But there was something else that he smelled, and it came from the woman. Gabriel felt her hands roughly grab at him and drag his body back into the hallway. If smells wrong, he thought as he slowly drifted down into oblivion, like something from the ocean.
Like something bad from the ocean.
••••
Aaron couldn’t believe what he had committed himself to.
His thoughts raced as he let himself into Mrs. Provost’s home. I’ve got to be out of my mind. But it was too late now; he had agreed to help Katie search the abandoned factory, and that was what he was going to do. Who knows, he thought, maybe I’ll be able to figure out why I’ve been feeling so strangely, or where Camael’s gone, for that matter.
“Mrs. Provost?” he called out, walking toward the kitchen. He was hoping for something to eat before his Mission: Impossible began. It would be just as easy to make a sandwich, but he wanted to be sure his host wasn’t planning for something else. He didn’t want to annoy her; something told him that would be a bad thing.
The kitchen was empty, but he noticed a plate with a half-eaten meat loaf sandwich on the table. Aaron returned to the hallway and called again. “Mrs. Provost? Are you home?”
Getting no response, he decided to go upstairs and check on Gabriel. He would need to clean the dog’s wound, then feed him, and most likely make himself something to eat before embarking on his nighttime maneuvers with Katie.
“Hey, Gabriel, how you feeling, boy…,” Aaron said as he pushed open the door and stepped into the room. His eyes fell upon the empty bed, then went to the comforter on the floor, and he saw with a growing unease that it, too, was missing his best friend. Aaron stepped farther into the room, leaving the door open wide behind him.
“Gabriel,” he called again as he peered around the bed, finding nothing. He began to panic. Maybe the dog had injured himself so badly that he’d had to be taken to the veterinarian, which would also explain the half-eaten sandwich and Mrs. Provost’s absence. Aaron decided to give Katie a call, just to be sure. He turned to the doorway and stopped.
Mrs. Provost stood in the hall, just outside the door.
“You scared me,” Aaron said with a surprised smile. Almost immediately he knew something wasn’t right. “What’s wrong?” he asked, advancing toward her. “Where’s Gabriel—is he all right?”
The woman did not respond. She simply stared at him oddly with eyes that seemed much darker than they had before.
“Mrs. Provost?” he asked, stopping in his tracks. Instincts that could only be connected to the inhuman part of his identity began to scream in warning, “Is there something…”
The old woman’s neck suddenly swelled. She bent forward, coughed violently, and expelled something toward him.
The sword from his nightmare was suddenly in Aaron’s hand, and instinctively he swatted aside the projectiles. Most exploded into dust upon contact with the blade of light, but pieces of some fell to the hardwood floor, and he tried to make sense of what he saw. They looked like fat grapes, fat grapes with sharp-looking quills sticking out of them.
The old woman grunted with displeasure, a wet gurgling sound like a stopped-up drainpipe, and he saw that her throat again had begun to expand. Aaron swung the blade of white light, directing its powerful radiance toward what he had been fooled into believing was a pretty cool old woman.
“No more,” he heard himself say in a voice that did not sound at all like his.
The blade’s luminescence bathed Mrs. Provost in its unearthly light, and her throat immediately deflated, expelling a noxious cloud of gas. Her callused hands rose to shield her eyes against the searing light, and he saw something that chilled the blood in his veins—a second eyelid.
Aaron advanced toward her. “What are you?” he asked, his voice booming. “And where is my dog? Where is Gabriel?”
The woman crouched on the floor. His mind raced with the strangeness of it all, and he thought of the things frozen in the basement of the veterinary clinic. Is it all connected? he wondered, and a voice deep down inside him said that it was.
Mrs. Provost sprang from the floor, an inhuman hiss escaping her mouth as she lashed out at him, attempting to swat the blade away. The strangely sweet scent of burning flesh perfumed the air, and Aaron stumbled back, startled by the attack. The old woman screamed, but it sounded more like the squeal of an animal in pain. She threw herself from the room, clutching at her injured hand, where she had touched his weapon.
Aaron wished the awkward sword away and ran after her. Mrs. Provost was running erratically toward the stairs, as if she was no longer in control of her motor functions. He could only watch in horror as her feet became entangled and she tripped, tumbling down the stairs in a shrieking heap.
Aaron ran down the steps as the woman’s body spilled limply into the foyer. He knelt beside her and reached to touch her neck for a pulse. Her heart rate was erratic, and her hand had begun to blister, but other than that, she seemed relatively unscathed. A low, murmuring gurgle escaped from her throat, and she began to writhe upon the floor.
Aaron reached down and pried open her mouth, keeping an eye on her throat for swelling. He tilted her head slightly so that he could see into her mouth. Something in the shadows at the back of her mouth scuttled away, escaping down her throat. Disturbingly enough, based on the quick glimpse, whatever it was reminded him of a hermit crab he’d once had as a pet. He quickly took his hands away.
Something was living inside Mrs. Provost. Again, he thought of the frozen animals in the freezer back at the clinic, their bodies changed—twisted into some new and monstrous form of life. He wondered if they, too, had something hiding away inside them.
He touched the woman’s chin again, pulling open her mouth slightly. “What are you?” he asked, hoping that by using his preternatural gift of languages he could speak to the thing hiding away inside Mrs. Provost. If it worked on dogs and other animals, why not on this?
Her body shuddered, the flesh beneath her clothes beginning to writhe.
“What are you?” he asked again, more forcefully.
It started as a grumbling rumble in what seemed to be the old woman’s stomach, and he watched with increasing horror as the bulge that formed in her abdomen traveled upward, toward her chest—and then her throat. The skin of her neck expanded, and Aaron immediately backed away. He was about to summon his weapon of light when Mrs. Provost’s mouth snapped open and a horrible gurgling laugh filled the air, followed by an equally chilling voice.
“What am I?” it asked in a language composed of buzzes and clicks. “I am Leviathan. And we are legion.”
••••
“Come,” a voice boomed in the darkness, echoing through the endless void that had become his being. “Hear my voice and come to me.”
Stevie knew not why, but he found himself responding, drawn to the powerful sound that invaded his solitude. It reverberated through his cocoon of shadow, touching him, comforting him in ways that the darkness could not.
“Oblivion shall claim you no longer.”
And then there was a light, burning through the ebony pitch—and he winced, turning his face away, blinded by its awesome intensity.
“Fear not the light of my righteousness,” the voice said. “There is a powerful purpose awaiting you beyond the Stygian twilight—work to be done.”
And the radiance continued to grow, consuming the darkness, pulling him from the embrace of shadow and into the heart of illumination.
“Come to me,” said the voice, so very close. “And be reborn.” Reborn.
Verchiel knelt before he who mere moments before had been a child. Silently the Archons watched as the angel held the face of the magickally augmented boy in both hands and gazed into eyes vacant of awareness.
“Do you hear me?” he asked. “Your lord and master has need of you.”
The angel examined the magnificently muscled body of the boy-turned-man, pleased with the work of his magicians. The arcane symbols that
had been painted, then burned into his naked flesh, had formed permanent scars decorating the perfect physique. These were marks that would set him apart from all others; symbols that proved he had been touched by the divine, transformed into something that transcended simple humanity.
Again, Verchiel looked into the eyes of the man. “I call upon you to come forth. There is so much to be done,” he whispered. Lovingly he touched the man’s expressionless face, running his long, delicate fingers through the blond, sweat-dampened hair. “I have need of you,” he hissed, leaning his mouth close to the man’s own. “The Lord God has need of you.”
Verchiel brought a hand to the man’s chin, pulled open his mouth, and blew lightly into the open maw, an icy blue flame briefly illuminating the cavern of the open mouth. The body of the man, who had once been Stevie, twitched once and then was still. Verchiel continued to stare, willing the man to consciousness, a vacant shell ready to be shaped into a tool of surgical precision.
An instrument of redemption.
The man’s body began to thrash, flopping about on the floor of the sunroom, and a smile languidly spread across Verchiel’s pale, scarred features. “That’s it,” he cooed. “I’m waiting—we’re all waiting.”
Awareness suddenly flooded into the man’s eyes, and his body went rigid with the shock of it. He began to scream, a high-pitched wail of rebirth that tapered off to a wheezing gasp as he rolled from side to side on the cold solarium floor.
Verchiel gestured toward the door, and several of his soldiers entered the room. They lifted the man, mewling and trembling, from the ground and held him aloft.
“Look at you,” Verchiel said, a cold, emotionless smile on his face. “The potential for greatness emanates from you in waves.” He held up a single, long, and pointed finger to the man who was crying pathetically. “But there is something missing. Something that will make you complete.” He turned to the Archons, who held pieces of an armor the rich red color of spilt blood. “Dress him,” the Powers’ leader ordered.
And the magicians did as they were told, covering the man’s body in crimson metal forged in the fires of Heaven. When they completed their task, they stepped away, and Verchiel approached. Every inch of the man’s transformed flesh was encased in blood-red metal—all except his head. He was a fearsome sight in his crimson suit of war, but he gazed pathetically at Verchiel, eyes streaming tears of fear and confusion.
“It’s all so new to you now,” Verchiel said, holding out his hands to the man. “But I will make it right.” Fire appeared between the angel’s outstretched hands, at first no bigger than the flame on the head of a match, then growing into a swirling fireball of orange. “I will teach you,” the angel said as the fire grew darker, taking shape, solidifying into a helmet the matching color of lifeblood. “You shall be my tool of absolution.” He placed the helmet over the man’s head. “My implement of absolution.”
Verchiel stepped back, admiring the fearful visage standing before him, clad in the color of pulsing rage. “Malak—,” he said, extending his hand, introducing those around him to the newest weapon in their arsenal. “Hunter of false prophets.”
Chapter Nine
IN THE apartment above the clinic, Katie was lost in her thoughts; in a place dark and dank, loaded with hundreds of metal barrels, corroded with age, their toxic contents seeping into the groundwater, invading the ecosystem of the Maine town.
The microwave oven began to beep, and she pulled herself from the disturbing reverie to answer its insistent toll. She took the steaming mug of chicken soup from inside and sat at the little kitchenette. Her stomach felt queasy with nerves, but she knew she should eat something before her late night maneuvers.
In between spoonfuls, Katie pulled a yellow legal pad over and reviewed the list of things she would need to gather before tonight. She tapped the first item on the pad with her finger. “Flashlight,” she said thoughtfully. “I saw one around here somewhere.”
She got up from the chair and approached some boxes that had been neatly stacked by the doorway to Kevin’s bedroom. How long had he been here and still hadn’t completely unpacked? Katie moved some of the boxes and found the flashlight, pointed it into the room, and turned it on. Its beam cut through the encroaching shadows that accumulated with the coming of dusk.
“Guess that’s a check,” she said, returning to the table and setting the flashlight beside the pad. She was just about to sit, when she heard a faint knock on the door. She glanced at the clock. She was expecting Aaron, but it was only just seven. Maybe he’d come early to try to talk her out of her planned adventure. “A little early, aren’t you…,” she began, stopping when she saw that it wasn’t Aaron on the doorstep.
Blithe’s chief of police stood stiffly in the doorway and stared.
“Can I help you with something, Chief?” Katie asked.
It was almost as if she’d woken him up. He kind of twitched, then politely removed his hat. “Sorry to disturb you, ma’am,” he said, “but I’ve got some news about Dr. Wessell.”
Katie felt her heart sink, as though the floor beneath her suddenly gave way and she was falling into a bottomless chasm. “What is it?” she asked in a breathless whisper, stepping aside to invite the sheriff inside.
He stepped in, and she closed the door behind him. The silence in the room became almost deafening, and Chief Dexter nervously coughed into his hand.
“Can I get you something?” she asked as she walked farther into the kitchen, trying to delay the inevitable.
“A glass of water would be fine,” he answered.
She took a glass from a cabinet and began to run the water. “You have to run it for a minute,” she said offhandedly, putting her hand beneath the stream. “Takes a while to get cold.”
He nodded, self-consciously turning his hat in his hands.
She handed him the glass, then leaned back against the sink and folded her arms across her chest. “Is it bad?” finally she asked.
Chief Dexter was taking a drink from his glass when he shuddered violently, as if wracked by an Arctic chill. The glass tumbled from his hand and smashed upon the floor.
“Chief?” Katie asked, moving toward him.
His eyes were closed, but he raised a hand to reassure her. “Dr. Wessell,” he began, his voice sounding strange … raspy, “he discovered some things about our town—things that should have remained secret.”
Katie was kneeling on the kitchen floor, carefully picking up the pieces of broken glass, when the implications of the police officer’s words began to sink in. “What exactly are you suggesting, Chief?” she asked, slowly climbing to her feet, the palm of one of her hands piled with shards of glass. “Did someone do something to Kevin?”
She was startled by the man’s response. Chief Dexter chuckled, and it was one of the most unpleasant sounds she’d ever heard—like his throat was clogged with fluid—and it must have been a trick of the light, but something seemed to be wrong with his eyes. “He serves the whole—as do we all,” he said dreamily, and began to sway from side to side.
Katie was suddenly afraid—very very afraid. Something wasn’t right with the man; something wasn’t right with the whole damn town. “I think you had better leave now,” she said in her calmest voice. He serves the whole, she thought. What the hell is that supposed to mean?
“Get out,” she said, turning her back on him defiantly and walking to the trash can beside the sink to dispose of the glass in her hand. She didn’t want him to know that he’d spooked her. Never show fear; it was something she’d learned in her work with animals. Even still, she kept an especially large shard of glass in her hand—just in case she needed to defend herself, but as she turned she saw that he was walking toward the door.
“Can’t have people poking around,” he said in that wet, gravelly voice as he reached the door and opened it. “Not when we’re so close to being free.”
Katie had no idea what the man was taking about and was ready to rush the door
and lock it behind him. But the chief just opened the door and stepped back inside, as if waiting for somebody to join him.
This is it, she thought, and dove across the room for the phone. She would try the state police. Their number was on the yellow legal pad she left on the kitchen table. Katie squeezed the razor sharp piece of glass in her hand as she moved in what seemed like slow motion across the kitchen, the pain of the shard digging into her flesh keeping her focused.
From the corner of her eye she saw the policeman begin to crouch. Was he going for his gun? Katie reached out for the handset. Just a bit farther.
She collided with the circular kitchen table, almost dislocating her hip, and was reaching for the phone when she heard the noise. Not the sound of a gunshot—but the sound of a cough, a violent hacking sound.
Her hand was on the receiver when she felt it hit her neck, something that made her skin burn as if splashed with acid. Reflexively her hand went to her neck, and she pulled the object from her flesh. It reminded her of a sea urchin, black and glistening, its circular shape covered in sharp spines—but where did it come from? She could feel the numbness spreading from her neck to her body with incredible speed.
Katie looked toward the sheriff by the open door just as he let loose with another of the powerful coughs. A spray of projectiles spewed from his mouth to decorate her body, and she realized with increasing horror that she could not feel a thing. She held up her hand, the one holding the piece of shattered glass, and watched, almost amused as the blood continued to flow from the cuts, running down her arm to spatter upon the floor.
She felt as though she were in a dream, the world around her suddenly not making sense. Katie glanced down at the urchins attached to her flesh. They must be coated in some kind of poison, she gathered as she toppled to the floor, banging her head on the edge of the table.
Katie lay facing the open door. The sheriff still stood beside it. She wanted to scream, but all she could do was lie there and watch him as he stood, like a doorman, waiting for someone to arrive.
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