The Bone Master turned with a look upon its grotesque face that said it all. If the Bone Masters could kill with their eyes, Mulvehill would have died at least ten times over from the intensity of that gaze.
The assassin sliced at the cord as Mulvehill threw himself at it. The two collided head-on, flying backward onto the bed, where Remy lay. Mulvehill wildly threw punches, desperate to gain the upper hand, but the assassin ducked its head, then surged up, sending Mulvehill flying backward to the foot of the bed.
Mulvehill watched in horror as the assassin climbed upon Remy’s prone figure and raised the dagger high, about to finally silence Remy’s heart. Reacting totally on instinct, Mulvehill reached for Remy’s legs, pulling his still form from underneath the Bone Master just as the blade stabbed into the mattress.
Screaming something unintelligible, the demon turned, but Mulvehill was already throwing himself upon the assassin and attempting to wrestle the blade from its hand. As far as he was concerned, the only place that knife was going was up the Bone Master’s ass.
The killer managed to wriggle out from beneath him, and as Mulvehill reached to grab for it again, he was stabbed. The blade was sharp, and he really didn’t even realize that it had gone in until he saw the Bone Master smile and felt the warm rush of blood as it cascaded from the wound in his side.
“Aw, shit,” Mulvehill managed, his hand immediately going to the wound to try to stop the bleeding.
The assassin chuckled, then stabbed him again in the stomach.
Mulvehill tried to grab hold of the monster’s neck in a last-ditch effort—in a show of preternatural strength—but his gore-covered hand just brushed against the killer’s pale skin, leaving bloody streaks like war paint on one side of its face.
The Bone Master simply pushed Mulvehill’s body aside, making a show of licking the blade clean of his blood. “All for naught,” the assassin said, holding up the knife as it returned its attention to the unconscious Remy.
Steven Mulvehill wasn’t sure where he found the strength—an unknown reserve stored away in the human body for just such an occasion. And he didn’t really know what he was doing or why, but he managed to fling his bloody body across the bed, landing atop his friend, looking down upon his gray face.
“If there’s any chance of you waking up,” he said, blood dripping from his mouth, “I strongly suggest you do it now.”
• • •
Lost in the creation of a universe, Remy Chandler smiled, for he saw how it all fit together, and the part he would play in maintaining its order.
He was in control now.
He was the Creator, and this belonged to Him.
There was so much He had to do, so many details that had to be just right in order for . . .
He felt it at His back, a gentle caress of a cosmic wind. It captured His attention, distracting Him from His prodigious chores, and the being that had once been Remy Chandler turned away from the reality He was shaping to see something that reminded Him of what he was—who he was—and it drew him back from the brink of Godhood.
He saw a world that had been his home, a world that had provided him with so much.
A world that made him who he was and showed him the unlimited wealth of true humanity.
Remy closed his eyes, letting the remembrances of his time there and those who had helped him become . . .
His eyes opened wide, a raw, ragged vision of an ungodly act he did not understand slicing its way into his view of the world he’d been taken from.
“Steven,” Remy said, feeling the spatter of warm rain upon his face.
Something was wrong; he could feel it—a disturbing tremor in the ether. And feeling only a hint of guilt, he turned his back upon Godhood and all that it entailed.
To begin his journey home.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
The strangers appeared like a swarm.
Squire had no idea who they were, why they were there, or where they’d come from, but he did not like what he saw.
They’d come loaded for bear, and shotguns and pistols blasted at the demon Bone Masters. And here he’d thought the place had been total chaos before.
The hobgoblin made his way out into the hallway, Linda, Ashley, and Marlowe close behind him, and they joined with the strangers in the chaos against the demons. The enemy of my enemy is my friend’s brother’s half sister with the incredible ass, or something to that effect, Squire thought, believing for a moment that they might actually survive all this.
But his hope could have been a bit premature. A Bone Master demon that appeared to be wearing some sort of protective gear suddenly appeared on the stairs, lugging what looked like some sort of bazooka.
“Get the fuck out of here,” Squire screamed to Linda, Ash, and the dog, pushing them down the hall toward the guest room. He heard the rush of air as the projectile was fired, and then the hallway exploded in a rush of smoke and flames.
Squire and the girls were thrown to the floor at the end of the hall, but many of their strange allies didn’t fare as well, their bodies and pieces of their bodies littering the hallway.
“You guys all right?” Squire shouted over the beeping of smoke detectors. He quickly looked them all over to be sure they weren’t bleeding. Even the dog looked to be all right, but they had lost their position outside the bedroom, and now all he could think of was Remy and Mulvehill. “Gotta get back to the room.”
He fished for his axe on the floor and was starting down the hallway when he noticed the next wave ascending the staircase through the thick, writhing smoke.
“Any chance you guys want to lay low?” he asked, motioning with his chin toward the guest room behind them.
“Not a one,” Linda said, readying her improvised spear.
Ashley still had her sword and was staring straight ahead at the shapes moving in the thick gray clouds of smoke. She didn’t answer his question per se, but she didn’t have to; her attitude said it all. Even Marlowe had decided to stick it out, lowering himself to a crouch and growling menacingly.
Squire guessed that it was now or never and started down the hallway, using the smoke as cover. They were going to need all the help they could get if they were going to get back to the master bedroom.
The noise from the first floor was thunderous, and for a minute Squire thought the Bone Masters had found another piece of heavy artillery, but he quickly realized that what he was hearing was a voice—a scream, really: a bellow of rage.
And it was coming closer.
Squire held out a hand, stopping Linda and Ash. The banister had been destroyed in the explosion from the bazooka, and they were careful not to fall over the side as they peered down at the first floor.
Whatever was coming—whoever was coming—was causing quite the commotion; everyone, Bone Masters included, was focused on the staircase.
A large and powerful figure appeared in the downstairs hallway. Bone Master assassins hung from his back and arms, and the enormous figure plucked them from his body, smashing them to the floor and against the staircase wall as if they were only a minor inconvenience.
“This is interesting,” Squire muttered as he watched the bellowing giant ascend the steps.
The assassins began to fire their weapons, but they didn’t seem to have any effect upon the bear of a man, who quickened his pace to reach them. He roared as he grabbed hold of one and swung it around by the leg, using it as a weapon against the others. From where Squire was standing, they didn’t have a fucking chance.
The behemoth with the long, flowing hair and thick beard was an unstoppable force no matter what the remains of the Bone Master assassins threw at him. And behind him, racing up the steps, were even more unknown allies, cleaning up the stragglers with rapid gunfire.
The giant finished off the last of his attackers, throwing one over the side of the staircase while nearly breaking the other in two by slamming it savagely over his knee.
Squire kept his back to Linda and Ashley, tryi
ng to protect them, as the large man stood still and looked around. And then the hobgoblin noticed the man’s eyes and the milky film that covered them.
He was blind.
“I know you’re there,” the giant roared, craning his head ever so slightly, listening. “I can hear the three of you”—his shaggy head tilted in the other direction—“four of you breathing.”
“Not bad for a blind guy,” Squire said. “Can you guess our weights, too?”
The big man stared for a moment and then started to laugh. It was as big and loud as he was.
“You’ve got to be one of Chandler’s friends,” he said. “The guy always seems to surround himself with wiseasses.”
“Who the fuck are you people?”
A dark-skinned man suddenly appeared from around the giant, assault weapon in hand.
“We’re friends,” he said. “Sent here to help with Remy’s . . . assassin problem.” The man came forward, extending his hand. “I’m Lazarus,” he said. “And the big guy is Samson.”
“Of course he is,” Squire said. “And them?” He nodded toward the heavily armed men who had made short work of the remaining Bone Masters.
“Them? They’re Samson’s children.”
“Lazarus and Samson?” Linda questioned, a trace of hysteria in her voice. “As in the Lazarus and the Samson?”
“Our reputations precede us,” the big man said as he poked at a bloody bullet hole in his shoulder, squeezing the wound like a zit until the bullet popped out.
“You’ve got to be shitting me,” Linda said, and she seemed to sway a bit.
“Where is he?” Lazarus asked. “I heard he was in a pretty bad way, and . . .”
The scream was sudden and earsplitting, emanating from the room at the end of the hallway.
“Let me guess,” Samson said, turning toward the sound.
Squire pushed past them, rushing down the corridor, doing his damnedest not to trip over the bodies of the dead felled in their little war.
Desperate to reach the mournful wails coming from the end of the hall.
• • •
Ripper of Souls grabbed hold of the expiring human and carelessly flipped him from atop its prey.
The Bone Master positioned itself over the angel and stifled the urge to spit in his pale, comatose face. This was merely business, it reminded itself, a nasty bit of business that cost the lives of many young and, yes, it would have to admit, inexperienced assassins, but it was still a contract that they’d agreed to fulfill.
And a Bone Master always fulfilled a contract.
It raised its knife, ready to finally complete the job that had cost them so much.
Not even Heaven itself could stop them.
It thought of all the places the blade could enter its prey; directly into the heart would kill the angel instantly, whereas a slight deviation would nick the muscular organ, and although it would eventually produce the same outcome, it would most definitely cause more pain.
Such thoughts were not permitted to Bone Masters. All feelings—all emotions—were supposed to be suppressed, tapped down so far that only one focus remained: to extinguish life, fulfilling a contract.
But in some instances, emotions did manage to rise to the surface, their buoyancy providing a little more pleasure to the task at hand. This was one of those times. To think of so much life lost to one assignment.
Ripper of Souls studied its prey. Was the life of one divine being worth so much? The answer, of course, was yes—but Ripper of Souls still had its doubts.
It imagined its journey back to the home world, when it would have to explain to all the mothers and fathers that their children had met their end attempting to complete a contract for which they were not yet prepared.
One did not send the uninitiated to deal with an angel of Heaven, but that had not been Ripper of Souls’ decision. It would be the Broker who bore the brunt of that decision.
It decided to be merciful, bringing the blade down directly into the angel’s heart. But the point of the blade had barely broken the angel’s skin when the fire erupted from his body. And then it all happened in an instant: a powerful hand suddenly clutched about its throat, alive with flaming divinity, the orange fire hungrily consuming the flesh of its face.
The assassin screamed, a song of agony announcing the angel’s return to the waking world.
• • •
The burning demon flailed in his grasp, but as soon Remy saw Steven’s body lying bloody and still upon the floor, he tossed the shrieking killer across the room and went to his friend.
“Steven,” Remy cried, his voice dry and cracking. He recalled the divine fires as he carefully pulled Steven’s injured body into his arms. “Steven—it’s me. Hey . . . I’m back. Please . . . please say something. . . . Please be all right.”
Remy could feel his friend’s life force dwindling away. He placed a hand against one of the wounds to stifle the flow of blood, but it continued to pool on the floor beneath him. He remembered what it had been like to be God, knowing that then he’d had the power to stop this—to keep his friend from dying.
Steven’s eyes were barely slits, and Remy couldn’t tell if he was even conscious. He thought of all the things he might try to save his friend’s life, but knew that every single one would fail.
It was too late.
Steven Mulvehill was about to die, and there wasn’t a damn thing that Remy could do about it.
There had been another time very much like this one, when a homicide investigation had crossed paths with a missing persons case in the parking garage at Logan International Airport. The young detective had ended up gut shot and was fading fast. The private investigator who had found him, believing that the cop wouldn’t survive, had done only what he felt he should—he’d revealed his true identity as an angel of Heaven and helped the man to understand that there was nothing to fear from death.
That homicide detective had survived, and a powerful, long-lasting friendship had been forged.
A friendship that was drawing to a close.
• • •
Linda pushed past them all, climbing over bodies of dead assassins as she made her way into the bedroom.
She was met with the horrific sight of one of their attackers, its face melting as it burned. It picked itself up from the floor of the bedroom and threw itself through the front window. She wasn’t sure if it was attempting escape or ending its life, and she really didn’t care.
Remy was awake. He was awake.
He was kneeling on the floor at the foot of the bed, cradling something folded into his arms. She was so overwhelmed by the sight of him, by the idea that he was alive, that her brain didn’t process what was going on.
She ran toward him, an attempt at calling out his name ending as a mere cry, followed by tears as her brain caught up to her eyes and she saw.
She really saw.
“Steven,” she gasped, as she realized that Remy was cradling the body of his friend. She dropped to her knees near them as she heard the others charging into the room, ready for a fight.
But the fighting was over.
And one of their own had paid the price.
• • •
Remy closed his eyes and imagined them in a place where they could talk.
Where they could say good-bye.
“I don’t know what to say,” he said to Steven Mulvehill.
The detective didn’t look dead here, his clothes relatively clean, although wrinkled as hell, as they often were.
“Then don’t say anything,” Steven replied.
“I should have been there to . . .”
Mulvehill shook his head slowly. “No, you were where you needed to be.” He looked around. It was a place of nothing. . . . Nothing as far as the eye could see. “I understand that now—although I didn’t at first. I thought you were going to die.”
“I thought I had,” Remy answered him. “I was sent to see some things . . . things that might be . .
. that could happen here.”
Mulvehill nodded, reaching into the pocket of his rumpled sports jacket and removing a pack of cigarettes. “Yeah, I get that now.” He put one in his mouth, then found a lighter and lit up. “You’ve still got some shit to clean up here.”
“Yeah, I know,” Remy agreed.
Mulvehill looked around again. “So, is this it?”
Remy stared at him numbly.
“Is this Heaven?” Mulvehill specified as he took a drag on his cigarette.
Remy shook his head. “No, this is just something I did so we could . . .”
“Say good-bye?”
“Yeah.”
Mulvehill seemed to be okay with that. “Good, ’cause I was gonna say, this is pretty fucking disappointing.”
Remy chuckled. “I guarantee you, it’s better than this.”
“Good.” Mulvehill puffed on his cigarette some more, seeming to really enjoy it. “Guess I won’t have to quit now,” he said, and smiled.
Remy was seriously going to miss that smile.
“Are you in any pain?” he asked.
Mulvehill shook his head. “I don’t feel a thing, really.”
Remy considered what he was about to say, debating on whether he would, but the words tumbled from his mouth before he could stop them.
“I could . . . There’s a chance that I might be able to . . .”
“No,” Mulvehill said firmly. “Let me go.”
“What if I don’t want to?” Remy asked with a touch of anger.
Mulvehill laughed, smoke streaming from his nose. “When has this ever been about you?”
Remy thought for a moment and then smiled as well. “You’ve got a point there.”
They were quiet for awhile, Remy not wanting to say anything to spoil what little time they had left.
Mulvehill was looking around again at the nothing, but it was almost as if he could see something.
“What is it?” Remy asked.