In the House of the Wicked rc-5

by Thomas E. Sniegoski

  She started to protest, fear creeping into her eyes, but he insisted, shoving her into the gradually diminishing crack and forcing her through to the other side.

  He was about to follow her when he felt a powerful grip clamp down on his ankle.

  “Going somewhere?” the tattooed man asked as he slithered on his belly through the intestine-like passage that was collapsing all around them. The schnauzer boy had managed to make it past his partner, crab walking toward him, mouth open to bite.

  A quick backhand across the face was enough to discourage the youngster, but then Squire watched as Tattoo Man, who was still holding him with one hand, pulled his gun up in the other and prepared to fire.

  Squire knew he had only seconds before the passage he’d cut healed up twice as thick as before, trapping him here, and he didn’t cotton to that at all. He glanced down, seeing the hilt of his ax sticking up from the softening surface beneath his feet, and yanked it free with a moist sucking sound. He managed to bring the ax down on the wrist of the hand that held his ankle, just as the tattooed man fired his gun with the other.

  Yanking his foot back, Squire found that he was free, but he’d also been shot, the bullet punching its way into his shoulder, forcing him to drop his battle-ax.

  But things weren’t any better for Tattoo Man.

  He was screaming, clutching the stump of his hand, as Squire pushed himself backward toward the fissure-less than half the size it had been mere moments before.

  Sensing that it was now or never, Squire dove headfirst into the passage, forcing his way through the tight squeeze of the wound he’d cut in the hardening blackness. It wasn’t easy; the walls of the passage attempted to crush him as he wiggled his way through. He’d always been curious as to what it would feel like to be born, and figured that this was probably the closest he’d ever get to having the experience again.

  The passage was closing behind him, but he could see a hint of soft light ahead. His shoulder screamed in protest, but Squire didn’t listen. There’d be time for pain later, when he was still alive and on the other side with the time to bitch about it.

  He clawed at the membranous caul that had formed over the exit, pulling himself through, out into the light with a series of grunts and a scream of freedom.

  Out of the frying pan.

  “Don’t want to be doing that again anytime soon,” he said, rolling on his stomach and starting to stand. He saw that Ashley was there, but her stare was fixed on something he had not yet noticed.

  And then he saw that she was staring at a naked and perfectly muscled human figure standing with arms outstretched. Wings of fire grew from his back, and the words of some ancient magickal spell spilled from his mouth to seed the air.

  Squire knew where they were, and they hadn’t gotten very far. They were back inside the old mansion, but he could feel that something wasn’t right. It was moving… The magick spell that the man was casting was taking the entire estate to someplace else.

  Out of the frying pan, he thought, feeling reality whizzing past him.

  And into the fire.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  They were going to make him watch.

  Remy was hauled to his feet by two of Stearns’ goons, as the deaths of more than a million people were set in motion.

  There was a flurry of activity in the television studio. Technicians moved about a glass control room above the main studio while more of Stearns’ techs were attaching thick cables to the external skeleton of metal that the sorcerer wore, cables that trailed across the floor to the strange machinery that was part of the little girl’s bed.

  “Quickly now. Quickly,” Stearns bellowed.

  Remy could not take his eyes from the Grigori calmly standing beside the child’s bed, waiting to do their part.

  He was disgusted, nauseated by the idea that they and he were actually of the same species. He’d suspected that the Watchers-the Grigori-had been driven insane by their banishment to the world they had helped to corrupt, but he never imagined how truly crazy they had become.

  Or how far they’d go to show it.

  “I get it,” Remy yelled over the voices raised in preparation, temporarily bringing silence to the studio.

  Armaros was looking at him now with cold, dead eyes.

  “I get it,” Remy said again. “You’re pissed…pissed at God for forgetting you, pissed at yourselves for being so damn weak, and pissed at me for killing your leader.”

  He could feel the fury radiating from them in waves; it was like static electricity, charging the very air. It made the hair on his arms stand on end.

  “But don’t do this,” Remy begged. “Take your anger out on someone who deserves it… Take it out on me, if you have to.”

  Armaros drifted closer.

  “The great angel Remiel,” the new Grigori leader scoffed. “You actually believe this is all about you? Such arrogance. But then again, what would we expect from one of the Almighty’s elite?”

  The fallen angel moved to stand before Remy.

  “This isn’t about past angers and sorrows,” Armaros said. “This is about the future of this world…of humanity and of Heaven itself.”

  Remy wasn’t sure he understood. “How can the killing of a million of His flock be seen as a positive move toward the future?”

  “Are you so blind?” Armaros asked. “Can you not see the signs? There’s a war coming…and the world of man will become a battleground.”

  “It’ll never come to that,” Remy said, trying to hide his uncertainty.

  “The signs are there, Remiel, whether you choose to ignore them or not. What we are doing today is preparing the world…preparing the people for what is to be a time of great loss.”

  “You keep talking, but I still don’t see how killing a million people and giving a sorcerer this kind of power is preparing the world for anything.”

  “We did this to them, Remiel,” Armaros said. “We steered them down this road to decadence. This will be our chance to make things right, to set them on the path to believing again.”

  Armaros turned to his brethren, Stearns, and the little girl cowering in her princess bed.

  “They will believe in their Creator again, and they shall fear Him as they should. And then they will be prepared for the troubled times to come.”

  Remy had no idea what to say; it was all so insane. He knew that there were changes in the wind…

  But war?

  Could he have been so blind?

  Stearns cleared his throat, and Remy looked over to see the sorcerer fully adorned in the armored apparatus that would feed him the death energies of those cut down by the Grigori’s message. He was tapping a watch on his wrist, urging them to proceed.

  “Of course, Algernon Stearns,” Armaros said, returning to stand with the other Grigori.

  The fallen angel turned his attentions to the little girl partially hidden beneath her covers.

  “Are we ready, my child?” he asked her.

  “Is God gonna tell you His message?” she asked, peeking out.

  The angel nodded and smiled. “He is, and then we are going to tell you…and then you will tell the world.”

  “Armaros,” Remy cried out again, hoping that this time…maybe.

  But he succeeded only in annoying Stearns, who gestured to his security guards, and Remy was forced to his knees, his arms bent unnaturally behind him.

  “Make him watch,” the sorcerer ordered before turning his attention back to Armaros and the other Grigori.

  “Are we ready?” Stearns asked.

  “We are,” Armaros answered.

  The world went deathly quiet. Armaros leaned in toward the small child, his lips dangerously close to her ear, as the remaining Grigori joined hands.

  And suddenly all Remy could hear was the whine of the television cameras’ auto focus as they fixed the child in their robotic sights.

  And the Grigori leader’s whispering voice…

  “Hear t
he words of the Lord.”

  The wards of protection cast around the plaza were doing their job.

  The vintage car, engine racing like a turbulent ocean surf as it drove at the Hermes Building in a breakneck pace, felt as though it had struck an invisible wall.

  The Lincoln came to a screaming halt, the shining chrome bumper and front end of the awesome car buckling. Francis and Angus were like rag dolls in the front seat, whipped viciously forward but prevented from continuing their journey through the broad expanse of windshield by their straining seat belts.

  Leona was angry. The living car did not stop for long, its thick tires digging into the brick and spinning wildly, filling the air with the acrid smoke of burning rubber as she moved inexorably forward toward the building.

  It was one supernatural force against the other.

  The air was filled with so much smoke and noise that Francis had no idea what was truly happening. Angus sat perfectly still, holding on to his seat for dear life as the car bucked and bounced, the sounds of twisting metal like a symphony of destruction in their ears.

  This can go one of three ways, Francis thought as he continued to grip the warm wooden steering wheel. Leona could be totally decimated, or the living car could show the wards who was truly queen shit by getting them inside the building, or the two unmovable forces could cause one helluva explosion, leaving Hermes Plaza with a decent-sized crater that could be used as a swimming pool in the summer.

  The car began to thrash like a Jack Russell with its fangs buried deep in a rat, giving it that special shake to snap its neck.

  There were bursts of fire and the smell of brimstone and the sounds of screaming somewhere off in the distance. For a second Francis believed that the wards had won, that Leona just didn’t have what it took to beat the protective spells.

  But then her engine began to roar and the tires spun even faster, and Leona lurched forward, seemingly shucking off the destructive effects of the sorcerous handiwork that should have been strong enough to keep them out.

  But never underestimate the craftsmanship of demonic ingenuity.

  Leona’s cries were deafening; it sounded like all the engines of every NASCAR race ever run had been spooled together to create one horrendous clamor. Her spinning tires were finally able to gain purchase, and the vehicle leapt forward, battering through the revolving doors in an explosion of metal and glass.

  And as soon as she was inside, her engine died, cutting out with a sputter.

  Francis knew that the car had done the nearly impossible and that was all they could expect from her.

  “We’re in,” he said, already swinging open the driver’s-side door. Angus moved as he did, extracting his bulk from the vehicle.

  Alarms wailed and an artificial rain from the sprinklers fell upon them. Francis could hear scuffling in the smoke and dust and saw movement toward them.

  “Trunk!” he yelled, slamming his hand down on the back of the vehicle, and Leona managed one more act for them, popping the trunk and allowing them access to their gear.

  Shots rang out, pinging off the open trunk as both Francis and Angus reached inside and readied themselves for the task ahead.

  Francis tossed a handful of the walnut-sized grenades first, the explosions of magick canceling out any sorcery that was being used in the lobby. Then he moved around the car, pistol in hand, firing one shot after another, taking out the stunned golem sentries. Angus backed him up, handgun firing from one hand while the other wove powerful new magicks to repel their attackers.

  “Do you think the elevators are still working?” Angus asked, waving his hand in a circle and creating a mini twister that spun four of the guards in the air before slamming them into the gray marble wall beside the reception desk.

  “Can’t see why not,” Francis said, firing into the face of a golem whose body exploded in a cloud of dirt.

  An engine roar captured his attention, and Francis turned to see Leona, battered and broken, backing out of the lobby.

  “Thanks, sweetie!” he called after her. He could see the flashing of police lights outside and hear the sounds of angry voices screaming for the car to stop, but Leona didn’t listen. A distraction; something else he’d have to thank her for later.

  “Shall we go find Remy?” Francis asked, throwing the weapons-filled duffel bag over his shoulder as he stepped through the open doors of the elevator. He stabbed at the button that would take them up to the studio level, but the door refused to close.

  He looked at the pained expression in the sorcerer’s face.

  “Sorry, Chubs,” the former Guardian angel said, leaving the elevator with the dejected Angus in tow.

  “Looks like we’re using the stairs.”

  The scared little girl had been replaced.

  No longer was a sickly child hiding beneath the covers; now an almost-regal figure sat, back perfectly straight, and spoke directly to the cameras that were pointed at her.

  “Hello, my name is Angelina Hayward,” she began, a slight distortion to her voice, evidence that the power wielded by the Grigori was flowing through her. “And I am about to deliver unto you a message from the Heavenly Father.”

  Remy struggled fruitlessly in the grip of the golem sentries, fighting to get to his feet, attempting to find and rekindle even the slightest bit of angelic fire that might have been left by the sorcerer Deacon.

  “No!” he screamed, fighting and thrashing, even though it felt as if his limbs might snap like twigs. “No…you can’t do this!”

  The child was distracted by his outburst, turning her gaze from the camera to him.

  “Don’t let them make you do this,” Remy implored her. “It isn’t a message from God; it’s something else entirely.”

  A silent nod from Stearns was all the sentries needed to begin punching Remy with their flesh-covered fists of stone. But over the sounds of his vicious beating, he could hear the child questioning his outburst.

  “What does he mean that it isn’t a message from God?” she asked.

  “Hush, child,” Armaros soothed. “Prepare yourself for…”

  “Hurry!” Stearns bellowed. “We can’t afford this distraction… We can’t afford to lose any eyes.”

  “She will speak the words when it is time,” the Grigori leader responded in a calm yet threatening tone.

  Remy tried to remain conscious, tried to cry out, but the fists were like hammers and he found it harder and harder keep the darkness at bay.

  Maybe oblivion was best right now.

  But the thought just enraged him.

  The blows continued to fall and suddenly he welcomed them, taking each hurtful strike and using the pain as fuel for his rage. He may not have the divine fire at his beck and call, but it did not change what he was.

  Seraphim.

  He’d tried to hide it for so very long, so it would not remind him of what he had lost.

  Heaven.

  Yet it was always there, waiting beneath the veneer of humanity that he had constructed. It had always known what he truly was, even though Remy had liked to think otherwise.

  Seraphim.

  And of late he had come to accept this, finally understanding that there was no way to ignore his divine nature, no way to ignore the soldier of Heaven that lived beneath his skin.

  We are one and the same.

  Sometimes he needed a little reminder of that, something to stir the memories of where he’d been…where he’d come from…

  And what I’ve done.

  Remy was a warrior, and he could not even count the number of lives he had extinguished on the battlefields of Heaven in his Creator’s name.

  Remy remembered who he was- what I was -

  Warrior. Killer. Murderer of my own kind.

  No matter how painful.

  He remembered the long-ago past with a surge of anger, the memory of the horrors committed in the name of his master inflaming his blood and summoning a fury that could not be bridled.

  I
n the here and now, he surged to his feet, an inhuman bellow of rage escaping from a place deep within him. He yanked his arm away from one of his attackers, bringing his elbow up into its face before it could grab him again. The force of the blow was tremendous, caving in the artificial man’s face and revealing the inhumanity beneath. But the warrior was already on to the next, taking hold of his front, lifting him up from the floor, and hurling his great weight across the room with ease.

  The cries of his foes were frantic, the Grigori, clutching their tarnished blades, already on their way to him. The warrior’s nature was still in full control, and he searched for a way to defend himself. His eyes fell on the weapon holstered at the waist of a fallen golem guard. Remy dove for the gun, yanking it from its resting place, and started to fire.

  Bullets connected with the fallen angels’ flesh, driving them back, injuring but not killing the creatures.

  Finally he saw the opportunity that he was waiting for, a way to stop this insanity. He saw the little girl sitting up in her princess bed.

  Remy aimed the gun…

  But hesitated.

  He knew she wasn’t real, nothing more than magick and clay, but at the moment, he saw a little girl…

  The magickal blast struck him square, enveloping him in a cocoon of electrical agony. Remy screamed, his body experiencing pain down to a cellular level.

  Stearns stood there, arm outstretched, magick streaming from his fingertips.

  “I’ve had just about enough of you,” the sorcerer said, casting him off to float above the room in a bubble of torment. What made it all the worse was that Remy could still see, watching it all through tears of agony.

  And there wasn’t a goddamn thing he could do about it.

  Stearns felt himself growing weaker as the terrible hunger intensified. It was as if his altered body knew of the coming feast and was purposely expending vast amounts of magickal energy so that it would be fed all the quicker.

  Holding the troublesome spectator aloft, Stearns decided he must take the bull by the horns if this procedure was to commence in a timely fashion.

  “Armaros,” he bellowed, while motioning to those who served him in the control room above the studio. “If you would be so kind as to continue.”