The Book of Malachi Carvanive: The Antagonist

Based on a mixture of demonology and witchcraft, The Book of Malachi Carvanive is a story introducing readers into a world of magic and mischief. The story revolves around Malachi Carvanive, who is sacrificing his sister for immortality in a contract with a demon named Belial Valentine. All the while, a war is on the brink of total mass destruction between two legions of demons and angels. Malachi and Amos Blood, a demon phoenix, must first deliver the Vegvisir compass to the demon Belial as part of their contract. Then they will have to track and face the seventy-two demons that threaten the world while simultaneously prevent the uprising of a new king of the underworld. Find out what happens when the antagonist reveals himself to Malachi and threatens his plans for immortality, a new life, and happiness.

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The Book of Malachi CarvaniveThe AntagonistBy Nathaniel D. ReidheadAuthorHouseCopyright © 2018 Nathaniel D. ReidheadAll rights reserved.ISBN: 978-1-5462-2847-9ContentsChapter One: My Name is Ignominy, 1, Chapter Two: And He Chokes on Feathers, 15, Chapter Three: The Littlewell Mansion, 30, Chapter Four: The Demon Carvanive of Littlewell, 44, Chapter Five: To Weep For A Willow, 58, Chapter Six: Who Am I Really?, 72, Chapter Seven: And The Blood Runs, 86, CHAPTER 1My Name is IgnominyThe town of Littlewell, Virginia had been one of the original settlements dating as far back as Jamestown during the establishment of the first colonial territories. Its rich lore of witchcraft and history of mysterious deaths was its only source of tourist appeal. For years, the town displayed the diminishing estate ruins as the only empirical artifacts with a story to tell.For someone who feared change, I never imagined that the worst circumstance to afflict myself would be the implications that which only mere existence could affect. Simply put, I feared the change of never changing and becoming an idol of sessile character. I feed off the comfort that only the consistent and foreknown pattern of my actions can supply as well as those around me. It's consequential. A constant come and go rhythm of cause and effect that I obsess to foreshadow and strain to comprehend. All the while, I find myself observing others in a strenuous attempt to profile and adapt. So, I lie, and I deceive with the greatest exertion to reject others before I am rejected myself.Imagine the day when you got older and the world around you threw away your stories into trash bins, your memories hid away in the boxes full of less than mediocre poems, and your toys given away to that mean freckle faced boy with the buck teeth and bright, uncombed, red hair. Envision the heartbreak you felt when you knew that even though high school was such a drag, you found yourself later wishing that you had everything back. That scummy locker you once forgot to lock and now your vandalized belongings donned fallacious, obscene graffiti, the homework you dreaded doing the minute you got home, and that ugly sweater your mom made you wear to school no matter how hard you pretended to be allergic to the fabric. I knew the longing for the lie to be true that maybe your best friend hadn't killed herself, that your mother hadn't swerved, and that your father hadn't drank. I remember the joy of getting just above average in math, the sadness of being abandoned, and of course, the day you have the audacity to come home to mom and dad crying because you screwed up and now you have detention with that scary 5th grade teacher nobody likes. But of course, it was always because of that ass kissing Cindy Lou Who with the braces whom always had a spare apple to give.Point being, all I wanted was a new life. Instead, I have become enamored with lies and suffocated by a myriad of validity in which I run from in the hopes of becoming, ironically, a paragon of oracular wisdom.I watched as smoke rolled off my lips as I took a shaky drag from my cigarette, my left hand stuffed in my pocket, bearing the frigid wind. I would often hide behind the apothecary in the alleyway next door to Marion's Bar & Grill, a small-town rendezvous for promiscuous hookers, rather questionable men in aviator jackets, and douchebags with popped collars ready to pull a switch on unsuspecting soccer moms exponentially more defined than Rocky Balboa. That is, if Rocky wore cashmere sweaters and jeans three times smaller than needed, attempting to appear more feminine– often failing by the way.As I leaned against the brick wall behind me, I bemused myself with the fighting couple across the street: The woman was oblivious to the cat eating at her broken high heels sprawled in pieces across the pavement as the man shrugged off her accusations of infidelity unbeknown to him of the second man pocketing his wallet.Shrugging, I put out my cigarette on the sole of my shoe, "I would like to think Martha would know better after her sixth divorce." I said acknowledging Matt who rounded the corner, his brow furrowed in disapproval. The left side of his jaw brandished a large bruise and the skin of his knuckles looked as though they were rubbed raw."Don't tell me you've been spying again. You realize people get shot here for that?" Matt inquired, "Speaking of which, you remember that spat you had yesterday at Marion's?"I squinted up at him, "Vaguely.""His name was Marcus and he sends his regards." He said gesturing towards the bruises on his face. Which ones though? Perhaps bruises can be read like a painter's brush strokes and differentiate between the artist.I suppose if Matt was the canvas, Marcus and his father would most definitely be liberal arts majors."Whose Marcus again? I don't recall." I noticed a bug crawling on my arm and flicked it off; Matt stared down into his coffee with dismay as it drowned in the black abyss.His jaw set, "Tall, polo shirt, lip ring?""The one with the mouth sores and the Mulan tattoo?""No. Johnny Cash."My eyes lit up and I laughed, "Oh right. Yeah, he was so wasted." I ran a hand through my hair. Truth was that I had been too far gone to remember him or anyone with a Disney fetish embellished on his arm.Matt tossed his coffee in the trash and placed a kind hand on my shoulder; it was rough and callused. I had the urge to burn the wart growing between his middle and index finger."Did you think about my offer? You know I could have JoAnne and Candice over by nine." Matt said with a stupendous grin, both idiotic and warm; he even had the wiggling eyebrow. You know, the suggestive talisman of sexual innuendo?I stared at him and my eyes narrowed as I squinted at him, "I never realized how enormous your forehead is. Did you always have such a bulbous noggin?""Malachi, seriously," he insisted, "I've already asked three other times and they're getting impatient."I pushed his arm away and he dropped his hand. Matt beat his chest enthusiastically, "Come on, these are twins we're talking about! I need my wing man." He pleadingly gave a sarcastic pouty face, "I'll even let you drive my Camaro if you want?""I'd sooner walk half way across the world than drive that hunk of junk." I scoffed as I pushed past him lighting another cigarette.I couldn't quite decide what was worse. The fact that I was his only friend or that he was the only person who seemed to enjoy my company.He bit his lip and slouched in defeat, "Fine. Be that way but make up your mind before eight.""Don't count on it douchebag." I said jokingly."Butthead."The silence became deafening and then the feeling of tension set in. I remember going to great lengths to avoiding Matt in the past. I found him to be more of an unpredictable liability, but he turned out to be a great friend, though I would never admit it aloud, and even better– he was a terrible liar. That's why I liked his company and the enormous lack of intelligence. He was a doofus with a predictable personality and an unquenchable addiction to sex and conformity, but as amusing as he was, Matt was only a means to an end; a simple fill in for my amusement whose only inherent preponderance was to cure me of my incessant boredom. I have always only cared for myself and I always will."Hey Malachi?" Matt looked at me with an expression of distaste and uncomfortable fidgeting, "Do you think that Lilith will make it out of the hospital?"I didn't respond, instead, I watched as another bug crawled up my arm. It was my turn to watch it fly, with dismay, off my forearm, past Matt, and straight into the garbage. With contempt for all that is insufferable, I refused to be amassed into an evicting pool of self-pity, but rather, my intentions suggested that I am very much aware of my own fallacies. I have instead, gorged on my own flaws like the maw of a carnivorous beast, and hunger for more than rhetorical dissidence. Lately I have become an imposition to those around me and I can see why, yet, I have always thought it were better they than I who would suffer the consequences of my actions."As big as your forehead is, I don't think you should be thinking too hard on it. You might get overzealous." I shrugged, "I don't want to discuss this, especially on a day that is so cold. I would sooner compliment you of your irritating persistence."Matt stared back at me, jaw set, "Malachi. When I met your sister–""There is nothing to talk about, Matt," I interrupted. I took a long drag and gave him a stern, unrelenting look of judgement. He had certainly fallen in love with Lilith."Your sister–""Is dying, Matt." I said fervently. "I don't care." Looking away, I watched as the same couple from before making out in front of the market across the street. The second man had returned and placed Martha's boyfriend's wallet at their feet before walking away. He must have realized Martha's boyfriend is an immigrant from Taiwan with currency worth as much as a sand dollar in America."I wonder if Martha realized her boyfriend has AIDS or not." I mumbled under my breath.I forgot his name, but the first time I met him, he had been begging for money in exchange for last year's The Quinzel Gazette newspapers to pay for his medication. He made seventy-two ninety-seven and no one realized they had been swindled; this was a week ago, and the town had been as dense as Matt. Without the large forehead, of course."Why won't you let me talk to you, Malachi?" He insisted, "I thought we were friends."I looked back at him with annoyance, "You are many things, but a friend isn't one of them."He rolled his eyes and took my cigarette before taking a drag himself, "We're doing this again? What do you even mean? If we are not friends, then tell me what we're doing."Taking my cigarette back, I glared back at him, "I told you, I don't care what you do. I am my own person and you're here on your own terms."Matt scoffed, "Right, because your using me. For some ungodly reason that you always fail to mention."I raised a finger, "Not only do I fail to mention, I fail to also care about your superfluous opinions." I handed back my cigarette."Besides, I find you amusing and under the circumstances I could use a good laugh."Matt shrugged, "Well laughter is the best medicine."I nodded my agreement, "Right you are!"I used to think Matt would just get agitated with me after a while, but the thing was that everyone treated him this way. His father was a tranny working for Olive Garden and his mother was an alcoholic– both something greatly despised in such a God-fearing country, and so that made Matt a disgrace as if he would carry on the tradition of alcoholism or somehow fit thrift shop size two stilettos."You're such an asshole, Malachi," He said tossing his hands in the air, "I've been there for you every step of the way.""And I thank you, good sir!" I proclaimed sarcastically; I placed a hand on his shoulder this time, "Should we begin the accolades?"Matt shoved my hand away, "Seriously Malachi, I'm not messing around anymore. Whatever it is that you got yourself into, I don't want a part in it anymore. It's bad enough that everyone thinks I'm going to turn out like my parents. I really don't need them to think I'm incapable of being my own person.""Then stop asking about Lilith." I said shrugging, "Whatever happens, happens."It's not that I hated people, but it's that people have always hated me. I am not complaining, it just makes them easier to use and get by, but only just. Every day was a fervent rush to pass the time away in a town that seemed to never have aged a day and for a population that preached about how precious and ephemeral time is, they do an awful lot of wasting. Everyone knew that the Mayor cheats on his wife on Tuesday evenings in a drunken stupor and everyone knows that the town priest was arrested, tried, and convicted of committing tabooed advances on altar boys every summer bible camp for the last seven years. Yes, everyone was all well informed how fast this town were regressing as a community because it's not that they were ignorant, but just unwilling to commit. It's all fine by me however, I was fine with blackmailing the more influential figures with their lesser known extracurricular activities for the things I wanted and needed.Which reminds me, JoAnne's father was a proud owner of the mosque down town that black-marketed opiates and various illegal, rag-tag goodies."Go ahead and give them a call. We can party hearty by ten."There was a short pause then Matt snapped back to reality. His face went from brooding to elated as a seven-year-old before Christmas. I put my cigarette out and threw it in the trash as I headed inside."Yes! I'll have to–" Matt looked confused."What is it?" I asked impatiently."Why ten?" He asked. I shrugged."Just amuse me. I want to see if the guy with the Mulan tattoo exists–" My expression turned sour, pouty even, "–and ask why the hell he didn't go with Mickey Mouse." Matt nodded slowly, trying hard to understand my undeniable logic.He was so dense sometimes.Matt grabbed my arm, "Malachi. You have your reasons for doing things and I understand that, but I need you to understand that even though you can't seem to trust anyone, I trust you to do the right thing when Lilith returns. I don't think you hate your sister, but you're the only family that she has left and she needs you."I stared at Matt with a smirk and grabbed his shoulder in return, "Of course, but understand that I am not my sister. Do not confuse me with her ever again."Matt said nothing, but he slowly nodded with compliance."Okay, now about that man with the tattoo ..."* * *Tonight, I feel the weight of the world in colors of beige and lapis, like ink splotched parchment aged yellow left in the mercy of winter– abandoned trash left for the wind and its vices. For the longest time, I looked at the world like we were the reflection of something just as equally disturbed and pointless. Each day, I feel as though I am not apposite for this body as opposed for this life. After all, we are a transient race and yet I wanted nothing more than to be the veil that warms us of our mortality and be the incarnate of something great. I'd imagine my voice were as silent as the words on the pages I write– and even still, it is as blank as the next.The clock on my desk read nine-thirty. I had been sitting here, staring vacantly at my empty journal for some time now like an obsessed pyromaniac ready to set the whole damned world on fire and yet the only fuel I had to offer lay lodged in my throat, curdling like sour milk. I could not write. I looked down with fear on the pages before my pen, scrawled across the blank surface of white. Words drew pictures both black and pallid, a collection of images and thoughts layered into polysemous meanings and twisted expressions yet when I lifted my pen from its resting place my hand refused to move. The words I speak fall and they kill much like black feathers of a scouring cannibal born from the mouth of his father– undeniably abominable. I use my words as a weapon and they sting a like a rapturous god wielding a rod of lightning.I looked about my room, the one above the apothecary I ran for the old man who housed me, and saw the many things I've collected over the years. Elijah was unlike a father to me, but his dementia insured that I had a place to stay. Even though he thought I was an eleven-year-old boy who had an obsession for World War II, I acquired many nick-knacks and replica instruments of war. To say the least I enjoyed my stay here and appreciated the lack of inquiry the old man had. Of course, I can't help but smile that to him I were Tommy, his child who had actually died at age forty-two with tuberculosis and had a nasty malignant tumor in either one or both of his testicles.See why I am hated amongst my peers? It would almost be a sin to not use this man. The way I see it is that he wants to be used. There are two people in this world after all: People who use others and people who are used by others. What side of the fence is more appreciated than the fence itself?People want to be divided."It's almost as though they believe I don't care for the old man," I said to myself. I suppressed a chuckle and collapsed on my bed. Staring at the ceiling, I watched as the rain drenched the city from the safety of the glass skylight above me adorned with a German biplane hanging from a string.Maybe I am the incarnate of something profound yet unwanted or rather something profoundly unwanted; but who would dare to covet the nature of my ambiguity and carnage? I am the rubble the gods mock us with and the scourge that dilutes my own precluding misfortune. Even now, I see myself immersed in my own convictions and self-destruction.I frowned, "It always rains on Sunday, Lilith." My sister, who lays in bed comforted by grumbling nurses, sleeps soundly in a coma– an inoperable patient trapped in a frothing sea of night terrors. Her affliction is an impunity really. A circumstance of perspective rather than an insufferable curse. Whilst she dreams, my own mortality becomes a restorative art form under the pretense of immortality. To be alive is one thing, to live is another, but to be alive while one other lives in your place is a complexity only I can understand. (Continues...)Excerpted from The Book of Malachi Carvanive by Nathaniel D. Reidhead. Copyright © 2018 Nathaniel D. Reidhead. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

About the Author

Hello, my name is Nathaniel Reidhead. I am currently 19 years old and reside in Florida, United States. I have always loved reading and writing. Whilst my long time passion of becoming a BAU or a therapist still piques my interest, I have long since carried the story of Malachi Carvanive in my heart and only just dreamed of sharing it with the world. Hopefully, I have procured from within the recesses of my mind a wonderful collection of words to articulate the sadness, humour, and anger that flourishes around Malachi in an attempt to attest to the magic that exists within our mortal world.

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