As my new buddy drunkenly maneuvered down the street while screaming his mutton chops off, I shook my head and grumbled, “Sorry folks — but Elvis has left the building.”
Although not exactly to plan, I figured my good samaritan quota was met for the evening and it was high time to cut my losses and get on with it. More than ready to get inside, I made a determined beeline toward the rather nondescript, metal door sandwiched tightly between two sizable Victorian brownstones across the street.
Given the ornate nature and close proximity of the surrounding structures, any logical human being couldn’t help but think the dilapidated doorway led to nothing more than a narrow stairwell. And compliments of a nifty veiling spell, that’s exactly what they’d find if they happened to open it. Now, to those of us on the more arcane side of existence — it was a different story.
Reaching my destination, I focused my will on the faint collection of Enochian glyphs carefully etched into the dented panels and happily watched as they began to systematically emit a spectral bluish glow. Upon completion of the pattern, a bold symbol manifested in the door’s humble center. Encased in a triangle and bound within a perfect circle, it was a peculiar ‘X’ with a prominent ‘P’ struck through the middle.
A symbol that I knew all too well. The Chi Rho. The representation of Balance between the light of mankind and the darkness of untold, unnatural evil lurking in the shadows.
Carefully placing my left hand on it, the door swung open and my face curled into a wide grin as the impossibly large, candle lit room on the other side came into focus.
And by impossibly large, I meant like football field kind of big.
Maybe two football fields.
To be fair, it was honestly hard to gauge because the ginormous oak tree growing out of the floor obscured the view a bit.
Doesn’t make any sense — I know.
Just as I was about to step inside, the distinct sound of someone clearing their throat caused me to stop dead in my tracks. Quickly scanning the surrounding area, an exceptionally frail elderly dude bundled in a burly black wool coat and tweed touring cap emerged from the deep shadows of the bordering brownstone.
“Binkowicz,” I grumbled.
Sucking on an old-ass pipe clenched tightly in his teeth, he disdainfully muttered, “Hello, schmendrick.”
“How’s my least favorite prophet of the Lord doing this evening?”
“I was doing just dandy,” he snidely replied, blowing an impressive smoke ring at me, “Right up until you showed up.”
“Tell me something, Fred.”
“What’s that?”
“Why the hell do you sit out here?”
“Because, schmendrick, I’m supposed to. Been sitting here — right here — for longer than I can remember. Every day. It’s my job.”
“Your frigg’n job, eh?”
“Are you deaf or just stupid?”
When I offered him nothing in response beside a spirited finger gesture, he said, “We all have a job to do. Maybe you should try doing yours once in a while.”
“Thanks for that,” I muttered. “Any chance of you calling me by my actual name anytime soon?”
“Not unless you plan on changing your name to schmendrick.”
“And what exactly is a schmendrick?”
“A schmendrick, schmendrick, is a moron — a putz — an incredible dumbass. Basically it’s you. Anymore questions?”
“Yeah, one more — Is there any particular reason why you’re a cantankerous son of a bitch or should we just chalk it up to having a bad century?”
When he offered nothing in response besides an icy glare before resuming his usual perch on the foldout chair, I said, “Okay, good talk. Always a pleasure. Yours, not mine. Just so we’re clear.”
Leaving Fred Binkowicz to go on about his business of being a crotchety bastard, I crossed the threshold of the battered doorway and the expected warm sensation of primal energy washed over me as I pierced the veil and stepped foot into the Quartermaster — my new home and otherworldly out-post for the Seventh Realm of the Guild of Deacons.
And although the QM was primarily the command center for our earthly exploits, it also housed the best damn bar in Boston.
Now granted, it wasn’t actually in Boston per se. It sort of existed in a nether region between Earth and Third Heaven in perfect dimensional alignment with one of the seven heavenly gates. But, you get the point.
While the general motif was something between ‘medieval castle meets an Irish pub decorated by inebriated hobbits,’ the Quartermaster was powered by ophanim class angel technology and had more kick than Starfleet Command on crack.
All that aside, I was just damn happy to be back. It had been a long couple days.
“Giant men or, more likely, a giant hoax?” The swarmy, designer suit wearing newscaster spouted from one of the hundreds of throneView screens lining the wall above the dark wooden bar for as long as the eye could see. “Good evening and welcome to the Cold Hard Truth. I’m Rex Buckley and as usual, the Buck — stops here. Okay folks, it’s official — In the past twenty-four hours, unsubstantiated reports of ‘giant, man-like creatures’ have originated from all of the fifty states. While there’s no shortage of alleged evidence — with more and more eye witnesses providing fuzzy pictures and conveniently out of focus video by the literal minute — Can we seriously put any real stock into this phenomenon? Or — Is this merely a malignant photoshop campaign gone viral? I mean, come on, people … there’s no — such—thing as giants. Am I right? Of course I’m right. Trust me on this one …”
“Change the frigg’n channel,” I muttered, as I maneuvered through the buzzing crowd of clerics and acolytes taking a well needed respite. “I can’t stand that frigg’n guy.”
Pulling up a stool next to a familiar face at the bar, I said, “How the hell are ya, Coop?”
“Howdy, howdy,” said Cooper Rayfield with a thick southern drawl and cheek full of tobacco. Slugging back the remnants of a man-sized beer, he waved his hand at the screen and it instantly faded to black. “You look like death on a cracker, hoss.”
“Thanks for that,” I muttered. “Wish I could say you looked any better. When’d you get here?”
“About three beers ago,” he replied, looking exceptionally weary as he slid the empty pint glass across the bar and ran a couple fingers through his scraggly red goatee. “Maybe four.”
“So not long, eh?”
“Have I become that predictable?”
“It’s actually one of your better qualities,” I said, looking around for the rest of my arcane strike team. “You the first one back?”
“Reckon so,” he replied. “Haven’t seen Big A yet. Caveman and Duncan are finishing their sweep in California. Stoner’s in Utah. Rooster’s still running around Washington, D.C. Crockett’s combing through the upper Midwest. And I think Tango’s in Vegas.”
“They should be back soon. Debrief’s in thirty minutes,” I muttered. “In the meantime, think I’ll join you for a frosty beverage. Or several.”
“The new barkeep should be along anytime now. I think she ducked into the kitchen.”
“She?” I asked, rather surprised. “Rooster’s got a chick watching the bar?”
“Durn skippy,” he said, perking up a bit and adjusting his signature maroon hoodie complete with sleeves haphazardly cut off at the shoulders. “And she’s easy on the eyes, hoss. Think I might be in love.”
“That a fact?” I chuckled. “What’s her name?”
“Don’t know her name. But I’m pretty sure she wants her some country boy.”
“Of course she does, Coop,” I said, slapping him on the shoulder. “She probably thinks you’re Bo and Luke’s lesser known, follicly challenged, step-cousin. No woman in their right mind could say no to that.”
“Damn, hoss. If I had feelings — they’d be hurt.”
“Fair enough. So I take it you didn’t have any luck in your travels, eh?”
&nb
sp; “Nossir,” he grumbled as he hacked a healthy wad of tobacco juice into his plastic spittoon. “Spent the past day and a half chasing every dagum lead originating south of the Mason-Dixon and nothing to show for it. I can’t figure what the biggins are up to, but they’re covering their tracks better than a Georgia swamp fox running from a pack of castrated hounds. How about you, any luck up north?”
“Negative,” I replied, trying to erase the mental picture of Coop and a pack of castrated hounds. “Followed up on every sighting reported between Maine and Montana. No trace of the bastards. No indication of what they were doing either. They’ve got us on a wild frigg’n goose chase.”
“Looks like somebody knocked your beer over again, Cooper,” said an unexpected female voice from behind the bar. “Either that or you inhaled another one in the fifteen minutes you’ve been sitting there. I take it you’re in for another round?”
“Little darling, the only thing I’d like more is if you’d join me for it,” Coop replied with his very best redneck charm.
Looking up to find a striking vision of brown eyes, olive skin, and a smile that would make you forget your name, I blurted out, “Doc?”
“Hi, Dean,” Erin Kelly replied with a rather content grin. “Surprised to see me?”
Surprised?
No.
I was not surprised.
I was down right, double dumbfounded, might’ve just pee’d a little — frigg’n shocked.
Chapter 3
So, Erin and I kind of had a thing, but it was — complicated.
In fact, up until a few short days ago she thought I died fourteen years earlier — which in all actuality, I did.
But then I came back.
And she found me.
And for obvious reasons — I kind of didn’t exactly tell her the truth surrounding my current unnatural state of existence.
So, in retrospect, complicated may be a gross understatement.
But you get the point.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Unfortunately were the first words out of my mouth as I gazed like a dope at her drop dead sexiness.
“What I do best — slinging beer. Rooster asked me to fill in while he was out hunting giants — or anakim — that’s what you guys call them right?”
“How do you know that?” I replied, completely caught off guard by her response. “And how do you know Rooster—”
Rather smugly, she said, “Let’s just say that I’ve learned quite a few things since our chat the other night.”
“Wait a frigg’n minute,” I grumbled, turning to Coop. “Is this the new ‘wants her some country boy’ barkeep you were just rambling on about?”
“Ah, maybe,” he sheepishly replied. “Y’all know each other?”
“Yes — We do, Cooper. This is Erin Kelly.”
“Erin Kelly?” He asked, starting to put the pieces together. “The doctor from the thing in Bosnia a while back — Erin Kelly?”
“Yep.”
“Oh, your Erin Kelly.”
“Yep.”
“Well that’s dagum awkward,” he grumbled. “My bad?”
“Why don’t I get you boys a drink,” Doc said, holding back a smirk as she casually retreated to the row of kegs at the far end of the bar.
Still glaring at the redneck romeo, I felt a skulking presence to my immediate right, and turned to find a familiar cleric standing there in his signature ghillie suit with a pair of Mossberg shotguns crossed on his back.
Which, as I understood it, wasn’t actually a ghillie suit but more of his natural form.
“Hey, Dean,” Crockett said, in a subdued, gravelly tone as his animal-like gaze swept back and forth like he was stuck in perpetual surveillance mode.
Surprised to see him, I said, “Crockett? I thought you never stepped foot indoors.”
“Making an exception,” he replied, gazing up and down the bar like a consummate tracker. “I need a beer. And I heard something about a hottie behind the bar.”
And before I had the opportunity to tell Crockett to shove it, I felt a solid slap on my back followed by a familiar gruff voice.
“Hey, ladies. Just got back. Didn’t find shit in Utah except a bunch of freaked out Mormons. Need a damn drink. Where’s this hot bartender everybody’s talking about?”
“Goddamn it,” I grumbled while getting up from my stool and shooting Stoner, our resident magus, a scowl that would stop a train.
As a divine purveyor of the more arcane nuances of the Forbidden Knowledge, a magus was kind of like the pseudo-divine version of a wizard. Regardless of the fact he could supposedly turn me into a newt, I was still a bit miffed with his real-tree camo-wearing ass.
Happily plopping on the stool between me and Coop as he carefully propped his glyph inlaid staff against the bar, he said, “What’s the matter, Robinson? Somebody take your lunch money?”
As I stood there shaking my head, Coop leaned over and evidently explained that everyone should quickly move off the whole ‘hot bartender’ subject with great haste as it was a bit on the sensitive side.
Anxiously clearing his throat, Crockett muttered, “That’s awkward.”
“Yeah,” Stoner confirmed. “Awkward.”
More than ready to end the conversation, I sat back down and eagerly anticipated the arrival of my well deserved frosty beverage when Tango pulled up next to me.
“Hey, guys. Vegas was a shit show,” he said, taking off his faded jean jacket and draping it over a stool. “I need a beer. Crockett told me that Rooster’s got a hottie behind the bar.”
“Ah, no I didn’t,” Crockett protested, slumping down on his stool.
“Yeah, you did.”
“Did not.”
Pulling out a comb and running it through his metrosexually cute hair, Tango said, “Quit screwing around. Now, where’s she at? I’m a’ thirsty — If you know what I mean.”
“Son of a bitch!” I barked.
As the wonder twins sat there chuckling while Crockett melted toward the floor, Tango asked, “What’s wrong, Dean?”
“Tell you what, hoss,” Coop said grinning as he stood up and collected his long bow and quiver of peculiar broad heads. “Me and the boys will head on up to the Reliquary and get ready for the debrief. Meet you there in a couple.”
“What about my beer?” Tango protested. “And the hottie?”
“Let’s go, Tiberius,” Stoner grunted, grabbing Tango by the shoulder. “Robinson evidently has his panties in a wad. Besides, I’ve got enough Rooster Rum in my pack to make you forget the fact you’re wearing pastel pants. Where the hell do you get those things anyway?”
As they headed off into the crowd and faded from sight, Erin showed back up with a couple beers. “Here you go,” she said, with her lips curled into a wide smile.
It was the kind of smile that made you want to slap your momma. A smile that made everything wrong with the world instantly melt away. If I were more of a romantic sort, I’d probably have some incredibly eloquent prose to tack on here. But, I’m not — so just trust me. It was frigg’n amazing.
And although I was elated to see her, I was completely befuddled as to why she was here — now.
“Ah, thanks,” I said, grabbing the man-sized mug of RoosterBragh Honey Orange Ale as she slid it across the bar.
Studying my apparent look of consternation, she asked, “You okay?”
“Yeah, I’m good. Just having a little trouble adjusting to the fact that you’re here — tending bar at the Quartermaster.”
“Well, if it’s any consolation, I’m having a little trouble adjusting to the fact that you’re here — and not dead.”
“Fair enough,” I muttered, taking a sip of beer. “Look, I didn’t exactly know how to tell you this the other night, but —”
“It’s okay,” she said cutting me off. “I know.”
“You know? You know what?”
“About the Guild,” she replied, rather matter-of-factly. “And I know about you. I kn
ow what happened fourteen years ago. I know what you — are.”
“Wait — What?” I scoffed. “How?”
“That’s simple, Buballah,” answered an unmistakable female voice with a distinct Brooklynesque inflection coming from my immediate rear. “I told her.”
“Mariel?” I asked, quickly spinning around on my stool.
Mariel, or M as she’s more commonly known, was an über powerful principality class angel who’d been patrolling the Earth for millennia disguised as a cross between Barbara Streisand and Sarah Jessica Parker.
Aside from being one of the few angels in league with the Guild, she was also responsible for providing divine shepherding to humans bestowed with otherworldly gifts. And evidently, Erin now fit the bill. How, why, or to what end was yet to be revealed.
“Of course it’s me,” she replied with a content smirk as she adjusted her low-cut, royal blue dress adorned with enough sequins to make you go blind. “And I believe you’re in my seat, Buballah. Scoot your tuchus over. Move, move, move. I don’t have all day here.”
“Here you go, M,” Erin said, sliding a steaming mug of black coffee across the bar.
“Oooh, that’s wonderful!” M replied. “Thank you, Buballah!”
“I thought I was Buballah,” I protested, trying to figure out what the hell was going on.
“You’ve been replaced,” M said, taking a dainty sip.
“That’s just hurtful,” I grumbled. “So you two have met. That’s, ah, really not awesome.”
“Mariel visited me a few nights ago after I found you here — not dead,” Erin replied.
“Right,” I said, turning to M. “And why exactly did you do that?”
“We’ve been long overdue for a chat,” she replied. “I’ve simply been waiting for the right time.”
“M filled in all the blanks I’ve had since Bosnia,” Erin chimed in. “I understand now, Dean. For the first time in fourteen years — I get it. The giant I saw that night — it was real. And that son of a bitch Goran Petrovich — aside from being a real asshole — is actually the fallen angel, Azazel. The babies I delivered in the church — weren’t human. They were nephilim giants — the start of the new generation of anakim.”
Wrath of the Fallen: The Guild of Deacons, Book 2 Page 2