In the House of the Wicked (31 page)

Deacon was bending the world to his whim.

He stood in the open foyer of his home, calling on ancient spells that until now were too powerful for him to manipulate.

Sparks of fire leapt from his outstretched hands, sizzling on the marble floor, providing the only sustained light as the chandelier and the supernaturally powered bulbs in the wall sconces flickered in and out, the greenish glow growing fainter by the seconds.

“Do you see?” Deacon asked the golem staff that watched him from a safe distance. “Do you see what I can do?”

He was also addressing his wife. Even though her body had burned with the dining room, he knew that she was still with him.

Expecting him to fail.

But he was beyond failure now, or would be as soon as he had his revenge.

The shadow realm was fighting him, not wanting to give up the stately home that had been part of its inky environment for so many years.

How dared it think that it could keep him there?

Deacon again flexed magickal muscles that grew stronger and stronger every time he exerted them. The home around him began to violently vibrate, straining against the reality of the shadow place, as he attempted to take it from here to there.

In his mind he pictured it as it was, the Catskill Mountains, where his family had used their substantial wealth to build what was to be their castle, a place were American royalty went to escape the day-to-day stresses of the world. Deacon saw the home as it had been: a vast section of barren woods followed by the wooden skeletal structure that would soon grow its epidermis of wood, plaster, stone, and glass.

He felt a sense of calm pass through his energized form, recalling the joy he’d experienced in the home and what he yearned for again.

Going home to hide.

He heard the voice and whirled around, distracted.

“Veronica?” he called out, half expecting to see her burning form behind him, but there was nothing except the entrance to the parlor. He was about to resume his casting when he heard her again.

At least Stearns will know where to find you.

“What are you going on about?” Deacon demanded, spinning again, his body throwing off sparks of divine fire. He looked to his staff to see if they were hearing it, as well.

“Where is she?” he asked them.

They did not respond, probably fearing that they might anger him.

“I
will
bring the estate back,” he called out to Veronica. “And then I will deal with Stearns.”

Veronica chuckled, and Deacon felt his anger growing. It was not a healthy thing to anger one with the power of the Seraphim coursing through his veins.

“Did I say something humorous, my love?” he asked as he strode across the marble floor.

The golems scattered, revealing nothing. She was nowhere to be found.

Stearns will sense your return, and he will come for you
.

Deacon was about to object, but knew that there was some truth to his wife’s taunting words. Since that morning in 1945 when he and the cabal were transformed by the death energies of Hiroshima, he could sense the others, as if they had somehow been joined—connected—by their experience.

Even in the shadow realm, he could feel them….

And if he could feel them, then they…
Stearns
…was indeed aware of him.

Sense you…find you…take what is yours…

“Never again,” Deacon growled, his anger stirring the power of an angel.

You need to…

“Go to him,” Deacon finished.

Before he can…

“Try to take what is mine.”

Yesssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss.

Deacon closed his eyes, wiping his mind clear, and focusing on another thing entirely. He reached out across the veil of darkness to find the one who had taken so much from him. He found Heath right away, but only lingering traces of the others, clinging to one powerful scent.

Stearns.

Deacon smiled.
Won’t it be something,
he thought as he fixed a new location inside his head,
killing all those birds with one very large stone?

“I’m coming for you, Algernon,” he said, flexing his magickal muscles once again, feeling the fabric of the shadow realm stretching tighter against his onslaught.

And then it began to tear, the darkness ready to escape from one realm to fill another.

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.