Remy didn’t know whether he was listening, but went on, assuming that he was.
“We need to get out of here as quickly as we can before we end up as part of the entertainment.” He was straining against his chains again, feeling the magick charging up to prevent him from getting much farther.
“As much as it kills me to admit it, I’m useless right now—these chains prevent me from doing anything that could be even remotely useful, and I’m guessing that whatever is keeping you in that chair has probably done a job on your magickal mojo as well.”
Malatesta’s head turned ever so slightly, looking at him from the corner of a swollen eye.
“I’m going to ask you to do something pretty horrible,” Remy said, letting his words permeate a bit before he continued. “And it involves that thing inside you.”
“No,” Malatesta objected outright. “You . . . you don’t understand what you’re asking.”
“I know exactly what I’m asking, and I’m sorry, but it’s the only way. The spirit, or whatever it is inside you, is our get-out-of-jail-free card—they don’t know about it, so they didn’t do anything to prevent it from getting free.”
Malatesta was crying and furiously shaking his head.
“I can’t. . . . I can’t. . . . You don’t understand what that would mean.”
Remy knew exactly what the sorcerer was talking about, having spent the last hundred years, give or take a century, attempting to keep the warlike aspect of his angelic nature in check.
“You’d be surprised at what I know,” he said. “But if we’re going to get out of here, you have to trust me—this is the only way.”
“No,” Malatesta said again, now starting to thrash around in his chair. “I won’t let the Larva out, I’ve worked too hard to—”
There was the muffled sound of voices from outside, and Remy knew that time was just about up.
“Do you hear?” Remy stressed. “This is it—they’re coming for us.”
Malatesta had tucked his chin deep into his chest, straining to keep the monstrous force inside him imprisoned.
“It’s almost too late,” Remy roared.
Malatesta continued to struggle, his body racked with sobs of terror and strain.
“As a soldier of the Lord God . . . as an angel of Heaven I command you to set it free.”
The voices were louder now, almost to the door.
Malatesta was looking at him, his gaze begging Remy not to ask this of him.
“I command you,” Remy said again.
“Please . . . ,” Malatesta whined.
“Do it.”
Malatesta’s eyes slowly closed, and his head sank down, his chin touching the top of his chest. “I hate you,” he whispered. “I hate you with all my heart and soul.”
“I’m sorry,” Remy replied, hearing the sound of the door opening. “If there was any other way . . .”
Two zombie security guards entered.
“Hey, guys,” Remy said. “Miss us?”
The zombie that liked to hit came at him, hands like catchers’ mitts, reaching. He guessed that they were being taken elsewhere, maybe to a certain someone who’d paid a lot of money to do something really horrible to a soldier of Heaven.
The other guard had gone to Malatesta, and was trying to haul him up from the chair. Remy glanced over to see that the zombie was having a bit of trouble, Malatesta’s hands holding on to the back of the furniture.
“I’ll break those hands,” the zombie murmured menacingly.
But that just made Malatesta start to laugh and laugh, and that was when Remy realized it wasn’t the sorcerer who was laughing.
The laughing abruptly stopped, and then Remy heard what could only have been the muffled sounds of bones popping from their joints. He watched in awe as Malatesta was suddenly free from his restraints, his arms bending in directions that should have been impossible.
Malatesta was laughing again, as he sprang onto the seat of his chair, then up and over the towering zombie, grabbing hold of the walking corpse’s chin and yanking back as he went. There was a loud crack as the zombie’s neck was broken, and he tumbled backward to the floor.
The zombie that had been beside Remy was already on the move toward Malatesta. The possessed sorcerer continued to laugh and giggle, evading the zombie with ease, even springing up onto, and sticking to the side of the wall like Spiderman.
The zombie lunged, crashing into wooden crates of wine and boxes of booze as he attempted to rip the insectlike sorcerer from his perch. The zombie with the broken neck was now struggling to stand, his heavy head lolling about horribly as he tried to assist his partner.
“Larva!” Remy called out, still restrained.
Malatesta was padding across the ceiling and looking down on those who were attempting to reach up for him. The demon turned his eyes from his foes to Remy.
“What are you wasting time for with mere animated corpses, when you could be tangling with a soldier of Heaven?” Remy asked it, enticing the accursed thing.
The evil spirit laughed at him, reaching down from the ceiling to rip at one of the zombie’s faces, snatching away one of its eyes and popping it into his mouth like a cherry tomato.
The zombie flailed about, now partially blind.
“Come on,” Remy taunted. “When was the last time you tasted angelic flesh?”
He wasn’t sure if the spirit ever had, but figured if it hadn’t, it certainly would want to. It continued to taunt the zombies.
“Now I know why Malatesta was able to keep you locked up for so long,” Remy stated over the commotion. “You’re weak . . . a minor entity. Nothing more than an annoyance.”
He was counting on the thing’s arrogance and stupidity, and he wasn’t disappointed.
Forgetting its zombie opponents, the Larva came scrabbling across the ceiling, and dropped down atop Remy, sending the chair flipping violently backward to the floor. Remy heard the sound of the chair moaning beneath their weight, as the evil entity hissed and slashed. He rocked from side to side, straining the chair’s integrity while attempting to evade the creature’s razor-sharp claws.
He needed something more to get free of the chair, and his prayers were answered in the form of two linebacker-sized zombies, one with a funky neck, barreling across the room to get their escaped prisoner back under wraps.
They hit the Larva like two runaway freight trains, landing atop them in a heap of powerfully muscled dead flesh that ended up doing exactly what Remy had hoped for. The chair’s back snapped beneath their thrashing bodies, allowing Remy to slip free of the magickally enhanced chains.
He’d had just about enough of animated corpses wrestling atop him and brought forth the fires of Heaven. The light of divinity caused his body to glow, sending the spirit screaming away, and attaching itself again to the ceiling like a spider.
The zombies were driven back from the light, still wearing the protections that kept him from dealing with their likes before. Not wanting them to have a chance, Remy acted, grabbing for the leg of the broken chair that had held him and smashing it into the side of one of the zombie’s heads, and then the other’s.
One of them crashed into a stack of boxes, causing the bottles of liquor inside to smash to the floor in an expanding puddle.
Seeing as they were already dead, Remy didn’t hesitate, flicking his fingers as if flipping droplets of water; but instead of water he was flipping fire.
The zombie went up in a rush of flame, the sprinkler system in the ceiling raining water down upon the room in an attempt to extinguish the fire. The other zombie, his head flopping about loosely, made a dash for the door, but the Larva sticking to the ceiling above had other ideas.
The possessed man dropped down upon its prey, finger claws slashing, ripping away the zombie’s clothes, and finally the dead flesh beneath.
Remy turned his focus to the burning dead man. The zombie was attempting to roll around on the ground, trying to put out the flames. Approaching the flailing
figure, Remy took the chair leg, and drove it down into the zombie’s face, and into the brain, shutting the burning corpse down for the count.
He then returned his attention to the Larva.
The possessed Malatesta was crouched atop the zombie, his head buried in a gaping hole that he had torn in the dead man’s gut.
Remy was disgusted.
But there hadn’t been any choice.
“That’s enough of that,” he said, using a tone of authority.
The Larva turned its bloody face to him and smiled, a flap of zombie flesh dangling wetly from the corner of his face as he continued to chew.
“Give me Constantin back,” Remy said, moving closer.
The evil spirit chuckled, licking his bloody fingers one by one.
“Constantin is gone now,” the Larva told him in its horrible voice. “Now only I am here.”
Remy surged forward, catching the creature by the throat as it was about to leap up onto the ceiling. The Larva screeched and struggled in his grasp.
“You will give me Constantin Malatesta or I will destroy you, and this host body,” Remy ordered.
The Larva continued to struggle. “You lie, Creature of God.”
Remy willed fire into his grip, starting to burn the flesh of the host body’s throat. From the sound that came from the spirit entity, it was quite painful.
“I never lie,” Remy told the monster, looking into its horrible, dark eyes. “Give me what I want, and you return to the darkness inside the sorcerer and continue to exist. Deny me . . .”
The Larva snarled, spitting a wad of bloody spit into Remy’s face. The blood sizzled on Remy’s cheek as he let his internal fire begin to intensify.
“It will never be as deep again,” the Larva said. “It will always be so very close. . . . We’ll be just like brothers,” the damnable spirit went on, cackling crazily, before suddenly stopping.
Malatesta went suddenly limp in his hands, and Remy let him slump to the floor. He watched the Vatican magick user, waiting for a sign that he was again in control.
Malatesta moaned.
“Are you all right?” Remy asked.
“Fuck off,” Malatesta growled, pushing himself into a sitting position.
By the sounds of it, the human side of the man had regained control.
• • •
The youngest of the Bone Masters waited in the shadow of a cellar alcove in the building where the human lived. He had been there for days, the shadows draped over him like a cloak, watching the comings and goings of his human target, and waiting to be activated.
The Master reached into the leather pouch at his side for sustenance. The worms were about a finger’s length, and twice as thick. He shoved one into his mouth, biting off the head before it could let out its high-pitched squeal.
He knew that others of his ilk had been hired as well, each assassin ordered to observe those who were close to the Seraphim called Remy Chandler. But he was growing impatient. He listened to the sounds of the building, knowing that his target wasn’t at home, tempted to leave his hiding place and explore the dwelling. Perhaps he would find another to satisfy his urge to kill.
This was his first assignment since reaching the level of Bone Master, and he was eager to show what he was capable of. The Liege Masters that had trained him in his art had warned against his immaturity, saying that he needed to control his impatience, and use the energy that it created in a more productive manner.
The Bone Master just wanted to kill something.
His weapon hummed eagerly in his grasp, and he reached out to pet the spiny ridge of bone that ran the length of its body. It, too, was eager to prove itself, to perform the task for which it was bred.
But he—they—had to wait for their final instructions from the one who had hired them, even though they were certain what those instructions would be.
Why else would one go to the effort of hiring a Bone Master?
Time passed ever so slowly, and the young Master entertained himself with thoughts of how he could eliminate his prey. Using his weapon was of course the ultimate choice, but there were times when the weapon could not be used.
He remembered his training, the feel of the lesser beings used for educational purposes dying in his grip. How many had he strangled? Bludgeoned? How many necks had he broken? All in the name of learning to be the perfect killer.
A perfect killer bored nearly out of his mind.
The young Master wanted to scream. He thought about eating some more worms, but that just made him all the more anxious.
He heard his prey returning before he saw him. From the sounds of the human’s heavy breathing, the Master would be doing him a favor by taking his life.
The front door to the building opened, and his prey walked in, closing the door behind him. The Master smelled the sickly scent of alcohol, cigarettes, and fatty meat.
It was as if this human was begging to die.
The killer continued to listen as the man slowly climbed the stairs to his dwelling. He heard him take keys from his pocket, unlock the door, and step inside, closing it behind him.
The young Bone Master felt his every instinct come alive; here was his assigned prey ready for the killing.
And all that stood in his way was the designation of time.
It was not yet time for death to be delivered. He had not received his final order, even though he’d been told that it was inevitable.
He seethed in the shadows. Here was the perfect situation, the perfect opportunity to show the Seraphim Remy Chandler that no one was safe, that he and all that he cared for were targeted by the Bone Masters.
The young assassin doubted that the moment would ever be better.
And the killer made a decision that his trainers would have frowned upon, although it was not unheard of from more experienced Masters. He would act, taking down his quarry, to show off his superior skills.
It was decided—the Bone Master left his place in the shadows and silently climbed the stairs.
To at last perform the act of murder.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
A good beating was often like a time machine.
And Francis was back in time with a front-row seat, watching as he screwed up on a monumental level.
But to be fair, at the time he really did believe the shit the Morningstar was shoveling; God didn’t love them anymore, and they were going to be replaced by humanity.
That pretty much summed it up.
In hindsight, it was amazing how much damage was done because of this petty, selfish notion.
Francis saw himself as he’d been, adorned in armor stained with the blood of those who had not believed as he had—as Lucifer had—leading an army toward the Golden City to confront their Lord and Creator.
Had the idea that Lucifer might have just been a jealous prick started to tickle his brain yet? he wondered. He couldn’t really remember.
It was painful to watch his own acts of war, the brothers who tried to fend off his advances cut down by his blistering sword of fire.
Francis found it interesting that on most days he couldn’t remember what he’d had for breakfast, but he could still remember every single angel he had killed in the name of the Morningstar’s mission. He saw their faces as they died, as enthralled with fighting for God as he had been about Lucifer’s message.
We will not be cast aside.
But that’s what happened anyway, for those who had opposed God’s plan were sent away, imprisoned, banished to a world teeming with life deemed more worthy than theirs.
And maybe it was, but Fraciel—Francis—had been on that world a very long time now, and from what he could see humanity was just as fucked up as the angels were.
It made him wonder if the Lord of Lords had a plan after all, or was He making it up as He went along, flying by the seat of His oh-so-holy pants. It was certainly something worth considering, especially during times like this, when it looked as though shit was about to hit th
e fan big-time.
Francis saw himself taken down by a legion led by Dardariel. Remembering the pain of the event, he was glad it was over. He’d expected to die that day, to be executed for his betrayal of God, and if Dardariel and his armies had had their way, he would have.
But God had seen things differently.
Francis slowly awoke from the special presentation of This Is Your Life, wondering how He saw things now.
Did God realize how close they were to repeating the past? Did He even care?
It was something to consider.
Francis opened his eyes just in time to see the studded gauntlet descending, and felt it land squarely on the side of his face.
“Oh yeah,” he slurred, his mouth filling with blood that began to spill from the side of his swollen mouth. “That’s something I’ve really missed.”
He was chained to a wall in the dungeon of an ancient Mesopotamian prison, one used by angels for questioning war criminals who had fled to Earth when Lucifer’s rebellion had been struck down. It was a lovely old place of wet stone and mold that still stank of torture and divine bloodletting. As he dangled from his chains, he had to wonder if he wasn’t the only one of late to be a guest in these ancient accommodations.
Dardariel flexed his muscled shoulders, his magnificent wings shining in the light of a burning brazier in the center of the room. He brought his gauntleted hand to his nose and sniffed Francis’ blood.
“Your blood stinks of corruption,” he said. “Not like the blood of one who was shown mercy by his Creator.”
“I had an omelet with a shitload of garlic in it yesterday, maybe that’s what you smell,” Francis suggested, as he spit a wad of blood onto the dungeon floor.
Dardariel surged forward with a powerful flap of his wings, burying his metal-sheathed fist in Francis’ stomach.
“I could never understand His mercy toward you.” Dardariel was close to Francis’ face, his breath smelling of something akin to cinnamon. “When so many others were cast down to Tartarus—it was as if He saw something in you.”
Francis was about to crack wise, but Dardariel’s words struck a note, and he again found himself thinking of what he had lost in Heaven, and how he could never get that back.
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