Doomsday Can Wait

by Lori Handeland

  “Your mother—” He glanced up sharply. “Sorry. The psycho bitch from hell said they have their own prophecies.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “What are they? Where are they?”

  “There have always been whispers of a book, composed by a Nephilim that wrote down the prophecies it received in visions from Apollyon.”

  “Revelation in reverse.”

  “Balance,” Sawyer murmured, echoing Carla.

  It made sense in a weird sort of way. Christ versus Antichrist. Angel versus Devil. God versus Satan. Bible versus—

  “What’s their book called?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Who’s got it?”

  He spread his hands.

  I had so many questions. I paused a minute to get my thoughts in order. “Who in hell is Apollyon and where is he now?”

  “Confined in Tartarus.”

  “A Grigori.”

  “The Grigori,” he corrected. “Apollyon means ‘Abaddon’ in Hebrew.”

  “I’m a little rusty,” I said.

  “The Destroyer. The one who will rule when the Grigori are released again on earth.”

  “The Antichrist.” I frowned. “But your mother’s jockeying for that job.”

  For once, he didn’t correct my use of the term. “Your point?”

  “How can she be trying to become the Antichrist by opening Tartarus when the Antichrist is already locked up there?”

  “The prophecy of the Antichrist has always been that he—”

  “Or she.”

  He inclined his head. “—will not just appear on earth, but will have lived here and become a great leader, who is eventually possessed by Satan.”

  Understanding dawned. “When Tartarus is opened and the Grigori are released, Apollyon—Satan—will possess the one who released him.”

  “Yes.”

  “I wouldn’t think the woman of smoke would take kindly to that.”

  “To rule she’d do anything.”

  And who knows, maybe she had another plan up her sleeve. Though what it could be, I had no idea, which was typical lately. I never knew what was going on.

  “I’d really like to get my hands on that book,” I murmured.

  “You and everyone else on heaven and earth.” At my curious glance he continued. “One of the prophecies in the book states the army that carries it is invincible.”

  “Son of a—” I broke off. “Like the Arc of the Covenant?”

  “Balance,” he reminded me. “If the forces of light have an icon that promises invincibility …”

  “Then the forces of darkness get one, too. How in hell are we supposed to win this war again?”

  “Who says that we will?”

  “The proph—” I choked as I realized what he meant. For every prophecy existed a counterprophesy. They canceled each other out.

  I’d been working under the assumption, the belief, the faith, that in the end our side would triumph. But that was because the good guys said so.

  The bad guys said so, too.

  Sawyer’s eyes met mine. “Faith means nothing if the outcome is preordained.”

  “What?” He was reading my mind again, and I was too shook to think straight.

  “Faith is belief in the unbelievable. Rock-solid conviction that the unseen is real. Support of a truth that could very well be untrue.”

  “A prophecy.”

  “Exactly. To win, Phoenix, you have to believe that you will.”

  CHAPTER 21

  In order to win, I had to believe that I would.

  Easy for him to say.

  We slept in separate beds, which seemed stupid after what we’d shared, but it wasn’t my idea. I wouldn’t have said a word if Sawyer had climbed in beside me. I wouldn’t have said a word if he’d wanted to be inside me.

  But he’d pulled back emotionally, and he seemed to be following up by pulling back physically. I figured he didn’t know how to handle feelings. How could he?

  And right now I didn’t have time to psychoanalyze, even if I were capable of it. I had enough issues of my own.

  I had a hard time sleeping, and not just because of the new info on prophecies—good, bad, and potentially worthless. Every time I started to drift off, the wind howled like a furious woman, rattling the window so loudly there were times I thought it might shatter. Since I thought there was a furious woman out there trying to break the protective spell Sawyer had cast over us, I had my doubts that what I heard was the wind.

  And then there were my unvoiced fears. Would we win? Could we win? Who would die and how many?

  I finally fell into an exhausted and fitful rest. I should have known that Ruthie would come.

  I opened the white gate, walked up the pristine sidewalk, caught the scent of summer wind and burgeoning flowers. In Ruthie’s heaven, the sun always shone, and the rains never came. It was heaven, after all.

  She was in the backyard with the kids, at least a dozen. Had they all come from Lake Vista? Did it even matter? I hated when Ruthie had a full house. It was like a big guilt party thrown just for me.

  I sat next to her on a bench near the wall, where the overhang cast a bit of shade. Our arms brushed. She was solid; so was I. Everything here was just the same as it was on earth, even when it was different.

  For instance, Ruthie looked the same, but she was dead. The house looked different from the place she’d died, yet it was still her house. These visions were like dreams—a combination of the familiar and the bizarre. Yet, somehow, I understood they were also real.

  “Do you know anything about a book of Satanic prophesies?”

  “Mmm-hmm,” Ruthie murmured, eyes closed, head resting against the white aluminum siding.

  “This wasn’t something you thought I should be clued in to?”

  “What for?” Ruthie opened one eye. “No one’s ever found the thing.”

  “How do you know?”

  “You think if they had it, we’d still be breathin’?”

  “You’re not breathing,” I pointed out.

  “Not because of the Book of Samyaza.”

  “I suppose Samyaza is just another name for Satan.”

  “Yes.” Ruthie opened both eyes and sat up, casting a quick glance at the children.

  They’d begun playing king of the mountain on a grass-covered hill that hadn’t been there five minutes ago. When I’d arrived they’d been playing softball on a diamond that had now disappeared. Talk about a heavenly playground.

  “Samyaza was the leader of the earthly angels,” Ruthie continued. “His name means ‘adversary’ in Hebrew.”

  “Adversary, destructor. What’s Hebrew for ‘asshole’?”

  Ruthie turned her head. She wasn’t above smacking me in the mouth if the occasion warranted it. I could tell by her expression, I was skating perilously close to such an occasion.

  “Why all the different names?” I asked in a respectful and contrite voice.

  Ruthie’s attention returned to the children. They all played together—toddlers and tweens. Whenever we’d tried to start a game of king of the mountain, on the mammoth snowpiles left behind by the city plows, Ruthie had always put the kibosh on it as too dangerous.

  Someone’s gonna get hurt and then there’ll be trouble.

  Social services took a dim view of broken arms in foster care. Sadly, they were rarely an accident.

  I doubted arms could be broken here no matter what these kids did. So a game of king of the mountain, even with someone three times your age and five times your weight, wasn’t going to be dangerous at all. I’d envy them, except they were dead.

  “The true name of the Devil is known only to God,” Ruthie answered, “who stripped Satan of all identity when he rebelled.”

  “Then where did the word ‘Satan’ come from?”

  “Hebrew term for the Devil was Ha Satan. Lucifer is the name given to him by the Babylonians. He said he was the angel of light, the morning star.”


  “When, exactly, did he claim this?”

  ” ‘How you have fallen from heaven, O star of morning, son of the dawn!’” Ruthie quoted. “Isaiah—chapter fourteen, verse twelve.”

  “I don’t remember that one.”

  Ruthie’s eyes narrowed. “Mebe you should have paid better attention in church.”

  “I knew I was going to regret that.” Perhaps not then, but I sure did now. Wasn’t that always the way? Church never seemed like a good idea until it was too late.

  “The evil one was called different things by different prophets.” Ruthie paused, tilting her head until the sun sparked a halo around her graying Afro. “I believe John used the term ‘evil one’ Matthew, Mark, and Luke called him ‘Beelzebub,’ Prince of Demons. In second Corinthians, Paul calls him ‘Belial,’ or worthless.”

  Despite Ruthie’s admonition, I had a hard time believing I’d zoned out during a sermon on the multiple names of Satan. I doubted the info would be of much use to a layman.

  “I still don’t understand what purpose is served by confusing everyone with all these names.”

  “Having too many names is worse than having no name at all. Who are you? No one knows. No one cares,”

  “People care.” Way too much.

  Sometimes I thought the modern world was more interested in Satan, in all his incarnations, than they were in God. Which was probably why we were in the fix we were in. Despite my stupidity about all things Doomsday, I did seem to recall the end times following a pe-roid of disintegrating moral values.

  “Naming Satan based on a characteristic separates him into pieces,” Ruthie said. “He’s parts, not a whole. With no true name, no true identity. He is defeatable.”

  “You believe that?”

  She met my eyes, and in hers I saw utter conviction. “I do.”

  I took a deep breath and leaned back against the house. I wished I had Ruthie’s faith. But I couldn’t tell her so. She might knock my block off, and I liked my block right where it was.

  Ruthie had always had many colorful ways to threaten us. Along with the aforementioned knocking off of the block, there had been “slap you silly,” “slap you stupid,” “knock your head to a peak and then knock the peak off,” “knock you into next week,” “kick your butt so hard you’ll be wearing it for a hat,” and my particular favorite, “pull your lip over your head until your inside is your outside.”

  In truth, she rarely touched us except with love. The warning was all that was needed. Usually.

  “Why you smilin’?” Ruthie asked.

  Remembering Ruthie’s threatened retaliations for misbehavior had only made me think of how very much I wanted to save the world. The world was worth saving. Ruthie had been worth saving. Too bad I hadn’t known she’d need saving until she was dead.

  “No reason,” I said, and she lifted a brow. Of all her children, I’d probably been the least inclined to smile for no reason. Didn’t mean I couldn’t change. Not that I had.

  “If Satan’s confined in Tartarus,” I continued, “and has been since the angels fell”—whenever that was— “then how is it that the apostles and prophets were chatting about his deeds long after his imprisonment?”

  “Just ‘cause he’s locked up don’t mean he can’t cause trouble. That’s what the Nephilim are here for. And make no mistake, he’s been pullin’ their strings all along.”

  “What about possession?” I sat up again. “Exorcist-type stuff? Does that happen?” “Of course.”

  “So not only do I have to worry about actual demons on earth—”

  “Half demons,” she corrected. “Least until one of them opens Tartarus.”

  “Fine.” I rubbed my forehead. “Right now I’ll worry about half demons and people possessed by demons.”

  “I wouldn’t worry too much about the possessed.”

  “Why not?” I’d seen The Exorcist. I wasn’t sure I’d ever be able to stop worrying about that.

  “These days when people start gibberin’ in other languages, throwing up pea soup, and discussing the demons whisperin’ in their heads, what do you think happens?”

  “They’re given antibiotics and a free vacation at Camp Psycho.”

  “Got that right,” Ruthie agreed.

  Which meant that the possessed were incarcerated. Though I was certain not all of them were.

  “Have you ever tried to find the Book of Samyaza?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “No one’s ever seen it. We have no idea what that book looks like, or if it truly exists.”

  I had a feeling it existed. A really, really bad feeling.

  “Wouldn’t it be better to have it in our hands, to destroy it?”

  “Better it stays hidden. Find the book and there’s a good chance the thing could be stolen or used by the one who found it to—”

  “You think one of us would try and rule the world?”

  “Lizbeth,” Ruthie said quietly, “even Christ was tempted.”

  Silence fell between us. When she was right, she was right.

  “Never mind,” she said at last. “Huntin’ for the thing ain’t practical. No one knows where the Book of Samyaza is. No legends, no rumors, not a hint.”

  That we knew of. I couldn’t believe that if the Nephilim had a weapon like that, they didn’t have some inkling where it was. I couldn’t believe they weren’t searching for it.

  “The benandanti has more information to help you,” Ruthie said.

  The thud of a basketball against pavement had me glancing at the kids. A cement court complete with two baskets had replaced the grassy knoll.

  “She couldn’t tell me yesterday?”

  “You didn’t ask ” Ruthie stood and moved into the sunlight.

  “Ask what?”

  “How to kill the woman of smoke.”

  I blinked. “Seriously?” Ruthie nodded. “Why don’t you tell me?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me to ask her that when you told me to go and see her?”

  “There are rules.” Ruthie’s lips compressed. She didn’t appear too happy about those rules at the moment. “There are things you must do. A path you must take. A path others must follow. Everything happens in its time.”

  We’d had this discussion before. Since hundreds of people had just died by werewolf, and I hadn’t been able to stop it, I wasn’t too thrilled with the rules then, either.

  Ruthie turned and laid a hand on each of my shoulders. Her bony fingers felt like bird talons against my skin. “You’re gonna have to be brave, Lizbeth.”

  I lifted my eyebrows. “Have I been particularly cow-ardly so far?”

  “Listen,” she snapped, and her grip tightened. “You’ll have to do things you don’t wanna do; you’ll have to hurt people you don’t wanna hurt.”

  She turned away as quickly as she’d turned to me, dropping her hands to her sides and clenching them tightly.

  The house, the kids, Ruthie began to fade. Before it disappeared completely, I could have sworn I heard her whisper, “I did.”

  I awoke in the hotel room. The sun spilled around the edges of the closed curtains and traced patterns across the floor. Sawyer was gone.

  That got me out of bed in a hurry. I pulled back the shades. The Impala sat exactly where I’d left it; there wasn’t a sign of Sawyer anywhere.

  Cursing, I hopped around trying to shove my legs into my jeans, catching one foot in the trailing material and nearly falling on my face. I’d just zipped them when the doorknob rattled. I had my gun in my hand before Sawyer came inside. His calm gray gaze lifted from the barrel, pointed at his chest, to my face.

  “What did you expect?” I muttered.

  He wore one of my dirty T-shirts, a pastel purple I’d never been wild about. The material strained around his pecs and biceps. I was surprised he hadn’t burst through it like the Incredible Hulk.

  Combined with the red shorts and my tennis
shoes— which seemed too big—he looked like a street person. The bags he juggled only added to the ensemble.

  “You went shopping?” I was incredulous.

  “I have been known to.”

  I’d figured he lived on his land near the mountains and rarely, if ever, ventured into a nearby town. Though he had to sometimes if only to buy coffee and eggs.

  Sure, Sawyer had been confined to the Dinetah for who knows how long, but Navajo land was the size of West Virginia, so they probably had plenty of malls— definitely a Wal-Mart or ten, which, according to the emblem on the bags, was where he’d been.

  I upended several. Clothes poured out. Underwear, shoes, socks, also toiletries. His bags held food. Tiny chocolate doughnuts and bananas, granola—I don’t think so—juice and a pack of cigarettes.

  I picked them up. “Seriously?”

  He lifted a brow. Stupid question. He was probably half mad for a cigarette after loping about without any for however long he’d been loping.

  I didn’t bother to preach about the dangers. I was a bartender, after all. Those who smoked, smoked. Those who quit would still be smoking if it weren’t for that killer of joy everywhere: lung cancer. Since Sawyer didn’t have such a worry, I tossed him the pack.

  “Any sign of her?” I asked.

  Sawyer shook his head.

  “You were taking a chance going off on your own.”

  His lips curved. “You think you could protect me?”

  Probably not, but—

  “She could have killed you. Then she’d have come for me.” I fingered the turquoise. “Will this thing work if you’re dead?”

  He shrugged. I had a feeling that was Sawyer code for no.

  I ate a doughnut, slugged some juice, wished for coffee and started the tiny pot in the bathroom.

  “Why hasn’t she killed you?” I didn’t think the woman of smoke would be bothered by a little kidicide or whatever the term was for murdering one’s own child. In my opinion she’d done worse—the thought of which put me off my doughnuts.

  Sawyer glanced up from his handful of grass and pinecones—I mean granola. “I told you, she wants my power.”

  And the only way for her to get it was to seduce him to her side or kill him and remove it from ours. “Still not seeing why she hasn’t hit you with a lightning bolt or something.”