Pariah

by Thomas Emson

  A tear ran from his eye.

  Chapter 117

  THE FINAL BATTLE

  They separated, both of them nursing wounds.

  Jack had slammed into Faultless from behind, catching him off guard. He had the upper hand after the sneak attack and managed to injure Charlie. Blood flowed from cuts on his body, and part of his cheek hung off his face.

  But Faultless had managed to fight back.

  Flapping his wings now as he floated above the earth, he saw that Jack was also badly wounded. His mouth gushed blood. He looked as if he’d been scalped, a section of his hair and the skin beneath ripped away to reveal his skull. His clothes were tattered. As he hovered opposite Faultless, his cape fluttered. Faces contorted in the material. For a moment, Faultless was transfixed.

  “They are the souls I’ve stolen for hell,” said Jack. “I keep a little bit of them with me.”

  “They’re mine now,” said Faultless.

  Jack laughed. “You want them? You want all this?” He gestured to the earth below.

  Faultless looked. Whitechapel was in ruins. Commercial Street had been split in two, right down its middle. In the gash, Faultless saw hell burning under the earth. It was a lake of fire. A bubbling mass of molten lava.

  “Our war is tearing the place apart,” said Jack.

  He was right. Faultless saw death and destruction. Buildings collapsed. The ground opened up. People fell into the earth. They were crushed under falling masonry. The carnage spread for miles. It reached the towers of Barrowmore. They trembled as the quake rippled across London. From his vantage point, he saw the ruin of the city.

  To the southwest, the Tower of London turned to rubble. The City crumpled.

  Looking to the south, Faultless saw the Thames rise in a tidal wave. The waters ploughed through Tower Bridge, smashing through the granite and bending the girders.

  Faultless swiveled.

  To the east Barking and Dagenham became a wasteland, and tower blocks collapsed and terraced streets fell like dominoes. Only a few days ago, he’d stared across to those streets from his flat. It seemed so long ago. It seemed that it was not him staring out of that window.

  “Beautiful, ain’t it?” said Jack. “All down to us. You and me.”

  Faultless suddenly thought of Tash. He wondered if she’d escaped. He touched his chest, remembering a warm feeling he’d once had in there when he thought of her. He felt it no longer. He felt nothing after his father had torn out his heart, holding the pulsing muscle up in front of Faultless’s face and saying, “You have no need of this any more. Hearts are for humans. And they are the hiding place of sin. But now you are sin.”

  Jack said, “You know I’m stronger than you. You know I was the firstborn. You should give it up. Throw yourself into the fire. It’s easy.”

  Faultless looked into hell. Down there, the tortured screamed. They burned forever in the fire. Their suffering was endless.

  “Last chance, Charlie,” said Jack. He tore at his clothes. His body bore similar markings to Faultless’s torso. Tattoos of ancient writings and lost symbols. The shreds of his shirt floated down to the earth. His still wore his cloak. But it was part of him now. It had fused into his arms and his shoulders. His skin, where cloth and flesh welded together, took on the cloak’s color. It seeped into him, threads penetrating his body and coiling themselves like snakes around his sinews. “I’ve lived too long to give this up,” he said.

  Jack brought his hands to his chest and opened himself up like a jacket. His flesh came away like a discarded piece of clothing, and underneath was his true self.

  Faultless flinched.

  The thing before him was black and leathery. Its dark eyes were set in a ebony, goat-shaped head with curling horns. A black tail lashed the air behind the creature, and its legs were bent backwards at the knee.

  A terrible voice came from the things throat. “Think you can beat me, Charlie? Look at me. I am the lord who gapes. I am the lantern of the tomb. I am the moth eating at the law.”

  “No you’re not,” said Faultless. “I am.”

  Jack smiled. “Is that what he told you, our father on high? He told you that you were chosen? You were his favorite? Lies, brother. Lies. He’s always loved me, because I’m the first-born. I’ll hurl you down to hell and send those bitch seers after you—in pieces.”

  Faultless attacked. He clawed with his hands, and he sliced with his wings. Jack fought back, tearing with his talons, kicking with his hooves, and biting with razor-sharp teeth.

  The more they battled, the more the world beneath them broke.

  As he whirled with Jack through the sky, Faultless caught glimpses of London. It burned and crumbled and fell into heaps. People were crushed and plunged through the huge clefts that had opened up across the city and sailed down into the fires and into torment.

  Faultless and Jack separated for a second time, both weakened.

  “Why is he doing this to me?” said Jack.

  “Maybe he’s had enough of you.”

  “He made me. I am his offspring.”

  “Fathers can be cruel.”

  “He loves you more, doesn’t he?”

  “I don’t know if that’s a good thing.”

  “You can’t kill me.”

  “I’ll give it a try.”

  Faultless attacked.

  Chapter 118

  DEATH OF AN ANGEL

  Jack was more powerful than Faultless expected. Having shed its human skin, the creature seemed to have grown stronger and more confident. And when it gripped Faultless from behind, its talons tearing into Charlie’s throat, he thought he’d been lied to by Lew. Just like Jack said.

  They wheeled around in the darkening sky. Down below, London crumbled.

  He can kill me, thought Faultless, trying to pry the claws away from his throat. And if he does, what happens then?

  Faultless flexed his wings, flapping them violently in an effort to dislodge Jack.

  As they swooped and flailed, Faultless glimpsed the people a mile beneath him, desperately trying to flee the falling city. The earth opened, and hundreds fell into the chasm. Buildings fell and crushed hundreds more. Others drowned as the Thames overflowed.

  For a moment, he wondered what he was fighting for.

  Is it worth it? Can’t I just let him kill me?

  But then his mind filled with Tash, with his mother, with Rachel, with Jasmine, with Hanbury.

  Again he felt nothing for them, but something in the far distance of his mind was calling out to remind him what they had meant to him.

  Remember, the voice was calling, remember your heart . . .

  A surge of energy raced through Faultless. He grasped Jack’s wrists, and with a yell of rage, prized them apart. The skin of his throat came away too, but it didn’t affect him.

  What was skin when you were an angel?

  He yanked his adversary over his head and flung him through the air. Jack sailed through the clouds, sparks flying off his body.

  Faultless flapped his wings, guiding himself in Jack’s direction.

  He speared himself towards the other, rage contorting his face.

  As he dived, hawk-like, Faultless saw that his adversary was regaining his balance by using his cape. And then he faced the oncoming Charlie, beckoning him.

  “Come on, brother,” he growled. “See if you can better me. See if our father lied to you.”

  Faultless hesitated.

  It was enough time for Jack to act. He stretched out his arms, and his cape spread out. The faces that seemed to live in the folds came alive again. Before, they had been masks of pain. But now, suddenly, the expressions had changed.

  The faces snarled with hatred.

  Dozens of them embedded in the cape.

  Faultless tried to pull out of his lunge,
but it was too late.

  They spooled from Jack’s cape, hate-fuelled faces attached to the bodies of serpents. They shot towards Faultless, jaws wide to display sharp teeth. Their black eyes glistened, their nostrils flared. And from their throats came shrieks of fury.

  Faultless reared up, his wings flapping wildly as he readjusted his flight.

  But the first demon struck him, its teeth sinking into his chest. Faultless yelled out and bashed at the fiend’s head, but then another smashed into him, latching on to Charlie’s arm. More came in, swooping, taking quick bites at him and retreating or sinking their teeth into him and holding on. He howled with rage, striking out at the demons, slicing at them with his wings.

  Laughter filled the sky.

  A few yards away, Jack hovered. The serpents were still attached to his cape. He pointed at Faultless and said, “After they’ve finished with you, I’ll have them spit you out—what’s left, that is.”

  Faultless fought for his life. He managed to dislodge one of the demons and decapitate it with his wing. The others loosened their grip on him, as if they’d felt the dead serpent’s pain. Even Jack faltered.

  And then Faultless swooped. His huge wings powered him at a tremendous speed, making him nothing but a blur to anyone who was looking up at that moment.

  With the demons still attached to him, he zoomed in a circle around the Jack-thing. Faultless looped around his adversary, winding the serpents around him.

  Jack shouted, “No . . . no . . . stop . . . ”

  But Faultless flew furiously. His wings battered the air. The biting demons tore at his skin. But as they tightened around their master’s body, their grip on Faultless slackened.

  Soon, Jack was wrapped in his cape and coiled in the serpents. They were knotted together around him and shrieked with panic. They whipped about, trying to escape. Jack screamed at them as he was dragged around. Sparks flew from the coiling mass of flesh formed by him and his demons.

  “Let me live, brother,” he squealed. “Let me live, and we’ll share this world between us . . . let me live . . . ”

  Faultless said, “No,” and went in for the kill.

  Chapter 119

  THE GATES OF HELL

  “Back, get back,” PC Alison Care told the crowd, “Get away from here now.” She was standing on the corner of what had once been Fournier Street. Now it was a heap of asphalt, buckled and swollen as if some enormous pressure valve had exploded from below.

  Commercial Street had been ripped open. It had been peeled back to reveal a huge, deep cavern that fell away for miles into a fiery pit. Care could smell the sulphur and feel the heat. She knew exactly what was down there. Her father was a pastor in North London, and now she regretted turning her back on God—maybe now was the time she needed him.

  Dad had always begged her to return. He’d warned that something like this would happen. Dad had said that before Jesus came back, there would be wars and rumors of war, just like it said in the Bible. There would be famines, plagues, and earthquakes.

  Earthquakes just like this one.

  “You have to repent,” said Dad. “You have to come to Christ, Alison, or you are doomed.”

  Alison thought that she’d go to heaven by being good.

  “No,” said Dad. “Ephesians tells us that it is through grace that we are saved, not through our works. The day is coming, Alison. Accept Christ or suffer in hell forever.”

  Now she wanted to repent. Now she wanted Christ. But maybe it was too late.

  Someone screamed. One of many screams. But this particular voice caught Care’s attention.

  It was a boy, aged about six.

  He was standing near the edge of the crevice where the Ten Bells pub had stood, up until a few minutes ago. Now the pub and many of the buildings next to it had gone. They had crumpled and dropped into the earth. The bricks and the mortar, the wood, the glass, the steel, and the people who had been inside them, had fallen into the fire.

  The boy screamed again. He was crying. Covered in dust, he shivered, and Care thought he would topple over and fall.

  She’d seen hundreds, maybe thousands, die in the past few minutes—at least she could save one.

  But then she thought about repentance again.

  Faith, not good works, is the way to heaven, she heard her father say.

  She looked at the boy. He was shrieking in terror.

  Good works were better, she thought. Heaven can wait.

  She ran to the boy and plucked him up into her arms and turned away from the abyss. But the ground was shaky. It kept rumbling, and it would suddenly rise up like a wave. Just like now. The bulge in the ground lifted Care off her feet, and the boy fell from her arms. She rolled, trying to grab for him, but he slipped down near the edge of the chasm.

  Care struggled to her feet.

  Cars tipped over, into the gorge that had opened up on Commercial Street. People ran in every direction. Falling buildings crushed some of them. Others fought among themselves to escape, and the weaker ones were pushed into the canyon, where they fell screaming into the fiery depths.

  It was carnage.

  Her dad had been right.

  She started to pray.

  But then the child cried again.

  He knelt near the precipice.

  Care stopped praying and started to crawl towards him.

  “Come to me, Daniel, come to Mummy,” said a voice.

  Care looked. A woman in a white dress stained with blood held out her arms to the child.

  The woman stood near the edge of the pit.

  She called to the boy again. “Come on, Daniel. Jesus is coming. We have to go and meet him. Jesus is coming.”

  The boy ran to the woman. She scooped him up in her arms. Care felt terror seep through her. She started to yell, “No, don’t,” but it was too late—woman and child leapt into the chasm.

  Care screamed.

  London was being destroyed. Her dreams were shattered. She stayed on all fours, crying. The ground shook beneath her. Commercial Street and the surrounding areas were slowly being flattened. People were dying in the thousands.

  And here she was on her hands and knees, doing nothing.

  She was getting up when she saw them—a woman with blonde hair, a girl aged about eleven, and a youth in his late teens.

  They all stared ahead and strode confidently through the chaos. Around them, Whitechapel collapsed. Death was everywhere. But they just bounded into the road and kept moving.

  Care felt she should be close to them. She felt they knew where they were going. She also thought they might know what was happening.

  “Wait,” she said to them. “Police, wait.”

  The youth turned. His eyes showed fear. They were glazed over, like he was on drugs.

  “Keep moving . . . we have to get away,” the blonde woman told him.

  “I order you to stop,” said Care uselessly.

  The woman told her, “You have to get out of here. Away from the gates.”

  “What gates?” said Care. “What’s . . . what’s happening? You know. Tell me. What gates?”

  The woman looked up before staring directly at Care. “When it ends, he’ll take everything around here with him. Just get away.” The woman then grabbed the young girl at her side by the arm and said, “Come on, Jasmine.”

  Before Care could stop them, they had gone. She watched them, and the youth looked back and up into the sky, where the woman had previously looked.

  Care followed his gaze.

  She furrowed her brow, staring hard, trying to focus.

  Her mouth dropped open and while she squinted, something kept repeating itself in her head:

  The gates . . . the gates . . . the gates . . .

  High above Whitechapel, a ball of black fury whizzed and whirled. Watchin
g it, Care could occasionally see feathers or horns or talons or hooves in the spinning mass. The night sky filled with lightning now. It cracked the heavens, and Care was sure that when those cracks appeared, she could see eyes looking through. It made her gasp with fear.

  Something terrible was happening.

  An old score was being settled.

  The end of something approached.

  A shape flew out of the spiraling ball of feathers and horns. The rest of the shape followed it, and then Care saw more clearly what had been wheeling about up there.

  A man with huge black wings.

  A devil, she thought. Or an angel.

  Others spotted it now, and they all looked up, their attempts to escape forgotten.

  Care craned her neck to see the battle.

  The winged man grabbed the other shape and pounded it until sparks flew from its body.

  The earth gave one last mighty shake, throwing Care and all the other spectators off their feet.

  And then the winged man hurled the other figure down, and it plunged, screaming, a tail of fire following it. The shape fell into the chasm. The earth groaned. A tower of fire shot up from the deep to light up the sky like it was day. In the light, Care saw the winged man clearly. He was powerful and beautiful, and his wings held him up easily.

  The flaming lance was sucked back into the ground. Darkness and silence fell across London. Care held her breath. Those around her whimpered and prayed.

  And then the ground lurched and lifted. Care scrabbled at the asphalt. Her fingers were torn. She cried out for God, repenting of her sins and begging to be saved.

  The others who had stayed to watch did the same.

  But no one listened.

  The groaning earth swallowed them all, sucking them down, along with buildings and cars and streets.

  Above her, the gorge sealed, closing Care off from any hope of life. She flailed and fell, thousands falling with her. She looked down, and the lake of fire waited miles below. And as she and the others plunged towards it they all screamed at God for salvation. But God didn’t listen.