In the House of the Wicked

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Though he hadn’t been without them for long, Remy missed his wings and the ability to get to where he needed to be in no time at all.

He knew that he could drive, but Boston traffic was always iffy and time was of the essence.

Isn’t it always?

Fearing that they might be too late, Garfial risked using angel magick to open a passage from the basement of the church to a room in the practically empty Hermes building. The doorway opened with an electric hum, and Garfial dove through, motioning wildly for Remy to follow. On the other side, they stepped into what looked to be an office space. The air was heavy with the smell of paint and a newly laid rug. Boxes of unassembled office furniture were piled in the corner.

Remy felt a bit queasy from the trip, but took a deep breath before getting down to the brass tacks.

“Where’s the studio?” he asked, already looking for the exit.

“It’s on the eightieth floor,” Garfial told him. “Why? What do you have in mind?”

“Disrupt the broadcast, and we’re almost out of the woods,” Remy told him.

“And your friends?” Garfial asked.

“Get them inside and they’ll take it from there,” Remy told him, seeing the red exit sign at the back of the darkened office space. “They should provide just the right amount of distraction.”

Garfial began to conjure another portal to retrieve Francis and Angus.

“You never said what you wanted with Stearns,” the fallen angel commented as a tiny hole in the fabric of time and space appeared, growing steadily larger.

“He might have some information I need,” Remy said, thinking of Ashley trapped in the land of shadows, and of Deacon now filled with the power of the Seraphim.

One thing at a time, he thought. First he had to save the lives of millions, and then he would go after Ashley.

“Good luck with that,” Garfial said. “You’re probably going to need it.”

Remy turned to thank the angel, and gasped at the sight.

“Watch out!” he screamed, running toward Garfial, who was just about to step through the crackling passage as a darkly clad angel of the Grigori struck.

Garfial couldn’t have even known what hit him. An anguished grunt was all he could muster as the sword buried itself deep in the thick muscle of his neck. The Grigori attacker pulled back on the blade, watching as Garfial pitched forward and fell through the conjured doorway that disappeared with a sound very much like that of an electrical transformer blowing.

Remy froze, watching as the shapes of other Grigori all holding ancient-looking blades appeared alongside their murderous leader.

“Remy Chandler,” the fallen angel that had to be Armaros snarled. “I was hoping that you’d join us.”

Remy knew that his chances against them were nil, so he turned and sprinted for the door, the red of the Exit sign his inspiration.

But he wasn’t fast enough. The Grigori brought him down roughly, the stink of newly laid carpet nearly choking him, as they bounced his face off the floor again and again, until he finally gave them what they wanted and blacked out.

In an anteroom off the studio, Algernon Stearns prepared for the next-best thing to godhood.

He stood perfectly still as his golem servants dressed him in the elaborate armor and harness that would allow him to feed on the life forces of more than a million faithful viewers.

The unnatural hunger that had been his constant companion these many years was like a wild animal now, as if sensing the meal that was about to come. He could feel on his palms the movement of multiple tiny, eager mouths opening and closing in anticipation.

“Please lift your arms, sir,” one of the golems asked.

He did, raising his arms, turning his hungry palms outward, and imagining the entirety of the world laid out before him.

For the taking.

With the kind of power he would soon possess, there would be very little he couldn’t do. A tremble of fear and anticipation raced up and down his spine as the workers continued to strap him into the exoskeleton. He thought of what the power had done to him the last time and was both eager and terrified.

He hoped that this time, it would take him that much closer to God.

That much closer to being a god.

Movement in the studio caught his attention, and he saw that Angelina had arrived. Her parents accompanied the frail child, her father pushing the wheelchair into the studio.

“Are we almost finished here?” Stearns asked those attending him.

He was answered with a few grunts as some final pieces of the harness were attached.

“We’re done, sir,” said one of the golems, and they all stepped back as if to admire him.

“Well?” Stearns asked, spreading his arms and turning in a semicircle.

The golems looked at one another, unsure of what was expected of them.

“How do I look?” Stearns finally asked.

“Magnificent, sir,” one of them said.

“A sight to behold,” said another.

“I don’t know why I bother,” Stearns snarled, moving toward the door to the studio. “Perhaps when this is done I’ll have the power to create a staff that truly understands my needs.”

He replaced the snarl of displeasure on his face with his best facsimile of a smile as he entered the studio. “Angelina,” he said, the exoskeleton clanking like armor as he approached.

Her father was helping her from the wheelchair.

“Allow me,” Stearns said, taking the child into his arms and carrying her to the fancy bed in the center of the room.

“There you are.” He set her down and pulled the covers over her scrawny legs.

“You look like a knight in shining armor,” Angelina said, eyes wide with wonder.

Stearns chuckled, looking down at himself. “I guess I do,” he agreed.

“Why are you dressed that way?” she asked, as her mother brought a few toys to place around her.

“So I can help you,” he said. “We want to make sure that each and every person out there hears your message.”

His eyes traveled up to the glass window of the control booth. More of his golem staff stared down at him, and he raised his hand to signal that it was time for them to get ready. The golems went to work, and Stearns watched as multiple, automated television cameras emerged, tracking along the floor to encircle the bed.

Angelina’s eyes were filled with fear. “They scare me,” she said, clutching a pink teddy bear to her chest.

“There’s no reason to be afraid,” Stearns soothed. “This is how the people will hear your message.”

He thought of all the programming that would be interrupted to broadcast this historic event, all the eyes that would be fixed on television screens and computer monitors. If he remembered correctly, there had even been a few stadiums that had licensed the rights to display the little girl’s message.

Oh, what a glorious event this will be.

More of his artificial staff emerged from the side room to make certain that the child would be ready.

“Who are they?” Angelina asked, her voice tinged with panic.

“They are my helpers,” Stearns told her. “No need to concern yourself.”

One of the golems approached the bed, attaching what looked like high-tech handcuffs to each of the girl’s tiny wrists.

“What are these?” she asked, on the brink of tears. “I don’t want to wear them.”

“Don’t you want to look pretty for the world?” Stearns responded, thinking quickly. “Those are special bracelets worn only by those important enough to hear a message from God.”

His staff then attached leads from the special bracelets to components hidden beneath the mattress, which would eventually be connected by cable to the exoskeleton he wore.

Angelina was in tears, slumping farther down in the bed, clutching all her toys.

“Why are you sad, sweetie?” Stearns asked, feigning compassion. He stood beside her, reaching out with a metal gloved hand to stroke her cheek.

“I’m scared,” the child spoke, eyes darting fearfully about the room. “And the angels haven’t come to-”

As if on cue, the door to the studio swung wide, and a man was violently tossed from the entryway onto the floor. The Grigori, Armaros in the lead, followed.

“What is the meaning of this?” Stearns demanded.

“This is our very special friend, Remy Chandler,” Armaros said.

The man, bloodied and beaten, moaned as he struggled to regain consciousness.

“And we thought it only fair that he have a front-row seat to the events that are about to transpire.”

“You…you can’t do this,” the man called Remy Chandler mumbled through swollen lips as blood dribbled from his injured mouth.

“And that is where you are wrong,” Armaros said as he and the other Grigori gathered around the little girl’s bed.

“We can, and we are.”

Francis sipped his Starbucks coffee and waited.

The call from Remy had come fifteen minutes ago, but so far nothing had happened.

“What, exactly, are we waiting for?” Angus asked, nervously watching the traffic and people going by. “Maybe we’re just missing it.”

“Hasn’t happened yet,” Francis said between sips of his scalding drink.

“What should we do?”

Francis didn’t answer the sorcerer, choosing instead to think this through. He wasn’t the most patient of beings. There was a part of him, one that really didn’t get to come out all that often, that wanted to be patient-to do exactly what Remy had asked of him. But there was another side of him, one that often seemed to get its way, that thought they should be doing something right now.

“Maybe he took care of the situation himself,” he said finally, turning to look at the sorcerer sitting beside him. “Maybe the problem wasn’t all that big and he didn’t need to call in the big guns.”

“Big guns?” Angus asked, confusion written all over his fat face. “Who…?”

“Us,” Francis explained. “The big guns…the heavy hitters. Maybe there wasn’t any need to-”

The sound like an angry swarm of hornets filled the backseat of their borrowed vehicle, tickling the insides of their brains.

Francis spun around in his seat, pistol pointed and ready to fire, without spilling a single drop of his coffee. He recognized the shape of an angelic portal opening and guessed that this was the sign Remy had told him was coming. The pinprick hole grew, and with a rush of air unleashed its contents into the backseat.

A fallen angel’s body spilled out, pitching forward, crimson gore spewing from an angry neck wound.

“Holy fuck,” Francis screamed, tossing aside his coffee and jumping into the backseat, forcing his hand against the bleeding gash in the traveler’s throat.

“Get me something to stop the bleeding,” he yelled at Angus.

The angel thrashed wildly as warm blood flowed out from between Francis’ fingers. Angus handed him a small stack of napkins, and he jammed them against the gushing wound, hoping it would be enough but knowing otherwise.

Francis noticed that the blood was being quickly absorbed by the upholstery of the car’s backseat, not even leaving a stain. Leona may have been fed earlier, but she obviously wasn’t above having an unexpected snack.

“Remy,” Francis said, leaning down to look into the dying Grigori’s eyes. “Where is he? Is he inside?”

The angel’s eyes were growing dimmer, but he struggled to respond.

“Yes…,” he gurgled. “Taken…”

“He was taken,” Francis repeated. “Taken by Stearns? Your boss…Who took him?”

“Maybe a spell of healing?” Angus suggested, and the tips of his fingers started to grow a fiery red.

“Too late for that,” Francis replied.

“Stop…them…,” the fallen angel managed, reaching up to take hold of Francis’ shoulder in a weakening grip.

“Yeah,” Francis said, watching as the life went out of the angel’s eyes. “That’s what we’re trying to do.”

The part of Francis that liked to act first and think later was in full control now as he climbed back into the driver’s seat.

“What are we going to do now?” Angus asked, movement in the backseat capturing his attention. Now it wasn’t only blood that was being absorbed by the upholstery.

“We’re getting inside,” Francis said, turning over the engine.

“But there are wards in place and golem guards…”

“And they’ll be dealt with.” Francis put the car in drive and leaned closer to the steering wheel. “Leona, I know Richard said you’d only give us a ride, but I was wondering-especially since I just gave you that nifty angel snack-if you’d be willing to get us inside that building across the street.”

The car didn’t respond, as if considering his request.

“I happen to know that there are magickal wards in place to keep people like us from entering and there are probably armed guards, but a really good friend of mine is trapped inside, and a lot of people are going to die if we don’t help him.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but you’re reasoning with a car?” Angus asked, horrified.

Francis held up a finger, signaling for him to be quiet.

“What do you say, Leona? Can you get us inside?”

The radio that had been playing softly in the background went to static, before Wagner’s Ride of the Valkyries was suddenly blaring from the speakers.

“Oh, God,” Angus screamed, fumbling to get his seat belt on.

“That a girl,” Francis said, grabbing hold of the wooden steering wheel. He let the car do what it did best, what it had been created to do.

Drive.

Effortlessly and with great speed, Leona freed herself from the parking space, driving down Boylston Street, accelerating by the second. Just as she was about to pass the building, she slammed on her brakes, spinning around so that she faced the sidewalk in front of Hermes Plaza.

“Dear God in Heaven!” Angus wailed, grabbing for anything that might give him purchase.

“Hold on,” Francis cried, as the Lincoln jumped the curb, barely missing gaggles of screaming pedestrians, and sped toward the front entrance of the building.

Leona’s engine roared like some great jungle cat about to take down its prey.

Something was wrong with the shadow path.

Squire could feel it deep in his rounded gut, the quill-like hair on the back of his thick neck standing at attention.

The first rule any hobgoblin learned about traveling the paths was to pay attention to location and the stability of the path. That very rule suddenly came to mind when he felt the darkness beneath his feet grow soft, and watched as Ashley stumbled in front of him, falling to her knees.

“Get up,” Squire ordered, fearing the worst. “Get up, get up…”

A gunshot rang out from behind them.

They had to get to the other end, and fast.

There were more gunshots, but the bullets were absorbed into the substance of shadow, likely coming out in some other dark place. Squire pictured some poor schmuck getting in some quality porn time when a bullet found its way out from a patch of black behind the La-Z-Boy. Could seriously ruin a guy’s evening.

The passage was breaking down, and that could mean only one thing was happening: The environment in which the path had originally existed was now different.

Squire came up close to Ashley, who was still struggling to regain her footing in the mudlike substance that was now the floor of the tunnel. He wrapped his arms around her tiny waist and hauled her back onto her feet, practically dragging her through the sucking surface.

The passage was closing in on them, growing smaller, narrower. If they didn’t find an exit soon, it would collapse in on itself and they would drown in this shit. Not a bad fate for the jerk-offs that were chasing them, but it wasn’t something that Squire was looking forward to.

More gunshots rang out, and he felt a bullet whiz past his face. The assholes were getting closer.

“We gotta move faster,” he urged Ashley. He did have to hand it to the kid: She was hanging in there pretty well. Most couldn’t handle five minutes in a shadow path, never mind being in one on the verge of collapse.

“I can’t go any farther,” Ashley screamed, pressing herself against a solid wall of shadow.

“Outta the way.” Squire pushed her aside. He placed his hands against the cold, sticky surface and closed his eyes. It was just as he thought: This had been the exit a few minutes ago, but since something was happening to the environment outside, it had almost healed over.

Almost.

Squire could still sense a place on the other side, and since he had no desire to suffocate within the stinking bowels of a shadow path, he decided to do something about it.

He swung the golf bag from his shoulder and rummaged through it, pulling out a battle-ax.

No need for anything dainty here.

“Get behind me,” he told the girl, as more gunshots rang out.

Squire raised the ax above his head, chancing a quick look behind him. The path was constricting faster, squeezing Tattoo Man and Dog Boy in its shrinking grip, buying him just enough time.

The goblin let out a scream, putting everything he had behind the strike as he brought the blade down on the hardening wall of shadow before them.

The blade buried itself deep within the solidified midnight, but he believed he could see a hint of a light from the world that still existed behind it. Yanking the blade back, he hefted the mighty ax, striking the wall again and again.

“We ain’t got much time,” he said to Ashley, hacking at the wall once more and then grabbing the edges of the cut and pulling.

Ashley hesitated at first but then joined Squire with gusto, sinking her fingers into the gelatinous dark and ripping away chunks to open the passage.

A sickly light leaked from the opening they’d torn, and it appeared large enough for them to get through, but the way the wall was healing up, it wouldn’t be for long.

“Now,” Squire ordered, pushing Ashley toward the hole.

She started to protest, fear creeping into her eyes, but he insisted, shoving her into the gradually diminishing crack and forcing her through to the other side.

He was about to follow her when he felt a powerful grip clamp down on his ankle.

“Going somewhere?” the tattooed man asked as he slithered on his belly through the intestine-like passage that was collapsing all around them. The schnauzer boy had managed to make it past his partner, crab walking toward him, mouth open to bite.

A quick backhand across the face was enough to discourage the youngster, but then Squire watched as Tattoo Man, who was still holding him with one hand, pulled his gun up in the other and prepared to fire.

Squire knew he had only seconds before the passage he’d cut healed up twice as thick as before, trapping him here, and he didn’t cotton to that at all. He glanced down, seeing the hilt of his ax sticking up from the softening surface beneath his feet, and yanked it free with a moist sucking sound. He managed to bring the ax down on the wrist of the hand that held his ankle, just as the tattooed man fired his gun with the other.

Yanking his foot back, Squire found that he was free, but he’d also been shot, the bullet punching its way into his shoulder, forcing him to drop his battle-ax.

But things weren’t any better for Tattoo Man.

He was screaming, clutching the stump of his hand, as Squire pushed himself backward toward the fissure-less than half the size it had been mere moments before.

Sensing that it was now or never, Squire dove headfirst into the passage, forcing his way through the tight squeeze of the wound he’d cut in the hardening blackness. It wasn’t easy; the walls of the passage attempted to crush him as he wiggled his way through. He’d always been curious as to what it would feel like to be born, and figured that this was probably the closest he’d ever get to having the experience again.

The passage was closing behind him, but he could see a hint of soft light ahead. His shoulder screamed in protest, but Squire didn’t listen. There’d be time for pain later, when he was still alive and on the other side with the time to bitch about it.

He clawed at the membranous caul that had formed over the exit, pulling himself through, out into the light with a series of grunts and a scream of freedom.

Out of the frying pan.

“Don’t want to be doing that again anytime soon,” he said, rolling on his stomach and starting to stand. He saw that Ashley was there, but her stare was fixed on something he had not yet noticed.

And then he saw that she was staring at a naked and perfectly muscled human figure standing with arms outstretched. Wings of fire grew from his back, and the words of some ancient magickal spell spilled from his mouth to seed the air.

Squire knew where they were, and they hadn’t gotten very far. They were back inside the old mansion, but he could feel that something wasn’t right. It was moving… The magick spell that the man was casting was taking the entire estate to someplace else.

Out of the frying pan, he thought, feeling reality whizzing past him.

And into the fire.