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

by James MacGhil

  “Yeah,” Ronk replied, clearly befuddled by the turn of events.

  “Of course you are. My name’s Stern. Attorney Zekaryah Stern. I represent the Law Offices of Stern and Pelchovitz. You may call me Zeke if you wish.”

  “Ah, okay.”

  “Now, if you’d kindly refrain from this hostile conduct for just one moment, we have an important matter of business to discuss.”

  When Ronk, much like the rest of us, just stood there gawking at him, Zeke commandingly said, “Put — the — dumpster — down, Mr. Ronkowski. I happen to be on a strict time table. When our business is concluded, you may resume bludgeoning Deacon Robinson, or vice-versa, to your collective heart’s content. It matters not to me, I assure you.”

  Dropping the massive metal box like a sack of potatoes, Ronk snapped out of berserker mode and grumbled, “What the hell do you want?”

  “To deliver a message on behalf of my client,” he matter-of-factly replied, producing a small key from the inside pocket of his jacket, and unlocking his snazzy briefcase.

  Carefully cracking it open and removing what appeared to be a scroll of parchment, he methodically unrolled the peculiar document while deliberately clearing his throat. Placing his glasses on the very tip of his nose, he then began to read.

  “My dearest Richard, In accordance with the tenets of our mutual agreement, you have dutifully protected the Vessel for a term of my satisfaction. As such, I summarily release you from any further responsibilities and offer you a termination of our contract should you wish to exercise it. Mr. Stern will present you with the details and see to all the arrangements. XOXO, Lilith. P.S. Call me!”

  “Lilith?” Ronk scoffed. “Wait, she’s letting me off the hook?”

  “In a matter of sorts, yes,” the practitioner of infernal law replied.

  “But, I don’t get it. Why now?”

  “An explanation was not provided with my instructions, Mr. Ronkowski.”

  “So, I’m free. Just like that?”

  “It would appear so,” he said, reaching into his suitcase and producing yet another parchment. “Here is your termination notice. I’m confident you’ll find that everything’s in good order.”

  “What’s the catch?” Ronk muttered, eagerly inspecting the document.

  “There is no catch. However, you will notice that this agreement is contingent upon one very specific condition. You are to surrender your stewardship of the Vessel to Dean Robinson, Seventh Deacon of the Seventh Line. That would presume, of course, that you choose not to squash him with a dumpster in another fit of unfettered vexation.”

  “Oh, that? I was just messing around. I actually like Robinson. We were just working a few things out. You know how it is.”

  “Yes, of course. Well, as pleasant as this has been I must be on my way. If you’ll be so kind as to make your mark, I trust you’ll provide Deacon Robinson the whereabouts of the Vessel before enjoying your newfound liberation.”

  “You serious?” Ronk chuckled, happily accepting a quill from Zekaryah Stern and scratching his name in macabre red ink on the peculiar document. “I’ve been trying to get rid of that frick’n thing ever since she saddled me with it forty years ago. You have any idea what it’s like to be stuck on a single day? In 1975 no less?”

  Quickly inspecting the parchment before tucking it back into his briefcase, the uncanny attorney simply said, “Good day to you, Mr. Ronkowski.”

  Then he just waltzed out of the alley like he owned the joint and melted from sight.

  Making the mental note that it would’ve been really nice if Lil had sent her frigg’n lawyer along before Ronk and I started slugging each other, I turned my full attention on the big oaf who was euphorically standing there like he’d just won the lottery.

  “Where’s the Ark?” I asked.

  “You know where I’m gonna go first, jumpsuit?” He muttered, like he didn’t hear a thing I’d said.

  When I offered nothing in response, he said, “East Rutherford, New Jersey. August, 20th. Nineteen eighty-fucking-four. The greatest Bruce Springsteen concert — ever.”

  “That’s really swell. Where’s the frigg’n Ark?”

  Smiling ear to ear, he then dug an ornate skeleton key out of the pocket of his jeans and tossed it at me.

  “What the hell is this for?” I grunted, as Doc and Rooster pulled up on my flank.

  “You’ll figure it out.”

  Having completely lost my patience, I barked, “Where’s the fucking Ark, Ronkowski?”

  Again ignoring the question, he said, “Go get yourself a kielbasa dog. Oh, and be sure to try the sauerkraut. It’s pissah.”

  And without another word, he simply flickered out of existence.

  “Wait, what just happened?” Rooster asked.

  “What about the Ark?” Erin scoffed, equally as perplexed.

  Studying the bizarre key, I muttered, “Unless the most powerful biblical relic known to mankind is hidden somewhere in that moron’s goddamned sausage cart — I think we just got hosed.”

  And as we stood there gawking at each other for a long second or two, Rooster said, “Wait, you don’t think the most powerful biblical relic known to mankind is actually hidden somewhere in that moron’s sausage cart, do you?”

  “No way.”

  Way?

  Busting out of the alley onto the teeming sidewalk only to find Owen sitting atop the super-sized mobile meat dispensary like a bell bottomed Buddha, we all curiously huddled around the infamous Sausage Rocket.

  “Dudes!” Double OT yelled with chunks of food spraying from his mouth. “You guys have seriously gotta try one of these kielbasa dogs. Totally fabumendous! Hey, ah, where’s Ronk?”

  Completely ignoring him, I muttered, “That is one big ass cart. One might even say it’s suspiciously big.”

  “Maybe,” Doc skeptically replied, “But is it big enough to hold the Ark?”

  “Well,” Rooster said, slipping into bloviation mode while mentally measuring the obscure pushcart, “According to the Bible, the Ark was two and a half cubits long by one and a half cubits tall and wide. So, I’d say it’s more than big enough.”

  “What the frig is a cubit?” I asked.

  Rolling his eyes like I was a complete dumbass, Rooster said, “An ancient unit of measurement based on the length of the forearm. It was all the rage back in the day.”

  “The length of a forearm, eh?”

  “Yeppers. As measured from the tip of the middle finger to the bottom of the elbow. But, as you can well imagine, there was inherent variation from region to region based on certain demographic and physiological factors. For example, I remember this one time in ancient Rome when I accidentally used an Egyptian cubit while bartering for …”

  As my esteemed ginger colleague continued to explain, in excruciating detail, the innate distinction between a Roman cubit and an Egyptian cubit, I finally grumbled, “For Christ’s sake, John, how frigg’n big is the Ark in non-archaic measurements?”

  Looking at me like I stole his lunch money, he drolly muttered, “Roughly four feet long by two and a half feet tall.”

  Taking note of the easily eight foot long and four foot high, stainless steel sausage cart, I glared at Owen who was still happily chomping away on a fistful of buns like he hadn’t eaten in a year.

  “Hey, NecroDolt, where’s Ronkowski keep the goddamn sauerkraut?”

  “Hell yeah!” He replied, flipping open a lid on one of the several bays lining the top of the Sausage Rocket. “Going straight for the cabbage. That’s what I’m talking about, monkey man. Get some!”

  Much to his dismay, Rooster, Doc, and I then proceeded to feverishly shovel heaps of pickled cabbage into his lap until the vat was completely empty.

  And wouldn’t you frigg’n know that discretely tucked in the far corner of the bay was a peculiar keyhole set in the dead center of an elegantly arranged series of Enochian sigils that glowed and hissed a brilliant white flame.

  “Are those
warding glyphs?” I asked Rooster.

  “Yeppers,” he replied, astonished. “Powerful ones. Like über powerful ones.”

  “You ever seen anything like that before?”

  “Can’t say that I have. Somebody would only go through the trouble of constructing something that intricate for one reason — to protect something of an invaluable nature.”

  “Try the key,” Erin said, more than anxiously.

  “Here goes nothing,” I grumbled, inserting the peculiar skeleton key Ronk gave me a few minutes earlier into the arcane locking mechanism and giving it a careful twist.

  “It’s working,” Rooster gasped as the flaming wards instantly fizzled out and the false bottom of the enigmatic food cart slowly retracted to reveal two golden cherubim set atop an ornate gold plated chest hidden deep within.

  Looking like he was about to shit himself upon the realization that he was literally sitting on the Ark of the Covenant, Double OT murmured, “Hellfire and Dalmatians. Is that … is that what I think it is?”

  “Yes,” Rooster replied, totally mesmerized by the otherworldly artifact. “Yes, it is.”

  “We found it,” Erin remarked, barely above a whisper.

  As a dark smile curled across my face, I muttered, “Game on.”

  Shit just got real.

  Chapter 29

  As the latest time vortex returned us to the MidKnight Jayde just in time to catch a fleeting glimpse of our past selves getting sucked away in the first time vortex, I made the mental note that I was going to need some serious therapy if we lived through the next few hours.

  “Good luck, y’all,” Coop muttered, as he stood there watching us leave. “See you soon?”

  “Sooner than you know, Cooper Trooper,” Double OT jested, laying atop of the Sausage Rocket like a sultry lingerie model and apparently pretty frigg’n happy to be back in his obscure lair. “How’s that for some deja voodoo? Boom! Miss me?”

  Summarily confused as to what in the hell just happened, Coop just stared at us for a long couple of seconds as our retro attire melted from existence, and we thankfully looked like we did before we left.

  “We’re back,” I grumbled.

  Shaking his head, he said, “But, y’all just left.”

  “Evidently.”

  “And now you’re back?”

  “We just covered that, Coop.”

  Still trying to wrap his head around the uncanny phenomenon of watching us time hop to the past and subsequently return to the present within nanoseconds of each other, he muttered, “I’m more confused than a cow on astroturf.”

  “Join the frigg’n club.”

  Looking at me kind of funny, he then reluctantly asked, “Ah, hoss, were you wearing a onesie a couple seconds ago?”

  “What? Hell no. Your eyes were probably playing tricks on you. Must’ve been a temporal mirage or something. That’s a thing, right?”

  “It worked, Coop,” Rooster chimed in, thankfully changing the subject as he nodded at the oversized food cart. “We have the Ark.”

  “You serious, pard?”

  “See for yourself.”

  As Owen jumped off the Sausage Rocket allowing the redneck archer to get his first peek at the divine chest hidden within, he rhetorically muttered, “Well, I’ll be a slack jawed mule deer strapped to the hood of a rusted out turnip truck.”

  Brushing off the latest Coopersim, Doc said, “Now that we have it, what the hell do we do with it?”

  “It’s leverage,” I replied, “We use it to draw out the barkangel.”

  “Leverage?” Rooster asked, raising a ginger eyebrow, “What about destroying it so the gates of Tartarus stay sealed?”

  “We will destroy it. Just not yet. It’s our only bargaining chip.”

  “So,” he said, pulling his antique pocket watch out of his bomber jacket, “It’s quarter past eight. We’ve got an hour and forty-five minutes until the doomsday clock expires and Azazel turns his anakim loose for a seven day global binge fest. I assume you have a plan?”

  “Of course he does,” sarcastically replied an unexpected voice as we all spun around to find a familiar archangel standing there like he’d been listening to us the whole time. “And I’m sure it’s laughably heroic and reeks of his signature altruistic flare. Unfortunately, I’m afraid none of you will see it come to fruition.”

  “Remiel?” I asked, more than a bit surprised to see him.

  “Remiel,” Rooster muttered, as his eyes blazed a fiery red. “What are you doing here?”

  Coldly grinning, he replied, “Collecting the fruits of my labor, of course.”

  “What is he talking about?” Erin asked, clearly as confused as the rest of us.

  As my mind raced to connect the dots, I glared at Remiel and grunted, “You son of a bitch. It’s you. You set me up. You’re the frigg’n—”

  “The what, Dean Robinson?” He quipped. “The traitor?”

  And then he simply waved his hand and pinned the entire group of us to the wall of NecroLord’s lair with an unseen, bone crushing force.

  “I prefer the term liberator,” he said, admiring his handiwork. “And I must thank you for delivering the final piece of the puzzle I required to achieve my objectives. Without the Vessel, I’m not entirely sure what I would have done. Needless to say, I was more than disappointed to discover the seraphic vaults contained a well conceived counterfeit and Lucifer, of all beings, was in possession of the actual artifact. Then, of course, was the small matter of him surrendering it to that abomination, Lilith. I honestly can’t thank you enough for retrieving it like a good little pet.”

  “How’d you find us?” I forced out, trying to will the cloak into being to no avail as I found myself barely able to breathe under the indescribable weight of the unnatural force.

  “Find you? You never left my sight, Deacon. Thanks to that wonderful trinket hanging around your neck, I’ve been monitoring your every move like a rat in a maze.”

  With my innards about to pop out of my mouth, I grumbled, “Goddamn MacCawill sold me out.”

  “Please,” Remiel said, with a condescending smirk. “You give him entirely too much credit. Roy MacCawill lacks the conviction for such chicanery. For a bounty hunter, he possesses an annoyingly high sense of morality. As such, I took it upon myself to visit his clandestine cache site and place a hex on the amulet before you arrived. He was none the wiser.”

  “What about Lucifer?” I grunted, feeling like I was seconds from blacking out.

  “The Morning Star? A simple pawn fueled by jealously and all too eager to believe that Gabriel was conspiring to overthrow the Heavens. I simply perpetuated Lucifer’s delusions in anticipation that he’d send you to retrieve the Vessel. Which, of course, he did. And here were are.”

  “And Stephen?”

  Looking me squarely in the eye, he satisfyingly replied, “Sad, sad news, Dean Robinson. Your precious Stephen was summarily ended for his perceived treachery. By all accounts, he was struck down by the very hand of Gabriel himself.”

  And it was right about then when a blinding flash of pure white light erupted behind Remiel, and out stepped a cloaked figure like he owned the fucking joint.

  “It would seem the rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated,” none other than Stephen coldly muttered as his cloak ferociously billowed about his shoulders like a raging spectral beast.

  Without so much as another word, an ethereal gauntlet of hissing white flame manifested over his left hand as he swatted Remiel with a crushing backhand that sent him hurtling across the room like a rag doll. As the traitorous seraph violently collided with the far wall of Owen’s head-banging romper room, Stephen recited a few words in Enochian and a ring of Holy Flame flared to life effectively trapping him there for the foreseeable future.

  “Hell of an entrance,” I grumbled, as Remiel’s death grip faded, and my chest no longer felt like it was caving in upon itself.

  Amidst a faint smirk, Stephen stoically replied, “I
had the distinct feeling you’d appreciate it.”

  “Bet your ass I did,” I said, grabbing his shoulder in complete and utter disbelief as the team slowly huddled around us. “Especially since I thought you were—”

  “Dead?” He interjected. “Apparently that’s merely a matter of perspective.”

  “Fair enough,” I muttered, “But, how’d you get away from Gabriel?”

  “Fortunately, I didn’t have to,” he replied, as a whooshing sound of unseen massive wings filled the entire room and a statuesque figure, clad in surreal black armor, was just all of a sudden — there.

  “Gabriel,” I gasped, taking a step backward and willing the cloak into being as Doc, Rooster, Owen, and Coop looked like they were about to piss their pants at the sight of the left hand of God.

  “Dean Robinson,” he commandingly replied, as he glanced at the Ark and took a bold step in my direction, “You and your associates have done well. Very well. The seraphic court is in your debt.”

  “Wait, what?” Rooster blurted out.

  “Wait, what?” I echoed, having absolutely no frigg’n idea what just happened.

  Clearing his throat, Double OT stepped forward and said, “Ah, hey there, Mr. Gabriel, sir. How’s it shaking, bro? Big fan … in a really terrifyingly ‘Please don’t smite my silly ass kind of way.’ Dig? Anywho, I’m NecroLord — leader of Deanbean’s little gangapalooza here.”

  Not exactly sure what to make of the peculiar time phantom, Gabriel replied, “I am well aware of who you are, Owen Trask.”

  “No shit? Wow. That’s great! Wait, is it? Probably not, right? Never mind. I don’t wanna know. Moving on, I just wanted to say that it was my esteemed pleasure to spearhead this here mission. I mean it’s not every day you get the chance to save the world and shit, right? Am I right? Hell yeah! Ha? Okay, well, when you said the seraphic court was ‘in our debt’ does that mean like free tickets to Aerosmith concerts and stuff? Maybe a couple back stage passes to groupie gropes—”

  “Will you shut the hell up, cuz,” Coop thankfully interjected.

  Which prompted Owen to sheepishly mutter, “Please don’t smite me, good sir,” as he offered a contrite bow to the archangel, and slunk toward the Sausage Rocket to presumably devour another dozen kielbasa dogs.