Rise of the Giants: The Guild of Deacons, Book 1

by James MacGhil

  Quickly reaching the staircase, he abruptly stopped and fixed me with a hard gaze before taking the first step downward. With his demeanor completely changed, he solemnly said, “It’s go time. You ready for this?”

  “Hell yeah, I’m ready,” I said matching his gaze with one of my own. “We got a plan?”

  “Still working out the finer details, but at a high level, it goes something like — We go to Skip’s place, disable the wards, and kick the fucking door in.”

  “That’s a good start,” I muttered taking a couple steps in his direction. “And then?”

  As his skin flashed a deep, brilliant red, he muttered, “We beat the piss out of him until he tells us something.” As his skin instantly returned to a normal shade, he disappeared down the spiral staircase in a Chickenman flash.

  “Good plan,” I muttered with my face stretched into a wolfish grin. “Simple. Easy to remember.”

  Chapter 23

  As my boots crunched through the thick layer of snow blanketing the sidewalk, I pulled the collar of my peacoat up around my neck as we briskly waltzed past Symphony Hall and waited to cross Mass Ave in the ridiculous rush hour traffic. Despite the fact we were a week into the new year, remnants of the holiday spirit lingered throughout the streets of Boston’s Back Bay as oversized wreaths were draped on all the lamp posts, and the various storefronts were still decorated with obnoxious Christmas and New Years greetings.

  Squinting at Rooster in the late afternoon sun, I made the mental note that if society in general had any inkling of the insane happenings that I’d recently become privy to they’d be holed up in fall out shelters eating Spam, pissing in plastic bottles, and saying Hail Mary’s with a Bible in close proximity.

  “Why is it that we’re not using one of those fancy doors to get where we’re going like everybody else does? It’s not exactly walking weather out here.”

  Intently staring at his nepher phone while starting to cross the bustling street, completely oblivious to the honking cars and various Boston’esque obscenities directed at him, he muttered, “Firstly, we’re only a couple blocks from Columbus Ave. Secondly, porting anywhere in the vicinity of Skip’s apartment will most likely trigger his wards and tip our hand.”

  Looking up at me as we hoofed past the Symphony Station T-stop, he added, “And thirdly, I didn’t think a battle hardened Army Ranger would bat an eyelash at a little stroll in the brisk weather.”

  “Yeah well, I had my fair share of frozen misery when I was alive,” I grumbled as my breath was visible in the wintry air. “Should be some kind of proviso for that shit when you’re dead — or undead as it were.” Shielding my eyes from the intense afternoon sun bouncing off the snow, I muttered, “I’d give my kingdom for some sunglasses right now.”

  “Inside left pocket of your coat,” he instantly responded.

  Knowing damn well that there was nothing in the inside left pocket of my coat, I skeptically reached in, and was quite surprised to pull out a pair of classic RayBan Aviators. With the silver trim no less. My sunglass of choice. Thinking that was a pretty slick maneuver, I happily slid them on my face while giving him a droll glance.

  “Thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it. Figured you’d want those relics sooner or later. You do realize they’ve been out of style for the better part of twenty years, right”.

  “You can’t beat the classics,” I muttered casually flipping him off. “Good enough for Maverick — good enough for me. Chicks dig’em.”

  Pointing to the right, he said, “This way.”

  Hooking onto Huntington Avenue, we methodically weaved our way through the afternoon crowd of business people, street beggars, and assorted collection of local Massholes. The whole time I couldn’t shake the acute feeling that people were either staring straight at me or conversely, looking straight through me — like I wasn’t even there. As three random street-goers made a deliberate effort to get as far away from me as physically possible, I had to literally jump to safety before a thirty something woman nearly steamrolled me with a baby stroller. Looking to Rooster for explanation, I quickly dodged a slick haired, older guy in a suit and overcoat just before he walked straight into me without batting an eyelash.

  “What the hell’s wrong with these frigg’n people,” I muttered as Rooster chuckled at my fancy footwork with his face buried in his pocket computer — which was really starting to annoy me by the way.

  “Why do you ask?” He muttered, half paying attention.

  “Are you not seeing this?” I muttered avoiding another near collision with a group of young women that didn’t look twice at me. “It’s like I’m frigg’n invisible — and the few that can see me are bolting across the street.”

  “Oh, right,” he said looking up from his gadget. “Should’ve mention this before we left the QM.”

  “Mention what?” I said impatiently as we reached the New England Conservatory of Music and hung a left onto Gainsborough Street.

  “Well, by virtue of what you are and what you represent — your presence on Earth is not exactly natural anymore. You’ve been touched by the left hand of God, Dean. You crossed into the Heavenly Realms — and came back.”

  “So, that makes me invisible?”

  “No, no,” he said chuckling, “it makes you — different.”

  “Different,” I grumbled, dodging another group of people that were bee lining straight toward me while pouring out of a parking garage on the Northeastern University campus.

  “You emanate divinity. Somewhat dark divinity, but divinity nonetheless. The average human will pay you absolutely no attention unless you address them directly or have some form of physical contact with them. It’s like you don’t exist on their plane of reality anymore. You’re a face in the crowd, man. Except for those rare few with a powerful Sight, nobody will even remember your face the second you walk away. Your interactions with humans will be a foggy memory for them if they remember anything at all.”

  Recollecting the words of Stephen during the endless days of my initial training in the Realms, I muttered, “Feared by most. Revered by others.”

  “Correct. Now, nephers on the other hand, will be scared shitless once they See you. Although they may not know exactly what they’re looking at, to cast Sight upon your aura is a major emotional event.”

  “How so?”

  Momentarily stopping at the bottom of the footbridge that traversed a set of train tracks leading to NU’s Matthews Arena, he looked me squarely in the eye, and said, “Well, to See a Deacon — to actually cast Sight upon one — is to catch a glimpse of the physical embodiment of the Wrath of God. It’s like staring at the sun — that is, if the sun was a faceless swirling nightmare of walking hellfire tucked ominously in a black cloak and swinging a sword at your neck. Not something you do on purpose, if you know what I’m saying.”

  “Then why do it at all?”

  “Well, sometimes nephers have an ultra-sensitivity to it. And other times,” pausing to pick his words carefully, “Other times, the power of the Wrath is so intense — you just See it. It just happens. And it’s something you can’t un-see. Despite how many times you try.”

  “Got it,” I blankly muttered as he started walking up the concrete stairs with his face again buried in his phone. Leaving me standing there alone for a quick second, I called up to him, “You ever See a Deacon?”

  Reaching the top of the stairs and pulling to an abrupt halt, he looked down at me and stoically said, “Twice. The first time was many centuries ago. When I was turned from the darkness. And the second time — December of 1998 — In a church.”

  Speechless, I watched him dart across the bridge and start down the stairs on the other side. Reaching the bottom, he yelled back, “Let’s go. Stoner’s already here. The Magic Bus is up ahead.”

  Making the mental note that a stoner in a ‘Magic Bus’ was probably the last guy I’d be expecting us to link up with at the current moment, I hoofed it up the stairs and over the
bridge to catch up with Rooster.

  The footbridge deposited us onto Camden Street, where we climbed over a ginormous mound of packed snow speckled with brown and black remnants of winter road debris, to reach a vacant cul-de-sac. Parked about halfway up the street on the side of a snow-tufted basketball court was a curiously out of place seventies model Volkswagen van. Despite the thick layering of salt and slushy winter grime, a truly hellacious canary yellow paint job complete with the vintage white trim was clearly visible on the Mystery Machine-like vehicle. With black-rimmed wheels and tinted windows, it sat suspiciously idle with the motor running as a steady flow of exhaust poured from the tail pipe. The muffled rhythm of a Guns N’ Roses song that I couldn’t quite place thumped from inside the cabin as the entire van subtly jostled to the beat like the driver was playing some mean air guitar.

  “Ok, so Skyphos still shows the Skipper in his apartment,” Rooster said slowly approaching the purported Magic Bus while glancing at his phone. “That’s Columbus Ave straight ahead. That building to the right is our target.” Quickly pulling up a building schematic on his phone, he added, “Skip’s apartment is on the north wall near the emergency stairwell. Second floor. Here’s the plan, Stoner blows a hole in his wards —”

  “Whoa, slow down, chief,” I said stopping a few steps from the van. “Is Stoner the dude driving the banana mobile over here? Looks like that thing should be parked at Woodstock for Christ’s sake. Who the hell is this guy?”

  “He’s a magus,” he said also pulling to a halt. “One of the best we have.”

  “A magus?”

  “Yeah,” he said impatiently. “Nephers versed in the Forbidden Knowledge that can manipulate the elements … like a sorcerer, or a wizard, or a witch.”

  “So, a stoner who’s also a wizard is going to get us into Skip’s joint. What kind of Cheech and Chong, Monty Python bullshit is that? That’s our frigg’n plan?”

  “Ok, so he’s not a stoner. He’s the Stoner. And, he’s not a wizard, he’s a magus. There’s a difference,” he grumbled while repeatedly shifting focus from his phone to the apartment building across the street. “But basically, Yes. He’s going to get us in. Here’s the short story. Couple ways to disable some hefty warding. If you don’t want to fry yourself or take down a city block in the process, you need a magus. They can basically deconstruct the spells holding the wards in place. But, it’s time consuming and requires a hell of a lot of skill. You with me?”

  Making a mental note that a response of ‘Are you fucking kidding me?’ was probably not appropriate, I grumbled, “Yes.”

  “Ok, so while the Guild has a ton of magi on the payroll, we don’t always have the luxury of time for them to do their thing.”

  “Ok,” I anxiously muttered waiting for the punch line.

  “So, over the years, we,” pausing to point at the yellow shagg’n wagon, “actually he — Stoner, developed a technique he calls ward breaching. Using a Skyphos powered super computer on wheels and a series of complex algorithms, Enochian counter spells, and sonic wave technology he’s able to remotely punch a hole in the beefiest of wards with near pinpoint accuracy.”

  Not having a clue what to say to all that, I simply asked, “Near pinpoint accuracy?”

  “Yeah … There’s usually a little collateral damage. More of an art than a science. But it’s effective. And fast.”

  “Awesome,” I grumbled walking toward the mirth mobile. “We’re off to see the wizard …”

  As we approached the driver’s side door of the van, the tinted window rolled down to reveal a burly dude with short dark hair, meticulously manicured silver highlighted goatee, and a huge pair of dark sunglasses that looked more like goggles. Sporting a real tree camo hunting jacket and an OD green turtle neck, he happily slurped on a fountain drink from a mega-sized styrofoam cup. Turning the blaring symphony of eighties hair metal to a normal volume, he barked in an irritated tone, “Where you ladies been? Thought we were in a hurry here.”

  “Sorry, man,” said Rooster firmly grasping his outstretched hand, and giving him an awkward bro-hug through the open window. “Still breaking in the newbie here.”

  “So you’re Robinson, eh?” Stoner said giving me a quick once over as he extended his hand. “Thought you’d be taller. And, ah, nice glasses.”

  Not in the mood to take any shit from a neo-Gandalf wannabe sitting in an ambiguously gay superhero van, I muttered, “Go fuck yourself,” and gave his hand an obligatory shake.

  Chuckling a hearty, yet very short-lived laugh, he said to Rooster, “Alright. I like him.”

  With the pleasantries over as quickly as they started, he barked, “So what are we doing here, girls?” Staring at a sleek laptop computer fastened to the dashboard, he said, “I’m picking up some healthy defensive spells from the north corner of that building. Somebody’s pretty serious about their privacy and what have you. What’s the target? Anakim? Gothen?”

  “Metamorph,” Rooster quickly replied while sliding his phone in the pocket of his wool overcoat.

  “Seriously? You made me drag the bus all the way out here in this shit weather for a damn shifter? Come on, man,” Stoner barked, in a generally pissed off demeanor, while taking a big gulp of his gas station super soda.

  “He’s with the Maradim,” Rooster said sternly. “I wouldn’t have called if it wasn’t important.”

  “Alright,” he muttered somewhat unconvinced. “I’ll be wanting some of that Rooster beer when this is over. On the house.“

  Turning again to his laptop, his hands flew across the keys in a blinding flash as several virtual screens started popping up all over the inside of the van. As I heard the whirring sound of an electric motor, I took a couple steps backward to see a small satellite dish contraption raise from the van’s roof on a telescoping rod and swing toward the apartment building in the distance. Shifting his focus back to us, Stoner grumbled, “Alright, I’ve got a lock on the source.” Pointing at a schematic on one of the screens, he said, “It’s the threshold of this apartment on the north wall.”

  “Yeppers,” Rooster confirmed. “That’s the place.”

  “Hot damn,” Stoner said flipping through the various charts and graphs on the floating translucent screens. “These readings are off the chart. Whoever set those babies up is a goddamn artist. Something that intricate takes some serious fucking mojo. But, nothing the Magic Bus can’t handle.” Finished typing, he smugly muttered, “Ok, I’m ready. Gimme the word and the wards are toast.”

  “We’re on,” Rooster said with a hard gaze. Giving our computer savvy magus a quick glance, he said, “Thanks, man. I’ll call when we’re set.”

  As we started the short walk across Columbus Avenue to the apartment building, I heard Stoner yell, “Alrighty, man. Probably a bad idea to be standing in front of the door when I blow the wards. May want to shield yourself with that Deacon … Just in case.”

  Looking back and casually flipping him off, I turned to Rooster and muttered, “I kind of like that guy.”

  “He’s a good shit. Just don’t piss him off. He may turn you into a newt.”

  “A newt? He can do that?”

  Chuckling while giving me a quick ‘You are a dumb ass’ glance, Rooster all of a sudden looked like he forgot his lunch money and apprehensively switched topics as we crossed the street. Approaching the front door of the apartment complex, he said, “So in retrospect we probably should’ve worked this out before we got here but — this is Boston. Not Bosnia.”

  “Thanks for breaking that down, Professor. Very helpful,” I muttered getting ready to give the revolving doors leading into the lobby a hefty push.

  “No, I’m serious, man,” he said firmly grabbing my shoulder to stop me. “We can’t just bust in there and storm the lobby like this is some third world country.” Pointing through the glass doors, he said, “Last thing we need right now is Rent-a-Cop over there freaking out and calling the real cops. On top of potentially tipping off the Skipper, it’ll
result in a hell of a lot of unneeded attention that we don’t have time to deal with right now. This needs to be done with finesse. Subtle.”

  “Ok. Point taken,” I replied. “So, what’s the plan?”

  “Well, you’re the plan,” he tentatively said. “All you need to do is employ your divine power of persuasion over the human mind and get us past the security guy without setting off any red flags. Once we get upstairs — it’s game on.” Giving me a look like he was making this up as he went along, he affirmably added, “Piece of cake.”

  “You’re telling me this now?” I grumbled shooting him a frustrated glare. “Is this how you guys run an op?”

  “No,” he sheepishly replied. “We usually have air tight cover stories and very authentic fake credentials to handle this kind of stuff. In my haste to get over here, I might’ve overlooked that particular, somewhat small detail …”

  “Awesome,” I grumbled still glaring at him. Shifting focus to the lobby, I muttered, “So what the hell am I supposed to tell this guy?”

  “I dunno. You’re the Deacon. Make something up. Tell him we’re here to, ah, clean the pipes.”

  Making a mental note that Rooster seriously needed to lay off the eighties porn and get out of the Quartermaster a bit more often, I muttered, “You, my friend, are a real asshole.”

  “Just tell him something — anything,” he quickly replied. “I think you’ll be surprised at just how convincing you can be nowadays.”

  “Alright, I’m on it.”

  Giving the revolving door a solid push and holding his arm out in an ‘after you’ manner, he said, “Remember — subtle. I’ll wait here. Go get ‘em. And, ah, make it quick. We’re on the clock.”

  Shaking my head and calling him an asshole again for good measure, I waltzed into the rather impressive lobby like I owned the joint. Hunched behind an oversized, ornate desk on the far side of the highly decorated room was a crack-skinny dude in his early forties staring disinterestedly at a computer monitor while sucking on a designer iced coffee from a green straw.