“I’d say you’re either full of donkey shit or all hopped up on your Rooster beer. Probably both. You ain’t been hitting the sauce again, have you boy?”
“No. He hasn’t,” I chimed in. “Mainly because we don’t have any. Thanks for reminding me.”
Ignoring my commentary, Rooster said, “Tuck, I’m telling the truth. They’re trying to open the gates of Tartarus and free the Watchers to start a civil war in Heaven. And they’re using mankind as the ransom.”
“That why all those dolgurn anakim have been running amok and laying waste to things over the past few days?” he asked, in a surprisingly curious tone like he was actually buying Rooster’s story.
“Yes. Exactly. And it’s about to get worse. A lot freaking worse. We need to stop them, Tuck. You, of all people, should appreciate that.”
“I do appreciate it, boy. More than you know.”
“Wait, what? You do?”
“Course I do. And I suppose now you’re about to tell me that I should let you go because you and your bandito compatriots here have been wrongfully accused of the charges made claim against you and — you’re actually trying to expose this heavenly traitor and set things right.”
“That’s right. But, how—”
“How’d I know?”
As a wolfish grin stretched across the hayseed assassin’s face, he said, “Simple, boy, because that’s exactly what they said you’d say. Fact of the matter is — I don’t give a good goldurn either way. I’m a taking you in. And as for your associates here — I’ll be kindly leaving them for the halos to sort out.”
And it was right about then when shit went south.
Real quick like.
In an utter blur of motion, the obscure elder statesman reached into his bizarre breast plate with his left hand and produced two daggers that he effortlessly flung across the room and straight into Rooster’s kneecaps. As my enigmatic ginger colleague let out a primal scream, and instantly dropped to the floor in a state of excruciating pain, Doc’s pistolas barked to life as she opened fire at the suave old timer while fluidly drifting to her left to seek cover behind one of the barcaloungers in the center of the bunker.
Already moving toward our unwelcome guest, I closed the distance between us with unnatural speed as a turbo jolt of arcane adrenaline rocketed through my body. Literally within inches of the bastard, the argent metal gauntlets took form over my hands as I willed the spatha into being.
Ripping the otherworldly sword from its sheath in a spectral flash, I swung it with all my supernatural strength at that dirty son of a bitch’s right hand only to lop it clean off at the wrist. As his severed mitt plummeted toward the floor, I casually snatched it in midair and proceeded to pry his precious angel beacon from its spasming fingers.
“Whoops. Did I do that?”
“Dagnabbit!” He yelled, clutching his bloody stump and gawking at me like I just took his lunch money. “What the Sam hell’d you do that for? That was my good hand!”
“Oh, sorry about that, Tuck,” I grumbled, slapping him a couple times with his disembodied meat hook, “You want it back? Here you go.”
“I’ll have your head for that.”
“Yeah, okay,” I muttered, admiring his nifty seraph summoning device which was no larger than a ball point pen and still emanating a constant pulse of spectral blue light. “Tell me something, Tuck, this thing actually work?”
“Course it works, b—”
I’m pretty sure he was about to call me boy again when I punched him squarely in the grill with my metal fist. Hurtling across the room like a sack of good ole boy potatoes, our good friend Tecumseh then slammed into the back wall of the bunker and slid unconscious to the floor.
“You talk too much, asshole,” I grumbled, figuring he’d be visiting la la land for the foreseeable future as I carefully tucked the angel beacon into my back pocket for safe keeping.
“Was that your plan?” Erin asked, getting back to her feet and holstering her pistols.
“More or less,” I replied, fairly happy with my handiwork. “You okay?”
“I’m good.”
“Rooster?”
Yanking the daggers from both of his kneecaps with his eyes blazing a fiery red, he grunted, “Never better. But, I gotta ask — Did your plan involve me getting shivved by Corbin?”
“Shivved? No. Not at all. What kind of friend would that make me?”
“I’m pleasantly surprised to hear you say that.”
“Yeah, that whole flying knife thing came out of nowhere. Especially since I was expecting him to shoot you.”
“Wait, what?”
“Either way, I figured you’d be fine — for the most part. More importantly though, it would give me and Doc a window of opportunity to get that device out of his hand and keep us all from being angel fodder. Worked like a charm. Nicely done.”
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
“Did it?”
“No.”
“That’s unfortunate.”
“Ah, guys,” Erin said, staring at the soon to be Sumerian Knight version of Captain Hook, “He’s waking up.”
“Time to go,” Rooster said, moving toward the stairs with great haste. “We’ve got a rock opera to crash.”
“Sure you don’t want to stick around for another few minutes?”
“Wait, was that a knife joke?”
“Maybe.”
“You’re an asshole.”
“Too soon?”
“Really?”
Evidently, it was too soon for knife jokes.
But that doesn’t make them any less funny.
Does it?
No.
I didn’t think so either.
Chapter 22
“Never thought I’d be this happy to see Tallahassee again,” Rooster muttered as the latest sticky pad portal snapped shut behind us and he unzipped his bomber jacket.
Standing in the twilight of a rather pleasantly warm winter evening, we found ourselves on a street corner adjacent an ornate traffic circle that was located squarely in the middle of an ominously desolate, yet artfully quaint, downtown block.
Shrouded in darkness, the surrounding locale was lined with an impressive array of upscale brew pubs, trendy bars, eclectic eateries, and designer coffee shops, which were all seemingly vacated in a hurry.
A big frigg’n hurry.
In fact, lit only by a few random street lamps, the entire area seemed utterly devoid of life in every direction, and had a distinct zombie apocalypse feel — complete with blinking red traffic lights, police tape, and sidewalks haphazardly strewn with trash.
“What happened the last time you were here?” Erin asked, cautiously scanning our new surroundings.
“Botched mission of epic proportion.”
“What kind of mission?”
“I was hunting an elusive quarry.”
“Rogue nephers?”
“No. Something much, much more formidable — Sorority girls.”
“Ugh,” Erin muttered, evidently thinking Rooster was a little too Old Testament to be trolling college coeds. “That puts a whole new super creepy spin on robbing the cradle.”
Trying to immediately erase the mental image of Rooster embarking upon a series of Revenge of the Nerds’esque panty raids, I willed the cloak into retreat and was more than pleased that my face wasn’t about to fall off from howling winds or blistering snow.
Giving my grimy, blood spattered white RoosterBragh tee a quick glance, I also made the mental note to track down a change of clothes at some point in the near future.
“So that’s Florida State University,” I muttered, gazing across the street at a ginormous football stadium on the outskirts of a deserted conglomeration of abandoned academic buildings, dorms, and apartments.
“Yeppers. We’re standing on Gaines Street in the heart of the CollegeTown district. Downtown is a couple miles up the hill to our northeast.”
Looking into the evening
sky to find a hovering cloud of smoke in the direction Rooster was indicating, I said, “Let me guess — That’s where the state capital building is.”
“Or was,” he replied, with a furrowed brow. “Right up until last night. This was pretty much ground zero for the Florida chapter of the anakim demolition party.”
“That would explain why it’s a ghost town,” I grumbled, envisioning what should have been a hopping Saturday night scene of twenty and thirty somethings darting in and out of the various drinking and eating establishments.
Taking note of the old school vinyl record made into an analog clock which was hanging in the window of the retro music store behind us, Rooster said, “Yeah well, it’s going to be a lot worse tomorrow if we don’t get moving. It’s almost six o’clock. We’re two hours away from the next phase of Azazel’s global shit show.”
“So, let’s quit dicking around,” I grunted.
More than ready to get the show on the road, Erin asked, “Where’s this karma cafe joint?”
“If memory serves, the MidKnight Jayde is a couple blocks due north of here,” Rooster answered, “Coop’s probably wondering what the hell happened to us.”
“He won’t be the only one. Let’s frigg’n move.”
After a quick jaunt up Gaines Street, in which Doc and I were forced to endure Rooster’s seedy recollection of countless failed attempts at crashing various and assorted 90’s sorority parties, we hooked a hard right onto Macomb into what appeared to be a vacant lot.
Scanning the darkness for a quick sec, he said, “Yep. This is the place.”
“What place?” I asked, squinting to see nothing but a large concrete slab on the far side of a disheveled dirt parking lot, overrun by a small jungle of fledging saplings and oversized weeds.
“The MidKnight Jayde.”
“Where?”
“Right in front of us,” he smugly replied.
“There’s nothing right in front of us besides an overgrown goddamn parking lot.”
Looking exceptionally pleased with himself, my jackass ginger colleague uttered a few words in Enochian and the night air over the concrete slab began to shimmer like somebody dropped a pebble into a pool of perfectly still water.
Then, almost as if a pair of invisible curtains were slowly opening, a blurry vision began to steadily come into focus as Doc and I stood there wondering what the hell was happening.
“Prepare to be amazed,” Rooster said, evidently expecting the MidKnight Jayde in all its karma cafe glory to materialize in front of us.
Needless to say, he was more than disappointed when we instead found ourselves staring at a breathtakingly adorable teenage girl casually seated on a fold-out chair with her head buried in a Stephen King novel. A warm light, emanating from nowhere discernible, inexplicably illuminated the general area surrounding her as she just sat there flipping pages without acknowledging our presence in the least.
No more than fifteen or sixteen years old, the teenage beauty queen of bronze skin and deep brown eyes, was sporting a black Bob Marley tank top — that showed way too much of her six pack abs than I bet her father appreciated — accompanied by designer cut-off jean shorts and a pair of different colored Chuck Taylor high tops.
“Who’s that?” Erin asked, under her breath.
“I’ve no idea,” Rooster replied, trying to figure out what was going on. “That, ah, wasn’t supposed to happen.”
Still ignoring us, the urban outfitted fashionista simply continued to read her book at a feverish pace while running a hand through her blondish auburn hair which was highlighted with obscure streaks of dazzling colors that seemed to randomly fade in and out of existence. And as she did that, I was drawn to perhaps the most peculiar aspect of the mysterious youngster’s motif — the intricate arrangement of ethereal tattoos that mystifyingly glided up and down her chiseled arms.
In what appeared to be a masterfully drawn rendition of the solar system inked with an artful Celtic flare, the string of nine planets and blazing sun seemed to be alive on her skin as they floated up one arm, over her shoulders and down the other in perfect sync.
It was mesmerizing.
And really frigg’n weird.
And again, something I’m damn sure her father did not approve of — in the least.
Just saying.
“Are we in the right frigg’n place?” I asked Rooster.
“Absolutely. At least, I think so. Granted, it’s been a while since I’ve been here. Actually, maybe we aren’t.”
“Well, should we ask her?” Doc impatiently offered.
“Good idea,” I muttered, clearing my throat and taking a cautious step toward the kiddo. “Ah, hi?”
“’Sup, dude,” the stylish teenybopper replied with complete disinterest, still fixated on her book.
“What’re you reading, kid?”
“Who you calling ‘kid,’ old man?”
“Old man?” I scoffed. “So, first off, princess, I’m not old—”
“Yeah, you are,” she replied, cutting me off mid-sentence. “Totally on the wrong side of thirty. And you kind of have the old man smell. Or — You seriously need a shower. Pretty gross either way you look at it. On the upside, at least you’re not bald — yet. “
“That’s just hurtful.”
“The truth hurts, dude.”
“What’s your name, kid?”
“Mack.”
“Mack — like Mackenzie?”
“Nah. Mack — like the truck.”
“Okay look, ah, Mack,” Rooster impatiently chimed in, “We’re looking for the MidKnight Jayde.”
“Congratulations,” she replied, still flipping pages like we weren’t there. “You found it.”
“Ah, okay, cool. But, we kinda need to go inside.”
“Go ahead.”
“And how do we do that?”
“To go in, you just have to get in.”
“Okay — and how do we do that?”
“If you don’t know, I can’t help you. Sorry, dude.”
“But, it’s really important we get inside,” Rooster said, trying his best to keep calm.
“Really not my problem, dude.”
“So, you’re not going to help us?”
“Nah. Can’t.”
“Why not?”
“House rules.”
“House rules?” I chuckled. “What are you like the frigg’n bouncer or something?”
“No, old dude, not like the bouncer — I am the bouncer.”
“Quit calling me old, kid. And aren’t you a little young — and, ah, unbouncer-like — to be a bouncer?”
“Nah.”
“And since when is there a bouncer at the MidKnight Jayde?” Rooster asked, now totally perplexed by the steady dose of teenage logic.
“Since now, dude. Have you not been paying attention to current events? The world’s a dangerous place.”
“Ah, yeah, I know. That’s why we’re here.”
“Figured as much.”
“Wait, what? You know why we’re here?”
“Yep. My brother told me.”
“How does he know?”
“He knows stuff.”
“So, if you knew we were coming. You must know who we are.”
“Course I do.”
“And you still won’t let us in?”
“Already told you, dude — You can go in whenever you want. You just have to get in.”
About at his wits end, Rooster’s eyes flashed a blazing red as he started to frustratingly pace back and forth.
As Doc and I exchanged befuddled glances confirming that neither one of us had a clue as to what to do next, the bushes on the periphery of the parking lot began to rustle and a bare chested, beefcake came stumbling out holding an empty bottle of Jack Daniels.
Training her gaze on the newcomer, Mack slowly closed her book and carefully placed it on the ground at the feet of her chair. As her flawless face curled into a dark smile, she cracked her knuckles a few ti
mes and rolled her head back on her neck like she was ready to throw down on his big ass.
Although she was barely five feet tall and a frigg’n teenybopper, there was just something about the look in her eyes that made me think she could probably do it.
“Open the door and let me in, Mackie,” the clearly drunken party crasher bellowed in a ridiculous Australian accent, as he intimidatingly stomped across the parking lot. “I said open it. Now, you ankle biter!”
Easily six foot four and full of muscle, I yanked him backward by his shoulder and said, “Back off, Vegemite Sandwich. Leave the kid—”
“Relax, old dude,” Mack calmly interjected, stepping between me and the plastered Aussie. “I got this.”
“Yeah,” the roided out Crocodile Dundee wannabe quipped, grinning at me, “Relax, ya dill wanker, before I lodge my boot in your browneye.”
“Go home, Ned,” Mack said, locking gazes with the mouthy meatstick who was literally three times her size. “You can come back tomorrow.”
“Bugger off, Mackie. I need a drink.”
“You’ve had enough to drink, dude.”
“Not yet I haven’t. Open the damn door already.”
“Nah.”
“Why you cheeky little—”
And before the dumb bastard had the opportunity to complete his slurred statement, Mack’s eyes turned pure white and her entire body, to include her face, was overtaken by a lustrous silver sheen like she was instantly covered by a body suit of otherworldly, liquid metal.
Then, in what seemed like a single motion barely perceptible to the human eye, she forcefully threw a flying knee squarely into the jackass from down under’s smooth criminals while simultaneously driving a devastating uppercut into his jaw — which, in turn, sent his big ass hurtling several hundred feet into the night sky screaming like a wounded wombat.
“Damn,” I muttered, watching as the big dope sailed like a man-shaped missile toward the football stadium a few blocks away. “Mack — like the truck.”
“Crikey,” Rooster added.
“Holy shit,” Erin said, smiling ear to ear.
With the excitement over quicker than it started, Mack’s uncanny metal carapace casually melted from existence and she happily resumed her post on the foldout chair.
Wrath of the Fallen: The Guild of Deacons, Book 2 Page 20