by Liam Jackson
So the prey comes to the hounds. Theo walked out into the street with Azazeal at his side. For a long moment he studied the youthful-looking angel at the far end of the block. Of medium height and slightly built, Baraniel was hardly an imposing figure. Theo also knew the inherent deception of physical appearances. The Host that stood before him was a Cherubim, one of the most powerful celestial entities in all of Creation. Even so, Theo had the benefit of numbers. In addition to his human Thralls, five Brethren were hidden by the deep shadows that lined the east side of the street.
Finally. Theo spoke. "Aye, let's be about it. Since you're inclined to cooperate, you can kneel right where you are, with your hands clasped atop your head. I promise you a swift end."
Azazeal bristled. "I make no such promise, you fucking lapdog. Fight as you will, Baraniel. You will die a thousand, thousand deaths before you cease to exist. You will die once for each century I have spent in exile!"
Without warning, Azazeal thrust out his hand, fingers extended and stiffened into a living spear. A thin beam of green fire lanced out, leaving the odor of sulfur and ozone in its wake. Baraniel easily dodged the attack and ran to his left toward a large fenced parking lot. A Fallen stepped from the shadows to intercept him. Baraniel ducked beneath a punch, and slammed his forearm in his attacker's unprotected sternum. Ribs exploded through skin and fabric, and the Fallen catapulted through the air, striking a utility pole headfirst, several yards away. He came to rest at the base of the pole, facedown in freezing water. Theo gave a shout and the others sprung from hiding and converged on Baraniel.
Baraniel glanced over his shoulder at the sounds of pursuit, then ran for the enclosed parking lot, hoping to draw his attackers away from the church. Suddenly, Theo stepped out of the shadows and barred the way. Baraniel slid to a stop atop the icy concrete, and held forth the palm of his hand. He issued a single word, "Hold!"
Despite Theo's own inestimable power, his feet froze to the ground. All around him, his hunting pack of human Thralls and Brethren howled in outrage. At the fore of the chase, a Lesser Demon had joined the chase, and now snapped at the invisible bonds that held it fast.
"Cease this madness," pleaded Baraniel. "Though you may kill me, you cannot win the ultimate contest, Theoneal. It is prophesied!"
Theoneal chuckled and said, "Funny thing about your prophecy, Baraniel. It was written by His followers. Of course it says we can't win! However, we choose to recite from another book. And in our book, we win! Now, turn and face your betters. You only postpone the inevitable," called out Theo. "You can't hope to buy more than a few seconds with this tactic. There are too many of us."
Too many of us! Too many of us! Baraniel looked into the malevolent eyes of the human Thralls. He both pitied and loathed the slaves of the Fallen, for they carried within them the tainted blood of mortal sin incarnate. He then looked at the Lesser Demons, his mind absorbing every foul feature. The revulsion he felt was unlike any other emotion he had ever experienced. Revulsion, outrage... and fear. Finally, his eyes swept over the Fallen, lingering for seconds on each until he at last came to Theo.
"There are no words to describe your transgression. You are no longer Theoneal the Fallen. Henceforth you shall be called Nameless, for so shall you ever be for what you have done this day. I curse you, oh Nameless wretch, as I curse your master, he who once sat at the left hand of the Creator and was cast down by my brother, Michael. I curse you all for this ultimate blasphemy. You deny God and treat with the minions of Sitra Akhra. From this day forward, there shall be no rest for you, in life or in death. So shall it be, amen and amen!"
Baraniel turned and ran to the security fence. Behind him, the effects of the word waned and the sounds of pursuit echoed through the frigid night air. Upon reaching the fence, Baraniel quickly checked the gates and found them secured by a thick chain and padlock. Taking the heavy sixteen-gauge steel chain in his slender hands, Baraniel twisted. The links snapped and dropped to the snow. Baraniel threw open the gates and disappeared among the acres of automobiles.
As the effects of the hold command melted away, Theo started after his prey. "He's leading us away from the church. Mass is nearly over." Two of the Brethren reached the gate together, just ahead of the jackal-headed demon. Theo watched as the pair entered the parking lot, then apparently decided to split up in order to cover more ground.
"Bad mistake," Theo mumbled under his breath. He then issued his own mental command, ordering his human Thralls to back away and allow the Fallen to seek out and deal with the Host. Meanwhile, Azazeal didn't bother with the east gate. Instead, he approached from the west side of the lot, and easily jumped the twelve-foot chain-link fence. Landing lightly on the balls of his feet, he paused to listen.
Just as Theo reached the gate, a battle cry sounded from the middle of the lot and a brilliant pillar of red-green fire soared high into the night. A bolt of energy sizzled across a row of cars and struck someone or something on the other side. A split second later, Baraniel staggered out into a row, holding both hands to his face. He pitched forward, slamming into the side of a four-wheel-drive Ford Excursion, smoke pouring from sightless eye sockets. Azazeal howled with glee and clapped his hands. The gesture sounded like thunder. "You sanctimonious son of a bitch, now I curse you! You are no longer the mighty Cherubim, Baraniel. You are Baraniel the Sightless, blind jester to the Courts of the Fucked-up Heavenly Host! Dance, jester! Tell me a story. Amuse me and I will let you live... for a few minutes more."
Two of the Brethren cautiously approached Baraniel. When the mortally wounded angel made no move to resist, they grew bold. The largest of the two launched a kick to Baraniel's face, shattering his cheekbone and nose. Blood the color of molten gold poured freely from both ears. The second Brethren, his confidence bolstered, stomped savagely down on Baraniel's unprotected head. The kick didn't land flush, and skipped off the side of Baraniel's head, tearing a large patch of scalp from heavy bone that was the color of sterling.
The demon came forward on all-fours, sniffing and nipping at Baraniel's ruined face. The angel's flesh withered where teeth met skin. As the Fallen closed in for the killing stroke, Baraniel suddenly rolled beneath the SUV, leaving Theo's startled hunting pack howling in frustration. Before they could react, Baraniel emerged on the other side of the vehicle. Lying upon the ground, he raised both feet and kicked out hard into the side of the Excursion. Six thousand pounds of steel yawed hard to the right, crushing the startled Fallen and the demon against an older model Cadillac. Theo heard the snaps of bone over the horrific impact and knew he had just lost three more from his hunting party. It was time to end this.
Walking to the back of the Excursion, he ripped the steel towing bar from the bumper. He then motioned Azazeal to come around the vehicle from the other side. Theo took his time, cautiously making his way between automobiles. When he stepped around to the side of the Excursion, he found Baraniel still on his back, trying desperately to draw breath through his shattered nose and mouth. Clearly, he was drowning in his own blood.
Azazeal stood over the dying Cherubim, gloating. "A bargain, oh, sightless jester! Reach out and call another to us. If you do this, I will allow you a quick end. If you do not... well, I have an eternity with no place to go, and you can keep me company. We can replay this night over, and over, and over...."
Azazeal leapt out of the way as three hundred pounds of angled steel suddenly flashed through the air and descended on Baraniel. The Cherubim's head disappeared in a spray of bone, gore, and blood. Theo dropped the tow bar onto the pavement and turned toward the gate.
Outraged, Azazeal screamed at Theo, "What have you done? You had no right to take my kill! No right!"
Theo paused at the gate, then slowly turned around to face Azazeal. "I... had... every... right! That aside, the finale is of no consequence. The glory, what there is of it, was in the contest. And in that respect, Baraniel deserved no less. Now be away from this place. I wish to be alone."
Fuming, A
zazeal vanished into the ethereal realm. Truly alone for the first time in days, Theo walked away into the night.
CHAPTER 14
Illinois State Line
Lance Tomlinson stood at the motel cash register, reconciling the money and credit card receipts from the day shift. Watching impatiently over his shoulder was Marty Bauman, a pudgy version of Woody Allen, or so everyone told him.
"Come on, Lance," Marty whined. "I've gotta be out of here in five minutes."
Lance smirked and slowed down even more. "What's the rush, bubba? Momma need the car so she can get to bingo?"
Marty hated the guy's smart-ass attitude, hated his good looks, hated his popularity with girls, and he especially hated the boy's new Mustang convertible. He even hated the guy's name.
Lance! Who the fuck names a kid Lance?
Still silently counting off the numerous and myriad things that he hated about Lance, Marty failed to notice the long, narrow shadow that fell across him until Lance asked with a nervous stutter, "Yes, sir, can... we help you?" Marty took a single look at the man standing at the counter and immediately bit the inside of his cheek.
Despite the intense cold of a January winter, the man wore only a pair of faded black jeans and a black, tight-fitting tank top. Hair the color of spun silver fell well below his shoulders. His eyes were hidden behind a pair of aviator-style sunglasses, and despite the fact that night had long since fallen, they seemed to belong on his face. The man was massive. A few inches taller than Lance's own six feet three, his shoulders were easily half again as wide. Sculpted muscle stood out like ropes along the length of both arms.
Yet his most impressive attribute was the tattoo, brightly inked in shades of bright red and midnight-blue, at once both delicate and imposing, a mesmerizing spiral of designs and symbols that ran together to form a living mural. Every visible inch of the man's body seemed covered in living, pulsating art.
Marty was suddenly aware of the coppery taste of blood in his mouth and was oddly grateful for it. Without it, his mouth would have been as dry as a box of cornstarch.
In a quiet voice, a little above a whisper, the man said, "I'm looking for a... friend. Mr. Paul Young."
Lance nodded and reached blindly for the guest register. Afraid, or unable, to take his eyes off of the man, Lance missed the book and instead found the business end of a pair of scissors that Marty had left out on the desk.
Letting out a sharp yelp, he clutched his bleeding hand to his chest and turned to Marty. "Damn it! Help this guy while I find a Band-Aid, will you?"
Without waiting for an answer, Lance quickly disappeared into the employee restroom. Marty heard a soft shnick, the sound of the restroom door's dead bolt being slammed home. Marty could hardly blame him. If he had thought of it first, that would be him hiding in the restroom instead of Lance.
Marty's eyes locked onto the stranger as he rose from the stool and made his way to the desk, only stumbling twice. "Mr. Young is out f—for a couple of hours. He asked me to take messages." Need to call the cops as soon as this guy walks out.
With no perceptible change in expression, the man nodded. He raised his fore and middle fingers to his lips, then turned his palm outward. "Peace, be still," he whispered. And that was the last thing Marty Bauman remembered until he awoke minutes later on the floor, with a very scared Lance Tomlinson staring wordlessly down at him.
Paul dropped his fork onto the plate and tried unsuccessfully to stifle a burp. He drained the coffee from the heavy ceramic mug, and motioned the waitress for a refill. For the first time in nearly fourteen hours, he felt warm and satiated. Though the crowd was thinning out, there were several patrons still in the restaurant, and Paul realized that he was enjoying the sounds of casual conversation and the smattering of laughter that floated across the large dining room.
He also noticed, not for the first time today, that his level of anxiety had diminished considerably since deciding to undertake the journey. Despite his worry regarding Rita and the uncertainty of what lay ahead, he was calm. Well, calmer perhaps. And, for the first time in weeks, he was actually looking forward to the possibility of a sound sleep.
"Will there be anything else?"
Paul accepted the streaming mug from the waitress and shook his head, smiling. "No, I'm fine. Thank you."
He handed the woman two twenties and when she brought back his change, he slipped a fiver into her apron. She gave him a wide, genuine smile and said that she hoped he would stop in again. Paul thanked her, but he somehow knew he would never pass this way again.
Minutes later, as Paul unlocked the door of his room, he heard the sounds of police sirens growing decidedly closer. Probably a wreck up on the interstate. He stepped through the doorway, and then closed and locked the door behind him.
A scant three minutes after Paul entered his room, a white-and-green Crown Victoria, bearing the emblem of the Hurley County Sheriff's Department, pulled into the motel parking lot.
Deputy Petey Scanlon, a mousy little fellow with a bad case of male pattern baldness, a big swagger, and an even bigger chip on his skinny shoulder, slinked out of the car. Most people, seeing Petey for the first time, found themselves tempted to ask how Andy and Gomer were doing these days. If Marty Bauman was a Woody Allen look-alike, Petey was a hands-down double for Barney Fife. Of course, there was one major difference between Barney and Petey. Whereas Barney was lovable and inept, Deputy Petey Scanlon knew that most people considered him inept, but far from lovable. That suited him just fine.
Armed to the teeth with his 50,000-volt Taser, a ballistic-shield clipboard, and three sets of S&W handcuffs dangling from his gun belt, he made his way into the office where he found two confused young men. Ten minutes later, after talking to them together and individually, Petey was equally dazed and confused.
Exasperated and sweating profusely, Petey wiped his forehead with a heavily starched sleeve. Unconsciously, he ran his fingers through wisps of brown hair that sat on the top of his balding pate. Lance thought the tuft of hair gave the deputy the appearance of a starving albino woodpecker.
Petey looked at his watch, then back at the two clerks. None of the story made any sense, and he wasn't at all happy about being called away from a late date with Tina Jamison. After all, it wasn't every day that a thirty-five-year-old guy like Petey got a little "middle-school lovin' " from a fifteen-year-old pom-pom girl. One of these boys needed to come up with something better than, "The bad man scared me, Deputy, sir!"
"Okay, let's try this again. You're telling me that some guy, a cross between the Terminator and Iggy Pop, strolled in here asking about a guest, then left."
Lance Tomlinson nodded. "Yes, sir, that's right, but..."
"Uh-huh. And the guest is a Mr. Young?"
"Yes, sir," replied Marty. "He asked for a man named Paul Young. Mr. Young just checked in today. Room twenty-six. But he's not here. I mean, he stopped by the desk a couple of hours ago, and asked me to take messages for him, 'cause he was going out for a while. He hasn't checked back, yet. Guess he's still out."
Petey cut him off with a wave of his ballistic clipboard. "And the big guy just asked about Mr. Young, didn't try to rob you, didn't show you a weapon, or say anything remotely threatening. Is that right?" Lance violently shook his head no, while Marty answered "Yes" in a tiny voice.
"So, if he didn't try to rob you and didn't threaten you, why in the hell did you young studs call the sheriff's office?" asked Petey, the sarcasm dripping.
Pussies! He had them now, and was beginning to enjoy it.
The motel phone rang again for the fifth or sixth time, but Petey told Lance to let it go.
"Just can't figure it out. Two great big, bad college studs like yourself, and only one of him. He didn't have a knife or a gun, you said so yourself."
Drawing himself up to his full five feet five inches, Petey smirked and rested a sweaty palm on the butt of his .357.
"I mean, if it'll make you feel better, I'll spend the nigh
t and hold your hands. You boys know that transients travel the goddamned interstate all the time. Shit, guys like the one you're describing are a dime a dozen."
Despite the enjoyment he derived from belittling the two clerks, Petey's patience was growing thin. Maybe the boys were pulling his chain, maybe not, but the damn clock was running. Tina was waiting back in his apartment, and if this took much longer, he'd have to go through all the trouble of getting the little bitch all liquored up again.
"You don't understand, Deputy," Lance whined. "That guy was a walking mountain! And he had all those weird tattoos, and the sunglasses. Look, man! It's twenty degrees outside and he's walking around in a tank top! Besides, I said we didn't see a weapon. That doesn't mean that he didn't have one!"
Petey just stood there, smiling and rocking back and forth on the heels of his spit-polished Wellingtons, boots with two-inch inserts in the soles.
"So the guy had a couple of blunts of premium-grade weed in him and doesn't feel the cold; hell, I figured you boys would know all about shit like that! But just because he's high doesn't qualify him for the ten most-wanted list."
Lance wasn't having any of it. "What about Marty? That guy did something to Marty, knocked him cold as a wedge. How else do you explain me finding him on the floor?"
Petey chuckled sarcastically. "Oh, right. Almost forgot. You found your buddy right after you crawled out of your rabbit hole."
Lance began a weak protest, but Petey cut him off. "Yeah, yeah, I know. You were getting a Band-Aid for your boo-boo."
Nodding in Marty's direction, Petey said, "And as for tubby over there, did you ever consider that maybe he just fainted?"
Turning to Marty, Petey studied the boy for a moment, looking for any sign of injury. The kid didn't have a scratch on him that Petey could see. Yet both boys were in total agreement that Marty had been out like a light when Lance found him.
