by Brian Fuller
“Deal,” he said. “Though I don’t think I can wait that long to liberate you from your clothes.”
She kissed his neck. “I know I can’t wait that long.”
Corinth and Scarlet rounded a bend in the road, walking side by side.
Melody stiffened and whispered in his ear. “And boom! goes the start to the best conversation I’ve ever had in my life.”
Scarlet really was the last person he wanted to see at the moment. Corinth had his hands in his pockets, eyes to the ground, and Scarlet was staring blankly out into the woods. Their conversation clearly wasn’t the best conversation they’d had in their lives.
“Hey, there!” Melody said from the perch on his back, her light tone a little forced. “We’re back!”
Corinth and Scarlet slowed and then stopped as they approached. Scarlet’s face struggled for an emotion.
“Is she hurt?” Corinth said, face concerned. “I thought you could heal.”
“Didn’t want to get my shoes dirty,” Melody quipped. “What are you two up to?”
Corinth and Scarlet looked at each other. Corinth shrugged. “Just out for a walk.”
“Are you okay, Helo?” Scarlet said. “Did Avadan torture you?”
Helo opened his mouth, but Melody seemed determined to bear the load of the conversation. “No, he didn’t torture us. Helo and I were naked in this water tank for a while.” She put a bit of a saucy flavor on the word naked, and Scarlet frowned. “That’s about as bad as it got. It’s a weird story. Walk with us back to the house, and I’ll tell you all about it.”
They fell in on either side of them, and Helo set a leisurely pace. Truth be told, he wasn’t all that anxious to get back to headquarters. Talking with Melody about their honeymoon had actually cleared his mind of Avadan and desecration for a solid minute. He wanted to stay there.
“What I totally want to know,” Corinth said, “is how you both ended up there. Your heart wasn’t snatched.”
“Well,” Melody said, “we’ve been doing this couples meditation thing. We should teach you two. Anyway, we think it has something to do with us being bonded now.”
Corinth’s and Scarlet’s expressions went in opposite directions. “Really?” Corinth said, face brightening. “Congrats, you two!”
“Thanks!” Melody said.
Helo kept his face neutral. Scarlet’s ire felt like a bitter wind. He knew the look on her face all too well. It was like the time he had insisted they have a stay-at-home evening rather than go to her friend Rachel’s party. She had been frosty for a miserable week. Why wouldn’t she just go be happy with Corinth? They really were perfect for each other—if she would commit to it. Then again, Scarlet and loyalty . . . he didn’t want to go back there. He carried a woman he adored on his back, and that was his world. No more falling into Scarlet’s gravity.
Melody narrated the tale all the way back to the farmhouse, then he and Melody got to tell it all over again to the Archai and the team leaders, including Corinth. Then they told it to Sicarius Nox. By the time that was over, Helo was sick of it. Could he and Melody just go off by themselves somewhere?
“It’s viral!” Faramir announced from the couch in the farmhouse. “Check this out.”
They gathered around his tablet. Melody yanked his knit cap off, getting the dongles out of the way of the screen. And there he was, Billy Wickett saving the day getting plastered all over social media and the news. And he played it to the hilt, just a humble kid supporting his mom through cancer, waiting for his big break. They even let him play a song for them during the interview. And it was good. Whatever Avadan was, he was a good actor, and according to Melody, a virtuoso guitar player. His aw-shucks sweetness and country charm oozed off the screen.
“Look out world, here comes Billy Wickett,” Helo said glumly.
“Dude’s got chops,” Andromeda said. “But really, if his evil plan is to sell lots of country music and do big concerts, who cares?”
“I doubt that’s all he’s up to,” Finny said. “He’s crazy. He can’t help but do some evil.”
“Needs to be put down,” Shujaa grumbled. “Country music just makes it more necessary.”
Everyone nodded in agreement. No country-music fans in Sicarius Nox, though Melody seemed to appreciate his gift for music.
Sparks wandered over to the window and looked outside for a few moments, face pensive. “About that. I’ve been thinking. Helo, you and Melody are still affected by the water, right?”
“Yep.”
He turned back toward them. “So here’s an idea: no matter what, Ash Angels and Dreads are always weakened by those elements, water and fire, no matter how special they are. Maybe he still has problems with fire.”
“Maybe,” Helo said. “But it’s hard to say what he is. Is there even a Dread left in whatever abomination he’s become? We know an explosion will kill a Dread most of the time because the heart is fried. Shedim blow apart and re-form. Bullets just seemed to deform him a little.”
“Explosions and fire are both worth a try,” Melody said, “but you’re missing the other part of his genius plan. If he gets famous, he will constantly be surrounded by normals. Constantly. And he’s too powerful to kidnap. There’s no way to drag him off to a volcano Lord of the Rings style.”
Shujaa grunted. “I know you do not like this idea, but mortals may have to die if we are to kill him. It would be worth the sacrifice. If explosions will kill him, then we must light the fuse. If fire, then we make it burn no matter where he is or who he is with. More will die if we don’t.”
“Last resort, Shujaa,” Helo said. “We’ve got a lot of options to try before we start burning things down with normals around.”
Mars walked out of the office and looked them over. “You guys really think Avadan’s going to send a bunch of Dreads here for us to slaughter?”
Sparks snorted. “No.”
Mars nodded toward the window with his beefy head. “Take a look.”
Outside, a line of ten Dreads marched down the road, eyes straight ahead, pace and expressions zombielike. Three Michaels followed them, though the Dreads seemed unaware of them or anything else, just like the Dreads at the Red Angel Theater. But second in line in tattered pants and no shirt was Archus Ramis. Ramis’s hand rested on the shoulder of the Dread in front of him, no doubt to guide him down a road he couldn’t see. They followed Mars outside and gathered around the Dreads, their march halting right in front of the Grand Archus. The eyes of the first Dread cleared. He was the bodybuilder type and had tattoos on his neck and a hoop earring. He was practically busting out of the dusty gray business suit he wore.
“As promised, my master sends you his first gift,” he said with a slightly Russian accent. “More will come.”
Chapter 38
Seed
A pair of Michaels dragged the Dread Ramis inside the house and burned the rest of the Dreads while they stood dumbly by and let it happen, collapsing into little piles of dirt and clothing on the gravel drive. No one could quite believe it. Avadan had left Ramis “switched off,” and the former Archus stood around like a hideous statue until they dragged him away down into the Foundry proper.
The next week, scores and scores Dreads showed up at the house at random times. Sometimes singly, sometimes in groups. Some had suitcases. Others looked like they’d been living in a ditch. Several groups arrived in cars, but most plodded into camp with shoes worn by miles of walking. There simply weren’t enough Stingers for them, so Sicarius Nox provided the Angel Fire to burn their hearts and send them packing for a trip to warmer climes.
For every group that marched in, a crowd of Ash Angels would gather in morbid curiosity to watch them be destroyed. By now, most Ash Angels had become accustomed to Avadan’s insanity, but to Helo, throwing away Dreads made little sense. Layers of psychosis. That was the family of Cain.
In the mornings and evenings, they reviewed Billy Wickett’s rise to fame, already a guest on morning and late-night
shows. Best of all, charming Billy had decided to give a benefit concert for all the children lost in the massacre at Saint Louis, a massacre he had orchestrated.
“Clever trick,” Magdelene had said. “Create problems and find ways to profit from them.”
The benefit concert was in two days, and Sicarius Nox had been given the nod to scope it out. There wasn’t much they could do with Billy surrounded by mobs of people, but they hoped they could avert any tragedy he might orchestrate. Before they left, Mars prodded Helo to try to Exorcise Legion again, something he’d been avoiding.
So, on a sunny summer day much better suited to a long walk with Melody by the river, the two of them went to the southern barn in company of Sicarius Nox to see what they could do. Corinth had brought the white-haired woman he’d captured in Saint Louis, only now she didn’t look so fancy or so cocky. Her blue dress had been replaced by an oversized pair of blue jeans and a man’s button-down red flannel shirt. They held her out of sight in the loft under constant guard. Others had tried their hand at exorcising Legion, but so far, no one had fared any better than Helo.
Her dirty face regarded them with anger and contempt from the wooden chair where she sat. “You again,” she said, eyes on Helo. “You must have an appetite for failure. This woman is mine. She is a worthless human being. Just let me have her.”
Helo reached out to take her arm. She grinned savagely, like she had been anticipating this. He had explained to Melody about team exorcism, and he had gifted her the Bestowal two days ago, her fifth. She intertwined her fingers with his. Virtus flowed from her into him and from him into the woman.
The whispering voices and ponderous weight fell on him immediately, and then Melody was gone. He broke contact.
“Sorry,” she said, eyes wide. She breathed out roughly. “That was unexpected. I . . . I am ready.”
“You sure?” He wasn’t.
She nodded.
Again the Virtus flowed. Again the oppressive voices, the weight, and the malice. Melody was there. As with Lotus and Oakes, he could feel who she was. What she was like. Generous. Determined. Eager. Did she sense him the same way?
“You have returned,” Legion said. “At last you want your name. Let us begin.”
Before he could even think to exert his will, Legion dragged him back to that bedroom on Christmas Eve, walked him down the hall toward the stairs. But unlike before when Lotus and Oakes had disappeared from his mind, Melody was still with him. It was like their hands were still locked together but inside the vision.
The landing where he and his brother had stopped to watch the scene on the living room floor waited just ahead. He knew he needed to get out, had to push into Legion’s mind instead. But the vision drew him deeper inside himself, like an anchor attached to his ankle. White Christmas lights and a garland twined around the wrought-iron banister, something his mother had put up the day before.
His father’s yelling reverberated through the house, a harsh but familiar noise that twisted Helo’s stomach and sent burning bile into his throat. No matter how often his father yelled, Helo never got used to it. His mind had never numbed to the pain of his father’s incessant bad temper. His dad wore a black pair of slacks and an unbuttoned white shirt revealing a white undershirt with a sweat stain around the neck.
Helo and his brother lay on their bellies, staring down. His father’s hand was raised, his knobby high-school ring turned upside down. He’d do that when he thumped them on their heads. It left knots and welts.
His mother wore a green Christmas-tree sweater with a reindeer pin and black pants. She cowered before her husband on her knees, hand up, palm out, to protect herself. Red already bloomed on her cheek. Helo had no idea what offense she had committed. Not that it mattered. When dad was drunk, everything was an offense.
And in the glow of the Christmas-tree lights—and white was the only color his Mom ever used—his father’s hand came down. She turned her face away. The blow was so powerful it knocked aside the arm his mother put up against it and drove right through to the back of her skull. She crumpled to the ground, scattering the presents at the edge of the Christmas tree.
Horror. Shock. Frozen.
But not Brandon. His brother roared as he tore off down the stairs. Their Dad towered over their squirming Mom, and he watched with an amused sneer as Brandon slammed into him, pounding his chest with his fists. Helo knew he should help. Knew his father deserved whatever hell he could give him. But he couldn’t move. His body wouldn’t do it. Fear gripped him. Warm urine soaked his underwear.
His father caught Brandon’s arms and tossed him to the ground next to their unmoving mother. Brandon pushed up to his hands and knees and shot at him again, only to get kicked down hard with a foot to the gut. His brother sucked air. Then his father’s gaze fell on Trace at the top of the stairs, and he snorted derisively. Then he looked back down at Brandon, but instead of disgust, there was pride.
“At least one of you isn’t a coward.”
Eight years old. Trembling. Pee-soaked.
A coward.
“There’s your name!” Legion said, the vision frozen on his father’s last word. “People think you’re brave, but you’ve just been trying to outrun who you are. But you can’t. It’s always here, always the seed from which your character was grown.”
Was it true? Was redemption from cowardice why he’d rushed into danger to save Prescilla as a Cherub? Was that why he’d fought Dreads in a graveyard? Thrown himself at Whirlwind?
Melody bloomed into his mind with enough force to silence Legion. “It’s not the seed that matters,” she said. “It’s the fruit. That is how a tree is known. You’re not eight anymore. You are not Trace. You are Helo. You are Angel Born. You are Unascended. And while Legion may not fear justice or any man, by God, they will fear you!”
Her words cut through the tangle of Legion’s persuasions. He was Helo. He was Angel Born. Legion wanted to give him another name, but he trusted Melody. Her voice held power. It always had, especially to him. If his fear and failure before his abusive father had driven him to become the kind of man who would rush into the very flames of hell to rescue someone, then what did it matter? Cowardice wasn’t the seed. His failure had only painfully harrowed the soil of his soul. He had chosen the seed to plant, and what had grown from it was good.
And then he was out of the memory, Melody’s presence ever nearer, ever stronger, Legion’s weight lessening for two people bearing it together. The voices whispered more frantically now. But where to begin? How to extract a name from an entity of thousands all fighting against him? Having Melody helped, but would they need a chain of thousands of Ash Angels exorcising at once to get the job done? It didn’t seem possible.
There had to be a leader, though. Legion spoke with many voices, but every legion had a commander, and somewhere in all of the whispers rasping around him like sandpaper was the evil spirit who had organized this whole mess. Legion had banded together and united under someone’s voice, taken a single name. He had to find that spirit. That was the place to begin.
“There’s more we can show you, Helo,” a deep male voice said. “So much more that contributes to your name. Every minute you spend with us, we get closer to knowing it.”
Melody drowned him out. “Focus, Helo. Stay with me.”
He clung to her in the darkness but tried to extend his mind outward, filtering through the oppressive noise. The whispers carried emotions, persuasions. The more he immersed himself in them, the more they pricked at him like hungry ticks trying to get under his skin for a little blood. Melody was his anchor, his armor. Like a blindfolded man he scanned the dark, beginning to press the voices with his own demands.
“Who brought you together? Who do you follow?”
The voices scattered from him like he had just pulled a gun during a knife fight. He needed to find one voice, one weak link, to show him the way. Now it felt like he was playing tag, the swarm of whispers darting away from him every tim
e he got close. But with a burst of will he caught one, exerting all his power to trap it.
“Who do you follow?”
He was thrown out into the barn. The woman had yanked herself away. Helo turned, only to watch her throw herself headlong from the loft to the concrete below. The sickening crunch made him wince. Everyone jogged over to the edge of the loft. The woman’s body—free of its evil spirit—was sprawled on the floor below, neck bent at a wild angle.
“Whoa,” Faramir said, turning away. “I take it you made some progress?”
Helo took Melody’s hand again and nodded. “Yeah. We need to capture another Ghostpacker possessed by Legion. I think we’re close.”
Sparks Strength jumped down to the lower floor, next to the body. “I’m sure Legion’s a big fan of Billy Wickett. And that’s where we’re going.”
“Let’s have respect,” Finny said. “That poor soul is somebody’s daughter. Let’s take care of her.”
“We don’t bury the dead,” Shujaa said, jumping down to the floor next to Sparks. “Leave that to others. Let’s get to Saint Louis.”
“Sorry we couldn’t do better than this,” Magdelene said as she handed Finny the keys to the beat-up gray Chevy Tahoe. “The incoming Dreads have given us vehicles to use, but they’re all about as good as this one so far.”
“No worries,” Finny said, patting the hood. “As long as the engine works, I can drive it.”
Helo didn’t care much about how pretty a car was but understood Magdelene’s frustration. The Ash Angels and their seemingly unlimited resources dwindled with every mission. At least the Foundry ensured they possessed an ample supply of weapons, but he had to believe Avadan would come for the Foundry sooner or later. Or, since he was busy trying to become some big-deal pop star, send one of his Shedim to do the job.
The rest of Sicarius Nox grabbed gear out of the Foundry while Magdelene gave them their instructions. A pleasant summer breeze attended them while they got everything ready, and Helo had to admit that a farmhouse by the river had an appeal to it. Melody certainly thought so. She had seemed like more of a suburban, city girl to him but had shown a fondness for the outdoors and solitude while they had been together. Maybe he was rubbing off on her.