06-23-2014, 03:26 PM
He could feel Michael's gaze sizzle upon his skin. Indoctrination into the Atharim was one of the great secrets of his life, but after revealing himself to their Regus, he cared less and less about hiding the truth.
Many nights he'd considered walking into their building he had as a youth. The Historical Society was the face of their deception, but Nikolai once walked the heart of their catacombs, none could stop him should he decide to enter. But when he did, it would be to raze the organization from within, and as he said, the Atharim needed recalibration, not elimination.
He smoothed his sleeve and not so much as a wrinkle marred the cloth. It gave him time to fix his eyes upon something else while Michael described the assassin. His mind turned the pages he began to memorize in Bologna.
"Dreyken? They like the dark?" He'd asked of Garret.
"Not so much they like the dark, as they don't like the light."
"An Ijiraq, it could be."
He lifted his gaze, and himself. "Not even the Atharim know how to kill one. They don't know if they can be killed."
Legend said they were used as spies and assassins, but the means to control an ijiraq was lost. "But trust me, nothing exists that cannot be killed."
The king of the dead would know, and Nikolai heralded death as fierce he dealed in cold mercy.
He slipped the jacket on and arranged the way it sat on his shoulders in front of a mirror. The white shirt and vest were soft as fresh snow against the harsh outline of black tails. The double-crescent pin gleamed on his lapel. When he turned, his gaze fell to a box.
It was time to reveal the ornament within. He crossed to open it.
"If they cannot be reasoned with, they will be replaced.
" Nikolai decreed without hesitation. Five hundred million dollars per year of his own money funded the Atharim's cause. The funds could be put toward his own machinery, but delegation was worth something as well. He could not oversee every project on the planet, nor did he want to.
"We will speak about further details soon, but not as mere gods,"
he lifted the lid. Cold blue eyes settled on the contents briefly before returning to Michael. "As Ascendants."
The correction was without rebuke.
That was what they were.
They were the greats.
Many nights he'd considered walking into their building he had as a youth. The Historical Society was the face of their deception, but Nikolai once walked the heart of their catacombs, none could stop him should he decide to enter. But when he did, it would be to raze the organization from within, and as he said, the Atharim needed recalibration, not elimination.
He smoothed his sleeve and not so much as a wrinkle marred the cloth. It gave him time to fix his eyes upon something else while Michael described the assassin. His mind turned the pages he began to memorize in Bologna.
"Dreyken? They like the dark?" He'd asked of Garret.
"Not so much they like the dark, as they don't like the light."
"An Ijiraq, it could be."
He lifted his gaze, and himself. "Not even the Atharim know how to kill one. They don't know if they can be killed."
Legend said they were used as spies and assassins, but the means to control an ijiraq was lost. "But trust me, nothing exists that cannot be killed."
The king of the dead would know, and Nikolai heralded death as fierce he dealed in cold mercy.
He slipped the jacket on and arranged the way it sat on his shoulders in front of a mirror. The white shirt and vest were soft as fresh snow against the harsh outline of black tails. The double-crescent pin gleamed on his lapel. When he turned, his gaze fell to a box.
It was time to reveal the ornament within. He crossed to open it.
"If they cannot be reasoned with, they will be replaced.
" Nikolai decreed without hesitation. Five hundred million dollars per year of his own money funded the Atharim's cause. The funds could be put toward his own machinery, but delegation was worth something as well. He could not oversee every project on the planet, nor did he want to.
"We will speak about further details soon, but not as mere gods,"
he lifted the lid. Cold blue eyes settled on the contents briefly before returning to Michael. "As Ascendants."
The correction was without rebuke.
That was what they were.
They were the greats.