“Which is actually 8:00 PM Eastern Standard Time — on Saturday.”
“Saturday?” Caveman, asked. “As in tomorrow?”
“Yeppers.”
“Frigg’n perfect,” I grumbled. “So, Giantgeddon kicks into high gear in roughly twenty-four hours.”
“Oh, good,” Tango muttered, with a hint of sarcasm. “At least we’re not dealing with a completely unrealistic time table — again.”
“That’d be more than enough damn time,” Rooster replied, as his eyes glowed a fiery red, “If we had any inkling of how the hell Azazel’s got the juice to pull off a worldwide — simultaneous — freaking — assault right under our collective noses. I mean seriously — it was only last week when Dean nuked his entire base of operations in that goddamned shadow realm including what should have been every freaking anakim in his unnaturally bred arsenal. Where the hell did these other ones come from? And where the hell is he hiding them now?”
“Wherever it is,” Big A added, “It’s being shielded by a powerful being.”
“Yeppers,” Rooster agreed. “Which lends some pretty freaking credible evidence to the theory that he’s got a traitor in Heaven working for him. So, the topic du jour is simple — Who the hell is it?”
“An archangel,” replied a commanding voice from behind us. “But I do not believe he’s in the employ of Azazel. The relationship is most certainly the opposite.”
“Stephen,” I said, quickly spinning around to find our deaconly superior standing on the command bridge in his signature black suit, and looking exceptionally stoic despite the dire situation. Although I had no idea how he continued to show up completely unnoticed during pivotal situations, I was nonetheless highly impressed by his ability to make an entrance.
“An archangel,” Rooster muttered as his eyes instantly returned to their normal blue and he turned to face the alpha Deacon. “Wait — what?”
“Bloody hell,” Big A added with a furrowed brow. “Are ye certain, Stephen?”
“I am,” he humbly replied, crossing the platform to join our huddle. “It is the only logical conclusion, I’m afraid.
“To what point or purpose?” Abernethy argued. “Why would one of the archangels want to open Tartarus and free the Watchers? It was them that put the wee scunners there in the first place.”
“The clue was in Azazel’s demands,” Stephen said, turning his attention toward me. “What specifically did he say he would do if his fallen brothers were released from their bonds?”
“He said he’d withdraw his legions from this realm and never again plague mankind,” I replied.
“Then where the hell’s he planning on going?” Stoner grunted. “Maui?”
“No,” I replied, starting to piece the puzzle together. “Heaven.”
“Son of a bitch,” Rooster muttered. “He’s going to use the Watchers as a freaking assault force to storm the gates.”
“Nae,” Big A said. “The fallen blighters were banished by the Father himself. Their return would result in nothing less than—”
“An angel war,” Stephen said, finishing the thought. “I believe that, and that alone, is the endgame of our traitorous seraph.”
“That’s one hell of an endgame,” Tango grumbled.
“Durn skippy,” muttered Coop.
“That’s seriously bad news, brosephs,” Caveman added, accompanied by yet another piggly growl from Duncan.
“I don’t get it,” Rooster interjected. “Why would a member of the seraphic court, one of God’s seven chosen sons, want to instigate an angelic civil war? That doesn’t make any freaking sense. What’s the point?”
“I’m afraid his motives are as much of a mystery as his identity,” Stephen conjectured. “The only certainty in this equation is his intention, and our duty to stop him before Earth and the Heavens alike are destroyed in the wake of battle.”
“So all we have to do is stop a renegade archangel who’s working with a demented fallen angel who are collectively holding mankind ransom for the express purpose of freeing another two hundred — highly pissed off — fallen angels from their eternal bondage to ultimately sack Heaven in a blaze of blasphemous glory,” Rooster pontificated, as his eyes flashed red for a quick second. “Hallelujah. Holy shit. Okay, guys. I got nothing. Any ideas?”
“I’ve got one,” I replied.
“Why do I get the feeling I’m not going to like this idea?” he grumbled.
“There’s only one play here,” I said, turning to Stephen. “Azazel made me his damn emissary. I need to deliver his terms.”
“To the seraphic court?” Rooster scoffed. “Ah, that’s probably the worst thing you could possibly do right now. Did we not just establish that Azazel is actually working for one of the archangels?”
“And if I don’t go — the gig is up,” I shot back. “The traitor will know we’re onto him, and it’s game over.”
“What’s your plan, lad?” Big A asked.
“Details notwithstanding — I go see the God Squad, figure out which one of their halo wearing asses is the barkangel, and then we out his sorry ass before Azazel can launch his next wave of destruction. Piece of cake.”
“Barkangel?” Tango asked.
“The bad archangel,” I replied. “Thought it had a nice ring to it. Kind of rolls off the tongue.”
“Barkangel,” Coop chuckled, despite himself.
“Are we seriously going with that?” Tango asked, evidently not sold.
“I kinda like it,” Crockett muttered.
As the rest of the group contemplated my impromptu moniker for the heavenly traitor with mixed reaction for an awkward second, Caveman muttered, “That’s, ah, not a good plan, dude.”
“No. No it’s not,” Rooster affirmed.
“It’s a piece of piss,” Abernethy said, shaking his head. “A daft gambit at best.”
“Perhaps,” Stephen said. “But at the moment — It remains our only course of action.”
“Just out of curiosity,” I said, “Where exactly do the archangels live anyway?”
“Paradise City, laddie,” Abernethy replied, evidently not so pleased with the turn of events.
“Paradise City?”
“It’s what we call Tenth Heaven — the Powers and Dominions of Fire and Light,” Rooster replied. “Generally speaking, it’s not a place you go without good reason. In fact, I can’t think of any good reason to go there — pretty much ever. Barkangel or not.”
“The grass ain’t green and the girls ain’t pretty,” grunted Stoner, invoking his Guns ‘n’ Roses fetish. “Good luck, Robinson. You’re gonna need it. We’re all counting on you. I need a drink.”
“For the time being,” Stephen said, “I suggest the rest of you keep searching for Azazel’s new base of operations.”
Addressing Abernethy directly, he added, “And kindly inform the other archdeacons to follow suit.”
“Aye,” Big A replied, as they exchanged nods and gripped hands. “Consider it done. I take it yer making a trip up north then?”
“I won’t be long. Gabriel is expecting me.”
“Well, ye be wary in yer travels, mate. Keep a keen eye.”
“Thank you, old friend. You know that I will.”
Facing the group, Big A barked, “Alright, laddies, off yer arses and back to work. Let’s smoke the bastarts out of their hidey holes. Double our efforts. We’ve got twenty-three good hours to find the wee scunners and give ‘em a proper skelping. Mr. Crockett, yer our best tracker. Do yer thing.”
“I’m on it, boss,” the enigmatic outdoorsman replied, leaping from the Command Bridge like a supernatural Tarzan and zipping out of the Reliquary in a blur of motion.
“Dean, a word please,” Stephen said, as he began to casually walk toward the arcane portal that subtly manifested at the far end of the command bridge.
Moving out of earshot from the rest of the group I muttered, “So, couldn’t help but notice that you neglected to tell the crew about a couple rat
her significant details regarding the severity of our current situation.”
“Such as,” he replied, knowing damn well what I was talking about.
“For starters — maybe that the twenty-four Deacons they all think are dead — are actually sitting like mushrooms in Azazel’s private dungeon while his miscreant archangel boss sucks the Wrath out of them with a divine straw.”
“Are you referring to the barkangel?” He said, rather drolly.
“Exactly.”
“Well, for the moment, that knowledge is our burden to bear. There will soon be a time when those details become relevant to disclose with the others. But that time is not now.”
“Well,” I grumbled, “It’ll sure as shit be relevant when the barkangel figures out how to wield the Wrath and turns into Evil Über Deacon. Then we’ll have some ‘splaining to do.”
“I’m not sure the moniker of Evil Über Deacon is entirely accurate for the traitorous seraph,” he dryly replied, clearly unimpressed with my nick naming proficiency.
“No? Then what would you call a celestial being juiced up with the divine power of twenty-five Deacons whose hell bent on storming the gates of Heaven with bad intentions?”
After a long pause, he locked eyes with me and coldly said, “He would be a god, Dean.”
“A god?”
“I’m afraid so. Any being laden with that much of God’s Wrath — God’s power — would be by definition a god himself. And one we could not hope to defeat alone.”
“A god,” I muttered, with a distinct lump in my throat as the weight of his statement hit me like a ton of bricks.
“However, fortunately for us, the so called barkangel will not possess the requisite divine power to become the Evil Über Deacon until he adds you or I to his ‘collection.’ Which, if I’m not mistaken, makes it more than incumbent upon the two of us to ensure that does not happen.”
“Fair enough,” I replied, figuring there wasn’t much else to say. Although I was still pissed that we were keeping the team in the dark about the grander scheme, I trusted Stephen’s judgment. “So, what’s the plan from here?”
“I will prepare the way and send for you.”
“You’re going to Paradise City?”
“No,” he replied. “I’m afraid one does not simply waltz into Tenth Heaven uninvited. I must first consult Gabriel and request an audience with the seraphic court.”
“Can you trust him — Gabriel?”
“Yes,” Stephen said emphatically. “He is perhaps the only one we can trust. His loyalties lie with the Father and him alone. Rest assured, Dean, Gabriel is not the traitor.”
“You mean the barkangel.”
“I’d prefer not to use that term — ever again actually.”
“And it appears Evil Über Deacon is out too.”
“I should hope so.”
“That’s unfortunate.”
“I will return as quickly as possible. Wait for me here.”
“Roger that, sir.”
“Dean,” he said in a manner that sent a harrowing chill down my spine, “The stakes have never been higher. Ready yourself for that which follows. We mustn’t fail.”
He then simply stepped through the otherworldly portal and melted from sight.
“Awesome,” I muttered, thinking things were a hell of a lot simpler when all we had to do was fight giants.
Thinking that was one hell of a good idea, I made my way through the bustle of the Command Bridge and started down the spiral staircase.
“And where the blazes are ye going, Deannie?” Abernethy grunted.
“Dreghorn. I’m feeling the unequivocal need to punch something.”
Chapter 7
Locked eye to eye with the fifteen foot, muscle-clad behemoth standing opposite me, I tightened the grip on my spatha as a fine layer of white fire formed on my gauntlets and slowly crept down the blade of the otherworldly sword. Although the anakim was doing his very best to take his generally menacing motif to a new level, the fact he was wearing a jacked up wife beater tee and spandex shorts in lieu of the usual body armor just made me chuckle.
“Nice outfit, asshole,” I grumbled. “If you’re going for Vin Diesel meets Richard Simmons — You nailed it. Seriously. Nicely done.”
Not getting much of a response besides a guttural growl accompanied by the waving of his oversized battle axe, I figured he must’ve missed the reference. Which is honestly a damn shame because it was probably one of my better one-liners. Tough crowd …
Getting ready to lay the smack down on his malignant, jazzercising ass, I felt the cloak ripple about my shoulders and instantly felt the presence of yet another unnatural miscreant stirring behind me.
“Awww. Did you bring a friend?” I asked the beastie, without diverting my gaze in the least. “I didn’t realize this was a double date. Now it’s just awkward.”
“We do not fear you, Deacon,” the giant bellowed through double rows of yellow stained, gritted teeth.
“And that, my large friend, is problematic,” I said, as my mouth curled into a dark grin and I willed the otherworldly shotgun into being. “Because you really, really should.”
Instantly feeling the leather scabbard-like holster manifest on my back, I ripped the semi-divine 1887 Winchester free with my left hand and spun to my rear to find the second anakim mere inches from running me through with a ginormous spear. Fortunately, he’d opted for the traditional sullied tunic and bronze breast plate look which I thought was much more appropriate for a malevolent mythical creature.
As my amplified fight reflexes kicked in and the calmative awareness washed over me like a warm ray of sunshine, I easily side stepped the attack. Casually sticking my foot out and tripping the big dope as he careened past me with the speed of a bullet train, I happily watched as he plummeted to the stone floor in a pathetic heap.
About to pop a Judgment fire bolstered cap in his sorry ass, the cloak rippled again and I instinctively swung my head just in time to avoid the big-ass battle axe hurtling toward my head for the express purpose of lopping my face off.
“Now that’s just plain rude,” I said, turning my attention back to the Body By Jake wannabe, and pointing the business end of my shotgun at his massive frame.
As a blast of pure white flame flashed from the muzzle and subsequently blew a basketball sized hole through his oversized pectorals, he simply melted from existence. Spandex and all. To be fair, I was probably doing him a favor.
He really didn’t have the legs to pull that outfit off.
Checking in on ginormous miscreant number two who was still flopping around on his back in the near vicinity, I holstered the shotgun and sheathed the sword. Reaching down and grabbing his flagpole sized spear, I got a modest running start and plunged it straight through the bastard’s rib cage. As he let out a rather disturbing primal scream in protest, I finished off the maneuver by driving the medieval skewer a solid foot in the ground, effectively pinning him there for the foreseeable future.
“Ain’t that life for ya. Somedays you’re the shish and somedays you’re the kebab.”
And as I stood there for a long second admiring my handiwork, the onslaught of a splitting headache hit me like a force of nature.
Typical.
Feeling like my head was about to pop under an unimaginable force, I squeezed my eyes shut and grabbed my forehead with both hands. After an excruciating couple seconds, the pain subsided and I coaxed my eyes open to find an unfamiliar scene laid out before me.
No longer in the Dreghorn, I seemed to be standing on a rocky ledge jutting out from what appeared to be the near top of a massive, snow laden mountain in the center of an endless, desolate valley filled with nothing but obscure conglomerations of ice sheets and oversized cave-like bunkers. Although cast in a spectral twilight, the unmistakable movement of giant figures skulking around hundreds of bonfires strewn throughout the barren landscape made it pretty clear that I was staring at anakim central.
And of
course, perched on the very edge of the cliff adjacent a blazing torch, my pal Azazel proudly overlooked his legion of oversized miscreants while smugly puffing on a cigar. Looking exceptionally happy with himself, he casually turned to his right as another figure fluidly manifested in the looming darkness.
“You have done well, brother,” the clandestine newcomer announced.
Easily a head taller than Azazel and clad in a brilliant while cloak, his face was carefully concealed inside a leather praetorian helmet and an almost tangible aura of pure white light silhouetted his powerful frame.
It was the aura of an angel.
A frigg’n bad one.
“Why, thank you, my lord,” Azazel drolly replied, reaching into his suit pocket and handing him a cigar.
Callously tossing it on the frozen ground, the barkangel replied, “Celebration, however, is far from warranted in this early hour.”
“I respectfully disagree, my lord. The wheels of progress have been set in motion. Within a day’s time you will not only wield the needed complement of Father’s Wrath, but command my legions of anakim and the fallen Watchers. The realms of Heaven will quake upon your approach.”
“Do not underestimate the cunning nature of our opposition, Azazel.”
“The seraphic court?”
“Among others.”
“Others? Surely you are not referring to the Deacons, my lord. They are powerless to stop us now. You’ve said so yourself.”
“There has been an interesting wrinkle in our calculations, I’m afraid. An ironic twist that I regrettably did not anticipate.”
“I do not understand.”
“Your understanding is not required.”
“Then how am I to assist?”
“You are not. I will see to the resolution of this annoyance — personally.”
“And what of me?”
“When your celebration is concluded, ready your Maradim and proceed with the plan as discussed. I will join you at the gates of Tartarus when the time is upon us to free your brothers. Until then, remain vigilant. Have I made myself clear?”
Wrath of the Fallen: The Guild of Deacons, Book 2 Page 5
