The guard looked to the ground. “There wasn’t much I could do. He walked in, sat down, and told me that he didn’t want to be disturbed.”
Patheus gave the guard a withering and confused look. “What? He told you he didn’t want to be disturbed, so you let him waltz into my office? Why, exactly, do you think I gave you that gun?” He pointed to the sidearm on the man’s belt. He stared at the man, waiting to see if he’d get a response to his rhetorical question. Patheus pushed the guard to the side and grumbled, “Well, I guess I should go disturb him, then.” He opened the door, walked in and closed the door behind him.
The bastard was sitting in his chair. The chair and occupant were facing the window behind Patheus’s desk, which was littered with some very private papers.
Patheus was angrier right now than he had ever been with Eva. The nerve of the intruder was unforgiveable. “You have balls, my friend,” he said as he moved to walk around the desk. “I think I’ll cut them off and send them to your mother.”
The chair spun, and there was a black haired, middle-aged man sitting there. His eyes were black, too. Even to a demon such as Patheus, the sight was unnerving. Looking into them would immediately collapse the will of a mortal. The effect was mesmerizing to Patheus.
Metatron looked up at Patheus, his head cocked to the right, and replied, “I don’t think I got all of that, Patheus. Mind repeating it?”
Patheus dropped to one knee, bowed his head and stammered, “I—I didn’t know you were here, my Lord...”
“Yeah, that’s nice, isn’t it?” Metatron stood up and motioned to the chair. “Sit. I believe this is what you were after. You may have it now.”
Patheus looked up again, immediately making eye contact. He did as he was told.
“My powers have been steadily growing stronger since I’ve been back,” Metatron explained. He smiled down at Patheus. “I learned, recently, that I could mask my activities from other demons. I believe this will come in quite useful in the future.”
Patheus’s voice quivered. “What are your commands for me, my Master?”
Metatron laughed. “I’ve already given you orders which you are having problems completing.”
“I beseech you for more time.”
Metatron’s calm demeanor changed in an instant. He picked up a paper weight from Patheus’s desk and sent it sailing through the air. It collided with the glass face of a 250-year-old grandfather clock. Patheus grimaced.
“Time?! You wish to have more time? Perhaps, you would like to wait for Jeremiah to surrender to us. I think that should be any day now. Don’t you? After all, he has lost nothing, and we lose everything we send at him. Yes, I think he’s on the run. Or maybe you would like more time to plan some kind of strategic attack? Patheus, time is a precious commodity when we have little of it. Even though I have given you resources that you clearly do not deserve, you need more. Maybe what would work better is if I gave you less time. You have a week. Make something happen.”
“A...week?” Patheus stammered. “Sir, I’ve been working on this since you told me to more than a month ago. I don’t think I have the resources to accomplish this feat in a week.”
Metatron sighed. “You do not lack resources. It is your resolve that’s lacking. If it were Jeremiah who stood before me now, and you were on the other side, you would be in Hell.”
Patheus winced at the verbal blow. Of course he wasn’t as powerful as Jeremiah; that was what was making this situation so difficult. If Jeremiah were Metatron’s general, as he had been for so long, this dilemma would never have come up. Jeremiah had always been phenomenal at diffusing complicated issues like this with his powerful charisma, and if that didn’t work, force was an acceptable alternative. Right now, Patheus did not seem to be excelling in either area.
“Look at it this way,” Metatron continued. “If you don’t pull this off, I will be most disappointed, and I’ll probably remove you from your position of power. If you succeed, however, you will be in my favor. I’m not asking you to kill Jeremiah in a week, but show me that you are not squandering what I have given you. Okay?”
Without waiting for a response, Metatron was gone. Patheus had learned how to move at a mind’s thought from his master, and now he was wishing that Metatron would teach him how to avoid the detection of other demons. That would help him put a damper on Jeremiah’s plans. No matter. If this was war, Patheus knew how to fight. It was what he was designed to do. He would launch his first attack tomorrow.
***
Jeremiah walked away from Marla. “You know what, Marla? I’m done talking to you. Call Abbie. Tell her that her services will be required shortly.”
“How long have you run, Jeremiah?”
Jeremiah kept walking though. Marla just stood there. Alex followed, but it had sounded like Marla had valid points. Alex was torn; everyone hated the demon, but Alex was actually starting to like him. He seemed like he knew what was going on at any given moment. But, Alex decided, that was because he had the help of people like Marla, Matt, and Liz.
“Well, pleasure meeting you, Alex. Don’t let him bully you,” Marla yelled after them.
“Don’t listen to her,” Jeremiah said as they rounded a corner. “People see me as a monster because I know how to get things done. They say I’m heartless because I can accept casualties. I’m fighting a war on their behalf, and they can’t understand that I’m trying to minimize the losses.”
“Maybe they think that you aren’t trying hard enough.”
Jeremiah stopped and stared at the boy for a moment. “Et tu, Alex?” He looked away and kept walking.
“Who is Abbie?” Alex asked, feeling like he had hurt Jeremiah, and perhaps showing interest would help.
Not turning to face him, Jeremiah replied, “She is the most important of the tutors I have for you. She will teach you the ways of being a prophet.”
“I thought you were going to do that,” Alex responded.
“No,” Jeremiah answered, “I have other things to attend to. This is a big operation, and I’m needed in many places at all times. Unfortunately, I don’t have the power to be in all of those places all of the time, so I give what I can when I can.”
Suddenly, Jeremiah’s cell phone started ringing. “Yes,” he answered, a little perturbed. Then, his face changed to reflect that of concern. “Really?... Are you sure that’s what he said his name was?... What of his eyes?... Okay. Don’t do anything to provoke him. I’ll be there in a moment.” With that, Jeremiah snapped his phone shut and studied Alex for a moment as if trying to determine what to do.
“What’s going on?”
“Don’t worry about it. You stay here,” the demon ordered before walking briskly away.
Jeremiah walked through the halls of his home, his mind racing. If what Matt had told him was correct, something very old and terrifying had just returned to make a scene. Now, of all times. Just typical.
As he entered the foyer, he saw fifteen guards with AK-47s aimed at a grinning man standing in the center. Matt was there, too. He had the knife Jeremiah had given him in his hand, and he looked poised to strike.
“Jeremiah,” the man in the middle greeted upon the demon’s entrance, his smile becoming a frown, “this thing you’re doing is quite distressing.”
Jeremiah sighed heavily. Matt hadn’t been mistaken about the severity of the situation. Metatron, the undisputed leader of the world’s demons stood before him, unconcerned by the band that surrounded him. Jeremiah knew that, with a thought, Metatron could kick off his mind control, and everyone in this room would be worthless—or worse, counterproductive.
“Go,” Jeremiah ordered his soldiers. “We have much to discuss, Metatron and I.”
The soldiers were ready to leave. They had no idea what stood before them, but they were sure it wasn’t something with which they wanted to contend. It was evident by the speed of their departure that they knew something was wrong. Matt, however, didn’t move. He had assumed a stance,
his head down, right hand poised up by his face, and left hand securely gripping his knife behind his back. He was bent, slightly, at the waist, and his legs were spaced like he was about to dash toward Metatron. Matt was waiting to strike. He was dressed in his traditional all-black attire. He looked like a lean panther, focused solely on the task at hand. Jeremiah smiled as he realized that Matt had no intention of leaving. He could try the “that was an order” thing, but it probably wouldn’t change anything. Despite the troubles they had, Jeremiah knew that the two of them would work it out for the greater good. He hoped to tell Matt that later. That is, if this wasn’t the last time they saw each other.
“Much to discuss, indeed,” Metatron agreed as he walked toward Jeremiah.
Needing no further reason, Matt sprung out of his meditative position. He lunged toward Metatron with blinding speed. In that instant, Jeremiah knew that he had chosen well. So well, in fact, that even he didn’t see it coming. He would have called out to Matt to remain at ease if he’d thought about it. He was too busy sifting through his own thoughts to consider what this prophet was liable to do.
Metatron, it seemed, was not. He grabbed the hand with the knife in it, and he brought his other arm up with the intent to uppercut Matt. Matt spun to the side, and, at the same time, he grazed his knife along his captor’s arm. The cut was small, but the effect was stunning. Metatron let go. Matt delivered a powerful side kick to the demon’s stomach and stumbled backward. Metatron was unmoved. He was, however, gazing down at his bleeding arm in wonderment.
Metatron’s eyes met Matt’s, and Matt felt a darkness within him. He felt lost. At that moment a powerful hand grasped him by the shoulder and slid him backward, sliding across the smooth marble. Matt felt the darkness lifting. Jeremiah now stood between him and the once Voice of God.
“That’s a nice blade he has, Jeremiah,” Metatron said through gritted teeth. “A shard from the sword of Lucifer?”
“You know that’s what it is,” Jeremiah returned curtly.
“You should tell him to be careful with that. Ancient weapons aren’t toys. One of these days, it might get him killed.”
Jeremiah was not impressed. “Have you come here to send me to Hell?”
Metatron looked pained. “Why do you harbor such hatred? We worked together. We fought together. Then, you betrayed me.”
“As I recall, you were the one who betrayed me. Thankfully, that gave me the opportunity to remember what it is that I was made to do.”
“To save humanity?” Metatron asked cynically.
“To evolve them so that they can save themselves.”
“They killed your prophet, who only wanted to save them. They’ve killed numerous other prophets in order to continue their ignorant lifestyles. They’ve shunned everything that the Father has taught them throughout the years. They kill each other every second of every day, and you think they will save themselves? You have always been so optimistic. But that, I’m afraid, borders on fantasy.”
“I can only tell you what I’ve been told,” Jeremiah replied patiently. “They’re growing, and very soon they will make a bold step. And the prophets in this house will lead the way.”
“Him?” Metatron pointed to Matt in disgust. “You call that evolved? He’s a boy. He’s a scared little boy who thinks he has command of a life that is obviously spinning out of control. Perhaps this evolution you speak of is driving him mad. Perhaps his evolution is the cause of all of his pain. Have you learned nothing?”
Metatron’s voice was intensifying. “You and God predestine the futures of little boys, and when they can’t handle it, they break down and die. I don’t think Michael has the hardwiring quite right yet, to cope with the intense nature of their futures. Then, they fall, painfully. You were right to blame the Father for this. This is His sadistic vision. Now, after all we’ve been through, you have returned to Him and even embraced His plan. Do you not care for these children whom you all but raise?” Metatron smiled. “Just like Jesus, this one may have been born to die.”
Jeremiah was gripping and relaxing his hands. At the dropping of the name, he felt very much like he was going to lose control. “You need not bring up his name here. I understand what is at stake, and I understand very well what I’ve lost.”
Metatron smiled. “But you don’t have to lose any more. Let them go. Let them live their own lives. You and I belong to this fight; they don’t. They didn’t do anything to deserve this.”
“I didn’t make the decision, Metatron. I only follow orders.”
“Yes,” Metatron nodded affirmatively, “you have always been proficient in following orders. You used to work for God, then me, and now God again. You have never done anything but follow orders. What does your heart tell you about this dilemma? Do you seriously think you can defeat me? And, if you should, could you stop Lucifer?”
Jeremiah screwed up his face in confusion. “What are you talking about? Lucifer was banished a thousand years ago.”
“Just because you haven’t seen him for a while, you think he’s dead? I made that mistake with you, and you believed the same of me. However, I can assure you that I know better.”
“I’m not going to argue with you, Metatron. If we’re going to do this, let’s do it now.”
“I didn’t come here to kill you, Jeremiah,” Metatron said, suddenly looking very serious, “I wouldn’t have chatted with you so long if I had.”
“Then, you should leave,” Jeremiah suggested. “I no longer work for you, and we don’t see things eye-to-eye anymore.”
Metatron sighed. “I suppose not. It is a shame, though. I’ll miss our playful banter.”
“I’m sure you can find someone else to banter with.”
Metatron said nothing. He turned and walked out the door. As soon as he exited, he disappeared. Jeremiah heaved a sigh of relief and prayed that he would never have to meet Metatron in battle. The Voice of God undoubtedly took this conversation and Jeremiah’s refusal to be an insult, and Jeremiah didn’t want to know what that would cost him. He turned to look at Matt, who met his gaze with a hint of shame. He was still sitting on the floor clutching his knife. Jeremiah reached down, pulled him up off the ground, and he did something that he had never done. He hugged Matt tightly.
He pulled away and looked into Matt’s confused eyes. “Thank you,” he muttered, and he walked out of the foyer and down the hallway.
Bewildered, Matt watched the demon walk away. After a moment, he began ascending the stairs. Night came and passed without incident in Jeremiah’s home. For that, everyone was grateful.
***
Patheus gripped the young man by the throat. He could taste the fear oozing out of the prey’s pores. Maybe those other three brats were protected by Jeremiah, but not all of the prophets were. He launched this one across the room, and his body bounced off the wall like a rag doll. Patheus removed his tools from the bag he’d brought with him. This should get Jeremiah’s attention. He put a hole in the drywall with his fist and felt around until he grasped the stud.
“It’s time for the moment of truth,” he said to the dazed prophet.
“Whatever you do to me will not change destiny,” the boy returned defiantly.
Patheus cocked his head and raised an eyebrow. “Maybe not, but it will make me feel a lot better.”
Patheus took his victim’s hand and pulled him up the wall—high enough that his feet were no longer touching the ground. He held the prophet’s hand flat against the wall and picked up what looked to be a steel tent stake. With only his own strength, Patheus drove the stake through the young man’s right wrist. The prophet let out a terrible wail. And the screams were no less sincere when Patheus put stakes through the other wrist and both of the ankles. He tore the prophet’s clothes off of him, which seemed to bring slightly more pain as the body was being jostled.
Pulling up a chair, the demon sat down, arms crossed, to watch the suffering. The moaning and crying went on for a little while, and then it s
topped, and the prophet’s head drooped. Patheus stood up and looked at him. The prophet wasn’t dead, but he wasn’t moving much either. Shock, Patheus thought.
Just then, the young man’s head came up, and he was staring Patheus in the eyes, “I forgive you,” he whispered. Then, he started singing Amazing Grace!
Patheus shook off the confusion, bent down and picked up another stake.
He was still singing, “‘twas blind, but now, I--” when Patheus drove the stake through his throat. The demon wasn’t sure if the gurgling was a muffled scream or an attempt to finish the song, but either way it would be over soon.
He walked out of the apartment complex. No one had even come out into the hallway to see what had happened. Just like humans. Patheus had once been surprised at how little humans did to help each other. Even when someone was obviously in need of assistance, and even an insignificant action, like calling the police, could be all that was needed, people generally chose to mind their own business. Of course, the police wouldn’t have helped in this instance, but at least it would have been something. He felt sorry for his victim, but only very little; he knew that the boy had no choice in what he was chosen to do. Like Patheus, he had been called to duty and had been unable to finish what he was meant to do. Unlike Patheus, however, the boy had a place in Heaven waiting for him for his heroic deeds.
Patheus shook regret from his mind. “On to the next stop,” he said to no one in particular.
Chapter 5
Prophets must trust each other in order to survive. We are constantly at war with the forces of religion, politics, ignorance, and the supernatural. Living so can cause great mental and physical fatigue. Some prophets never advance to the point that they can defeat their own demons, let alone very physical ones. These prophets are generally alone, and they have only vague ideas of what to do with the powers bestowed upon them. On the other hand, other prophets have the advantage of the wisdom of others to precipitate their growth. Oftentimes, prophets are absorbed into the religions around them as men or women of great influence, while a few are killed or ostracized as heretics. No matter what precedes it, the path that prophets take after any initial stages of learning is their own. And it is usually a very lonely path at that.
Demonic Designs (To Absolve the Fallen) Page 12
