Armageddon (11 page)

“I don’t know, why don’t you tell me.”

They both had a good laugh.

“You rested now? Can we go?” Mallus asked finally.

“Yeah, I’m good.” The Malakim pushed off from his rock, his body emitting waves of crackling energy.

Mallus stepped closer, feeling the Malakim magick take hold of him, as they prepared to teleport about the mountains again on their search.

“How close do you think we are to actually locating the
Metatron’s shell?” Mallus asked.

“I don’t know, but there’s something that I’d like to try.”

And the pair was gone, the falling snow covering up any evidence that they had ever been there at all.

*   *   *

Jeremy opened the can of stew with his burning knife, while heating the contents with his hand.

“This should be hot enough,” he said, his breath fogging.

It was cold in this abandoned cabin by the Baltic Sea, but the larder was relatively well stocked, if one enjoyed canned foods, that is.

Jeremy carried the food to the cot where Enoch lay beneath multiple blankets.

“Here,” he prodded, bringing the steaming can and spoon to the toddler’s mouth. “Sit up and have a bite. You need to keep up your strength.”

“I’m not hungry,” the child said from beneath the covers.

“Yeah, but you will be,” Jeremy answered. “And once I’m done, you’ll be telling me that you fancy a snack. Have a bite to eat now and avoid pissing me off later.”

“I told you—”

“And I told you,” Jeremy snapped, reaching over and pulling at the pile of blankets.

The child was curled into a tight little ball. His body, unnaturally large for one who had been born so recently, still
appeared small and helpless.

“Please eat something,” Jeremy said. He’d continued to will heat into the palm of his hand so that the contents of the can would not grow cold.

Enoch looked at him intensely; there was much anger in those eyes, as if Jeremy were somehow responsible for the troubles they’d been having.

“I’ll eat,” Enoch stated angrily. “But I won’t like it.”

“That’s fine with me.” Jeremy dragged a stool beside the cot and sat down. “Why don’t you pull those covers over your shoulders?”

Enoch scowled but did it anyway, draping the blankets across him like a shawl.

Jeremy dipped the plastic spoon into the stew and brought it to the child’s mouth.

“I shouldn’t even be eating this,” the baby said. “I’m less than two months old. This will probably wreak havoc with my digestive system.”

“You’ve been doing fine,” Jeremy said. “Baby food is only for real babies.”

“I’m a real baby,” Enoch protested.

“No, you’re not,” Jeremy retorted.

“Close enough.”

“Not sure if I’d even go that far,” Jeremy said, taking more stew onto the spoon and bringing it to Enoch’s mouth.

“Bastard.”

“Shut up and eat your stew.”

Enoch took another mouthful, this time more eagerly. The baby was obviously hungry. Big surprise.

A roar sounded from somewhere outside. It was distant, but close enough.

A sword of fire immediately came to life in Jeremy’s hand. He set down the can of stew and darted toward the window. The thin glass was covered in frost, distorting the view outside.

He could see something moving in the frozen water outside, its serpentine neck jutting up from the ice with another roar.

“What is it?” Enoch asked.

“I don’t bloody know,” Jeremy said. He held the sword down by his side so as not to alert the monster to their presence inside the hovel. “Sea serpent, I’d gather.”

Enoch helped himself to the can of stew, having some difficulty using the spoon.

“It’s hard to believe that there was a time when a creature like that would have been unheard of,” Jeremy said.

“I never knew such a time,” Enoch said, chewing noisily.

“Which is just my point,” Jeremy stated. “You’re only two months old, and a bloody sea serpent sighting is commonplace.”

Enoch scooped more stew from the can, dribbling some of it down the front of his tiny blue jacket before shoving the rest into his yawning mouth.

“I’ll try to fix that,” the boy said. “Once I’ve had the chance to—”

“To what?” Jeremy asked. “What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to fix—this.” Enoch waved the plastic spoon around. “I’m going to fix the world.”

“That’s what you keep telling me, but all we’re doing is running around from one place to the next, with no rhyme or reason.”

The toddler was frustrated. “You know how hard it is for me.”

“Yeah, I know.” Jeremy was tired of the whole thing. He returned to the stool and took the can from the child.

“My memory is incomplete,” Enoch said. “I know what I was, but not what I’m supposed to be now.”

Jeremy didn’t answer. He’d heard it all before.

“I’m hoping that it will eventually come to me,” Enoch explained. “I sense it out there . . . like a beacon trying to reach me. It’s what brought me here, and to your mother’s attention.”

Jeremy flinched at the memory of his mum. He couldn’t get the image of her dead body out of his mind.

“I’m here for a very special purpose, Jeremy,” the child said, his tiny voice cracking from the strain.

And then he was crying, tears streaming down his cold, chubby face, his cheeks turning an even brighter red.

Finishing the rest of the stew, Jeremy remembered his mother’s face as she died, her last word before her final breath:

Protect.

She wanted him to protect the little bugger, so here he was.

“Shush,” Jeremy said, setting the empty can and plastic spoon down on the floor. Enoch continued to wail, so worked up that calming him seemed impossible.

Jeremy sat next to him. Enoch tried to crawl away, but he was too overcome with emotion.

Jeremy could relate. He was frustrated too. He could only imagine what it was like for the toddler. Yes, Enoch spoke like an adult, but the truth was the little bugger was only eight weeks old. It was amazing that he was capable of holding it together as well as he did.

“C’mere,” Jeremy said, grabbing for the squirming Enoch. The child fought him, but Jeremy was larger, and quite a bit stronger. He pulled the fussy babe into his arms and hugged him close. “Calm down now,” he said, and started to rock.

Enoch continued to fight and screech.

“Wouldn’t want that sea serpent to hear you now, would you?” Jeremy asked. “I’d have to toss you to him to make my escape.”

“Damn . . . you . . . ,” the baby wailed, between gulps of air.

Jeremy squeezed the child tighter. “That’s it,” he said, his voice soft and calming. “Let it all out, and then we’ll be done.”

“Don’t . . . you . . . understand? I . . . have a job . . . to do . . .”

“I get it,” Jeremy said. “I really do.”

He knew that the child was here for a purpose, but it was nothing short of maddening, for Enoch as well as himself, not
knowing exactly what that reason was. They simply had to keep fumbling along in the dark, until some light was shed on what Enoch’s mission might be.

An earsplitting roar rattled the window.

Bloody hell, if his bit of fun with the baby hadn’t come true.

“Wait here,” Jeremy said, prying the child from his grasp.

“Where are you going?” Enoch demanded petulantly. “I haven’t finished venting yet.”

Jeremy walked toward the door, a sword of fire igniting in his grasp. “You have if you don’t want to be eaten by a sea serpent,” the Nephilim said.

That shut up the wailing child.

Jeremy placed his hand on the freezing door latch and looked back to Enoch. The child sat, arms crossed, sulking.

“Thought you were going to feed me to the beast,” Enoch said in his sternest voice.

“Now would I do something mean and nasty like that?” Jeremy asked. “This shouldn’t take but a minute.” Then he stepped outside into the cold, slamming the door of the cabin closed behind him.

The serpent loomed above the cabin, its skin glistening like a rainbow in the dim light of day. Jeremy hated to admit it, but it was a beautiful sight to see.

But then the beast opened its mouth in a roar as it saw him standing there, showing off rows of milky-white, hooked teeth. He could just imagine the damage they could do when
biting into tender flesh.

So much for beauty,
Jeremy thought, sprouting his wings and flying at the beast, preparing his weapon of crackling flame to strike.

He could be pretty damaging when he wanted to be as well.

*   *   *

“It’s all about choices,” Tom Stanley said, his face having burned away to reveal a yellowed and charring skull.

Aaron wanted to scream and run, but he knew it would be pointless. Where was he going to go in all this darkness?

He couldn’t stand to look at his foster dad, choosing instead to focus on Lori, his foster mom. She didn’t look quite so horrible, even though her skin was burning too.

“What kind of choices?” Aaron asked. “I don’t understand.”

He wanted to believe that this was all some sort of nightmare, but no matter how hard he tried to wake himself, how hard he pinched the flesh of his arms and legs, he wasn’t waking up.

Which meant that this was somehow real.

“You’re in a bad way, Aaron,” Lori said, puffs of smoke leaking from her mouth.

“What do you mean by a ‘bad way’? I’m fine—or at least I was until I got in the elevator tonight and . . .”

“And it all disappeared,” Tom finished with a knowing nod. “That’s what we’re trying to tell you, son. None of it was real.”

Aaron just stared, dumbfounded, having no clue how to respond.

Lori stepped closer, and Aaron pulled away. He could see that his actions were hurting her feelings, but he couldn’t really help that right now. He needed to know what the hell was happening to him.

“None of this is real,” Lori said, and then sighed. “Your job, your office, your life outside this place . . .”

It was as if somebody had taken a sledgehammer to his stomach.

“My life outside . . .” He couldn’t even bring himself to finish. “This is crazy. Insane. You’re not real. You’re the figments of my imagination. . . .”

“We are,” Tom agreed. “But we’re your subconscious, here to try and help you.”

Aaron’s legs had become like rubber, and he was having a difficult time standing. “Help me? How are you helping me by telling me that everything I know and love . . .” Aaron stopped as more horror crept up on him.

“Wait,” he said. “Vilma and Jeremy . . .”

His foster parents remained silent.

“Arrrrrrrrrrrrrgh!” Aaron cried out, bending over in agony. “So this pain . . . isn’t real either,” he gasped.

“No,” Tom said. “The pain is very real.”

Lori reached out a flaming hand and laid it on his shoulder. “We just want to help you, Aaron.”

The pain was getting stronger. It was like he was being stabbed with a large knife—or sword.

“What—what’s happening to me . . .”

The pain was incredible, and getting stronger.

“Your body is forcing you to make up your mind,” Tom said. Most of his lower face had been reduced to bone.

Aaron fell to his knees, shivering in a cold sweat.

His foster mom knelt beside him. “We’re here to help you make the right choice.”

“What choice?” Aaron demanded through gritted teeth. “Why is this pain real but nothing else is?”

“You brought the pain with you,” Tom explained. “From your true reality.”

“In fact, you built all of this to try and escape it,” Lori said, her sparking hand caressing his arm supportively.

“What—what does it mean?” Aaron feared the answer, but he needed to know.

Lori glanced up at her husband.

“Do you want me to tell him, or . . . ,” Tom began.

“No, I’ll tell him,” Lori said. “It means that you’re either going to live, or . . . ,” she said to Aaron.

“Die?” Aaron asked. “I’m going to die?”

“It’s up to you,” Tom explained.

“Of course I want to live,” Aaron insisted.

Once again Lori and Tom shared a look.

“Do you really know what that means, Aaron?” Lori asked.

Aaron didn’t.

“All this,” Tom said, waving a blackened, skeletal hand
around his head. “All this goes away.”

Aaron’s eyes darted around. “Looks to me like it already has.”

“It all goes away,” Lori repeated. “In here”—she pointed at his forehead—“as well as in here.” She pointed to his chest.

“What do you mean it goes away?”

“Your wife, your child, the life you share with them,” Lori said. “It all ceases to be if you choose to live.”

Aaron could not wrap his brain around the meaning of Lori’s words.

“Because they never really existed,” Tom said with a shrug. “You’ve created it all to escape the reality of your current situation.”

“You were mortally wounded in battle with the Darkstar, who took the form of your father,” Lori added.

“My father,” Aaron repeated.

The pain intensified, and with it came a barrage of images.

Aaron didn’t know which hurt worse.

He remembered. He remembered his wedding day. The birth of his son. But those memories had been a dream. Creations of a perfect existence; what he wished to be true.

“Oh God,” he said, voice cracking and eyes welling up with tears. “None of it . . . they’re not real.”

Aaron’s reality rushed in to fill the void left by his shredded dreams.

“You could have stayed with them,” Lori said sadly. “But that would have meant that you chose to die.”

In a way he felt that he had.

Aaron pictured his son asleep, eyes suddenly opening and smiling a smile warmer than a thousand sunrises.

Then it faded.

“Oh God, I can’t forget him—please . . .” He looked to his foster parents. They had always been there for him while growing up, but now he remembered how they had died.

And he knew why they were burning.

“I killed you,” he said.

“No.” Tom shook his head. “The Powers killed us. Verchiel killed us.”

“But it was because of me.”

“Shit happens.”

Aaron gasped, desperate to hold on to the memory of something very important—something to do with a thousand sunrises—but it was gone. He couldn’t remember.