“Which plan we going with?”
“I believe the second uprising. Pre-Eden.”
“The old ones are the best,” Gabriel agreed. He sent his thought out to Tzadkiel, Samael, Uriel, Shateiel, Sophiel, Brieus, and the four Seraphim who accompanied them. Smiling to himself, he noted they had all taken positions by large, sturdy trees, ready to brace themselves.
“I see that you have chosen not to take the warning to heart,” Michael said. “And so now you will die.”
With that, he drew his sword, the blade shimmering gold, and pointed it at the Earth, unleashing its power.
The noise was awful.
Rocks cracked, trees groaned, and the ground shook violently, as if it were made of paper and was being torn to shreds by a large cat with sharp claws. Implacable as death itself, Michael poured his power through the blade of his sword into the ground and the sigils and spells, so carefully engraved upon the soil and dirt and the structure of the church, cracked and broke under the shaking of the hillside.
The demons gaped, clutching at each other as the impromptu earthquake, tightly contained to the single clearing, destroyed all their carefully made protections. As Michael raised his sword, Gabriel strode toward the demons, his own sword held out.
They tried to fight him, but Gabriel was too good at this, too skilled at slaughtering demons quickly and quietly. Three were dead before Shateiel joined the fight, another two before the others had reached him. Decapitating two more and plunging the point of his sword into the belly of another, Gabriel glared, kicking the corpse off his blade.
“They are dead, da bao,” Michael said from his right.
Gabriel looked around and grunted. He was splashed with blood and gore, black ichor staining his chain mail and sword. “Hardly worth drawing a weapon for,” he observed.
“Perhaps.” Michael was looking up at the tower of the church. “However, the true travesty here is this. This church is old, Gabriel. Can you not feel it? It is old and has been long abandoned, and now it is being used for foul deeds, deeds for which purpose it was not built.”
Gabriel laid a hand on Michael’s shoulder. “We’ll fix it.”
“I know.” Michael smiled the ghost of a smile. “Let us go and deal with this human.”
“Right.”
The door splintered to pieces as Uriel kicked it in, and the Archangels with their seconds and their backup walked slowly into the building, their eyes watching for any hint of movement, their ears straining for any sound.
“Downstairs,” Gabriel thought to his companions. “They’re in the root cellar.”
“An unseemly use of a place built in honor of God.” Shateiel’s expression was foreboding.
“What, a root cellar?” Gabriel looked at his second-in-command in confusion.
“No. These foul deeds, this elevation by one who feels himself equal to the task of ruling the world and all upon it, who seeks to harness demons as his way to keep humans in line, who traffics with Fallen Angels for a means to disguise his demon allies from us. No building—no place in the world—should be used for this purpose.”
“Agreed.”
“We can discuss this later,” Michael interrupted, “when we are finished here.”
“Yes, Sir,” Shateiel and Gabriel thought in unison.
They found the door leading down into the cellar unguarded, and in single file, descended the steps into the cellar. It quickly became clear why the door and the stairs were unguarded—the humans and demons within were in the midst of some sort of ceremony, wholly absorbed by it.
Gabriel took in the demons—seven of them—and a dozen humans, including Lia Darguill, garbed in a robe of blood red silk, her face alight with mindless devotion as she gazed at the man to her right. The man stood behind an altar, a large stone that had been carved down to a square, and he wore a robe of black wool, belted at the waist with a silver belt. A silver crucifix hung around his neck.
There was only one person this could be, and Gabriel remembered the photograph that Tzadkiel and Sophiel had shown them. This was Bob Taytton, the man who believed himself to be the reincarnation of Saint Sécaire.
Bob Taytton’s arms were raised, and he held a dagger with a curved blade. He was chanting in bastardized Latin, Gabriel realized after a moment, and he couldn’t help but raise his eyebrows at that. Whatever ritual he was doing shouldn’t be in a bastardization of any language.
“Something is wrong,” Michael whispered, as if he had heard Gabriel’s thoughts.
“The Latin?”
“Yes.” Michael’s brow furrowed, his expression growing puzzled.
“Ah, our guests have arrived.” Bob Taytton smiled and lowered his arms, looking straight at them. “I do hope you enjoy the show, Archangels.”
Light flared, and Gabriel instinctively raised his sword, but it was only the fluorescent lightbulb overhead.
“Watch your dominion over this plane of reality end,” Bob Taytton cried grandly. “Now!” he ordered the demon and human congregation in front of him.
Before anyone could do anything, say anything, a ring of fire sprang up around them. Gabriel began to swear in seven dead languages at once.
“Is this burning Holy Oil?” Uriel demanded. “Seriously?”
“I fear it is.” Samael sighed.
“That,” Michael said, his eyes locked on Taytton, “was unbelievably ill-advised.”
“No it wasn’t,” the man mocked, “because you and your kind are trapped.”
“Last lines of defense so hastily made are rarely secure,” Michael said cryptically. Lowering his voice, he turned to Gabriel. “He wants us here for something. I have an idea, but keep an eye on him and his… parishioners. Stall him.”
“Sir.” Gabriel nodded, moving as close as he could, given the ring of fire. He could feel Michael behind him, hear him talking in low tones to the others, but his attention was riveted on Bob Taytton.
“Should we call you Bob?” Gabriel asked, suddenly curious. “Or Mr. Taytton? Or Saint Sécaire?”
Taytton chuckled. “Oh, I do like the sound of the last one. That will do nicely, Gabriel.”
“You know who I am, then.” Gabriel wasn’t really surprised.
“Of course. When I discovered your slut of a daughter was infatuated with one of my loyal followers, it was too good an opportunity to pass up.”
Gabriel’s grip tightened on the hilt of his sword, his knuckles turning white. “You knew we knew.” It wasn’t a question.
“I knew you’d find out and exact your revenge, and you didn’t disappoint me at all. You bleeding hearts are all too predictable.”
“Is that so?” Gabriel’s dislike of the man was growing by the second.
“Oh yes. You’d believe that a sick person was pure of heart in all things, but just because they’re ill, it doesn’t mean they are pure of heart. People choose to be homeless, and you can’t do anything about that, either. It’s their choice.”
“Tell me more, oh great would-be leader,” Gabriel drawled.
“Jesus didn’t say yes to everyone. I mean, Jesus knew that there was a place for everything, and it is not necessarily everyone’s place to survive to live under my regime. It’s a better regime, for everyone. I do feel humbled by what lies ahead, but I also feel proud and exhilarated at the prospect.” Taytton’s smile was only what Gabriel could describe as oily.
“Uh huh. Real humanitarian, you are.” Gabriel’s upper lip curled in disgust.
“Only the righteous will be saved.” Taytton laid his dagger down on the altar. “And now the time has come for the righteous who are trapped in Hell by your design—by all angels’ designs—to be freed.”
“Michael,” Gabriel hissed over his shoulder as Taytton stepped out from behind the altar, “whatever you’re doing, do it soon.”
“Patience, Gabriel,” Michael murmured.
As Gabriel watched, Taytton moved to a dark-blue floor rug. It was a simple floor rug, no patterns or elaborate w
eaves. No one sat or stood on it, and it was easy to ignore. With a flourish, Taytton bent down and jerked the rug back, tossing it carelessly into a far corner of the cellar.
“Oh fuck no,” Gabriel breathed. Before his horrified eyes, a portal, glistening and pearlescent, glimmered and shone like a circle of mercury.
“Rise,” Taytton commanded in a loud voice, holding out his arms. “Rise, my friends, rise from Hell and return to your true home!”
The portal began to hum, and Gabriel took a step back, risking a quick look over his shoulder. Save for Michael, the rest of his companions were looking on in horror equal to Gabriel’s own. Michael was bent down, kneeling on the floor, and for one moment, Gabriel wondered if he was praying.
“Now,” Michael barked suddenly, and a beam from the ceiling tumbled to the floor, breaking the perfect ring of fire that held them trapped.
Gabriel ran across it, his sword drawn, dodged around the edge of the portal, and grabbed Taytton by the throat.
“No! You can’t!” Taytton’s eyes bulged in disbelief. “I trapped you!”
“And now I’m killing you, you sick son of a bitch.” With deliberate slowness, Gabriel ran the man through, effectively skewering him on his sword.
Taytton clutched at the blade with bloodied hands, blood trickling from his mouth. He gaped in shock at the sword that was buried inside him, then up at Gabriel. “You can’t kill me,” he rasped. “I am the ruler, the savior of the world! I am the reincarnation of Saint Sécaire! I will command you!”
“No.” Gabriel growled, unleashing his power through his sword, burning the man from the inside out. “You will die.”
As Taytton, screaming, burned to charred flesh and bone, Gabriel twisted his sword and pulled it free. Kicking the remains of the corpse aside, he turned, preparing to fight.
Shateiel was already locked in combat with two demons, and Tzadkiel, Sophiel, and Brieus were fighting the humans. Michael was moving toward the portal, his expression worried as he raised a hand over it, and Gabriel knew that Michael was trying to close it. Uriel slashed throats with his dagger, and Samael was marching implacably on Lia Darguill.
Lia Darguill was screaming obscenities as the Archangel of Death strode toward her, his indigo-shimmering black wings spread wide.
“No,” she screamed as Samael reached out a hand. “No! No, you can’t! No!”
Samael’s fist closed around her throat, and her last cry turned into a gurgle as he strangled her.
Rushing to Michael’s side, relieved that both Lia Darguill and Taytton were dead, Gabriel reached out and laid his hand on top of Michael’s. He could feel the power of the portal, and he realized at once what Michael was trying to do. The portal was not, precisely, a door to Hell—it was a key that activated other doors to Hell, all over the world. Michael was using his power to turn the key and switch off the opening of those doors.
“He did not set any limits,” Michael grated out between clenched teeth. “We will need more power, Gabriel. Raziel explained to me how to close it, but he did not anticipate this. Nor did I, I confess.”
“Everyone,” Gabriel yelled over his shoulder as the noise of the portal’s energy increased. “A little help here!”
Five Archangels and eight angels moved as one, encircling the portal and joining hands, linking their power and Graces and concentrating on the portal. There was no point now in trying to close the other doors—it was more important to make sure that this portal could be closed so that the number of doors to Hell were limited.
“Raz was right,” Uriel grunted as they worked. “This thing isn’t only a portal. It’s the key to opening doors at random points on Earth. Doors from Hell to here.” He swore furiously, shaking his head. “They don’t need to worry about the legitimate Gates of Hell, now, not with this shit going on.”
“Close the portal, limit the number of doors,” Tzadkiel echoed Michael’s earlier statement to Gabriel. “Then we can concentrate on shutting down the doors themselves and making sure there’s no way to reopen them.”
“That’s going to take a long time,” Uriel growled.
“It will take as long as it takes,” Tzadkiel answered. “This is what we do, Uriel. We’re Archangels. We protect the balance, guide and protect humanity. Hell stays in Hell.”
“I hope we can limit the number of doors,” Gabriel growled. “Under a hundred would be good.”
“Tell the portal,” Uriel said. “Put your order in. Maybe it’ll comply and be a good little unlimited force of evil.”
“Ha, ha, ha.” Gabriel rolled his eyes.
“Do you all mind?” Michael’s voice was tight. “Concentrate. We have to close this and soon.”
“Sir,” Uriel said, his voice only slightly contrite.
“Aye, aye, Sir,” Gabriel said.
They were sweating, Gabriel noticed, as they worked in concert. Sophiel was shaking with the effort, and Gabriel wondered if the angel had ever worked in such a way with Tzadkiel. His wandering thoughts were shattered by Michael’s cry.
“It is closing!”
Slowly, slowly, the light began to dim and the hum of energy began to lessen. The combined power and determination of angelkind focused on the portal made it cave in on itself and finally, after what felt like eternity, it snapped shut.
The sudden silence was like a slap in the face.
Chest heaving as he panted, Gabriel released Uriel’s hand and lightly squeezed Michael’s. He shook sweat-damp hair from his eyes and looked around the cellar. The room was littered with char from the circle of fire, and with blood, gore, and detritus of battle. The smell of demon blood was heavy, and Gabriel wrinkled his nose.
“We should get out of here,” Tzadkiel suggested.
“A damn good idea,” Uriel agreed.
“What about this, though?” Sophiel looked around the cellar.
Samael squared his shoulders and stood tall and proud, the consummate figure of the Archangel of Death. “Burn it,” he said in his rich, sonorous voice. “Burn the building with Holy Fire of our creation to the ground.”
Michael nodded. “I agree.”
They were a somber group as they emerged from the church building. Uriel shook his head as he sheathed his sword. “I will never, ever understand humans,” he growled.
“Don’t you mean you’ll never understand humans like those?” Tzadkiel rolled his shoulders.
“I suppose.” Uriel glared at the building. “This was a place of safety, of peace, once. Now it’s beyond sullied.”
“And that is why we will burn it,” Michael said. “Come, let us join hands and focus on the task at hand.”
They did, standing in a line, and the fire that emerged from their thought and licked at the walls hungrily was silver and gold, tinged with indigo, blue, orange, and green. They watched in silence as the fire devoured the church, the colors fading away to pure white until nothing remained but smoldering, smoking ash.
“It is done.” Michael sighed, waving a hand and extinguishing the last of the flames.
“And now we have a war to fight,” Gabriel said in a grim voice.
“How many doors were opened by that portal to Hell?” Samael asked.
“I saw one hundred and fifteen,” Tzadkiel said. “So just over your request, Gabriel.”
“Aye, same.” Gabriel shook his head. “Bloody hell.”
“We must go.” Michael said, cutting off further discussion. “We must move to Oregon. Humanity will know something terrible has happened; indeed, they are already intuiting such, thanks to their investigative reporters and their news programs. We must secure Oregon now.” Without another word, he blinked out.
Gabriel took a deep breath, and with the rest of his companions, followed.
“AGRAT and Ishtahar have taken charge of the refugee situation,” Raphael reported as the ten Archangels of God stood at the invisible line that was the border of the state of Oregon. Beyond them lay the state of Idaho, and north, the state of Washington. Fur
ther south was California and Nevada.
“Good,” Michael approved. “Are we ready, then?”
“As ready as we’ll ever be, I suppose,” Gabriel said softly. “I’ve turned all the water on the planet to Holy Water, so it’s poison to all demonkind.”
“Good.” Michael nodded in approval and shot him a small, fond smile. “Do not get killed, da bao.”
“You either, solnyshko.”
“As you say.” Michael took a deep breath and moved, holding out both his hands. Gabriel took his left, noting that Raphael took his right. Samael took Gabriel’s other hand and the Archangels stood hand in hand in a line and concentrated.
Like the magnificent beauty of the Northern Lights, the combined power and energy of the Archangels rose in an undulating wave of shimmering, colored light. The light followed every line and curve of the border of Oregon as laid out in maps all over the world, and it followed the contour of the coastline. The light surged up into the sky and higher, into the ozone layer. Higher, higher, the light rose, until it reached the very edge of the galaxy.
As they raised their barrier of protection around Oregon, Gabriel and his companions could see dozens of demons running toward them. Dozens became hundreds, hundreds became thousands. Behind the Archangels, hovering in the air in the safety of the protected land of Oregon state were angels, thousands of them, clad in armor and holding a variety of weapons.
“This is it,” Gabriel murmured, feeling the protective barrier hold and solidify as it stopped at the edges of reality. “It’s solid and it won’t break down. I can feel it. Is everyone ready?”
Raphael, Raziel, Remiel, Haniel, Metatron, and Tzadkiel stepped back from the border. They were not fighting; they had other tasks.
“We are,” Tzadkiel affirmed. “My Ophanim and I will set to closing all those doors.”
“I will help.” Raziel nodded. “I have a feeling you might need my expertise with some of them, considering the way in which you told me they were opened in the first place.”
“I will monitor Heaven,” Metatron said in a stern voice. “And send reinforcements when you require them, Gabriel. You may count on me.”
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