Holy Hell, page 14
part #5 of Sins of the Father Series
I made a face. “Oh.”
“Oh?” He cocked an eyebrow at me. “Oh what?”
“Um, nothing. I just thought there’d be more than one pair. You know, former king of the fallen and all that.”
Samyaza wilted, and by that I mean his wings physically drooped. I instantly felt like a jerk.
“Don’t be rude, Mason. They were sealed away when he fell. Besides, it’s not the number of wings that matters.”
Samyaza nodded eagerly. “Right. It’s how you use them.”
“This is entering some territory that I do not want to explore right now,” I said.
“Enough,” Raziel said. “We fly. Mason, disrobe if you must, or tear your shirt to shreds. It does not matter to me. Especially that shirt.”
I grabbed at the fabric. “What’s wrong with my shirt?”
“Oh,” Raziel said, drawing the word out so it had three syllables. “Nothing at all.”
I turned to Samyaza. “I hate it when he gets like this. I didn’t think angels could be so damn sassy.” I shrugged off my backpack and pulled my shirt off, then reached for my pocket, meaning to stuff both into Box’s mouth.
“No time,” Raziel said.
“You expect me to carry this the entire way?”
“Not at all. I would leave that hideous rucksack in this abandoned mall as well.”
Raziel had clearly had enough. He flapped all four of his wings, taking flight and bursting through the atrium’s high windows. The glass burst inwards, showering the ground like broken diamonds. Raziel’s hair streamed in the wind as he hovered imperiously above us, waiting, the moon making a silver circle behind his head, an accidental halo. Raziel made my blood boil sometimes, but you had to admit, the guy had plenty of style.
“You see how he treats me?” I said, shaking my head.
“He only wants what’s best for you.” Samyaza nodded firmly. “Come on, now. He’s right. We’re in a hurry. Best get going.”
I rotated my shoulders, shivering against the cold of night seeping into the mall, shuddering again when I felt my wings manifest. I stretched them out, sighing with pleasure at the release of tension, then nodded back at Samyaza.
“Ready.”
We took off at the same time, gingerly avoiding each other as we slipped through the broken windows, then flanked Raziel as we reached him, the angel of mysteries, our guiding star.
Then, with both my fathers at my side, I flew to meet the enemy.
26
Don’t let anybody convince you that California isn’t cold. Everywhere is cold when you’re a thousand feet up in the air, at night, with no shirt on. I cradled my arms together as I flew, looking thoroughly unimpressive, I’m sure, especially with Samyaza and Raziel controlling their flight so much more expertly.
Fine, they were right. I needed to try harder, if only to make sure I could learn how to sprout the damn things on the outside of my clothes for once. And it was convenient, too, I couldn’t deny that. We’d only been flying a few minutes and the blasted ruins of the old shopping mall was already far behind us. I wasn’t going to check on my phone to see where we were, exactly, because we had our very own homing pigeon in Raziel, but I couldn’t say that we were anywhere near lost.
Peter Pan and those dumb kids had it right, man. Maybe other cities or countries are more picturesque, but nothing, and I mean nothing I’d ever experienced in my life could compare to the sensation of barreling through the clouds, the indigo sky above me a canopy of stars, the ground far below a twinkling carpet of city lights. That was the best indication that we were approaching Valero. It could have been someplace else, really – I wouldn’t trust me to understand topography all that well – but it was kind of simple to tell because of what was waiting on the city’s outskirts.
At Latham’s Cross, to be specific. Even from far up high, I could see that there was a new, larger circle inscribed in the graveyard grounds, this one pulsing with a pale green light, the lines of it thicker, stockier. There was no order to descend from Raziel, but we circled down slowly anyway. And as we approached, it was clear to see why Asher had needed to build a stronger barrier.
“Holy hell,” I muttered, my words stolen by the wind as it whistled past.
The necromantic circle was only the eye of a shambling, shuddering storm. Bodies piled in thick ranks were gathered all around it, stretching far, far beyond the graveyard grounds. The zombies weren’t playing around this time, and clearly, neither was their oddly absent leader.
“Where’s Roland?” I shouted at the others.
Raziel shook his head. Samyaza shrugged. How were we supposed to spot him in this mass of – God, was it hundreds? Could it have been thousands? Waiting in the circle were just Asher and Florian. Artemis and Priscilla were nowhere in sight, probably waiting back in Paradise to defend it.
Raziel descended in a slow spiral, as did Samyaza, and I followed suit, monkey see, monkey do. Best way to learn, of course, and the best way not to go crashing into the woods, or some brambles, or worst yet, a silent horde of revenants. The others lighted gracefully on their feet, their wings fading just as soon as they touched the earth. I wasn’t quite as agile myself, stumbling as I landed. Fine. I was going to fly more, and fly better.
“Look who finally decided to show up,” Asher barked. His hair was sticking up in places, his eyes dark. Preparing the circle had clearly taken a lot out of him.
“No time for sniping,” I said, rummaging through my backpack for my shirt, then very eagerly pulling it on over my head. Ah. Warmth, or something like it. “Why this place? Did you lead them here?”
Florian cut in. “No. We sensed them coming, and they decided to gather here themselves. It’s a miracle we managed to punch our way through and set up the circle.”
I looked down at the grass, then around at the circle. It was far larger than the first one, but still couldn’t have been more than twenty feet in diameter. “I still don’t get it. We’re sitting ducks out here. One breach, and we’re done for.”
“You’re right, you still don’t get it,” Asher said, frustrated, but not quite as snippy this time. “We opened a portal to the underworld here, remember? When we took that elevator down to meet the Council of Bones? Well, it looks like Roland decided that this was the best place to gather up more recruits for his army.”
I stamped my foot at the ground. “You mean this is a seal?”
He nodded. “Exactly. We’re the only thing standing between the underworld and the potential thousands of souls Roland could pull out from there to do his bidding.”
“We must locate the leader of this invasion,” Raziel said. “Roland’s actions are in violation of everything the gods of death and the afterlife stand for. I wouldn’t be surprised if even the people upstairs were watching.”
Samyaza tapped the side of his nose. “Aha. But he’s one of their own, so it’s not like they can really intervene. You know, unless it gets messy.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “One of their own?”
“He’s not an angel, no,” Samyaza said. “He was a paladin, one of King Charlemagne’s most trusted commanders.” He waved a hand vaguely. “And Durandal itself, well, the rumor is that it was given to Charlemagne by an angel, and then passed on down to Roland.”
“And you have to understand,” Raziel added, “all of you, that the oddest aspect of this invasion is how Roland truly believes that he is in the right. What I do not yet comprehend is why he is so adamant on retrieving the sword in such a violent fashion. All these attacks on humanity, all in their search for Durandal.”
I smacked myself on the forehead. “The sword. Right. The sooner we give it back, the sooner we get this all over with.”
Quickly I ran through the rigmarole of finding Box in my pockets and retrieving the sword from his slick maw. I shook off his mimic saliva as best as I could, wiping the blade on the hem of my shirt. Wherever Roland was, I was sure he wouldn’t have appreciated getting back his legendary, allegedly angel-gifted sword all covered in shapeshifter drool.
I lifted the sword high above my head, gasping when a pulse of radiance glistened along the blade, expanding into a ray that reached far across the graveyard. From complete silence the gathered horde issued what could pass for a long, continuous, awestruck moan. It was eerie, seeing Durandal’s light reflected in their eyes, seeing their gazes suddenly filled with a spark of life, and not pure menace.
“Roland,” I shouted, remembering to word things in the more formal language that many entities and supernaturals seemed to prefer. “Come forth. I bring you your blade. Forgive my transgression. I have come to make amends. I have come to return it. ”
The horde’s moaning stopped all at once.
“Something’s happening,” Florian muttered from somewhere behind me. That something was a sudden shifting in the sea of zombies, like a slow wave emanating from its farthest reaches. The zombies were shuffling aside, parting and making way for something – or, as I’d long hoped, someone. We only had to return the blade, and this would all be over.
The light radiating from Durandal pierced the horde, reaching towards the point where the bodies had started rippling. Where it touched it illuminated something I hadn’t expected to see, ever. It was a knight, riding a great horse. I drew a sudden breath, marveling at the sight.
“Roland,” Raziel whispered, speaking the word with reverence. “He comes astride his fabled charger, Veillantif. Even in death his noble steed serves him.”
Samyaza whistled softly. “Even in death, you gotta admit, the man has style.”
He wasn’t wrong. The chainmail and skull cap of Roland’s armor might have been less lustrous, more dented than they had been when he’d first worn them to battle, but they gleamed like white silver, despite the fact that he’d been buried with them for very, very many centuries. Even the paladin himself looked different than the other zombies, only his face and his hands visible, the skin and flesh withered and gray, desiccated, but preserved, like a perfect mummy.
Roland’s eyes twinkled with fondness as they savored the sight of his beloved sword. He raised his hand towards me, beckoning and wanting, the bleached-white skeletal horse Veillantif ever approaching, leaving a flaming hoof print of ivory fire with each step. This felt so different from most every other brush I’d had with the supernatural. Though decaying and dead, Roland and his risen were more human than anything I’d ever encountered.
Veillantif lowered his head as he approached the circle, and Roland extended his hand, waiting, wanting. I reached across the boundary, presenting Durandal to the paladin, hilt first. A deep sigh echoed from his dry, dead lips, followed by a wrinkled smile.
“I accept the blade,” Roland said, his voice dusty and ancient, like the creaking of a cellar door. He lifted it high, the light of Durandal gleaming off his helmet, his entire body a beacon in the sea of corpses.
“Oh wow,” Florian whispered. “He speaks English.” I glared at him.
“Shush,” Asher said. “You try sleeping in the dirt for over a thousand years, hang out with other dead guys, see if you don’t pick up one new language in all that time.”
“Good point,” Florian said.
The sword sparkled, washing the horde in a tide of silver light.
“I accept the blade,” Roland repeated, his lips drawing slowly back as he grinned, showing rows of yellowed teeth. “But I do not accept your apology – nephilim filth.”
The undead horde began to chatter, dead tongues and rotten teeth clicking as they struggled to echo the words of their master. Roland lowered his sword, pointing Durandal directly at my heart.
“Destroy the nephilim. Destroy the abomination.”
27
Oh, so apparently centuries- dead paladins had prejudices against nephilim, too. Awesome. Got it. Very progressive. I teetered just short of the circle’s edge, struggling with the urge to leap past the barrier and wrest Durandal back out from Roland’s grubby paws.
“Your very existence is a pox upon reality,” Roland said, the light of Durandal turning the graveyard white. “You and your corrupt father are a blight upon these sacred grounds. You must be cleansed.”
He steered his steed around suddenly, galloping off into the thick of his army, only the beacon of his blade still visible as he rode among the revenants.
“What’s he doing?” I said, squinting into the distance.
“Rallying his troops,” Samyaza said. “He’s rousing them for battle.”
Asher touched a finger to his temple, his eyes momentarily pulsing with green light. “We might not even hear him say anything. He used his mouth for our benefit. The others can hear his murmurs just fine.”
I studied his eyes, the way they darted as if he was visually following the literal thread of a conversation. “And what are they saying, exactly?”
“Same thing he told us. ‘Kill the nephilim. Kill the Grigori. Cleanse this land.’” Asher blinked, and his eyes went back to normal.
It was already working, too. The zombies were clawing at the air, their fingers emitting sparks where their talons collided with the invisible wall of force Asher had erected around us. His necromantic protections would only last so long.
I ran angry fingers through my hair, sputtering. “Who the hell saw this coming? I’m serious, I defy someone to tell me that this was the outcome they were expecting. Roland was supposed to take the damn thing and go back to sleep, and take his damn army down underground with him.”
Asher scratched at the end of his nose. “To be fair, if Durandal really was handed down by an angel, then it makes sense that the recipient wouldn’t have the most positive opinion of – you know.” He waved his hand vaguely up and down my body.
“Of what?” I scowled at him. “An abomination?”
“I didn’t say that.”
Samyaza sighed. “You’ll get used to it, kid. The question is, what do we do now?” He pushed his fists against his hips, alarmingly calm for someone who was staring down the barrel of an undetermined quantity of ravenous zombies.
“We beat them back,” Raziel said, lifting his nose. “As hard as we can, and for as long as we can.”
Florian shuffled his way closer to our huddle. “But we’re safe here, right? They can’t breach. And if they do, we can tear them apart.”
A zombie slammed its face against the barrier, sparks flying as he collided with what, to us, looked like a translucent wall of pale glass. More followed suit, pounding with their fists and their faces.
Asher knelt by the circle, his hand in the grass. “I can reinforce the circle, hold them at bay for a little longer. But if this thing goes down, we’re like the bottleneck in an hourglass, only the sand is a swarm of angry dead guys.”
Sam flexed his fingers, then looked down at them uncertainly. “Can we engage them from the inside? Fire at them, I mean.”
“Be my guest,” Asher said. “Nothing comes in as long as the barrier holds, but feel free to start thinning their numbers.”
“That’s what I’m worried about,” Florian said. “There’s way too many of them.”
And it seemed to me like the army was only growing thicker, as if Roland’s command had attracted more undead to his cause. Had he ripped them right out of the earth? Was Valero even safe anymore? No. We had to focus. We were the last thing keeping the land of the living from being overrun.
Florian roared as he thrust his arms forward, the earth itself obeying his command. Vines and tendrils surged from beneath the ground, whipping and flaying at the zombies. Those that they didn’t shred into pieces were dragged back under the soil, forcibly returned to their rest. Florian’s muscles tensed as he worked his strange alraune magics, nature itself bending to his will.
Samyaza slammed his fists together, a beam of blue light blasting from his hands and out into the graveyard. It cut a swath through the hordes, an angelic laser he’d conjured from his own soul. I watched in amazement as Raziel joined the barrage, battering his own section of Latham’s Cross with rays of golden light, cutting into the corpses, smiting the undead. They’d regained enough of their power to help thin out the herd. But how much longer before the zombies adapted to resist angelic smiting, too? Was that even possible?
We had to finish this fast.
I had to do something, contribute to the fight and pull my weight. What was the best I could offer? I clenched my fingers, gazing inward, knowing that I barely had enough left in my reservoir to conjure much more than a weapon. This wasn’t a time to be calling on cannon fire – I genuinely didn’t have enough ammunition left. So I settled for something closer, and something familiar.
A golden longbow materialized between my fingers, its string tight and strong. Arrows formed and hardened in midair as I drew, nocked, and released, firing a hail of missiles that paled in comparison to anything Artemis could do. But I wanted to play my part in the battle. My nephilim gas tank might have been running on empty, but I still had my arms to work with. And minutes later, a dozen, two dozen zombies down – but still there were more coming.
“I don’t think this is working as well as we thought, you guys,” Florian said, sweat dripping down the tip of his nose, the veins in his forehead bulging.
“We’ve been fighting all night,” Samyaza said, huffing and heaving. “Angel or no, it’s not like we have a bottomless supply of essence.”
Asher shook his head, his hair clinging to the film of sweat on his face. “Same here. I can only pour so much into the circle. It’s not gonna hold much longer.”
I knelt by him, placing my hand on his back, finding his shirt drenched and cold with sweat. “I’ve got jack all left, but I can help, if you need me.”
