The Fallen 4 (31 page)

“We can’t wait for him,” Mallus said. “Things are moving too fast.”

“So what do you want to do?” Tarshish asked, finding a home for the piece and snapping it into place.

“We go and take God’s power back,” Mallus said matter-of-factly. “That’s the key to stopping the Architects.”

Tarshish looked up from his puzzle. “What about a host?” he asked. “Without the boy…”

“We’ll worry about that after we get the power back from the unholy trinity,” Mallus replied.

Tarshish pushed his wheelchair back from the card table. “Let’s do this, then,” he said, standing stiffly from the chair. He glanced over to the group of elderly men and women sitting before the television. “It’s been fun, gang,” he said, his words followed by a flash of brilliance.

Mallus watched as the residents of the nursing home all went limp, collapsing in upon themselves and turning to dust before his eyes.

Tarshish, on the other hand, looked stronger as he stared with golden flecked eyes at the place where his friends had once sat.

“I’m really going to miss Wednesday nights,” he said sadly.

“Why is that?” Mallus asked, mildly curious as to what might cause a being like the Malakim to experience the emotion of loss.

“Wednesday was bingo night,” Tarshish said.

“Bingo?” Mallus repeated.

Tarshish nodded. “I love playing bingo.”

*   *   *

The child thrashed so violently that Jeremy was afraid he would drop the little bugger.

“Stop the nonsense!” Jeremy barked as he carried Roger up the walkway to their rented cottage.

“It is not nonsense!” Roger screeched, his arms and legs flailing. “We need to leave this place at once!”

“There, there,” Jeremy’s mother said, cupping the baby’s angry face in her hand as Jeremy stopped in front of the door and dug in his pocket for the key. “Roger’s just knackered is all, a little lie-down, and he’ll—”

“Enoch!” the baby wailed. “My name isn’t Roger; it’s Enoch!”

“That’s right, Enoch,” she cooed, following the two of them into the cottage.

“We’re not going anywhere, Enoch,” Jeremy said, ready to hand the raving child off to his mother. “You’re going to have a bit of rest, and then, when you wake up refreshed, we’re all gonna have a nice sit-down and discuss—”

He was handing the child to his mother when Jeremy noticed the point of a knife protruding from her chest.

“Mum?” Jeremy said, feeling the air suddenly punched from his lungs. “Mum, what… ?”

Her mouth was moving as she deflated before his eyes, falling to the floor of the entryway.

“It’s too late!” Enoch screeched. “They’ve already found us!”

Jeremy sensed movement from behind him, and he tossed baby Enoch onto the couch as he spun to meet his attacker.

It took a moment for his brain to register, because his attacker was practically invisible. Whatever it was wearing blended in with the colors of the cottage. The chameleon drove a knife blade deep into Jeremy’s upper chest. It would have been his heart, but he’d had the instincts to move as his attacker—his mother’s murderer—had come in close for the kill.

Too close.

Jeremy screamed, and lashed out with all his might. His fist connected with something that felt very much like a face. His attacker stumbled back, pulling the knife from the Nephilim’s chest as the chameleon fell.

Jeremy spread his wings and beat the air, causing powerful gusts of wind that drove his attacker away, and bought him time to collect himself. A lamp clattered from a side table, and sand blown in from the still-open door created a kind of smoky haze in the air, temporarily allowing him to see his assailant.

Jeremy didn’t wait for an invitation. He dove across the room with the help of his wings and connected with the figure, driving it to the floor. His assailant was slimmer and smaller than he, but its strength was undeniable, and whatever it was that the attacker wore made it as slippery as hell.

An elbow slammed into Jeremy’s face, driving his head back. Then a foot planted upon his chest and kicked him
across the living room to slam against the couch.

For a second Jeremy worried about Roger—Enoch—but, chancing a quick scan of the area, he saw that the baby was nowhere to be found, which, given the circumstances, was probably a good thing.

His attacker landed upon him, and instinctively Jeremy threw his arm up to block a punch, feeling the bite of the knife. Growling like something wild, Jeremy tapped into his fear and fury, bringing forward the power of the Nephilim and creating a battle mace of fire, which he swung wildly, hoping to connect with his foe.

The attacker leaped back and away from the flaming weapon, and Jeremy got to his feet, his eyes furiously attempting to keep track of the mysterious assassin that seemed to disappear in the blink of an eye.

Which is exactly what it did.

“Bugger,” Jeremy spat, readying himself for the inevitable attack. Continuing to flap his wings, he spun, searching the room for a sign—any sign.

Jeremy’s foot landed upon one of Roger’s—Enoch’s—toy lories, and he lost his balance for a moment before regaining his footing.

But a moment was all the assassin needed.

He dove to the left, Jeremy smelled his own blood and saw the stained knife blade appearing out of thin air and slipping dangerously past his throat.

Knowing that he couldn’t keep this up forever, Jeremy reached out to grab his assailant. His hands landed upon something solid, and Jeremy closed his fingers about his prey. It was like trying to hold on to an eel, but he sank his fingernails in as deep as possible.

Instead of using a weapon, Jeremy sent the divine fire directly to his hands. There was a whoosh as the flames came, and then the stink of something burning as the flesh within his hands began to burn.

The fires of Heaven were voracious.

Jeremy was thrown back and away, but this time he didn’t lose sight of his attacker. The assassin was burning.

The figure was in a panic, attempting to stamp out the fire creeping up its arm, but this only served to ignite its other hand. Jeremy was already on the move before the murderer could flee. His battle mace formed again in his hand as he lunged at the masked figure, and he smashed the assailant across the face with all his might, sending him crashing and burning to the cottage floor.

Jeremy was stunned to see that his attacker was already attempting to get back up, glaring at him as he rose. The black leatherlike material of its mask had been partially torn with the mace’s blow, and Jeremy gaped in awe at what he saw.

“Bloody hell,” Jeremy said. “What are you supposed to be?”

It’s like looking at a bloody ape,
he thought as the murderer, its body still afire, made another attempt to take him down.

Jeremy didn’t hesitate, smashing the mace down upon the creature’s arm that held the knife, shattering its bones to powder.

The figure did not cry, but it knelt there momentarily before finding its knife with its other hand, ready to go at Jeremy again.

Jeremy had had enough. “This is for Mum, ya bastard,” he growled, bringing the ball of fire down upon the attacker’s skull.

The would-be assassin slumped to the floor, body twitching.

Jeremy needed to hold back, deciding that perhaps something might be learned if he let the assassin live.

A voice that he could not locate at first screamed out. “Don’t even hesitate,” Enoch said from hiding. “End its miserable life now, before others can home in upon its location.”

Enoch didn’t have to tell him twice. Jeremy brought the mace down again, shattering their attacker’s skull all over the carpet.

From the corner of his eye, Jeremy saw movement beneath the sofa, and watched as the baby squirmed out from his hiding place. Knowing that Enoch was safe, Jeremy let his mace disappear and went to his mother.

She lay on her back in the entryway, still clinging to life.

“Oh,” was all Jeremy could manage as he hovered above her, not really knowing what he should do.

She looked as though she were trying to speak, and he dropped to his knees and gently pulled her into his arms.

“Hang on, luv. We’ll get you to hospital,” he told her softly, but the look in her eyes told him otherwise.

She’d never make the ride, even if they flew.

Her bloodstained lips moved as she tried to talk to him.

“What is it, Mum?” he asked her. “What can I do? Please, tell me what I can do?”

“Protect,” she whispered. Her eyes shifted, searching the room. She was looking for the baby.

“Enoch?” he asked her. “You want me to protect Enoch?”

She didn’t answer, but he knew that was what she wanted, as he watched the life drain from her eyes.

“Of course she meant me,” the baby’s overly intelligent voice said.

He had crawled over and sat beside them.

“I’m the last hope of humanity,” Enoch said, staring at the woman’s corpse. “If I don’t make it, none of us will.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

T
he darkness was as vast as the ocean and as limitless in its depths.

Every patch of shadow, no matter how small, connected to a greater whole that now embraced a world in its gradually constricting grip.

And the Darkstar used this flow of shadow, swimming through the inky currents like some great prehistoric predator on the hunt.

The scent of those who would oppose him was like blood in the water, and he followed it.

Though he would be loath to admit it, the Three Sisters of Umbra had shown him the way to supremacy. By slaying those who had been deemed the saviors of the world, protectors of humanity, he would prove to his detractors that he was all-powerful, and to worship him would be most wise, for he
intended to have this world as his own—to flaunt before a helpless God—for a very long time.

And then there was the Morningstar, still managing to hold on somewhere deep inside the Darkstar’s psyche, holding out hope that somehow he might regain control.

Satan would see that hope forever vanquished with the murders of the half-breed Nephilim, crushing it beneath his heel, grinding it to nothing until all that remained of the Son of the Morning was a fading memory.

The stench of angel magick grew stronger, and Satan flapped his wings, surging with speed toward what would be his greatest victory.

Using sinister magicks, the Sisters had linked him to the Community of monsters and beasts around the world. They now knew of his plans to eliminate the last true threats to their evil dominion.

And with just a thought Satan called to them, to the trolls, dragons, goblins, and wraiths. He called to each and every nightmare made flesh, inviting them to participate in a victory that would give them a kingdom.

A world under the Darkstar’s unholy reign.

Satan turned his face to the point of light punctuating the darkness ahead of him, his mighty wings pushing off from the stuff of shadow, propelling his armored form ever closer to the obstacles impeding his rise to supremacy.

He could not wait to wrap his fingers about the throat
of hope and squeeze what little life remained from the world, which was about to be forever claimed by night.

*   *   *

Lorelei looked down into the churning pool of shadow. Something was coming up from its depths.

“We need to get out of here!” she yelled, backing up from the edge of the hole. “Dusty, can you hear me? We need to—”

Nightmare incarnate exploded from the library floor. It rose up on wings formed from the stuff of night, its body adorned in armor as black and reflective as a pool of oil. Its wings beat the air with a rhythmic thrum, like the pulse of a mighty heart.

Its face was covered, and it looked at her through slits in a helmet made from shadows.

She knew that this was the one that had touched her, that had followed the residual trace of her magickal connection to the Instrument. And now it had come for her.

It had come for them all.

The armored figure stared at her, and she remained perfectly still; even though the muscles in her aching legs were screaming for relief, she dared not move a muscle.

A moan from Dusty distracted the winged nightmare, its eyes, devoid of any humanity, shifting from her to the source of the sound.

It was the moment she had been waiting for.

“Dusty, run for the door!” Lorelei screamed, summoning
a magickal blast and hurling it at the chest of the invader. The roiling light struck the thing, knocking it back against a floor-to-ceiling bookcase filled with ancient volumes, causing a chain reaction as row upon row of the shelves noisily tumbled.

Lorelei grabbed for Dusty, and they raced for the door.

“What’s going on?” he demanded. “Who is that?”

“It’s death, Dusty,” she said in all seriousness. “That’s all you need to know.”

The door was right before them, but time seemed to have slowed. Lorelei watched as Dusty reached for the knob, but it was still so far away.

The air in front of them exploded in a blast of black fire.

Dusty screamed as he was blown back and away from the door, colliding with her. They both tumbled to the floor. Lorelei’s every joint was screaming, the side effects of using Archon magick again rearing their ugly heads.

Why now?
Lorelei thought, when she and her friends’ very lives were at stake. She could barely move to crawl out from beneath Dusty’s weight.

There were more things… monsters… hauling themselves out of the hole in the floor. She knew they should have fixed that hole sooner, but that was neither here nor there.

The armored entity had recovered from her attack and was watching from its perch atop the pile of toppled bookcases, appearing to be enjoying her struggle—her panic.

Beasts—trolls and goblins—advanced across the library
toward Lorelei and Dusty, swords and daggers in misshapen hands.

She couldn’t bear the thought of them in her library, and used that rage to fuel her magick. Blasts of enhanced angelic fire exploded from her outstretched hands, obliterating the advancing horde, but more were just as quickly emerging behind the ones she had slain.