Wrath of the Fallen: The Guild of Deacons, Book 2

by James MacGhil

  As for the grandiose, state capitol building itself — nothing remained besides a steaming pile of rubble with the signature twenty-three karat gold dome lying haphazardly atop. How exactly such a feat of mind blowing demolition was accomplished in a matter of seconds was inconceivable.

  As I stood momentarily speechless, people poured from the surrounding buildings like droves of frightened animals creating a horrid cacophony of shouts and screams. The blaring of sirens rang through the winter night as the streets quickly filled with primal panic.

  “Fuck me,” Rooster grumbled, completely taken aback. “How in the hell—”

  “I’ve got movement!” I yelled, picking up the flash of an oversized figure darting through the shadows of the smoky chaos. “Bad guys — Eleven o’clock.”

  As my amplified fight reflex kicked in, I barked, “You got eyes on?”

  When he didn’t acknowledge me, I quickly turned to find him frozen like a peculiar statue and catatonically staring into oblivion.

  “Rooster!” I yelled, grabbing his shoulder wondering what the hell was wrong with him. “We need to move — They’re getting away.”

  “He can’t hear you, Dean,” said a voice that sent a harrowing chill down my spine as everything became unnaturally quiet like somebody hit a universal mute button. “And if you’re referring to my anakim children — I’m afraid you’ll find they’ve already gone. You are too late. It has begun.”

  “Azazel,” I grumbled, through gritted teeth as the cloak flared out like a wild animal in reaction to the fallen angel evidently standing behind me.

  Slowly turning around, I realized that Rooster wasn’t the only one in mannequin mode. It seemed every person within eyesight was also frozen in time as they all stood motionless against the catastrophic panorama.

  Everyone, that is, besides the impossibly good looking, six-foot seven ass-hole with celebrity grade hair, really frigg’n nice suit, and impossibly white teeth gleaming from behind a smug-ass grin. Although his crimson, snake-like eyes were utterly soulless, they danced with triumph as he condescendingly glared at me.

  “You son of a bitch,” I growled.

  “Son of Heaven,” he smugly corrected me, while straightening his jacket. “Albeit more prodigal than not.”

  Ironically, everybody operated under the premise that Lucifer was the worst angel in all human history. While I won’t dispute the fact that he’s a total dick and definitely not a friendly, there’s another fallen angel that made old Lew look like a frigg’n Boy Scout. His name is Azazel. And I was staring right at him.

  What exactly makes him such a bad guy? The short story is that a long, long time ago, he was the leader of a group of two hundred angels known as the Watchers. Charged with the observation of mankind during the early years of the Earth, their primary purpose was to safeguard the Father’s precious creation from premature exposure to the Forbidden Knowledge of Heaven. A purpose, mind you, they faithfully upheld for centuries — right up until Azazel took an unnatural liking to human women.

  Apparently unable to keep it in his pants, he sweet talked his angelic brosephs into illicitly defecting to Earth and gett’n all jiggy with more old testament chicks than Wilt Chamberlain on a Viagra binge. Which, of course, was frowned upon in the Establishment.

  Strike One.

  Oddly enough, compliments of that very act of unhindered blasphemous debauchery, the bastard race of biblical giants was ushered into existence, and promptly commenced to eating people.

  Strike Two.

  Subsequently, as the growing hordes of cannibalistic giants happily walked the Earth like Caine from Kung Fu while stuffing their faces with the flesh and blood of mankind, Azazel then did something to really get himself on the divine shit list. By purposely revealing all facets of the Forbidden Knowledge, he single-handedly kicked off the great global sin-fest of 2300 B.C. which, in turn, prompted the good Lord to finally call it a day and make it rain for an extended period of time.

  Strike Three.

  The best part of this little jaunt into apocryphal biblical history is that instead of spending eternity locked away in the prison of Dudael, where he was bound to jagged rocks by the archangels Raphael and Remiel, Azazel somehow managed to escape. Assuming countless human identities over the years, he spent the better part of a few millennia instigating various and assorted shadow campaigns against the good people of the Earth while secretly rebuilding his bastard race of giant beasties.

  Kind of like the Kevin Bacon of the supernatural world, you could literally trace every heinous act of war and bloodshed, throughout all human history, straight back to his demented ass. So, take my word for it — he’s a real douchebag. Azazel that is. Kevin Bacon, without saying, is a goddamn saint. Everybody knows that.

  “Let them go,” I barked, through gritted teeth now standing face to face with my adversary.

  Waves of wrathful anger pulsed through my being as the cloak rippled anxiously on my shoulders. A subtle layer of infernal white flame formed around the gauntlets covering my hands and slowly crept along the blade of my sword as I readied to swing it through his neck with extreme prejudice.

  “Should you choose to behave,” he smugly replied, in sycophantic British dialect, “I will release my hold upon these good people in a few short moments. Conversely, if you decide to make matters disagreeable — I will take great pleasure in removing their spines with a mere flick of my hand. Now, kindly lower your blade. Or, do you prefer the route of unpleasantry?”

  I really hate this frigg’n guy — angel — whatever. Figuring I didn’t have much choice at the moment in light of his human shield tactic, I sheathed the sword and just glared at him.

  “Much better,” he said, grinning ear to ear. “It seems that given the proper motivation — even the great Dean Robinson can be taught a lesson in civility. How quaint.”

  “What do you want, dickhead?” I grumbled.

  “For you to listen,” he coldly replied, gazing over my shoulder at the ruinous, flaming carnage that used to be the Massachusetts State House. “As you will soon come to understand, this is but one small example of that which has transpired across the globe. Within this very moment — all the great and powerful regimes of mankind have been reduced to ash. Their leaders slain and their petulant symbols of authority razed to the very ground of which they reigned supreme.”

  “That’s bullshit,” I scoffed. “I don’t believe you.”

  “You will,” he condescendingly replied. “From this day forth, Father’s precious creation will suffer without bound. This is but the beginning — a demonstration of my intent, shall we say. Within the ensuing seven days, the world will watch in horror as my legions systematically pluck every remaining semblance of civilization from their feeble grasp. The perceived delusion of world order will very shortly — cease to exist.”

  “Sounds ambitious,” I replied. “But we both know it’s not going to work.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Well, aside from the fact that your hair-brained schemes never seem to pan out, there’s the small matter of us ending your sorry ass—”

  “The mighty Deacons?” he said, dripping of sarcasm. “I think not, Dean. Given your depleted ranks, I hardly think the dark soldiers of Heaven are in the position to offer any serious form of resistance. And even if you were, I’m afraid you’ll continue to find yourselves hopelessly behind the power curve, shall we say. You of all people should appreciate that.”

  Upon his taunting words, a vision of the macabre ‘collection’ of enslaved Deacons flashed through my thoughts. The Machiavellian war of attrition recently waged by Azazel and his clandestine, traitorous angel ally resulted in the capture of nearly half of my forty-nine cloak wearing brothers. Bound in holy flame and tucked away like prisoners of war, they were being kept alive in some form of jacked-up stasis while an arcane extraction process sucked the mantles of divine Wrath from the very fiber of their being for the express purpose of being wielded against us.<
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  While Azazel and his traitorous angel cohort still remained a few mantles short of their stolen divine power source quota, the Balance between light and dark was quickly swaying in his favor. And by consequence, we weren’t exactly combat ready at the moment — but he sure as hell was.

  “That won’t stop us from fighting and you damn well know it,” I coldly muttered through gritted teeth.

  “Yes, of course,” he smugly replied. “For that is your noble purpose after all. And in the noblest of fashion, you and what remain of your misguided brethren will crush the Earth in the wake of battle as you clash with my forces. Or better yet, perhaps you plan to smother it with Judgment fire as you did with my shadow realm. Either scenario yields the same result — mankind will return to the darkness. My objectives will be achieved. There is but one alternative to avoid this certain and most unfortunate conclusion.”

  “You’re going to surrender now?” I grumbled.

  “Hardly,” he said, brushing off my snide commentary with a hinting smirk. “You’re going to see to it that the gates of Tartarus are opened and my brothers are liberated from their most unwarranted persecution.”

  “Right,” I scoffed. “Let the Watchers — the worst collection of fallen angels ever — roam free after six thousand years in the divine slammer. And then what? You guys move to Maui and open a bed and breakfast? Have you been frigg’n drinking—”

  “Listen to me carefully you insolent child!” he barked as his crimson eyes flashed with fury and his calm demeanor gave way to visible rage. “Before the great dog rises above the peak of Saphon, my brothers are to be set free. In turn, I solemnly vow to withdraw my legions from this wretched realm and never again plague the race of man. Ignore my demands and I trust you understand the consequence. My terms are absolute. You are to carry this message to your masters — the archangels. And I suggest you make haste as the sands of time have already begun to fall.”

  And just like that — He was gone in a powerful whoosh of air accompanied by the flutter of unseen, massive wings.

  Almost like somebody unpaused the movie, the clamor of the surrounding mayhem instantly returned and the time frozen gaggle of city goers snapped back into their previous acts of screaming panic.

  “Where are they?” Rooster yelled, picking up where he left off a few minutes earlier evidently looking for the anakim.

  “Gone,” I grumbled, as the severity of Azazel’s words hit me like a ton of bricks.

  “Wait, what?” He asked, lowering his pistols. “But you just said that—”

  “Deacon Robinson and Cleric O’Dargan — The archdeacon requests your immediate presence in the Reliquary,” boomed the disembodied voice of Skyphos as an otherworldly portal manifested to our immediate front in a flash of spectral blue light.

  “Let’s go,” I grumbled with a distinct lump in my throat as I walked toward the doorway. “I think we may have a bigger problem to deal with.”

  “Bigger than this?” Rooster scoffed. “Where?”

  Taking one last look at the raging nightmare laid out before us, I muttered, “Hopefully not everywhere else.”

  Chapter 6

  Crossing the threshold of the ethereal gateway, Rooster and I left Boston behind for the moment and stepped foot into the Reliquary.

  But instead of the usual calm precision that I’d come to expect from the Guild’s otherworldly war room and communications center, the massive medieval rotunda was a frenetic hive of disorganized bustle. A distinct vibe of trepidation seemed to hang in the air like everyone was collectively dumb-founded. My stomach instantly churned and I had the unequivocal feeling that the proverbial shit had hit a really big fan.

  “Goddamn it,” I muttered under my breath, reflecting on Azazel’s smug warning of global catastrophe. “He wasn’t bluffing.”

  “Who wasn’t bluffing?” Rooster asked, pulling up behind me and still clueless as to the widespread nature of recent events. Upon taking a quick look around, he said, “Holy shit. What the hell’s going on here?”

  All the throneView screens, lining each and every available inch of wall space throughout the vast candlelit rotunda, flittered with various and assorted video feeds depicting leveled buildings and mangled people.

  An unfiltered tirade of hysterical reports rang out from the virtual, translucent displays hovering in midair over the countless work stations, while the clerics and acolytes manning them feverishly yelled into old fashioned telephones trying to make sense of what was going on. And in the center of the room, the ginormous screen depicting the virtual tactical map of the United States was lit up like a surreal Christmas tree as red concentric circles pulsed ominously over every state.

  “Up here, lads,” grunted the archdeacon from his usual perch on the command bridge inexplicably hovering thirty feet above the cobblestone floor.

  Racing up the spiral staircase, we reached the floating platform in a matter of seconds to find Tango, Coop, and Stoner excitedly barking orders at various clerics through live teleLink feeds while simultaneously updating the map.

  Adjacent the oversized wooden desk in the center, Big A, Caveman, and Crockett intently studied another video feed on the main throneView screen. And despite the rampant chaos, Duncan sat casually in the leather captain’s chair lapping coffee from a steaming mug. As he nonchalantly waved a hoof at me, I made the mental note to figure out why the miniature pig always seemed to get the damn chair. Figuring that could wait until later, I took post next to Big A.

  “What are we looking at?” Rooster asked, evidently trying to decipher the harrowing images of smoking ruin flashing across the display.

  “That’s the White House, brosephius,” replied Caveman, looking exceptionally disturbed despite his imposing mansquatch façade.

  “Or what’s left of it,” Crockett added.

  “The White House?” Rooster blurted out. “They blew up the freaking White House too?”

  “Aye,” Big A grumbled. “Along with every state capitol building in the United States.”

  “Add the Pentagon to the list,” Tango said, joining the conversation.

  “And the Kremlin,” Coop added, taking post aside Tango. “Reports are coming in from all over the dagum globe. Westminster Palace in London, the Reichstag Building in Berlin—”

  “Okay — Would somebody please tell me what the frik is going on?” Rooster barked, as his eyes flashed an unnatural red.

  As if waiting for that very question, the disembodied voice of Skyphos boomed, “At precisely 7:33 P.M. Eastern Standard Time, a simultaneous attack was conducted on a global scale.”

  “And the targets?” I asked, fearing that I already knew the answer.

  “I am still collating data but it appears the target list is inclusive of high ranking government and military officials, their associated decision making bodies, and places of administration. It also seems that anakim were sighted at each location shortly before the attacks commenced.”

  “The world is leaderless,” I said. “It’s Azazel’s opening move.”

  “And how is it that you know that, lad?” asked Abernethy, raising an eyebrow at me.

  “Because he told me.”

  “He told you?” Rooster said. “When?”

  “About five minutes ago.”

  “Five minutes ago,” he muttered, quickly putting two and two together. “He was at the State House wasn’t he? Which means I was time whammied. Goddamn it.”

  “What else did he tell ye?” Abernethy asked, ignoring Rooster’s apparent displeasure at being stuck in mannequin mode by our least favorite fallen angel.

  As I took the next few minutes and recounted Azazel’s latest maniacal scheme to the group, everyone stood silent with a collective look of disbelief strewn across their faces.

  “So basically,” Tango chimed in, “The archangels either open the gates of Tartarus and let the fallen Watchers out or Azazel spends the next seven days systematically returning Earth to the stone age.”

 
; “Yeah,” I grumbled. “That about sums it up.”

  “Dagummit,” muttered Coop, which I thought to be a rather tame expletive given the situation.

  “Not good, hommies,” Caveman added, which prompted Duncan to momentarily stop slurping coffee and let out a guttural piggly growl in agreement. Didn’t see that coming.

  “Alright, lads,” Abernethy interjected. “Let’s take stock of what we know.”

  “How much time do we have, brohemoth?” Caveman asked.

  “Azazel said the gates of Tartarus are to be opened before ‘the great dog rises over the peaks of Saphon.’ Failure to comply results in the next iteration of anakim running around the globe breaking shit — which I’m assuming will be slightly more devastating than the last.”

  “The peaks of Saphon?” Coop muttered. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It’s Azazel being cute,” Rooster said, waving a hand in the air and pulling up a virtual map of the Middle East. “Saphon is the highest point on the summit of Mt. Hermon where the Watchers illicitly defected to Earth in the early days of mankind — where they fell from grace. It sits between modern day Syria and Lebanon.

  “Cursed ground,” Stoner grunted, shaking his head. “All kinds of bad mojo.”

  Spitting some tobacco juice into his coffee cup, Coop said, “What the hell’s some mangy mutt climbing up a dagum mountain have to do with anything?”

  “I do not believe Azazel is referring to an actual canine, Cleric Rayfield,” Skyphos replied. “I believe he is referring to the Dog Star better known as Sirius. Which, according to human perception, is the brightest star in the night sky based on its intrinsic luminosity and close proximity to Earth.”

  “So, the question is,” Rooster conjectured, “When will the star rise over Saphon?”

  “According to my calculations, Sirius will be in perfect celestial alignment with Mt. Hermon this Sunday at exactly 3:00 AM Eastern European Standard Time.”