Thomas Sniegoski - In the House of the Wicked

“Quickly now. Quickly,” Stearns bellowed.

Remy could not take his eyes from the Grigori calmly standing beside the child’s bed, waiting to do their part.

He was disgusted, nauseated by the idea that they and he were actually of the same species. He’d suspected that the Watchers-the Grigori-had been driven insane by their banishment to the world they had helped to corrupt, but he never imagined how truly crazy they had become.

Or how far they’d go to show it.

“I get it,” Remy yelled over the voices raised in preparation, temporarily bringing silence to the studio.

Armaros was looking at him now with cold, dead eyes.

“I get it,” Remy said again. “You’re pissed…pissed at God for forgetting you, pissed at yourselves for being so damn weak, and pissed at me for killing your leader.”

He could feel the fury radiating from them in waves; it was like static electricity, charging the very air. It made the hair on his arms stand on end.

“But don’t do this,” Remy begged. “Take your anger out on someone who deserves it… Take it out on me, if you have to.”

Armaros drifted closer.

“The great angel Remiel,” the new Grigori leader scoffed. “You actually believe this is all about you? Such arrogance. But then again, what would we expect from one of the Almighty’s elite?”

The fallen angel moved to stand before Remy.

“This isn’t about past angers and sorrows,” Armaros said. “This is about the future of this world…of humanity and of Heaven itself.”

Remy wasn’t sure he understood. “How can the killing of a million of His flock be seen as a positive move toward the future?”

“Are you so blind?” Armaros asked. “Can you not see the signs? There’s a war coming…and the world of man will become a battleground.”

“It’ll never come to that,” Remy said, trying to hide his uncertainty.

“The signs are there, Remiel, whether you choose to ignore them or not. What we are doing today is preparing the world…preparing the people for what is to be a time of great loss.”

“You keep talking, but I still don’t see how killing a million people and giving a sorcerer this kind of power is preparing the world for anything.”

“We did this to them, Remiel,” Armaros said. “We steered them down this road to decadence. This will be our chance to make things right, to set them on the path to believing again.”

Armaros turned to his brethren, Stearns, and the little girl cowering in her princess bed.

“They will believe in their Creator again, and they shall fear Him as they should. And then they will be prepared for the troubled times to come.”

Remy had no idea what to say; it was all so insane. He knew that there were changes in the wind…

But war?

Could he have been so blind?

Stearns cleared his throat, and Remy looked over to see the sorcerer fully adorned in the armored apparatus that would feed him the death energies of those cut down by the Grigori’s message. He was tapping a watch on his wrist, urging them to proceed.

“Of course, Algernon Stearns,” Armaros said, returning to stand with the other Grigori.

The fallen angel turned his attentions to the little girl partially hidden beneath her covers.

“Are we ready, my child?” he asked her.

“Is God gonna tell you His message?” she asked, peeking out.

The angel nodded and smiled. “He is, and then we are going to tell you…and then you will tell the world.”

“Armaros,” Remy cried out again, hoping that this time…maybe.

But he succeeded only in annoying Stearns, who gestured to his security guards, and Remy was forced to his knees, his arms bent unnaturally behind him.

“Make him watch,” the sorcerer ordered before turning his attention back to Armaros and the other Grigori.

“Are we ready?” Stearns asked.

“We are,” Armaros answered.

The world went deathly quiet. Armaros leaned in toward the small child, his lips dangerously close to her ear, as the remaining Grigori joined hands.

And suddenly all Remy could hear was the whine of the television cameras’ auto focus as they fixed the child in their robotic sights.

And the Grigori leader’s whispering voice…

“Hear the words of the Lord.”

The wards of protection cast around the plaza were doing their job.

The vintage car, engine racing like a turbulent ocean surf as it drove at the Hermes Building in a breakneck pace, felt as though it had struck an invisible wall.

The Lincoln came to a screaming halt, the shining chrome bumper and front end of the awesome car buckling. Francis and Angus were like rag dolls in the front seat, whipped viciously forward but prevented from continuing their journey through the broad expanse of windshield by their straining seat belts.

Leona was angry. The living car did not stop for long, its thick tires digging into the brick and spinning wildly, filling the air with the acrid smoke of burning rubber as she moved inexorably forward toward the building.

It was one supernatural force against the other.

The air was filled with so much smoke and noise that Francis had no idea what was truly happening. Angus sat perfectly still, holding on to his seat for dear life as the car bucked and bounced, the sounds of twisting metal like a symphony of destruction in their ears.

This can go one of three ways, Francis thought as he continued to grip the warm wooden steering wheel. Leona could be totally decimated, or the living car could show the wards who was truly queen shit by getting them inside the building, or the two unmovable forces could cause one helluva explosion, leaving Hermes Plaza with a decent-sized crater that could be used as a swimming pool in the summer.

The car began to thrash like a Jack Russell with its fangs buried deep in a rat, giving it that special shake to snap its neck.

There were bursts of fire and the smell of brimstone and the sounds of screaming somewhere off in the distance. For a second Francis believed that the wards had won, that Leona just didn’t have what it took to beat the protective spells.

But then her engine began to roar and the tires spun even faster, and Leona lurched forward, seemingly shucking off the destructive effects of the sorcerous handiwork that should have been strong enough to keep them out.

But never underestimate the craftsmanship of demonic ingenuity.

Leona’s cries were deafening; it sounded like all the engines of every NASCAR race ever run had been spooled together to create one horrendous clamor. Her spinning tires were finally able to gain purchase, and the vehicle leapt forward, battering through the revolving doors in an explosion of metal and glass.

And as soon as she was inside, her engine died, cutting out with a sputter.

Francis knew that the car had done the nearly impossible and that was all they could expect from her.

“We’re in,” he said, already swinging open the driver’s-side door. Angus moved as he did, extracting his bulk from the vehicle.

Alarms wailed and an artificial rain from the sprinklers fell upon them. Francis could hear scuffling in the smoke and dust and saw movement toward them.

“Trunk!” he yelled, slamming his hand down on the back of the vehicle, and Leona managed one more act for them, popping the trunk and allowing them access to their gear.

Shots rang out, pinging off the open trunk as both Francis and Angus reached inside and readied themselves for the task ahead.

Francis tossed a handful of the walnut-sized grenades first, the explosions of magick canceling out any sorcery that was being used in the lobby. Then he moved around the car, pistol in hand, firing one shot after another, taking out the stunned golem sentries. Angus backed him up, handgun firing from one hand while the other wove powerful new magicks to repel their attackers.