Last of the Mighty (20 page)

The night shivered, the earth tremored, and tree trunks snapped as the great bear crashed through the forest after me.

Every enemy face turned toward us as I sprinted for the graveyard. So much for our surprise attack from the flank.

Twenty yards ahead, three Warehouse Boys lined up, waiting for me. The one on the right had a baseball bat. Guy on the left, a police truncheon. A kid in the middle had something bulging in his jacket pocket, but his hands were free. Their position, directly in Winnie's path, was not a good one. No way they could beat me with their clubs and still have enough time to leap out of the way before the demon freight train behind me came rumbling through.

As I approached, they squatted, preparing to swing before bolting to safety. Ten feet from them, I pressed the slo-mo button and slid, baseball-style, right at the kid in the middle. I slammed the guy on the left in the ankle with the ram's horn so hard he went down instantly. Took out the middle dude with my slide while wrapping up the kid's feet on the right with the slack of Big Winnie's chain.

My momentum carried me through them and I was up and on my feet, still running, in no time.

I swerved to the left to avoid certain trampling, and shouted, “Amos!”

He emerged from the trees just in time to see the Warehouse Boys getting crushed beneath the elephant-bear's titanic paws.

But the simple act of crushing wasn't enough. Apparently, the bear had gone without lunch. He bit off one of their legs and another's head. Bones cracked with each chomp of his jaws.

This small victory was good news/bad news. Good news because we'd already dispensed of four of our foes. Bad news because if you know movies like I do, then you know that whoever is winning the fight in the first minute always, always ends up losing.

Phaeus hurled himself at the bear, realizing the animal was as likely to attack his own team as Amos or me. As much as I hated him, I had to admit Phaeus was a strong and gutsy warrior. He pounded his huge fists and solid knees into the mammoth's chest and ribs while enduring one vicious bear swipe after another. The Watcher scrapped his way up to Winnie's shoulders, scrabbled over, and threw an arm around the bear's neck. Put him in a chokehold. His upper arms doubled in size as he cranked with more and more force. The bear was helpless.

The lack of oxygen was causing Winnie to lose consciousness, and the beast began to wobble. When he finally collapsed, Phaeus continued strangling, taking no chances.

With Uzza and Chool busy searching for us inside, and Phaeus still finishing off the bear, it was only six against two.

I set my sights on the closest target—Tartys's little brother. The Nephilim had severely lopsided shoulders. His left one hunched up to his ear while the right one hung way down low, like he was playing bass for a heavy metal band. His right arm was also substantially more muscled than his left, which might have been why he chose to wield his bulky war hammer on his left side—because his enormous right fist was already like a built-in war hammer. Hellboy on steroids.

I squared off against him with the ram horn ready to play. Something moved behind me, and the next thing I knew, I was on the ground. Disarmed. With my ear hot and dripping blood. Shemja-za stood above me. He'd blindsided me in the ear with his forearm gold.

The war hammer came down at my chest, Watcher and Nephilim tag-teaming me. Having the advantage of slo-mo, as well as a clear shot to the manly bits between the Nephilim's legs, I punted Big Fist in the danglies and rolled behind a headstone. He creased, but stayed up.

Hopping to my feet, my shoe nudged something leaning against the back of the headstone—a long and rusty old saw, the kind that took two lumberjacks to use, one on each end for a simultaneous push/pull action. One of Amos's hidden weapons.

Amos.

I glanced over at him. He was facing off with Tartys. Azazel was standing off to the side and acting as the announcer, giving the blow-by-blow into an air microphone. As usual, the serious one.

Tartys, in true Viking spirit, had a short axe in his hand. Amos was only packing the Roman whip and the Nail. Both were Pit worthy, but he could only use them at close range. With Tartys's height, reach, and strength advantage, there was no way Amos was getting inside.

The lopsided Viking on my left inched forward. To my right, Shemja did the same.

“What up, Shem?” His emerald green eyes really were something. It would almost be a shame to blacken them.

“Augustine,” he greeted me. Bowed the chin a little. Ever the gentleman.

“How's your granddaughter?” I asked, staying within reach of the saw, but refusing to give away its location with my eyes. “Lovely girl, that Keira. Too bad she's not yours anymore.”

That hit the mark, and Shem threw a punch. Of the four Watchers, Shemja-za bothered me least. Sure, he was eight-six, five-hundred pounds but he didn't have Uzza's innate joy of battle, Azazel's unstable psychosis, or Phaeus's burning need to see my head anywhere but on my shoulders.

I ducked under Shem's roundhouse and snatched the hidden saw at the same time. The blade was six feet long and I swung it like a baseball bat. Homerun into Shemja's waist.

There was a scream from the Watcher, but not in The Committee.

I pushed the blade's teeth out of Shemja-za and swooped behind him. He was bent over and hobbling off the battlefield with blood coursing down his hip. I could've cut him again, but what was the point? The weapon would never Pit him.

The big-fisted Viking approached, wary. I faked a saw attack. The war hammer came across his body to block it, leaving his entire left side open. I planted my foot into his earlobe, which in turn caused Big Fist to plant his face into a headstone. I hacked open his neck with the saw.

The Nephilim howled in pain. He was half human. Even if his demon side had stayed intact, his human side would never be able to survive a wound like that. Big Fist was out of the fight.

Uzza and Chool came tearing out of the church just as Amos yelled, “Trees!”

I whirled the long saw at Chool and Uzza and dashed into the woods.

Amos and I had made an earlier plan to seek shelter in the trees. Thought the forest would help us level the playing field. In the trees, Amos and I stood a better chance of encountering the enemy two on one or one on one instead of five on one. On top of that, Amos had more weapons hidden in the woods.

We dove behind some fallen logs. No one was following. Azazel, Chool, Tartys, and Uzza were tending to Shemja-za while Phaeus was nursing the cut on Big Fist's neck.

Not nursing actually.

Healing.

Seconds later, Big Fist got to his feet. Perfectly fine.

Cheaters.

“The saw's a fake,” I said to Amos. “So's the knife. But at least I lost the shofar.” I looked him over for blood. There was a red smudge on his forehead, where Tartys's axe must've grazed him, and his cheek was bruised and swollen. “Doin' alright?”

He didn't even hear me because his every sense was consumed with Chool.

“Come on,” he said, and we clambered to a nearby bush. He brushed away a pile of leaves and gave me one of the two things he'd uncovered. “Try this.” It was a ragged wooden club of sorts shaped more like an oar. He took the other weapon, a short sword, for himself.

“You take this.” I handed him the wooden oar. “I'll take the sword.” The sword was shorter than the club, and Amos needed something longer. And since he already had the Nail, he didn't really need another knife-like weapon.

“Suit yerself,” said Amos, and we traded. “But I doubt tha's really the Gethsemane sword. Don' look old enough.”

I held the blade up to the moon hovering low in the sky. It was more of a long knife than a short sword. Less than two feet long. Still, if it was the one Peter used to chop off that Centurion's ear right before they arrested Jesus, then well, it was about the coolest thing I'd ever held.

Besides Merryn, of course.

Merryn. She thought I was dead. Even if I wasn't, I would be in ten minutes. Probably a good thing I'd gotten sidetracked while on my way to see her. Four immortal Watchers were gunning for me. I might get to take one or two of them with me, but in my heart, I knew this was a suicide mission.

While testing the weight of the sword in my hand, I heard Phaeus in the background barking out orders to his crew, so irritating and superior. Better than them. Better than everybody.

Anger shifted inside of me.

Phaeus was strutting around as if he were the king of all creation, treating the Nephilim and even his fellow Watchers without an ounce of respect. He slapped a Warehouse Boy upside the head and pointed to where he should be stationed.

So arrogant. My stomach churned.

Phaeus was always right, never wrong. A bully. The way he played me at Shemja's place. The way he looked at Gadriel in Court, like my dad was trash. He cared nothing about tearing apart the love between my dad and me, between Merryn and me, murdering our relationships after we'd just got started. Murdering love itself.

My fists clenched, my guts boiled, and my teeth gnashed.

“Sick of waiting,” I said to Amos, and stood up. “I'm goin' in.”

In the sixth grade, a random kid did a report on Crazy Horse. The Lakota warrior's battle cry was Hoka Hey!—an inspirational phrase meaning, It's a good day to die!

Funny what goes through your head in your last hour.

Life's a trip.

So's death.

I picked up the pace, jogging toward the enemy now.

My eyes watched Phaeus push people into position. My ears heard his derogatory words. My hands yearned to crush his throat, break his face, and send him to Pit.

Rage was building entire countries within me.

Almost to the cemetery now, I screamed, “HOKA HEY!”

I stormed into the cemetery, the short sword in one hand, the rusty knife in the other. Drunk with adrenaline, my senses were hitting on all sixteen cylinders. I could smell the damp of the earth, the musk of the trees, the salt of the distant sea. Could taste the moisture in the night and the sweat on my lips. I could feel every strand of muscle flexing in my arms, legs, chest, and shoulders. And I could clearly see the fear in my enemies' eyes, chipping away their confidence, melting away their strength.

My first slash with the disciple's sword went to one of the Warehouse Boys. It took off his right arm at the shoulder.

Two screams—one from the kid, one in The Committee. It really was Saint Peter's sword.

The guy bent over in pain, his left hand pressing into the blood, gristle, and bone where his arm had once hung. His chin fell to his chest, exposing the back of his neck. I jammed the sword in. All the way.

I yanked out the blade with two hands, spun, and in one fluid upward motion, I slashed open Warehouse Two. The blade entered him at the crotch then sliced through pelvis, bowels, and stomach before splitting him all the way to the sternum.

The big-fisted Viking was next, still clinging to his war hammer. He'd been eager to prove to his brother and father that he was worthy of this battle, that it had been a fluke when the saw's teeth had somehow found him. To prove him wrong, I leapt, kicked the hammer from his hand, and with a downswing of the sword, I gashed open his neck in the exact same place as last time.

To ensure Big Fist was beyond healing this time, I plunged the rusted knife into his ribs. Four times. Then let Peter's sword take off his head.

Grabbing a shock of the Nephilim's red-orange hair, I hoisted the head and held it up for my foes to see…then slung it at them.

I wasn't Og anymore. I was the seed of Jashobeam. The nephew of Michael. The son of the nun Sandrine and the Holy Watcher Gadriel. Put on earth by God to extinguish those who opposed Him. I was a Warrior-Hero. A Valiant One. A Man of War. Last of the Mighty.

I squatted over the dead Nephilim like a lion protecting its kill, straddling his chest, madness in my eyes. I grinned up at the terrified expressions on the faces of Uzza, Tartys, Shemja-za, and Chool. I could see their panic, how they'd never been witness to such unbridled savagery.

Tucked the knife in my back pocket and borrowed the dead Viking's war hammer.

Invited my onlookers to come after me.

They all stepped back. Even Phaeus. But not so much in fear like the others. He was studying my fighting style, searching out deficiencies in my technique, a blind spot that I'd overlooked in my years of battle training.

Uzza and Shemja-za finally shoved Tartys toward me, their true natures rising to the surface. The Watchers would sacrifice anyone, including their own children, to save themselves.

Tartys and his hatchet came, slowly, reluctantly.

I cut him down at the knees. Peter's blade sliced through all that bone, tendon, and muscle as if Tartys's body were made of air. After he went down, my war hammer went to work on his face and skull.

The Watchers pushed Chool forward next.

From behind me, a voice said, “Reckon I'll take this one.”

Chool's face relaxed when I stepped back to give Amos the opportunity to wreak his vengeance. The big black man looked like a child next the seven-and-a-half-foot Nephilim. It was all I could do to stop myself from jumping in to save my sidekick. But I knew the ex-priest and exorcist would never let it go. Even after we'd both gone to Heaven, I'd never hear the end of it. Literally. For eternity, it would always be, “Hey Og why di'n't ya let me have a shot a' tha' Chool fella?”

I couldn't live with that. More accurately, I couldn't die with that.

Amos had the oar-like club in one hand and the Fourth Nail hidden in the other. I could just see the rusty end of it poking out by his pinky.

Chool was wielding nothing but his calloused knuckles, size, strength, and the experience of killing more than ninety of my Mighty brethren.

They circled each other, crouched, hands ready to both strike and block. At the first opening, Amos struck with the club—a swift backhand blow. The only way the lightweight oar would do any damage was if it was authentic. If fake, the weapon was worthless. Any man could snap it over his knee.

The club pounded into Chool's ribs and knocked him eight feet sideways. The Nephilim lost his balance and hit the mat.

No earthly weapon could pack that kind of power. The club was good.

Chool recovered quickly, got to his feet and back into the fight.

The two traded jabs, bobbing and weaving, feeling each other out. Having seen what Amos had done to Barphook on the ship, Chool was taking no risks.

When Chool missed with a straight left, Amos dipped beneath it and blasted the oar at Chool. Clocked him just beneath the armpit.

This time, the Nephilim trapped the club, sandwiching it between his left side and his upper arm.

Caught by surprise, Amos froze. In his fleeting moment of confusion, he was unable let go of the weapon.

Just as Chool had planned.

The club was a phony. Chool had been playing us.

The Nephilim had drawn Amos in close and was now preparing to strike.

Chool's big left hand folded over Amos's and locked the man's hand to the handle of the club. Holding him there, Chool raised a fist over his head then came down with it like a boulder on top of Amos's skull.

Amos crumpled.

Down. And out.

The Nephilim strutted, showy. “Grandpa should've stayed home.” He paced around the unconscious victim at his feet. Chool took the club in both hands and busted it in half, making a sharp, foot-long stake. The better to kill Amos with.

Coming around, Amos groaned. His eyes blinked.

“Welcome back, old man.” Chool hovered above him. “Bet you miss your daughter.”

As the word “daughter” sunk in, Amos smiled. Delirious. “Lavender…” he mumbled with a faraway look.

“Yeah, Lavender,” Chool chuckled to himself. “I think it's about time for a father/daughter reunion. Don't you?”

Amos grinned, senseless and slaphappy. “Tha' be nice,” he said. His eyes filled with the hope of seeing Lavender again. “Real nice.” And he meant it.

Chool tightened his hold on the stake. “As you wish, preacher man.” And the sharp, wooden spike came down.

I closed my eyes. I couldn't bear to watch him die.

But I had to.

Soon he would draw his last breath, and his puzzled, dying gaze would bounce around in search of a familiar face. I would be that face. For him. I would do that.

Chool's stake was a foot from Amos's heart now.

Screw the consequences. I was about to dive in when…

A burst of speed.

A flurry of movement.

Amos's hand shot up and across his body and slammed into Chool's forearm, driving the stake away.

His strong, brown, gravedigger's grip closed on the Nephilim's wrist.

Amos's other fist jammed the Fourth Nail deep into Chool's arm.

The Nephilim felt the power go out of him. Instantly. He gaped, stunned, at the hole in his arm. Blood gushed from it, pumping out in spurts. His eyes wandered to his father, an alarmed stare pleading for help.

Shemja-za bolted forward.

I flung the sword, sidearm. It whirled like a boomerang.

Amos swept a steel-toed boot to Chool's knee. Brought the Nephilim down.

Shemja-za kept coming, blind to the blade wheeling toward him. Blind to everything but his son's call for help.

Amos pounced on Chool, the Nail ripping and shredding and tearing at the giant's face and neck.

The sword caught Shemja-za in the left cheek. Still spinning, the blade whipped around, sliced into his mouth, and cut him open all the way to the ear.

The Watcher staggered, peered down in shock at the sword lodged in his mouth. A dog with a bone.

His mouth began to smolder where the sword had torn him. Thin vines of smoke spiraled into the air. A strange light, like a lit candle on Shem's tongue, came through the lacerations now, growing brighter.

Azazel and Uzza watched, spellbound, dread in their eyes.

Amos was oblivious to all but Chool, still slashing.

Shemja-za's entire face was glowing now, a jack-o-lantern. Light radiated from the vents in his cheeks, shooting from his eyes, nose, and mouth, the steel between his teeth red and flaming. Billows of white smoke streamed from his mouth. Until, a light—as bright as an atomic blast—flashed.

And Shemja-za was gone.

Saint Peter's sword clattered to the earth.

Only a wispy puff of smoke where the Watcher once stood.