Still on his feet yet clearly feeling the effects of the Holy Flame, Lew locked eyes with me as I willed the shotgun into my hand and swung the muzzle at his face.
Grabbing Stephen’s unconscious body and tossing it on the Sausage Rocket, he said, “It seems you’ve been granted a temporary reprieve. Until we meet again, Master Robinson.”
And then he simply snapped his fingers and vanished with both Stephen and the Ark as the portal to Hell snapped shut and melted from existence.
“Goddamn it!” I barked, as MacCawill holstered his hand cannon and helped me to my feet.
“You okay, mancho?”
Ignoring the question, I asked, “What the hell are you doing here?”
Pulling a fresh stogie from his coat, he replied, “Apparently saving your sorry ass for the second time in as many days. You’re welcome, by the way.”
Ripping the hexed Talisman of Amaros from around my neck and throwing it at him, I said, “Yeah, frigg’n thanks.”
“Look, mancho, you know I didn’t have anything to do with that, right? That son of a bitch, Remiel, broke into my trailer.”
“I know. But you’re still a dickhead.”
It was right about then a shimmering virtual screen flickered into existence and an image of Rooster came into perfect focus.
With his face as white as a ghost, he said, “Something’s — wrong. You need to get back to the Quartermaster.”
“Be right there,” I grumbled.
As the teleLink dissolved in midair and a portal fluidly manifested in its place, MacCawill said, “You gonna tell me what the hell’s going on here, slick?”
“I need your help.”
“For what?”
“There’s a god that needs killing.”
Chapter 31
Emerging from the gateway with Roy MacCawill on my heels, I was unfortunately less than surprised to find the Quartermaster in a state of complete and utter chaos.
Judging from the impressive collection of full pint glasses littered across the bar and surrounding tables, it seemed that whatever impromptu celebration was taking place, quickly devolved into a panic stricken call to action as every throneView screen lining the walls flittered with live news feeds of anakim packs laying waste to various and assorted locales across the globe.
Gaggles of clerics and acolytes loaded down with a wide array of impressive weaponry, raced toward the various exits lining the walls of the otherworldly outpost as Abernethy, Rooster, and the rest of my arcane strike team stood amidst the madness barking orders at them.
“Christ,” MacCawill muttered, pointing to a newscast blaring from the throneView screen on the wall directly above us. “You seeing this?”
“It’s not a hoax!” Shouted a haggard and disheveled reporter standing in the middle of a surreal backdrop of flaming carnage and frantic droves of screaming people. “I repeat — not a hoax! This is Rex Buckley bringing you the Cold Hard Truth live from Times Square. Giants! They’re — real! And they’re here! And they’re — quite literally ripping the city apart! The police are urging residents to stay in the safety of their homes but take it from me, people — there is no refuge from these — these — things! They’re … they’re barbaric. And — and — they’re eating people. Get out of the city while you still can! Run! Hide! Shit — cut to commercial … it’s coming toward us … no … No! Get back—”
Unfortunately, that seemed to be the inglorious end to the smarmy reporter’s broadcasting career as an amped up anakim, frothing at the mouth, and clad in blood spattered leather body armor, plucked Buckley’s arms from his body like flower petals and began to feast on his still screaming carcass — on live TV.
“Ouch,” MacCawill snickered, evidently not much of a Cold Hard Truth fan. “Guess the Buck stopped there, eh?”
“Let’s go,” I muttered, wading through the quickly dwindling crowd to join Abernethy and the crew.
Pulling up alongside Rooster who was feverishly swiping his fingers across the screen of his prized handheld computer gadget with Doc and Double OT intently watching, I asked, “How bad is it?”
Looking uncharacteristically somber, Owen replied, “It ain’t good, whiste-lebritches.”
“I don’t get it,” Rooster frustratingly barked, holding up the contraption to show me a map of the country covered in pulsating red concentric circles. “Look at this shit. The anakim — they’re freaking everywhere.”
“It gets worse,” I grumbled.
“Worse? How could it possibly get any freaking worse?”
With the massive room now mostly vacant with exception of the usual suspects, Abernethy turned his attention toward me.
“Deannie, I’m glad you’re here. Where’s Stephen?”
“He’s not coming, boss.”
“Not coming?” Caveman chimed in, as Coop, Tango, and Stoner joined the impromptu huddle at the bar. “What’s the dealio, bromando?”
After a long pause, I said, “We were wrong.”
“About what, Dean?” Erin asked. “What happened?”
“Remiel. He’s not the traitor. He was a pawn.”
“Wait, what?” Rooster said, “Then who is?”
“Lucifer,” I reluctantly muttered. “He’s behind everything.”
As everyone shared a look of complete befuddlement, Big A grunted, “Bloody hell.”
Instantly turning a harrowing fiery red from head to foot, Rooster’s eyes flashed with horrifying anger.
“That son of a bitch,” he barked. “He freaking used us to get the Ark. I’m gonna kill him!”
“The Ark,” Abernethy interjected, “Where’s—”
“He took it,” I said, with a distinct pit in the bottom of my stomach. “And there’s something else. He took Stephen too.”
“Took him?” Coop scoffed, “What do you mean, hoss?”
“Maybe he took him to dinner, Cooper Trooper,” Double OT pontificated. “They’re probably grabbing fish tacos and a Fresca. Brah, I love me some fish tacos. Serious.”
Ignoring Owen’s commentary, Caveman said, “How could he take him? Lucifer’s no match for Stephen.”
“He is now,” MacCawill replied. “Trust me.”
“But, how?” Rooster asked, looking exceptionally pissed. “And freaking why?”
Figuring it was past time to read the team into the dirty little secret that up until now only Stephen and I had been privy to, I reluctantly said, “Look, there’s something I haven’t told you. Any of you. The twenty-four Deacons that were killed by Azazel and the Maradim over the past year — aren’t dead.”
“They’re not?” Tango protested, as a collective silence fell over the group. “Where the hell are they?”
“Azazel’s keeping them alive in some subdued state of existence. They’re bound in holy flame in a secret prison. Hidden from our Sight.”
Clenching his weathered hands into tight fists, Abernethy grunted, “To what point or purpose?”
“To siphon off their power. Apparently for Lucifer to wield as his own.”
“Hold on, Robinson,” Stoner barked, “Are you saying that asshole’s stolen the Wrath of twenty-four Deacons? That would make him a fucking—”
“God,” I said, as everyone shook their heads in disbelief. “To complete the process he needed one final mantle. Mine or—”
“Stephen’s,” Rooster grumbled, “And now he has it. That son of a bitch. This whole little game of his was never just about the Ark.”
“No. It wasn’t.”
With a somewhat suspicious glare, Abernethy asked, “How is that you know all this, Deannie?”
Feeling like an exceptional dick for not telling him earlier, I awkwardly grumbled, “I’ve seen it.”
“Seen it, have ya? How, lad?”
“Visions, I guess. Hard to explain. They’re random. And when it happens it’s almost like I’m really there — but I’m not.”
“Aye,” he pensively replied, like he understood the phenomenon I was describing. �
�These visions of yers, Azazel is always a part of them, yeah?”
“That’s right.”
“And Stephen was aware of this, was he?”
“He was.”
“Freaking visions?” Rooster said, spinning to face me and clearly a bit miffed that he was learning all of this for the first time. “And how long have you been seeing things?”
“Couple weeks now.”
“And why the frik haven’t you told us?”
“I wanted to. But—”
“Something tells me Dean didn’t have much of a choice in the matter,” Big A interjected, bringing instant ease to the more than tense situation. “You need say nothing more, lad. Ye did what ye thought proper. And that’s all any of us can do.”
Although he nodded in agreement, Rooster shot me a look that made it pretty clear we’d be rehashing this conversation later.
“So, we got like a serious shit show on our hands,” Caveman said, as Duncan scampered across the floor and took his usual post at his feet. “What’s the plan?
“Well,” Rooster replied, “Seeing as though Stephen’s down for the count, my freaking father’s hopped up on divine steroids with the Ark of the Covenant in his back pocket, and Azazel’s jacked up giants are running unchecked across the globe — there’s only one thing we can do.”
“We fight,” I said, scanning the crew to find nothing but marked conviction in their eyes. “Lucifer hasn’t won. Not yet.”
“Aye,” Abernethy agreed. “We beat the daft scunner at his own game. We take the fight to him.”
“So, for those of us not paying attention,” Double OT chimed in, “What game is Lucifer playing? Is it like backgammon or something? He doesn’t look very athletic. More of a card shark than a baller. Just saying.”
Shaking off the latest Owenism, I said, “His game is chess, and his final move is to open the gates of Tartarus. And if that happens — it’s frigg’n checkmate.”
“So we’ll get there first,” Erin declared.
“And where is there?” Double OT asked. “Somewhere tropical, perhaps? Fruity drinks with teeny weeny umbrellas … scantily clad womenfolk … Tom Cruise and some displaced Irish guy with a fake accent?”
“Tartarus is a lost realm,” Stoner replied, scowling. “It’s a forsaken cursed hole in the dimensional fabric that the archangel Uriel tossed the fallen Watchers into six thousand years ago. And then he tossed the fucking hole in after them. Nobody knows where it is. That’s the point.”
“Aye. Mr. Stoner’s right.”
More than frustrated, Tango asked, “So, how in the hell do we find a place that doesn’t exist?”
Starting to pace like he was having a minor epiphany, Rooster said, “It does exist. Just not the way we think it does. That’s exactly why the Ark is the key.”
“What are ye thinking, Jackie?”
“Reverse astral physics,” he replied, fluidly slipping into bloviation mode. “Tartarus may be lost but it’s still a realm. And a realm must be tethered to the Earth in order to exist. But, in this case, the realm is so far on the fringe of metaphysical reality that the tether is infinitesimal and therefore its location is virtually unknowable. It makes perfect sense. You guys get it?”
Scratching his furry chin, Caveman said, “Yeah, not so much, brofessor.”
“Seriously, pard,” Coop added, stuffing a sizable wad of tobacco in his lip. “How much RoosterBragh did you drink?”
Undeterred, Rooster said, “The tether can’t be found. So, to gain access to the realm — it must be literally pulled to a physical point on the Earth. And to do that would take power. Immense power. Intangible power.”
Nodding, Big A said, “From the Ark.”
“Exactly.”
Still not following the plot, I muttered, “And how is this helping us figure out where that’s going to happen?”
“Because even if you had something capable of generating that much spectral radiation, you’d need a way to focus it. And there’s only one way to do that.”
“With massage oil,” Double OT said, like he was the foremost expert on the subject. “A shit ton of it. And we’ll need lingerie models to test it on. At least a couple hundred of them. I’ll handle that part, guys. Happy to do it. I got really soft hands. Dig?”
“Shut your suck hole, douche wagon,” MacCawill grumbled, glaring at Owen. “O’Dargans’s talking about an obelisk. Lucifer’s gonna need a frigg’n obelisk to pull this off.”
“Hmmmm. You sure, Roybot? Coulda sworn it was massage oil. I could give you a good rub down too. Big fella like yourself could probably go for a nice—”
“Don’t piss me off, Trask,” MacCawill muttered, throwing open his raw hide duster to reveal an impressive array of oversized pistolas.
“An obelisk,” Caveman said, somewhat rhetorically, “You mean like a pyramid, brohsaphat?”
“Sort of like a pyramid,” Rooster replied. “But taller and skinnier.”
When Caveman continued to gawk at him, he added, “Like the Washington Monument.”
“Ah, right on.”
“Although, the Washington Monument’s not truly an obelisk. The real ones are monolithic.”
“And you lost me again.”
“They’re monoliths — made from a single piece of stone. The Egyptian pharaohs built them at the entrance to all their temples back in the day. Everybody thought they were for decoration, but their actual purpose was to harness the power of the sun and punch holes into other realms allowing the gods to have free run of Egypt.”
“Wait,” Doc said, doing her damnedest to take this all in stride. “Are you saying the Egyptian gods are real?”
“Real? Yes. Gods? No. They’re just ancient nephers with eccentric wardrobes and funkily shaped heads. Most of them are actually pretty cool. Except for Horus who’s an incredible asshat. His real name’s Joe.”
“Ha! I know Joe. He’s badass. The ladies love him. Dude’s a disco phenom.”
“Do you have a goddamn off button?” Stoner barked.
“I used to but it didn’t survive the colonoscopy. Or was it the vasectomy. Hmmmm.”
With a furrowed brow, Big A said, “So, we’re looking for an obelisk. Question is — which bloody one? There’s gotta be at least—”
“According to my calculations, archdeacon,” the disembodied voice of Skyphos boomed, “There are exactly thirty-two true obelisks currently standing across the globe. The majority lie within Egypt and Rome with a smattering of others in Paris, London, Istanbul, Florence, Urbino, Catania, Wimborne, Arles, Caesarea, and New York. Additionally, I have identified another twenty obelisk-like structures, such as the Washington Monument, which are scattered across the United States, France, Italy, Argentina, Venezuela, Uruguay, Brazil, Germany, Sweden, and the U.K. Transferring the coordinates to each of you now.”
“Fifty-two total,” Rooster pontificated, “We can probably narrow down the list to likely candidates based on size and proximity to lay lines—”
“Negative,” Stoner grunted. “If Lucifer has the Ark, none of that shit’s gonna matter a damn bit. Any of them are fair game.”
“Cleric Stoner is correct, Rooster,” Skyphos interjected, “Given the sheer power generated by the Vessel, any obelisk or similar structure of at least thirty meters in height would suffice.”
“Shit,” I muttered, “So, we have to put eyes on all of them. And right frigg’n now.”
“Aye,” Abernethy confirmed, “Divide and conquer. Break into teams. Tango, you’re with me, laddie. We’ll take Egypt.”
As Duncan let loose with a piggly growl, Caveman said, “Lil’ D says we’ll take Rome.”
Nodding, Rooster said, “Me and Dean will take the U.S.”
“I’m going with you,” Erin added.
“No. You’re not,” I said. “You’re staying here.”
And when she whipped out one of her man sized gats and pointed it at my chest, I muttered, “Doc’s coming with us.”
Slinging h
is bow across his back, Coop said, “Me and Stoner got France, Germany, Sweden, and the U.K.”
“And I’ll take the rest of them,” MacCawill announced, lighting the stogie clenched in his teeth with a stout match that he struck on his scruffy chin.
“Looks like I’m going with you, Royster,” Owen said, resting his hand on MacCawill’s shoulder. “When do we leave? Can we take a couple road sodas? And Slim Jims?”
“Slim Jims are for women,” MacCawill grumbled, pushing Double OT’s hand away as he blew a ring of smoke in his face. “And I work alone.”
“Let’s go, NecroLord. You’re with me,” I said. “Hate to say it, but I’m kind of getting used to having you around.”
“Ha! I knew it. Bromance!”
“And now I hate you again.”
“Alright,” Big A said, scanning the group, “Listen carefully — You’ve all got one hour. This is strictly a wee reconnaissance effort, yeah? Stay out of sight. Ye find anything unusual and ye contact the rest of us so we can regroup. Nobody does anything daft. We’re only going to get one shot at this and we need not tip our hand.”
“You going to call in back up, boss?” Rooster asked.
“Aye. I’ll alert the archdeacons to the situation and make damn sure they ready their lads. We’ll need every last one of them to stand against Lucifer when the time comes.”
“Any news from Gabriel or the archangels?” I asked.
“I have already sent a communication to the seraphic court, Deacon Robinson,” Skyphos replied. “Thus far I have received no response, which is highly unusual. I fear something may be afoul.”
“That ain’t good,” Coop muttered.
“We can’t worry about that now,” Abernethy said, willing his cloak into being as it violently manifested around his hulking frame. “Meet back here in an hour. Stay in communication. And be bloody careful.”
As five portals flared to life around us, Rooster reached into the bowels of his bomber jacket and produced a handful of squishy marble sized gadgets.
Handing them out to the team, he said, “Use these to stay in touch. Put it in your left ear. Tap it once to open the channel. Tap it twice to return to the Quartermaster.”
Wrath of the Fallen: The Guild of Deacons, Book 2 Page 29