Last of the Mighty (12 page)

The Viking Watcher surveyed me from across the room with a small grin. The kind psychos wore before they strangled you to death and sewed buttons to your eyelids. He squatted to get a better view into a Plexi display. A low growl came from his throat.

His sky blue eyes reached for mine.

Seized them.

Shook them.

And wouldn't let go.

Amos was at my shoulder now, hand checking the chest pocket of his overalls. His lips squeezed into a knot as he remembered that the Fourth Nail was with the Ducks.

The Watcher stood and went to the next case.

“Welcome to CIA!” said Duck-Tall, smiling, then frowning, as he took in the Watcher's full eight-feet-something. “M-may I—”

A wind whipped through the place as the front door flung open again. Duck-Tall's attention yanked away from the Viking and to the nine-foot, blond man striding in. Rather grandly. He had the air of a surfer just off the waves—happy, and casually dressed in a t-shirt, flip flops, comfortable pants, and a gold wrist guard.

My eyes swung to Amos and I stung him with the I-tried-to-warn-ya-about-helping-me look. Added a head tilt for emphasis.

“Well, well!” chimed the handsome newcomer, grinning at me with his eyes wide and face bright. “If it isn't Augustine Caffrey.” He gave an amused whistle. “The Mighty One himself!”

He must've gotten my name from the “Wanted” posters that had apparently been hung all over Demon World.

“What a pleasure indeed!” He waltzed toward us with a huge hand outstretched to shake.

I couldn't tell what he was up to. He seemed sincere enough, as well as welcoming and gracious, but if the blond Watcher was my next test, he'd surely been sent to kill me. My muscles tensed. I moved into a ready position. Tuned into The Symphony to see what I could find. Nothing.

Amos posted himself in front of me and faced blondie with that whole over-my-dead-body thing. Arms folded. Feet spread. Chin raised. Chawing on his toothpick. A little over the top for my taste, but that was Amos.

The Watcher stepped back. “Hey, whoa, hey.” He held up a palm and said, “I come in peace.” He separated his fingers to make that V shape associated with Spock and the Vulcans. “Okay, okay.” He rolled his eyes. “So it's supposed to mean live long and prosper, I know, but you get my drift. I mean you no harm.”

Blondie shook Amos's hand, but when the Watcher stretched to shake mine, Amos grabbed the surfer's arm, pushed it away, and said, “Tha's close enough, friend.”

“Okay, that's cool,” the Watcher held up his hands. “I feel ya. You're just doin' your job.” Then he turned to me, and said, "I am the infamous Azazel!” He grinned while bowing with a flourish. “But call me Zaze. Packs a better punch, don't you think? Yeah, me too. Zaze…” he said, like a circus ringleader, and looked up to the imaginary billboard with his name in lights.

Azazel, huh? The leader of the Watchers who was to blame for all sin in the world. The psychonaut Merryn had warned me about.

“I see you've met my colleague, Uzza.” He motioned to the Viking.

Uzza scowled, snorted.

Azazel cupped a hand alongside his mouth, glanced at the Viking, and whispered, “Anger issues.” Then he did that exploding bomb thing with his hands. “Now.” He clapped his hands. “Love to stay and chat, but I've arranged a little ‘incident'”—he did the air quotes, and somehow looked okay doing it—“that should pretty much incapacitate this whole place here in…like…” He peeked at his watch. “Fifty-four seconds, give or take.”

Duck-Short sidled forward, and asked, “What you mean ‘incapacitate?'”

“Well don't blame me, silly.” Azazel shook his head. “You're the ones giving away all the weapons. I mean, you can't just let Og borrow one of your relics, have him Pit a couple demons with it, then expect to get away with it. There are rules, y'know.”

“We never give Og weapon!” objected the Ducks. “Meet him only first time today.”

“Yeah. Uh huh. And I—”

A far-off screak of birds caught Azazel's ear.

“Ooh!” His eyes lit up. “Right on schedule!” He hopped in excitement and did a happy little tap dance.

In the distance, a tree trunk splintered with an eerie crack of bark. Then a rumble of a landslide diving down the mountain.

“If my calculations are corrrrrect…” Azazel licked his index finger and held it up to find the wind “and they usually are…” he followed his damp finger to the corner of the CIA, “the first boulder should hit… right… about… here.”

Outside, the mountain cried and tree limbs split, the roar of the rockslide growing louder.

Amos grabbed me and we hastened away from the oncoming disaster.

As the thunder of destruction plummeted toward us, Azazel closed his eyes and lifted his face to Heaven. Smiling. Arms spread wide. Happily waiting for a mass of rock to crash through the wall and crush him.

“Uzza!” Zaze shouted over the noise. “Bring them to me.”

The Viking grinned and marched toward us.

The floor bucked as Uzza came at us. I busted open the nearest Plexi and snapped up the old Roman whip inside. It had a wooden handle and four long, thick leather cords. Each leather strip had pieces of bone, broken glass, and shards of metal fixed into it. If it were an authentic Christian artifact, the whip would cause Uzza some serious pain. Maybe even Pit him.

Amos tried to shove me aside. I pushed him back. If anyone was going to die battling Uzza, it was me. This was my test, not Amos's.

I stood my ground, whip in hand, staring down the Viking Watcher.

The Viking suddenly broke left, away from Amos and me.

Toward the Ducks.

“No!” I yelled, and dashed to protect them.

But Uzza was faster.

He snatched the Ducks by their necks and in one easy motion, tossed them toward the coming boulders.

The Ducks soared across the room and dropped at Azazel's feet.

Just as a huge boulder blasted through the wall, bombing the place with plaster, dust, wood, and glass.

The rock passed over the Ducks like a steamroller. The screams. The grinding. The crunch of bone. It mashed them into paste.

Azazel was next in line. Still and smiling, arms outstretched, he went down, his whole body sucked beneath the boulder. Granite jaws chewed him up before spitting him out in the wake.

Continuing on its course, the monster stone laid waste to the CIA before puncturing through the opposite wall and exiting the building.

The room quieted. Only the hum and flicker of halogens.

I peered through the thick, ashy-gray haze of dust and debris to see something rise from the wreckage near the hole in the wall.

“Whew!” It was Azazel. He looked like a powdery ghost. “What a RRRUSH!” He brushed himself off. “That was AWESOOOMME!”

Nothing but a few scratches. The advantages of immortality.

“We got three more comin'.” He shook his head, a dust cloud lifting from his blond hair. “I highly suggest we motor. Not much ti—”

A too-close crack of timber, then another round of rolling thunder stopped him.

Azazel checked his watch. “Take cover, boys!” he screamed over the noise. “Train number two's arriving early.”

Outside the window, forty yards away, the second boulder was flooring it straight for me and Amos.

I shoved him to safety then dove after him.

Too late.

The rock exploded into the NAACP and slammed into my ankle.

Thank God I'd gotten airborne.

The impact spun me, and my skull slapped into the boulder. My brain flashed with pain and a bright light—the whiteout caused by blunt force trauma.

I woke with my eyes blurred and my body buried waist-deep in a mound of plaster, earth, Plexi, and wood. Somehow, I hadn't been crushed.

Azazel stood before me. Concerned. Offering help. He urged me to take his hand. His mouth moved, but the words were a jumbled mush of echo and distortion.

At the edge of my vision, darkness closed in—a black ring thickening, oozing inward. I reached for Azazel's saving hand, the only thing in the world my tunnel vision could see. But darkness won and my hand never reached its target.

I lost consciousness.

I awoke in a strange bed. In a strange room. It was a rustic, woodsy cabin. By the looks of the mountain outside, it wasn't far from the former CIA and NAACP.

My jeans and t-shirt had been washed, folded neatly, and placed on a chair in the corner. But who were my caretakers? And where was I?

Throwing off my covers, I put my feet to the floor and stood. The wood floor's loud creak made my head throb at the place where the rock had punched me.

The Committee fired up and buzzed with murmurs about the Mighty One's capture and the successful destruction of the Ducks' armory.

Azazel appeared, smiling at me from the hall. Sparkling teeth, thick and shiny blond hair, high cheekbones, muscles everywhere. He had that Nordic god thing down. Ducking under the doorframe, he entered my room.

“Pardon the accommodations,” he said. “Space's a little tight, but whattaya expect from a rental? Uzza!” he yelled into the hall. “Some tea for our guest.” He turned back to me. “Tea. You like tea, right? Sure ya do. Me too. Sugar?” Then to Uzza, “And don't forget the sugar!” To me again, “He forgets sometimes.”

I didn't know what to make of him. He killed the Ducks, but saved me. Why?

“Amos…” I said it more to myself than to Azazel. “Is he alright? W-where is he?”

“Amos?” Azazel shook his head. “Oh! The black guy.” He threw a casual hand at me. “Fine. He's fine.”

I waited for an explanation. Nothing. “Well…is he here or what?”

“No. But I assure you he's all right. Nuff said. We cool? Dude, we gotta talk.”

Uzza arrived with the tea as well as three of his friends—all Nephilim.

Azazel introduced them. Barphook and Darkon, both blond, were Azazel's sons, and the red-haired Tartys was Uzza's.

Looking at the huge, malformed Nephilim with their dads reminded me of my father. The one I was never going to meet. Because I had failed Phaeus's training. I hadn't protected Amos, the Ducks, or their holy relics. And I hadn't disposed of Uzza or Azazel.

“Anyway. Og.” Azazel clapped his hands. “Here's the deal. Ready? Good. Phaeus is a liar. He's only using you to draw out your dad. Once he does that, he's going to put him on trial, kill him, and then kill you. Boom! There it is. Whattaya think?”

I choked on my tea.

The Nephilim and Uzza snickered.

Azazel silenced them and shooed them away. Eyes back on me, he waited for an answer.

My voice returned. “W-whatta you talking about?”

“Whattaya mean what am I talkin' about?”

“Do you know my father?”

“Duh. Who doesn't? He's like the whole reason Phaeus went all nutso in the first place.”

“Well, can you tell me…w-who he is, please?”

Azazel's face gave me the you-really-don't-know-do-you? “His name is Gadriel.”

“Why would Phaeus wanna kill him?”

“He broke the rules. Had a child.” Azazel said it like it was so obvious.

“What's wrong with that?”

“Procreating with humans is against Watcher law.”

“What does Watcher…law…have…”

Slowly…

“Have to do…with…”

It dawned on me.

“Is my father…a…”

“He's a Watcher, Og.”

“But that…makes me…a…”

“A Nephilim.”

Something stabbed at my heart, twitched in my guts. My life and legs went hollow and I collapsed to the bed.

Azazel placed a compassionate hand on my shoulder, and muttered a few things. Yet through the crash and burn in my head, I only caught a few snippets. Something about “sorry” and “confusion” and “Half-Soul.”

Half-Soul. I recalled Phaeus's use of the word. Filthy Half-Soul. That's what he'd called Chool. I was one too.

After a sympathetic nod, Azazel left the room, leaving me alone with my thoughts. I wrestled with them for an hour, getting nowhere. I didn't know what to think or how to deal. For all I knew, Azazel was lying, trying to weaken my resolve. Lure me to the Dark Side so I could fight alongside the Watchers.

I sought him out to squeeze him for more info, to get to the bottom of this. Maybe I was a Nephilim, maybe I wasn't. His answers, body language, and tone of voice would tell me if he was making it up or telling it straight.

I found him in the kitchen sipping a beer.

“Here's the deal. Ready?” I was trying to imitate him, dig at him. “I think you're the liar. Not Phaeus. Boom!” It came out way too hostile. “How do I know you're on the level, Zaze?” Again, I hit his name with too much spite. “Sorry…but are you for real or what?” I hung my head. Didn't know why, but I trusted Azazel to tell the truth. “How am I s'posed to know if you and your story aren't just one of Phaeus's tests?”

Azazel swirled the beer in his glass, studied the honeyed color. “Isn't it flippin' kooky that monks perfected beer?” He stuck his nose into the mug and breathed in the beer's aroma.

Perfect. I poured out my heart and he acted like he didn't even hear me?

“I mean, yo.” He took a slow sip. “If it wasn't for the monks spiking it up with hops, beer would just be another lifeless drink. But look at it now. It's a…” Azazel looked at me, “symphony…of flavors.”

The Symphony. Azazel was telling me to be careful. That he was willing to talk, but we had to be aware of others. I brought to mind all I'd learned in the dream forest with Lavender. To disconnect my feelings. Let my thoughts wander.

The next few hours were packed with forty years of patience. Our conversation craftily bounced from angels to dogsleds to football to flowers. There were a thousand cut-off sentences. A million interruptions. A jillion extended silences to let our emotions leak from us. I'll spare you all the breaks and give you the movie version.

Azazel: “As you know, Phaeus works for Vero, the Chief Magistrate of Heaven's Court of Judgement. Well, Phaeus wants a raise. Before the—”

Me: “Hold up. Angels get raises?”

Azazel: “Yepperdoo. It's kinda like your military. You put in the time, you do a good job, you get promoted to the next Choir. Do bad work—demotionville.”

Me: “What about you? Can you ever—”

Azazel: “Nope. Once you're Fallen, that's it. You're done. Stuck forever in the same Choir you were in when you fell.”

Uncle Will was going to love this.

Azazel: “Anyway, couple decades ago, Phaeus comes to me in Pit. Says he knows Gadriel, your father, broke Watcher law by havin' a kid. Wants to have him tried, found guilty, and then killed. Says he's doing this all on his own. Without permission from Vero. That's a big no-no. Enormous. But he thinks it shows initiative and that it'll get him a raise before the Apocalypse.”

Me: “The Apocalypse?”

Azazel: “Yah mahn. Of course, only God knows the exact date, but everybody thinks it's gonna start in a few months.”

Me: “Awesome.” I rolled my eyes. Sarcastic. “A few months, huh?” At least I wouldn't have to wig about getting into a decent college.

Azazel: “But Gadriel got so good at hiding over the past ten thousand years that Phaeus needs help finding him. As Vero's right hand dude, Phaeus has the stuff to get me outta Pit early. But only if I promise to help him get Gadriel. I mean, it's not like Phaeus can be everywhere at once. ”

Me: “But why would he trust you?”

Azazel: “He didn't. But he thought his bribe would work. Tried to convince me that once he got his raise, he'd get Vero to give me a lighter sentence for helping Phaeus capture you and Gadriel. I never believed it, who would, right? I just wanted to get topside again…and outta Pit. Pit not nice.”

Me: I nodded. It made sense.

Azazel: “Anyhoo, Phaeus tells me how he plans to use you to bait Gadriel. How he's gonna put you in all these mucho dangerous situadas and hope your dad comes to the rescue. That way he gets you both at the same time. Well, I barter for Uzza and Shemja-za's early release too, we get out, make some trouble, have some kids, yadee, yadee, yadee, and here we are.”

Me: I thought about it. “Why you telling me this?”

Azazel: “Cuz you deserve to know the truth. That you're a Nephilim and you can't do anything to change that. You should be fighting on the side of your brothers.”

Me: “What about Phaeus? Isn't he gonna be like super pissed if he finds out that you—”

Azazel: “Phaeus can suck it. I ain't no errand boy. I'm the leader of the freakin' Watchers! I make the rules, I don't follow ‘em. And if I get caught…big whoop, I go back to Pit. We're all gettin' out in another few months anyway.”

Me: “So what does Phaeus know? About us and the stuff you just told me?”

Azazel: “Nothing. I hope. Long as no one in The Symphony heard our little rap sesh, our secret is…safe.” He threw out his arms like an umpire calling a close one at the plate.

We sat in silence. I needed some time to figure out what was what. Fact was I was most likely a Nephilim. My mom's silence regarding my father, my physical strength, my height, and The Committee all pretty much proved that.

Azazel was telling the truth. At least about that. It would take years to wrap my head around the rest of what he'd said. So many questions. Like if Phaeus was bad, how'd he manage to pass the good angel test? His intentions were undoubtedly good—to bring lawbreakers to justice—but he'd gone about it the wrong way. And if Phaeus screwed the pooch on that one, what else had he messed up? I wondered if Phaeus's whole offer was bullshine.

“Take your time.” Azazel read my confusion. “No rush, my brotha. But it's probably time I get you home, y'know? Past midnight.” He smiled. That engaging Watcher smile that said, Man I love humans! So weird. “Anything else I can do for ya, now's the time to ask?”

I didn't even need to think about it. Especially since The Committee had been steadily crackling for the last twenty minutes. “Give ya a quarter if you can teach me to shut off The Symphony.” Lavender had mentioned it was possible.

Azazel showed me how to find the melody of any given sound in my head. Once I did that, he taught me to manipulate the different pitches into music, even shape them into the song of my choice. Surprisingly, after ten minutes or so, I pulled it off. Not a complete song, but some random verses and a chorus. Azazel assured me with practice, I'd have my own built-in iPod in no time.

I handed Azazel the quarter and said, “One more question. And double or nothin', you're comin' up empty on this one.”

“Done,” he said, flipping the coin. “Whatcha got?”

I was fairly certain both he and I knew the answer, but what the Shrek. It was worth another fifty cents to know for sure. “My father's eyes…” I asked.

Azazel gripped an imaginary bat and took his stance in the batter's box. “Yeah.” He chopped out a couple of check swings. “What about ‘em?”

“What color?”

He wiggled his butt a little, stilled, then looked for the pitch. Swinging the invisible bat, he made a popping noise with his tongue, like he'd cracked a homer. “Gadriel's eyes are…” he watched the ball fly out of the park, “lavender. And the crowd goes wild.”