Squire looked suddenly confused.
“Make up your goddamned mind!” he screeched. “Do you want the passage open or closed?”
The angel took hold of his master’s arm, pushing the hobgoblin out of the way. “Close it. Now!” he roared.
“Fucking angels,” Squire muttered, crawling on all fours toward the edge of the shadow passage, trying desperately to avoid the thrashing tentacles.
The hobgoblin reached out a finger toward the edge and the tendrils reacted, attempting to wrap themselves around it. Squire recoiled with a yelp.
“Son of a bitch.”
“Do it!” Montagin shouted again, not sure how much longer he and the sorcerer could hold on to the general’s body.
Again Squire made a move, his chubby hand reaching, but the tentacles were there, and he had to fight to keep from being dragged into the opening himself.
The tugging on Aszrus also grew more vicious.
“I’m losing it,” Heath cried out, trying to maintain his footing, as he slid to the floor.
It was as if the tendrils entwined around the great angel general’s body could sense that they were winning, and intensified their hold. Montagin heard the sounds of breaking bones as the tentacles constricted even more tightly about Aszrus’ waist.
“You will not have him!” the angel bellowed, summoning all the strength that he still had remaining, and pulled.
There was a terrible ripping sound, and suddenly Montagin and the sorcerer were tumbling backward. Montagin was horrified to see that they still held the general’s torso, internal workings trailing away as the tentacles claimed what they could, dragging his legs toward the shadow.
Squire saw his opportunity, and leapt beneath the writhing tendrils, plunging a finger into the shadow pool. He used his innate control over shadows to will the passage closed, returning it to a normal patch of darkness.
One moment it was a doorway, the next it wasn’t, and the many-mouthed tentacles that had not withdrawn into the dark dimension were quickly severed, writhing on the floor as they began to decompose in an environment of light.
Montagin stared in horror at his master’s body. Was it not bad enough that he’d been murdered, his heart taken? But now this.
Squire rose from where he’d been lying, kicking aside some of the tendrils that still thrashed upon the floor. “Happy?” he asked sarcastically.
Still upon his knees, Montagin pulled the upper half of Aszrus closer, cradling the remains in his arms.
“Goblin, I don’t know the meaning of the word.”
* * *
Francis allowed himself to be yanked through the haphazard cut that had been made in reality on the second floor of his brownstone.
He had no idea what he would find on the other side, but he did have the idea that it would probably be the last of the invaders.
“I seem to have caught a rat,” said the angel, as he hauled Francis through the crackling rip.
Francis was ready, spinning around to face his attacker, drawing back a fist to deliver a decisive blow that would render the angel numb, and easy to dispatch.
At least that was the plan.
Their eyes locked and Francis knew at once that he was in trouble. He knew this angel; even after all the time that had passed, the gaze of the one who had felled him during the Great War was not something easily forgotten.
“You,” Dardariel said, the angel’s grip upon him firm.
Francis’ first instinct was to kill the fucker, before . . .
Dardariel reacted, hoisting Francis up and slamming him to the floor with all the force he could muster. The floorboards shattered on impact, sending clouds of dust billowing upward.
“I should have known you would be involved in this, Fraciel,” Dardariel growled.
Francis lay stunned on the floor, remembering the last time he had seen this angel.
The war was reaching its inevitable end.
How many had he killed? How many of his own brothers had he violently brought down, believing in the message of the Morningstar? Francis—Fraciel—did not want to think of such things, still holding on to the hope that the one he served would be victorious, and that the Lord God would be forced to see the error of His ways.
But the more he fought, the more death that he dispersed, and Fraciel was beginning to see—to think—that maybe the Morningstar was wrong. And that was when he encountered the angel, Dardariel.
The look on Dardariel’s face now was so bloody familiar.
The angel ignited the fires of Heaven in his hand, and he leaned toward Francis’ face. Francis dug his fingers into the flooring, pulling away a jagged piece of pine with a snap, and stabbing it through Dardariel’s fiery hand of doom.
Dardariel pulled back in pain, allowing Francis to scramble away.
The former Guardian withdrew his gun from his coat and took aim at his opponent, but Dardariel didn’t miss a beat—still the deadly son of a bitch he’d been during the siege of the Golden City. The angel lashed out with an extended wing, swatting the pistol from Francis’ hand. It felt as though some of his fingers might have been broken in the process, but Francis kept moving.
“Where are you off to, Fraciel?” Dardariel asked. “You have about as much chance of escaping me now, as you did during the war.”
Francis wanted to put some distance between them, to lead him away from Squire’s apartment, and Azrus’ body. He dove for the stairs, almost believing that he’d made it, when he felt himself yanked violently back by the collar of his shirt.
Francis squirmed in his grasp, but Dardariel held him aloft as his powerful wings fanned the air, and a dagger of fire formed in his free hand.
The sudden sounds of struggle coming from Squire’s place momentarily distracted the angel, providing Francis with a much-needed opportunity. Francis lunged, throwing his weight toward the burning knife clutched in Dardariel’s hand. Dardariel tried to pull the blade back, but Francis gave it his all, twisting the angel’s wrist toward his foe’s midsection, and using every bit of strength he had remaining to drive the blade into Dardariel’s side.
The angelic soldier screamed his rage, casting Francis aside like a rag doll.
Francis bounced off a nearby wall, landing on all fours.
His plan was to make a break for his apartment, where he had plenty of weapons hidden, and to finally put an end to . . .
Dardariel was on him like a horsefly on fresh shit, dropping out of the air before Francis even had a chance to move.
“I should have killed you when I had the chance,” the angel taunted, grabbing him by the throat and squeezing.
Francis imagined his eyes exploding from his head like something out of a Warner Brothers’ cartoon as the grip intensified. There was only one thing left he could do and he knew he would regret it. He fumbled inside his suit coat again, found the dagger, and used it.
The blade was thin and sharp, and it sank into the flesh of Dardariel’s throat with very little resistance.
The look on the angel’s face was priceless, and Francis felt the grip upon his neck begin to loosen . . .
Before it grew viselike again.
Dardariel threw him away, his body rocketing down the corridor and smashing through the door to Squire’s apartment.
He wouldn’t have any luck at all if it weren’t for bad luck.
Francis struck the arm of the filthy couch, sliding across the floor, and ending up against the wall. “I’m okay,” he lied as he realized all eyes were upon him.
He struggled to stand, and then saw Aszrus, or what was left of him, cradled in Montagin’s arms.
This is gonna be so much worse than I figured.
Dardariel made his entrance then, flying through the doorway, blazing sword in hand. He touched down in a crouch, eyes scanning the room like a hawk.
Francis winced as the angel’s eyes touched upon the remains of his beloved general. He opened his mouth to warn the others, just as Dardariel seemed to explode
, a searing flash of divine radiance accompanied by a mournful cry that turned into a shriek of berserker fury.
Jumping to his feet, Francis tried to get across the room, but the angel Dardariel was already on the move.
Heath was the first to fall, a magickal spell roiling in the palm of his hand as the angel delivered a blow that sent him sprawling, the magick in his hand gone harmlessly awry.
Montagin didn’t even try to escape, bowing his head in submission as Dardariel lashed out, slapping Aszrus’ assistant to the floor.
“This way!” Francis heard Squire cry out, and turned to see the hobgoblin holding open a cabinet door beneath the sink.
Francis was about to head in that very direction, when the room was filled with the deafening roar of flapping wings. He knew what had to be done.
“Get the fuck out of here,” he ordered Squire, then turned to face the horde of Heavenly anger that now descended upon him.
“Hey, fellas,” Francis said with a devilish smirk as he held up his hands in surrender.
“Long time, no see.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Castle Hallow
1349
The castle trembled violently.
Simeon squinted through the dust and bits of rock that rained down from the ceiling, looking to Hallow for guidance.
“It appears that our first lines of defense have been breached,” the necromancer said, suddenly looking much older.
“What should I do?” Simeon asked, ready to fight.
Hallow listened to the sounds from outside, head cocked ever so slightly. “If you stay here with me you will most certainly die,” the necromancer said. He turned his wizened gaze to the forever man. “I could order you to leave, but something tells me that command would fall upon deaf ears.”
Simeon stumbled to one side as the castle again quaked.
“The spell that prevents their access will not stand up to much more of this assault,” Hallow said. He was making his way toward the stairs, beginning his climb.
“Where are you going?” Simeon demanded.
“I’m going to meet our guests,” the magick user told him.
“No.” Simeon rushed up behind the old man, grabbing at the back of his robes.
Hallow lost his balance and fell backward into Simeon’s arms.
“I won’t let you kill yourself,” Simeon told him.
“Is it that obvious?” Hallow asked. “Not even about to give me a fighting chance.” He chuckled sadly.
“You’re still a great necromancer,” Simeon said, helping to steady the old man. “Show it.”
Normally for such impertinence he would have been beaten, or worse—killed, and maybe killed again—but this time was different.
“I’m tired, Simeon,” Hallow said. “My brother and I have been fighting this war for far too long.” He paused, catching his breath.
“It’s time for it to end.”
Simeon reached out, gripping the necromancer’s arm. He was shocked at how bony it felt through the heavy cloth of Hallow’s robes.
“Everything that I have has been put into the castle’s defense,” he said, “but still he advances.”
“You must continue to fight,” Simeon told him.
The old man nodded. “And fight I will,” he said. “Until I cannot fight anymore.”
“You yourself said that Tyranus cannot be allowed to win.”
“No truer words were ever spoken,” the necromancer said. He started to climb the stone steps again. “Of that, I have no intention.”
Hallow reached the doorway.
“In days past it was all about the battles, who would win, and who would lose,” he said. “But now, in my waning years I’ve come to understand that the answer I sought—that my brother and I both sought—masked a lie.”
The structure trembled again, the iron chandeliers that hung above the grand room swaying in the rubble that crumbled down from above.
“I . . . I don’t understand,” Simeon said. He had his hands atop his head to protect himself. “What lie?”
“Victory,” the old magick user said. “There can be no victory in this game.”
The building shook again, and Simeon fell to one knee, as his master clutched the doorframe with a withered hand.
“I don’t . . .”
“We exist to maintain a balance,” Hallow spoke, over the sounds of his home under siege. “If one defeats the other, what is maintained with that? Nothing. The balance is lost no matter who lives, or dies.”
There came a commotion from outside that told him that the magickal barriers had fallen, and he looked toward the huge, wooden doors. The demon staff was scrambling to place heavy pieces of furniture in front of the opening, hoping to buy more time.
“But someone will reign victorious,” Simeon said.
Ignatius Hallow shook his head. “None must be victorious. For balance to be restored, the Keepers must be removed from the equation.”
“But . . .” Simeon began, not quite sure he understood.
“With both of us gone, nature will take its course—a natural balance will eventually occur.”
“So much power going out into the world.”
“Better it go out into the world than be in the hands of one,” Hallow said.
The doors into the castle blew inward with a deafening roar, the pieces of furniture laid before it doing little to prevent what wished to gain entrance from coming inside.
Simeon had been blown down from the explosion, rising to his feet to see that his master now stood in defiance of what had entered.
It was a visage of power, a soldier of Heaven clad in armor that appeared to be forged from the surface of the sun; in its hand was a sword seemingly broken from the point of the nearest star.
Simeon could do nothing but stare, and loathe it with all his heart and what little remained of his soul.
* * *
He dreamed of a time when he was not in control.
Images exploded from the darkness. Remy, the Seraphim, had been riled to war, finally battering down the magickally fortified doors to the castle, allowing him and the Pope’s soldiers inside.
There was such anger then, with nary a thought as to why he would feel so much rage for someone that he didn’t even know. But if Tyranus wished Hallow vanquished, that was more than enough for him.
And Remiel didn’t even think to question that.
The images came fast and furiously, accompanied by a droning sound track of Latin prayer.
He didn’t think that this had been the case back then, the screams of those dying in battle being the only score that he could recall accompanying the siege.
His entire focus then was to find the necromancer and destroy him utterly, for that was what Pope Tyranus had commanded. It was all so very simple; he needed to do what the Pope told him to do.
And he did so, with nary a question.
The Latin prayer was louder now, and he realized that he could not understand it. How was that even possible? Remiel could understand all prayers, all languages. . . .
What’s going on?
It felt as if he was falling . . . so very fast, but his wings would not come.
And he struck the earth, shattering his every bone and causing his skin to split and all that was inside him to spill out into the world.
And then all was darkness.
* * *
Remy awoke with a start. He quickly looked around, trying to get his bearings, and to remember what had happened.
He was in a storage room, cartons of alcohol and crates of wine stacked against cinder block walls.
The sound of Latin prayer still echoed in his mind. Turning his head toward the other side of the room, Remy realized that he wasn’t alone. Constantin Malatesta was slumped in a wooden office chair beside him, hands bound behind his back.
And Remy realized then that he, too, was bound.
“Hey,” Remy said, tugging on the restraints, but finding that they held h
im fast. They hadn’t used rope on him; his restraints were made from chains, and as he moved he could feel the tingle of enchantment coursing up the lengths of his arms.
He remembered the zombie security guards, and how they’d been protected from his angelic talents.
Rapture. The charnel house. This place was all set to deal with folks like him if things got out of hand.
“Constantin . . . hey,” Remy called out again. “Listen to me.”
The praying at last stopped, and the Vatican agent slowly turned his gaze to him.
Remy didn’t like what he saw at all.
“What have they done to you?” he asked.
Malatesta looked as though he’d aged twenty years, his face battered, bruised, and covered with drying blood.
“It’s this place,” the man said, his voice trembling. “It makes you weak . . . unable to fight. . . .”
Malatesta began to squirm then, crying out as if suddenly in torment.
And from the look of what was happening to his body, he was. It was then that Remy knew that the Vatican magick user had a deadly secret.
His flesh began to writhe and twist, as if there was something on the inside of him that was trying to get out. His eyes had gone completely yellow, and he looked to Remy with a pointy-toothed snarl.
“Been awhile since I’ve been this close to the surface,” the monstrous entity growled. “Feels good.”
And the creature laughed, before crying out in protest and pain as Malatesta tried to take control of his form once more.
“Can’t let the Larva free,” the magick user told him. “But it’s so strong . . . so damn strong.”
Remy could see that the effort was practically killing him, and wished that he could have done something to help the man, but at the moment, there were some larger issues that needed to be dealt with.
He knew that trying to break his bonds was probably futile, but he couldn’t help but give it the ole Seraphim try. The backlash of the magick was something incredible, almost sending him back to the dark place he’d been before waking up.
A place where he hadn’t been in control, and wasn’t even aware.
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