In the House of the Wicked (33 page)

“This isn’t about past angers and sorrows,” Armaros said. “This is about the future of this world…of humanity and of Heaven itself.”

Remy wasn’t sure he understood. “How can the killing of a million of His flock be seen as a positive move toward the future?”

“Are you so blind?” Armaros asked. “Can you not see the signs? There’s a war coming…and the world of man will become a battleground.”

“It’ll never come to that,” Remy said, trying to hide his uncertainty.

“The signs are there, Remiel, whether you choose to ignore them or not. What we are doing today is preparing the world…preparing the people for what is to be a time of great loss.”

“You keep talking, but I still don’t see how killing a million people and giving a sorcerer this kind of power is preparing the world for anything.”

“We did this to them, Remiel,” Armaros said. “We steered them down this road to decadence. This will be our chance to make things right, to set them on the path to believing again.”

Armaros turned to his brethren, Stearns, and the little girl cowering in her princess bed.

“They will believe in their Creator again, and they shall fear Him as they should. And then they will be prepared for the troubled times to come.”

Remy had no idea what to say; it was all so insane. He knew that there were changes in the wind….

But war?

Could he have been so blind?

Stearns cleared his throat, and Remy looked over to see the sorcerer fully adorned in the armored apparatus that would feed him the death energies of those cut down by the Grigori’s message. He was tapping a watch on his wrist, urging them to proceed.

“Of course, Algernon Stearns,” Armaros said, returning to stand with the other Grigori.

The fallen angel turned his attentions to the little girl partially hidden beneath her covers.

“Are we ready, my child?” he asked her.

“Is God gonna tell you His message?” she asked, peeking out.

The angel nodded and smiled. “He is, and then we are going to tell you…and then you will tell the world.”

“Armaros,” Remy cried out again, hoping that this time…maybe.

But he succeeded only in annoying Stearns, who gestured to his security guards, and Remy was forced to his knees, his arms bent unnaturally behind him.

“Make him watch,” the sorcerer ordered before turning his attention back to Armaros and the other Grigori.

“Are we ready?” Stearns asked.

“We are,” Armaros answered.

The world went deathly quiet. Armaros leaned in toward the small child, his lips dangerously close to her ear, as the remaining Grigori joined hands.

And suddenly all Remy could hear was the whine of the television cameras’ auto focus as they fixed the child in their robotic sights.

And the Grigori leader’s whispering voice…

“Hear the words of the Lord.”

The wards of protection cast around the plaza were doing their job.

The vintage car, engine racing like a turbulent ocean surf as it drove at the Hermes Building in a breakneck pace, felt as though it had struck an invisible wall.

The Lincoln came to a screaming halt, the shining chrome bumper and front end of the awesome car buckling. Francis and Angus were like rag dolls in the front seat, whipped viciously forward but prevented from continuing their journey through the broad expanse of windshield by their straining seat belts.

Leona was angry. The living car did not stop for long, its thick tires digging into the brick and spinning wildly, filling the air with the acrid smoke of burning rubber as she moved inexorably forward toward the building.

It was one supernatural force against the other.

The air was filled with so much smoke and noise that Francis had no idea what was truly happening. Angus sat perfectly still, holding on to his seat for dear life as the car bucked and bounced, the sounds of twisting metal like a symphony of destruction in their ears.

This can go one of three ways,
Francis thought as he continued to grip the warm wooden steering wheel. Leona could be totally decimated, or the living car could show the wards who was truly queen shit by getting them inside the building, or the two unmovable forces could cause one helluva explosion, leaving Hermes Plaza with a decent-sized crater that could be used as a swimming pool in the summer.

The car began to thrash like a Jack Russell with its fangs buried deep in a rat, giving it that special shake to snap its neck.

There were bursts of fire and the smell of brimstone and the sounds of screaming somewhere off in the distance. For a second Francis believed that the wards had won, that Leona just didn’t have what it took to beat the protective spells.

But then her engine began to roar and the tires spun even faster, and Leona lurched forward, seemingly shucking off the destructive effects of the sorcerous handiwork that should have been strong enough to keep them out.

But never underestimate the craftsmanship of demonic ingenuity.

Leona’s cries were deafening; it sounded like all the engines of every NASCAR race ever run had been spooled together to create one horrendous clamor. Her spinning tires were finally able to gain purchase, and the vehicle leapt forward, battering through the revolving doors in an explosion of metal and glass.

And as soon as she was inside, her engine died, cutting out with a sputter.

Francis knew that the car had done the nearly impossible and that was all they could expect from her.

“We’re in,” he said, already swinging open the driver’s-side door. Angus moved as he did, extracting his bulk from the vehicle.

Alarms wailed and an artificial rain from the sprinklers fell upon them. Francis could hear scuffling in the smoke and dust and saw movement toward them.

“Trunk!” he yelled, slamming his hand down on the back of the vehicle, and Leona managed one more act for them, popping the trunk and allowing them access to their gear.

Shots rang out, pinging off the open trunk as both Francis and Angus reached inside and readied themselves for the task ahead.

Francis tossed a handful of the walnut-sized grenades first, the explosions of magick canceling out any sorcery that was being used in the lobby. Then he moved around the car, pistol in hand, firing one shot after another, taking out the stunned golem sentries. Angus backed him up, handgun firing from one hand while the other wove powerful new magicks to repel their attackers.

“Do you think the elevators are still working?” Angus asked, waving his hand in a circle and creating a mini twister that spun four of the guards in the air before slamming them into the gray marble wall beside the reception desk.

“Can’t see why not,” Francis said, firing into the face of a golem whose body exploded in a cloud of dirt.

An engine roar captured his attention, and Francis turned to see Leona, battered and broken, backing out of the lobby.

“Thanks, sweetie!” he called after her. He could see the flashing of police lights outside and hear the sounds of angry voices screaming for the car to stop, but Leona didn’t listen. A distraction; something else he’d have to thank her for later.

“Shall we go find Remy?” Francis asked, throwing the weapons-filled duffel bag over his shoulder as he stepped through the open doors of the elevator. He stabbed at the button that would take them up to the studio level, but the door refused to close.

He looked at the pained expression in the sorcerer’s face.

“Sorry, Chubs,” the former Guardian angel said, leaving the elevator with the dejected Angus in tow.

“Looks like we’re using the stairs.”

The scared little girl had been replaced.

No longer was a sickly child hiding beneath the covers; now an almost-regal figure sat, back perfectly straight, and spoke directly to the cameras that were pointed at her.

“Hello, my name is Angelina Hayward,” she began, a slight distortion to her voice, evidence that the power wielded by the Grigori was flowing through her. “And I am about to deliver unto you a message from the Heavenly Father.”

Remy struggled fruitlessly in the grip of the golem sentries, fighting to get to his feet, attempting to find and rekindle even the slightest bit of angelic fire that might have been left by the sorcerer Deacon.

“No!” he screamed, fighting and thrashing, even though it felt as if his limbs might snap like twigs. “No…you can’t do this!”

The child was distracted by his outburst, turning her gaze from the camera to him.

“Don’t let them make you do this,” Remy implored her. “It isn’t a message from God; it’s something else entirely.”

A silent nod from Stearns was all the sentries needed to begin punching Remy with their flesh-covered fists of stone. But over the sounds of his vicious beating, he could hear the child questioning his outburst.

“What does he mean that it isn’t a message from God?” she asked.

“Hush, child,” Armaros soothed. “Prepare yourself for…”

“Hurry!” Stearns bellowed. “We can’t afford this distraction…. We can’t afford to lose any eyes.”

“She will speak the words when it is time,” the Grigori leader responded in a calm yet threatening tone.

Remy tried to remain conscious, tried to cry out, but the fists were like hammers and he found it harder and harder keep the darkness at bay.

Maybe oblivion was best right now.

But the thought just enraged him.

The blows continued to fall and suddenly he welcomed them, taking each hurtful strike and using the pain as fuel for his rage. He may not have the divine fire at his beck and call, but it did not change what he was.

Seraphim.

He’d tried to hide it for so very long, so it would not remind him of what he had lost.

Heaven.

Yet it was always there, waiting beneath the veneer of humanity that he had constructed. It had always known what he truly was, even though Remy had liked to think otherwise.

Seraphim.

And of late he had come to accept this, finally understanding that there was no way to ignore his divine nature, no way to ignore the soldier of Heaven that lived beneath his skin.

We are one and the same.

Sometimes he needed a little reminder of that, something to stir the memories of where he’d been…where he’d come from…

And what I’ve done.

Remy was a warrior, and he could not even count the number of lives he had extinguished on the battlefields of Heaven in his Creator’s name.

Remy remembered who he was—
what I was
—

Warrior. Killer. Murderer of my own kind.

No matter how painful.

He remembered the long-ago past with a surge of anger, the memory of the horrors committed in the name of his master inflaming his blood and summoning a fury that could not be bridled.

In the here and now, he surged to his feet, an inhuman bellow of rage escaping from a place deep within him. He yanked his arm away from one of his attackers, bringing his elbow up into its face before it could grab him again. The force of the blow was tremendous, caving in the artificial man’s face and revealing the inhumanity beneath. But the warrior was already on to the next, taking hold of his front, lifting him up from the floor, and hurling his great weight across the room with ease.

The cries of his foes were frantic, the Grigori, clutching their tarnished blades, already on their way to him. The warrior’s nature was still in full control, and he searched for a way to defend himself. His eyes fell on the weapon holstered at the waist of a fallen golem guard. Remy dove for the gun, yanking it from its resting place, and started to fire.

Bullets connected with the fallen angels’ flesh, driving them back, injuring but not killing the creatures.

Finally he saw the opportunity that he was waiting for, a way to stop this insanity. He saw the little girl sitting up in her princess bed.

Remy aimed the gun…

But hesitated.

He knew she wasn’t real, nothing more than magick and clay, but at the moment, he saw a little girl….

The magickal blast struck him square, enveloping him in a cocoon of electrical agony. Remy screamed, his body experiencing pain down to a cellular level.

Stearns stood there, arm outstretched, magick streaming from his fingertips.

“I’ve had just about enough of you,” the sorcerer said, casting him off to float above the room in a bubble of torment. What made it all the worse was that Remy could still see, watching it all through tears of agony.

And there wasn’t a goddamn thing he could do about it.

Stearns felt himself growing weaker as the terrible hunger intensified. It was as if his altered body knew of the coming feast and was purposely expending vast amounts of magickal energy so that it would be fed all the quicker.

Holding the troublesome spectator aloft, Stearns decided he must take the bull by the horns if this procedure was to commence in a timely fashion.

“Armaros,” he bellowed, while motioning to those who served him in the control room above the studio. “If you would be so kind as to continue.”

The injured Grigori, clutching their bleeding wounds, returned to their master’s side. Armaros glared at him, but returned to the child, who appeared to be in shock, cowering on the bed. He stroked her hair, whispering something that Stearns could not quite hear, but her back straightened and her eyes suddenly stared straight ahead as the cameras came to life, ready to capture the message she was about to herald.

Stearns saw that it was actually about to happen, and double-checked the attachments that would bring him the power he so desperately craved.

And then his eyes went to the man held within a sphere of magickal power, hanging above the studio floor, his body wracked with pain that should have rendered him lifeless, but somehow he remained conscious, staring with eyes absent of hope.

“Hear the words of the Lord,” Angelina Hayward proclaimed as the angels of the Grigori leaned toward her, filling her ears with their message.

The child grew suddenly statue tense and her eyes began to glow as if an inner light had come alive. She opened her mouth and light streamed out, but there was also a sound the likes of which Algernon Stearns had never before heard.