by Eve Langlais
On the ground, all around, was an army of the dead. Overhead, angels with swords.
And they were pinched between them.
Only… “Um, is it me,” Muriel asked, “or are we being protected by the horsemen of the apocalypse?”
Sure enough, War and his buddies formed a circle around Chris, Muriel, and his mom. His dad was also in there, but more by accident than design he’d wager.
Outside that ring, three of Muriel’s hubbies fought; only the dead weren’t hitting them back.
“What’s happening?” Chris asked as the flock of angels dove upon the zombies with fluting cries of triumph.
“This is an attack on your reign. God wants you dead,” his mother announced, raising her hand and deflecting a white-winged angel with a blue blast of light that sent it tumbling away.
“Me?” He couldn’t help a note of astonishment. “What the fuck did I ever do to him?”
“You exist,” was her reply.
“I’m a little offended,” Lucifer interjected. “I’ve been pissing my brother off for eons. Yet put my son in charge for a few days, and Elyon goes to war? Unfair, I say.”
“Die, unholy demon!” An angel with a massive wingspan dove at them, eyes alight with righteousness, the sword in his hand slightly curved and glowing.
“Bite me, Uriel.” Lucifer raised his hands, and a black cloud burst from them. Thousands of tiny, winged bugs swarmed the angel and took him down to the ground where the zombies went to town, jaws clacking.
As for Chris, he had no one to fight because, between his mom and dad and the damned undead, no one got near him.
But Isobel’s family didn’t have the same protection.
She’ll kill me if they get hurt.
Moving away from the circle of the dead, he shoved his way past them until he found the Rasputins…doing just fine on their own.
The elder Rasputin cackled as he flung lightning bolts into the sky, singeing feathers.
Thomas didn’t fight at all, merely placed his hands on his wife’s shoulders, and Chris could see the glow at the contact. As for Marya, she smiled as she chanted and twisted her hands. For a moment, Chris wondered what she did, and then he saw it, the green sprouting from the ground, spreading out tendrils ripe with thorns. The vines whipped into the sky, grabbing limbs and dragging the angels down. Thickets sprang up around the pair, protecting them from the undead.
They didn’t need his help.
Heck, Chris didn’t need help, for the dead didn’t touch him. On the contrary, they parted for him and defended him; they protected him from the angels.
Because the angels were after him. And against the mindless dead, with only their rotting fingers, the tide turned against him.
Chris ducked and cursed as an angel swooped in close. Of all the times to not have a shovel handy. Standing back up, something clipped him, and his cheek throbbed. He raised a hand to his face, and it came away bloody.
“Did you have to hit the face?” he yelled. He’d not been blessed with many things growing up. Not a nice home. No regular meals or new clothes. All he had was his destiny—which didn’t get him presents for Christmas—and his looks.
And now these angels, who he’d never done shit to, these sanctimonious pricks with their pretty little wings and their shiny swords—probably sold to them by Jesus himself—thought they could just swoop in and fuck over not only his face but also his sweet niece’s party.
“That’s fucking it,” he roared. He clenched his fists and raised his head and let forth a mighty yell. When the next angel came in close, he swung, and…thunk.
A body hit the ground. Opening his eyes, he saw the strangest thing in his hand—a glowing fucking shovel outlined in a wispy gray light.
Not exactly his sister’s flaming sword, but hot damn, he had his own magical weapon. He wasted no time using it, batting angels out of the sky, accidentally clipping some of the zombies who got in his way.
To his surprise, he found himself flanked—Mother on one side, Dad on the other, and his sister at his back.
His other sister, Bambi, held a stiletto and threatened anyone who got near War, as if that behemoth in a red suit needed help. War swung his mighty battle-ax and laughed. Was it wrong that the man, er, thing, er, horseman was growing on Chris?
The tide of the battle turned, and things became less chaotic. Chris actually got to look around, and it was then that he saw him.
His uncle. God.
Chris paused and looked him in the face. A countenance that should have been benevolent. A face he’d never met because he’d never had the chance.
Stalking close, God stood his ground, hands folded over his stomach, his expression calm.
“Why?” Chris asked. What had he ever done to earn his uncle’s hatred? Couldn’t they have talked things out? Did it have to come to war?
“You are sin.” The words boomed out of God, and Chris gaped at him.
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean? I am sin. I’m just a guy, who happens to have the Devil as a father.”
“You are King of Hell, the Destroyer of Nations. Your army is a perversion of mankind. Your very existence a stain upon this world.”
“Wow, dude, whatever happened to turning the other cheek and all that forgiveness shit your church is always spouting about?”
“That is for the mortals. You are an abomination and must be destroyed!” The words exhaled out of God, who gleamed with all his might. The zealous righteousness of his quest shone from his eyes. His fierce determination was in the set of his jaw. “Seize the abomination.”
Apparently, that meant Chris.
Somehow, his allies were torn from his side, and despite his mighty shovel, Chris proved too slow. Angels piled onto him, grabbed hold of his limbs, and took him to the ground. With their numbers and weight, they held Chris pinned and helpless. The only thing he could do was gaze up at God, who showed no mercy.
Wouldn’t you know, though, his uncle was too much of a pussy to strike the killing blow. His archangel Michael was instantly by his side.
Michael raised his sword, the blade humming with power, glowing white with heavenly fire. He held it high above his head and waited for the command.
The end had come. Not the one Chris had hoped for. At least Isobel wouldn’t have to see it. He just wished he’d gotten to say how sorry he was for lying to her. To tell her one last time how much he loved her and how he wished they had more time.
“Do it,” God ordered.
As the sword began its descent, Chris just hoped he could be manly about his death and not blubber if it hurt.
Before the sword could strike, his mother stepped in front of him, the scent of the grave following her.
A comforting smell. An unexpected rescue because she took the blow meant for him.
“Mother!” he gasped as she staggered back, the glowing sword stuck in her side.
Chris scrambled to his feet, not knowing what to do as Morgana swayed, all her crimes forgotten in that moment of selflessness.
But his mother didn’t look at him, and it wasn’t her wound that proved most shocking, but her next words as she stared at God. “You. I know you.”
Elyon eyed her up and down, disapproval in his expression. “I highly doubt that. I do not consort with your type.”
“My type?” Morgana laughed. “What a strange turn of events. I know you in spite of the face you now wear. You cannot hide your scent. And I’ve grown wiser since we last met.”
God tugged his beard. “You are speaking nonsense, female. I don’t know you.”
Lie. Was Chris the only one who heard it?
“You do know me, and now I understand why your brother doesn’t remember me.”
Apparently, it was possible for God to blanch even whiter than he already was. He blustered. “I don’t know what the whore speaks of. Michael, kill the witch. Run her through with your heavenly sword. She must be destroyed. She is evil incarnate.”
But it was
Chris’s turn to save her. He stepped in front of his mother, raised his magical shovel, and said, “Don’t you dare. Let her speak. Let us hear what she has to say.”
The dead crowded close, and the angels—their faces twisted in disgust—moved aside. An army waiting for orders. Listening to the unfolding drama.
“What are you afraid of, Accolon?” Mother taunted. “At least that’s what you called yourself back then. I should have listened to Merlin when he told me you were hiding something. Those clues you left, they were clever. They fooled me at the time, made me believe you were another in disguise,” she said, her breath hitching, the sword still dangling from her side. “But the scent doesn’t lie, and I can now see your aura. The same one you had back then. It was you, not Lucifer, who bedded me. You, not he, who fathered my son.”
And then, instead of a mic, his mother dropped.
26
The silence fell suddenly, the shock of Morgana’s words stilling all motion, all fight, even breath. No one dared to make a sound as all eyes and ears were tuned to the drama unfolding.
Not liking it one bit, and used to being the center of attention, Lucifer farted. Didn’t excuse himself, though, because that would be polite. It meant some gazes turned to him, which was better because, hello, most important person in the yard.
“I think you need to repeat that for everyone to hear, Morgana, because if I heard you right, you just said I’m not the daddy. You hear that, woman?” And by woman, he meant his wife, who’d given him hell when she found out he had a bastard son. “It wasn’t me!”
“She’s lying,” blustered his brother. “The Antichrist is the spitting image of you.”
“He is,” Lucifer agreed, looking over at the boy who appeared quite shell-shocked, unlike his daughter, Bambi, who snickered. “Carries the family gene, too. Even got our Daddy’s eyes.” Not that he remembered much of his father. Atlas had long ago left this world for one that didn’t weigh as heavily upon his shoulders.
“The idea I’m his father is preposterous. I took a vow of celibacy,” Elyon said, a bead of sweat rolling down from his temple.
“Did you or didn’t you bed my mother?” Chris found the balls to ask.
The longer his brother kept his lips clamped, the more Lucifer narrowed his gaze.
But it was Morgana, lying on the ground, gray smoke spilling from her injured side that spat, “Don’t you dare try and wiggle out of this again. You knew you got me pregnant.” Her gaze lasered Elyon. “I told you all those centuries ago I carried a child, your child, and then you disappeared. Hid from your responsibility.”
More than one set of eyes rounded, and a shocked, “Ooooh!” went through the crowd. Lucifer wished he had some popcorn.
For his part, Elyon tried to appear innocent. “I wasn’t your only lover. You were married to that king.”
Which caused more than one of the heavenly host to step back, their faces twisted in disgust.
Playing the blame and shame game. Lucifer would have none of it. “Did you fornicate with the nice, married lady?”
“A few times. But I pulled out, each time.” God told the truth.
But Morgana wasn’t letting him off easy. “You pulled out after you started ejaculating, you idiot. Then, when I missed my menses and Merlin told me I was pregnant, you wouldn’t see me. Told your buddy Peter in the barracks to turn me away when I came looking for you.”
“I wasn’t ready to settle down. Especially not with a sinful witch.” Elyon sniffed, his expression ripe with contempt. “And I was right about you being the wrong sort. Look at what happened next. When I refused to consort with you further, you went on a rampage, laying waste to the land.”
“Because I was angry,” Morgana snapped, reviving enough to push herself up on her arms. “I was pregnant and hormonal, and what did you do? You had me locked away by your brother, but only after you had Merlin tell me those lies.”
A mighty frown drew Lucifer’s brows together into a slash. “What lies did Merlin spread?”
“My mentor said it was the Devil who impregnated me. Gullible fool that I was, I believed him.” Morgana’s lips pressed tight. “I should have known he lied. I knew there was something off about Accolon. Something good.” Her lip curled into a sneer. “But I was younger then. Stupid, too. No wonder you wanted me locked away. If the world were to know you pulled another Mary, you would have lost all your followers.”
“Brother, that is devious.” Lucifer clapped his hands in admiration. “And to think, not only did you, as an imposter, impregnate the witch, you were also the one who devised the plan to lock her away. You set her up. You set us all up. Bravo!” Lucifer bowed in homage to the insidious plot.
For his part, Elyon appeared quite appalled. “I didn’t lie. I merely ensured a danger to my flock—”
“Don’t you mean danger to your dick? Can’t exactly preach one man, one woman, and together forever ‘til death do us part if you cast her aside, eh.” Lucifer winked. “Damn if I don’t feel close to you suddenly, brother. I always knew you had a bit of the Devil inside you.”
“Don’t compare me to you,” Elyon boomed. “I am nothing like you.”
“Me thinks he doth protest too much. About time you showed you weren’t perfect.”
“I am without sin.”
“Lie,” Lucifer announced with glee. “And you know what your religion says about liars.”
“I am the Almighty Creator, the one true God. I can—hey, let go of me.” Michael and the archangel Raphael gripped Elyon by his upper arms. “What are you doing? Unhand me.”
“Sorry, my lord, but you’ll have to come with us. By your own laws, you must repent.”
Elyon’s eyes widened. “You can’t do this.”
Except the angels, sworn to uphold God’s rules, could. They took him away in a cloud of white wings. Took Elyon to Heaven to pay penance and repent for his sins, their sudden departure meaning there was an army of the dead with no one to fight.
And a boy who wasn’t his son standing with a dazed look in his eyes.
Chris sounded shell-shocked as he said, “God’s my father.”
“Who art in Heaven. Yada. Yada. We know.” Lucifer snapped his fingers. “Which means, you need to change your last name. Can’t have you besmirching my disreputable honor with good deeds and whatnot.”
“I’m not the Antichrist,” the boy repeated, obviously dense. A result of less-than-perfect genes.
Not his problem. Not anymore. “Well, this was fun. Muriel, thank you for a most excellent party. I’ll have Lucinda’s gift transported shortly. Now, you can all clean up without me. I must be off because, according to my baby pager”—he held up a vibrating seashell—“Gaia’s going into labor. I’m gonna be a daddy again! Which means I need to grab some Cubans from Hell for some fresh-rolled cigars. Happy sinning!” With a final smirk, Lucifer left.
Apocalypse averted. Now on to the next calamity. Seeing his wife’s hooha stretch in ways it shouldn’t unless it was for his cock.
27
The moment his dad, ahem, uncle left, Chris dropped to his knees. “Mother?” Despite all the shocking news, he didn’t forget what she’d done.
She’d taken a blow meant for him. She cared.
Her dark gaze fixed on his face. “Don’t you dare start blubbering. I’m dying; it’s not a big deal.”
“I thought you couldn’t die.”
“The demise of this form only means I shall transcend.”
“But what if I don’t want you to go?” He’d never given her a chance. He’d spent so much time hating her that he never even tried to get to know her.
“You have no choice. This body is weak. Too weak for this…” She let her hand fall from her side, and the gray mist thickened as it poured. “Just do me a favor. Don’t forget me.”
How could he? His mother was Morgana Le Fay. He grabbed her hand. “I won’t.”
“Good.” She closed her eyes, and then she was gone, her body collapsing in
ward as if the mist were the only thing keeping it inflated.
He remained kneeling until Muriel tapped his shoulder. “Um, Chris. I know you’re probably kind of grieving right now, but think you can do something about the dead bodies in my yard?”
“The bodies can wait,” screeched Marya. “He has to go after my daughter. Isobel has been kidnapped!”
The words galvanized him like nothing else could. He jumped to his feet. “What do you mean she’s been kidnapped?” Last he’d seen her, she’d gone into the house to pee. And…never came back. Not even to fight. Isobel would never shy away from a fight.
His blood ran colder than a corpse.
Dashing into the house, he called for her to no avail. He made it to the front door and sprinted out onto the driveway. Still nothing.
She was gone.
She was…
“Woof.”
Goshen sat on the driveway, barking.
Chris raised his head until he could see why.
A chariot, white and gleaming, drawn by bloody flying horses, came prancing into view. Holding the reins, Jesus. Falling out of the chariot?
“Shit. Isobel.” Chris began to run, arms outstretched, not fast enough, not going to make it.
With a mighty push of his hind legs, Goshen leapt into the air. Isobel grabbed hold of his fur, and they both landed, safe and sound.
But Chris still yelled, “Jesus Christ, get your ass back here so I can beat you senseless.”
“No time, brother.” Jesus circled the chariot in the sky. “I just heard the news. God’s going to jail for a few centuries, which means I get to be in charge. Finally.” Jesus fist-pumped.
“I don’t give a shit about that. You took my wife.”
“And I brought her back. After all, being with my brother’s wife would be a sin.”
Brother?
Ah, fuck.
“Pop into Heaven when you get a chance to say hi. I’ll tell Peter at the gates to let you in.” With a wave, Jesus flew off, and Chris was left standing, jaw dropped.
A body hurtled into him. The dog. Who put him flat on his back and licked him.
