Still yet, others were actively hoarding caches of fallout rations that they’d procured from vending machines and food kiosks, or simply pilfered from other people that had fallen asleep and neglected to guard their stash.
And worst of all, it was hot. Like ninety-eight degrees hot. Like the damn heat was purposely blaring on full tilt just to add a bit more misery to the mix.
“This isn’t an airport — it’s a frigg’n circle of hell.”
“I imagine that’s the intent.”
“What the frig happened here?”
“Whole place has been on lockdown since the attacks last night. Nobody can get in or out, which evidently happens when the entire world goes on terror alert. Variant Air is the only airline still flying.”
“How is that?”
“You’ll understand when you meet my employer.”
As we made our way through the terminal, distinct clusters of business people with crumpled suits and pronounced guts were dominating access to any and all power outlets trying desperately to prolong the battery life of their precious electronics. I even overheard one swarmy, loud talking consultant-like son of bitch trying to talk a hundred bucks out of some teenagers to charge their cell phones.
I think the poor kids were actually about to hand him all the money they collectively had on their person when I accidentally lowered my shoulder into the fat bastard and power checked him into the nearest wall. Whoops.
“My bad.”
Helping the jackass to his feet and politely informing him that I’d kindly rip all four of his chins off if he persisted with his extortion policy, he was more than willing to assist the youngsters pro bono. And I think he peed himself a little.
Poetic justice — achieved.
Continuing to wade through the terminal, MacCawill and I reached Gate 13 only to find a sizable, hostile crowd formed around an unusually content, uniformed gate agent perched behind an oversized pedestal desk. Proudly displayed on the wall behind him was an obnoxiously large logo depicting an inverted red triangle and the tagline ‘Variant Air. Fly the Winds of Change. Where Every Soul Counts.’ Looking down upon the masses, he sat like a content king addressing his suffering court of plebeians.
“There he is,” MacCawill said, pointing at the would be airport potentate.
“Who?”
“My employer.”
“The frigg’n gate agent?”
“Yep. Let’s go.”
Making the mental note that a low level, power tripping airport employee was probably about the last person I was expecting MacCawill’s clandestine bossman to be, I nonetheless wove my way through the mob of incited travelers to get closer.
And as soon as I got a good look at him — it all made sense.
Perfect sense.
“Lucifer,” I grumbled. “You work for Lucifer.”
Didn’t see that coming.
Dressed in a fire engine red blazer, crisp white shirt, and loosely knotted black tie, the roguishly handsome, George Clooney’esque fallen angel ran a hand through his slicked back, silver speckled hair and adjusted his Buddy Holly spectacles as he happily looked upon a ranting, highly pissed off customer.
With charming eloquence, I heard him say, “Kindly rest assured, good sir, that we at Variant Air are doing everything humanly possible to guarantee your seat on the very next flight to Los Angeles. In the interim, may I suggest that you find yourself a nice, quiet place to properly mull over those fleeting thoughts of self-immolation that are racing through your deluded subconscious at the moment.”
“Excuse me?” The befuddled traveler indignantly barked.
“I believe you know what I’m referring to. There’s a good fellow. Go forth and wallow. Here, take this spork. And please be sure to complete an online survey. Like us on Facebook. Follow us on Twitter. Every tormented soul counts at Variant Air.”
As the poor bastard defeatedly turned to leave, Lucifer gave him a dismissive pat on the head and proudly announced, “Next valued customer please.”
“Nice outfit,” I grumbled, approaching the desk as I took noticed of his white plastic name, “Lew.”
“Ah, the good Master Robinson,” he replied, with a really creepy, wide smile in his signature smarmy dialect. “A sight for sore eyes in this darkest of hours. I was beginning to think Mr. MacCawill had failed in his appointed task.”
“Sorry,” MacCawill muttered. “There was a slight complication retrieving the talisman.”
“I take it you were successful?”
“Of course.”
“You have done well, Roy. You always do. Consider our debt settled and your fee paid in full.”
“Pleasure doing business with you. And don’t call me again — like ever. Seriously.”
“I certainly will not,” Lucifer replied, with a wink and a nod. “Right up until the very moment when I do.”
“Whatever,” MacCawill grumbled. Turning to me, he said, “Good luck, mancho. You’ll need it. See ya ‘round. But probably not.”
“That’s it? Where the hell are you going?”
“To settle a score with an old friend.”
Then he simply faded into the gaggle of people and melted from sight.
“Too bad,” I muttered. “That jackass was actually starting to grow on me.”
“Fear not, Dean. I don’t believe you’ve seen the last of Roy MacCawill.”
“And why’s that?”
“For it’s only the second act. His part, as is yours, is far from played out.”
“Right,” I muttered. “So, what the hell am I doing here, Lewis? Didn’t think I’d be seeing you again so soon — or ever.”
“You say that with such disdain. Have I not saved your life for the second time in as many weeks?”
“Yeah, you’re a real frigg’n Boy Scout. And for the record — you can’t really save my life. I’m already dead, remember? So, what do you want?”
“What I have always wanted. The Balance restored. The world of man returned to a more favorable environment for the transacting of my ever so important business matters.”
“Like talking people out of their souls and damning them to Hell?”
“You have your business. I have mine. In the end, we all do that for which intended by the almighty Father. To think otherwise is simply — irresponsible. Isn’t that right, Erin Kelly?”
“What?” I scoffed, spinning around to find the Doc and Rooster pushing their way through the surrounding multitude. “Doc? Did you follow me? You guys shouldn’t be here.”
“Who the hell are you?” Erin said with a distinct edge as she pushed past me and approached the desk. “And how do you know my name?”
“Don’t be so modest, poppet,” Lucifer replied, with a seductive grin. “Such striking beauty laced with delectable, boiling ferocity. How could I not?”
Turning his attention to Rooster, he said, “Eóin, what a lovely surprise! You look well, my son. Very well.”
“Hello, father,” Rooster coldly replied.
Father?
Wait.
What the frig just happened?
Chapter 15
They say the devil’s in the details. And if that particular detail happens to be that the Devil is your arcane BFF’s frigg’n daddy? Like literally — his frigg’n dad. What the hell is that about? Pun whole heartedly intended.
“Father?” I scoffed, looking at Rooster with my jaw squarely on the floor. “Him? Lew? Frigg’n Lucifer — is your dad? What?”
“I can explain,” Rooster started to say as Doc came to the very unfortunate realization that she was standing face to face with—
“Lucifer?” she gasped, taking a step backward.
“At your service, my sultry vixen,” Lew replied, seemingly captivated by Erin.
“Lucifer — As in Satan?”
“Guilty as charged.”
“And you’re manning the ticket counter — at an airport — in Georgia?”
“I’ll have you know that I do
some of my best work in airports. Marvelous places. The caged anxiety. The looming desperation. The voracious, engendered hostility. Airports, my dear poppet, bring out the absolute worst attributes of human nature. I enjoy them so much, I bought an airline.”
“You’re saying that Variant Air is literally owned by the Devil.”
“Indeed. And the return on my investment has been simply immeasurable. You’d be surprised how quickly someone will quite literally sell their soul for additional leg room, followed by a complimentary vodka tonic. Occasionally I’m forced to sweeten the pot by tossing in an extra bag of pretzels, but that’s more the exception than the rule.”
“That’s repulsive.”
“That’s business, deary, and Variant Air is a veritable goldmine. Although, I must admit it’s still centuries behind my financial services division. I’m kind of the only name in consumer credit these days — sort of a big deal.”
“Credit cards was your idea, eh?” I grumbled. “I knew it …”
“Credit cards, subprime lending, reverse mortgages — you name it. It’s all about mergers and acquisitions. And don’t even get me started on my theme park conglomerate. If I’d known that a pair of mouse ears coupled with exorbitant admission prices would yield such staggering results, I would’ve gotten in the business eons ago. Candy from babies and the like.”
“You’re actually him,” Erin muttered. “You’re Lucifer.”
“Please, Miss Kelly, call me Lew,” he snarkily replied. “All my friends do. Isn’t that right, Dean?”
“Friends?” she barked, glaring at me. “Since when are you a friend of the Devil?”
“Is there a Grateful Dead joke in there?”
“No, Dean. There’s not.”
“Right,” I muttered. “We’re actually more of fleeting acquaintances. It’s actually kind of a funny story—”
“Shut up,” she snapped, as she spun toward Rooster. “And you — you’re his son?”
“One of many,” Rooster replied, defensively. “And very estranged. Also a bit of a funny story?”
“Okay, you guys officially suck. Both of you. Like seriously suck.”
“Ouch.”
“Ditto.”
Fixing her icy stare on Lucifer, Erin snapped, “Quit ogling me, jagoff.”
“So feisty,” he quipped. “Simply adorable. I just love you.”
“Bite me.”
“Is that an invitation, my plucky strumpet?”
“I’m gonna punch him in the face,” she muttered, clenching her hands into little boney fists.
“Easy there, Doc,” I grumbled, stepping between them. “You can punch him later. For the moment — we need his help.”
“Help? Help with what?”
“It would be my absolute pleasure to help you in any number of ways, Miss Kelly,” Lucifer seductively, and very creepily, quipped. “May I call you Erin?”
“Keep your pitchfork in your pants before you make me whiny, Lewis.”
“Yes. Yes, of course,” he grinned. “Business before frivolity. Spoken like a true soldier.”
“What business is he talking about, Dean?” Rooster asked. “What exactly are you doing here — with him?”
“Your pops hired MacCawill to save me from the archangel death squad, and bring me here. He supposedly has information about what’s happening in the seraphic court. Information we need to set things right.”
Glaring at me, Rooster said, “Really? And you believe him?”
“Come now, Eóin,” Lucifer replied, “You should be relieved that I have taken an interest in these matters.”
“Relieved,” he scoffed. “My ass.”
“Do you not trust me, son?”
“I haven’t trusted you for two thousand years, father.”
“If you’re referring to that bit of fun in Ireland—”
“Bit of fun? Freaking really? You sent me into a village to barter for food only to find a mob of pissed off druids waiting to jump me.”
After a smug chuckle, Lew said, “As I told you then, it was merely an exercise in character building. A longstanding family tradition, shall we say.”
“Ah, they burned me at the stake. When that didn’t work, they buried me alive. Then they dug me up and threw me off a cliff. And then buried me — again.”
“So?”
“I was six.”
“And a better man for it, Eóin. You’re very welcome.”
“You’re an asshole. And nobody calls me Eóin anymore. It’s John. Or Rooster.”
“Rooster? How farcical. The son of Lucifer named of a land fowl. I fear Carrick, is right. Your years of servitude to Stephen and his Guild has softened your resolve. Although, I will admit you gave him a rather impressive bludgeoning. He’s ever so looking forward to round two — whenever you get around to visiting home, that is.”
“Carrick?” I asked, butting into the more than absurd father/son Dr. Phil moment. “Is he talking about your brother? Evil Rooster — the liderc that jumped us in Azazel’s shadow realm? I thought he was dead.”
“Dead?” Lew mocked. “Certainly not, Master Robinson. Carrick has simply returned to his realm of origin. Have you not told them, Eóin? How marvelous. You’ll have so much to discuss.”
“What’s he talking about?” I said, turning to Rooster.
“It doesn’t matter,” he replied, clearly wanting to move off the topic.
Making the mental note to figure out what that was all about at some point down the road, I focused back on the matter at hand.
“Okay, let’s hear it, Lewis. Spill. What do you know about what’s going on?”
“Much,” he smugly replied. “Where shall we start?”
“How about with who the frigg’n traitor is?”
“I would have thought that rather obvious at this point.”
“Meaning?”
“Master Robinson,” he said, condescendingly, “Who is the architect of your near demise at the hands of his winged minions? Was it not Gabriel himself that gave the order to end you in that cursed desert?”
“That doesn’t make him the traitor.”
“Yet it gives you a certain insight into his motives, yes?”
“Something else is going on. Gabriel’s the only archangel Stephen trusted. I can’t believe he turned on us.”
“And yet — he did.”
“Doesn’t feel right.”
“Your feelings betray you, Dean. Gabriel is an archangel. He’s not driven by emotion — he’s driven by a deluded vision of divine grandeur and new world order. He is the traitor. And the sooner you come to terms with that unfortunate realization, the better off you’ll be. If you doubt me, why not ask your precious Stephen?”
“I wish I could,” I grunted.
“And what’s preventing you?”
“He’s kind of off the grid at the moment.”
“Off the grid, you say? How peculiar. And what was the greatest of the mighty Deacons doing when he so abruptly vanished?”
Although I didn’t exactly trust Lew, I couldn’t exactly refute the evidence and reluctantly muttered, “He was going to meet Gabriel.”
“An uncanny coincidence?”
“Maybe.”
“Don’t be so callow,” Lew scoffed. “It was nothing less than a masterfully orchestrated ambush. And your instincts tell you the same despite your feelings.”
“Perhaps.”
“But why?” Erin asked, butting into the conversation. “Why would the left hand of God betray Heaven — betray God?”
“The answer lies in your question, poppet. Gabriel is a loyal solider who’s carried out the dirty bidding of our Father since the beginning of time itself. Slaughtering and butchering through the millennia without question or hesitation. His hands stained red with the blood of angels that dare oppose the tenets of Heaven. Tenets, mind you, in which God holds the race of man — his great creation — in higher regard than his own sons. Rumor has it, brother Gabriel has simply become weary of
it. Subsequently, he believes a change in management is well overdue.”
“And Azazel’s part in this?”
“A willing lieutenant. His zeal to exact revenge on mankind over the years has proven a worthy distraction. That is precisely why Gabriel freed him from his eternal bonds in the depths of Dudael.”
“A distraction? Distraction for what?”
“For brother Gabriel to take control of the chess board, of course. To patiently and strategically move his pawns into position.”
“What pawns?”
“Those angels tired of the status quo — tired of playing second fiddle to mankind. Those ready to rise up in the name of revolution.”
“And how long has he been doing this?”
“Longer than not, I’m afraid. And if I had any inclination that he’d get this far in his grand machination, I would have taken measures to intervene long ago. Unfortunately, given the current situation, all that remains to ignite this malicious coup de gras is a single spark.”
“The Watchers,” Rooster muttered.
“Indeed,” Lucifer confirmed. “The greatest collection of fallen angels condemned to eternal damnation for crimes against humanity. A punishment, many of my brothers believe, grossly disproportionate to their crimes. Their release from Tartarus and illicit return to Heaven will provide Gabriel that which he desires most — justification for his civil war.”
“And what about him being outed as a traitor?”
“And that, my dear boy, is perhaps his greatest triumph. That dubious honor has already been laid upon the brow of another party. Perhaps you know them? A pair of humans resurrected from the great beyond and bestowed with the power of God’s Wrath. To all those concerned in the matter, Heaven was betrayed by the very humans that Father saw fit to wield his divine power in defense of the Earth.”
“That’s total bullshit.”
“Yes, but perception is reality, Dean.”
“Ugh,” I grumbled. “So the whole thing about Azazel making me his emissary to deliver terms to the seraphic court was a setup. Gabriel knew we’d take the bait. We played right into his hands.”
“Precisely. And if not for the information shared with me by Remiel resulting in the timely intervention of Mr. MacCawill, you’d presently share your master’s fate, or perhaps far worse.”
Wrath of the Fallen: The Guild of Deacons, Book 2 Page 13
