Armageddon Page 6

  Satan knew that the Sisters were right—how could he possibly focus on conquering Heaven, knowing that he had enemies on earth who might thwart his plans?

  “Scox!” Satan roared, his voice echoing through the vast stone structure. “Damn your eyes, where are you, servant?”

  The red-fleshed creature, the last of an imp species wiped from existence by the angry Satan, ran breathlessly into the chamber.

  “Forgive me, my Darkstar,” the imp said, head bowed, hands before him. “I wasn’t aware that you’d returned. I was watching the human military’s latest attempt to attack us.”

  Satan cocked his head to the side. “And how did they fare?” he asked, mildly amused that humanity was still trying to fight back.

  The imp slowly raised his head to gaze upon his lord and master. “Quite poorly, my lord,” he said with the hint of a smile. “A swarm of enthusiastic gargoyles tore the aircraft to pieces before they could pose a threat.”

  A threat. The word swirled around the Darkstar’s thoughts. The humans, try as they might, would never be successful against him. But the others . . . the half-breeds . . . the Nephilim.

  Even though their numbers had dwindled, and they were scattered to the far corners of the earth, hiding from his wrath . . . still . . .

  A threat.

  “Scox,” Satan said.

  “Yes, m’lord.”

  “The corpses.”

  “Corpses, m’lord?”

  “The bodies of the dead Nephilim that I had exhumed from their graves.”

  “Ah, yes, the corpses,” Scox affirmed.

  “Bring them to me,” Satan ordered. He glanced at the Sisters, who eagerly nodded their hooded heads.

  “I hate to see perfectly good corpses going to waste.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The Architects felt pity for the world of man.

  Or at least it was the closest thing to emotion that such beings could feel. The twelve Architects saw imperfection and were called by duty to correct it.

  In a place neither here nor there, the first of God’s angels perched on ledges in the circular room they called Habitat, staring at a ghostly image of earth slowly spinning before them.

  “Would it not have been easier to wipe it all away with fire or some cosmic event?” asked one of the pale-skinned creatures, his large, dark eyes fixed upon the globe.

  “We’ve talked of this before,” answered another dispassionately. “It was not our purpose to destroy or create anew. We were here—are here—to guide this world to its fulfillment. The raw materials that we require are present for us to utilize . . . clay to be shaped into something wonderful.”

  “It has proven to be nothing but a disappointment,” another Architect added.

  “We are in the process of fixing that,” the one that they called the Overseer interjected.

  The Overseer was the first to have been birthed by God, standing at the right side of the Almighty as his eleven Architect brothers were brought into existence.

  The Overseer and the other Architects were the personification of the Lord’s vision for a world in the throes of birth. They were to oversee its creation, helping to bring the Creator’s vision for this wondrous place to fruition.

  And when that job was done, they were to be no more.

  But the Overseer looked upon the world and saw not perfection, but chaos, and knew that the Architects’ job was far from complete.

  And it wouldn’t be until the earth was like unto Heaven.

  A new Paradise.

  The world had yet to attain that level of perfection . . . but with their assistance, it was closer now than it had ever been.

  So very, very close.

  The Overseer’s mind could not help but wander, recalling soon after the earth was born when his Creator had deemed their services complete.

  How can the Lord think that? the Overseer had thought. This planet . . . this world . . . can He not see the pandemonium that will continue into perpetuity?

  But He was the Lord God Almighty, and to question Him—

  The Overseer remembered the horror as he watched his fellow Architects fade from existence, one after the other, as he prepared to meet his own similar fate.

  And was made nothing with just a thought.

  Nothing.

  The Overseer became slightly agitated with the recollection, as he often did when his thoughts returned to that moment. His brothers turned their watchful eyes from the facsimile of the world to him.

  “You’re thinking of our creation again,” said one.

  “Our second creation,” the Overseer corrected, for he had willed himself and his brethren back into existence.

  The Lord God had moved on to some other grand scheme pertaining to the creation of all things, carelessly leaving behind some minor spark of thought—some flame of inspiration—that took hold of the moment and shaped itself into an idea.

  And then a purpose.

  The Overseer was that idea, and thus lived again, and saw with even more clarity, what it must do to fulfill his beloved master’s aspirations of perfection.

  So it was the Overseer’s time to influence, and his brothers were re-created from the same fires of inspiration that had brought him back.

  It was important to stay focused. They were so close to achieving the perfection their God had yearned for in the earliest of earth’s days.

  “And what of us then?” asked one of the twelve Architects. “What shall our purpose be when perfection is finally attained?”

  The Overseer sensed tension in his brothers. It was thrilling to be on the verge of finally completing their task, but it was also a little frightening.

  They had no desire to cease their existence.

  “Perfection is so easily corrupted,” the Overseer explained. “We will remain, ever vigilant, to ensure that it is maintained.”

  His brother Architects grew calmer, turning their gazes back to the ghostly representation of the world. They liked that answer.

  And so did the Overseer.

  * * *

  The Morningstar was falling.

  Lucifer, who had once been the most blessed of God’s angels, plummeted into darkness, his body stolen by an ancient evil that possessed his physical form, driving his essence deep into hiding within his own damaged psyche.

  Lucifer struggled to regain control, but the creature that called itself Satan was far stronger than he could ever have imagined. And the farther he fell, the harder it would be for him to return—to be forgiven for his sins.

  To finally achieve redemption in the eyes of God.

  Lucifer carried the burden of his many sins, and this misery lived within him. It became his strength. It had fueled his desire for redemption, but now Satan drew power from the Morningstar’s pain.

  Hiding in the recesses of his psyche, Lucifer’s conscience was not spared accountability for the acts performed by the ancient evil inhabiting his skin. In fact, it pushed Lucifer even deeper within himself. From this darkness, he witnessed the murder of the Nephilim Lorelei, a magick user. Tricked by the trusted visage of her teammate, the sweet girl had been viciously struck down.

  And as if that was not enough, Lucifer was forced to endure the agony of seeing Aaron, his only son, lured into an ambush by the guise of his father. As the evil entity plunged a sword of darkness through the boy’s body, Lucifer Morningstar had felt Satan’s supreme joy.

  It had been more than he could bear.

  But as the nothingness rose up to greet him, the Morningstar recollected a long-suppressed memory.

  The memory of his creation.

  He had sprung from nothing to kneel in the Lord’s hand.

  “And I shall call you the son of the morning,” God had said, and the Morningstar had become filled with the light and love of his Creator.

  The first of Lucifer’s memories would now be his last.

  And it would have been Lucifer’s end—if it wasn’t for the sound.

  The Morn
ingstar listened. There was something familiar about the noise.

  The squeak came again.

  Yes, Lucifer knew that sound, and he found himself smiling. It was the voice of the one creature who had befriended him when all others had turned away, who believed that he was good, and kind, and worthy of forgiveness.

  It was the squeak of a mouse named Milton.

  * * *

  The pain was indescribable.

  Dusty lay atop a moldy comforter and wished that he would just hurry up and die.

  Fever racked his body, as if he were burning from the inside out. But that was just a minor discomfort in comparison to the pieces of the Abomination of Desolation’s sword that were lodged in his flesh. Each sliver was vibrating at a different speed. As the shrapnel quivered, Dusty’s head was filled with a cacophony of sound. Each piece of the sword screamed of futures to come.

  A cold, wet nose, followed by the gentle lick of a warm tongue, was enough to send him into spasms. Dusty knew the dog meant well, but it was all too much.

  He managed to turn his head to stare at the Labrador that sat patiently beside him. He could sense the worry radiating from the animal’s deep, dark eyes. He wanted to tell the dog to leave him to his fate, but no sound would come from his lips.

  The pain was incredible, and he couldn’t stop himself from writhing in agony, which only drove the vibrating pieces of metal deeper into his body.

  The dog, Gabriel, got to his feet. His hackles of golden yellow rose along his neck, and sparks of fire leaped from the ends of his fur.

  The dog looked back at Dusty, a message passing between them. Dusty knew that he should try to remain silent, so as not to draw the attention of whatever was in the house.

  Through pain-blurred eyes, he watched as the Labrador, their sole protector, turned gracefully and trotted from the room.

  Again, Dusty was overcome by visions. It was as if each piece of the giant sword once wielded by the Abomination of Desolation was attempting to tell him something. The images were so fleeting that he could barely make out one before the next came crashing into view.

  But Dusty saw a dog—Gabriel—being attacked.

  It took almost every bit of strength that Dusty still had to process these flashes of prescience, to organize them in such a way that they made the slightest bit of sense. But he concentrated with all his might, and they started to vibrate—to speak—at the same frequency. Slowly, the images became more linear, and the pain began to subside.

  From what he could understand, Gabriel was going to be overcome if . . .

  But again the pieces of shrapnel were all communicating at once. Dusty was just about to slip into unconsciousness, when he managed to regain control, visualizing each piece of metal within him vibrating at the same speed.

  Vibrating as one.

  Suddenly it all became clear.

  And Dusty saw what he could—what he would—do to save his friend.

  * * *

  Gabriel knew that trespassers were in the house. He could smell their pee-like scent hanging heavily in the air.

  Cautiously he stalked down the rubble-strewn corridor toward the burned-out remains of the kitchen. The smell was stronger there.

  Gabriel stood in the entryway, his enhanced canine vision searching the gloom for intruders. Gazing about the once-cheery place, the dog could not help but remember his family, and the happy times they had spent together there. Tom, Lori, and little Stevie; they were gone now. Only he and Aaron survived.

  Aaron.

  The dog felt a wave of panic, realizing that he didn’t even know if his master was still alive.

  Distracted by this disturbing thought, he did not notice the creatures in the shadows. They were small, about the size of cats, but walked erect like small children, and were covered in thick, shaggy fur.

  They lunged. Mouths ringed with sawlike teeth, they screamed their excitement as they rushed him. Tiny, clawed hands grabbed at Gabriel’s fur, and the dog released the most ferocious of barks, unleashing the power of the Nephilim.

  Divine fire trailed from Gabriel’s body as he sprang about the kitchen, attempting to elude the swarm of hungry creatures. They came at him from all sides, pouring in through broken windows and up from the basement. Gabriel fought as best he could, snatching the furry varmints in his mouth and shaking them as his holy fire ignited their fur. Then he tossed their flaming bodies into the expanding horde and grabbed for the next.

  Suddenly, the creatures nearest the hallway began screaming, then fell dead. The others started swarming out the kitchen door.

  Gabriel darted around the broken cabinets. There, in the hallway, stood a nearly naked Dusty, arms and legs spread wide. He wiggled his finger wildly, as if urging the creatures to come at him.

  Has Dusty gone crazy? Gabriel wondered.

  Then Dusty let out a horrible shriek, and his wounds began spurting blood. The advancing creatures fell with the dead on the floor, their furry bodies bleeding.

  Gabriel couldn’t understand what it was he was seeing.

  More of the beasts swarmed Dusty, and again, he let out a yell.

  More of them went down, while others tried to escape Dusty’s reach.

  Gabriel poked a dying creature with his paw. A jagged piece of dark metal stuck out from its fur, just above the creature’s tooth-filled mouth.

  A jagged piece of metal.

  Suddenly, that piece of metal began to move, to vibrate, and it shot from the creature’s body, boomeranging back into Dusty’s flesh.

  Is this even possible? the dog questioned, but realized that such a thought was completely foolish given this new, horrible world.

  Gabriel picked his way to Dusty amid hundreds of dead and bleeding creatures, trying not to step on the furry bodies. Dusty had dropped to his knees, breathing heavily.

  “Woof,” Gabriel said to Dusty, who did not have the ability to speak any language as the Nephilim did.

  Dusty lifted his head slowly. The cuts on his face and body were already beginning to heal. “It’s all right now, boy,” he said, a strange smile forming on his bloodstained face. “I’ve figured it all out.”

  Dusty reached out to pet Gabriel’s head, but the Labrador stepped away, avoiding his touch. Moments ago, the young man had been so sick that he could barely move. What happened?

  Dusty laughed again, looking toward his hand as he flexed his fingers.

  “I know what I am now,” he said with a firm nod to Gabriel.

  “I am the sword, and the sword is me.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Vilma brought Aaron’s limp hand to her mouth and kissed it.

  She watched him, imagining how she would react if his eyes suddenly opened.

  “I miss you so much,” she said, as much to him as to herself.

  She was alone with Aaron. Taylor had been called away by one of the Unforgiven for a reason they chose not to share.

  Which was perfectly all right with Vilma. A lot of Taylor’s stories were disturbing, like when she’d explained where she’d been for the last twenty years.

  Vilma couldn’t imagine what it would have been like to go to the hospital to have a baby, then wake up inside a morgue drawer. She recalled Taylor’s explanation of how Mallus, using angel magick, had made the doctors, and hospital staff, believe that she was dead. And the idea of never seeing one’s newborn child, even if it meant saving said child, was just something that she could barely comprehend. It must have been beyond terrible.

  “I know you don’t know she’s here yet, but when I found out who she was, I was pretty pissed,” Vilma told her unconscious boyfriend. “I didn’t think there was any excuse good enough, but now, after hearing why she stayed away . . .

  “I wonder how I would have reacted,” Vilma said, recalling the haunted look in Taylor’s eyes as she told her story. “What must it have been like to learn that the man you’ve loved, the father of your child, was actually Lucifer?”

  She thought about all the chal
lenges she’d faced since meeting Aaron and learning that she, too, was Nephilim. It made it that much easier to accept Aaron’s mother.

  “I really think you’ll like her,” Vilma said to him. “She comes across as a little cold and distant, but I think that probably has something to do with living with the Unforgiven.” She made a face. “Those guys give me the creeps.”

  Mallus had turned Taylor over to the Unforgiven to save her from the dangers of evil forces willing to use her against the angel whose heart she had captured. For her own safety, the safety of her son, and the safety of the world, Taylor Corbet had remained hidden. With the Unforgiven, she worked to keep the world from falling to the mysterious Architects.

  It was an uphill battle.

  Vilma stared at the mechanical healing ring attached to her boyfriend’s chest. She watched the flashes of energy that coincided with the beating of his heart. The device made her nervous, but if it was going to help him . . .

  The healing ring suddenly brightened, pulsing rapidly as Aaron’s body began to twitch.

  Is he waking up?  Vilma jumped to her feet to summon help, but there was no call button. It wasn’t really a hospital anymore. She hated to leave his side, but she had no choice.

  Vilma bolted from the room. “Hey!” she cried.

  The Unforgiven sentry who usually sat at the old reception desk was gone. The entire floor appeared to be empty.

  “Is anybody here?” she shouted, but there was no response.

  Vilma turned back to the room, watching Aaron’s body twitch and shudder. He needed help. She ran back down the hallway and into a darkened stairway. She had no idea whether she should go up or down. Her panic escalated. She leaned against the wall for a moment, trying to calm herself.

  There were scrapes, digs in the paint and stone, as if something—or someone—had rubbed up against it repeatedly. The image of the Unforgiven, their mechanical wings furled upon their backs, immediately came to mind.

  They must use these stairs, she thought.

  It was as good a theory as any.

  And without a moment’s hesitation, Vilma headed down the stairs, hoping that help awaited her somewhere below.