To Light Us, To Guard Us (The Angel War Book 1)

by Sean M O'Connell

  Of course, such failure would be taken advantage of and used strategically.

  Bruja, Koontz, and the others who were ruthless or clever enough to have earned positions of prominence in the Babel militia had hammered out a strategy that was as simple as it was brilliant.

  High desert winds stirred goose bumps on his skin as he relished the thought. The Angels and Sleepless Knights would be taken by surprise. All of their military officiality and somber righteousness sure to melt into chaos.

  It was given that many of his own would die. That much was unavoidable, and still acceptable. Casualties would save him money at least.

  All down the tower’s hundreds of balconies and in the crowded courtyards men paced back and forth. Puffed up with bravado and grinning at one another. They donned face paint and beat their chests to convince themselves and their friends that they were ready for war.

  For Valdez, the battle was a win-win situation. Not only an opportunity to remove a persistent thorn from his side- but also a chance to try out his new skills, and test the mettle of the force that would help him march his way across the West, the army that would help him scratch the itch for power. Anticipation tingled, brought a new flavor to the purple air of night.

  From behind him, that familiar giggle purled.

  “Well don’t you look handsome?” Her sarcasm had grown a touch less disrespectful, but it never failed to irk him. He turned and found her already half-naked, eager for their appointment.

  “Keep your clothes on witch,” he scolded “I don’t have time for that.”

  She recoiled noticeably, and pouted angrily in his direction as she pulled a tank top on over her head.

  “I received a phone call from Brown. Apparently he is following your two escaped prisoners through the basements even as we speak.” The Bruja didn’t bother mentioning how weak Brown sounded on the phone. He’d been badly injured, and in an uncharacteristically apologetic tone had asked for assistance in handling the escaped Angel and Serena’s ex-husband, the soldier boy.

  Hunter’s former bodyguard was losing his touch.

  The Bruja’s pout vanished at this, and a smile cracked her sun-worn and scarred face.

  “Oh?” giggle. “And do they know where they are going? Or are they lost?”

  The witch was genuinely delighted at the prospect of a cat and mouse game unfolding in the bowels of the tower. “Did he say whether they would make it to the surface in time for the show to start? I would really like to see what Peni can do in a fair fight.”

  Valdez squirmed at the smile in her voice when she spoke of the Hawaiian. She had grown to admire her prisoner too much. A reversal of Stockholm syndrome. It was a sign of weakness. Weakness even from his most valuable asset.

  Hard to find good help, indeed.

  “Brown didn’t say much. It seems the better part of his jaw was destroyed by your little Angel toy. He did, however, hint that they are headed vaguely upward.” Now it was Valdez’s turn to smile, “perhaps if we can steer them to the zoo level?”

  That particular level of the resort- the same place that Brown had first tested his manifest abilities, had provided Hunter with much entertainment in the past half-year.

  After the initial madness died down, he had sent some of his new help down to the veterinary lab to assess the stock of drugs and equipment that might be useful in their makeshift military. Those that had been sent had encountered… complications.

  The escaped animals that roamed the corridors proved extremely violent.

  The lions in particular; with their inborn pride mentality and group hunting tactics.

  After the initial distress call, he and Brown had watched the beasts maul and kill three of the Flyers. Inexplicably, even the elephants had attacked those that attempted to breach their false territories.

  Each group sent in following the first failure experienced the same thing. Such behavior, particularly after a meal, indicated that there was something more than hunger involved.

  The savannah beasts had gone worse than wild. Feral. Rabid.

  Fierce territoriality made it impossible to get to the lab at the rear of the level unless one flew over top of the roaming leopards and hyenas, with their amber-glow eyes and eager claws. Valdez used the menagerie as punishment as often as he could.

  Any of his winged helpers unfortunate enough to cross him would eventually exhaust themselves trying to stay close to the ceiling and have to find a place at floor-level to hide. Then, it was only a matter of time… Just the thought brought a smile to his face.

  “No, Hunter, I’m afraid that wouldn’t do much good anyway. All of the reconnaissance you have paid for suggests that Angels and animals get along just swimmingly. Pretty much the opposite of what we see with our types.”

  The Bruja was very clearly bothered by this. She fancied herself an animal expert. After all of the handling she had done in the interest of blood sacrifice.

  “The lions would probably nuzzle right up to Peni and the elephants would offer him a ride.”

  Hunter hated being corrected, but her annoyance served as small consolation.

  The door to the room opened and Kyle Koontz entered.

  Followed by the six ugly men he called his Lieutenants. They were all ex-convicts from the same federal prison as Koontz. Penitentiary life was not so different from the dog-eat-dog existence of the present day. Men like these were suited to the kind of work Valdez asked them to perform. They did not balk at the killing and scavenging. Moreover, they somehow perceived the organized nature of their enemies as an extension of the institutions that had stolen such a significant portion of their lives. Oddly enough, the bonds formed by common misery and hatred held fast through the hardship, where even family trees burned to insignificance.

  These men were resourceful. Better yet, they proved less emotional than their counterparts of more pedestrian background.

  Tempered in a hellish environment, the convicts made fine Demons indeed.

  Three of the six lieutenants had manifested. The shortest of these three had proved very formidable. Priskos was his name. His wings were an unremarkable brown, but they carried him fast, and he was smart. Valdez had already pegged him as the replacement for Koontz should the wiry man ever cross him, or fail him, or die. Or all of the above, such as the case may be.

  Koontz addressed his boss. “Sir, Babel is ready, as promised.”

  Hunter Valdez was a master of business, and had been long before his mind and body were altered in accordance with destiny. He knew well enough that a job was rarely done correctly the first time.

  “You’ve informed all of our Wings of the plan then?” He pressed.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And they understand the consequences of deviating from the plan?”

  Koontz swallowed, failure on the part of those under his leadership meant only one thing for him.

  “Of course, Mr. Valdez.”

  “Why don‘t we go over it one more time? Shall we?” Valdez addressed Priskos, leaning in close to crowd the other man’s space. “I want you to tell me exactly what he has told you.“

  Koontz licked his lips nervously.

  The man named Priskos took a slight step forward and began, calmly, to recount the orders he’d been given.

  “I am in charge of the War Pigs sir…”

  Hunter Valdez immediately hissed in irritation. Few things annoyed him more than the cliché team names these people came up with. The War Pigs and Ravens and Gargoyles. Like bad marketing. What validation did they find in such adolescent nonsense?

  “You will not use your childish approximations of call-signs in my presence again! Is that understood?” He reprimanded.

  Priskos was undeterred, blinking in the slow manner of one who is bored.

  “My apologies sir.” he droned. “I am in charge of the Wings manning the western walls and balconies of Babel. Grounded militia will cover the courtyards, parking garages, lawns, swimming pools and lower balconies. Ever
ything from the second Brothel Level upward is under my command.”

  Already, Hunter grew impatient.

  “The plan, Priskos, not the division of labor.” he corrected.

  Another slow closing and re-opening of the eyes. Maddening.

  “The first wave of Angels and Monks will likely come at the north side of the tower. We on the west will not intervene until this battle is fully engaged. Once the Gargoy…err.. the north-facing fighters have the invaders occupied, we will make our move.”

  “And your move is what?”

  “We are to leave the tower sir, and head into the city.” his tone oozed displeasure.

  “You will do what there?” Valdez prodded, looking not at Priskos, but at Koontz.

  “In the city we will select and attack targets of high civilian density. The first half of our force will create confusion and havoc. The second will hide out and wait for the Angels to save the day. Once the Angels arrive, we attack them.”

  “Excellent.” Hunter smiled. “And what is the purpose of this tactic?” It was important that his helpers knew why they were to carry out this plan, and not just what the plan was.

  “To divide the Angels into small, manageable groups where our superior numbers will be more effective.” Priskos answered. “Also to separate Angels from the supporting weaponry of their Monks.” This last was droned with impatient finality.

  Hunter Valdez turned his gaze back to Koontz.

  “Good enough. But I wonder. Would all of the others give me the same answer?”

  Koontz was confident now, the smirk on his rat-like face said as much.

  “Why don’t you go ahead and ask them if you have doubts?” He jibed back. Dangerously close to sounding insolent.

  The Bruja chimed in with her disturbingly sweet voice.

  “I think the plan itself is clear enough. The real question is whether or not all of these cutthroats and cowards under your management will carry it out.”

  Derision thickened her words, but none of the men so much as bristled.

  Nobody dared cross the Bruja.

  These few had spent enough time in close proximity to know that her antagonism was a trap best left un-sprung.

  Of the six, only Koontz could pluck up enough courage to even roll his eyes at her.

  Silence fell as the surly group examined their own shoes and picked at their fingernails.

  Valdez basked in the uncomfortable calm of their intimidation for a moment before dismissing them.

  “Be ready. And stick to the plan. Deserters will die. Those that the Angels don’t eliminate will be dealt with by her.” He tilted his head in the direction of the small, uglied woman who served as his right hand. It was enough of a threat to at least make these men -and those under them- think twice before getting creative or running.

  “You’re dismissed.” He sent them away, proud of himself for not losing his temper even once. Tantrums wasted energy best spent on conjuring.

  The militia captains turned their backs and left, carrying a fugue of musky odor with them.

  Hunter looked inquiringly at the Bruja, raising one perfectly manicured eyebrow toward the ceiling.

  “The Triplets?”

  She shook her head and shrugged.

  “No longer three of them it seems. From what the two who are still alive are telling me though, the spell was working for a short time.”

  She secretly wished for more reliable verification than just their testimony. Like Valdez, she had tutored the ‘Triplets’ herself. They were biologically unrelated, but had all been devoted members of an internet occultist club before the changes. Nothing else could explain why their wings had manifested with identical coloration.

  “A short time?”

  “If what they tell me is true, the curse worked, at least temporarily.” She had been surprised to hear this herself, and the look on Hunter’s face mirrored her skepticism.

  “And what proof did they bring of this small success?” he asked. Results are what mattered, concrete results.

  “No proof. But they are alive, which is telling enough.” she offered.

  “Yes, Bruja. Telling indeed. It tells me that they fled because your group magic didn’t work.” He spat bitterly. Hunter had been upset with her for including others in her teachings.

  Spreading such knowledge around was not a good idea.

  True to form, the Bruja ignored all objections. Instead she did her best to placate him with the knowledge that even if the Triplets did get out of hand, his own power was enough to subdue their combined efforts.

  “If they stayed around long enough to finish the ritual, and even one of the Angels was still unaffected, they would not have been allowed to survive. For all of their heavenly pretense, the Angels are certainly not forgiving. Angels kill us, we kill them. There is no other option.”

  Cowed, the Bruja only shrugged.

  Valdez made a face at her like he’d eaten something bitter and pushed past to leave. She could smell the cotton of his clothes starting to burn.

  Nellis Air Force Base, Nevada

  “Welcome to Nellis Air Force Base Father Cruz.”

  The Brazilian priest could only look at the proffered handshake with disbelief. This man, who Cruz knew only as Bishop, had given the order resulting in his sedation and kidnapping from Rio Di Janeiro aboard a U.S. military jet just over a day ago.

  Now he stood smiling through a dark beard and offering welcome.

  Father Cruz had awoken mid-flight to find himself surrounded not by the Monks, but by Angels. In the close quarters, none of them showed their wings, but he could sense it the same way that all of them could. On either side of him sat the two strapping young men who he had first seen on the Cristo, when the Monks and so-called Swans swept in under the pretense of saving the day.

  Both of them smiled at him as he came to, but neither would answer his outraged questions. None of the others would either. They only looked at him with concern-furrowed brows and shook their beautiful heads. When he had finally realized they were all mute and moved to stand up from his seat, the tall redheaded angel had thrown an arm across his chest, not forcefully, but firmly. The other, the handsome young man with blue eyes, blinked at him intently and shook his head ever so slightly, telling the priest with hand motions to wait.

  Just wait.

  As Cruz’s head cleared, aided by the droning vibration of the plane’s eight massive engines, he came to realize that there were no Monks to be seen. Blue sky shined behind the small porthole windows, and just once he saw the sharp lines of a fighter jet. An escort no doubt for whatever precious load the plane carried.

  In fact, he and the Angels were the cargo being guarded.

  The jump-master, a broken-faced Monk who came out of the cockpit clearly disgruntled about being the only one separated from his peers, had told Father Cruz as much just before pushing the Priest out of the open tail-bay of the plane.

  “This baby is headed to San Diego“ he had explained. “Nellis’ tarmac is already crowded enough, and we’ve got more passengers to pick up.” Noting the priest’s incredulous glances at the roaring mouth of the plane’s open hind end, he had joked.

  “Lucky enough, all of you are equipped with operational wings, so parachutes aren’t a problem.” That at least had coaxed a smile.

  Cruz followed the others down in rapid descent, diving through sparse cloud cover and gliding over the colorless landscape of Nevada. The dry air sucked moisture from his eyes and made him blink furiously. The bustle of vehicles and the men who manned them grew and expanded as he descended toward the Air Force base where he would be half-prisoner, half ally. Farther off, the ugly, unnatural skyline of Las Vegas jutted from the brown sand.

  At present he stood baking on the asphalt waiting for an explanation from the man who had brought him here.

  The two young Angels flanked him.

  Do they think I’ll run? Where would I go?

  The Monks, to their credit, busied thems
elves with weapons and vehicles and complicated-looking antennae. Perhaps his ire at being forced into coming here was more outwardly obvious than he intended.

  Rafael Cruz prayed for patience.

  Bishop finally dropped his hand, realizing it would not be taken in greeting. When he spoke again, his tone was all business.

  “Father Cruz, I appreciate you coming. I hope you’ll forgive our..” he searched for the right word. “insistence… once you see what we have prepared.” He gestured with a muscular arm toward one of the long hangar buildings. “Perhaps if we get out of the sun.”

  The four of them, Cruz, Bishop, and the two silent Angels crossed the tarmac into the shade of the hangar. Inside, perhaps a hundred Monks sat around, cleaning and inspecting their firearms and sucking nutrition gels from small silver pouches.

  Someone tossed a water bottle, which the priest instinctively caught and drained. The other Angels noted his behavior with some amusement. Hunger and thirst might be mere habits for those with divine manifestation, but hard habits to break.

  “The Monks left behind at the Cristo have been reporting in regularly. The situation is under control Father.” Bishop offered. “and the medic’s pack has gone a long way.”

  Finally, Cruz felt compelled to respond.

  “I’m sure the people are surviving, just as they have without your help for almost a year now. But what will happen when those demons return?”

  “Our Monks will kill them.” For the first time Cruz noted the blackness of Bishop’s eyes, hardly a difference between pupil and iris. There was neither doubt nor exaggeration in the man’s voice. He meant what he said.

  “You have done an exceptional job of providing safe haven for the refugees camped at the Cristo, Father Cruz. It’s part of why we brought you here. But for now I am asking for trust. If you can’t trust me personally, at least trust that my men in Brazil will protect your people.”