Although they were a good fifty feet from where I stood, I instantly recognized one of the men to be Stephen. Dressed in his typical black suit, he stood opposite a larger man clothed all in white with a massive silver sword strapped to his back. Although I didn’t know who he was, something about him sent a distinct chill down my spine. He was quite a bit taller than Stephen and exuded a presence that was practically tangible. You could almost see it outlining his powerful frame. He had to be an angel. Either that or an extra from one of the Conan movies. Sensing that the conversation was no longer private, they abruptly stopped talking and turned in my direction with a pair of intense scowls. It was an awkward moment. So incredibly awkward.
“Dean, I see you received my summons. Please, join us,” said Stephen in a not unkind manner as the scowl effortlessly transitioned to his signature stoic mask. “Tell me, how are you feeling?”
“Ah, I’m well … I guess,” I awkwardly replied. “Little hazy. But well.”
Gathering the requisite courage, I began the solemn walk toward the hearth. Trying to maintain eye contact with Stephen, I couldn’t shake the soul-piercing gaze of his unidentified blonde buddy. He was looking right through me with his blazing blue eyes. Scanning. Probing. I could feel him sifting through my thoughts. Looking for something. Something he couldn’t find. Although his regal, statuesque face maintained a neutral expression, I could sense his skepticism. Or perhaps it was contempt. Taking a bold yet graceful step in my direction, he squarely placed himself in front of Stephen, prompting me to pull to an abrupt halt.
“The Seventh of Seven,” he said in a somewhat rhetorical fashion while continuing to gaze upon me with a scrutinizing stare. “Dean Robinson. The prodigal Son of Wrath. We have been anticipating your arrival for many centuries. I cannot say I am most pleased to make your acquaintance.” Dismissively turning from me and facing Stephen, he solemnly said, “If the prophecy is credible — this marks the coming of the ascension. Are you prepared for what may follow?”
“I am,” replied Stephen in a somber tone.
“Very well. Take heed, Deacon. Do not convey your trust without great caution. If what you say is true, you will find no solace outside of the Seven Realms. Mind your borders carefully. Scour the Earth. Find where the anakim are veiled. Time is no longer our ally.”
Upon completing the statement, he walked directly into the towering flame of the hearth, and vanished amidst a powerful whoosh of air and a momentary flash of brilliant light. Feeling like a child that wandered into the middle of a movie, I turned to Stephen in a clear state of confusion.
“We have much to discuss,” he said dismissing my look of befuddlement. “But first, allow me to properly welcome you to the First Realm, otherwise known as, Raven Spire — my home.”
Completely awestruck, the first thing that came to mind was simply, “Your home? You live … Here?”
“In a manner of speaking,” he replied. “From the Spire I am able to provide watch over all under my purview.”
As he finished speaking, six large window-like openings formed throughout the circular wall of the rotunda, displaying a perfect panoramic view of the surrounding landscape. The blinding snow instantly gave way to a flawless blue sky as radiant sunshine flooded the room. It was nothing short of breathtaking. Almost too perfect for words. In complete wonderment, I carefully approached the edge of the closest opening, and gazed at what appeared to be a medieval castle built atop a formidable hill in the distant landscape. Surrounded by a small village, it was a scene straight out of a frigg’n movie.
“What is that place?” I muttered unable to pull my eyes from the surreal setting.
“That is Badencoch, the Seventh Realm. What you see before you is the home of the archdeacon and those in his charge,” he replied while drawing my attention to the other openings. “Each window corresponds to a different Realm within the Guild of Deacons. They surround Raven Spire in a perfect six-pointed formation — aligned with the Earthly gates.”
Speechless, I slowly made my way around the rotunda, taking in the various landscapes and the settlements contained within. Varying in setting, architecture, and time period, each Realm was a splendor in and of itself. Upon reaching the final window, I was dismayed to watch it slowly fade back into solid rock, and once again the room was cast in the dim lighting of the hearth.
“Guess the show’s over,” I muttered.
“You will understand all in due time. But now, join me for a cup of tea. We have precious little time,” said Stephen as he walked past me toward a small wooden table on the perimeter wall of the rotunda.
“Tea?” I scoffed truly astonished at how this scene was unfolding. Firstly, some unidentified angel that evidently hated my guts, for some unknown reason, crawled around my head looking for something. I think that constitutes mind-rape. Not cool. And secondly, in lieu of a divine bitch slap from Cloakboy, he invites me to a frigg’n tea party. What the hell was going on here? Reaching the table, I watched, in nervous anticipation, as Stephen carefully combined several obscure ingredients in, what appeared to be, humble stone goblets.
“Never underestimate the value of a well made cup of tea,” he said while passing me one. “Settles the body as well as the mind. I believe you could benefit from both at the current moment. Yes?”
“That’s a frigg’n understatement.” I muttered while accepting the steaming drink. “You have anything stronger?”
As the slight hint of a smirk crept along his mouth, he replied, “I’m afraid not.”
“Fair Enough,” I said as my eyes drifted to the flickering light dancing across the dome ceiling. “To be honest, I have absolutely no idea what the hell is going on here. Wherever here actually is, for that matter.”
Pensively watching me, Stephen said nothing. He simply stood there, observing.
Unable to hold back the barrage of deluded thoughts spinning through my head, I blurted out, “Ok, so, I fry the church — Petrovich bails — Enter Scotty and the Chickenman — I wake up half frozen with my face buried in snow on the side of a random mountain. That was unexpected. Then, I hoof it up said mountain in a blizzard — wander through an endless tunnel for hours — walk in on you going toe-to-toe with a sword-toting body builder who I presume to be an angel. Again with the unexpected. And then, the oversized Ken doll hits me with a mind whammy — goes on about seven somethings and prophecies — and makes one hell of an exit through the bonfire elevator. Unexpected? Oh, Hells Yeah. And just when I think the strange-meter is pegged — instead of being on the receiving end of an epic ass chewing for blowing the second trial — I get a cup of frigg’n tea. And just where the hell are my shoes?”
Casually sipping from his goblet, while tolerantly listening to my unfiltered tirade, Stephen calmly said, “Are you quite finished?”
“I think so,” I grumbled.
“Good,” he said pointing to a burly wooden chair to my immediate left that I swear wasn’t there a second ago. “Please, sit then. Drink. It will help. This particular brew is a concoction I’ve perfected over the course of a millennium, and I’m rather proud of it.”
Taking a seat in a matching chair opposite mine, that I’m pretty sure wasn’t there a second ago either, he said, “I understand your sentiment and will attempt to explain that which I am able. As I stated earlier — We have much to discuss.”
Typical Cloakboy. All business.
Chapter 14
Feeling somewhat satisfied that I got that off my chest, I reluctantly took a seat and slurped some tea. And holy shit — It was amazing. A taste like I’d never experienced, matched only by the instant, almost overpowering, invigorating sensation that followed. It was happiness in a little stone cup.
“That was Gabriel,” Stephen said getting the sense that I was ready to have a rational discussion. “I summoned you here as attestation that the Seventh of Seven was indeed incarnate. I apologize for the abrupt nature of the situation, but it was a necessity.”
“Gabriel,�
� I shot back while spitting out a mouth full of my new favorite beverage. “Gabriel — as in the archangel? You might have mentioned that earlier.”
At the very least I would’ve held back on the Ken doll reference. To be fair, I probably wouldn’t have. But at least I would’ve felt bad about it. For a short period of time anyway.
“What’s the Seventh of Seven?” I blurted out trying to quickly move past the fact that I insulted perhaps the most badass angel to patrol the friendly skies.
“You, Dean. You are the Seventh of Seven,” he said while gracefully lowering the goblet to his lap. “The Seventh Deacon of the Seventh line. For you see, the Father decreed that the power of his wrathful touch was to bestow upon humans of the line of David — seven by seven times. No more. No less. Throughout the course of history, Deacons have emerged in a time of Earthly need as dictated by the Balance. As I was the first — You are the last.”
“The last?” I pensively asked while lowering my tea. “The last Deacon?”
“The last of forty-nine souls,” he replied with a sobering look. “Never again will the Father’s Wrath grace a son of man. The Guild is at full strength, so to speak. Nearly three centuries have past since the emergence of a Deacon prior to your arrival.”
“But the trial,” I said trying to wrap my head around what Stephen was going on about.
“Yes, the trial,” he said stopping me in mid-sentence with a wave of his hand. “Tell me, Dean, what was the purpose of the second trial?”
“Petrovich — or Azazel rather,” I replied feeling like that was one hell of a loaded question. “You sent me there to take him down. Eliminate the nephilim. Restore the Balance. Figured that was pretty obvious. I hit him with everything I had and still failed with flying colors.”
“Failure is an earthly concept,” he sagely replied while rising from his chair and placing his teacup back on the table. “Do you know why Azazel was unaffected by the judgment fire you cast upon him?”
“His really nice suit was fire proof?” I said with a smidge of sarcasm.
“No,” Stephen replied with a look that made me instantly regret saying it. “You relented to the Wrath. There was no focus in your actions. They were driven purely by rage. Without reason — and without Balance.”
“The Balance,” I muttered. “That was the second trial.”
“Correct,” he replied. “The Balance within. The ability of the Deacon to exert his will and control the raw power of the Wrath. While you fell short, shall we say, in certain aspects, you succeeded in others. Despite the unyielding drive of the cloak, your first priority was to preserve the lives of three innocents — demonstrating the pureness of your heart. Furthermore, I must confess that the conditions of your trial were not exactly routine. I regret to tell you this, but I have not been completely honest with you.”
“You don’t say,” I dryly grumbled in a perpetual state of confusion.
With what appeared to be a look of apprehension, Stephen seemed to be choosing his next words very carefully.
“In a time more — typical, a Deacon prepares for the second trial over the course of a century, under the mentorship of his archdeacon and support from a cleric. Unfortunately, the times we find ourselves in, at the present, are neither typical nor terribly optimistic.”
Turning his gaze toward the roaring hearth, he said, “Truth be told — I’m afraid we are nothing short of desperate. It has been my belief, for some time now, that Azazel has somehow infiltrated the ranks of the Guild. We have lost several Deacons over the past decade. Simply vanished. Warded from our Sight. While my first inclination was that they had fallen at the hand of the enemy, I can still feel their presence. They are very much alive.”
“You think they’ve gone rogue?”
“It is not possible for a Deacon to turn to the darkness,” he said definitively. “The Wrath will not serve the enemies of Heaven.”
“Then what the hell happened to them?”
“The truth continues to elude me. Although, your interaction with Azazel confirmed that he is undoubtedly connected. How and to what end — I cannot be sure.”
“So basically … you used me as bait,” I said after pondering what Stephen just dropped on me. “You sent me in there half cocked on a damn fact-finding mission. You knew I’d go postal. It was a setup. I never had a chance.”
“No. You did not,” he replied with a somewhat uncomfortable sternness about him. “I trust that you will forgive my actions. The decision was not made lightly. You must understand, Dean, we had no other alternative. You presented us with a unique opportunity. Had we descended upon Azazel in full force, he would have sensed our presence and fled well before our arrival. But you afforded us the ability to gain insight into his motives. We were, in fact, ignorant of his presence in Bosnia until Father Watson conveyed his suspicions about the transgressions in Brezovo Polje. It was a literal needle in a haystack scenario.”
Locking eyes with me, he said, “It was not by circumstance that your mortal path ended in that church. It was destined to be.”
The resolute severity of Stephen’s demeanor instantly shot down any feelings of trivial irritation I was momentarily harboring.
“Understood,” I humbly replied.
“There is more,” he said reluctantly. “I have contemplated how much of this to share with you, but given the dire nature of the situation I feel it would be unfair to not.”
“Not sure I like where this is going,” I muttered. “Is this where we get to the part why Gabe evidently hates my guts?”
“You are indeed wise beyond your years,” he said with a dry smirk.
“What can I say? It’s a curse.”
“Indeed. I believe you and Abernethy will get along famously,” he said while beginning to fix a second goblet of tea. “Despite the rather cold reception, Gabriel does not bear you any ill will. In fact, he is one of the few members of the Seraphim court that are tolerant of our kind. As you can imagine, the Deacon’s very existence is rather offensive to the angelic, for the Father chose man over his divine sons to wield his judgment upon the nephilim. His less than friendly sentiment was a direct result of what you represent — The Son of Wrath — and that which follows.”
“Fair enough. I’ve been called worse, I guess. Care to explain what the hell that means exactly?” I said while eagerly anticipating a second dose of the wonder tea. “Does this have anything to do with the prophecy he was going on about?”
With a pensive glare, he replied, “Amongst other things, the Son of Wrath prophecy foretells the incarnation of the last Deacon, the Seventh of Seven, as a prelude to the fallen Watchers liberation from their Earthly prison, and subsequent ascension to the Heavens resulting in a thousand years of darkness and unspeakable suffering.”
“Awesome,” I grumbled. “The prophecy doesn’t by chance go into any detail about how that particular operation goes down, does it?”
“It does not,” he said devoid of emotion. “Although there is little doubt that it will occur by the hand of Azazel, and result in the spilling of blood — angel and man alike. All indication is that he’s building a force to the like we have not seen in a millennium. It is imperative we find the anakim — the nephilim giants. Destroy the anakim, and he is no match for the combined strength of the Guild. Even with our depleted ranks. Now that we have you.”
“Me? How do you figure that? I couldn’t even handle one frigg’n giant and his baby brothers. You just told me I had like a hundred years of training left.”
“It is encouraging to hear you were actually listening to me,” he said with perfect deadpan delivery while handing me a second goblet. “I had my doubts there for a good while.”
Flashing him my ‘piss up a rope’ glare, I replied, “Now that’s just hurtful.”
“Hurtful?” He casually shot back while raising an eyebrow. “Like the moniker of ‘Cloakboy?’”
Apprehensively accepting the cup while making the mental note to never, ever, eve
r, ever use that nickname again, I simply said, “Fair enough.” And left it at that. “Hey, on an unrelated note, this tea is great. Ah, fabulous. I mean like really good.”
“Yes, it is,” Stephen said with his signature subtle to nonexistent smirk peeking out from the corner of his mouth. “Now back to business, shall we?”
“Yes, sir,” I humbly said very eager to move off the topic. “With pleasure.”
“Very well,” he muttered while taking a modest sip. “You will soon realize that among the Deacons you are an anomaly. Within a period of months you have acquired abilities that typically require centuries. Albeit the use of a sword is not one of them.”
Ignoring the last comment, I said, “How is that possible?”
“It is foretold. The power wielded by the Seventh Deacon of the Seventh line is legend — equal to only one other.”
Solemnly matching his gaze, I muttered, “You.”
“Correct. The first and the last. We share a unique bond. It’s the very reason you were able to view my visions — my memories — in your dream. It’s also the reason I was able to subconsciously summon you here from your state of sustained healing, perhaps prematurely. That, I imagine, would explain your ‘sleep walking’ experience. The full extent of our connection is still unclear to me, but I know its there. I can feel it. It is strong.”
“Why me?” I asked somewhat floored by Stephen’s commentary. “Why was I chosen for this?”
“Fair question. But I’m afraid not one I can answer. You were chosen by the Father and him alone. As is every Deacon.”
“Chosen by God,” I muttered under my breath thinking that I would’ve been better off not knowing that particular detail. Feeling the need to change the subject at the risk of becoming completely overwhelmed, I said, “Ok. So where do we go from here? Back to the trials?”
Rise of the Giants: The Guild of Deacons, Book 1 Page 13
