Addictive Paranormal Reads Halloween Box Set

by Nana Malone

  Azrael eyed the other Dagestani hybrids, bristling with the traditional hand-cast knives and sabers this region was famous for manufacturing in addition to handguns and rifles; another throwback to Sata’anic culture.

  “Why are we intervening in a purely human conflict?” Azrael was cautious about getting dragged into something he had no business meddling in. “You know the terms of the Armistice.”

  “Doctor in hospital is my brother,” Mansur said. “Tail not docked. If Chechens take look under hood…”

  Mansur trailed off. It didn’t matter whether the rebels were Moloch’s Agents or run-of-the-mill fanatical Wahhabi Islamicists from neighboring Chechnya. Having a Sata’anic descendent exposed was bad no matter who did the exposing.

  “What does this have to do with me?” Azrael asked. “I’m only called in for Agents. Not to crack skulls. Let the Russians deal with their own mess!”

  “We no fan of Russia,” Mansur said. “But they not our enemy. Since communism collapse, they leave us alone. They educate our kids, we send them caviar. We have no interest in getting dragged into Chechnya’s war.”

  “Chechen rebels fight Russia the wrong way,” Azrael said. “But their anger is not without cause. I refuse to interfere in a civil war.”

  “Moloch’s Agent one pulling strings,” Mansur gave him an appraising stare. “He seize Chechen warlord … Salman Raduyev … as host.”

  “Do you have proof of this?"

  “He been acting crazy,” Mansur said. “Even by Chechen standards. We have intelligence he gather three, four lesser Agents inside building. Small fry. Kind of souls you reap, Malak al-Maut, without breaking sweat.”

  Azrael’s wings perked up with interest. Reaping squatters was always a rewarding exercise for the otherwise even-tempered Angelic, especially when he got there in time to actually make a difference. Moloch and his priests hadn’t stopped sacrificing humans to their god, only changed tactics so the mass genocide of consciousness necessary to open a portal appeared to be terrorist acts or casualties of war.

  Living consciousness: the most powerful … and elusive … power source in all the known universes. Cause enough suffering during the death-event of a single consciousness, or enough mass casualties of multiple consciousnesses in a single place, and the energy they released could open portals into parallel realms. Including Gehenna. The place Ki only barely managed to keep Moloch interred.

  “The Russian army is already lining up to storm the hospital,” Azrael pointed out. “What do you want me to do?”

  “You ever see Russian army do anything discreet?” Mansur asked. “It like using RPG to swat fly.”

  “That’s for sure,” Azrael agreed. “Don’t you have hybrid agents amongst their numbers?” He reached into his cloak and absent-mindedly fingered the void-reinforced pencil he used to tally human behavior. He’d studied the Russian tendency to overreact.

  “Not anymore,” Mansur said. “Ever since communist party lose grip, things unstable. Many purges. Best we able do is keep few soldiers in low ranks of army.”

  “I’m not going to kill Chechens just for being here,” Azrael reiterated. “Not unless I see they’re infected by an Agent. But I will help you locate your brother so you can figure out how to get him out. It’s the best I can do.”

  Mansur spoke to his fellow Fallen-hybrid agents in a rare local dialect that was neither Russian nor Arabic, but some third language whose roots stretched back into the language spoken in the Sata’an Empire. Tser. One of the agents came forward at Mansur’s urging.

  “This is Abu,” Mansur said. “My cousin. He in Russian army. Abu very … precious.”

  Azrael studied the wiry, dark-haired young man, barely more than a teenager. He dressed like the other Russian soldiers buzzing like angry bees around the hospital, preparing for their clumsy assault. He wasn’t wearing a long Circassian coat. Docked at birth?

  “Abu first child born in clan without tail for as long as our people hide in mountains,” Mansur said as though reading Azrael’s thoughts. “He free of curse of Shay’tan that keep our people enslaved. Only blood mark him as ours.”

  Azrael scrutinized the young man. Sata'anic night vision and their tail were survival traits which bred true no matter how many generations the lizard-people intermarried with humans. It prevented, to this day, descendants of Shay’tan’s rebellious ‘Fallen’ from disappearing, as the Alliance Fallen had done, into Earth’s population. Eliminating Sata’anic genetic features was the holy grail of Fallen forced to serve Lucifer generation after generation due to an unfortunate dominant gene.

  “You wish me to shadow him?” Azrael asked. “And make sure he doesn’t get himself killed as he storms the building?”

  “We be grateful,” Mansur said. “Nobody see you if you don’t wish, Malak al-Maut. Lead Abu to my brother. Get out before either side can frisk and find more than weapons under doctor coat.”

  “I can’t interfere in Russia’s civil war with Chechnya,” Azrael said. “But … perhaps I’ll find those Agents while I’m in there. If so, it will make this mission legitimate.”

  “We positive Salman Raduyev mid-level Agent,” Mansur pulled out some grainy black-and-white surveillance photographs. “These three are rebels we suspect low-level squatters. Fourth one … we not confirm whether squatter or radical Wahhabist.”

  Azrael watched shadows move into position on the tops of buildings. Russian snipers. This raid was about to go down with or without him. It had been a while since Moloch’s priests had attempted to open a portal via a mass human sacrifice, but sometimes during clusterfucks such as this, enough civilians died that a clever Agent could punch a portal through to Gehenna. Perhaps following along, just to observe, might be a good idea?

  “Deal,” Azrael said. “I’ll find your brother … what’s his name?”

  “Abdullah Fa’azi,” Mansur said. “Here photograph.”

  Azrael committed it to memory along with the four suspected Agents of Moloch. Shots were fired from the nearby buildings. Return fire shot back from inside the hospital and from a nearby tall building where the Chechen rebels had holed up with the hostages.

  “C’mon, Abu,” Azrael called. “It’s showtime.”

  “Da, Sir!” Abu gave a perfect Russian military salute. The young man jogged back to the unit he was embedded in while his brethren moved into position, their own sniper rifles aimed to provide cover should it be needed.

  Azrael faded from view, shadowing the young man long enough to determine what his unit's plans were before entering the hospital. Fearful hostages were jammed into several large rooms. Chechen guards with vintage AK-47 Kalashnikov automatic rifles guarded each group clustered on the floor. It would be so easy to intervene…

  No! It was forbidden. As much as Azrael loathed hostage-taking, so far the Chechens had avoided civilian deaths. This was a natural Earth civil war. Several of the terrorists he moved past were reassuring terrified civilians that negotiations were underway to release them in exchange for safe passage back to Chechnya.

  “It as though Raduyev deliberately botch taking of military base,” one Chechen rebel complained to another. “Then he lead us here. Claim taking hospital will gain concessions.”

  “Raiding hospital work in Budyonnovsk,” the second rebel said. “It force Russians to negotiate.”

  “No sooner ink dry on treaty,” the first Chechen groused, “then Yeltsin back to old tricks. It buy us … what? Six months peace?”

  “Don’t matter what I think,” the second rebel said. “Israpilov he just relieve Raduyev of his duties. Say Raduyev act like crazy man. Possessed by demons or something.”

  Azrael’s ears perked up. Now that sounded like a squatter.

  “No matter now,” the first Chechen said with a shrug. “Raduyev head for hills and leave us holding bag.” The rebel casually waved his machine-gun towards the cowering hostages. “We all about to be ground up and spit out by Russian army. Even them.”

  Azrael su
ppressed a sigh of disappointment. The suspected squatter was no longer in the area. Unless he stumbled across one of the suspected lesser-agents, Azrael had no legitimate reason to be here.

  “Russian government no give a shit about own people,” the second rebel complained. “Much less ours. Should have never seize hospital. Kill hostages not what I sign up for.”

  “I don’t care what Israpilov order,” the first Chechen said. “I shoot Russians. No shoot civilians. In hospital, no less! That not kind of jihad Prophet Muhammad speak of, peace be upon him!”

  “Yeah, yeah,” the second rebel said. He turned to the hostages and waved his AK-47 in their direction.

  Azrael paused, contemplating whether he might ‘accidentally’ brush against the rebel with one of his deadly feathers.

  “Listen up!” the second rebel shouted. “Russian army about to invade. You all lay flat on floor. Put hands over back of head so they see you no armed. It lessen chance you get killed by accident.”

  The sobbing hostages did as the terrorist ordered. Azrael reconsidered his earlier, forbidden, contemplation. Scumbag terrorist or not, the Chechen had enough scruples to attempt to lessen the loss of life. Outside, the amount of gunfire increased, as well as explosions that were either mortars or grenades. The so-called ‘rescuers’ were here. It was ironic the hostages were more afraid of the Russian army sent to free them than the terrorists.

  Azrael made a mental note to jot down this entire observation in one of his scientific journals. He had a long list of potential studies he wished to conduct in his now-immortal lifetime. So many studies. So little time. Remorse. From terrorists. A reminder of why he was not supposed to interfere. His fingers itched with the urge to pick up his pencil and start writing. The fingers he could feel ever since the girl had touched them…

  Gunfire peppered against the concrete-and-brick exterior of the hospital. Debris fell from the ceiling as a grenade rocked the building. The hostages screamed. The Russians were coming. Azrael moved into the next room.

  “We kill hostages and show we mean it!” a different Chechen rebel shouted, the muzzle of his rifle pointed at the head of a pale, wan-looking man wearing nothing but a hospital johnnie. “Like we do in Budyonnovsk.”

  The prickling sensation at the edge of his consciousness clued Azrael he’d found his squatters.

  “This no what we sign up for,” a second rebel said, holding out his hand as though to calm his comrade. “These people Muslim. Prophet say is sin to kill fellow Muslim. We wait … kill Russian nonbelievers!”

  Azrael recognized the second rebel as the one Mansur had been unsure about. Not a squatter.

  “We serve much older god,” a third Chechen standing behind him said. “Moloch. Father-god of Whore of Babylon. He come to devour all blasphemy she create. Including you.”

  “Wh-what?” the second rebel asked.

  *BANG*

  The third Chechen shot the second one in the back of the head. The hostages sobbed, terrified, on the floor.

  “Get to work!” the first squatter said. “We only got few minutes before Russians storm hospital.”

  “Save me tall guy over there for next host,” the second squatter who’d shot the non-squatter rebel said, pointing to a handsome Dagestani orderly. “I want to get laid this time. This host body too ugly to attract female.”

  “Who says they need to be willing?” the third squatter jibed. “It taste better when they fight!”

  The pale, wan patient with the muzzle of an AK-47 pressing directly against his forehead made the sign of the cross. Not Muslim. Orthodox Christian, most likely an ethnic Russian. Probably why he’d been targeted first.

  “Saint George, deliver me from evil,” the patient prayed, trembling with fear.

  Azrael winced as the terrorist fired at point-blank range, grey matter exploding out the exit wound onto the faces of the other hostages lying prone upon the floor. The hostages screamed as the now-dead patient fell dead.

  Azrael felt the subtle tear caused in the fabric of the universe whenever a sentient consciousness was tortured or murdered. The Chechen rebel from the other room was right. Moloch’s Agents had deliberately screwed the pooch on the air base as an excuse to commit mass slaughter. By the time the Russian army stormed the building, the squatters would have opened a hole large enough for several low- or mid-level Agents of Moloch to escape and shoved their victims into the hole to feed deities with host-needs too specific to escape. The Agents would simply jump bodies into a hostage injured badly enough to weaken their resistance to possession and walk right out of here.

  “Please … you must not do this!” a doctor said, his body positioned so that he shielded one of his patients. “We are not your enemy.”

  “That one’s next,” the first squatter pointed to the doctor who had spoken up.

  The other two grabbed the doctor and hauled him in front of the one who’d shot the patient. Azrael recognized him as Mansur’s brother, Abdullah. Drat!

  Too many hostages! If he took out one of the squatters, the others would start shooting to open a portal, determined to complete their mission no matter what because agents who failed often found themselves on Moloch's menu. Lucifer segregated larger Agents from the small fry, but it was quite literally dog-eat-dog in Gehenna.

  Azrael dissipated the edges of his physical form into his more versatile void-creature shapelessness and cautiously moved tentacles into position to strike host-bodies without killing Abdullah or the other hostages. Only Abdullah wasn’t about to take his own death gracefully.

  “Allahu akhbar [god is great]!” Abdullah cried. His tail slipped from beneath his long doctor's coat and thwacked one of the squatters as he grabbed at the machine gun of the leader.

  “Shit!” The gun fired into the air.

  The hostages screamed.

  Squatter number three stepped backwards, right into Azrael’s waiting tentacle. The host-body dropped to the ground, dead. The consciousness of a very puzzled-looking Chechen man stepped aside from a curious, angular-looking creature that wasn’t even from this universe, much less this planet.

  “Oh … crap,” the squatter said as he realized the Angel of Death had just knocked his consciousness out of his host body. Azrael grabbed the disembodied wraith with a sturdy tentacle and wrapped it around his throat.

  “Go,” Azrael whispered to the owner of the host body he’d just killed. “Follow the light into the Dreamtime. Before you get sucked into Gehenna.”

  Abdullah thwacked squatter number two with his tail just in time to prevent him from getting his AK-47 aimed. The gun went off, hitting one of the hostages in the shoulder. The hostages scrambled to their feet and rushed towards the door, preventing Azrael from zapping the other two. He twisted his form out of the way so none brushed against him.

  “Our Lord, I rely upon you for strength and courage,” Abdullah prayed as he kicked squatter number one in the knee cap and wrestled to get the gun out of his hand.

  Azrael tapped squatter number two just as he was about to pull the trigger into Abdullah’s head. The host fell to the ground as the consciousness of a strange, furry pink creature stood, suddenly realizing another player had been in the room all along.

  “Moloch’s foot!” the consciousness shouted, attempting to disappear before Azrael could get his hands on it.

  “Why, that’s no ordinary rabbit,” Azrael grabbed the pink fuzzy creature. “That’s the most foul, cruel and bad-tempered rodent you ever set eyes upon!”

  The pink fuzzy consciousness gave a strangled squeak as Azrael wrapped a sturdy tentacle around its throat to immobilize it.

  “And no matter what,” Azrael continued, dragging the two squirming consciousnesses in his wake as though they were toilet paper stuck to his shoe as he moved back to help Mansur’s brother. “Never, ever, feed them after midnight!”

  The lead squatter kicked Abdullah in the crotch. As Abdullah crouched in pain, it brought the butt of the rifle down upon his head, knocking
the dazed Sata’an-human hybrid to his knees.

  “One of Lucifer’s scum,” the lead squatter growled. “Moloch will be pleased to dine upon your consciousness.”

  Azrael reshaped his form into a black Angelic, except for the two tentacles holding the squatters, and visibly materialized just far enough behind Abdullah so he didn’t accidentally touch the hybrid as he struggled to his feet.

  “Boo!” Azrael tapped the squatter in the forehead.

  The host body dropped to the ground, dead. Before the squatter could even open his mouth to sneer, Azrael had it by the throat.

  “Be back in a moment,” Azrael said to Abdullah and three grievously ill hospital patients who’d been too sick to run when the other hostages had made a break for it. He disappeared in a flash, dragging the squatters to the processing chamber to toss into the Keep.

  “Thanks, Az,” Samuel Adams, Lucifer’s current lead intelligence officer said as he summoned guards to haul the three squatters back to Gehenna. “All in a day's work?”

  “Where is he?” Azrael asked, referring to Lucifer, who was nowhere to be seen.

  “Do you really want to know?” Sam gave a wolfish grin and made a lascivious gesture with his tail. Lucifer. Out. Seducing the wife of some billionaire, president, or general. Another half-Angelic offspring carrying Lucifer’s DNA to ‘improve’ the human species.

  “No.” Azrael gave Sam a disgusted look as he handed over the squatters to the guards.

  The squatters were hauled through the stifling heat of the gates to a higher security-level of Gehenna than the one they’d escaped from. Unless they won over whatever disembodied deity ruled the new ring of the hell-dimension, the squatters would end up, themselves, consumed by a ‘bigger fish.’