The Devil's Secret (9 page)

“On the evening of the sixth day, Othundro looked around at the dead town, and at all his fellow wolves feasting on the remains of the people who’d lived there. He was pleased that he’d grown so superior to all of the humans and all of the other wolves, but he wanted to become greater still. You see, nothing was ever enough for Othundro. He saw his pack around him, and he realized that as long as the pack was alive, he’d never have total control of the land. He craved absolute dominance of the world around him. So he took his sword, and he slaughtered his own pack by moonlight. A few of them escaped into the woods, but he quickly hunted them down and killed them too. He went through all the woods that night, killing every wolf from every pack. Not a single wolf survived, except for Uthifel himself, who had heard about Othundro’s murderous rampage and had hidden himself well.

“On the seventh day, Othundro relaxed in the lifeless forest. At first he was glad that he was alone, and ruled over all the land, a wolf in a man’s skin. But soon he realized that with no humans around to plant the crops, the crops would wither and die. With no humans to tend the cattle, they would all die, too. Othundro would have nothing left to eat. Nothing left to do. He regretted the decisions that had led him to this, but it was too late. He had lied, he had killed, and he had destroyed his world. And the terrifying thing is this: any wolf has it in him to become just like Othundro. That is why, when we hear the howl of a wolf in the dead of night, we should be afraid.”

In the silence that followed, Thilial noticed a slight twitching at the corner of Leregnon’s mouth. He’d grown somewhat intense over the course of his story, and now he was leaning far forward in his chair, his eyes piercing, boring into Thilial’s.

She wasn’t sure what to make of his tale. It was a little strange, but it was interesting enough, she supposed. The Angels of War had always been fond of violent tales.

“What happened to Uthifel?” Thilial asked.

Leregnon blinked, seeming to snap out of a trance. “I’m sorry?”

“His enemy, Uthifel. The one he didn’t kill. What happened to him?”

Leregnon furrowed his eyebrows again and thought for a moment. The corner of his mouth kept twitching, more like a tic now than a deliberate action.

“I’m sorry,” Leregnon said. “I’ve forgotten that part of the story.”

Thilial nodded. She vividly remembered every detail from a few hundred years ago, but she had to be understanding toward an old fellow like Leregnon, whose memory might have faded over the eons. “No problem. Thank you for telling it.” She gripped her sword by the hilt and stood to leave.

“Would you like to know a secret?” Leregnon said.

Thilial walked over to the crate to lower the sword down inside. “Sure.”

“It won’t stay a secret for long, but one of my superiors told it to me, and now that I’ve met you, I think you might want to know this too.”

“Very well.”

“Someone’s deposed the Atlanta Judge. Word on the street is that he and his main group of followers have been taken prisoner.”

Thilial’s hands halted in their lowering of Fear.
Why would anyone want to depose the Judge? He’s certainly powerful, but he’s ultimately harmless. He’d have been an important ally for whoever won the fight to succeed Thorn as Atlanta’s top demon.

“Who deposed him?” Thilial asked.

“We don’t know. We’re still trying to figure it out. But I say, more power to him, whoever it is. Thorn’s plan will be to bring these humans—Brandon and Heather and Virgil—to the Atlanta Judge, to prove to him that God is willing to forgive demonkind. To destroy God’s testing system. But without the Judge and his influence, Thorn’s plan falls apart. So really, our mobilization here is an overreaction. This whole thing with Thorn will blow over.”

Leregnon rose. He strode past Thilial on his way out of the room, his white robes billowing behind him. “Oh,” he said, and stopped. “One more thing. Our scouts are a little better than your scouts. They found a quick way into the Sanctuary where Thorn is. You could be there in ten minutes. Here’s a map of the path. We think it’s the same way Marcus went in.”

Leregnon withdrew a scroll from his robes and unfurled it across the huge sword that Thilial still held in her hands. She studied the map, trying to verify its veracity.

“You’re the one who reports directly to God,” Leregnon said, “so we’ll leave it to you to tell Him about this fast way in.” Thilial hadn’t looked at the old angel, but she heard his voice fading as he trotted down the hallway. “Nice meeting you, Thilial. I hope to see you again soon.”

The map to the Sanctuary appeared to be authentic, as far as Thilial could tell. And even if it wasn’t, Thilial had merely to spend a few minutes walking through the Corridors to find out.
With the Judge gone, Thorn’s plan holds no hope of success, even if he does get the humans out of the Sanctuary. God doesn’t need me here. I could go into the Sanctuary myself and seize the vengeance I’ve dreamed of for so long.

But no, that would be disobedience. If I do this, and I fail to kill Thorn, God will frown on me for having gone in after him. Lord, I am Yours. Lord, I am Yours.

I really shouldn’t do it.

But Thilial couldn’t seem to put down her sword.

Heather was definitely not herself tonight. Despite her confrontation with Karen, she’d been lively and cheery as ever at the wedding ceremony… yet some sort of gloom had fallen over her since. Brandon had tried bantering with her and introducing her to some of the more amenable guests, yet she remained secluded behind the sweetheart table. Had the hostile environment finally gotten to her? Brandon put himself in her shoes: those of an outsider at her own wedding. A wedding full of judgmental glances and surreptitious gossip. He felt horrible for her.
I should never have let myself get talked into having the wedding here, even if Heather was the one who convinced me.

During this last hour of the reception, as the night’s energy wound down, Brandon decided to sit next to Heather, to let her know he was here for her. He again flat-out asked her if something was wrong, but she insisted that she was just tired, that everything was fine. She smiled and chatted when greeted, and even tapped her feet to the music, but Brandon knew her well enough to see through her outward veneer to her uncharacteristic quietness, to her curt responses to his questions, to the way her smile vanished a little too quickly after talking to one of his friends or relatives. Brandon would have to think of a good apology for tonight.
Breakfast in bed tomorrow morning sounds like the ticket. And lots of kisses.

Speaking of kisses…
The faint clinking of cutlery tapping against glass rose to a cacophony as more people joined in. Brandon laughed in spite of himself. At least the guests seemed to be having a good time. Most of his worries about melodrama at the wedding had proven unfounded. He leaned over to kiss Heather again…

But Heather was standing. She looked out at the crowd with the same distant expression she’d worn on the pier, and the symphony of clinking glasses slowly fell, then died.

“Hey, hon, what are you doing?” Brandon said. “They want us to kiss.”

Was she planning to make a speech? So late in the evening? The band eased out of its current song when they saw that the bride wanted to say something. Brandon waited with the rest of the crowd to see what Heather would do.

But she didn’t do anything. She just stood there, looking at them. A man in the back was coughing, and a baby was whimpering somewhere, but other than these faint sounds, utter silence permeated the room. Brandon was about to stand up and kiss her just to end the awkwardness when Heather finally spoke, loudly and clearly enough for the whole room to hear:

“By sunrise, all of us will be dead.”

A murmur of astonishment rippled through the dining hall. Brandon took in the wide eyes and gaping mouths, and for a few seconds, he was just as afraid to speak as they were. His primary goal tonight had been to support his wife, but for Heather to say something so outrageous in front of so many people… she had to be suffering from something beyond mere intoxication.

Brandon stood and whispered to Heather. “Hon, why don’t we go into another room, get you some water and some quiet?”

He was half-afraid she’d protest, but she didn’t even seem to notice he was there. Her eyes stared blankly out into the crowd.

Tim arrived at the sweetheart table and placed his hand to Heather’s forehead to check her temperature. “Heather, how you feeling? Are you okay?”

Tim’s presence snapped Heather out of her funk, just a little. She turned toward Brandon and suddenly looked frightened. Terrified, even. “We have to get out of here,” Heather said.

“Okay. Okay, uh, here. I’ll help you out.”

Brandon tried to slide an arm under her shoulder, but she paced ahead of him, toward the country club’s lobby. Brandon exchanged a worried glance with Tim. They followed Heather through the tables.

As he walked, Brandon caught Karen’s gaze. She looked absolutely revolted. But he didn’t have time to worry about her petty criticism now. He had to get Heather back to Tim’s house, or maybe to a doctor.
Poor girl.
He cursed himself for putting her through all this.

Then someone screamed.

Brandon stopped near the doors to the lobby and scanned the dining room for the source of the sound. More people joined in the shouting as the guests at two of the tables jumped from their seats and scampered away from something. Through all the running people, Brandon couldn’t see the cause of the disturbance.

Another scream, this one from the other side of the room. Brandon turned to see Shannon Kolsch soaking wet from head to toe. Her matted hair hung limply over her shoulders and her pink dress stuck to her skin, which was deathly white.

She pulled a kitchen knife out of Mr. Donaldson’s back and flung it into the crowd.

The whole room erupted in chaos. Shouts and screams and tramping feet. Falling chairs and crying children. The twangs of clattering instruments as the band ran for cover.

Brandon bolted away, through the lobby and toward the front doors. Where was Heather? She’d been here moments before, but the lobby was now empty save for him. He hurled himself into one of the double doors that led out to the parking lot, but all he got for his trouble was a sharp jolt to his shoulder. The door barely opened at all. Brandon examined the lever, and it seemed to be working fine. But then he noticed a chain binding the exterior door handles together. All the other doors were chained shut, too.

What? Did someone plan a massacre at my wedding?
Brandon could barely process what was happening, but he remembered Heather’s words. “We have to get out of here.”
Did Heather know about this?

More people were sprinting through the doors from the dining hall into the lobby.

“The doors are chained!” Brandon called to them, but no one listened. The mob crashed against the front doors just as Brandon had, then panicked even more when they realized they were trapped. One old woman fell, and before Brandon could help her, she was trampled by the stampeding wedding guests.

Holy hell, is this really happening?

Brandon briefly searched for Tim, then, unable to find him, peeked back into the dining hall, where most of the guests were still trying to exit. The tables and chairs lay scattered in disarray, and the cake had tipped over, splattering onto the table. Several bloody bodies lay motionless on the floor. Brandon recognized a few of them as friends from high school.

Old Bob McKenzie and Roy Tegio had drawn their firearms, and both were shooting at… At Tammy Matherson? At Norma Cafferty? At Shannon and her eight-year-old son, Will? Indeed, these four people carried weapons of their own—cutlery, a burning tablecloth, what looked like a jagged shard from a broken dish—and blood drenched their clothes. Bob and Roy were just trying to fend them off.

Yet none of their targets even reacted after being shot. They sped around the room, stabbing people and snapping their necks. How was this possible? Brandon had known these people his whole life. Why would they do something like this? And how were they able to keep going in spite of their bullet wounds?

Shannon sprang over a table, grabbing one of the candlestick centerpieces as she jumped. She shoved it through Bob McKenzie’s eye, well into the back of his skull.

No sooner had Bob’s body hit the ground than he leaped back up, with speed impossible for a man his age. Then
he
started attacking the fleeing guests. Roy popped a few shots into Bob before Bob gunned him down. And then Roy, who should have been dead, was up and shooting people too.

“Paxis!” Shannon called toward Roy and Bob. “Hecthes! Everyone!”

In the midst of their slaughtering, the half-dozen murderers in the room glanced back to Shannon.

“Virgil. Brandon. Heather.” Shannon’s words sank Brandon under a wave of terror. “We need to find Virgil, Brandon, and Heather! Take them alive.” The others practically ignored Shannon and continued their indiscriminate killing. But Shannon herself shook her head and started walking toward the lobby.

Brandon ducked out of her sight. He had only seconds before she’d find him.

The lobby appeared empty again; the guests who’d been fleeing mere minutes before were now corpses littering the ground in the dining hall. There were stairs on the lobby’s far side, but they were open stairs, and Shannon would be able to see him as he climbed. Maybe he could break a window and escape to his car…

“Hon,” came a whisper from beneath one of the gaudy decorative tables that lined the sides of the lobby. “Hon, under here.”

Brandon slipped beneath the table to find Heather hunched down, her finger over her mouth. Her petrified expression told him,
Be silent or we’re both dead.

Brandon searched his pockets and found his cell phone just as Shannon’s feet turned the corner from the dining hall. He made sure it was set to silent, then dialed 9-1-1. He might not be able to talk to them, but at least they’d be able to hear whatever happened here, and they’d know that people were in trouble.