Armageddon (21 page)

“I’m not sure,” Taylor said, increasing her pace. “I received a call that I should come down.”

There was a commotion by Aaron’s room, and Vilma took off, racing down the hall and charging into the room. “Aaron?” she cried, as she entered.

Two Unforgiven angels stood over her boyfriend with odd-looking medical instruments. Aaron was thrashing about, his fists clenched as if to defend himself.

“What’s wrong with him?” Vilma practically shouted. She pushed past the angels to Aaron’s side and put her hand in his. His grip was incredible, almost hurting her.

The Unforgiven didn’t answer, continuing to coldly observe Aaron through the lenses of their goggles.

“Did you hear me?” Vilma asked angrily. “I asked you a question.”

“Answer her,” Taylor commanded, entering the room.

“We don’t know,” one of the Unforgiven said, as he looked at the boxy instrument he was holding. “His entire metabolic system has gone into overdrive, as if he were performing some great physical act.”

Vilma looked at Aaron’s mother and saw concern on her face.

“Can we give him something to calm him down?” Taylor asked.

“We did,” the other Unforgiven answered. “But his system burned it off in a matter of seconds.”

Vilma gripped her boyfriend’s hand all the tighter. Something was most definitely wrong. He was fighting with all his might.

The mechanical ring on his chest suddenly sparked and exploded, throwing off smoldering shards of glass and metal. Vilma reached out to grab the broken pieces of the device, throwing them off Aaron’s exposed flesh. His skin was blazing hot.

“He’s burning up,” she said, fearing some sort of fever, the sign of something worse.

Fire appeared around where the ring had been attached, and
then started to spread down Aaron’s body. His wings emerged as he lay, and they, too, were alight with fire. The bed’s mattress was burning, and flames jumped hungrily to the floor and the walls. The Unforgiven angels were still attempting to discern data from their machines, but Vilma knew they were way beyond that stage.

She reacted on pure instinct. Her Nephilim visage surged to the surface, wings bursting from her back. She gathered Aaron up in her arms, the divine fire from his body attempting to burn her, but soon realizing that they were of the same species.

“Get him to the silo,” Taylor shouted, thinking as she did.

Aaron thrashed in her arms, but Vilma held him tightly as she soared from the room and down the corridor, passing several Unforgiven carrying fire extinguishers on their way to the room. She burst through the stairway door at the end of the hall and headed for the lowest level. The heat from their bodies scorched the concrete walls black as they passed.

Just as they reached the bottom of the staircase, the door flew open to reveal four Unforgiven angels in protective suits.

“This way,” one said, motioning for her to follow.

Vilma could feel the muscles in her arms straining, but she endured it, not wanting to set Aaron down until he was safe. She raced behind the Unforgiven as they led her through the concrete corridor and down another stairway to the old missile silo that had once housed A’Dorial.

She entered the chamber and gently laid Aaron’s body on the floor. Stepping back, she wished that there was something she could have placed beneath his head to make him more comfortable, but she knew it would just burn.

“Let’s go. Time to get out of there,” one of the Unforgiven urged from the doorway. Eyes still fixed on her boyfriend, Vilma did what was asked of her, stepping out into the hallway as the two angels closed the heavy metal door, closing Aaron inside.

Through a small portal window, she watched him.

“What’s happening to you?” she whispered, wanting more than anything to be with him, to comfort him, but unsure if she would have been able to withstand the intensity of his heat.

Tears flowed freely down her cheeks as she helplessly watched the man she loved, writhing on the cold concrete floor of the missile silo.

His body burning with holy fire.

*   *   *

Verchiel was amused by the stupidity of the dumb beasts, so stubborn they could not even see what was in their best interests. They could not fathom that pledging their allegiance to him would allow them to live another day.

The latest encampment of monsters came at him in an explosive rush of violence, choosing to fight with tooth, claw, sword, spear, knife, and ax—or whatever other instrument of murder they had at their disposal.

The angel met the onslaught with equal vigor, calling forth two swords of fire.

Wading in amongst them, he swung his weapons and watched the monsters fall, like chaff to the farmer’s scythe. He considered giving them another chance to forget their dark overlord, and to bow their heads to him, but by then, he had slain them all.

Or at least those brave—stupid—enough to face him.

Verchiel was covered in the foul, stinking blood of his foes. He let the fire of the divine that coursed through his veins rise to the surface, heating his body and armor, baking the blood so it would flake to the ground.

He then turned, swords still in hand, to see if any more would challenge him. He hoped some would, but saw a small contingent of monsters huddled together. They immediately dropped their weapons and bowed in subservience.

Verchiel looked to the goblin, Ergo, standing with the other beasts that had decided they did not want to die—an army of foul creatures that now followed him.

What am I doing?

He thought of the three hags, and how they’d sought to entice him with an offer to serve the mysterious Architects.

Beings who supposedly had foreseen these dark times . . . who had helped make them happen.

Verchiel looked up at the cloud-filled sky, and then down at the corpses at his feet. The earth had become a Godless
place, and he would do everything in his power to see it returned to its former glory.

What was he doing? He was forming an army.

Fighting fire with fire.

S
he made him take his shirt off.

Cameron’s body was bruised and scratched, but he had no major injuries.

“Hold still,” Melissa ordered. She found a relatively clean rag and some bottled water. “Let me clean these up, just in case.”

She got in close to him, dabbing at his wounds.

“How did you find me?” Cameron asked her.

Melissa stopped what she was doing to seriously consider the question. “I really don’t know,” she said. “It was like I suddenly knew you were in trouble, and where you were.”

“Well, however you got here, I’m glad you did.” He smiled at her, and she could not help but smile back.

“Yeah, me too,” Melissa replied, returning to cleaning his cuts. She could see that he was already starting to heal. “That should do it,” she said, setting the rag and bottle of water on the
counter. “So, this was your safe place?” she asked, eyes darting around the log cabin.

“It was until . . . ,” Cameron began. He’d grabbed a cleaner shirt from a pile in the corner, smelled it, and proceeded to put it on.

He looked as though he had more to say, so Melissa waited.

“That was Janice we were fighting,” he finally said.

Melissa shook her head.

“No,” she said emphatically. “Janice is dead. That thing just looked like her.”

“You said that you were inside her . . . its head. If it wasn’t Janice, what was it?”

Melissa was suddenly very cold. She wasn’t sure if it was the temperature in the drafty cabin, or a connection to the memory of what she had seen.

“It’s something wearing Janice’s body,” Melissa tried to explain. “Everything that made Janice a caring, loving person was gone—and something horrible, dark, and twisted has been put inside her body.”

“But it knew me . . . us,” Cameron said.

“Yeah,” Melissa answered. “I think it’s using Janice’s memories.”

“I think the same thing may have happened to the others,” Cameron said haltingly. “The others who died.”

“Yeah,” Melissa confirmed, remembering her strange dream, suddenly feeling much colder.

Neither of them said anything more, really not sure how to respond to the idea that their departed friends had been resurrected as monsters. Silence seemed the most appropriate response.

Leaning up against the counter, Melissa noticed an old box sitting on the table. Just the sight of it made the flesh on the back of her neck tingle. “What’s that?”

“Something that my father left for me to find. I didn’t remember any of it until I came here,” Cameron said, pulling the box closer. “It was like this place was the trigger to release the memory.”

Melissa moved to the table and peered inside the box at his father’s journal.

“Have you read that yet?” she asked.

“Some,” Cameron answered. “He talks about a place where something very important is hidden . . . something that the Architects hid.”

Melissa couldn’t help herself; she reached into the box. There was something at the very bottom, a liner of some sort.

But one of the corners had peeled up, and on the other side, she saw some writing. As if compelled, she emptied the contents of the box.

“Hey, what are you doing?” Cam asked, annoyed.

She was so engrossed, she didn’t answer. Melissa slowly peeled back the edges of the lining, careful so as not to tear it.

“What is it?” Cameron asked, reaching for it.

Melissa pulled away, claiming the discovery as her own. “I’m not sure, but there’s writing on it.”

She moved the wooden box and laid the paper on the table, gently smoothing the ancient parchment. Her eyes widened. There was writing on it, and so much more.

“It’s a map.”

“To what?” Cameron leaned in closer.

The writing was not a human language; it was angelic script, but Melissa could still read it.

“You said that your father wrote about something important,” she said, growing excited. “Something that the Architects had hidden.”

As Melissa looked at Cameron, she could see a similar spark in his eyes.

“What if it’s something that can help us, something that could restore the world to the way it was?”

“I think this”—she laid her fingertips on the surface of the map—“can take us to it.”

*   *   *

The glowing green yetis dragged Mallus and Tarshish by their feet through the seemingly endless passages within the shell of the fallen Metatron.

“You awake?” Tarshish asked.

“Yeah, I’m awake,” Mallus replied to the beaten and bloody Malakim. “You don’t look so good.”

“Don’t you worry about me,” Tarshish said, the back of his
head bumping along the uneven ground. “I just need to hang on for a little while longer.”

“Just a little while?”

“We’re almost there.” A sad smile appeared on Tarshish’s bloody face. “A chance to make things right. Well, as right as they can be now. The rest will be up to you.”

“What do you mean by that?” Mallus asked, suspicion in his tone.

“Just don’t screw it up.”

And that was when Mallus felt it: The angelic sigils tattooed on his body, which had served him well throughout the centuries, warning him of danger, began to tingle.

Warning him of the presence of an incredible, supernatural power.

Mallus felt his legs drop unceremoniously to the floor, and then the yetis’ clawed hands were hauling him roughly to his feet. Tarshish was receiving the same treatment.

Mallus winced at the sight of the Malakim, his body so emaciated, and covered with cuts and bruises. He hoped that the angelic magick user could hold on long enough for them to finish their task.

Three heavily robed and hooded shapes emerged from the darkness.

“Are these the ones?” came a screeching voice from behind one of the hoods.

“How is this possible?” asked another. “Only a being of
great power could have . . .” Her voice trailed off as if sensing something.

“A being of great power,” repeated the third, leaving her Sisters to draw closer to Mallus and Tarshish.

The hooded figure stopped before the two angels, studying them, then turned her focus to Tarshish. Mallus squirmed, but the yetis held him fast.

“Careful, Sister!” warned one of the two who hung back.

“Something isn’t right with that one,” said the other.

The Sister reached a spindly-fingered hand out from the sleeve of her robe, touching the center of Tarshish’s bare chest, then quickly pulled it away.

“There is something about you,” she said, curiosity evident in her horrible voice. “Something . . . familiar.”

Tarshish laughed weakly. “Didn’t think you’d recognize me in this condition,” he said.

The other two Sisters moved a little closer.

“She is right, there is something strangely familiar,” verified one.

“But I do not know why,” added the other.

They huddled around the Malakim, his mystery drawing them nearer.

Mallus watched, not sure what Tarshish had planned.

“Looked a lot different way back when,” the Malakim began to explain. “But then again, so did the power inside the three of you.”

The Sisters recoiled with a gasp.

“It was pure then,” Tarshish continued. “Radiant with the splendor of the Creator.”

The Sisters of Umbra backed away from the mysterious stranger.

“You want to know why I seem familiar to you ladies?” Tarshish asked them. “I helped to place that power inside you.”

“Blasphemy!” screeched one of the three.

“Lies!” cried another.

“He speaks the truth,” admitted the third.

Tarshish nodded. “You see it now. Although I am nothing compared to what I was.”

His frail body started to smolder, and then to glow.

“All right, Tarshish,” Mallus said, struggling with his captors. “Time to let me in on the plan.”

Tarshish ignored him, as his human flesh burned away to reveal something composed of pure energy, which leaked into the air, forming a humming cloud that swirled above the Malakim’s head.

The Sisters had joined hands, their own magick emerging from their hooded forms.