by Vox Day
Robin wasn’t sure what he had been expecting to hear, but whatever it was, it wasn’t that. A demonlord who wasn’t a fallen angel? He’d never heard of such a thing! And yet, it would explain a lot about his unpredictability, if not his madness. His power, too, was anomalous. Could it be that there were entities that walked unknown amongst the Host and Legions in the same manner that they themselves intersected the mortal world?
“Older, like Leviathan?”
“Exactly. Leviathan was the king of Chaos, and he survived. Is it so unthinkable to suppose that others of his ilk might have survived the swords of Heaven?”
“Not entirely, no, I guess. Does anyone else know anything about this?”
“Someone must. I don’t have the time to tell you of everything that led to… to the betrayal of my love. But know this. Some of the mightiest names among the Fallen were involved, and they saw fit to force the Mad One upon us. Why they should wish to unseat him now, I do not know—I can only imagine that he has played his part and they have no need for him anymore.”
“If he is not one of us, how can we hope to destroy him?”
“If he is truly a creature of Chaos, then there is one weapon that should suffice. Oberon told me stories of the age when Heaven first warred against Chaos, when the Thirty rode with Heaven’s King and Leviathan was struck down and bound. They bore great swords forged from the very bones of the Chaos Lords, and the mightiest of them was Arabel, the Sword of Wrath, and Prince Jehuel was its lord.”
“The Lord of the Sword! I’d heard the name, but I never knew the story behind it.”
“Then mark this well, Robin. Prince Jehuel is fallen! Where he is, and more importantly, where Arabel might be, I do not know. Many years ago, it was supposed to be in Albion, but I never knew there to be any truth to the rumor. You must find him, in any case, for no angel can wield that blade but him.”
Robin was intrigued, although he found it difficult to believe that there was ever a weapon bonded only to a specific angel. How did that work? It was possible, he supposed. Tricky. Mortals were easier. He considered the matter for a moment when he realized that Titania had gone silent.
“Titania?” he whispered uncertainly. There was no reply, except for a faint scratching. She was still there, it seemed, so he waited patiently, until he heard her voice again, even softer than before.
“A guard passed by, but the spell held and he did not mark me. Now, I must go before my fortune fades, but remember, do not go to Oberon when you are freed!”
“Wait! Titania!” Robin did not dare to raise his voice, but he scratched furiously at the door. He had more questions to ask, like where he should start looking for this Jehuel, and why she believed that no one else could bear his marvelous sword. But she did not reply, and after a long, frustrating silence, he was forced to conclude that she had abandoned him again.
The next evening, however, he learned that she had spoken truly. The Mad One’s visit was almost perfunctory, although there was nothing half-hearted about the demon king’s attempt to force his mind. By the time the door slammed, leaving him in darkness, he was sprawled on his back and blinking at the tiny, bright-coloured fairies that appeared to be zooming haphazardly about his vision. After a while, they began to fade, leaving behind the unquestioned grandmother of every headache he’d ever had.
Gingerly, tenderly, he began to examine the interior of his mind. The first geas he found was obvious, the second rather less so, and the third would surely have escaped his notice had he not been on the look-out for even the most subtle spells of compulsion. Titania was right. Maomoondagh must see him as the easiest way to ferret out Oberon’s hiding place; well, he intended to see how long the Mad One’s arm reached, and just how far he was willing to stretch it. Not too far, he guessed, not with Moloch’s savage spawn preparing to move against him.
The downside, of course, was that that very same threat left him with very little time. Not that he had much to do. Just track down a fallen angel lord and convince him to drop whatever he was doing and wield his sword on Oberon’s behalf against someone who had never done anything to him. Piece of cake, really.
He shifted out of the material world and gave his wings the faintest flutter. He held his hand up above his head as he floated slowly upward, just in case Titania had misheard or the Mad One had changed his mind. But the roof was just a roof, nothing but easily penetrated plaster and concrete tile—the more substantial barrier to his kind was no longer there. He was free, in a manner of speaking. He also had no doubt that there were eyes upon him, watching closely to see which way he would fly.
He flew west. But as he flew, he could sense the watching eyes upon him.
Angels travel in a wide variety of manners. There are, of course, their famous wings, although a surprising number are deprived of their use, either as a punishment or because they have been forcibly removed. There are also the famous chariots of fire, although these have fallen into disrepute among the Fallen, who, though they will deny it, find their preferences insensibly altered over time by their greater immersion in the crass materiality of the mortal world. Your average demon would not be caught dead in such an outdated vehicle, and would vastly prefer to be seen inside the sleek lines of a Ferrari, a Lamborghini or a Porsche.
And while it is no great hardship for even the lowliest of the low to painstakingly wing his way across the Atlantic, the vast majority of those who must make such a transit elect to hitch a ride with their mortal lessers—indeed, accounting for the guardians and tempters who must perforce escort their mortal charges, the average transatlantic flight may have three or four times as many unticketed passengers as it does paying customers.
So it was that after escaping, in a manner of speaking, the Mad One’s clutches, Robin immediately struck out for Heathrow. He kept a close watch out for anyone following him, but he did not see anything until he swooped low upon the tarmac and there, caught in silhouette against the light of the Moon, were two fallen archons soaring high above him. He pretended not to see them until a British Airways 747 began its lumbering takeoff, at which point he ran alongside the huge machine, leaped nimbly astride one of the roaring engines underneath the wing, and waved a cheery goodbye to them.
The archons, belatedly realizing his intention, roared and plunged towards him, but by then the massive jet was already leaving the ground and there was no way the demonic pair could catch up with the mortal machine. They were powerful spirits, but they were created for battle, not speed, and so they pulled up, stymied by his unexpected flight, shouting furious curses that were as harmless as they were ill-meant.
Chapter 13
Secret Assassin
I never try anything, I just do it.
You wanna try me?
—White Zombie, (“Thunderkiss ‘65”)
Now that he was safely past the border, Robin was of the opinion that sharing the no-doubt wretched accommodation of the Twice-Fallen might well be preferable to spending even one evening in this pair of podunkvilles on the great American prairie. The river divided not only the two mortal cities, but also their corresponding Fallen principalities. The one on the left belonged to a nonentity named Bloodwinter, it seemed, and he recalled one of the border guards saying that the other bank was ruled by a jumped-up naiad who called herself Lim-Nithural.
He decided to go right. Bloodwinter sounded like a crashing bore, and the lights of the city to the west were markedly brighter. He’d hit one or two of the hotspots, ask a few questions here and there, and then move on. The chances that his elusive Sarim was here were next to none, so he might as well see where the local Fallen were congregating and blow off some steam.
Now that he was safely past the border, he felt free to take to the air. There wasn’t much of a breeze, though, so he stroked his way over to the interstate highway, then amused himself by surfing down the road on the top of a black Escalade containing a handsome young couple who appeared to be heading into the heart of the city for an eve
ning on the town. It was exhilarating; they were only moving about one hundred kilometers an hour, but the speed of the ground flashing by just five feet below him made it feel as if they were going even faster. He was down a stratum and partially substantial—the threat of some serious road rash only added to the rush—though he was still invisible to the mortal eye.
“What do you think you’re doing?” A Guardian stuck his head out the open window and pointed the business end of a sword at him. Robin could feel the heat of its intense flames on his face. “Back off, or I’ll throw you off myself!”
“Cheers, mate!” Robin said, and he spread his wings to aid his balance as he leaped off the back of the Cadillac and ran up the hood and windshield of the following Audi. An unexpected shift into the left lane nearly sent him flying off the second car, but he managed to avoid a nasty tumble with a lucky grab at the car’s ski rack. He laughed, thoroughly enjoying himself.
Tunes, that’s all I need now.
A young girl was driving the car, dancing in her seat and singing along to some execrable kitty pop. Enough of that. He lashed her mind, barely more sapient than the squirrels of Sussex Weald. HIT SEEK.
She hit the button and obediently tuned the radio to 93.7, the local metal station. It wasn’t exactly what he was looking for, but it was close enough in this colonial cultural backwater.
“Hey!” a big Tempter sitting alone in the backseat popped his head up and shouted at him through the open sunroof. “What do you think you’re doing? Don’t be messing with her head!”
“Don’t be such a wanker, mate! I’m just skitching a ride downtown and I couldn’t stand that screechy piddle. I’ll hit you baby, one more time…. I don’t suppose you know where there might be any action?”
“You’re not from around here, are you.”
“I can tell you’re the bright boy, you are.”
“Hey, there’s no need for that! Anyhow, it depends on what you mean by action. The Divine here are pretty tame, for the most part, but if you don’t have any objection to getting your head handed to you, you can try over on the East Side—”
“No, mate, not that kind of action. I’m a lover, not a fighter. I was thinking more in terms of general debauchery, lonely Temptresses in need of consolation, that sort of thing.”
“Okay, right. Yeah, well, you definitely want to stay on the west side of the river, then. Things move around, you know, but First Ave is always a good place to start. Even if nothing’s happening on the locality, someone there will know where it is.”
The car shifted lanes again and Robin swayed with the vehicle’s motion, then crouched lower as the Audi took an S-curve at speeds well in excess of the limit.
“Hey, what’s the matter with you? You’re not all in the meat, are you?”
“No, just a tad. You should try it sometime, it’s the ultimate high-speed skateboard.”
“Yeah, but if you fall off, dude, it’s going to hurt!”
“It wouldn’t be any fun if it didn’t, mate. The whole point is to stay on, right? So, where’s this street of which you speak so highly?”
“Not a street, a club. My girl here is heading south, but we’ll pass right under the Washington bridge. We’re almost there. Hop off on it and go east to First, then take a left and head south for seven blocks until you see a black building on your left. It’s just past the Target Center, the big arena on the right, you can’t miss it.”
“Brilliant!”
The car crested a rise, and threw Robin about a meter in the air. Fortunately, the young driver did not elect to switch lanes at that moment, otherwise, he would have lost it for sure. For the first time, he was able to see the scattered skyscrapers of the little downtown district; there were about six buildings truly worthy of the name. The motorway then plunged downward and the car zoomed past a series of high concrete walls; he was surprised to see that there was no graffiti on them whatsoever. Given a week, the London street artists would have had them covered with everything from imaginative murals of Che Guevara and Osama bin Laden to the crudest vulgarities. Was there some strange Divine influence at work here, or could it be that the local art proles simply preferred guerilla street theatre?
“Hey, that’s the bridge I was telling you about!” The tempter pointed at a concrete-and-steel structure towards which they were rushing with some velocity. “Have a good time!”
“Thanks!” Robin sprang upward, furling his wings as he spread his arms and arched his back. His body rotated backwards even as it hurtled forward at nearly 100 kilometers an hour, and he felt a delicious chill of fear as he wondered if he’d jumped high enough. As his head came around, he was happy to see the oxidized guard rails protecting the edge of the bridge flash beneath him, and he immediately stretched out his wings to serve as an improvised air brake. They slowed him just enough to allow him to hit a graceful two-point landing on the sidewalk less than two meters from the far end of the bridge.
Clap. Clap. Clap. The applause was slow, even sarcastic. He looked up and saw a blonde demoness eyeing him with equal parts amusement and contempt. She was gaunt and her inner fire was barely more than glowing embers—he guessed she was probably the spirit of the nondescript bridge, or perhaps simply a wandering dryad who’d lost her tree.
“That was the stupidest thing I’ve ever seen,” she said. “You were third-street, weren’t you. I could tell by the sound.”
“It was brilliant, wasn’t it!” he agreed. Street, that must be the local slang, he decided. It was new to him, anyhow. He shrugged. Whatever. “No risk, no reward, my dear.” She laughed, and her half-sneer was abruptly transformed into a one-sided half-smile.
“So, what’s going on, English? You look new to town.”
“I am. I’m looking for a place on the First Avenue. A nightclub of sorts. Can you take me there?”
He grinned as she looked him over. A calculating little devil, she was. Not that he had much to offer her, except perhaps a break from the everyday boredom of its place. It wasn’t much, but apparently, it was enough.
“Do I look like I can?”
She didn’t, actually. When he looked closer, he saw that his initial surmise had been correct and there was a thin skein of silver circling her neck that kept her leashed to the bridge. It would stretch, but not more than a block or two without snapping. The consequences wouldn’t be lethal, not immediately, but after a few minutes what little fire she possessed would dissipate into the various shadows as she, or rather, the remnants of her consciousness, were scattered across the Void. And by the time they were drawn together again, as they would inexorably be drawn, ten thousand years might pass. As with most things, immortality was not quite all that it was cracked up to be.
“Perhaps I can do something about that.” He reached out and grasped the skein, and with a twist of his wrist, severed it. She staggered back and took a deep breath, given the terror in her eyes an obvious prelude to a scream, but he raised a hand and silenced her. “Don’t worry, I’m just giving you a night off.”
“You are? But, how can you do that? It’s not possible.”
“It’s one of the few compensations that come with the job.” He winked at her. “We itinerant sorts have the need to take a few liberties every now and then. Just don’t tell anyone you left your bill—it’s not going to fall down without you, is it?”
“Hardly. It’s no Ponte Vecchio, but it’s sturdy enough.” She was staring, amazed at the remnant of silver still attached to her neck. She held it in her hand for a moment, then dropped it and glanced up at him with a speculative stare. “Hey, you’re not one of those Teeth guys, are you?”
“By Teeth, I assume you are referring to the oft-rumored, but never-seen angelic agency known in the vernacular as Satan’s Teeth, which reports directly to Our Dear Lord Sathanas and executes His will on those spirits who have failed, disobeyed or otherwise annoyed him sufficiently to require their immediate removal from this plane of being?”
“Yeah!” She practic
ally moaned the word. Her eyes were gleaming and she was quivering with excitement.
“Never heard of them. So, where is this place we’re headed?”
She frowned, obviously not believing his denial, but confused enough by his answer to refrain from inquiring further. She was not the brightest demoness he’d ever encountered and she suited his needs admirably. Any tales he left behind him would surely be so blown out of proportion as to render both him and his activities entirely unrecognizable.
“First Avenue? It’s up that way… not too far. Yeah, I’ll show you, if you like. I don’t see why not. So, what’s your name?”
“I’ve known a few in my time. But you can call me Angelus.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“You shouldn’t. It’s not my real name.”
She laughed, obviously won over. She was also correct in saying that it wasn’t far to their destination. After a surprisingly pleasant walk through the uncrowded city, which reminded him somewhat of the gauche tourist’s corridor in the heart of Dublin, they reached a two-story black building squatting on a corner. He was disappointed, though unsurprised to discover that it was not only a grotty little place, even sketchier than most of London’s naffer clubs, but three-quarters empty as well.
“Let me get this straight,” he said. “They close here at two o’clock, and no one even goes out until ten? Is this one of those towns inhabited by the Amish? Or is it the Mormons? I can never keep them straight.”
“No, it’s just a Midwestern thing,” said his tour guide, who had warmed to her temporary job. Her name was Pamillia, and she was a wealth of mind-numbing information on bridges and other forms of mortal architecture. “No great sinners, not much angst, and there’s not a whole lot in the way of human tragedy, but there’s tons of mortal stupidity to laugh at if you go in for that sort of thing.”
“Farce, in other words.”
“Um, yeah. Did you know that they call this the Minneapple?”
“This being what, the city?”
