The Chosen Trilogy Boxset

by David Leadbeater

  And then a figure appeared in the entranceway to the mall.

  “That’s Mena Gaines.” Cleaver said.

  The Destroyer came forward, spreading her arms wide. “Tonight will be the greatest reckoning in human history!” she cried. “Your ultimate arrogance is that you think you own this planet. But you have pillaged it. You have plundered it. Tonight, the Hierarchy will come, the Gates of Hell will open, and the World-ender shall be summoned forth! Cry havoc! Humans, and let loose all Hell!”

  Cleaver glanced to his right as one of the SWAT guys laughed. “Is this woman for real? She’s nuts.”

  “Nuts she is,” Cleaver told him. “But unfortunately, she’s also telling the truth.”

  Ken shrugged. “Go figure.”

  They didn’t notice Cheyne’s face and body language express first shock and then raw terror at the mention of the Hierarchy.

  Then a second figure stepped out of the mall. There was a communal intake of breath from the gathered ranks.

  Someone said, “I know her. Is that Miley Cyrus?”

  “No,” someone answered. “No. It’s Avril, I think. Or Amy Lee.”

  “It’s Emily Crowe,” Ken withered them all with a glance. “Don’t you Florida guys know your rock chicks?”

  “So what now?” One of the cops said. “We gonna have to pay to get in there?”

  Crowe came forward and pointed something at the sky that looked horribly like a human arm. Cheyne cried. “The time is now! Before they can gather!”

  At that moment the mall entrance spewed out a raving mass of demonic bodies. They charged at the gathered ranks of marines and cops, wielding a variety of sharp weapons, their faces twisted in hate.

  Cleaver swept his duster aside and unsheathed his shotgun. He heard Felicia growl low in her throat, saw Ken raise his weapons and take a deep breath whilst adopting a fighting stance. The rows of marines shot forward, running straight at the charging demons and voicing their own shouts of defiance.

  There was a breathless moment as the opposing forces rushed together. The sound of bullets rent the air along with the dying expletives of men and demons alike. Cleaver could still see Emily Crowe, gesturing at the skies with her ghastly wishbone. It seemed the escalating fear and violence helped make her stronger.

  “Astoroth!” She shrieked. “I summon you!” It sounded like a highly convincing invocation for nothing more than a diversion.

  And Gaines stood before Crowe, a formidable bodyguard.

  It’s the Destroyers we need to kill, Cleaver thought. Take them out, and we-

  A demon leapt over the backs of two marines and lunged at Cleaver, snarling and tearing at the air between them. Cleaver stepped back to make room, lowered the shotgun, and then gave it a blast at point blank range. The headless body collapsed at his feet.

  By his side Ken kicked, then spun into a meaty uppercut, easily taking out his opponent. Felicia pounced onto a demon’s back, tearing its muscles deep, making it rear up and howl in agony. She snapped its neck with an efficient twist. Beyond her, Cleaver saw Ceriden involved in a deadly tussle.

  The world was chaos.

  Bullets slammed into the mall’s concrete walls, sending sharp slivers in every direction. Windows shattered, glass rained down in jagged shards. In another second Cleaver saw a figure appear in a ruined window, a bulky object balanced over its shoulder.

  “Missile!” Someone shouted. There was a boiling hiss like a thousand angry rattlesnakes, a muffled explosion, and everyone hit the deck. A demon that decided to remain standing was struck head-on by the missile and accelerated from zero to 200 mph in less than a second. The missile, with demon still attached, impacted with a truck in the parking lot, its explosion blasting through the turbulent darkness.

  “Up!”

  The marines ran again, Cleaver following, struggling to keep up. Violence and death filled the night around him.

  Crowe was giving the performance of her life. “By the power of the Almighty Lucifer, by Astoroth, by a thousand Fallen Angels, I bid you to appear!”

  Lucifer? Cleaver thought. Now that didn’t make any sense at all.

  Time was running out.

  Step by bloody step they advanced towards the mall.

  47

  NEW BABYLON - THE MALL AND BAY BRIDGE

  Ken Hamilton fought with an economy of movement. When a demon popped up, he marked it, studied its bearing, its lean and drag- the way it moved back and forth, and exterminated it. After the first two went down he stopped pointing out to anyone who would listen how gross they were.

  Anyway, he’d woken up next to far uglier specimens after nights of beer, endless viewings of Point Break, and a little marijuana.

  He stayed close to Cleaver and tried to keep sight of Felicia. His heart told him it was important to keep the Aegis members together. Was it a companionship thing? It was new to him, an alien emotion. But he had to admit he liked it.

  Ceriden was suddenly at his side, pale face glowing like a beacon, and far too jittery for a vampire King. “Problem!” he cried.

  Ken teased his hair back into place with a well-trained finger. “How so? Armani Exchange been looted?”

  “God forbid!” Ceriden cried, then pointed at Cheyne and her coven. “They want you.”

  “Now! Me? Why?”

  “Too many questions,” Ceriden was all authority, something Ken hated. “Just go.”

  Ken turned away. “I used to like you, man,” he mumbled.

  Cheyne beckoned him over. “Our first random element has surfaced,” she said in her light voice. Then she paused, seeming reluctant to elaborate.

  “Which is?”

  “Dementia.”

  Ken felt a chill fall through him like a tonne of bricks. “Where is she?”

  “Bay Bridge, for some reason. Destroying everything and everyone sent against her. You are one of the Eight. The battle is being lost there. You have to go.”

  Ken couldn’t even croak a reply. Dementia! The craziest demon bitch that ever walked the earth.

  “To…to fight her?”

  “I will be going with you,” Cheyne said, then raised her eyebrows. “I am able to conjure up a few surprises of my own, you know.”

  “And I’ll go too,” Ken turned to see Ryan, the man who’d recruited him in San Francisco not so long ago, standing behind him. “At least, I might distract her with my rugged good looks.”

  Ken found his voice at last. “So let’s go wax that bitch’s ass.” His voice, he thought, sounded far more confident than it had any right to.

  ***

  Ryan drove this time. Ken sat in the back next to Cheyne. At first, he felt intimidated, but one sidelong glance at that huge wonky conk tickled the child in him and calmed his nerves.

  Ryan said, “I have never seen the streets of Miami this deserted.”

  “It’s a blessing,” Cheyne said. “Do you know how to get to the Bay Bridge?”

  “Yeah. Somewhere off the South Dixie. Tell me, Cheyne, why would Dementia ally itself with a being bent on destroying the world she feeds off? As in Gorgoth, I mean.”

  “The entire northern hemisphere’s been chewing on that one for months,” Cheyne stared out at the empty streets. Ken noticed her stroking the platinum talisman that dangled around her neck. The sign of her rank? Her coven? The source of her power?

  “Best guess?” Ken asked.

  Cheyne shrugged, not looking at him. “Our focus has been on Gorgoth so we are at a loss. Gorgoth and the Hierarchy are entirely different entities, with entirely different agendas. It doesn’t make sense. Maybe someone summoned her before all this got started and she found a way to stay. Maybe she was sent here, by Astoroth or even Lucifer Himself. Or maybe she was cast out of Hell, for deeds unspeakable.”

  “Whoa,” Ken gasped. “Cast out of Hell? How could anyone be that evil?”

  “Gorgoth hates the hierarchy and vice versa,” Cheyne mused. “And yet here, tonight, they’re both being summoned at the same time.
Truly, I don’t understand. And keep this in mind,” she turned towards Ken now. “Whatever evil we face today, Dementia may yet prove to be the worst of it.”

  Ryan pointed ahead. “Bay Bridge,” he said. “There it is. My God.”

  Ken leaned forward for a better look. Before them the Bay Bridge stretched in an S-curve over Biscayne Bay, terminating on a narrow spit of land that was an aquatic preserve. The stretch of road that formed the bridge was called the Rickenbacker Causeway. Ken could see dozens of flashing blue and red lights strewn along the road. To his surprise he could also see many figures ducked down behind cars and trucks and concrete walls.

  As they drew nearer Ken saw their terrified faces. He saw cops, marines and FBI agents, shivering in the heat, scared half to death.

  “What are they doing?” Ryan’s growl betrayed his disgust.

  “Steady,” Cheyne told him. “Don’t forget, their world is in upheaval. For them, Ubers were a myth until last week. Now they are being asked to go up against one of the worst. Slow down.”

  Beyond the cops, a massive struggle was underway. Dozens of men surrounded a very vague figure, something wrapped in darkness and light, something that moved faster than a bullet, deadlier than a blade, and with more menace than a serial killer on his first anniversary.

  Then the figure leapt out of the crowd. Intuitively, Ryan slammed on the brakes. There was a sound like two monster trucks clashing as something landed on the hood of their car, crushing the steel and causing the entire vehicle to buckle.

  Ken stared with horror into eyes that seemed to fill the windshield - the eyes of Dementia, all blood and yellow-shine, slanted and gleaming with death and hate. He had seen her this way before but this time there would be no running away.

  Dementia screamed, a note higher than the squeal of a slaughtered pig. She thrust her sword through the windscreen, straight at Ryan’s face, but he managed to duck and fling himself out of the car door onto the asphalt.

  Ken jumped out, letting his short staffs slide into his hands. He stepped away from the car to draw Dementia’s attention, a voice inside screaming what the fuck are you doing? But his head and his heart told him that Ryan and Cheyne needed time to prepare themselves.

  Dementia snarled and drooled at him, as if sensing a meal.

  “I ssssmellled you,” words fell from the demon’s mouth like venomous snakes. “I have missssed you beforrre. Twicccce. Thissss time, you are minnnne.”

  Ken thought about everything that had ever meant anything in his life. Didn’t take long. Before now, it had all been fantasy. But now danger stood snarling before him in its most heinous guise, and if it meant saving his friends, he would meet it head on.

  He started to spin the staffs in rhythm, setting up a constant swirl of hardwood. His arms lashed out fast, faster, gaining speed and continuance. His eyes never left those of his adversary.

  “Dementia,” he hissed. “Come get yours.”

  The mad demon leapt off the car faster than blinking, but Ken was trained. And he was one of the Chosen. He tracked her through the air and when she landed, feet first, he struck at that point. His left staff struck her skull, his right staff chopped across her neck, and she retreated from the deadly symmetry. Again and again he moved forward, his arms a blur and Dementia was forced to catch the blows on her forearms or take them full in the face. Ken didn’t give her a chance to raise her sword.

  Pressing forward was his only advantage. He was faster with the lightweight staffs than she was with her sword. He was vaguely aware of Ryan flitting behind her and Cheyne at his own back. He thought Cheyne was holding something large but didn’t have time to check.

  Dementia’s gasps of pain were music to his ears. Her demonic eyes blazed with undiluted hate.

  Behind her, ranks of marines and Special Forces were gathering to watch as he forced her back towards the edge of the bridge. He noticed with satisfaction that her arms were already bruised black, and that her face was starting to swell. He made those areas the focus of his redoubled efforts.

  Dementia took four quick strikes in the face, then snarled and kicked out. Her foot caught him in the sternum, making him jerk forward. Dementia’s swiftly uplifted sword almost cleaved his head in two, but he dodged, and she succeeded only in drawing a thin line of blood from his right cheek.

  Ken paused, catching his breath. He had been stupid to think he could press on and finish her there. Dementia was a thousand year old demon, well versed in the art of fighting and subterfuge.

  Ken kept up the whirl of wood whilst taking a breather. Dementia regarded him with curiosity, no doubt the same hungry curiosity she would afford a slap-up meal of bloody, raw human.

  Then, without warning, Ryan struck at her from behind. Dementia must have caught the movement in Ken’s eyes for she jabbed an elbow back at the precise moment, an elbow that Ryan ran into.

  Ryan!

  Ken launched himself forward again. Ryan crawled off to one side, face pouring with blood.

  Ken struck again and again, and then realization hit him. The crazy bitch was enjoying this. She loved the feel of the wood striking her flesh, the assault of a worthy opponent. She was drawing it out.

  He paused and stepped back. Dementia grinned at him, her mouth dripping blood mixed with thick drool. Her fervent yellow eyes blazed.

  “Now you undersssssstand. . .” she hissed.

  Gunshots rang out. Some of the army guys were trying their luck. Thick darkness immediately flowed up around Dementia’s form, absorbed the bullets before dissipating. The entire process took less than a second.

  “Great body armour,” Ken heard himself say.

  Dementia attacked, but he was more than ready. His words had been calculated to force her into a mistake like this. So when she leapt he side-stepped, and brought the staffs down on her face and neck and shoulders.

  For a second, she floundered. Her sword crashed against a railing, slicing off chips of metal and causing sparks. Dementia staggered.

  Ken’s entire being rejoiced. Yes!

  Cheyne stepped into Ken’s line of vision. The object she held in her hand gleamed brightly in the lights that shone from nearby buildings.

  A sword.

  But not just any sword.

  “This sword helped subdue the Devil in ancient times,” Cheyne whispered. “And has been stored reverently ever since. Waiting for one worthy-”

  Dementia cursed and swung around, swiping blindly with her heavy blade.

  Cheyne threw the sword towards Ken – its blade flickered through the light and the dark as it tumbled, throwing off shards of brilliance. There was a collective gasp from watching cops. Ken let both staffs fall to the ground and caught the sword by the hilt a split second later. He retreated a bit, now on the causeway proper, on the Bay Bridge itself.

  Dementia leapt towards him, hissing like a serpent caught in a trap. Ken deflected her attack, slipped aside, and struck back.

  The clash of swords echoed across the Bay Bridge and out across the ocean. Miami’s warm night air resounded to the clang of tempered metal. Dementia struck again and again. Ken defended for a time, letting her blows take a toll on her strength, deflecting carefully and precisely so that every blow she threw sapped her muscles that little bit more.

  Another volley of gunfire sounded. Once more Dementia defended it with a dark rush of that mystical armour.

  She had to be tiring!

  Ken heard the chop-chop of helicopter rotors above him. He attacked now, sword swirling in his hands like molten metal, every swift arc leaving a blur in the air that melded with the next and the next and the next. Dementia backed towards the side of the bridge, trapped against the railings and the concrete curvature.

  The fight was his!

  Ken pulled himself out of the zone, stopped and smiled. “This one’s for Myleene, you crazy bitch.”

  He struck, but Dementia was faster. That second, that split second, when he had exited the zone, undid him.

  D
ementia ducked under his thrust and slid her sword into him, into his stomach. The swiftness of it took him by surprise. He paused, and stared into her suddenly grinning face, and then a white heat blossomed from his belly to his brain.

  He staggered. Dementia growled, let out an evil hyena-like laugh and raised her sword. Ken stumbled. Worse than the pain was the very thought of being beaten by an enemy he’d already defeated.

  Then Ryan was at his side, breaking Dementia’s nose with a palm strike, spinning and back-kicking her in the ribs. Ken used the respite to take a deep breath. He didn’t feel too bad, under the circumstances. Maybe he’d gotten lucky and the steel had only penetrated a few inches, missing his vitals.

  Cheyne fell beside him. “It’s still there,” the witch whispered. “The victory, I mean. Use the pain.” She supported him with her shoulders.

  “My side is on fire,” he spat.

  “It’s nothing. A scratch. Use the pain. Use it to focus.”

  Ken slowed his breathing, allowing the pain to rise and then forced it steadily away. He hefted his sword with a grunt and then started to slice it through the air. He watched as Ryan moved in and out of Dementia’s range, striking warily, aiming to do no more than keep her busy. But Ryan was tiring, and the blood on his face and arms attested to the accuracy of Dementia’s aim.

  Ken gathered his wits and focused on the power that Eleanor and Jade had nurtured and moulded and sharpened. The zone snapped into being. He stepped to one side of Ryan just as Dementia’s sword came up and flicked out at the Englishman.

  The blade pierced Ryan’s neck, sliding straight through.

  Ryan folded, his body hitting the asphalt with a sickening smack at the same instant that he died.

  “NO!”

  Ken charged with all the ferocity of the damned, of a man who realizes he must live or die right now, at this very moment. It was his time of reckoning.

  Dementia staggered back. Ken saw his sword slice through her shoulder; he saw it take a chunk from her hip. He ignored the sticky ichor that spurted from both wounds.