06-02-2009, 06:20 PM
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There had been a thousand temptations, and each he had sought his father had held from him. For that, Ezekiel had hated him. He had hated the golden-eyed man and his talk of God, of healing, of learning. What he wanted to hear was the promise of violence. It hurt more then anything else to not hear what he wished to hear. His father had spoken on the subject once, and said nothing more. So he read, and distracted himself in a novel assortment of information. The names of Saints and devils traversed his mind, and the names and functions of bone, nerves, and optic tissue were known by heart. And as he had healed, he had begun to work.
Her peculiar white eyes told him nothing. They were like mist; he could not see beyond what she willed him to see. All of the talk of blood and ancient rights belonged to a different world. He understood it and knew then that the man who had sired her, the man who was hunting her, was a demon. It came to him as he stared into her eyes and saw the raven-coated wolf as he had last. “That man is a demon,” he said solemnly, not using the word as a metaphor. “I found his name in one of my father’s books. They called him Andras. He comes with the head of the night raven and the body of a wolf, bearing a sword.” Inhaling and tasting the carbon of ash and long-gone fire, the boy continued. “He needs to be destroyed.” [/html]