They’re the most fitting stories to the war we’re fighting now, in my opinion.
I’d even go so far as to call them required viewing if one wants to defeat the armies of Hell.
In one corner, there’s a mini-bar underneath a disco ball hanging from the ceiling. In another corner, a stack of MREs rests idly.
Stray chip bags, video game boxes, and baseball cards litter the ground.
Fastened to the back wall is a massive plasma screen. The movie Dogma is playing on mute while the music continues to blare.
In front of the screen, Dominic and Hines lounge on bean bags, knocking back bottles of beer while they unwind from the last mission.
They deserve a rest, but they still don’t get that there are no breaks in this fight.
Off to the side, Brody’s playing old-school Guitar Hero Three on a Wii. His right hand goes at it as he air-guitars the heck out of the game.
He knows ‘Highway to Hell’ by heart, so it baffles me that he even needs the background music to win.
Jessup’s nowhere in sight. He’s likely upstairs and burning all evidence that he’s been going to visit his mistress.
Without any fanfare, I barge into the space and bull past a startled Brody, shut off the boombox, pop the tape out, and toss it at Dominic.
“What the hell, Samya?!” Brody says.
Instead of responding, I rummage in a series of lockers and withdraw a Kevlar body armor vest, along with some grappling gear, climbing hooks, and night vision goggles.
I’ve got the supporting gear I need, but I’ll still need to load up in the armory.
As I wheel around, Brody, Dominic, and Hines share a look, recognition in their eyes as they view the scars and bruises on my face.
I try to hide my face, but it’s too late.
Brody shuts off Guitar Hero Three and strolls up to me.
“You overheard a civilian dissing the movie Dogma, didn’t you?” he asks.
Dominic and Hines burst out laughing. I love them dearly, but their lack of maturity annoys me at the moment.
I don’t respond at first.
Instead, I move like a whirlwind as I slither into the body armor and stow the rest of my gear.
“Moloch and the others took my son,” I begin, “and I’m going to get him back. None of you need to be part of this. It’s personal. I’m aware of the rules, but he took my son. Don’t try and stop me. You’ll fail. Just stay the fuck out of my way.”
Silence fills the man-cave.
Several seconds pass, and then, Hines pipes up.
“Samya, I’m sorry,” he says. “We all are, but this is crazy. You can’t go down there. There are rules for a reason. There are consequences.”
“Fuck ‘em,” I reply, and I mean it.
I don’t give a shit if this means I never get my goddamn wings back. I’m not letting that fucker get away with this, and I’m not leaving my son in his hands.
I’m more than willing to risk eternal damnation to save my flesh and blood.
“How? How the hell did they even get out? They’re trapped down there until–,” Dominic begins to say but stops with realization in his tone.
I pin him with a glare.
“I know the rules, Dom,” I say. “But…I have absolutely zero fucks left to give.”
“Then you also know why we can’t go in,” Dominic replies. “After what Michael did, there are only four of The Fallen left. Four, Samya. Just our little family of misfits standing in the gap between unspeakable terrors and onslaught. We’ve got Hines too, but he’s more like a sidekick.”
He snickers.
“If we go down and get taken out, we risk our souls,” Dominic continues. “Don’t even get me started on the danger that creates in this world and the next. If they’ve found a way to go back and forth, we’re needed now more than ever.”
“You’re right,” I say. “We can’t go in. But I sure as shit can.”
As fast and rough as I came in, I barge back out, leaving my judgment of their fear in my wake.
Who are they to speak of rules anyway? We all broke them when we followed Michael.
The only reason we backed down was that once we saw the power the other side had amassed, it simply wasn’t worth giving up eternity for. Besides, we were losing.
I have a son now, however, and I am more than willing to give up my soul to make absolutely certain he has a life and keeps his soul when this is all said and done.
Fuck the goddamn rules!
Upstairs, the roar of high-explosive rounds fills my ears as I approach the indoor firing range. It’s late, but we do have soundproof walls, so it’s fine, I suppose.
Still, is it really necessary to use high-explosive rounds? Somebody’s pissed and venting.
When I enter, I spot Jessup in his black bodysuit and dark wraparounds.
He empties a clip from an oversized pistol, his Death-bringer, in a manner that should be too fast for accuracy, but with pinpoint precision he shreds a bevy of paper targets, slaps in a new clip, and continues to fire.
This isn’t necessary. Less volatile rounds are perfectly fine for practice.
He’s letting off steam. I get it, I do, but what the fuck…
Jessup pauses in between clips and steals a glance over his left shoulder when he finally hears my footfalls alerting him to my entrance.
“Who fired the first shot?” I ask.
“Moloch,” he says. “I’ve got a lead that he’s found a way to break the rules and make visits to our side. No need to worry, though. I’ve got it under control.”
I can feel my face go pale. He should have told me. I would have been on high alert and maybe, just maybe, kept my son safe.
“Your lead is solid,” I manage to say as calmly as possible. “He took my son.”
He wheels around on his heels and steps in close.
“You’re serious?” he asks.
“After I grab the necessary holy rounds, I’m going after the motherfucker,” I answer.
“Like hell you are.”
“You’re not stopping me,” I counter. “If you even try…you don’t even want to know how far I’m willing to go.”
He guffaws and steps back. He rubs his chin like he always does when he thinks there’s a different way.
There isn’t. He’s stalling.
Despite his rage and the fact that he’s a hypocrite, he’s still a stickler for the rules. At least, he wants to believe that he is.
“I’m going,” I say. “Either you break the rules on not harming each other, or you give me your blessing.”
“I’ll pass on both,” Jessup says. “I’m coming with you.”
I’m taken aback. This isn’t like him.
“You’ll just spend the whole trip trying to stop me,” I argue. “It’s better if I solo this. Stay safe, and if I don’t come back, kill every last one of the fuckers.”
“Fuck that, Samya, I’m coming,” he says. “I’ve already decided.”
“Now who’s coming unhinged?” I tease. “What the hell was your lead that you’d go against protocol?”
“Amy’s been having nightmares, and when she describes them, I’m certain it’s Moloch,” he answers. “He’s found some way to connect to our minds. I’m not sure if he’s actually crossed over, but his projected presence allows his minions to. We’re in danger.”
“No shit,” I say and backhand him square in the jaw. “Motherfucker. Don’t you think we all deserved to know that? Before they kidnapped my son!”
“You weren’t supposed to be near Noah anyway,” he defends.
“Like you’re not supposed to be near Amy?!?”
He rubs his jaw.
“Damn, you hit like an archangel,” he says.
We snicker and almost let ourselves enjoy the moment.
“You’re not coming,” I say. “You betrayed my trust. You should have told me.”
He nods. Then he leans in close and presses his lips to mine.
It�
�s more of an embrace than a kiss. His lips are firm but soft.
I wouldn’t mind if this were to last a little longer.
I don’t have time, though. I pull back. I push him away.
“You have terrible timing,” I say.
He smirks.
“I’ll say a prayer for you,” he offers.
My whole body hardens as my mind gets back into the right state, ready to fight.
“Say a prayer for whatever gets in my way,” I reply.
A moment later I enter the armory and load up with holy rounds that have been blessed, a Sig sidearm and a Mossberg shotgun.
May God have mercy, I think, because I have none left to give.
I stalk into the corridor, loaded down with my weaponry but still agile. I’m a bad-ass dog of war ready to give and receive.
Inside the underground garage, I hop into an armor-plated Suburban, fire it up, and screech the tires as I pull out.
The Suburban slipstreams across the rain-slicked pavement as I stare out at the downtrodden streets that glow under a sliver of the skull-colored moon even as the rain pounds down.
A mass of late-night revelers and homeless trudge through the downpour.
Two men hide in the mass of revelers and party-goers with demonic countenances, reddish eyes, and cracked skin. They can’t help but stand out from the rest.
It’s tempting to take out my vengeance on them, but they’d be easy prey. Too easy.
They turn and gape at me as if they can sense I’m watching. They’re two demonic fugitives like Vic Jacobs, and they will have to be hunted down eventually.
Their goitered heads loll, and their mouths fall open in crazed grins as they realize I will not be coming for them this night.
I turn my gaze forward. The windshield wipers slap back and forth as my eyelids flutter.
I’m being drawn into a vision of the past.
A demon’s face stares up from the ground. His face is twisted in agony. His mouth gapes open in a soulless scream.
A sword thrusts into the demon’s chest, then withdraws in a spurt of black blood.
All around, frenzied combat rages. Hundreds of thousands of warriors, some winged, others not, engage in battle on a field of war so obscured by mist, smoke, fire, and blood that it’s difficult to tell if the fighting is in the air or on the ground.
Screams echo as my younger self follows a muscle-quilted beast of a man whose face is just out of sight, Michael.
The two of us hack our way across a carpet of writhing bodies with fiery swords.
I slash and bisect my way through the demon hordes until I’m rammed by a lithe creature.
The grotesque thing holds a length of bone that’s been carved into the shape of a long-sword.
The long-sword comes down, slicing into my back as I shout in pain.
Then, I wheel around to look into the eyes of my attacker.
It’s Moloch.
He grins down at me as I let loose a war cry and charge.
The vision cuts off, and I veer the Suburban off to the side of the road to get my bearings.
My eyes narrow on the rain-slicked streets ahead.
I remember now.
Moloch was a foot-soldier, and he managed to get close enough to inflict a wound and draw blood. Now I know how he’s been able to connect with me on this side.
He must have stolen a drop of my blood. He must have used it to connect with me and project his minions.
I shrug off the vision with a shudder.
The ancient screams, death-throes, and victory cries from the First Holy War echo for a long moment in my ears even after the images have passed.
I never wanted such a moment to happen again, but now it’s personal.
I rev the engine and throw the wheel, rushing back onto the road and ignoring honking horns as I speed to my destination.
10
A Traitor Among Us
I push the remnant images and sounds from my vision of the First Holy War out of my mind and look through the window as I pilot the Suburban toward the Saint Louis Cathedral.
It’s a sight to behold and a Gothic masterpiece.
Three steeples rise into the sky with a cross adorning the central and highest one. An antique clock resides midway up the center.
I pull the Suburban around the back onto Orleans Street facing Royal Street.
I shut off the engine and rush through Saint Anthony’s Garden.
Inside, I steal a quick glimpse of the main interior where various flags protrude from the upper terrace and images of saints cover the arched ceiling.
Then, I slip past the nave into a side corridor. I edge down a staircase, passing armed guards and friars.
In the basement hall of the Saint Louis Cathedral, I stride past a guard and nod in the direction of a closed-circuit camera positioned next to a steel-reinforced door.
After a long beat, a chirp resounds as a retina scanning eyepiece, and a miniature LCD screen scanner drop down from the ceiling.
I lean in close and peer into the eyepiece.
A flash of light hits my irises.
A click follows, and the door opens to reveal a short and dimly-lit corridor.
It winds into the domain of The Prelature Of The Order, or just The Order.
The Order is an offshoot of the Catholic Church, which basically means it’s an amped-up version of an Opus Dei organization on steroids and devoted to overseeing and controlling the overlap and passage between the physical and supernatural world.
We don’t officially answer to them, at least not in a hierarchical way, but since they control passage and possess a vast network of informants, we have a close working relationship.
In other words, we unofficially do their bidding.
I advance past a secret underground chapel. The walls are covered in stained glass windows and glow as if the sun is shining through despite the room being underground.
Ancient oak pews fill the nave where a congregation would sit. Ornamental statues made of pure silver fill the raised pulpit. A transept lines through the pulpit, which causes the chapel as a whole to be shaped like a cross.
Past the chapel, there’s a small sacristy illuminated by rows of votives adjacent to a channeling room filled with mystics and spiritualists seated and strapped in ornate, jewel-lined chairs. They’re all facing each other in a circle.
Hovering over them are priests who are trembling and praying in an ancient language. The priests are communicating with souls in the underworld.
The myth is that they’re keeping tabs on all sides to make certain everyone’s playing by the rules set down to keep another holy war from breaking out.
In my humble opinion, they’re more like spies checking their sources to make sure no one’s about to strike first.
It’s a good thing they can’t tell what’s in my heart, or they might focus their efforts in my direction.
I leave the disquieting scene and move on through a wooden door that opens up to the interior of the Saint Louis Cathedral Operations Room, which has more in common with a black ops site than anything one would expect to find inside the underground of a cathedral.
At the far end reside metallic tubes that extend from the ceiling to the rocky ground. The room is carved into a cave structure.
Great battles and images of angels and demons warring line the cave walls. This place is ancient and holy in every sense.
In the middle of the operations room, a tall man in his forties with hard eyes, a shock of raven hair, and broad shoulders rises from a kneeling position.
He unclasps his hands. He’s been praying.
Father Cote is the Oz behind The Order and the string-puller. Keeping things in order, as it were, falls squarely into his litany of responsibilities under his sworn oath.
Two heavily armed guards flank him and begin stepping toward me.
They’re big, but I’ve spent the past night and day fighting demons. It won’t take more than a second to put them do
wn.
“She’s not a threat,” Father Cote says, causing them to back off. “Come closer, Samya. What’s the purpose of your intrusion?”
“Father Cote,” I begin, “Forgive me, but I simply need to complete a mission.”
My words are mostly true. I do need to finish the mission he’s going to think I’m here for, but I have another more important mission as well.
I toss Father Cote the containment grenade with Vic Jacobs’s soul inside of it.
Father Cote places the grenade in a metal tube that resembles the kind used by banks for deposits.
They actually look more like the transparent tubes race car tracks use to deposit cash bets.
The grenade is sucked down into the tube, disappearing into the ground, sending the soul straight to Hell.
Vic deserves worse. He’ll be ‘free’ down there and might find that he likes it.
If it were up to me, he’d go into more of a purgatory situation that functions as a soul prison cell.
Father Cote turns back around and meets my gaze. It feels like his piercing eyes are attempting to read my mind, even though I know very well that he most certainly cannot.
He glances up and down and takes in my armor, weaponry, and gear.
“You look girded for war,” he says, apprehension in his tone.
“Spare me the lecture,” I counter. “They took my son, Father.”
“Who did?”
“Moloch and his minions,” I answer. “I don’t know how they were able to reach across the divide, but they did. Somehow, they got out of the underworld and took my Noah away. Right in front of me, Father.”
I’m doing my best to hold back how I really feel, but I think he gets the enormity of the situation. So there’s no need to be hyperbolic.
Father Cote shakes his head.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” he offers.
“Fuck your platitudes,” I spit. “I’m going in, and you’re going to help me.”
“You know very well that’s impossible and forbidden, Samya,” he snaps. “Never mind the rules, actually. We only send people there. We don’t bring them back. You know this.”
“This time…you’re going to make an exception.”
I’ve had it with the protocols bullshit. I’m taking this fight to the enemy whether anyone likes it or not.
DEATH SUITS HER_A Supernatural Reverse Harem Romance Adventure Page 6