Angels of War (Angels of War Trilogy Book 1) (14 page)

Wallace grunted to himself. He found no problem fighting terrorists, and every other idiot foolish enough to take on the United States. Yet he froze once the supernatural leaped on his front porch. How does one fight such horrors as huge and terrible as this?

He read the Bible often and pondered the many secrets hidden within its pages and prayed every day. Through all his knowledge, he never imagined Hell as real. He assumed Hell a place created to coerce those into compliance who did not obey God’s law. A simple threat or a punishment not meant to instill fear, but obedience. His talk with Joan an hour ago made clear to him and as real as the thin gray hair on his head, Hell and Satan did exist.
 

Raymond faced the real horrors once locked in the underworld. He believed in their existence, and now the country would believe without an unequivocal doubt.
 

Raymond Wallace spent the afternoon with his Bible. He talked to his priest and discussed secrets in the Bible man hoped God wanted them to comprehend. Nowhere in their conversation did Mexico City or Denver, Colorado come up. Nor, did he find the two cities mentioned, out right, or in some cryptic speech mixed with symbolism and poetry. He faced a mystery he found too difficult to penetrate.
 

One question perplexed him. Why now? He figured the attack concerned more than the back gate hidden within the crags and clefts near the Rockies. God, he figured, kept another secret as He always did. A secret meant for Him alone.

Wallace finished off his sandwich and drained his cup. He glanced down into the bottom at the last dregs and dark grounds. The hairs along his neck stiffened. He glanced up. People still ate, musical laughter from a few children drifted towards him. A chill ran down his back like a black spider.
 

A dark splotch flitted near his right eye. He turned and stared at his shadow on the floor. He ignored the shadow, yet a weird otherness hunched over him. The air thickened with an unseen presence. He shook his head, blinked his eyes as a shadow moved near his left eye at the cusp.

Wallace sat up like an alert prairie dog. His stomach became queasy. He trusted his inner alarm. Across the cafeteria a little girl with red hair stared beyond him. Her eyes widened and her mouth opened.
 

She pulled on her mother’s sleeve and pointed in his direction. The mother smiled at Wallace, her mouth dropped open. She stood and screamed.

Wallace spun around in his chair. Four shadows raced along the walls headed right at him. He bolted from his chair. Shouts and screams rose in the packed cafeteria. Chairs struck the floor, tables slid, and glass crashed.
 

People broke for the two exit doors. His security team did not go far as he ordered. The two men moved through the crowd, weapons drawn as he dashed towards them.

Hate dove at Wallace’s legs and tripped him. The president fell to the waxed linoleum floor. The shadow twisted. Through its blackness ribs shown along with a worm eaten face. A sword appeared in its hands as Blood Lust, Anger, and War Monger appeared above President Raymond Wallace. Wallace struggled, splayed on the floor like a goat ready for slaughter.
 

Wallace tried to rise. The Four Shadows held him down with cold hands. His stomach burned with fear, bitter bile clogged his throat. The one who tripped him lifted a rusty sword over his head. The security team pointed their weapons and fired rounds into the phantoms pressing their dark presence against the president.
 

“Hate.”

The shape shifter paused, blade held over its formless head, ready to strike down the president. Joan appeared near the guards who ceased their gunfire. Hate glared at Joan with brilliant red eyes.

Anger reached out with a distorted hand and touched Hate’s arm. The demon turned towards its comrade. Anger shook its head as a skull with empty eye sockets appeared from Anger’s shrouded face. Hate recoiled from Anger’s touch.

Joan sat in an office lost amongst the files Wallace gave her to read. She sensed the unclean spirits come from underneath the earth like rats. She fled the office once the first screams reached her. Papers scattered in her wake. She used her angelic powers to penetrate the titanium walls and floors to arrive at the scene. She found President Wallace sprawled on the floor held down by the Four Shadows.
 

Joan remembered the Shadows. Once guardian angels, they took sides with Lucifer, and she sent their evil souls to Hell with her blade. The Shadows stood before her, deformed and twisted. Hate held his sword high above Wallace’s head, his red eyes burning in fury at her appearance.

“Hate, what glory will you achieve in killing a simple mortal? For the one who sent you to Hell is standing before you,” she said.

Joan opened her hand. Her sword flashed into her tiny palm. Her complete armor covered her body. She would not fight these four in street clothes. She survived the first gamble with Lord Goth by skill and a little luck. She gave Hate a wink.

Hate, overcome by anger and hurt pride, moved from President Wallace’s body on the floor. War Monger, Blood Lust, and Anger released their grip on Wallace and followed their leader into combat.
 

Joan baited the four assassins. Hate readied his sword. The other three drew their blades and floated through tables and chairs to approach the angel. The Secret Service agents dashed to Wallace and plucked him from the floor and hauled their precious cargo from the fight.
 

Joan shoved aside a table covered in plates. Drinks and food splashed across the floor. The material world did not concern the enemy she faced. They owned the ability to pass through all solid objects except for her blessed sword.
 

Hate pointed his blade at her. He floated ahead. The other three Shadows flanked her in silence. The world around her became bright. Her heartbeat quickened. The four assassins closed in as she lifted her angelic blade.
 

Joan remained calm as Hate approached with his blade held steady. His dark form undulated to reveal his horrible body covered by the shadow he wore like a cloak.

The phantom Anger attacked from Joan’s left. She came down with her sword, blocked his upward cut, and slipped from between the two wraiths. Hate attacked from her right. His sword blow aimed for Joan’s head missed and he cut through empty air.

Joan dove into the battle. She fought with speed and calmness. She kicked the furniture aside, blocked their sword blows as they weaved within one another in a furious effort to cut her down.

Joan began to breathe hard. Sweat broke her forehead. Not big and clumsy like Lord Goth. The Four Shadows, strong and fast, fought with a dark power she found bothersome. At each stroke their blades inched closer to her neck and head. Hate’s blade struck her helmet and glanced off with a dull ping, her white horsehair plume danced.
 

She struck the blow away with her own sword, jogged to her left as War Monger delivered a quick thrust towards her mid section. She decapitated the black spirit. He fell and dispersed against the shiny linoleum floor like smoke.
 

Hate, Anger, and Blood Lust did not miss a beat as their comrade’s form hurried back to the dark place from where he came. The three attacked with relentless speed and fury.
 

Joan shoved Blood Lust aside, sliced off Anger’s sword arm followed by a clean decapitating cut. Hate struck an overhand blow and she ducked. His blade carved a deep line along the wall behind her.

Joan spun away from the wall, glanced to her right. Hate drew back his sword, Blood Lust moved in from her left. Both shape shifters cornered her against the wall and moved in for the kill.

Joan set her jaw. “Hate, do you wish to die here or send your master a message?”

Hate froze in mid attack. A force erupted from his body. Chairs and tables flipped and smashed against the walls and floor. “The only message I’ll send my master is your head. You and your kind will die, Joan. Unless you join us, this is the message from my master.”
 

A sneer played over Joan’s small mouth. She leaped forward and decapitated them both. “My only message for your master.” She gazed up from her work. To her surprise, Wallace remained at the cafeteria doorway surrounded by his men.
 

“I believe you now, Joan. Please forgive me,” he said. His voice trembled. His white shirt clung to his body from sweat.

Joan sheathed her sword. “No need for apologies, Raymond,” Joan said. For now on, she would stay close to the president as much as possible. Temeculus moved twice against them. She doubted he would fail a third time.

25

General Temeculus walked out upon his patio angered at the failed assassination attempt on Wallace. He shoved the thought aside for the moment and gazed at the scenery set before his eyes. Below him, in block formation stood his ghoulish troops. Beyond his army, several thousand mortal souls gathered. A mass too exhausted to flee, battered by shock and awe the fresh war brought into their lives.
 

Temeculus leaped from his balcony. His monstrous bat wings spread out from his muscled back as he soared towards the destroyed city below. He drew his bloodstained sword and landed on his heavy booted feet. The Black Army lifted their weapons into the air and chanted his name. Their collected voices echoing against the broken buildings to resonate into a horrific roar.
 

“Temeculus! Temeculus!”
 

General Temeculus strutted forward. A smile played his morbid dead-white face as he moved between the ranks shouting his name. They thirsted for more war and blood. He needed a human army, an army to fill his ranks in Hell with fresh souls.
 

“How many of you wish to live forever? Wish to never die and enjoy eternal life.” He halted before the multitudes. His army performed a crisp about face and presented themselves before the nervous throng.
 

General Temeculus held his sword in one big hand. “This is the Second Coming, so where is your God?” He lifted his sword and the soldiers fell silent.

“You will suffer your eternity in Hell, devil.” A voice shouted from the vast crowd.

Temeculus smiled. He jammed the wicked blade into the scabbard at his side made from dried human skins. A young raggedy man emerged from the crowd with a Bible held tight in his right hand. Sweat poured from his red face as the people around him eased away.
 

“So where is He?” Temeculus leaned his huge head forward. “Why are you still here, sir? Why the faithful are not floating up into the heavens to be wrapped in His loving bosom? Did He not make those promises in the fairytale you hold so tight in your trembling hand?”
 

The man’s face twisted in anger. “God will judge you one day demon. Go back to Hell from where you spawned. Do you think, even consider for a moment, He will let you get away with this…this abomination you created? How dare you.”

Temeculus strolled forward. The bystanders slinked further back from the young man. “This is the Second Coming. Reread your bed time story, pour through those brittle pages with more intent.”

“This is not the Second Coming. You would not be standing so high and mighty if Jesus condemned you at this moment. You would be on your knees. Defeated, and preparing to be tossed into the pit of Hell with the dragon.”

General Temeculus threw his head back and laughed. A dangerous animal growl rolled from underneath his dark voice. The nine-foot giant drew closer to the man. If he recruited souls this dedicated to Satan, the war would be over in a week. Too bad the Bible thumper worked for the opposition.
 

“Listen to him?” His voice traveled across the thousands who filled the ruined city. “He’s a brave soul filled with so much faith. God is lucky to own a soul like this one.”
 

Temeculus lifted his head towards the dark skies. Black smoke continued to roil overhead. The Screamers remained silent, their obsidian eyes lost in oblivion. “Did you witness the angels fighting and running from us? We defeated your army, and still you stand here holding a Bible. Telling me, Satan’s second in command, I will be thrown into Hell’s pit along with my boss. Sounds like fun to me, Hell is not so bad. Lots of sex, drugs, and rap music.”
 

The general guffawed and slapped his thigh and changed form. He turned into a Midwest farmer. His size decreased to five-foot ten. He wore a black Stetson hat, a white cowboy shirt, sun faded Wrangler jeans, and worn black boots. He reached to the ground, picked up a straw, and popped the slender stalk between his thin lips. His once pale skin turned to a sun beaten red, his eyes browned.

“Why don’t we start being reasonable, partner?” His voice took on a Texas drawl. He turned back, waved his hand and his army vanished. “Is this better?”
 

He hooked his thumbs into his jeans front pockets and worked the straw between his dry lips and white even teeth. “All this dying and destruction can be avoided.” He turned a gentle gaze to the young man. People started to inch towards him. Good.

The man thrust his Bible towards Temeculus. “Here, the words of God are written blasphemer. Demon, return to your home.” The man spat. The spittle landed against the general’s sallow cheek and sizzled down his face.
 

Temeculus’s jaw muscles twitched, a burn rose in his stomach, heartburn times ten. His face glowed a fire engine red. God stood on this man’s side, he needed to stop him before the pain became too powerful and dropped him to his knees. He reached out with one large hand and touched the man’s right cheek. “Brave,” he said.
 

He snapped his thin neck. The body jerked once and fell to the street. The people stood their ground, riveted and silent. The fiery pain subsided in his belly, the inhuman red glow on his face diminished. The Bible beater’s soul slid from the corpse and gave Temeculus a confident grin before a guardian angel floated down from the sky and swept him away.