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

by James MacGhil

“The lackeys,” Erin whispered to me.

  “That’s awkward,” I grumbled back.

  “You are to come with us,” the archangel repeated, ignoring our sidebar. “The seraphic court is assembled and awaiting your arrival.”

  As the sphincter triplets stood like mannequins boring holes through my skull with their piercing, cold gazes, I said, “Although I’m flattered by the VIP escort, I was expecting to make the trip with Stephen. So I’ll just wait for him if you don’t mind.”

  “I thought I smelled yer foul stench,” Abernethy interjected, appearing unnoticed from behind our visitors. “What business do ye have here, Remiel?”

  “The bidding of Gabriel. Which is no concern of yours.”

  “Forgive me if I’m more than keen to disagree,” Big A grumbled, placing himself squarely between me and the trio of armored seraphs like he was about to throw down on their angel asses.

  “Has time done nothing to your improve your temperament, Abernethy?” Remiel asked, with a distinct edge and dark grin stretching across his perfect face. “Still smitten with anger after all these many years. You remain the petulant templar of centuries past.”

  “Aye. And ye remain the same skelpit arse with a wee halo and a swalt heid,” Big A fired back which caused me to chuckle a bit despite the situation.

  “What did he say?” Erin asked me in a hushed tone, evidently not yet able to decipher Big A’s brogue.

  “Spitballing here,” I whispered back, “But pretty sure he just called Remiel an asshole with a little dick and a fat head.”

  “That’s amazing.”

  “Abernethy’s got a real way with words.”

  “You’d be wise to mind your tongue, mortal,” Remiel muttered, fixated on Big A. “Or perhaps our next encounter will not end on such pleasant terms.”

  “Next encounter?” Abernethy said, after a hearty chuckle. “And what makes ye think this wee visit’s gonna end pleasantly?”

  “Because, despite your acrimony, you are of no consequence to me in this moment. My brothers and I are here on Gabriel’s orders to retrieve the Seventh of Seven.”

  “Here to collect Dean, are ye? To what point or purpose?”

  “If I’m not mistaken, to address the small matter of a common enemy that threatens the very survival of the precious humans you’ve so diligently protected all these many centuries. Be that as it may, I personally find the entire situation rather amusing and unworthy of our intervention. Nonetheless, orders must be followed.”

  “Amusing,” Big A scoffed. “Reveling in the suffering of mankind has always put a smile on yer crooked face.”

  “Mankind is a putrid sewer of wickedness and fallibility — unworthy in all regards of all the greatness bestowed upon it. Is it not the unyielding desire of man to suffer in his own pettiness and contempt despite the timeless, unconditional love showered upon him by our Father? Humans are nothing more than an insipid race of animals more than deserving of any and all affliction that befalls them.”

  “Aye, and I presume the affliction at the hand of a fallen Watcher that’s been conveniently slipping through the fingers of the mighty archangels for a few millennia is just a wee coincidence, is it?”

  “If you’re insinuating that my brothers and I are responsible for Azazel and his continued blasphemy,” Remiel said, with a dark grin, “You are entirely more deluded than I had originally believed. In spite of your limited intellect and fantastical paranoia, even you cannot be that ignorant.”

  “Then I’m sure you’ll be keen to enlighten me as to how a daft scunner like Azazel has made a career out of wiping his arse with the covenants of Heaven while you parade around with yer thumb up yers.”

  “I would pose the same question to you, Deacon.”

  “Would you now?” Big A scoffed. “Was it not yerself that imprisoned him for all eternity in Dudael all those many years ago?”

  “It was Raphael and I. Yes.”

  “Well, don’t mind if I point out that ye did a right shitty job then. Either that or ye let him escape — because yer in league with him.”

  “While I will agree,” Remiel fired back, “That Azazel’s ability to shed his eternal bonds was undoubtedly orchestrated by a divine traitor, the more plausible suspect is that of mortal origins — like perhaps you and your league of cloaked abominations.”

  “Ah, excuse me, fellas,” I said, butting into the conversation at the risk of being smitten by Big A or the collection of archangels looking at me like I just took their lunch money. “Pretty clear that you guys won’t be exchanging Christmas cards anytime soon, but we’re burning daylight here. May I be so bold as to suggest we put this ever so spirited exercise in verbal combat on hold for just a moment and get back to figuring out how to stop the actual bad guys?”

  “Aye,” Big A muttered, evidently putting his apparent detestation of Remiel aside for the moment. “For now.”

  Without another word, he then slowly backed away and stood next to me.

  “So, Stephen’s with the seraphic court?” I asked, looking squarely at Remiel and somewhat shocked nobody tried to run a sword through me or blast me with Judgment fire.

  “He is,” he replied, turning his cold gaze from Abernethy to me and clearly more than a bit miffed that I interrupted him.

  “And you’re going to take me there?”

  “I have orders to retrieve you.”

  “Fair enough. Then let’s go, Remdawg. Ready when you are, big fella.”

  As Remiel raised a blonde eyebrow at me evidently trying to figure out if I just insulted him or not, Big A grabbed my shoulder and pulled me aside.

  “Yer not going anywhere with this daft lot.”

  “Not sure we have a choice here, boss. The clock’s ticking.”

  “Remiel cannot be bloody trusted. For all we know, he’s the traitor and yer gonna get sacked before ye even get to Paradise City.”

  “Stephen trusts Gabriel, and these guys are acting on his direct orders. Angels have to follow orders, right?”

  “Aye,” he grumbled. “And they cannot lie — But that doesn’t mean they’re telling the bloody truth either.”

  “We stick to the plan. It’s the only way.”

  Shaking his head in protest, he muttered, “Ye watch yer arse, Deannie. These are powerful beings. Nae to be trifled with.”

  “Weren’t you just about to fight all three of them?”

  “Aye, but I’m Scottish.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind for future reference,” I replied, not really sure what else to say. Locking gazes with Erin, I said, “Promise me you’ll stay at the Quartermaster until we sort this out.”

  “Promise,” she replied, looking more than a bit skeptical about the situation.

  “Don’t worry,” I said, assuredly. “I hear Tenth Heaven is nice this time of year. Walk in the park.”

  Willing the cloak into being, it instantly manifested on my shoulders in a spectral flash. Turning to the angel posse, I said, “Are we doing this or what?”

  “Follow me,” Remiel said, as he and his strong, silent-type brosephs casually stepped through the otherworldly gateway that instantly appeared behind them.

  “I’ll be back,” I said, with my very best Schwarzenegger impression as I winked at Doc.

  “Good grief,” I heard her grumble as I stepped through the door and melted from sight.

  Followed by a faint yet definitive, “Bloody hell.”

  Chapter 10

  The notion of Heaven is undoubtedly the most appealing concept in mortal life. A utopian, metaphorical realm of bliss and transcendence where the righteous are rewarded with an eternity of peace. A literal paradise that’s devoid of pain and bathed in light. Generally speaking, a perpetual happy place allowing for worthy souls to recognize the true meaning of consummate fulfillment.

  Most folks think there’s only one Heaven, but in all actuality there are ten. Each unique. Each with a distinct purpose and strict occupancy policy. Now granted, while I was no st
ranger to the realms of Third Heaven I couldn’t help but feel that I hadn’t seen the good stuff yet. And despite the warnings about what a shit hole Paradise City was, I was more than a bit excited to see where the archangels let their wings down in Tenth Heaven.

  I mean seriously — how frigg’n bad could it be? If there are ten levels of Heaven, logically that would mean that the tenth level is like the penthouse.

  The penthouse is always good.

  It’s a universal constant — like beer.

  There is no bad beer.

  There is just beer.

  And beer is good.

  Amen.

  At any rate, stepping out of the otherworldly portal as it snapped shut behind me, I eagerly surveyed my surroundings and was more than a bit disappointed. Typical.

  A desolate, never ending panorama of dark, sandy foothills covered in scrub brush and man sized saguaro cactus stretched out in every direction for as far as the eye could see. A blood red sun peaked above the horizon and a gentle, cool breeze swept steadily across the landscape.

  Turning to the celestial version of the three amigos who were cautiously surrounding me like shrewd predators sizing up their prey, I said, “Is it just me or does Tenth Heaven look a lot like Arizona in the winter?”

  As they formed a semicircle around me and commenced to bore holes through my skull with their piercing gazes, I muttered, “Ah, I get it. This isn’t Tenth Heaven, is it? We’re still on Earth. And this is frigg’n Arizona.”

  In perfect unison, Raguel and Saraqael then methodically drew their really big swords and took a collective step in my direction.

  Holding my ground, I willed the otherworldly shotgun into being and instantly felt the presence of the leather scabbard-like holster as it fluidly manifested on my back.

  “And you’ve evidently brought me to the desert to kill me,” I muttered, thinking it rather humorous that these morons brought swords to a gun fight. “How terribly cliché of you.”

  “Lower your blades, brothers,” Remiel said to his cohorts, as a macabre pair of brass knuckles featuring sizable spikes formed on his fisted hands in a spectral flash.

  Glaring at me with a truly wicked grin, he added, “The pleasure of ending this petulant animal is mine.”

  “Petulant animal?” I protested, making the mental note that I really should’ve listened to Abernethy and passed up on this trip all together. “That’s a bit harsh.”

  Without any further words, the not so dynamic duo lowered their Conan quality broadswords and turned toward Remiel somewhat confused.

  “The Seventh of Seven possesses great power, Remiel,” one of the two then said, carrying on the conversation like I wasn’t even there. “It will take our collective resolve to end him. We must heed the warning of the seraphic court. He is a threat not to be trivialized.”

  “The seraphic court overestimates the abilities of this Deacon, Saraqael,” Remiel scoffed. “He is no more of a threat to us than a speck of dust is to the sun. We are the Father’s true chosen sons. Not this abomination. His perceived power cannot harm us.”

  “Ah, you guys know I can hear you right?” I grumbled, waving a hand at the triumvirate. “Right here, fellas.”

  “Then what do you intend for him, Remiel?” The last of the trio, whom I assumed to be Raguel, asked.

  “Gabriel believes this treasonous filth is concealing the location of the Vessel. That knowledge is more than vital to our cause if we are to put an end to Azazel’s blasphemy and secure the borders of Heaven.”

  “You plan to interrogate him,” Saraqael said, seemingly very pleased by this turn of events.

  “I do,” he coldly replied. “Before drawing his final breath, Dean Robinson will gladly reveal the information he harbors or suffer like none have suffered before him in all the many wretched days of mankind. Then and only then will I grant him the mercy of death.”

  “Very well,” Saraqael replied, sheathing his sword. “You’ve always had a particular talent for such brutal acts of necessity.”

  “Indeed,” added Raguel, grinning a dark grin. “Do you require our assistance, brother?”

  “No. Both of you should return to Tenth Heaven at once. Gather the seraphic court. Advise them that our quarry has been detained. Tell them that I will join you shortly with the information we so desperately require — with the head of the Seventh of Seven on the end of my blade.”

  “As you wish,” the two replied in a creepy single voice, as they simply vanished from sight in a whooshing sound of massive, unseen wings.

  If I had any previous doubt as to the absolute stone cold nature of archangels, it was so totally gone after bearing witness to that more than absurd conversation. Ready to make Remiel eat every frigg’n word he just uttered, I ripped the Winchester free of its holster, cocked the lever, and pointed the barrel straight at the pretty face of my apparent executioner.

  “We have precious little time,” he said, in a surprisingly civil tone as his demeanor instantly changed and his brass knuckles melted from existence. “I mean you no harm, Dean Robinson.”

  “Wait, what?” I said, wondering what the hell just happened.

  Closing his eyes and bowing his head, he then proceeded to murmur a few words in Enochian. Completing the incantation, he simply waved a hand in the air and a shimmering wave of translucent primal energy manifested and snapped into place around us, forming a sizable dome.

  “This veil will shield us,” he said.

  “Shield us from what?”

  “My brothers. It will not be long before they realize I’ve betrayed them and return. This will hold them at bay long enough for you to flee.”

  “So, let me get this straight — After that speech you just gave the sphincter twins, I’m supposed to believe that you’re a good guy?”

  “You have many enemies, Dean Robinson. But I am not one of them.”

  “Well, that’s interesting,” I replied, unconvinced. “Because friends don’t typically bring friends to the desert with the intent to cut their frigg’n heads off.”

  “That rhetoric was a mere charade. My intentions are just. You must believe me.”

  “Believe you? Frigg’n seriously? You’ve already lied to me — twice.”

  “Angels do not lie,” he replied, humbly.

  “At the Quartermaster, you told me that you were taking me to seraphic court to meet Stephen. And unless there’s a portal to Tenth Heaven lurking in a tumbleweed somewhere around here — not likely — that was complete and utter bullshit.”

  “I told you that Stephen was with the seraphic court and my brothers and I were sent to retrieve you at the command of Gabriel. Both of which are true. You simply insinuated the rest.”

  “Right. So when you said you were sent to retrieve me, I should have also insinuated that you were going to take me to the middle of frigg’n nowhere, smack me around with the power of Grayskull, and string me up for vulture chow. “

  “My actions were regrettable yet necessary. A means to an end,” he said, scanning the area outside the protective veil like he was expecting someone to show up at any moment. “Please, we have precious little time remaining. There are dark forces at work. Darker than you or I understand. It is imperative you listen to me.”

  Making the mental note that perhaps Remiel might actually be on the level and not the world class asshat that he was previously making himself out to be, I said, “Explain that statement.”

  “Do you not see? The seraphic court sent my brothers and me to execute you.”

  “Yeah, I kind of gathered that. Why?”

  “Because you are a traitor — in league with Azazel and his Maradim. Just as Stephen is. The seraphic court has condemned you both upon Gabriel’s express recommendation. You are an enemy of Heaven. Marked for eternal damnation in the Lake of Fire.”

  “Gabriel’s condemned us?” I muttered, struggling to follow this more than unexpected plot twist. “I don’t understand. That doesn’t make any sense.”


  Lowering my shotgun, I said, “Stephen is no traitor.”

  “Nor are you. I am fully aware of that. Something is — wrong. Terribly wrong.”

  “Then what the hell’s going on? Is Gabriel the barkangel?”

  “The what?” He asked, shooting me a curious look.

  “The bad archangel. The barkangel,” I grumbled, making the mental note that perhaps that nickname might actually suck. “The traitor.”

  “We are no longer alone,” he said, beginning to look more than a bit anxious as he drew his sword. “Listen to me, Dean Robinson — You must safe-guard the Vessel. Keep it hidden. It cannot be found by Azazel or the seraphic court. Nor anyone else for that matter.”

  “The what?”

  “The Vessel. It is the key to unlocking the gates of Tartarus. That cannot happen. Do you understand?”

  “Ah, no,” I said, desperately trying to follow the plot. “The Vessel? What Vessel—”

  And it was right about then when things took yet another unexpected turn. One of the several ginormous saguaro cactus inside the perimeter of Remiel’s protective veil swung open like a set of saloon doors, and out stepped some jackass in a weathered, raw hide trench coat complemented by a crumpled faux cowboy hat and really nice Oakleys.

  “You are late,” Remiel sharply said.

  “Suck it,” replied the mysterious spaghetti western commando.

  Without so much as another word, the apocalyptic cowboy then proceeded to blast the archangel squarely in the chest with what looked like a sawed off M79 grenade launcher. Didn’t see that coming.

  As the round exploded in a brilliant flash of purple-white flame, poor old Remdawg careened backward and slammed into the wall of his arcane dome before plopping on the desert floor in a limp, fiery heap.

  “Holy flame incendiary grenades,” the Wyatt Earp wannabe announced rather proudly with a badly chewed cigar clenched tightly in his teeth. “It doesn’t really hurt the douchebags. Just puts ‘em out of commission for a couple minutes.”

  Throwing open his jacket, he then slid the hand cannon in a holster strapped to his leg with braided strips of leather. Taking a moment to admire his handiwork, he lowered his sunglasses and took a closer look at Remiel who was clearly unconscious and blazing away like a crate of fireworks sprayed with purple napalm.