Fire Prophet (Son of Angels) (12 page)
“I know, dear friend,” Henry said quietly, smiling broadly again. “Just remember, you are safe there, guarded by the top battalion of angels, and they are providing high-security protection twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.” He laughed enthusiastically. “You’re safer than you were at home, trust me.”
Jonah wanted to ask Henry about his vision, to get his thoughts, his take from an angel perspective. But now wasn’t the time. He just didn’t feel like getting into it with Eliza, or running the risk of scaring Jeremiah, who was brand-new at all of this angel stuff.
“Okay, Henry,” Jonah said, willing himself not to worry anymore about what he had seen. Or thought he had seen. “I hope we can see you soon. Tell Mom and Dad we miss them.”
Henry nodded and smiled.
“Okay, kids, time to go,” said Taryn. She glanced at the angel. “Henry.”
He waved good-bye. She dropped her arms, and immediately, the Angelic Vortex was gone. Jonah looked around at the others. Some were still hidden inside their funnels, while others were standing in the reading room, waiting to be dismissed.
Quickly, the students compared stories. It seemed that everyone’s parents were safe and doing just fine. They were all worried about their children, and even though most of the kids tried to pretend they didn’t miss them back, Jonah knew that wasn’t true.
Even Frederick and Hai Ling seemed genuinely moved by their conversations. Only Rupert Clamwater had something negative to say.
“My father demanded to speak directly with me, and he says we aren’t safe here, and that the truth is that the angels are not as competent at security as MI5 or the FBI. He says that he can’t believe that we are in the middle of New York City and that he is going to file a compl—aaaaah!”
Andre, the quarterling from Russia, had grabbed the back of Rupert’s collar, stopping him in midsentence and lifting him off the ground.
“Can you please stop your mouth from moving so much?” the big Russian said, snapping his fingers together with his other hand, mimicking a mouth. “It’s hurting my ears!”
Jonah and several of the others cracked up laughing.
“Okay, students. It’s time to return to the convent for the night.” Camilla ushered them to the doorway, back down the steps, and out of the library, the same way they’d come in.
Jonah yawned as they walked home. The group had grown quiet. He realized for the first time that night how tired he was. All he wanted to do when he got back to his room was get under the covers and melt into the mattress.
A
handful of men and women, dressed in business suits and smart outfits, stood in the conference room, each alone with his or her own thoughts. Some gazed vacantly through the massive set of windows, out across the city. The top floor of the beautiful skyscraper had been rented for them—one of the best views in town—but no one seemed to be enjoying it.
Others paced around the massive mahogany table in the middle. They straightened their ties once, twice, three times. They adjusted their perfect hair. No one spoke. Their usual bickering and blaming was gone. They only waited.
A door swung open at the end of the room, and everyone turned at once.
A few sighs of relief could be heard. An African American man dressed in dingy coveralls pushed a trash can on wheels into the room. His back was bent, and he stared at the floor as he walked in, acting as if he were unaware of the presence of the others.
“I believe you’re in the wrong room,” one man said with a cold
stare, ready to usher this unfortunate man on. Or maybe torment him while they bided their time.
But the janitor simply chuckled. And then they knew.
A collective gasp, and then a woman hit the floor on her knees.
“Master,” she said, bowing low.
The others quickly followed her lead, not daring to let their eyes meet the face of the janitor.
“I . . . I didn’t . . . ,” the one who had tried to expel him a few seconds ago trembled.
A hand landed on his shoulder. “Get up,” the janitor said. “All of you, get up.”
The janitor plopped down in a tall leather chair at the end of the table and threw his feet up on the dark wood. He smoothed out his coveralls, which had a name tag that said “Dante.” He folded his hands behind his short-cropped, wiry hair and then motioned to the empty chairs without a word. The rest quickly found a place to sit.
He ran his hands over his head again, and his hair suddenly became stringy and long, covering half of his face. His eyes turned slowly from dark brown to the color of blood.
“You all look so beautiful today,” he said, his eyes falling slowly on each of them. They had to do everything in their power not to shield themselves from his awful gaze. “But I’d rather see you as you really are.”
He waved his arm across the room. Instantly they each began to transform. Crusty, gnarled faces emerged, replacing their chiseled features. Crumpled wings sprouted out of their backs.
“There. That’s more like it,” Abaddon said with a smile. “Your true, ugly, hopeless selves.”
He leveled his gaze at them again, turning slowly to look at each one, each of the Fallen who had failed him.
In a strangely calm voice, he spoke. “I gave you a simple task to complete. All I asked was that you destroy the nephilim and their families. How hard could it be?” He chuckled again, allowing the tension to hang in the air. “And you are supposed to be my leaders . . .”
They were wilting under his terrible stare. His quiet fury was worse than any tongue-lashing he could have given them. He wasn’t simply angry—he
was
anger. And it was invisibly pouring out from him, now in its full measure.
Suddenly, as he looked at the fallen angel closest to him, she screamed out in agony and disintegrated into a pile of dust. Slowly, methodically, he turned toward each of them, and each felt the invisible blade slice through them. Soon, they were only piles of black dust on the plush leather chairs.
He rose and watched the tall buildings from the window for a while, his hands behind his back. His eyes veered upward toward the clouds. He glared at something unseen, but said nothing, turning his attention back to the question at hand.
“How will I get rid of the nephilim and their children?”
Yesterday it had been a question of strategy. Of their potential importance to the other side, of how they could be used to stand against Abaddon and his forces. And he had decided he couldn’t allow them to live any longer.
Today, though, there was more. Abaddon had been thwarted. Again. His rage did not dissipate in his punishment of the Fallen. It only grew.
“I know a way, Master . . .”
He didn’t turn toward the voice, already knowing who was there.
A young man had entered the room. He wore a black jacket, silk shirt, and jeans with a few holes carefully placed by a pricey designer. His silver-tipped black boots echoed throughout the room as he walked across the wooden floor.
“You know that I should destroy you right now for daring to come into this room, Dagon,” Abaddon said. “You’re a weasel.”
He turned toward the young man and morphed entirely. He was no longer the janitor. His hands and face grew bony and pale. A hood now covered most of his head.
The man lowered his eyes, not daring to look into the Evil One’s face. But he had his master’s attention, what he had been wanting for some time . . . it was his now, for better or for worse.
Abaddon looked at him with the same glare, but hadn’t cast him into oblivion yet with the others. A good sign.
“I can find one of them,” Dagon said, eager for his Master to see his ingenuity. “I know how to locate a nephilim for us. I can find out where those . . .
angels
. . . have put one.”
He spat the word
angel
with hatred on his tongue.
“And if we find one, I can find out what we need to know,” he continued. A personal audience with Abaddon . . . Dagon could barely contain himself.
“The location of the quarterlings,” Abaddon said. He paced around again, thinking. “Who will lead us to these children?”
Dagon was ready for this question, and he uttered the name with a proud smirk.
“Clamwater.”
Abaddon stared out at the buildings again. Slowly, a smile began to crease his lips.
Roger Clamwater.
He remembered the man’s fear and how easily he had collapsed under the power of Marduk last year. He was the first to fall and turn toward the
darkness of Abaddon’s power. Yes, he was as good a candidate as any. And if they could gain information from him . . .
“He will lead us to the children,” said Dagon, his ambition pushing him forward with new energy. “And then they will all come—all of those pathetic creatures will come to the aid of their poor children!”
Abaddon’s fist tightened. “Then we will destroy them all.”
Dagon nodded. “There is another thing,” he said. “But it is small, barely needing my Master’s attention. It’s just that . . .”
“Get to it, Dagon!” Abaddon snapped.
“Of course, Master. I witnessed a prophet on the streets of New York not long ago.”
“So?” the Evil One snarled. “They are of no consequence to us. No one even listens to them these days. Most people think that they’re just crazy.”
Dagon nodded. “Yes, you are right. It was just that, I happened to see two quarterlings there, listening to her. Jonah and Eliza Stone.”
Abaddon spun away from the window and faced him fully now, which caused Dagon to take a couple of steps back. He hadn’t expected such a forceful reaction to that family’s name.
“There was something between this prophet and the boy,” Dagon continued. “In the hidden realm, I could tell there was a . . . connection, between the two.”
Abaddon stood in silence for a while, pondering this bit of news, chewing on its significance. “How can you be sure?” he barked.
“I watched them,” said Dagon, trying to stand straighter. “I know what I saw, what I heard. There was something there. I could sense it. And I know certain prophets have caused us . . .
problems in the past. At any rate, you should know that we don’t have to worry about it going forward.”
Abaddon raised his eyebrow. “You killed her?”
“No! Of course not! I wouldn’t do that to a prophet without your permission. But I’ve had her contained,” said Dagon, relishing his moment. “She won’t in any way be able to interfere with our plans. I am simply trying to cover all the bases.”
“And you are telling me this to improve your standing,” Abaddon said, bitterness on his tongue as his glare burned into Dagon.
“We will hold her until you are ready to do with her what you wish, my lord.”
Dagon bowed his head, knowing better than to say anything else now.
“Yes,” Abaddon said, turning his gaze back to the city. He would relish extracting whatever he could from a prophet of Elohim. They were often entrusted with even more useful information than the angels about the movements of His forces. But his thoughts moved back to the boy. If he had a connection with this prophet . . . “This plan to find and rid ourselves of the nephilim,” he whispered. “Do it. I’ll deal with this prophet later.”
Dagon couldn’t hide his smile this time as he changed from the young man with the jacket and fancy boots into the demon he truly was. He bowed his head, then snapped his wings once, silently gliding out of the open window of the boardroom.
R
oger Clamwater walked the fourteen blocks from his office as a stockbroker to his London flat every day, rain or shine. He routinely counted the steps—usually about three hundred every block, totaling somewhere near forty-two hundred—it was something to do on the way home. It helped him ignore the more annoying things—like happy schoolchildren, fresh air, and brightly colored ice-cream parlors.
His mind wandered back to the day before, to the attack, and he shuddered. The spray of bullets from the car driving by had shattered every window of the café where he had been sitting— outside, of course, as was his daily routine in the mornings. He’d been lounging in a chair, reading the
Guardian
and sipping a cup of tea—two lemon slices, no sugar, please—when out of nowhere, shots were fired. Actually, he had heard a scream first. Then glass shattering. A woman behind him dove to the ground, hiding behind a table.
He didn’t even have time to react, though. His eyes were
drawn toward the gray compact car driving by. The barrel of a machine gun was sitting on the edge of the passenger door.
Firing.
He forgot to duck. But he remembered certain things in detail. He had dropped his teacup, the porcelain shattering into a million pieces at his feet. There were two hooded figures in the car, one driving and one firing the gun. He felt a breeze blowing through his hair by his ear, just past his side. He would realize later this was from the bullets whizzing by.
The police were there in less than a minute and found Roger still sitting in his chair, staring at the street. The officer shook him to his senses, and he blinked several times, finally seeing the face of the man in front of him.
