He guessed it was a variation on that cop’s sixth sense that he had; it had become more finely attuned of late, almost as if it were picking up a brand-new channel. It was the weird shit channel, and alarm bells were going off inside his head now.
His body had become drenched with a cold sweat, and he could smell the aroma of his Hungry-Man dinner cooling in the living room on the coffee table. He’d been really hungry when he set that meal down.
Like he didn’t have enough to be pissed off about.
Mulvehill had faced things in the dark before and had survived. In fact, he was starting to become really good at it. With each new exposure he gained a certain amount of knowledge that he could apply to the next time that something from Stephen King’s closet tried to kill him.
He slowly stood, zeroing in on a sound like that of rustling fabric, and he fired the gun once.
Yeah, weird shit, he thought, charging into the darkness of the living room to confront who knew what.
You can fucking keep it.
• • •
It had stopped raining on Gunkanjima Island.
Remy stood off to the side, watching as the children gathered up their meager belongings to take with them to their new home. A pile of things that would have been discarded as trash by most had formed in the center court area of the mining settlement.
“I doubt they’ll be able to take all that with them,” Malatesta said, coming from the building where Prosper had kept his office. The Vatican sorcerer was carrying two steaming mugs of coffee.
“Well, I’ll be,” Remy said, taking the offered cup. “All the comforts of home.”
The two drank their coffee silently, watching the children interacting with the women from Prosper’s charnel house. There was no precise way for them to know which child was theirs, but somehow, they seemed to know. And they also seemed to be taking to their new role as mothers quite easily, jumping right in to help the children gather up their things.
“Any idea where they’re going?” Remy asked Malatesta.
“The Keepers have many places of learning around the world,” Malatesta said. “I’m sure one of them will be the perfect fit.”
Remy still had mixed feelings about handing the children over to the Keepers, but he had very few options. He just couldn’t imagine them out there on their own.
“I’ll be keeping close tabs on them,” Remy said, eyes still staring at the scene before him.
“I’m sure you will,” Malatesta responded.
“Do you think your bosses are aware of that?”
“I think it foolish to say that they wouldn’t be.”
“And your problem?” Remy said. He looked to the sorcerer. “How’s that?”
Malatesta took a drink from his mug before replying. “The child’s touch helped me to regain control, but it doesn’t mean the Larva spirit isn’t still there, struggling to take it away. It got a taste of freedom, and liked it. It won’t take much for it to be free again.”
Remy felt bad for his part in all of that, but again, there hadn’t been a hell of a lot of choices.
He caught sight of Gareth then, standing alone near his quarters, watching his brothers and sisters. There was a certain look in the teen’s eyes that Remy understood only too well. He was questioning his own actions, wondering whether he had done the right thing.
Remy approached the boy cautiously, not wanting to rile him. The level of power in this teen was quite awesome, if not a little frightening.
“I think they’ll be all right,” he said to the young man.
“I hope you’re right,” Gareth said. “My father talked about a war and the part we would play.” The young man grew quiet, continuing to stare ahead at the children who looked to him as leader.
“That war is still coming,” he finally said quietly.
Remy was about to reassure the youth, but he never got the chance.
The sound came from across the water, multiple rotor blades spinning with blinding speed as a helicopter drew closer.
“This is it,” Gareth stated, and then sighed, his eyes turning toward the gunmetal-colored sky, before looking directly at Remy.
“The beginning of the end.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
In an area of the island that had once been set aside for the children of miners, was a park, now overgrown with a thick, tall grass that bent in the artificial winds created by the Chinook helicopter as it slowly descended from a darkening sky.
The copter touched down, back end pointed toward Remy and the collected children. There was a high-pitched whine of hydraulics, and the back of the large craft began to open; a loading ramp slowly lowered to the weed-covered lot.
Malatesta left the gathering, running across the grassy expanse toward the helicopter, shielding his eyes from the debris kicked up by the craft’s slowing rotor blades.
“Am I going in that?”
Remy looked down at the child who had temporarily repressed the sorcerer’s demon. He’d learned that the boy’s name was Apple, because he liked apples. “Yeah,” he said. “You all are. It’s going to take you to your new home.”
Remy was watching Malatesta standing before the loading ramp, waiting for his superior, when he felt the tiny hand find its way into his. He glanced back at Apple to see him staring up at him, a smile that was almost blinding on his dirty features.
“Thank you,” the little boy said, and all Remy could do was smile back, and give his small hand a gentle squeeze of assurance.
An old man, dressed in a black cassock, a golden crucifix about his neck, carefully descended from the loading ramp. He extended his hand toward Malatesta, who bowed his head and kissed the man’s ring.
The two talked as the rotors spun above them, and Malatesta briefly looked back in Remy’s direction. The sorcerer’s body language seemed to be trying to tell him something.
“Are we leaving now?” Apple asked, hand still in Remy’s.
“Not quite yet,” Remy said as several other men, also dressed in the robes of their faith, began to exit the belly of the mighty Chinook and spread out.
The angel let go of the boy’s hand, and walked toward them. Malatesta turned and Remy caught sight of the look on his face. Immediately he knew they were in trouble.
The Keepers acted as one, suddenly raising their hands and uttering an ancient spell in some long-forgotten language. The atmosphere became instantly charged with unnatural energy, calling forth another storm.
“What’s going on?” Remy demanded, still heading for Malatesta.
The Vatican sorcerer extended his hand, gesturing for Remy to stop. The old man standing beside him glared at the angel, and Remy saw a glimmer of something he’d seen long ago in the eyes of their church’s leader—the cold detachment of an act of betrayal.
The magickal force erupting from the hands of the Keepers wove a canopy over their heads, an undulating dome of supernatural energies hovering above the overgrown playground.
Remy stopped cold, as the magick turned the gray sky to a blood red.
How appropriate.
His wings came on reflex, and the fires of Heaven raced from where they churned in his chest to pool in his hands. But he had no opportunity to act, for Malatesta’s magick lashed out like the tail of a whip, wrapping itself around his neck as he attempted to take to the sky. The power coursing through him was overwhelming. He struggled to flap his mighty wings, but they were no longer in sync, and floundering he dropped to the ground, the tendril of humming magick still wrapped about his throat.
Remy dug his fingers beneath the band of preternatural force, desperately trying to rip it from his neck, but it seared his fingers, leaching away his strength even as he fought.
“I’m sorry Remy,” he heard Malatesta say, realizing that the sorcerer was controlling the leash of magickal energy that was attempting to strangle him. “For the good of us all it must be this way.”
Remy thrashed upon the ground, turning toward the chi
ldren. The Keepers had used their spells to corral the children, and they cried out in surprise—and fear.
Another group of Vatican agents had separated the mothers from their children, moving them away, toward the transport chopper.
“What are you doing?” Remy managed, his voice rough and full of rage.
The old priest from the chopper walked over to stand above Remy. “Calm yourself, soldier of Heaven,” he said.
“I’m nobody’s soldier,” Remy rasped. “What are you doing to those kids?”
The priest closed his old, watery eyes. “The appearance of innocence is deceiving.”
“What are you talking about?” Remy fought to stand, his wings beating the wet ground as he struggled to his feet.
The priest stepped back.
“They are not as they appear,” he said. “And they must be dealt with before . . .”
An icy claw gripped at Remy’s chest.
“What do you mean dealt with?” he demanded. “What are you thinking of . . .”
“To keep peace and strengthen the covenant,” the old man continued. “Decisive action must be taken.” He turned and walked away.
“Don’t you dare walk away from me!” Remy screamed. “What are you going to do? Keep the peace between who? Tell me!”
The old priest stopped, and turned ever so slightly.
“Without our intervention, there would be war,” he said. “The threat to this fragile peace must be eliminated; the truce must remain strong.”
The horror of the situation suddenly sank in. The children were being offered up as a sacrifice to prevent two opposing factions from going to war.
“Please,” Remy begged the old man. “There has to be another way. . . . They’re just kids; they have no idea of what—”
“It is not for me to decide their fate,” the priest announced, looking past Remy as there came the crashing of thunder and flashes of lightning followed by what he knew at once to be the flapping of wings.
So many wings.
Two groups of angels appeared, one on each side of the dilapidated playground—one side representing God’s Heaven, the other Lucifer Morningstar’s Hell.
And between them both cowered the frightened children brought into the world through no choice of their own.
Malatesta and the old priest walked toward the gatherings, dragging Remy behind them by sorcerous tether.
“Who shall speak for Heaven and who shall speak for Hell?” the priest asked the two sides.
“You can’t let this happen,” Remy cried out to Malatesta.
The sorcerer continued to stare straight ahead, as the representatives from each side came forth. “There is nothing we can do,” he said. “It’s all too big, and there’s far too much at stake.”
Remy was about to argue, but his eyes were drawn to the powerful form of the Archangel Michael as he approached the priest.
The warrior angel was clad in his armaments of war, a fiery spear clutched in one hand as he came to tower before the ancient priest.
“I stand for Heaven,” the Archangel announced.
The priest bowed, then looked toward the other angelic crowd.
“And who shall stand for Hell?” he asked.
There was silence among their numbers, and Remy watched for a sign of the one who would take on the mantle.
There was a sudden commotion at the far back of the gathering, and a figure began moving through the ominous-looking shapes clad in the heavy armor of war. The angels of Hell moved aside as their delegate stepped forward.
Remy felt his knees give out as the figure left the crowd to stand before the priest.
“I guess I am,” Francis said, his gaze briefly landing upon Remy before quickly fixing on the priest.
“I suppose I’m representing Hell.”
Castle Hallow
1349
The angel Remiel’s rage was matched in size only by the level of the Pope’s betrayal.
Tyranus had used sorceries ancient and powerful, imbued within a ring of silver, to bend the angel to his commands. Only by clutching its sister ring to his armored breast had Remiel seen the truth of the situation.
“How dare you?” the Seraphim roared.
“Now, now,” the Pope fretted. “Remember it is God’s work that I do here upon this world and—”
“Blasphemer!” Remiel shouted. “This ring has shown me your true colors!” The angel shook his divine fist.
Pope Tyranus did not back away, fixing Remiel in an icy stare.
“You will do as I have commanded,” he stated. “You will hand over the ring at once.”
The magick of the Pope’s ring pulled at the angel, ancient magicks once bestowed upon Solomon by powers greater than any here on Earth, moving to influence him. Though the sister ring helped him to see things more clearly, it did not completely block the ring’s influence over creatures of the divine.
Remiel struggled against the Holy Father’s command, waves of excruciating pain traveling through his form as he fought to hold on to control.
But the ring was too strong.
Remiel watched as his arm seemed to lift of its own accord, his hand extending toward the Pontiff.
“That’s right,” the Pope hissed. “For the sake of the world, the power over the demonic and the divine shall be controlled by one.”
Just the idea of such strength being given to one person—this vile person before him—filled the Seraphim with a blinding rage, and he resumed his fight for control over his actions.
“You will not have it!” Remiel proclaimed, igniting his fist so it glowed like the molten core of Earth, forcing Tyranus and his soldiers to step back.
“It is only a matter of time, soldier of Heaven,” the Pope said calmly. “Only a matter of time before you succumb to a power greater than you.”
Remiel knew that the holy man was right, but it did not prevent him from trying.
From the corner of his eye, peering out from the darkness of the castle’s many passages, he saw the eyes of the demonic, twinkling there—watching his struggle.
The angel thought of them, thought of their number, and how they had served the necromancer and felt the ring writhe within his clutches. Without realizing what he had done, the demons came forth, called by the angel’s silent command.
It was the most excruciating thing he had ever experienced, the very essence of his being touched by the coldest fingers of purest darkness.
But the demons responded to his fury.
Pope Tyranus seemed taken aback. “How fascinating,” the holy man said, playing with the ring upon his finger. “You’re actually fighting my commands.”
Remiel was bent over in agony.
The demons encircled him, chattering, spitting, and hissing, and he saw in their multitude of eyes an intelligence—an awareness that told him they were as repulsed by his control of their actions as he was of being in control.
The Pope drew nearer, only to leap back as the demons lunged.
“Give it to me,” he commanded once more.
Remiel squeezed the ring all the firmer as the demons tightened their circle, as if protecting him.
“You would die to defy me?” Pope Tyranus asked.
Remiel lifted his head to fix the holy man in his gaze. “I defy you, and all that you stand for,” he proclaimed. “Power such as this does not belong in the hands of one.”
“You are wrong,” the Pope declared. “Only I am strong enough to prevent the world from plunging into chaos.”
Tyranus stepped closer, hiking up his priestly robes to squat before Remiel. He held out his hand.
“The ring,” he demanded.
Remiel could feel himself dying, the darkness of possessing the second of Solomon’s rings surging through his body like a poison. Eyes affixed to the ground, he watched in horror as feathers dropped from his wings like leaves from a dying tree. His flesh was turning gray, and the heat of the fire at his breast was dwindling; all this because of t
he ring he held in his fist.
The demons drew closer, like a freezing person drawn to the heat of a fire.
He didn’t want to look, but his eyes were pulled upward as if attached to invisible strings. He stared at the Pope’s beckoning hand—compelling him to surrender what he believed to be rightfully his.
But even though he was dying, Remiel could not do it.
“It won’t be long now,” the Pope cajoled. “Your flesh will wither. The divine spark will be extinguished, leaving behind the remains of a once-holy creation determined to keep something of great power from its predetermined owner.”
Remy lifted his face toward Pope Tyranus. The demons were snuggled even closer now, as if stealing away his life force.
“Last chance,” the Pope said, bringing his beckoning hand all the closer.
It took almost all the strength that Remiel had remaining not to do as the Pope instructed him, but the sight of something—someone—moving from the darkness behind the holy man was more than enough of a distraction to hold on.
The Pope did not see that Hallow’s servant, the young man who swore to see Heaven in ruins someday, was coming up behind the unsuspecting Pontiff.
Remiel lifted his shriveled hand. He could see genuine excitement in the Pope’s eyes, believing he was about to receive what he most desired in all the world.
“Here, give it to me,” the servant demanded.
Tyranus turned toward the voice, a feral snarl more demonic than divine escaping his lips as Remiel did the unthinkable.
Summoning all that he had left to give, he lifted his arm, opening his creaking fingers to release the ring.
It was as if time had become transformed by alchemy into some form of viscous liquid, the ring of Solomon slowly tumbling through the air toward its new owner.
The necromancer’s servant lunged, fingers splayed, before closing upon the prize. Pope Tyranus leapt as well, colliding with the man and sending them both sprawling to the floor of the castle.