But it wasn’t enough to keep the flow of divine energy at bay. He held the power back for as long as he was able, spinning around to direct the force at the ogling Filthies on the ledge above. He screamed as the fire flowed out from his outstretched hand and watched in horror as the power pounced upon those angels unlucky enough to be in its path. They screamed as the holy flames fed.
“Remy, what the fuck is going on?” Leila asked him as he gathered his resolve, attempting with all his might to pull back upon the angry force within him.
“No time,” he said breathlessly, fighting the power that wanted desperately to be free again, to hurt and murder.
To burn.
Baarabus came at him angrily, his dark fur bristling like the spines of a porcupine.
“You better have a good excuse for trying to kill me,” he said in a roar.
“Can’t talk about that now,” Remy said, managing to dampen the ferocity of the power. “Think we’ve got other concerns.”
They turned their attention to the opening of the pit to see Michael’s enraged features as he glared down upon them. This wasn’t what Michael had expected at all, certain that the Hellions would have done exactly what he’d wished for.
“We’ve proven our worth,” Remy called up. He was feeling weak as he fought to hold the power of the Seraphim at bay. He knew if he was to release it again, nobody around them would be left alive.
“Let us out of the pit.”
Michael actually appeared surprised by the suggestion.
“That was only the first trial, I’m afraid,” the archangel said. “You’ve many more to go before you are deemed worthy to live in His new and perfect Paradise.”
The remaining Filthies were all staring at their master, eager for him to tell them what they should be doing.
“Go down there and kill them,” he commanded.
And the Filthies cried out with a perverse joy, tensing to do as their master commanded, when there came a most terrible sound.
It was the earsplitting blare of a horn.
And even from within the pit, Remy could see the terror that filled their eyes.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The Archangel Michael sat before a roaring fire in the great stone fireplace and crossed his legs. He glanced at his hand resting on his thigh, at the long, delicate fingers, and saw that the tremble persisted.
“Satquiel,” he called out, clenching the hand into a fist as he gazed into the fire. “Has there been any word?”
He sensed his second in command beside the leather chair in which he sat.
“No, Commander,” the angel said. “We’ve received nothing.”
Michael felt a small sense of relief with the news. He focused on the orange-and-yellow flames, seeing the Golden City within the fire, imagining that would be its fate if the ritual of Unification were to take place.
When the Almighty had told him of His plans, Michael had been rattled to his very core, and he feared the Lord God Almighty would sense his displeasure and punish him for his lack of faith.
But how could he have faith after the experiences of the Great War?
He shifted uneasily in his chair.
“Are you all right, my lord?” Satquiel asked nervously, still beside the archangel’s chair.
Michael pulled his eyes from the fire to look at Satquiel. “I’m fine,” he said, the lie feeling like poison upon his lips. “Leave me to my thoughts; disturb me only if something of great import arises.”
“Very good, sir,” Satquiel said, then departed with a bow, leaving Michael alone in the stone chamber of the monastery.
An angel of Heaven was impervious to the elements, but Michael—since receiving God’s message—had felt nothing but cold. An icy ball had formed in the center of his chest, radiating a chilling sensation of supreme dread. He did not wish his subordinates to see him this way, but Michael knew that they suspected something was not right between him and Heaven’s edict.
The burning logs collapsed upon themselves with a whiplike crack, sending sparks to sputter out in front of the stone hearth.
So here he sat, waiting for the final word from the Kingdom of Heaven that would signal Unification.
And the return of the Son of the Morning to his former status.
Just the thought of Lucifer welcomed back into the folds of Heaven and God’s embrace . . .
Michael trembled, feeling his entire body vibrate. He wondered if that was somehow the work of the Almighty, his Heavenly Father attempting to show him the consequences of his doubt. But then, he doubted the Lord God would be so subtle, recalling the conspicuousness of the Great Flood, and Sodom and Gomorrah. No, these feelings were Michael’s own.
And he feared they would be his downfall.
As the archangel stared into the dwindling flames, he suddenly sensed that he was no longer alone but in the presence of awesome power.
“Hello?” he called out as he slowly turned in his chair.
Another angel stood stiff and expressionless in the center of the great stone chamber.
“Greetings, Retriever,” Michael said, rising from his seat to face the imposing being.
The Retrievers were created by the Almighty to find and return to Him anything He believed lost. This one wore streamlined armor of shiny black; even the great wings furled upon its back were covered with the glistening reflective coating. The face that peered out from the confines of a helmet wore the bluish white of glacial snow, its eyes equally as cold and unfeeling.
“To what do I owe this visitation?” Michael asked, moving gracefully toward the angel.
The Retriever stared intently at him, giving Michael the uncomfortable feeling that it was able to look right into him, seeing things the archangel would rather remained hidden.
“A time of greatness is almost upon us,” the Retriever finally announced, its voice like the blast of a ship’s horn.
Michael cringed inwardly, trying not to show the Retriever his displeasure. “It is.” He nearly choked on the words.
“The worlds must be made ready for the ritual,” the Retriever added.
“Of course they must,” Michael reluctantly agreed.
“You will oversee the preparations of one such world.” The Retriever pointed a long, sharpened finger at the archangel.
“Me?” Michael responded with surprise. “Surely there are others better suited. . . .”
“You will oversee its preparedness,” the angel repeated more forcefully, its voice so loud and booming that the ancient mortar holding in place the stones of the wall began to crumble and rain to the floor.
Michael bowed his head, accepting his burden. “Of course.”
He lifted his gaze to see that the Retriever was reaching to its side, the black armor near its hand shimmering as if suddenly liquid. The angel reached into a pocket in the aqueous metal and pulled out an object, holding it out to Michael.
“This is your first duty.”
Michael studied the object in the angel’s gauntleted hand before reaching to accept it. It was a blackened piece of branch, a twig really. The archangel could not discern the meaning of the simple object until his flesh came in contact with it, and then he knew what it was.
And where it was from.
It was a branch from the Tree of Knowledge. Images exploded in his mind. He saw the Garden of Eden as it was conceived, blossoming into a part of Heaven that would bring about what the Lord God perceived to be His greatest achievement but, in all actuality, was His biggest disappointment.
Michael rubbed his thumb along the bumpy shaft of the stick, bearing witness to the birth of humanity and its downfall, the first step in Eden’s being sundered from the Kingdom of Heaven. Then he saw the Garden as it was now, detached from Heaven, drifting from one reality to the next.
Homeless.
“Eden,” Michael said aloud, his gaze focusing on Heaven’s emissary.
“You will go to it,” the Retriever ordered. “And you will secure it in
preparation for what awaits it.”
The archangel wanted to say no in the worst way, to refuse to take part in what would most assuredly be an epic catastrophe.
“I will do what is asked of me,” he said instead.
The Retriever stood there, watching him with eyes that told him nothing but at the same time seemed to bore into Michael’s very being.
“Will you?”
Michael was taken aback. Did this Retriever somehow suspect that he did not agree with their Master? Had God cautioned him on the archangel’s faithfulness?
“I will,” Michael answered, his gaze unwavering.
The black-clad messenger continued to stare, and Michael felt the first strands of his resolve begin to unravel, just as a faceplate of liquid fell over the Retriever’s face, hiding his pale features from further view.
“See that you do,” the Retriever warned as he spread wide his impressive wings. Then, without so much as a flutter, he was gone, as if he had never been there.
But he had been, and what he had left behind filled the archangel with a growing sense of unease.
Unification was going to happen.
And he was going to have to be part of it.
His anger suddenly exploded from him, and Michael threw the branch from the Tree of Knowledge at the grand fireplace and into the flames. The fire roared like an angry animal, tongues of flame erupting from the hearth to set his chair aflame and try to claim him as well.
The door to the room flew open and Satquiel rushed in. “Is everything all right, Michael?”
The archangel did not take his eyes from the fireplace. “We have received our orders,” he said without feeling.
The branch was resting, untouched, in the center of the fireplace. It had started to bloom: small olive-colored buds on its once black and withered surface.
Satquiel stepped in front of Michael and retrieved the branch. “Eden,” he whispered as he came in contact.
“Yes,” Michael agreed, keeping his disdain in check. “We must prepare for its homecoming.”
And what could be God’s biggest folly.
• • •
Clouds of exhaust that stank of sulfur and death billowed from Leona’s dual exhaust pipes as her engine revved with excitement.
“All right, let’s try this again,” Francis said. He held the collar of the Harvester’s leather tunic, forcing the demon toward Leona’s grill, where strands of leathery shell still hung. “You’re going to give me the location of the Bone Master home world, or I’m going to feed you to my car.”
He could sense the Harvester’s fear as the car growled, its back wheels spinning wildly, kicking up clouds of dust.
“I am ready to meet my fate,” the Harvester said with great resolve, his back stiffening.
“Do you think I’m joking?” Francis asked, pushing the man closer to a horrible death.
Leona’s front grill bent and writhed, showing off the inside of a cavernous mouth lined with teeth like multiple saw blades.
“It won’t be pleasant, I can assure you,” Francis said.
The Harvester remained defiant, and Francis decided to show him that he meant business. Tightening his grip on the back of the demon’s collar, Francis thrust him forward, pushing his head into the open maw of the car just long enough to help the demon understand how horrible his death would be.
The Harvester screamed as Francis yanked him back and shoved him to the ground.
Leona leapt forward, ready to help herself, but Francis intervened.
“Not yet, girl.”
The car obeyed, but Francis could tell she wasn’t the least bit happy. Her engine was idling loudly, and she bounced on her shocks in anger.
“But if our friend here doesn’t talk soon . . .”
“I’m not going to talk,” the Harvester said defiantly. “For generations my family has served the Bone Masters, and I am not about to abandon their trust. Feed me to the vehicle, and I hope it chokes on my bones!”
Leona surged forward, her open mouth less than an inch from the demon’s terrified face.
Francis put his hand between Leona’s grill and the Harvester’s face. “Back it up, would you, girl?” he asked.
She revved angrily, refusing to move.
“Please,” he encouraged her nicely.
Abruptly, she did just that, her back wheels screeching on the hard surface of the pocket world as she reversed.
“That’s a good girl,” he soothed before turning his attention back to the Harvester. He was running out of time and was considering killing the demon and using his scalpel to extract the information, but something told him he’d be best served by leaving the demon alive. But another idea niggled at the back of his mind.
He squatted down before the Harvester. “Your family has served the Bone Masters for generations, is that right?” he asked.
The Harvester remained silent, refusing to even look at Francis.
“So for hundreds of years, your entire family has collected these eggs,” Francis continued anyway. He gestured to the cave behind him. “Collecting these eggs in your little baskets and bringing them back to the home world.”
Francis fell silent for a few moments, and the only sound to be heard upon the world was Leona’s engine purring in anticipation. Finally, the Harvester looked at him.
“I’ve had an interesting thought,” Francis told him, smiling and raising his eyebrows. “This is the only world where these special critters exist, am I right?”
The Harvester did not answer, but the look in his dark, beady eyes said volumes.
“All over this tiny, special world are eggs designated for young Bone Master assassins to be. Now, here’s a scary thought.” Francis looked out over the landscape. “What would happen if there weren’t any eggs?”
He locked eyes with the demon.
“What if somebody had, say, planted explosives inside all the caves—explosives that could be detonated with just the push of a button.”
The Harvester’s eyes were so large now that they looked as though they might pop from their sockets. Francis reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver object, allowing his thumb to dance along the top of it.
“What about that? I’m sure the Bone Masters would be pretty annoyed if something like that were to happen, never mind the spirits of your forefathers.”
“Please . . . ,” the demon begged. “Do no harm to the eggs . . . please.”
Francis slipped the object back into his coat pocket and studied the demon. The Harvester seemed to grow smaller, his defiant posture deflating.
“Then take me to your home world.” Francis waited, knowing that his ruse had worked.
The Harvester looked up at him then, defeat in his horrible demon eyes. “I will take you.”
Francis rose to his feet, his knees cracking noisily as he did.
“Outstanding,” he said with a smile. “I knew you’d see it my way.”
• • •
Above the pit, the Filthies were screaming.
Remy looked up, trying to see what was happening, but could only make out furious movements of panic and a sound that he recognized as the release of magickal energies.
“What the fuck is going on up there?” Baarabus growled.
Remy didn’t have a clue but was desperate to find out. He ran to the wall of the pit, searching for handholds. He decided he would try to climb out.
Looking around at the litter-strewn floor of the pit, he found another, thicker piece of bone, likely a thighbone, and snapped off its end. He then went to the wall and started to dig handholds to begin his ascent.
Leila and Anthony waited below for him to get a good start before they began to follow.
“Hope you’re not expecting me to get out the same way,” the demon dog called up to him.
“We’ll get you out as soon as we reach topside,” Remy said, digging the jagged end of bone into the crumbling grout and broken tile, gouging out a place for his fingers.
The screams above were louder, more frantic, and Remy experienced an odd sensation inside him. Even though he’d gotten the fiery power under control, it was as if something on the outside was calling it out, tempting it to the surface once more.
There was a scream above his head, and Remy instinctively pressed himself against the wall as a winged body fell past him to the floor of the pit. He followed its fall, noticing that its body appeared to be cocooned in a shroud of crackling black energy.
The Filthy writhed and croaked, enwrapped in the strange darkness, finally lying still.
“You sure you want to go up there?” Baarabus called out as he sniffed at the angel’s corpse.
“I’ll let you know as soon as I get there.” Remy quickened his pace.
He’d noticed that it had grown more quiet, only the occasional sound of magickal release to break up the silence. Remy had no idea what he was in for, or what he would find when he got to the top, but that just seemed to be par for the course in this strange world he found himself trapped in.
Getting closer to the lip of the pit, he carefully reached up, feeling around for a proper handhold. He felt a boney hand wrap around his wrist and begin to assist him in climbing up over the edge.
“I’ve got you,” the Fossil said, free from his bonds.
Remy was glad to see that the old-timer was all right, and he climbed up over the side, then turned back to help Leila and Anthony.
“We still have to get Baarabus out of there,” Remy said, turning to face the Fossil, whose exposed flesh had accumulated even more dark scabs in the short time since Remy had seen him last.
“No problem,” he answered, signaling to several other of Samson’s children, who immediately grabbed some rope and tossed it into the pit to help the demon dog up.
It was then that Remy noticed them in the background, standing perfectly still, waiting to be acknowledged. There were ten in all, cloaked in fabric that seemed to be cut from the darkness of the night sky, patterns of star constellations twinkling on their hooded capes and robes.
He knew these beings, these angelic warriors that had refused to pick a side during the Great War between God and Lucifer. They were known as the Cowards by the soldiers of Heaven, but all others called them Nomads.
A Deafening Silence In Heaven Page 21