For a being that had once burned with the light of divinity, to now be stored away in darkness . . . it just seemed so incredibly sad.
“Do you want to say a few words?” Squire asked. “Y’know, before the angel apocalypse rains down on our fucking heads.”
Montagin turned his gaze from his former master.
“Just do it, you foul thing,” he said with a snarl.
“Only because you asked nice,” Squire said with a crooked grin as he cracked his knuckles.
The hobgoblin squatted at the edge of the shadow, reaching out and allowing just the tips of his fingers to brush against the floor where the darkness lay.
“That should do it,” he said, tilting his head to the side like an artist admiring his canvas. Then he turned to the angel. “Help me drag him over.”
“No,” Montagin said. “I’ll do it myself.”
The angel placed his arms beneath the body of General Aszrus, and lifted the corpse with ease. At the edge of the shadow, he stopped and peered down into the darkness. It reminded him of a pool of oil.
“What should I do now?”
“Lower him down,” Squire explained. “This particular passage looks as though . . .”
The shadow exploded upward in a geyser of liquid black. Montagin recoiled. Stumbling back, he lost his balance and fell to the floor with the stinking body of the angel general atop him.
“What is this?” he managed, rolling the body aside to see a giant tentacle, its underside covered in what looked to be hungry mouths, waving in the apartment air before them like a cobra waiting to strike.
“I hate when that happens,” Squire said, watching the monstrosity.
The tentacle lashed out, its movement a blur as the muscular appendage wrapped around one of Aszrus’ legs, dragging the corpse toward it.
It was bad enough that the general was going to be put into the darkness, Montagin thought as he allowed the divine power that churned within him to ignite his body, but he would be damned if he was going to allow his angel master to end up in the belly of some shadow-born abomination.
• • •
The fiery sword cut a crackling swath through the air not far from Francis’ face.
“Fuck,” the former Guardian growled as he leapt back from the blade’s path. He hadn’t hit this particular soldier of Heaven hard enough.
The angel soldier roared, his ivory wings carrying him through the air toward Francis. Francis dove out of the way, but he was too slow and the angel’s booted foot caught him on the temple, sending him sprawling to the hallway floor.
Through blurred vision Francis watched as the angel touched down, and strode eagerly toward him, burning sword ready for another strike.
Was that a smile he saw on the angel’s chiseled features?
Francis managed to push himself up into a sitting position, reaching into his suit coat as the angel prepared to deliver what was certain to be a killing strike.
“Hold that pose,” he said as he withdrew the Pitiless pistol and fired a bullet into the angel’s armored knee.
The scream was horrible. The soldier of Heaven pitched to one side, his fiery blade burying itself in the hardwood floor, angrily sputtering and crackling. He looked as though he were about to say something, but Francis didn’t wait to hear it.
“Say good night, Gracie,” the former Guardian said as he struck his foe on the side of the head with the butt of the gun.
The angel went down with a grunt, but fought to remain conscious, another weapon of fire beginning to materialize in his grasp.
Francis hit him again, and then one more time for good measure. He waited a moment to be sure that the angel was down, using the time for a much needed breather. He was surprised that he felt so winded after having dealt with only five of the home invaders. Too much living the good life is probably the answer, he thought.
There was still one more angel to go, and he was pretty sure that it was the leader, and would likely be tougher than the others.
He took a deep breath, put the gun away, and pulled out the knife again. He was just about to slice into the fabric of time and space when he caught movement from the corner of his eye—the angel he had thought was out for the count launched himself at Francis with a predator’s shriek.
The enraged soldier of God tackled Francis, sending the blade of the knife he was about to use into the substance between here and there, slicing a crooked line sideways as the two flew backward to the floor.
The angel screamed like some bird of prey, flapping his wings crazily while raining blows down upon Francis, finally knocking the special knife from his grasp.
“Son of a bitch,” Francis hissed as one of the angel’s fists connected with his face, knocking off his glasses and filling his mouth with the taste of blood. He tried going for his gun, but the fists just fell all the faster.
Fuck—a few more hits like that and Francis was sure that he wouldn’t even remember his name.
He knew what he had to do to survive.
It was the same sort of decision he’d made while standing before the Lord God, when he’d thrown himself on the mercy of his Creator. He’d known he’d fucked up in taking the side of Lucifer Morningstar and hadn’t been afraid to admit it.
And he’d fucked up again now, letting this piece-of-shit angel get the jump on him.
He called upon the special reserve of strength he always set aside for times like this, arched his back, and launched himself up toward his attacker, the flat of his forehead connecting with the angel’s face. Francis took a certain amount of pleasure in the snapping sound the angel’s nose made as it broke.
The angel was stunned as blood poured from his nostrils. Francis grabbed the angel by his breastplate and threw him to the floor. The angel yelled, his wings beating wildly. Francis had had enough. Reaching into the mass of feathers and taking hold of the angel’s wings, he savagely bent and twisted until he heard the sweet, sweet sound of snapping, followed by a wail of agony.
But Francis did not stop there. He straddled the angel, driving his own fists down upon the warrior to stun him further, and then taking hold of his head slammed it down repeatedly against the floor. Before long, the angel soldier wasn’t moving anymore, and Francis made sure that he wasn’t playing possum by giving the back of his head a few more hits before letting it limply fall upon the floor.
His own face felt broken and sore, and he could have used a few hours of rest, but he knew he still had one more soldier of Heaven to deal with. He was about to continue on his way, when he felt himself being grabbed from behind.
“You have got to be shitting me,” he managed as he was yanked backward, into the jagged rip that had been accidentally cut through time and space.
• • •
Simeon had Tjernobog, also known as Robert, construct a shelter from an old tarp, and the forever man was now sitting in what would have been the mining city’s square when the coal town had welcomed its first inhabitants back in 1887.
He was curious, and felt that this might be the perfect way to satisfy that curiosity without raising concerns. The rain was coming down in sheets, but the makeshift lean-to was doing an adequate job of keeping him dry. A small fire burned in front of him under the shelter of the tarp.
He had ordered his servants not to disturb him, but he knew they kept a watchful eye on him from the cover of some nearby buildings. Simeon really did admire their loyalty, but sometimes it proved to be a little too much. Who would have thought that the promise of Heaven destroyed could elicit such devotion?
As he stared into the fire, he was again reminded of the orphan, Gareth, and the problem his change from child to adolescent had begot. And what of the others?
Would Gareth’s change somehow affect them?
That was what he intended to find out, sitting there in the rain, waiting for them—the orphans—to notice.
It didn’t take long. He felt their eyes before he actually saw them. They peered out from hiding
places in the various abandoned buildings that surrounded the square. Simeon pretended not to notice, focusing on the fire and the rain.
He heard the sound of someone approaching, and looked up to see a young girl standing before him. She was wearing a heavy, leather jacket, two sizes too big for her thin frame. Her T-shirt, which was also too big, announced in fading letters that she was a Sexy Bitch, and her jeans were faded and torn at the knees.
Simeon was fairly certain that this was Mavis. She and Gareth had been two of the first to be saved from death. He smiled, hoping that he was doing it properly. It had been a very long time since he’d had a reason to smile, and he didn’t want to scare her.
“Why are you sitting here?” Mavis asked.
He didn’t answer her right away, instead focusing on the churning fire.
“Hey!” she said impatiently.
“I heard you,” Simeon replied, tossing another piece of wood onto the fire. He looked at her from the corner of his eye. “I was hoping one of you would come and talk to me.”
“You’re that guy,” Mavis announced. “The guy that comes to speak with Prosper.”
Simeon attempted another smile, nodding. “I am that guy.”
“You scare him, you know?” Mavis said. “We can tell when you’re coming because he acts all different . . . nervous.”
“I have that effect on some people,” Simeon answered. “As you might someday.”
He threw that last bit out there; a baited hook, fishing for a response.
“What do you mean?” Mavis asked. “Why would anybody be afraid of me?”
She stepped closer to him—as if curiosity compelled her.
A piece of wood popped and snapped, tumbling from the pyre he had built. He moved it closer to the burning mass with the side of his shoe.
“I spoke with your friend not too long ago,” Simeon said.
“What friend?” she asked with caution.
“Gareth.”
Simeon looked up in time to see a certain amount of excitement showing in her dark green eyes, which she quickly attempted to suppress.
“He did something very bad . . . didn’t he?” she asked.
This young woman didn’t know the half of it. Simeon had had plans in motion for a very long time, plans that had been affected by this young man’s actions. “Yes, he did.”
“Has he been punished?” Mavis asked.
“Not yet,” Simeon said, slowly shaking his head.
“Will he be?”
“Perhaps.”
Simeon picked up a piece of wood from the stack next to him. A beetle, its shell glistening in the firelight, emerged from a knot in the wood, as if suspecting it was wise to leave. And it might have been, if only it had made the decision to act a little faster. He dropped the wood on the fire, watching the death throes of the insect.
“When I spoke with Gareth, I learned that he had developed special . . . talents.”
Simeon tore his gaze from the fire to look at the girl. She had moved even closer to him now, and the look in her eyes told him that she knew exactly what he was talking about.
“An incredible talent that allowed him to leave the island without anyone knowing,” he continued. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that . . . would you?”
Mavis shook her head quickly.
“No?” Simeon asked. “I was afraid of that.” He rubbed at his chin, pretending to be deep in thought. “Hmm, then I guess poor Gareth is a freak,” he said. “An aberration.”
“Aberration?” Mavis repeated, uncertainty in her tone.
“Something unlike all the others,” Simeon explained.
“Is . . . is that bad?” she asked. “To be an aberration?”
“In this case, my child, it is. You see, Gareth did something very bad, and to be sure that something like that doesn’t happen again we must—”
“What if there are more?” Mavis interrupted.
“What do you mean?”
“What if there are more . . . more aberrations? Would that keep Gareth safe?”
“More aberrations?”
From the ruins of the mining town stepped the other orphans. They were of all ages, some having been on this world no longer than a few years, while others were older—like Mavis and Gareth. Simeon suspected that they were the ones who should generate the most concern.
They walked through the rain toward Mavis. Then he saw their eyes grow cautious, and turned to find that his own demon servants had emerged from their hiding places.
“Who are they?” Mavis demanded, ready to flee if necessary.
He motioned for his servants to stay where they were. “Only those who help me with my day-to-day,” Simeon said.
Mavis turned, telling the others that it was all right with just a glance. He wondered if that might be her special gift, to be able to communicate with others of her ilk without making a sound.
She turned back to Simeon. “Gareth isn’t the only one,” she admitted, looking down at the ground.
“Then there are others like him?” Simeon asked. “With special gifts?”
She nodded quickly. “It’s the older kids,” she explained. “Though some of the younger ones can feel something coming.”
“What is your gift, Mavis?” Simeon asked.
The girl looked embarrassed, rocking from side to side as her fists clenched and unclenched within the long sleeves of her leather jacket.
“Don’t be shy,” he encouraged. “It’s all out in the open now.”
“It hurts,” she said. “It hurts when I use it.”
He continued to stare at her, his gaze demanding that she show him despite the discomfort.
Mavis closed her eyes. Almost immediately, the air around her began to shimmer. Then flames grew from her body, forming a pair of fiery wings that fanned the air, throwing intense amounts of heat. The rain hissed as it attempted to land upon her, creating roiling clouds of steam that billowed across the ground toward him.
And as if that wasn’t enough, Mavis tossed her head back, raised her arms and unleashed gouts of white-hot fire from her hands, fire that burned so intensely that it caused concrete to burn.
Yes, the situation was exactly as bad as he’d originally thought.
She settled down, her breath coming in labored gasps. Simeon noticed that the flesh of her hands had been charred black, but was already beginning to heal.
“Am I an aberration?” she asked, her chest heaving from the exertion.
He noticed that some of the older children in the background were now showing off as well; one floated above the ground on invisible wings, while another levitated stones, some far bigger than even Simeon.
He had seen enough. He stood up from the bucket upon which he sat, and stepped forward, exposing himself to the elements.
Mavis stared at him intensely, waiting for her answer.
“Hey, you didn’t answer,” she said. “Am I?”
He stood there in the rain, his demon followers coming to stand with him.
“Yes,” Simeon told her. “Yes, you are.”
The girl seemed to accept that, as she’d likely accepted every other indignity that had been heaped upon her since she’d been born into this cruel world.
“Will this help him?” she asked. “Will it help, now that Gareth’s not the only one?”
“Yes,” Simeon said, and she smiled briefly.
“For now,” he added, as he turned and walked away, leaving Mavis and the others to decide whether something good had occurred.
Or bad.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Remy glanced nervously toward the door and wondered how Malatesta was holding up.
He had a bad feeling. With the two of them separated, the potential for disaster was pretty damn high.
The woman, Morgan, emerged from the bathroom where she’d gone to freshen up. She had relieved herself of her black leather jumpsuit, and was dressed only in a lacey bra and panties.
“Hope y
ou don’t mind that I changed,” she said with a sexy smirk. “That jumpsuit can be a bit warm.”
Remy took a sip from the glass of scotch she had poured for him, as she padded barefoot across the room.
“So,” she continued, sitting beside him on the leather couch, curling her bare legs beneath her. “I know pretty much all I need to about your friend, but what do you like, Remiel?”
Remy shifted to face the beautiful woman. He was reading something from her, but couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was. There was something different about her.
“Tell me about my friend,” he said, waggling his eyebrows as he took another drink of his scotch.
“Oh, you’re like that,” she purred. “Well, let’s just say that the general likes his playtime rough,” Morgan told him.
“Really,” Remy said. “How rough?” He was goading her on, trying to make her think that this sort of thing was a turn-on for him.
“Very,” she said, her voice nearly a whisper. “Very, very rough.”
“Did he hurt you?”
She nodded vigorously as she unfurled herself and crawled atop Remy. “Would you like to hurt me?”
Remy didn’t want this, but to reject her advances might destroy his opportunity for information.
She straddled his lap, facing him. “I asked you a question, Remiel,” she urged, as she removed her lacy bra.
He could see the deep scarring in the flesh around her nipples as she leaned forward, pressing her breasts against his chest.
“Did he do that to you?” Remy asked her.
“Uh-huh,” she whispered softly in his ear. “But that’s all right, I heal quickly. Would you like to leave your own scars?”
She leaned back, and dug one of her long, scarlet fingernails into the flesh above her left breast, causing the blood to flow.
“You can if you like,” she told him.
She began to grind her hips against Remy’s lap, as she dipped her fingertip in her blood and brought it to his lips. He tried to move his head, but she was insistent, smearing her blood on him. As soon as it touched his lips, as soon as the coppery scent of it filled his nostrils, Remy saw what she actually was.
The blood triggered an explosion of images in his mind; Morgan’s life-stuff telling the story of a mother’s interaction with divinity, the conception and abandonment of a half-breed child, and the life that she—the child—had been forced to lead in the wake of her rejection.