Thomas Sniegoski - In the House of the Wicked

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.

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.”