Armageddon

  It became increasingly cooler as the sun slowly set, but Cameron didn’t stop. He thought about going in search of a shovel, but he feared that he’d return and find the hole filled in, as if he hadn’t touched it.

  Finally, his fingers scraped across a smooth surface. Cameron’s breath caught in his chest as he bent forward, sweeping away the last of the dirt, to reveal a large wooden box. He stared at the filthy prize, then gasped as symbols similar to those on the door frame ignited on the lid of the box.

  Hesitating only a moment, Cameron reached into the hole. The box was heavy, and he could only imagine what might be inside.

  “When it’s time . . . when it’s your time . . . you’ll come here for this.”

  Cameron looked for a latch to open the lid, but there didn’t appear to be one.

  The shapes on the box grew brighter, and as if compelled, Cameron laid his hands upon the damp wood.

  There came a sudden muffled whirring from inside the box. Cameron quickly pulled his hand away and watched as a glowing vertical seam slowly manifested, and the two sides of the box flipped open.

  A strange smell wafted up from the box, one that reminded him of Lorelei’s secret library back at Saint Athanasius. Cautiously, Cameron leaned forward to look inside.

  To see what his father had left him.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The mouse named Milton scurried through the total darkness.

  It was not familiar with this place, but that did not stop the mouse from exploring its new world.

  Barely remembering how it came to be here, Milton recalled the human woman, Lorelei, and the library they’d been in as it came under attack.

  The woman had sent the mouse away, ordering it to protect itself. After that, Milton’s memories became a jumble of violent images and deafening sounds. But the tiny mouse’s survival instincts kicked in to preserve its life.

  Scurrying amid the destruction, the mouse had sought a haven, a place to hide, but the entire library had become filled with monsters and magick.

  Milton had smelled the magick in the air, and felt it in the floor trembling beneath its tiny paws. The magick that had preserved the library was breaking down. And no matter where the little mouse went, no matter what bookcase it hid beneath, it had sensed that it wouldn’t be safe for long.

  Then it had caught sight of the jagged hole in the floor, from which creatures of nightmare were still climbing up into the library.

  A hole in the floor.

  The mouse had seen that as its only option for escape. So it had darted across the wide expanse of floor, up and over the bodies of dead beasts, weaving through the chaos of battle that still raged around it and the books cascading down in a storm of paper to fill the hole in the floor.

  Milton had stopped at the edge, its tiny nose twitching above the black cavern. For a moment, it didn’t know which was more dangerous—the library that was collapsing, or the unknown void that awaited inside the hole.

  The library moaned in its throes of death.

  Survival instincts kicked in again, and the little mouse found itself springing from the jagged edge of the hole, down into the pool of black.

  Into a world of darkness.

  A world that Milton explored now, searching for a place it would again feel safe.

  It stopped in the all-encompassing dark and turned its pointy nose upward. Traces of what it had come to recognize as the scent of magick lingered in the gentle air currents.

  Milton had not rested since coming to this strange, shadowy place, but something alerted every one of its animal senses.

  The mouse breathed in a faint scent of something familiar; then it caught sight of the briefest flash of light and heard the softest of sighs.

  Its tiny heart raced as the mouse scampered forward.

  Drawn toward the scent of its friend.

  Drawn deeper into the darkness toward the Morningstar.

  * * *

  The toddler emerged from behind a grouping of rusty metal barrels. He pitched precariously forward as he ran full tilt across the weed-covered tarmac, but the look on his young face was one of unbridled determination.

  Then, suddenly, he fell. His little hands slapped the ground, barely preventing his chin from hitting the concrete. His face twisted in shock and fear, but instead of crying . . .

  “Damn these legs!” the little boy shouted in anger.

  The child struggled to his feet. He swayed momentarily and was about to run again, when he noticed that he was no longer alone.

  The strange creatures that had been relentlessly hunting him and Jeremy had arrived.

  One by one, the Agents slunk from hiding, their skintight bodysuits refracting what little light managed to permeate the thick clouds that obstructed the sun, making them seem to become invisible, and then appear again. There were three of the thin, black-garbed assassins, and one by one they withdrew their blades.

  The toddler could feel their eyes upon him as they scrutinized their prey through the masks over their faces. He stood as still as he was able, struggling to maintain his balance, disgusted that it was taking him so long to get the hang of this standing business.

  The Agents moved closer, drawn to him like hungry dogs to a bloody piece of meat.

  “C’mon,” the child whispered. “Closer . . . closer. Yes, that’s a good bunch of filthy murderers. Come close so you can’t get away.”

  He noticed that one was turning away. The child couldn’t have that. He needed the killers’ attention 100 percent.

  “Hey!” the boy yelled. “Look out! I might just take off in a flash.” He did a little dance, turning in an awkward circle and almost falling on his butt, but his maneuver achieved what he wanted. All murderous eyes were riveted to him once more.

  And it wouldn’t be long now. They were just about where they needed to be in order for . . .

  A god-awful scream and the sound of pounding wings interrupted the quiet.

  Jeremy Fox dropped from the sky amid the group of Agents, his ax of fire clutched firmly in hand.

  If the assassins were surprised by the Nephilim’s sudden appearance, they did not show it as they shifted their attention to the young man.

  The three attacked as one. The Agents thrust and slashed with their blades, spinning, leaping, and jumping in a graceful, yet murderous ballet.

  There was nothing graceful about Jeremy Fox. He went at them with a cold, determined efficiency, swinging his burning battle-ax as if it was an extension of his body.

  The first Agent to fall lunged, aiming his blade at the Nephilim’s heart, when Jeremy’s ax liberated his head from his body. This did nothing to slow the other assassins. Instead, they doubled their efforts in an attempt to bring down the Nephilim.

  The child watched, mesmerized by the conflict, as the pair attempted to drive Jeremy away from the little boy.

  Curious, the toddler thought, before sensing movement behind him. He turned as quickly as he could to see a fourth Agent raising his blade.

  “Jeremy!” the child screeched.

  “Roger!” Jeremy responded, and the toddler hoped—prayed—that the Nephilim would not be too late.

  The Agent reached down, cobra quick, snatching the child by his chubby arm. The toddler struggled, kicking his feeble legs and waving his other arm. Then the air was knocked from his lungs, as the assassin slammed him to the ground, pinning his little body with one hand as the other drew its blade ominously closer.

  The toddler thrashed, managing to wiggle out from beneath the restraining hand. But the Agent was faster, grabbing him around the middle with both hands so their faces were just inches apart.

  Close enough for the toddler to act.

  Gathering all his strength, the boy flailed his arms, jamming his chubby fingers into the assassin’s eye.

  The Agent grunted in pain, dropping the child as he reared back, clutching at his damaged orb.

  The toddler crawled toward where Jeremy was still fighting.

&n
bsp; He watched as Jeremy dispatched the other two Agents, one managing to sink his knife into the young man’s shoulder just before Jeremy cut him in two at the waist. The other fell away as Jeremy buried his ax blade deep within the Agent’s chest.

  The toddler’s eyes met Jeremy’s as he heard the sound of rushing feet behind him.

  “If you would be so kind as to finish that up for me,” the child said.

  Jeremy spread his wings and leaped into the air, killing the fourth assassin with a newly created knife of fire plunged deeply into his skull. Jeremy lay atop the still-twitching body of the Agent for a moment, then rolled off, fixing his gaze on the toddler.

  “Are you all right, Roger?” Jeremy asked, out of breath and practically wheezing.

  “Enoch,” he corrected, pushing himself up from the ground and standing erect.

  “What?”

  “Not Roger,” the toddler corrected. “My name is Enoch.”

  “Roger, Enoch, whatever you’re calling yourself, you’re still a pain in the ass,” Jeremy said as he, too, stood.

  “I’m a pain in the ass?” Enoch asked indignantly, tiny hand poised upon his chest. “Who’s the one who doubted that we were being followed? And who agreed to put a child—a mere toddler—at risk, only to be proven wrong? Who? Who did this? Could it be some other pain in the ass? Maybe one with wings and flaming cutlery?”

  “Cutlery?” Jeremy asked. “They’re swords and battle-axes, not some sort of kitchen knives.” He slowly pulled out the blade the second Agent had lodged in his shoulder. “That bloody hurts,” he grunted, tossing the weapon to the ground.

  “Well, it might as well have been cutlery,” the toddler said, crossing his arms and approaching the dead bodies to examine them. “Did you happen to notice that I was almost killed?”

  “Yeah, I saw,” Jeremy said. “There were four instead of three. My mistake.”

  “Your mistake?” Enoch repeated, spinning to look at the young man. “Isn’t it your job to be aware of such things, and protect me?”

  “Yeah,” Jeremy admitted. “I guess.”

  “You guess? Perhaps I should be searching for another angel to safeguard my wellbeing until—”

  “Until what?” Jeremy interrupted. “What am I protecting you from anyway?”

  The toddler fell silent, looking at the carnage around them. It wasn’t the first attack since Enoch had remembered who he was, and they’d gone on the run.

  “You’re protecting me so that I can fulfill my special purpose,” he said finally, turning his wide-eyed gaze to the Nephilim.

  Jeremy sighed. He heated the tip of his finger with angel fire and cauterized his still-bleeding wound with a hiss. The young man grimaced in pain.

  “Do you even know what that special purpose is?” he asked the child.

  “No,” Enoch admitted. “Not completely, but—”

  “We should get out of here,” Jeremy interrupted again. “If these guys tracked us, then there are probably more right behind them.” He reached down, grabbing Enoch by the back of his pants and placing him on his shoulders.

  “And there always seems to be at least one you miss,” Enoch added.

  “I don’t always miss one,” Jeremy corrected.

  “You most certainly do,” Enoch explained. “There was that one at the mall in Denmark . . . and then this?”

  “I knew about the one at the mall,” Jeremy said defensively.

  “So you’re intentionally putting me at risk?” the toddler asked.

  “Now why would I do something nasty like that?” Jeremy asked. The Nephilim opened his wings to their fullest. “You’re such a pleasant little bugger.”

  “You’re being sarcastic. I may be a child, but I know sarcasm when I hear it.”

  Enoch couldn’t quite make out Jeremy’s answer as the Nephilim’s wings closed around them.

  Although he was certain that it was anything but pleasant.

  * * *

  Satan hung weightless in the black, cold vacuum of space, gazing down at the earth, now under his sway—or at least under the sway of creatures who swore their fealty to him.

  Squinting his eyes, he could just about see through the shifting cover of gloom that prevented the light of the sun from shining upon the earth’s surface. It was a world of shadow now, perfect for the monstrous breeds that served him. Great cities were in flames; historic monuments were crumbling, swallowed by a shifting ground that quaked as giant serpents burrowed beneath the earth’s crust. From space, Satan, the Darkstar, admired the world that had been given over to chaos.

  A world on the brink of oblivion. His dream for so very, very long.

  But now, he had to wonder . . .

  Is it enough?

  Satan could not help himself. He turned his gaze from the orb slowly spinning below, to the star-filled void above—and the endless expanse beyond.

  And the kingdom of Heaven that lay beyond that.

  The earth was nearly under his control, but he found himself yearning for more.

  The Lord God Almighty had stolen his universe of all-encompassing darkness with the utterance of four simple words, “Let there be light,” leaving the Darkstar and his family to flee to any pocket of darkness that could hide them.

  For eons, Satan had hidden himself away, planning and plotting, waiting for the time when he would take everything that the Lord God held dear.

  But first, he would take away His earth.

  Satan drifted closer to hear the anguished cries of those who had survived thus far. He took extra pleasure from their prayers that asked the Lord of Lords why He had abandoned them during their time of need. These pleas were another victory for the Darkstar, for he had broken the connection between Heaven and earth. The prayers of the planet’s sad inhabitants would never reach their intended ears.

  Entering the atmosphere, Satan felt the heat of re-entry upon his body, which was nothing in comparison to the fires of hate that burned inside him.

  He dropped through the heavy layers of cloud that kept the sun’s rays from caressing the world, denying it warmth, and emerged in the night sky above the monolithic citadel that served as the base of his growing kingdom. Satan circled the fortress that he had raised from the depths of the ocean, then landed near its great stone doors.

  A multitude of monsters had gathered to greet him. Many held weapons of war, while others—their bodies covered with scales and quills, mouths filled with razor-sharp teeth and poison—were weapons unto themselves.

  They watched as the Darkstar gently touched down, his solid black wings splayed out on either side of his armored form. He was an awesome sight to behold, of that he was certain.

  Not long ago, tribes of these creatures had fought against him, refusing to accept him as their one true liege. Many had died fighting his claim of supremacy, but after Satan had slain the planet’s divine protectors—the Nephilim—they had at last accepted him for what he was.

  Their king . . . their lord and master . . .

  Their god.

  Satan advanced toward the great cathedral’s entrance, the gathering of monstrosities parting to create a path for him. He remained alert for signs of danger, for while they all had sworn their loyalty to him, the honor of such creatures was not to be trusted.

  “All hail the Darkstar!” a beast proclaimed, raising a blood-encrusted sword above its malformed head as Satan approached.

  “Hail!” the crowd shrieked as one.

  The closer Satan got to the massive doors, the louder the beasts roared their allegiance, stamping their feet, tentacles, and cloven hooves upon the hard ground. He should have felt energized by their veneration, but instead he felt empty. It was as if he barely heard their cries of adulation, distracted by what was still denied to him. He would not be satisfied until Heaven, and the loathsome God enthroned within it, fell to his legions.

  The cathedral opened to grant him access; then the stone doors slammed closed behind him, cutting off the cheers of the beasts
outside. Satan stood in the shadowy silence.

  “Do I sense troubles?” asked a creeping voice from somewhere within the vast chamber.

  “Troubles? Who is troubled?” asked another voice.

  “Certainly not the one who is now called king. What trouble could there be for one who rules us all?” questioned a third.

  The Sisters of Umbra gradually shambled from a patch of impenetrable darkness, their robed and hooded forms swaying before him.

  Satan strode into the sanctuary.

  “You read my mood as if it were your own,” the Dark-star said.

  “How can this be?” asked one of the Sisters.

  “Has the jubilation of your achievements waned so quickly?” asked the second.

  “Certainly, we are mistaken,” said the third.

  Satan walked past the crones, moving deeper into the citadel, toward the throne that had been constructed from the bones of those who had denied his supremacy.

  Furling his great wings of ebony, the Satan plopped his armored form down onto the skin-upholstered seat.

  “You are not,” he said.

  The Sisters moved as one, slowly turning and shuffling to stand before him.

  “But what could be troubling you, great Lord of Shadows?”

  “Could it be that some of your enemies—though routed—remain at large?”

  “And perhaps still threaten your glory?”

  Satan scowled at the thought. Yes, some who opposed him had managed to avoid his wrath, but he had demonstrated his omnipotence. Surely the Nephilim were holed up somewhere, terrified by what he had done to their world, and waiting for the inevitable.

  Waiting to die.

  But the Sister’s comment would not leave him. What if the Nephilim were not hiding, but planning another assault against his rule?

  “They are still out there,” he said. “And as long as they are alive . . .”

  The middle Sister finished his thought. “How can you truly enjoy what you have achieved?”

  “Knowing that they are out there, plotting against you,” added another Sister.

  “Threatening to disrupt all that you have worked so hard to attain,” said the last of them. “It would be enough to drive one mad, we’d imagine.”