyes that he knew would die long before medical attention could revive him.

He did the only thing he could think of in this time of crisis:

Ezekiel began to pray.

He prayed with all the fiber of his being, beseeching God for divine intervention in the most unjust end he could ever have imagined for his companion. He shouted for retribution against the ones who wounded his friend so, and he placed his hands upon the bullet wounds, hoping against hope that he could make any difference by stemming the flow of blood.

By this point, the room was filled with police officers and Michael could faintly hear the cries for an ambulance as he slowly choked on his own blood. Shivering with cold, his body was going into shock from blood loss. Slowly drifting in and out of consciousness, Michael saw a steady stream of shimmering, blue lights rising into the air before him. He gazed upon Ezekiel’s face - eyes closed and mind locked in a determined prayer - and then looked further down to the source of the blue light.

It was coming from his wound. He began to feel the warmth returning to his body as it slowly healed before his very eyes.

But he had no time to question his fortune for some of the officers in the back had taken aim at Ezekiel when the lights appeared and Michael didn’t even have time to cry out before the shots were fired. Michael could tell from their trajectory that at least one of the bullets would strike Ezekiel in the back of his head.

Reflexively cringing in anticipation of the impact, Michael tried turning his head away when something miraculous happened: The bullets flew in a ten-foot arch around Ezekiel and struck the walls of the cell.

Already, some guards were fumbling for the keys to enter the cell and interrupt Ezekiel’s prayer. Michael felt the bullets finally pop out of his skin as Ezekiel’s healing touch cured his wounds, and looked into the gleaming eyes of a true believer. They both knew, without words, that their lives had somehow, overnight, been drastically turned upside down. It was a look of deep understanding between friends, and they both knew their place was no longer in the society they lived in.

The gates swung open and two guards rushed in, violently shoving Ezekiel off of Michael and pinning him to the ground. Michael was likewise restrained, arms and legs pinned down and a hand clamped over his mouth. After a short struggle, a guard was called in to administer a tranquilizer, and the two friends fell into blackness.

***

One by one the assorted administration officials filed out of the room. Jonathan kept his seat at the table, staring blankly in the direction the Sourceror had stood in the knowledge that he would soon have a mission on his hands. The Secretary of Defense, Michael Bradbury, approached him soon after and began speaking as if they had already been involved in a deep discussion.

“All the details have been taken care of, and the helicopter should be ready by midnight. We’ve captured another of these freaks in South Florida.” The Secretary stated, as he quickly sifted through the papers in his briefcase.
`
“What’s the situation? How were they discovered?”

“Apparently, a band named…” he peered down at his paperwork before continuing, “Catalyst, had played a show at a club in Fort Lauderdale, and during the performance, some sort of energy came out from the guitarist’s instrument. His music put the crowd in a frenzy shortly before the local police came in to break up the commotion, and they had to arrest nearly all of the audience. He attempted to flee after the show and was found hiding at the residence of an acquaintance of his.

“I’ll get the team ready and we’ll be ready to head out within the hour.”

***

The body lay still, seemingly frozen in time. Its expression was locked in a grimace of concentration, and the moisture-rimmed eyes were wide open, staring into the blackness of death. K’ta stopped to examine the corpse of the Sourceror Tarrim, the one responsible for his release, as had been foretold.

He could see magic still surrounding the body as he took in the details provided by his supernatural vision, though no longer did it flow from him like a mighty waterfall through reality. The power present in this one body was uncanny! Raw magic crystallized around him, preserving him exactly as he was the moment of his death.

With dragons such as K’ta, there is no such thing as honor; if he were a human, he’d call himself a practical man. He knew that anyone who consumed the corpse of the Sourceror would become exponentially powerful, perhaps even taking on their inherent abilities. So, sitting on his hind legs, he lowered his head to the ground and flicked the Sourceror’s body into the air, swallowing it whole in one deft movement. And now there was only one thing left to do: He had to await the transformation.

He could handle that – he was used to waiting.

***

Merrit watched as Mr. Bradbury, Jonathan and the rest of the assault force boarded the helicopter. They thought they had found another Sourceror. He hesitated on whether he should intervene. After all, who was Merrit to prove them wrong?

On the other hand, he had only met two extraordinary people in his lifetime. One, the Sourceror Tarrim, had been slain in the Badlands when he chose to fight Merrit for supremacy over the planet. The other, the Sourceress Aradia, had left forever to pursue her own destiny – one that Merrit feared would inevitably lead to her death. He had been isolated from contact with mortals since the moment of his ascension into Sourcery, and he longed for the emotional benefits of companionship.

The cold, calculating, and above all logical mind of the Sourceror had not yet pushed him away from reality, and he held fast to his oath to repair the damage Sourcery had caused his universe. Perhaps, there was a way…

The helicopter took off, heading southeast towards its destination, and Merrit came to a decision. His curiosity would not diminish until he knew what the government had found to temporarily take its interest away from him.

Floating slowly into the air, he focused his mind on a group of nervous police officers two hundred miles away.

After a moments thought, he disappeared, a faster than light particle insinuating itself against the pressures of reality.

***

Waking up from a tranquilized sleep is not the most fluent of actions. Often, one is in an intermediate state of consciousness for several minutes at the very least. In the case of Ezekiel, those several minutes were spent reliving the horrible sights that met him prior to his collapse. When he finally did awake, he was in a different cell, separate from Michael. Had he really saved his friend through prayer? He couldn’t tell. For all he knew, it could have been a hallucination, a byproduct of the tranquilizer he was sure had been administered to him.

They had placed him in a ten by ten foot reinforced-steel cell with a surveillance camera trained on him. There was no guard there and no sustenance to speak of.

He knelt down and began to pray. As the first words of his prayer rolled off his tongue, he heard the noise of the camera shifting its angle and focusing on him. A split second later a voice rang out of an invisible speaker.

“If you continue using your powers, we will be forced to tranquilize you. Cease and desist.”

Ezekiel glared at the camera for a moment, then got off his knees with a final ‘Amen’. Looking back towards the camera, he shouted.

“Let me out of here! I want to talk to my lawyer!”

He heard a door open down the hall to his cell. Shortly, a tall, mustached man appeared in a pinstriped suit holding an ebony cane with an ivory handle. He extended the index and middle fingers of his right hand into the sleeve of his left, removed a card, and extended it towards Ezekiel in one deft movement.

It read:
Agent Jeremy Marsh
Terrorist Investigations Unit


Ezekiel looked up as Mr. Marsh removed his glasses, revealing a bright green eye to match an electric blue one, obviously a contact lens. Ezekiel took a step back, and Jeremy entered his cell, closing the door behind him.

“Mister Profanti, you are being held on suspicion of terrorism and conspiracy to undermine the government.”

“What? All I was doing was smoking pot with my friend in my living room when I was assaulted by a squad of cops!”

Mr. Marsh raised his finger to stop Ezekiel from speaking.

“I am not here to take sides on that matter, Mister Profanti. My pleasant task today is to determine whether you pose a threat to the nation.”

Ezekiel sat down at the table in his cell and gestured for Jeremy to do the same. Jeremy took off his hat and joined him.

“Mr. Profanti, I want to make myself absolutely clear on this. All I require from you is that you be truthful with me. Completely.” He said, severely

“What do you need to know?” Ezekiel asked, bracingly.

Jeremy pulled out a tape recorder, placed it on the table between them, and began recording.

“When did you first notice your ability to heal?” he asked, his mismatched eyes boring into Ezekiel’s gaze.

“When my friend got shot and almost died.” He answered, anger seeping through in the tone of his voice.

“And how long has your friend employed his abilities with music?” Jeremy asked after writing some notes down on a clipboard he extracted from his briefcase.

“He’s been playing guitar since he was nine – ”

“You know what I mean, Mr. Profanti,” he interrupted, “His magical skills!”

Ezekiel raised his eyebrow at the use of the term ‘magic’. He knew very well that Michael didn’t associate himself with anything patently occult.

“He came to my house just a few minutes before the cops broke in to tell me about some show they played…by the sound of it, that was the first time he’d ever gone through anything like it.”

As the conversation continued, Merrit watched from the shadows, imperceptible to their senses. He could clearly see the potential of the one called Ezekiel. An aura of holy energy, blue and white in essence, surrounded his body and embodied his soul. The other one, Jeremy, had a mind like a jagged blade. There was a definite hint of supernatural skill there, but nothing Merrit could identify as actual magic.

He sensed that Mr. Bradbury was fast approaching and knew that if he were to intervene, the opportune moment would be soon. Nevertheless he stood there, learning more about the Holy one, the one touched by the grace of God.

“Very well Mr. Profanti. We shall continue our conversation tomorrow, after you are moved to a federal facility.” He stated, finishing the interview.

With that, he gave Ezekiel a curt bow, gathered his belongings, and left the cell, heading back down the hallway he came from. The door slammed in the distance as Ezekiel slumped back in his chair.

***

Sometime later, staring up at the ceiling in dismay, Ezekiel noticed the surveillance camera zooming in on him. He had done nothing to deserve this treatment, much less the relocation to a federal facility.

He grew defiant, righteous anger coursing through his veins as he stood up. Remembering the gunshots that would surely have killed him, and the pain they had caused to his friend, he began a mighty prayer of retribution.

“Why does my nation conspire and my people plot in vain?” he screamed at the camera, paraphrasing a passage from the bible as he slowly stepped towards the camera, “The kings of the earth take their stand and the rulers gather together against the Lord and against his anointed one! My Lord scoffs at you, rebukes you with his anger, and terrifies you with his wrath!”

Upon the utterance of that phrase, the camera exploded and the cell door sprang open.
Merrit stared in disbelief at the display of holy power. His faith must have been strong enough in God that He actually intervened. The holy man calmly walked out of his cell, the blue aura visibly surrounding his form, and he said another prayer.

“Lord, please help me find my friend Michael so that no harm may come to him and we may be freed of our imprisonment. I thank you Lord, in the name of Jesus.”

Merrit sensed the answer arrive in Ezekiel’s psyche, but he could not comprehend it. Nevertheless, he followed him down the corridor. Lying on the floor in handcuffs, gagged, and sedated, was Michael.

Ezekiel said a small prayer of thanks, and as the word ‘amen’ left his lips the lock on the cell sprung open.

“You alright, Mike?” asked Ezekiel, as he freed his friend.

“Yeah…” The word left his lips as clear as a melody.

Merrit could see the innate talent within this one as well. The one named Michael seemed to take in any background magic and turn it into sonic spell effects, visibly echoing from his lips in the magical spectrum.

“We should go before any more trouble shows up. We have to go into hiding.”

With a grim nod at each other, the two companions set off. Heading off in a random direction down the steel-enforced corridors, they eventually reached a landing leading to the main floor of the building. Aware of the fact that Mr. Bradbury and his team were only yards away from the entrance, Merrit continued following the pair in case something went wrong.

“What are we going to do, man?” Michael whispered during a short pause, “We’ll get shot before we can make it through. Even if we live thanks to these, uh, powers or whatever, they’ll still chase us.”

But a holy flame was still burning in Ezekiel’s eyes. He looked to Michael and proclaimed, “If they will shoot at innocent men, let them answer before the Lord!” and boldly strode onto the main floor.

Michael hesitated for a moment, considering the wisdom of his friend’s actions, but overcame his resignation and quickly caught up with him. From a door off to the left, which Ezekiel presumed was the surveillance area, an electrical fire seemed to have kindled as the smoke billowed forth from the room. A group of scorched guards were backing up against the wall in fear, pointing at the duo.

Ezekiel stalked by, paying them no heed as he continued his non-stop communion with the Lord. Michael, on the other hand, followed uneasily behind him, glancing back over their shoulders. He could have sworn he saw one of the officers raise a gun at them, but then he dropped it as if overcome by a deadly fear. As they approached the exit the doors swung open of their own accord.

The duo stepped over the boundary and was heading down the steps when the first blast of lightning struck Ezekiel directly in the chest, knocking him back several yards. Michael looked in the direction it came from and saw four men dressed in black camouflage fatigues. The one at the lead had raw electricity crackling along the length of his arms and looked to be taking aim again.

The moment his mind registered this fact, Michael remembered a safety phrase he learned in elementary school: Stop, drop, and roll - and he did so. Narrowly avoiding the blast, he managed to regain his composure as two of the men approached him, wielding blades.

“Gentlemen…My name is Jonathan Strathmoor,” called the man with the lightning flowing from his hands, “If you put up a fight, I will guarantee you that you’re not going to win. There are other powers in this world that can stand up to the inevitabilities like yourselves.”

During the introduction Ezekiel had regained his footing. With smoke flowing from his chest where the bolt had struck and a righteous expression upon his countenance, he raised his hands into the air and began a retributive prayer against the assault team.

Desperately considering his next course of action, Michael backed away from the two soldiers approaching him. He found himself with his back against a nearby wall, listening to Ezekiel mouth his prayer to God in the distance, and decided to try the only thing that came to his mind – he was going to attempt to entrance these two with a rhyme.

When dealing with us there is no chance
What you should do now is not to advance
Drop all your weapons and bide away time
On me, turn your back; on the floor shall you lie

As Michael was unsure if this tactic would work, he had been edging away from the soldiers with his back towards the wall. Despite his lack of confidence, by the end of the riddle he was surprised to find them shrugging their shoulders, dropping their blades, and walking away from Michael as if nothing had happened.

He hesitated as he bent low to grasp a blade. During the past twenty-four hours, he had been threatened several times, shot at and almost died, tranquilized, and now his best friend had been blasted with electricity. He knew that to end the lives of these two men would be a simple matter, but he was by no means a murderer. The enchantment that fell upon those two might not last long, however, and they needed to get away to safety. There had to be another way…

It was at that precise moment of indecision that Ezekiel’s prayer came into effect, feeding off Michael’s magic. Just as Jonathan hurled another blast of lightning towards him, hailstones the size of car tires began falling from the sky. The lightning bolt struck one, and two of them slightly concussed the soldiers who Michael had entranced, laying them flat on the ground as the riddle suggested.

“Mike!” came Ezekiel’s shout from across the road. Michael had just enough time to turn towards his friend when he felt a painful thump along the side of his head and fell to the ground in a semiconscious state.

“Should you feel the need to get up, Mr. Murdock, you will find that the agony you are experiencing will be the least of your concerns; I will personally see to it that you experience the most exquisite pain of your entire life.” This was the voice of Jeremy Marsh, the man who had conversed with Ezekiel prior to their breakout.

Ezekiel immediately ignored the threat posed by Jonathan and began walking towards Jeremy, another prayer already begun, eyes scanning the heavens.

Jonathan signaled for the last remaining soldier to flank them as he watched the display before him unfold.

Jeremy was easily sidestepping the hailstones as they fell around him. He noticed Ezekiel’s approach and drew a pair of magnums out of nowhere.

“I’ll warn you once, Mr. Profanti. My aim is not as poor as the men in that police station. If you do not lie on the ground I shall be forced to shoot you.” Said Jeremy.

Ezekiel paid no heed to those words as he continued his progress, his zealous countenance locked in prayer.

Jeremy could not understand the words due to the sound of the storm, but he began to feel very uncomfortable as the eerie prayer came to completion. He took confident aim at Ezekiel’s heart, and shot twice.

Both of the bullets penetrated the barrier of protection, the same invisible field that had previously redirected the officers’ bullets, but they were immediately incinerated as they got within an inch of his body, into a barrier of divine wrath.

Jeremy prided himself on actually bypassing the protective barrier. He hadn’t had any real hope of harming the boy with projectiles after the display in the cell room, which he’d witnessed through the surveillance equipment.

Ezekiel stopped short of him as he finished his prayer, and waved his hand at Jeremy’s guns, which promptly flew from his grasp.

“If I were an evil man, I wouldn’t warn you of the consequences of your actions, your lifestyle…” he began, and Jeremy felt that the truth of the words were being read from his very soul, “but I am a good man and I’ll tell you this only once: Never lay a hand upon an innocent for the rest of your life, or on behalf of my Lord I will personally see to your demise.” He leaned closer so that only Jeremy could hear what he said, and whispered, “I know what motivates your desires…”

Their gazes locked, Ezekiel bent down and helped Michael to his feet.

Ezekiel mouthed a quiet prayer to the Lord and looked back upon Jeremy with utmost contempt as he placed his hand on Michael’s head and healed his wounds. Out of the corner of his eye he caught a movement as the slightest of smirks appeared on Jeremy’s face.

Ezekiel dropped to the ground, bringing Michael with him, and the lightning bolt that was aimed at him hit Jeremy instead, knocking the man into the wall across the street.

“Damn you!” was all he could bring himself to say as he stood up and stared at the flanking soldier who was responsible.

Unfortunately for him, Ezekiel’s words carried weight with God, and the poor soldier fell to the ground, consumed in flames.

Jonathan stared down at the scene, saw his companion of fifteen years fall to the ground, saw the man who had saved his life many times die at the hands of a mere boy. Hatred flared in the form of an actual lightning bolt from the heavens, channeling through his body and striking Ezekiel. There was a loud explosion as Ezekiel was lifted off his feet and slammed into a building some eighty feet away.

Michael, in the meantime, had picked up the blades of the unconscious soldiers and the moment he saw Ezekiel slam into the building, he lost control.

He flew at Jonathan, blades whirling in a maddening dance of amateur swordsmanship. Jonathan had just enough time to pull out his black edged blade and the resounding clangs as he deftly parried both of Michael’s blows echoed throughout the street. Several officers appeared at the doorway to the police station, and on either side of the blocked-off street, guns cocked as they watched the scene unfold.

Michael came in with two overhead chops and Jonathan went to parry them easily, but the offhand attack turned out to be a feint as he pulled it back sharply and lunged it towards the soldier’s ribcage.

Jonathan sidestepped the blade – but it was a close call. Experience, he knew, would be his key ally in this battle. Proceeding to deflect two more attacks with a wide vertical slice, he reached with his left hand for a gun he had holstered to his back.

By then Michael was too far-gone to notice the subtle motion towards the holster. He came in with a double sword-jab, one of which nicked Jonathan’s stomach before he managed to jump back.

With the gun finally in his grasp, Jeremy slammed it against Michael’s blade, blocking an overhead chop. At that moment he pulled the trigger and the bullet narrowly missed Michael. He parried low with his titanium blade, knocking Michael’s other sword wide, and came in close enough to score a nick under the boy’s armpit as he spun around to avoid the hit.

Michael backed away for a moment, looked towards the gun, and screamed, “Coward!” before rushing back at the soldier.

Before he knew there was magic, before he even became vaguely interested in fantasy stories, Michael had already developed a strong hatred for gun wielders. He considered it a cowardly act to resort to the use of one in anything but a military setting.
It awoke within him a powerful fury.

That fury cost him dearly, however. As he heedlessly ran towards the soldier, Jonathan’s boot came up to meet his groin with a powerful kick. The soldier knocked both of Michael’s blades wide again, and he managed to aim one good shot into the bard’s shoulder as he fell to the ground clutching his genitals.

At that point, the Sourceror decided it was time to intervene. Merrit knew that they had no idea where their powers came from or how to fully utilize them. He had been in a very similar situation upon his ascension into Sourcery, and had been likewise harassed. The incident had turned into a catastrophe as seven police officers died from gunshot wounds. They had shot at Merrit while he ran towards a group of teenagers and as the bullets approached him they entered wormholes in space, which lead them back to their respective points of origin, a Sourcerous ability Merrit referred to as a paradox.

He concentrated the flow of power into the region and saturated the immediate area with mana. The resulting magical density caused everyone’s movement to slow as if they were moving through thick treacle.

It took Merrit eighteen seconds to phase back into reality and every ounce of concentration went into it. Each day it took slightly longer to go through these transitions, as the Sourcerous frame of mind took hold of his mortal self and attempted to detach him from reality. But he had to take on a corporeal form in order to intervene.

The appearance of a seventeen-year-old boy with curly brown hair, gold fire rising from his hands, a staff by his side and a stream of golden energy from his eyes startled all within the area. He stared at Jonathan contemptuously, and then proceeded towards the bard, intent on helping him to his feet.

“Come, Michael Murdock. Let us take your friend and leave this place.” Said Merrit with a disarming smile on his face.

“Wh – Who are you?” asked Michael, as he took his hand and stood.

“I am Merrit, the Sourceror.”

With the simple introductions out of the way, Merrit calmly walked over towards the groaning priest. Although he didn’t possess what you might call healing magic, Merrit could alter reality in such a way as to lessen pains and stabilize some wounds. In this case, a slight reshuffling of time brought Ezekiel from unconsciousness several minutes before he would otherwise have woken up. Unlike Michael, the priest took one look at Merrit and stood right up with a smile on his face.

“The Lord told me you’d appear soon enough. Nice to meet you, Merrit.” Said Ezekiel.

Merrit stared at him, a stunned expression on his normally impassive face. After a moment’s pause, he smiled and said, “Likewise, good priest. We should leave this place and go somewhere private. Would you two like to join me?” he offered politely.

Michael looked up and down the street, his eyes resting on Jeremy as he very slowly took aim with his gun.

“We’d be hon– ” Ezekiel began.

“How come they’re moving so slow and we’re not?” Michael interrupted.

“I have extended an anti-magic shell around you. No magic can enter this field, except that which I allow. The magic affecting those around us is simply the result of an intense buildup of energy in a localized area, causing a deceleration field.”

“It looks funny - It makes their hair stand on end, like static.” Michael commented and indeed Jeremy, Jonathan and the officers nearby all looked as if they’d been shocked.

Michael walked up to Jonathan, gently pried his titanium blade out of his grasp, along with his gun, and joined the others.

“You’re hurt!” Ezekiel exclaimed. He placed his hands on Michael’s shoulder, prayed for a moment, and a wisp of steam rose into the air as the bullet fell to the ground.

“I’m ready.” Michael stated.

Ezekiel nodded his agreement and in the blink of an eye they were gone.
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(To View Chapter 1, click on "Sourtiarius - Chapter 1" )
(To View Chapter 2, click on "Sourtiarius - Chapter 2" )
(To View Chapter 3, click on "Sourtiarius: Chapter 3" )