It’s happening sooner than expected, she thought.
The doctors and their patient disappeared through the swinging doors on their way to the hospital’s basement level.
That was where it would happen.
That was where he would arrive.
She felt a sudden chill pass through her skeletal frame, and she walked back to her bed. It would be warm there.
Crawling beneath the covers, she imagined how it would soon be, lulling herself quickly to sleep with thoughts of a world filled with shadows.
Dancing shadows.
* * *
The Morningstar hadn’t thought of the mysterious dark-haired child in more than a millennium, and now here he was, thinking of him for a second time today.
“There will come a day,” the child had said, “when the God that has abandoned you will have no power over the earth. The messengers of He who believes Himself most holy will no longer believe in Him, and they will attempt to exert their own beliefs on how things should be.”
Lucifer felt a cold, painful knot forming in the pit of his stomach as he heard the child’s voice echoing from the past.
“And darkness will claim the world.”
“Father?”
Lucifer spun toward the voice, his imagination conjuring the dark-haired child, a telling smile upon his beatific face.
“You okay?” Aaron asked.
“I’m fine,” he answered, attempting to shake off the effects of the chilling memory.
“We were talking about the end of the world, and you got sort of quiet.” His son paused, considering what he’d just said. “I guess that’s kind of appropriate.” The boy smiled weakly, attempting to lighten the pall of foreboding that hung about the room.
“You don’t think the Powers are still around, do you?” Aaron asked him.
“Possibly a smaller faction,” Lucifer replied. “Separated from the rest perhaps. Sleepers, ordered to fulfill a specific task if Verchiel should fail.”
He saw a look of desperation appear upon his son’s face.
“What is it with them?” Aaron asked angrily. “They’d rather end the world than have us in it? I just don’t get it.”
Lucifer could understand his son’s frustration but could also identify with the Powers’ obsession, for he, too, had acted upon his own beliefs—though wrong—starting a war in Heaven with his Creator.
Only, he had learned the error of his ways, while the Powers just became more fixated. So beset, they were now willing to end the world in order to prove that they were right.
“They believe the Nephilim are a blight upon the planet, an insult to the Lord God, and have concocted a plan to see themselves victorious even if it means destroying all life upon the planet. Insane? Most definitely, but they see this as a final way to steal victory from defeat.”
Aaron considered his father’s words.
“I still don’t see how they believe that they’re carrying out God’s will by destroying the earth.”
The ball of tension grew tighter in the Morningstar’s stomach.
“Perhaps they no longer serve the Lord of Lords, feeling somehow betrayed by the fact that He initially allowed them to fail. Perhaps now they serve their own selfish purpose.”
“The messengers will no longer believe in Him,” Lucifer heard the childlike voice echo in his mind.
Is this what the dark-haired boy foretold? Lucifer pondered. Is this the beginning of the end of the world, a prologue to dark times to come?
“We’re going to stop them, right?” Aaron asked.
“Of course,” Lucifer agreed, shaking off the distraction.
He pushed his chair back and moved around the desk, sitting on its corner as he thought about their situation.
“In order for Wormwood to be awakened, the Almighty created something called the instrument, which, when played, will signal the Angel of Desolation.”
“The instrument,” Aaron repeated. “Do you mean like Gabriel’s horn?”
“That’s exactly what I mean,” Lucifer said. “It started off in Gabriel’s possession but then found its way into the hands of different owners. Their job has been to watch and wait for a sign that it is time for the world to end.”
“Any idea who has it now?” Aaron asked.
Lucifer shook his head. “No. But if I don’t, then there’s a good chance that the Powers don’t either. And that will hopefully buy us some time.”
“We’re going to have to find whoever has it before they do,” Aaron said.
Lucifer slid from the desk. His brain felt like a nest of hornets, so much information flying around, buzzing for his attention.
“Something that divine … that powerful … must leave some kind of trail,” Lucifer said. He stroked his chin in thought.
“If that was the case, wouldn’t the Powers be able to track it as well?” Aaron asked.
“Good point,” the Morningstar said. “But if they had been able to trace it, wouldn’t we all be dead by now?”
“So it doesn’t leave a trail,” Aaron said.
“Or it does, and it’s masked in some way.”
“Then if it’s masked, how would we find it?” Aaron wanted to know.
“Only the most sensitive could track something with the kind of power that instrument possesses,” Lucifer said. He went to the window and gazed out over the school grounds. Everything appeared so peaceful, but under the surface …
“Powerful magick is needed here,” Lucifer said, though the statement made him sorry. Lorelei didn’t need this added on top of everything else she was doing.
“Archon magick,” he said, turning from the window.
From the look on Aaron’s face, he knew his son understood the ramifications of what he was about to ask.
“We have to talk to Lorelei,” Aaron said.
Lucifer nodded sadly. “She’s the only one with the talent to help us.”
Vilma followed Jeremy’s trail to the school, and as she unfurled her wings, she found herself back where they had started.
Jeremy was just standing in the grassy area, head down, his hands hanging loosely by his sides. His wings were growing smaller now, disappearing into his shoulders.
“Jeremy?” she asked, and as the word left her mouth, he turned and stepped toward her, his hands suddenly on her shoulders, drawing her gently closer.
He was about to kiss her, and she felt herself responding, reacting to the moment as if on some sort of autopilot. Vilma wrestled with these instincts, pushing them aside before things could get out of hand. She turned her face away from his, and Jeremy released her, stepping back.
“I’m sorry,” Jeremy stammered, instantly embarrassed. “That was bloody stupid, and inappropriate. I’m really, really sorry.”
“It’s all right,” Vilma answered awkwardly. She felt ashamed, even though nothing had happened. But what if it had? She had no idea why she had reacted in such a way. It was as if something had taken her over, like some sort of switch had been thrown, and she was doing what she was supposed to do.
But that shouldn’t have been it at all. Jeremy was a close friend, and she’d never really thought of him in any other way. She felt her body break out in a warm, tingling flush as the image of his lips coming closer to hers appeared in her head again.
“I never was really good with my emotions,” he attempted to explain. “And this business with my mum … damn it, I can be so dumb sometimes.”
“It’s fine,” Vilma told him, still flustered and wanting to pretend that it hadn’t happened … but could she? “A misunderstanding that’s already forgotten.”
“Forgotten by you,” he said with a weak laugh. “I’d be lying if I told you that I didn’t want it to happen … that I didn’t want to kiss you.”
“Jeremy …,” Vilma began. She felt it again, that twinge of heat, the beginning of desire. She didn’t like it, not one little bit.
“I was hoping for a better outcome, but it is what it is. You�
��re smitten with our fearless leader, which is fine. But you can’t blame a guy for trying.”
She forced herself to laugh. The emotionally damaged guy, true to form, returning to the protective armor of his edgy cockiness.
“If Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Chosen ever disappoints …”
“Stop,” she said, wanting him to quit before she forgot that she’d actually felt sorry for him not that long ago. They started to walk toward the classroom building to find the others when they saw Aaron standing there.
“Speak of the Devil’s son and he appears,” Jeremy said with a smirk.
“Aaron,” Vilma said, trying not to feel guilty but having a tremendously difficult time. “We were just heading in to find everyone.”
How long has he been standing there? She would have to talk to him later, try to explain what Jeremy had shared with her while they were away—and what he might have seen moments ago.
But could she explain it without hurting him in some way? It was complicated, and Vilma wasn’t even sure if she could explain it to herself.
“I was on my way to see Lorelei,” Aaron said. “Why don’t you come with me and I’ll fill you in as to what’s going on.”
Vilma cringed as she joined Aaron, half expecting Jeremy to throw out some wiseass comment to add more tension to the situation.
But Jeremy remained strangely quiet, although she could feel his eyes upon them, even after they were out of view.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Fred carried the unconscious Dusty up the back steps and into the kitchen of his home.
The place was a mess and stank of rot. The sink was piled high with dirty dishes; a cloud of flies buzzed around the bare ceiling bulb. He’d never quite gotten a handle on keeping a clean house, believing it to be women’s work.
And every time he tried to find that special someone to help take care of him and his home, well, his more bestial nature had always gotten the better of him.
A full belly always won out over a clean kitchen.
Still maintaining his animalistic form, Fred hauled Dusty into the living room and dumped him on the filthy floor.
He looked around the house with his feral eyes, sniffing the air with his long snout to be sure he was still alone.
There was nothing unusual in the air, only the scent of the boy, the stink of decay, and his own familiar musky smell. The Corpse Riders had yet to arrive.
Fred returned his attention to the young man at his feet.
“Don’t look too special to me,” the beast growled, a thick pink tongue snaking across his sharp teeth.
But the boy was special. Word had gone out through the unnatural community, to all the denizens of the dark. The Corpse Riders were looking for a lone boy who stank of ancient power.
Fred sniffed at the boy again. The smell was most certainly there. There was no mistaking that he had hit the jackpot.
The Corpse Riders had put out the cry, claiming the boy could be the key to the community’s continued existence upon the planet. Fred had even heard rumors that the peacocks—those winged cretins, the angels—were somehow involved.
Fred coughed up a wad of phlegm and spat it on the floor.
But there was no doubt; if the peacocks were involved, then it had to be pretty darn important, especially if they were rubbing elbows with Corpse Riders.
Dusty twitched and moaned, still held in the grip of oblivion, and Fred considered getting some rope to tie the kid up, just in case he awoke.
With a clawed hand he stroked his hairy chin. What to do?
The kid’s heavy leather jacket was open, and he could sense something powerful from somewhere inside the coat. It was probably what everybody was looking for, whatever that was.
The beast-man tilted his head, trying to see into the darkened folds of the jacket, hoping for a glimpse of something that might shed some light on the mysterious possession.
Fred couldn’t see a thing, but whatever was inside that jacket was giving off a kind of aura, a steady heartbeat of power that made the air around the unconscious boy thrum.
The wind howled outside, the heavy rain pattering against the side of the ramshackle house. There was the steady drip, drip, drip from a leak in the dining room ceiling behind him. The house was falling down around his pointed ears. He could certainly use the reward money that was promised.
Fred figured his parents had still been around the last time anything was done to this house, and he had killed them almost twenty-five years ago.
“What do you have?” he asked the young man on the floor with a curious growl. Using the toe of his boot, he kicked at Dusty’s side, hoping to feel something. Getting no satisfaction from that, he again looked around the room, extending his preternatural senses outward to test his surroundings. As far as he could tell, he was still alone.
Nervously Fred knelt beside the boy. A tiny voice in his head that sounded an awful lot like his mother warned him not to attempt what he was about to do, but he’d never paid much attention to his mother. Hell, she’d had relations with a werewolf. Why would he ever even think about listening to a word she had to say, never mind the fact that she’d been dead and gone for a very long time.
“Just a peek,” he grumbled. He could feel the pulse of power from within the folds of the jacket; it made the yellowish, coarse hair on the back of his hands stand up as if charged with static electricity.
Plunging his hand inside, he fished around, searching for a pocket. When he found it, he reached in, his clawed fingertips brushing against something hard. He eagerly grabbed hold and pulled it out so he could see.
For a moment he was holding a harmonica. Is this what everyone’s so fired up about? he wondered. Then what appeared to be a simple mouth organ became something else entirely. Fred was suddenly holding a piece of the sun. It burned like nothing he’d ever felt before, worse than silver—and silver was the most painful thing of all.
The beast-man shrieked, trying to let go, but he couldn’t. The flesh of his hand melted into a giant, dripping ball—the source of the most intense agony he’d ever experienced trapped within it.
Fred thrashed his hand about, attempting to loosen the object, but his hand was aflame now, burning like the head of a torch doused in gasoline. The pain was too much, and he dropped to the floor beside the unconscious Dusty, trying to put out the fire.
“This is your fault!” Fred cried as his hand blackened and thick oily smoke started to fill the air. A spastic movement caused his hand to bang against the wood of the living room floor, and the wolf-man watched in shock as the hand crumbled to ash. The harmonica that glowed white with the intensity of Hell dropped harmlessly to the floor.
Fred clutched the oozing stump of his wrist, staring in wonder at where his hand used to be. He had been warned not to touch anything, but did he listen?
His mind racing, he was thinking about running to the bathroom upstairs for bandages, or at least some kind of antibacterial ointment, when he heard the sounds. Hugging the stump to his chest, Fred listened to feet thumping up wooden steps. The smell of rotting flesh and decay permeated his nostrils, eclipsing the smell of his own burning flesh. He knew he was no longer alone in the house.
His guests had made their way up from the cellar.
The Corpse Riders had arrived.
For a moment Dusty thought he was awake. He wasn’t sure where he was, exactly, but he knew he wasn’t alone.
He felt as if he was lost in a fog; the air was thick with a roiling, moist smoke that swirled about his face, blinding him to his surroundings. He was trying to remember what had happened when the fog lifted and he found himself standing in front of a diner.
He knew this place, but he didn’t really know why. It didn’t look at all familiar to him. He dug through memories of all the little restaurants where he had worked or visited for a quick bite, but he couldn’t quite place this one.
It looked crowded, but as he approached the large plate-glass window, he saw a figure sitting in a
booth, and that figure waved him inside.
Dusty moved closer, realizing that he knew the old black man.
It was Tobias, the man who had given him the instrument.
He found the door through the fog and pulled it open, a bell ringing in welcome. He walked down the aisle toward Tobias.
“Hey, Dusty,” Tobias said. “Have a seat.” The old man gestured across from him.
Dusty slid into the booth and realized that he was really happy to see the old man.
“How are ya, kid?” Tobias asked.
Dusty didn’t know how to answer.
“Well, I guess I’m a little confused,” he said, looking around the diner. There were other people sitting in booths, and they all seemed to be looking at them. They were all dressed so strangely. Some wore robes, some wore what looked to be leather armor.…
Is that a Viking?
“You’re probably wondering where you are,” Tobias said, pulling Dusty’s attention back to him.
“Yeah,” Dusty began. “I don’t remember how I got here and …”
The image of the strange old man with the Buick suddenly flashed before his mind’s eye … a man who suddenly looked more like an animal.
“You’re nowhere really,” Tobias explained. “You’re someplace that the instrument has created. That I’ve created. That they’ve created.”
He motioned with his chin to the others sitting around them. “Someplace where you’d feel safe.”
There was suddenly a steaming cup of coffee in front of each of them.
“I still don’t understand,” Dusty said, again looking around the diner. It was like looking at a sampling of people from every time period in the world’s history.
“Which is why you’re sitting here with me,” Tobias said. “There are things I didn’t have time to share with you before giving you the horn.”
“Harmonica,” Dusty corrected, sampling the strong brew.
Tobias cocked his head ever so slightly, his milky white eyes moving quickly from side to side inside his skull.
“It’s a harmonica now. It changed.”
“Interesting,” Tobias said with an understanding nod. “However it appears now, there were things that I didn’t get to explain. I figured since you’re currently lying unconscious on a werewolf’s living room floor, it was as good a time as any to fill you in.”
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