From the Nephilim fidgeting with the Gigs, the noisy sound of him pressing the buttons on the watch’s side bounced around the small train compartment. He was careful to avoid the red button, remembering Sara warning him of the alert it would give to his friends. With a whirl to board the train, she finalized her warning by smacking her silky hair on his face. His face wrinkled from still smelling her freshly scented coconut.
Click…click…click.
People glanced at him with annoyance. Nathan finally stopped playing with the buttons, stretching his legs out as much as he could in the cramped seating.
The window showcased various buildings, forests, roads, rivers, ponds, cars, and greenery that zoomed past him. Nathan enjoyed seeing the different shades of nature, wishing he could sit on the roof, feel the wind, and inhale Mother Earth’s aroma.
Three hours passed, the electric pop music soothingly letting time easily elapse. He gave a thumbs-up emoji every time Kate texted each hour about how everyone was doing. Being with his new friends, he had never been happier.
Ever since his parents were slaughtered like pigs from the Choirs, he has been lonely, living at a different Sanctum in Asia. The Gala race, which called themselves angelic and holy, murdered his parents cold-heartedly. Anger boiled within him to this day. However, being with the two Prowlers and him, considered to be Harmony, wasn’t as bad as he thought.
When Nathan ran away at only ten years old, he had been clueless about where he would go, hoping to find a place to claim as his home and people to call family. Currently, he wondered if the Sanctum was his home.
Scanning around the compartment, Nathan watched humans get up and down. There was no frisson to make sense.
Galas could feel a magical presence, depending on how powerful the person was. If a Choir healed someone, their frisson could only be sensed at no less than six feet, but if a higher being like an Archangel was blasting magic, their presence could be felt around the atmosphere for miles.
In the closed corridors, the Nephilim would’ve sensed any frisson lingering around from the wizards—if they weren’t hiding their powers to begin with. He brushed his fingers through his messy but glossy black hair, time ticking away with no sighting.
Bladder full and regretting drinking a soda on the way to the train station, he had to use the restroom. Nathan wasn’t a man who could hold his bladder well. He opened the restroom door without knocking in urgency and blinked at a wizard counting money. There were also potions laid out.
“Oh hi,” stated Nathan, seeing the Gala staring at him with shock.
The wizard wore a cowboy hat and had leather boots on. He gruffled in a scratchy voice, “What are ya doing standing there? Close the door and get out! Can’t ya see, boy? I’m busy."
The boy felt his bladder explode any minute. Sitting on the seat for a long time, he had waited for the last minute until he couldn’t bear it anymore. “I really got to piss,” replied Nathan. He shut the door behind him, the man’s eyes getting big.
“What are you doing, boy?” shrieked the wizard, tucking his fat stack of money in his bag.
“Killing you quickly because I’m about to piss myself.” Nathan flung up his hand. The cowboy smacked his head hard against the sink. A crack echoed around him. Blood poured from the wizard’s temple and covered the floor while Nathan went to the toilet and washed his hands. After he dumped all the liquid from the potions in the toilet and threw away the bottles, he lifted his leg, the restroom floor getting sticky from the blood.
Nathan groaned and snapped his finger. The wizard disappeared behind the train, looking like he had committed such a horrible thing. The blood remained on the floor. After cleaning it with towels, the restroom looked like a girl was having a bad month. He texted the chat that he had finished his job.
Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.
Leaving the bag of money in the restroom for someone to find and make their day, Nathan was proud of himself for how effective his kill was. He started to head to his friends, ready to gloat about his victory in stopping a bad guy.
His heart slowed down a beat, and he frowned. Nathan zoned out as he walked to his seat, wondering if gloating about just killing someone was a good thing to begin with. His heart began racing again with anxiety, wondering if he was no better than the Choirs that killed his parents. Heartache squeezed his gut-wrenching emotions tightly in his chest.
The train halted, its tires squeaking like nails on a chalkboard. The Nephilim tumbled forward, cursing as he fell to the ground with a thump. He glanced up with his mind in a frenzy and forgot his daunting feelings. Confused passengers groaned, and his first thought was that the conductor had braked badly.
However, he realized that their stop wasn’t until another ten hours. Nathan leaped to his feet, knowing something awful had happened. The Nephilim rushed to find his friends.
***
Four hours into the mission, Timothy kept reminiscing about the differences between Galas and humans. He speculated that even though magic was a huge separation, everyone acted the same way. Looking at regular passengers in their seats, they were no different from him.
Every person on the train had stressed about life, worried about what the future might bring, many types of evoked emotions, and had indistinguishable goals. Everyone wants to be successful and happy.
The question raised in the back of his mind was what would truly distinguish each individual. How far would someone go to get their deepest desires? No matter what kind of price it cost them.
The Galas smuggling drugs to humans made them greedy for money to buy happiness. They were a great example of achieving what their hearts wanted without hurting anyone on their way to get it. Timothy wanted to put an end to this absurdity. Yet not all potions the wizards and witches made had horrible side effects and did cure the pain the humans sought.
Leaning his head back on his seat, he sighed at the choices he would have to make if he became the next High-warlock. Timothy hated illegal trading, but those potions helped people from Galas who wanted to do what was good. However, ten times more were harmed.
And if he decided to step in line with what the Harmonies destined him to be, whatever he did, Galas would continue to do as they pleased. They would be more well hidden than before, which wasn’t better.
Thomas Pitch was alive, and Timothy wondered if he would have a teenage boy take over the reins, balancing and keeping the supernatural race under control. He had to watch them stay in the shadows and not do harm to the mortals. He would have to keep an eye on the humans to make sure they weren’t trying to overcome the Pulse of Deception and tell the world magic was real.
From what he knew about Pitch, he had taken on the role of the High-warlock much later in life when he finished his degree in doctoring, which lasted for two hundred years.
He kept telling himself there was no rush, jumping the gun and claiming the title, but the pressure from the Choirs asking him felt like his time was shortened. If he stayed working for the Harmonies, would the Infernals and humans tear him apart as they did to Thomas Pitch?
A lot of ifs in my future... He thought of Sara working as a Prowler and assassin, wondering if she took those jobs because she wanted them or if her father pressured her to take those roles.
Sara seems happy; so, does Kate. Infernals and Harmonies had similar quirks when it came to their unsettling past, both taking each other’s blame for the horrors they had to go through.
Timothy was too engrossed in his thoughts; he didn’t see a man approaching him. “Hello there, Mr. Watt,” a chilled voice called out. The young warlock stared up at a wizard in a formal suit. The Gala flashed a smile before sitting down. “It is true about you; you are quite young. Are you debating to become the next heir to the throne?”
As if this person had read his mind, Timothy stared at him suspiciously with his emerald eyes. He should’ve worn his sunglasses to blend in. “Funny you mention that I’ve been thinking about it." He remembered him in one of the groups, and his heart picked up pace as he came up with a plan to dispose of him.
Flicking his gaze away from the window, guilt built up inside. Timothy believed murder was never the answer, but this was his assignment given to the Archangel. A few weeks ago, he tried to stop Sara from killing Pitch’s warlocks at the bank, but here he was about to define someone’s fate. He looked at his hands, cleansed from any blood.
If he were being realistic, how long would it take for his hands to be drenched? Never long. Killing shouldn’t ever be in the opinions, but what choice did he have? I’ll make your death merciful.
“What side are you planning to stick with, or will you try to be neutral, helping every Gala?” asked the wizard with a face that showed he was interested in hearing every detail of Timothy’s life plans.
The boy closed his eyes to compose himself for what he was willing to do. Clenching his hands together into fists, although realizing the man showed every moment he did. He unclutched and stared directly into the questioning Gala, giving his best fake smile. Timothy had done a lot of forced grins, but for once, he felt torn, and the smile was more than nothing but pity.