by Conlan Brown
Too late.
The falling case came slamming down.
Devin’s world went dark.
Hannah stepped into her apartment on the first floor, moving out of the rain. Light glowed between the drapes, and thunder rumbled outside.
She walked to a lamp, firmly ensconced on the wall, and clicked it on. The room filled with light.
She hugged her arms and tried not to feel cold as she looked around the room. Her things were still here—her books on the coffee table. Textbooks. History. Science. English. None of them had been opened. She was two weeks behind on most of her work, and there was no way to explain it to her professors. Not really. There was no way to explain that she had been given a vision—by God—of teenage girls being lured into…
Hannah shook from head to toe, trying not to think about it.
Life was too complicated for any one person these days—at least hers was. She had her college fund for her education, but the majority of her grandfather’s estate was tied up in the ranch— property she didn’t dare sell until the real estate market recovered. And that meant she had next to nothing to live off of.
The TV came on with a fuzzy snap, and she scanned through the channels. She really should have been studying—she knew that—but didn’t feel like it. Not after the day she’d had.
There must have been three dozen channels, but they were all music videos from bands she’d never heard of, or infomercials. She stopped on a movie. A romantic comedy with some guy standing in the rain, declaring his love in the most adorably awkward way possible. Hannah watched for a moment, letting a hungry feeling fill her as she watched the romance unfold.
Hannah snapped the television off. Devin Bathurst had warned her about what would happen to her life. Isolation. Overwork. She had thought she could avoid it—maybe. But the needs were so great. How could she not respond?
She sat on the arm of the sofa for a moment, then moved to the bathroom. A shower was calling to her—a chance to wash the day away and feel like a real person again.
Devin existed out of space and time for a moment—the world blurry. He blinked. Focused. Let his mind work through where it was.
He let his body feel itself and was once again aware of his physicality.
His body was on the floor. He hurt.
Serious physical trauma? No. But he had been knocked unconscious. A dangerous occurrence that worried him. Devin looked around.
He was on the floor of his office—rain falling just beyond the glass window—the sound chopping loudly through an empty section the shape of California that had broken free from the spider-webbed glass. There was water on the floor. Books everywhere. A lamp with a broken lightbulb nearby.
He was alone in the dim room.
Something pinched the lower half of Devin’s body, and he looked. The bookshelf pinned his legs to the floor.
He strained for a moment, pushed against the heavy case, pulled his body free. Devin stood, touching his head—blood.
Angelo had beaten him hard. What was it that he had wanted anyway? To keep from protecting the senator? To not help Hannah?
Devin felt sudden concern.
—Hannah—
The faucet came on with a twist, and hot, steaming water tumbled down the drain. There was a sound from the next room, and she paused, straining to hear. She turned off the faucet and listened.
The room was silent for a moment—then her phone rang.
She stepped into the room—and stopped.
Angelo stood in the middle of the room. “I need to talk to you,” he said with a strange intensity.
The phone, tossed on the sofa, rang again. Hannah turned her eyes to the phone. “I should answer that,” she said timidly.
Angelo nodded.
Hannah reached out, just past Angelo, and picked up the phone. “Hello?”
“Miss Rice.”
The voice was unmistakable—Devin Bathurst. “Yes?”
“I was just attacked by the man named Angelo. He came to the office demanding that I not pursue my calling.”
Hannah eyed Angelo, his face eerily stoic. “What happened?”
“He subdued me.” There was a momentary pause. “He beat me unconscious.”
Hannah’s heart raced. Devin was the most physically powerful and skilled man she had ever known. If Angelo had subdued him…
“You need to be careful. I think he may come for you too.”
Angelo continued to watch her.
“I’m sorry,” Hannah said, watching Angelo watch her, eyes never breaking, “now isn’t a good time to talk. Someone is here.”
There was a crackle of static across the phone line.
“Angelo? Is Angelo there?”
Hannah blinked. “Yes.”
“Hang on, Hannah. I’m already on my way.”
The car smashed through the curtain of splashing water, wiper blades swinging madly.
Devin steered the car with one hand, dialing his cell phone with the other. It rang a moment, then connected.
“Hello?”
“John Temple, this is Bathurst.”
“Devin, I—”
“What do you know about Angelo?”
“Nothing, really. He helped Hannah after—”
“He came to my office,” Devin reported quickly. “Demanded that I not pursue the Warren Foster issue. There was an altercation, and I was subdued temporarily.”
“Angelo?”
“Yes,” Devin continued, spouting rapid-fire facts. “He was violent and nearly incoherent at moments, followed by bouts of undeniable lucidity.”
“He attacked you?” John asked.
“Yes.”
“Where is he now?”
“He’s with Hannah in her apartment,” Devin announced, shifting sharply as he cornered at a rainy intersection. “I need you to get to there ASAP! I’m on my way now, but I’m going to need help.”
“Devin, I—”
“He’s dangerous, John. Very dangerous. We have to stop him now.”
Devin closed his phone.
Hannah stood in front of Angelo, waiting for him to talk.
“How did you get in here?” she asked, surprised that her curiosity was so much more overpowering than her fear.
“I’m quiet,” Angelo said emotionlessly, and left it at that.
“What did you need to talk about?” Hannah asked.
He blinked, then took a step forward. “I understand that you and Devin Bathurst plan to prevent the assassination of Senator Warren Foster.”
Hannah considered her options. The only thing she could think of was to keep him talking. “We had discussed it,” she stalled, “but there is something I need to do also.”
“Don’t do it,” he insisted, tone almost violent.
“But they aren’t the same—”
“He’ll listen to you,” he said, face intense, taking another step. “And he’s walking into a trap, Hannah Rice, a trap set by the Thresher. It’s a trap that you cannot allow Devin Bathurst and the Firstborn to fall into.”
Hannah nodded slowly. It was like petting a rabid dog. Scruffy, greasy, and scary. With sympathetic eyes and bared teeth. In need of tenderness, but only a moment away from biting you. “We should talk,” she said with a nurturing tone. She sat on the couch slowly. “I’m afraid that I don’t understand, and I need you to explain it to me. Can you tell me more about the Thresher?”
Angelo remained standing, dark stringy hair hanging across the sides of his face like drawing curtains—features in shadow. “For every good that exists,” he began, voice low, “there will arise an evil to crush it, to corrupt it, and to turn it into its own form of evil. In the case of the Firstborn, there is the Thresher.”
Hannah nodded, letting him know that she heard him. “And the Thresher is a demon?”
“A simple term,” he replied without hesitation. “A rancid, festering uncleanliness that will separate the Firstborn one from another—and from the source of their sight.”
“God?” she asked. “The Thresher will separate the Firstborn from God?”
“Simple terms, still.” His head bowed. “The Thresher will destroy the Firstborn—and they will no longer be a restrainer.”
Hannah shook her head in confusion. “I still don’t understand,” she said softly, patting a place on the couch next to her. “You need to help me understand. What do the Firstborn restrain?”
Something changed. Angelo no longer seemed present—his hands began to wring, then run through his hair. “There aren’t words to say what I’ve seen—the things I’ve seen. There aren’t...” He stopped and made a strange, pained noise. “Do you know what evil looks like and feels like? What it does to the world?”
“Angelo, I need you to go back—start from the beginning.”
“It smells like rotting flesh and sounds like screaming children—and it’s rising.” He got on his knees in front of her, eyes frantic. “Don’t let it in. You can’t let it in.”
“OK,” she said with a nod, looking into his pained expression.
“Don’t save them. Any of them. It’s a trap. The jaws are open, and they’re waiting for you.”
Hannah searched his face—his genuine fear reaching out at her. He grabbed her hands.
“Do you see?”
Hannah felt his touch, his hands leathery and rough. And then she felt it.
Angelo in the rain—lying on church steps. Looking up at the sky—lightning flashing across his soaked body.
He shook his head. “I remember the steps. I remember the rain.”
“Angelo,” she asked, “who are you?”
He bowed his head. “I don’t know. All I see are visions. I don’t exist anymore.”
Hannah watched him, her heart breaking. She put a hand on his head, running her hand across it tenderly, wondering how long it would be before Devin arrived to—
His head snapped up, eyes looking deep into her own— suddenly lucid. “You’re trying to trap me.”
“No, Angelo,” she said, sympathetically. “I—”
He stood fast, looming over her. “You’re trying to keep me here so that Devin Bathurst can arrive.”
“Angelo, listen to—”
“No!” He shoved away from her. “You haven’t heard a thing I’ve said. I tried to warn you, but you still plan to do it. You are going to destroy it all!”
Hannah began to rise. “Angelo, you have to listen to what I’m—”
He planted a palm on her shoulder, shoving her back. “No.” He snarled, once again feral and wild. “You tried to trick me. You lied to me. You tried to trap me!”
She tried to struggle, but he shoved her back onto the sofa. “No!” he screamed, face inhuman with anger and ferocity. “I tried to warn you, but you’re going to do it anyway. You’re going to destroy us all!”
“Angelo!” she pleaded, shoving a hand in his face, trying to break free.
“You didn’t listen. You didn’t listen, and now—”
The door to the apartment came crashing open. They looked in unison—Devin, holding a pistol, stance wide, gun lifted, rain tumbling down in the background.
“Let her go,” Devin demanded unflinchingly.
Angelo stopped where he was, face turning slowly back to Hannah. He looked her over for a moment. She studied his face, then looked back at Devin.
Angelo’s move was sudden and unexpected. He ripped her violently to her feet, spinning her fast, using her as a human shield between himself and Devin. “Leave,” Angelo insisted, as if it were a perfectly reasonable request. “Turn around and leave—now.”
Devin straightened his arm—eye, gun barrel, and trigger finger in a perfectly stacked group, the weapon outstretched. “I will kill you if I have to,” Devin replied with equal calm and normalcy.
Hannah felt her instincts start to take over—the urge to panic. To let her nerves and her fears overtake her—to stifle her. To forget the importance. Her body shuddered, threatening to let out a scream or an outburst of tears.
She breathed.
Remember, she thought, trying to remind herself of everything she had learned—that others were counting on her.
Devin—harsh-eyed and determined—stood in the threshold, unmoving.
Rain pummeled the ground just past the door.
She felt Angelo’s body relax, hands still holding firm. He addressed Devin. “Do you believe that I can kill her with my hands?” he asked.
Devin remained stationary for a moment—then lowered the pistol. “I understand what you are capable of,” Devin said with little more than a blink.
Hannah caught Angelo’s nod from the corner of her eye. “Good,” Angelo said. “Put the gun on the table.”
Devin stepped forward.
“Slowly,” Angelo added.
Devin set the gun on the table and backed away, hands held high.
Despite herself, Hannah began to panic.
Angelo watched as Devin put down the firearm—and the world began to slow like it sometimes did. There was no past or present or future. The world seemed strangely silent. Strangely distant. Ethereal. As if it were all happening to someone else.
There was that look in his eyes—the man with black skin. What was his name again? The one who had had the gun. He had that look he had before—the look people gave him before they told him he was being irrational.
They were the irrational ones—the way they would watch him and talk with him like a reasonable human being, and then suddenly get confused and scared.
It was as if they had all slowed down—stopped thinking or speaking or living. The world was so far away, and no matter what he said or thought or tried, they would never respond.
Hair brushed aside.
Whose hair?
The girl in his arms. How had she gotten…?
Oh, yes. Her. She was important. So very important.
Devin—was that his name?—seemed to disappear as a physical form until he was just eyes. Dark, intense eyes that stared.
Angelo had to leave. Had to go.
He was at the doorway. How had he gotten there?
In the rain—cold and wet. Looking out at a car pulling up.
A man stepped from the vehicle. The man who had the power to prevent evil. Blondish hair—a raggedy and impetuous man.
The Overseer.
A man named John Temple.
Would this man listen to reason? Would this be the man who would stop the girl and the black man—to tell them to let go of their endeavors—to hold back the evil?
He looked John Temple in the eyes. Even at this distance he could see it. The resolve—to save the lives of a few at the cost of so much more.
Angelo didn’t know what happened next. The girl was no longer in his arms. He was running.
John lifted his hand, holding some kind of device. It discharged like a pistol, curling wires zipping through the air and hitting his skin. Then he heard a clacking sound, and suddenly jolts of electricity coursed through him, jerking his body.
A Taser of some kind. They had him.
The dream overtook him. The abstract world consumed him. And he slipped from consciousness.
Chapter 8
WHY DID YOU attack my people?” John Temple demanded, trying to channel as much of Devin Bathurst as he could find inside himself.
Angelo sat quietly in his chair in the darkened office, hands zip-tied. “They’re walking into a trap.”
“And what if you’re wrong?” John replied curtly.
“I’m not wrong. You must believe me when I say—”
“I don’t believe you,” John retorted quickly. “You attacked Devin Bathurst, terrorized Hannah Rice, and you’re going to account for your actions.”
Angelo looked away for a moment, then lifted his head. “You don’t seem to understand. I’m here to help the Firstborn. I am at your service,” he said somberly, dipping his head, “Overseer.”
John crossed his arms—startled by the devotion but
trying to stay focused. “If you’re at my service, then why don’t you help us stop the assassination?”
“That,” Angelo said, shaking his head, “is the one thing I cannot do.”
“Fine.” John nodded, turning toward the door.
“Anything else,” Angelo added, “anything at all. I am at the Overseer’s disposal.”
John held at the door for a moment, hand resting on handle. Something compelled him to just keep going—to leave the room.
Angelo must have sensed the hesitation. “I know all about Trista Brightling.”
John took a long breath, trying to feel Angelo in the moment, but all that seemed to radiate off of him was a kind of garbled noise. Like television static in the mind.
John considered staying, wanting to stay. Wanting to hear what Angelo had to say, but something deep inside told him to escape.
“I know everything,” Angelo continued. “I—”
John opened the door and stepped into the hall and didn’t hear any more.
Vincent Sobel walked through the office toward the back room as John Temple was stepping out of the door. The night watchman was standing guard.
“What’s going on?” Vince asked brusquely. “Why did you call me in?”
John inclined his head toward the door as he explained. “There’s a man in there, Angelo, says he’s a Firstborn, but he sees past, present, and future. He helped save Hannah from the house fire. But tonight he attacked Devin and threatened Hannah, trying to keep them from fulfilling an assignment. The confrontation turned violent, and I was called in by Devin. Angelo was subdued with a Taser gun.”
Vince grimaced. “This guy beat the snot out of Devin Bathurst. Devin—tough as nails—Bathurst, and you brought him here? To the home office? That wasn’t wise, John.”
“I know,” John said, shaking his head in disgust. “I’m just a little distracted, that’s all.”
“Distracted?” Vince said, taking a seat next to John. “Distracted by what?”
John was quiet for a moment, staring out the window—like he always did when someone brought up something serious. He was quiet for a moment before he closed his eyes and hung his head. “Trista is getting engaged to someone else.”