The Fallen 3 (13 page)

Dusty came to a stumbling halt as the Buick’s brake lights flared in the darkness ahead and the old car pulled over to the side of the road, waiting for him.

It took some effort to get his frozen feet moving again, but Dusty managed, running toward the car, hand reaching for the passenger-side door.

It was locked.

Half expecting the car to suddenly peel out, spraying him with gravel and mud, Dusty was tempted to pull the harmonica from its nest and let the old car have it. But the car door clicked, then opened, the ceiling light illuminating the driver, who had leaned over to push open the passenger door.

Dusty angled himself inside.

“Thought you were gonna take off on me,” he said, taking a good look at the driver before closing the passenger door and plunging the inside of the vehicle into semidarkness.

“Didn’t realize it was locked,” the old man said, sounding as though he gargled with broken glass.

His appearance was almost as pleasant as his voice. His hair was a sickly yellowish white, and it looked as though he hadn’t had a haircut in quite a few years. His beard was the same yellowish color, stained dark around his dried-looking lips. Dusty guessed that the discoloring was from cigarettes, but the car didn’t carry the clinging smell of smoke, only the heavy soup-like aroma of severe body odor.

The old man put the car in drive and maneuvered the vehicle back onto the rain-slick road.

“Thanks for stopping,” Dusty said, settling his damp body into the seat to get comfortable. He wedged his duffel bag between him and the passenger door. “I really appreciate it.”

“Not a fit night out for man, nor beast,” the old man said, glancing quickly at Dusty with a huge smile of large, healthy-looking teeth. “The name’s Fred,” the man said, taking a hand
from the steering wheel and holding it out toward Dusty. “Fred Leclaire.”

Dusty returned the smile and took the man’s hand. “Hey there, Fred Leclaire,” he said. “Dustin Handy, but call me Dusty.”

The old man’s hand felt like a piece of tree bark, hard and calloused, with an amazing grip.

“Nice to meet you, Dusty,” Fred said, finally releasing his hand from the bear-trap grip. “What brings you out here on a night like this?”

“Just traveling,” Dusty said, not wanting to get into it. “Going from here to there is all.”

Fred grunted with a knowing nod.

“I remember those days,” he said affectionately. “It’s been a long time since I prowled the back roads.”

“You look like the type that might’ve seen the world,” Dusty said. “Am I right? … And please feel free to tell me to mind my own business if I’m getting too personal.”

The old man laughed, a loud barking sound, like he was about to cough something up. “I have been around a long time and seen this old world go through quite a few changes.”

“I’m sure you have,” Dusty agreed.

It was raining even harder now, and Fred turned the wipers on faster. Their staccato beat as they passed over the glass was strangely mesmerizing, and Dusty found himself beginning to relax.

Fred laughed that horrible laugh again. “I know I’m gonna sound like the typical old fart, but it was better in the old days.”

Dusty smiled. He knew that would be coming. He wanted to keep the old man talking, to help keep him awake. Between the heat in the car and the rhythm of the wipers, he was beginning to feel drowsy.

“How so?” Dusty encouraged him. “What made it so much better?”

Fred seemed to think about the question a bit before answering.

“The food,” he said after a moment. “The food was better … not as many chemicals.” He smacked his lips as if trying to rid his mouth of something foul. “And these days everybody knows everybody’s business.”

Dusty had to agree with that.

“Cell phones and cable TV, and those computers with the interwebs.”

Dusty chuckled at Fred’s distaste for technology.

“In my day you could slaughter two or three drifters in a week, and nobody would be the wiser.”

It took a second for the words to register.

Slaughter drifters?

Dusty carefully turned to face the old man. His heart was suddenly pounding.

“Don’t get me wrong, there’s a lot to be said for modern technology,” the old man said. “Hell, I would never’a known
about you if it wasn’t for me having one of those prepaid cell phones.”

“Known about me?” Dusty repeated, trying to process Fred’s words. He noticed then that the instrument inside his pocket was becoming warmer, as if attempting to warn him of something.

But the warning was too late. The old man changed before his eyes. The crazy yellowish hair turned into a kind of lion’s mane; a snout like that of a dog—or better yet, a wolf—slid out from the center of his face.

Before Dusty could even react, Fred lashed out.

A hairy fist struck him square in the face, knocking him violently against the passenger door. The pain was excruciating, and an ocean of darkness threatened to pull him in.

He was trying to turn, fumbling with the door handle to try to escape, but his hands had suddenly lost their bones, becoming like rubber.

“You’re a tough one,” Fred said, holding the steering wheel steady with one clawed hand as he leaned across and drew back a hairy fist to punch Dusty again.

There was another brief explosion of agony and color, followed by the bliss of nothing.

The darkness claimed him.

Fred kept glancing at the boy as he drove, looking for signs that he might be still awake, but Dusty was out cold. The smell of
the boy’s blood, which streamed from his nose and split lip, was maddening as it filled the car. Now in his true form of a beast, Fred was tempted to take just a taste but thought better of it. He didn’t want any trouble from the Corpse Riders, just their reward money. So with regret, he left the boy intact.

Fred pulled the car off to the side of the road and put the Buick in park. He tilted his large bulk to one side, fishing in his pocket for the cell phone. He pulled out the foul piece of technology, snarling as he tried to remember how to make a call, then placed the phone to a pointed ear.

There was a click followed by an eerie silence, but Fred knew there was somebody on the other end.

“I have him,” Fred said.

The response that followed was like the cries of infants being thrown into a meat grinder, and Fred quickly pulled the phone away from his ear.

He wasn’t sure about the noise, but he guessed they were happy with the news.

It took Vilma a second to figure out exactly where she was. She’d appeared before Jeremy, who crouched atop an egg-shaped capsule that was part of the giant Ferris wheel called the London Eye.

The weather was quite miserable, but the view through the fog and rain was still both breathtaking and a little bit terrifying as the wheel slowly turned. She watched a barge carrying
multicolored storage containers move leisurely along the river Thames below. Vilma had seen pictures of the Eye, and had always wanted to go on the ride that provided such a spectacular view of the old city.

In an odd way, now she was getting her wish.

“This is nice,” she said, wings fluttering as she tried to maintain her balance atop the slick glass-and-metal oval. The sightseers inside the pods had a spectacular view of the city and the river below but thankfully couldn’t see her and Jeremy as they stood on the metal roofing. If she strayed too close to the side though, there was a chance some tourist would see the bottom of her foot. That was something she didn’t need right now.

“You shouldn’t have followed me,” Jeremy said. He sat on his haunches, hugging his knees to his chest, looking straight ahead and squinting through the rain.

“We need to go back,” Vilma said. She raised her wings ever so slightly to protect her face from the wind and storm. “Lorelei’s spells won’t hide us this far from home.”

“Home?” Jeremy scoffed. “You must be joking.” Then he wrapped himself in his wings once again, and was gone, the sudden displacement of his weight causing the Eye’s capsule to pitch and roll.

Vilma tumbled backward, her sneakered feet sliding from the slick metal roof of the egg, but she remained calm, closing her eyes as she fell, and feeling the trail left by the Nephilim
she was following. Her wings hugged her tight, and she disappeared as well.

She reappeared beside Jeremy on a residential street. From the looks of the buildings and the cars, she guessed they were still in England.

Jeremy stood on the narrow sidewalk, staring at a building across the street; the houses were built extremely close together, one seeming to blend into the next with little separation.

“Jeremy, please,” Vilma said.

“This was home,” he told her, nodding his head toward the building. “Well, as close to one as I can remember, anyway.”

She didn’t know what to say, sensing a melancholy coming over him to replace the anger from before.

“I wish I could be back there again.”

Vilma understood. She, too, remembered a better time … an easier time, before her angelic heritage reared its head and changed her world.

“But it wasn’t real,” Jeremy continued, turning his troubled gaze to her. He smiled sadly and shrugged. “It was just as mucked up then; I just believed what she was telling me.”

She was about to ask
who
was telling him when he was gone again.

With an exasperated sigh, Vilma followed, to a sprawling lawn of green in front of an old stone building. A white sign, lit by twin spotlights, read
STEWARD PSYCHIATRIC FACILITY
.

“Let’s see if she’s in,” Jeremy said. Then he disappeared as his wings enfolded his body.

Suddenly they were beside a hospital bed, in the quiet of a darkened room. The muted sounds from the hallway filtered through the closed door as they looked down on the tiny form of an older woman sleeping fitfully in the bed.

Vilma was about to ask Jeremy who this woman was, when she stirred, and fixed them both in a wide-eyed stare.

The woman looked as though she might scream, and then a toothless smile spread upon her aged features.

“Jeremy?” she asked with a croak, moving to sit up in her bed while clutching the nightgown at her throat.

“Yeah, Mum, it’s me.”

A
n angel of the Powers … really?” Lucifer asked from his seat behind the large metal desk. He scratched his cheek in thought as Milton perched upon his shoulder sniffing his ear. “I thought we had killed most, and you sent the rest back to Heaven.”

“I did too,” Aaron said. He was feeling overwhelmed. It was turning out to be the kind of day that he’d been hoping against. “But there was no doubt what he was.”

So much for evil taking a skip day.

His father seemed deep in thought. “I suppose the trolls could have had him for a while.”

“I guess,” Aaron answered. “But he seemed to know about Verchiel failing, and he mentioned something about Wormwood … whatever the heck that is.”

Aaron suddenly noticed Lucifer staring at him intently.

“What did you say?” his father asked.

“I said he seemed to know about Verchiel.”

“After that,” Lucifer demanded, pulling his chair up tight to the desk and leaning forward.

“He mentioned something about Wormwood.”

“Are you sure?” Lucifer pressed.

“Yeah,” Aaron answered. “It was definitely Wormwood. Why? What is it?”

“Something very bad … something I did not want to hear,” Lucifer said, reaching up to take Milton from his shoulder. “And it’s not a what, it’s a who.” He absently stroked the mouse’s head and back with his finger.

“A who?”

Lucifer slowly nodded, staring past Aaron into space.

“A terrible angel,” he said. “A terrible angel with a terrible purpose.”

Lucifer’s eyes shifted back to Aaron’s, locking on them with a frightening intensity.

“A purpose to bring about the end of the world.”

Their sadness summoned Gabriel like a whistle. He was drawn to it. He padded down the hallway in the building that served as the group’s makeshift hospital, under the supervision of the human called Kraus, heading toward the Nephilim.

Gabriel considered all of them a part of his pack. Now he could sense their sorrow, and had come to provide them solace.

The remaining Nephilim were standing in the hallway outside the room where Kraus was tending to the injured Kirk. Their grief was nearly palpable, washing over Gabriel in waves as he watched them.

Since he had been struck by a car and Aaron had fixed him, Gabriel had found himself changing more and more as time passed. He was smarter now, able to understand more complicated concepts and situations, and he had the unique ability to help take others’ pain away. His presence was a comfort to those feeling physical pain, as well as mental pain, and he had come to alleviate the suffering of his pack.

Many of the Nephilim were crying, others attempting to hold on to their pain. Some stood off by themselves, while others attempted to console one another.

Walking amongst them, Gabriel fixed them each with his dark, soulful stare, willing them to surrender their worry for Kirk’s injuries and their sorrow at Janice’s death.

Gabriel had liked Janice. She often gave him part of her lunch, and when they were alone, she would read him poetry that she had written. He, too, would miss her, but would honor her by helping the other pack members to surrender their sorrows.

William held back his tears as Gabriel looked up and stared into his eyes. Haltingly, William reached down to stroke Gabriel’s blocky head, and then the tears came, flooding from the teen in pitiful sobs.

Yes, that’s it
, the Labrador thought.
Let it out. It’s not good to hold all that sadness inside
.

William was but the first. As each of them sensed why Gabriel was there, they came to him, one after another, patting his head or wrapping their arms around his thick neck to hug him, burying their tears in his yellow fur. Cameron, Melissa, Samantha, and Russell: they tried to hold back, to keep their sadness, but it was too much for them.

And Gabriel took their burden willingly.