Thomas Sniegoski - In the House of the Wicked

Births, deaths, celebrations of every conceivable kind; one tumbling into another, his every sense on fire with the phenomena. He felt himself starting to slow, being driven to the ground by the perpetual onslaught, but he knew that he couldn’t falter.

The fate of so many more were depending on him.

As he used to do with the power of the Seraphim, he forced the bombardment down, pushing it deep within, where it threatened to explode from its confines. But he could not think of that.

Remy found the broken stairway and made his way upward to where the television studio had once been, but now was nothing more than rubble open to the world.

His attention was immediately drawn to the struggle going on across the expanse of wreckage: Deacon versus Stearns. The energy that radiated from the battling pair was incredible; he could feel its intensity on his face from where he stood.

And then his eyes turned skyward, and he gazed in awe and horror at the swirling maelstrom of darkness that had opened there. It had grown larger in the short time since he’d last laid eyes on it, and it made the current situation all the more dire.

Remy moved from the ruined doorway, up farther into the demolished studio. He found himself drawn to the sorcerers’ struggle, sensing that the fight was over the power that once belonged to him.

The power of the Seraphim.

A power that he would need if he had any hopes of stopping this madness.

He gazed at the magick users in mortal combat through flying rubble and smoke, and had no idea what he should do.

But he had to do something.

His gaze dropped down to see the body of the Grigori Armaros slumped back against a section of broken wall. The other Watchers lay around him, all of them with the hilts of daggers protruding from their chests.

A surge of memory like a bolt of lightning caused him to gasp aloud as it filled his mind. He was about to wrestle it, to shove it back away with the others, when something made him pause.

And remember.

Remy experienced the memory of the Grigori leader as he was given his gift of death. Hands from an impenetrable wall of shadow reached out to present the Watcher leader with something rolled in ancient sackcloth.

“To still the heart of Heaven’s own,” said a silken voice as Armaros took the gift. “And create believers of us all.”

The memory seemed to fast-forward as Armaros held the ancient dagger poised above his heart, and the explosion of pain and joy that was experienced as his life-and those of his brethren-came to an end.

Their life energies surging outward into the golem child, and then out into the world.

Remy gasped for breath as the memory released him, and he found his eyes locked on the hilt of the mystical blade protruding from the dead, fallen angel’s chest.

To still the heart of Heaven’s own, he heard the mysterious voice echo within the halls of his thoughts, as he turned his gaze to the spectacle of battle still going on across from him.

It appeared now that Deacon was winning.

He squatted down, hand temporarily hovering over the hilt of the blade, before taking it in his hand.

And pulling it from the angel’s stilled heart.

Francis stopped at the stairwell door and turned.

“Where the fuck are Squire and Ashley?” he asked.

Angus turned to the corridor and the darkness that eventually swallowed it.

“They were right here a minute ago,” the sorcerer said.

“Damn it,” Francis snarled.

“Should we go back for them?” Angus asked.

The building trembled violently again, helping to shake loose his decision.

“No,” the former Guardian answered. “We’ve got to reach Chandler if we don’t want this all going to shit,” he said, hand on the doorknob. “That Squire is one tough puke. I don’t think he’ll have any problems holding his own.”

Francis pushed open the door, and they found themselves in a stairwell untouched by hungry shadows.

“Isn’t this nice?” Francis commented, already moving toward the stairs that would take them higher. “Too bad we couldn’t hang for a bit. Have some lunch; maybe take a nap.”

“I would love a nap right about now,” Angus said.

“You and me both, but we’ve got some shit going on up above that’s going to need our attention.”

On the next level they found another door, and another stairway that led up into a wall of solid shadow.

“Something tells me I don’t want to go to the next floor,” Francis said.

Angus had already pulled open the door, holding it for his companion.

“After you,” the sorcerer said.

“I would think you were being nice if it wasn’t for the fact that there could be some shadow beast just inside, waiting to eat my ass.”

“You wound me, sir,” Angus said, as Francis passed through.

“Looks pretty clear,” he said.

The office space was obviously a prime location, the walls of one entire side of the expanse covered in floor-to-ceiling windows. Francis found himself drawn to them, curious as to what might be happening outside the building.

“Holy crap,” the angel assassin gasped.

The streets below them were filled with chaos, crowds of people surging away across the expanse of plaza. He could see the flashing lights of emergency vehicles, as well as some that may have had a connection to the military.

A tendril of darkness flowed down from above, past the window, slithering to the streets below.

“What the fuck was that?” Francis asked, pressing his face against the cold glass to see what was happening directly below.

“The same thing that’s happening in here,” Angus answered. “The shadow realm is flowing into this world. By coming back here, Deacon must’ve somehow punctured a hole between realities.”

“And that’s bad because…,” Francis urged.

“That’s bad because the shadow realm could easily continue to flow into this one, eventually breaking down all barriers and flooding this world with total darkness.”

Francis watched through the window as more and more streams of slithering black rolled down the front of the skyscraper to the streets below.

“We’ve got to plug that hole,” he said finally.

“Is that all?” Angus answered.

Francis couldn’t stand to see anymore, leaving the window to find the next set of stairs that would take them closer to where they needed to be.

Just another thing added to his to-do list.

Squire didn’t care to be shot again; he was funny like that. His shoulder already hurt like hell, and now his upper thigh felt like shit.

The hobgoblin surged up onto his stubby legs, ignoring the pain, running to where he saw a particularly inviting patch of shadow.

“Where are you going?” the tattooed man asked, firing his weapon wildly.

How many fucking bullets does this guy have? Squire asked himself as he dove, his injured body hitting the pool of darkness, the substance of darkness swallowing him whole.

He emerged on the other side of this particular path. It looked as though he was in some kind of warehouse, the smell of the ocean close by making the hairs in his pronounced nose tingle. It had been a long time since he’d smelled a living ocean.

Squire crawled from the passage, using the moment of calm to check out his wound. The tattooed man’s bullet had hit him in the meaty part of his leg, but it looked as though it had passed through. He was lucky; if it had hit bone, he would have been a sitting duck. He would heal, but it would take a little time.

His attacker surged up from the pool of black.

“Bet you didn’t think I could follow you,” he said, aiming his weapon as Squire scrambled to his feet. “But it seems I’ve developed a knack.”