Addictive Paranormal Reads Halloween Box Set

by Nana Malone

  The one who withdraws himself

  From the remembrance of the Merciful,

  We appoint for him a Satan

  To be a companion to him.

  Qur'an Az-Zukhruf 43:36

  Earth: April 11, 2003

  Najaf, Iraq

  “My whole life I’ve looked down on him,” Azrael said. “And now I find out there’s more to the story than I was told.”

  Elisabeth threw the next batch of surgical implements into the sterilizer and slammed the door, turning the oven timer to the appropriate time to decontaminate things. The way things had been going lately, the chances of actually finishing the sterilization cycle before the next batch of wounded arrived was slim to none. She grabbed one of the gallons of bleach Corporal Till’s men had purchased from a local street-vendor and placed it next to a bucket. Just in case. The rush to Baghdad had left their supply lines dangerously thin. Even an alcohol-wash was becoming a luxury.

  “Did the Regent tell you what this supposed sin of omission was your commanding officer can’t forgive?” She grabbed a stool and lowered herself to rest with an exhausted sigh, using her hand to prop her gimpy leg upon the bottom run.

  “Your leg?” Azrael's brow furrowed in concern. He shifted his awkward perch, balanced upon his own tall stool, wings streaming loosely behind him.

  It always amazed Elisabeth how, for a supposedly made-up façade, Azrael was so expressive. Not that she’d met any other angels to compare him to. Just his part-lizard friends she’d been piecing back together the past week and a half. But compared to the soldiers she was perpetually surrounded with here in the military, human or otherwise, Azrael was an open book.

  “I'm just tired,” Elisabeth groused. “I think I can forgive this General of yours for leaving me looking like Al Pachino now that I understand why he left the scar, but the next time he pops by, do you think you might impose upon him to get rid of the gimpy leg?”

  Azrael retreated behind an unreadable expression. Not that ‘grim reaper’ look he often donned whenever he was perturbed. Elisabeth had grown accustomed to the fact Azrael’s appearance changed with his mood, but a closed look was one she wasn’t used to seeing.

  “You once told me the General also has a scar,” Elisabeth prompted. “To remind him what Lucifer did to him?”

  “That’s what I’d always assumed,” Azrael said, his brow furrowed in concentration. “Although now that I think about it, that’s not exactly what he said the day he and Lucifer came together to heal you. He said…”

  Azrael trailed off. Elisabeth could practically see the wheels turning in his head.

  “What exactly did he say?” Elisabeth asked.

  “He said,” Azrael said, his eyes closed as though examining the past moment on a television screen. “He said he keeps it to remind him every time he looks in the mirror how blessed he is to have found his true mate.”

  “True mate?” Elisabeth asked. “Is the Regent his second wife?”

  “No,” Azrael said. “Impossible. The Seraphim only take one mate for life. Especially him. He’s full-blooded Seraphim. A broken bond will kill a Seraphim Angelic.”

  Even as the words left his mouth, Elisabeth could see the ugly truth dawning on him. Growing up in inner-city Chicago, she’d seen the games people played to keep others in the dark. Several classmates came from families where each sibling had a different father, others from divorced families where the parents used the kids as pawns. And then there’d been the classmate who was adopted and hadn’t known until a vindictive relative had blabbed.

  “This whole situation smacks of skeletons in the closet, if you ask me,” Elisabeth said. “Whatever it is, it must be pretty ugly if they’re still bickering about it after 5,500 years. I doubt they’re going to tell you.”

  “Lucifer might,” Azrael said. “Although … I tried speaking to him when I dropped off that last batch of squatters. He’s back to being his old self.”

  “Arrogant, manipulative, and flamboyant?” Elisabeth asked, reciting some of the many complaints Azrael had voiced about the Fallen leader.

  “More like … yeah,” Azrael sighed. “Arrogant, manipulative, and flamboyant. Although, ever since it began to dawn on me there’s this whole other side of him, I suspect it’s all an act to keep people from getting too close.”

  “Sympathy for the devil,” Elisabeth sighed. “I can see why the church likes to tidy things up. Things were a lot easier when all I had to do was say three Our Fathers and then Saint Michael would come crush the devil beneath his boot.”

  “That much is true,” Azrael said. “At least the part about the General. He really did defeat Moloch. Although the only reason he was able to do so was because Lucifer lured Moloch into a trap.”

  “So God lets the devil exist because he needs him to watch his back from an even greater evil,” Elisabeth said. “And God resents the crap out of it. Both devils. How many devils did you say there really are?”

  “It’s complicated.” Azrael's face filled with uncertainty. “I grew up believing Shay’tan was the devil and all Sata’anic citizens were demons. And then I find out he’s just the Emperor's chess partner and the Sata’anic soldiers are just people. Kinda like how you guys view Russia now that the cold war has ended.”

  “It was the Russian generals who told us how to go after the Taliban holed up in those caves in Afghanistan,” Elisabeth said. “Though now they’re all pissed off at us again for invading Iraq. Yes. Complicated. I think I understand.”

  Elisabeth grabbed a box of bandages that had been dumped in a jumble and began to sort them onto the empty gurney. There was always work needing to be done in the Army. Minutes spent multi-tasking now might mean saving a wounded GI later. Her mind raced through the open wound her feathered friend had stumbled into, one which had kept her own world divided in a war of bitter propaganda for more than five thousand years. Azrael watched her sort, not taking offense. He’d observed her long enough to know this was just the way her mind worked through problems.

  “Nancy had a rough start, you know?” Elisabeth finally said. “Parents were never married. Her father was in and out of prison and her mother kicked her out when she was nine after Welfare Reform cut them off. And then her grandmother got deported back to Guatemala and died before she had a chance to send for her. Gangs took her in, used her as a mule to move heroin. Got her hooked. Made her turn tricks to bring in extra cash.”

  Azrael focused as though she preached the gospel. It was a heavy responsibility, the way an immortal creature such as Azrael and his part-lizard allies hung on her every word.

  “You want to dig out that notebook of yours and take notes?” Elisabeth scowled. She didn’t want that kind of responsibility.

  “Do you think I should?” Azrael fumbled through the pocket of the cloak he’d taken off and tossed across his lap. He was clueless. Sweet. Gentle. Kind. Or at least as sweet, gentle and kind as the Angel of Death could possibly be when not in his fearsome Grim Reaper aspect. And absolutely clueless.

  “Oh … Az!” Elisabeth smiled despite herself. How could the angel who’d single-handedly come up with the theory of rallying points God had used to send Jesus to inspire them to stop worshipping Moloch be so without guile? If the other angels were even half as clueless as Azrael, she could see why they’d need someone like Lucifer to run interference.

  “I’m ready,” Azrael said, pen perched above a blank page of his latest scientific journal.

  All those years she’d thought her black man wrote in his great book the deeds of good and evil, and now she'd learned he wrote it all down because, without the opportunity to look through his notes for patterns, the Angel of Death was too guileless to just know things the way humans did after getting burned a few dozen times. All intellect … no street smarts.

  “I really wish you’d been in my chemistry class.” Elisabeth stepped closer to where Azrael perched upon his stool like an enormous black pigeon balanced upon a power line, his scientific jo
urnal balanced precariously on his lap as though at any moment they might all come tumbling down. He froze as she carefully slid his pencil out of his fingers.

  “C-c-careful!” Azrael's glossy black wings trembled with a combination of uncertainty and longing. Elisabeth knew how much he wished he could touch her. He was terrified she’d accidentally brush against him, but he longed for her presence so badly that he no longer drew back whenever she came near.

  “Has anyone ever told you that beneath your terrifying death-angel exterior you’re a real marshmallow?” Elisabeth teased.

  “N-n-n-n … yes?” Azrael held himself so stiffly on the awkward stool she feared the entire thing would topple over.

  “I think it's kind of sweet,” Elisabeth said. She took the strange, thick pencil and drew an enormous heart on the open page. She then drew a stick-figure angel holding a stick in the middle of it with a marshmallow on the end. “That’s you. Marshmallow angel. Black and crispy on the outside, but take a bite and it's all sweet, gooey goodness inside.”

  She stared into black-velvet eyes that had no bottom and no end. Sam had told her they had no idea how Azrael existed in this realm. It shouldn’t be possible, he’d explained, without something to anchor him here. A willing vessel of some sort. Or an unwilling host. And yet, here he was. Her beautiful, dark angel. The most terrifying … and gentle soul she’d ever met.

  She sensed his consciousness touch hers, the only part of her he could touch, and the question he didn’t dare ask because he feared knowing the answer. Their two subconscious minds, it seemed, had been performing an intricate mating dance long before they’d stopped playing games and just started talking to one another.

  ‘Yes … I –do- love you,’ Elisabeth thought to herself.

  His sharp uptake of breath confirmed her suspicions that he could read her mind if she left it open enough for him to see. His eyes swirled darker, if that was even possible. Losing herself in them was like being caught in an ocean current, not caring which way the tide would turn, but trusting that the destination would be a pleasant one.

  ‘If only I could touch you,’ the thought touched the edge of her mind. ‘I would ask you to be my mate.’

  His thought? Or her own wishful thinking? Azrael broke eye contact, glancing down at the crude stick-figure angel she’d drawn.

  “You deserve better,” he mumbled. His wings drooped to the ground. The withdrawal of his consciousness felt like abandonment.

  “Oh!”

  *CRASH*

  The clatter of a dropped tray at the entrance of the tent jarred them out of whatever each had been about to say.

  “Lucy,” Elisabeth said to her wide-eyed team-mate with annoyance.

  With a poof, Azrael was gone, teleported god-only-knows where to avoid being seen.

  “W-w-was that an angel?” Lucy stammered.

  Elisabeth gave her a tight, wan smile. Talk about your bad timing!

  “Is it any weirder than having a boyfriend with a tail?”

  Lucy turned pink all the way down to her collarbone. Corporal Tills had gotten a portable shelter assigned to Corporal Kennard to help him recover here instead of airlifting him to wherever lizard-people were normally airlifted to. She didn’t have the heart to tell Lucy her romantic interest's friends were not only rooting for him by pulling strings with the real military to keep her recovering boyfriend close enough to woo her, but had also set up a sizeable betting pool as to whether or not the recovering gut-shot Corporal would be able to land his ‘big fish.’

  “Clyde said there really was a death angel following you around,” Lucy said. “It’s just … seeing him makes it real.”

  Elisabeth mouthed platitudes and finished sorting the bandages as her mind chewed over the information which had her feathered friend so worried. It was her world caught in the middle, after all. Somebody had to figure out a solution so Earth didn’t end up road kill because of a bunch of idiotic immortals couldn’t play nicely together.

  * * * * *

  Chapter 50

  I am the terrible time,

  The destroyer of all beings in all worlds,

  Engaged to destroy all beings in this world;

  Of those heroic soldiers presently situated

  In the opposing army,

  Even without you none will be spared.

  Bhagavad Gita 11:32

  Earth - April 12, 2003

  Tikrit, Iraq

  The General surveyed Saddam Hussein’s royal palace built on the banks of the Tigris River. With Lucifer limping along on only three cylinders since his last ‘episode,’ the Regent had taken the rare step of circumventing all parties involved, including her husband, and reasoned directly with She-who-is to sanction a rare, joint mission. For the first time since Lucifer had summoned help to eradicate Adolf Hitler, an entire flock of Archangels had accompanied the General to Earth to team up with a platoon of Lucifer's Sata'an-human hybrids.

  “Sir?” Azrael asked. “Is something wrong?”

  “This is where it all started,” the General said to the half-dozen Archangels assembled under his command. “The Armistice that protects this planet was signed by the two emperors right where that palace sits today.”

  “Why do you think Moloch’s Agent chose this spot to build his palace?” Azrael asked. “It’s rather brazen. Don’t you think?”

  “To thumb his nose at the two emperors,” the General's eyes hardened as he gazed at the ostentatious symbol of excess rising above the banks of the Tigris River. “The Agents thrive whenever they incite bickering between the two emperors.”

  Azrael didn’t add that Agents also thrived when the General and Lucifer were going at one another. Or the Emperor and Shay'tan, for that matter.

  “I see activity,” Vohamanah, one of the Archangels, pointed to a box truck that drove up to the palace gates and idled, waiting for the guards to authorize passage.

  “Get ready to move into position.” The General touched the pulse rifle strapped to his thigh. “Our intelligence indicates they’re destroying all evidence of their activities. We need to preserve what we can so we have a better idea of what they’ve been up to.”

  Although Archangels carried swords, primitive weapons were inadequate to fight the modern weapons humans now had at their disposal. They were immortal, but they weren’t gods. Time spent reconstituting their bodies meant days, weeks, even years spent in the ascended realms piecing back together their mortal shells. In a battle such as this, they wouldn’t take any chances. The General nodded to where Azrael lingered on one side so he wouldn’t accidentally zap his fellow Archangels.

  “Check for squatters,” he ordered.

  “Yes, Sir.”

  Azrael moved slowly so he didn’t create static electricity, a dead giveaway the ‘shadow’ moving towards the palace in the pre-dawn light was anything but, he stretched hundreds of thread-thin tendrils into Saddam Hussein’s summer palace to ascertain the position of the Agents located inside.

  The other Archangels did the same thing using modern Alliance surveillance equipment, while the Sata'an-hybrids circled around the exterior of the compound, ready to cut off any who attempted escape. Their equipment could see what was happening inside the building, but only Azrael could tell from this position which were ascended consciousnesses squatting in a body versus plain old bad guys drawn to Moloch for money, prestige and power. Azrael drifted back and solidified into his preferred form.

  “Saddam Hussein has already fled,” Azrael said. “So have his sons. I’m only sensing one squatter, Abid Hahmed Mahmud, his Presidential Secretary.”

  “What about the truck?” Vohamanah asked.

  “They’re loading crates of paperwork,” Azrael said. “I wasn’t able to look inside, but they’re leaving the art behind. It must be important.”

  “That sounds like what we want,” the General said. “All right, focus.”

  The Archangels clasped hands and bowed their heads, clearing their minds as they reached out
to touch one another’s consciousness. Although not quite mind-reading, it enabled them to send and receive mental images during battle. While only a few had inherited the ability to wield the cloak of Shinobi-on-mono mastered by the Regent, the invisible warrior, every single one of them could harness the Cherubim killing incantations handed down from the original Cherubim monks.

  “Namu Tobatsu Bishamonten!” the Archangels murmured together, saying the ancient prayer to the Cherubim god. “Akuma o seifuku suru tame ni, watashi ni nanji no tsoyo-sa o fuyo! [to subjugate the demons, grant me thy strength!]”

  Azrael could not touch the group that huddled before him, but he whispered the prayer anyway, wishing he could harness the blue ray of the Cherubim and not have to feel things quite so deeply whenever he went into battle. He sensed the energy around him shift. The Cherubim energies created a state of balance halfway between the light-energy of She-who-is and the dark-energy of the void. Controlled destruction.

  “Go!” the General gestured for the Archangels to move into position. He waited until they were ready to storm the palace before turning to Azrael, his eyes ice cold and devoid of emotion. “Go reap that Agent, Malak al-Maut.”

  Azrael teleported directly into the palace. The squatter wearing the mortal shell of the Iraqi Presidential Secretary Mahmud shouted orders to hurry up and remove all evidence of Moloch’s activities from the stronghold.

  “You’re forbidden to interfere!!!” Mahmud screamed. He began to disentangle his consciousness from his host-body so he could escape before Azrael could kill his host.

  Gunshots sounded as Archangels flew through windows and Sata'an-human hybrids kicked down doors, taking out the mortals who followed Moloch.

  “You’re not supposed to interfere, either,” Azrael gave him a dark grin.

  “Go to hell!”

  Mahmud dropped the host body upon the floor like a pair of dirty underwear. With no mass slaughter to open a portal to Gehenna, Mahmud avoided being sucked back in. If She-who-is caught the disembodied wraith traversing the astral realm she would evict him, but eternity was a large place to monitor. The body continued breathing while Mahmud threw himself between the dimensions to escape.