Armageddon (6 page)

Cameron remembered that he’d chopped wood into the dark, and his mother had waited for them in the doorway to the cabin.

That was his old memory, but now it was different. Now he heard his father’s voice.

“Someday, someone must challenge them . . . challenge them for the sake of the world.”

It was like rewatching a familiar movie, but one where he’d missed some parts. The young boy—little Cameron—finally dropped the ax and turned toward his father.

“Who?” he asked. “Who must be challenged?”

And the father—his father—gently placed powerful hands upon Cameron’s shoulders and looked deeply into his eyes.

“The Architects. The Architects must be challenged.”

Cameron dropped his fork on his plate, the clatter snapping him from his dreamlike state. He was breathing heavily, and suddenly had the worst headache.

It was as if something sharp was being pressed through the bone of his skull into the meat of his brain.

His father was pushing a very thin knife into his head as his mother watched.

The pain was incredible, and he surged from the chair, hands gripping his throbbing skull. There were things inside his head—things that had not been there before—things that had been locked away until . . .

Until they were needed.

The angelic part of his nature could not stand it anymore. His wings flowed from his back, and divine fire coursed through his veins. Cameron swayed in agony, trying desperately not to throw up.

What was happening?

He was afraid . . . this place . . . the cabin . . . was doing something to him. Lurching toward the door, he saw the markings on the frame. One at a time they ignited around the doorway, strange wriggling shapes in the wood.

This was insane. What was happening to him? Cameron panicked. His body felt as though it was on fire with fever. It was still daylight, but as he attempted to focus his throbbing eyes, the environment changed from day to night.

And in the night his father was waiting.

Yet another vision—his father kneeling before a hole in the ground at the edge of the forest. He was pointing at something that had been laid to rest there.

“When it’s time . . . when it’s your time . . . you’ll come here for this.”

Cameron’s gaze fell to the leaf-covered ground.

It took a moment for him to realize that he was no longer remembering. Instead, he was standing over the spot that his father had pointed out.

He dropped to his knees, sinking his fingers into the dirt. The ground was firm, and riddled with rock, but that didn’t hinder his efforts, so focused was he on finding what was buried there. Cameron didn’t want to think anymore—to remember—all he wanted was to dig.

It became increasingly cooler as the sun slowly set, but Cameron didn’t stop. He thought about going in search of a shovel, but he feared that he’d return and find the hole filled in, as if he hadn’t touched it.

Finally, his fingers scraped across a smooth surface. Cameron’s breath caught in his chest as he bent forward, sweeping away the last of the dirt, to reveal a large wooden box. He stared at the filthy prize, then gasped as symbols similar to those on the door frame ignited on the lid of the box.

Hesitating only a moment, Cameron reached into the
hole. The box was heavy, and he could only imagine what might be inside.

“When it’s time . . . when it’s your time . . . you’ll come here for this.”

Cameron looked for a latch to open the lid, but there didn’t appear to be one.

The shapes on the box grew brighter, and as if compelled, Cameron laid his hands upon the damp wood.

There came a sudden muffled whirring from inside the box. Cameron quickly pulled his hand away and watched as a glowing vertical seam slowly manifested, and the two sides of the box flipped open.

A strange smell wafted up from the box, one that reminded him of Lorelei’s secret library back at Saint Athanasius. Cautiously, Cameron leaned forward to look inside.

To see what his father had left him.

T
he mouse named Milton scurried through the total darkness.

It was not familiar with this place, but that did not stop the mouse from exploring its new world.

Barely remembering how it came to be here, Milton recalled the human woman, Lorelei, and the library they’d been in as it came under attack.

The woman had sent the mouse away, ordering it to protect itself. After that, Milton’s memories became a jumble of violent images and deafening sounds. But the tiny mouse’s survival instincts kicked in to preserve its life.

Scurrying amid the destruction, the mouse had sought a haven, a place to hide, but the entire library had become filled with monsters and magick.

Milton had smelled the magick in the air, and felt it in
the floor trembling beneath its tiny paws. The magick that had preserved the library was breaking down. And no matter where the little mouse went, no matter what bookcase it hid beneath, it had sensed that it wouldn’t be safe for long.

Then it had caught sight of the jagged hole in the floor, from which creatures of nightmare were still climbing up into the library.

A hole in the floor.

The mouse had seen that as its only option for escape. So it had darted across the wide expanse of floor, up and over the bodies of dead beasts, weaving through the chaos of battle that still raged around it and the books cascading down in a storm of paper to fill the hole in the floor.

Milton had stopped at the edge, its tiny nose twitching above the black cavern. For a moment, it didn’t know which was more dangerous—the library that was collapsing, or the unknown void that awaited inside the hole.

The library moaned in its throes of death.

Survival instincts kicked in again, and the little mouse found itself springing from the jagged edge of the hole, down into the pool of black.

Into a world of darkness.

A world that Milton explored now, searching for a place it would again feel safe.

It stopped in the all-encompassing dark and turned its pointy nose upward. Traces of what it had come to recognize
as the scent of magick lingered in the gentle air currents.

Milton had not rested since coming to this strange, shadowy place, but something alerted every one of its animal senses.

The mouse breathed in a faint scent of something familiar; then it caught sight of the briefest flash of light and heard the softest of sighs.

Its tiny heart raced as the mouse scampered forward.

Drawn toward the scent of its friend.

Drawn deeper into the darkness toward the Morningstar.

*   *   *

The toddler emerged from behind a grouping of rusty metal barrels. He pitched precariously forward as he ran full tilt across the weed-covered tarmac, but the look on his young face was one of unbridled determination.

Then, suddenly, he fell. His little hands slapped the ground, barely preventing his chin from hitting the concrete. His face twisted in shock and fear, but instead of crying . . .

“Damn these legs!” the little boy shouted in anger.

The child struggled to his feet. He swayed momentarily and was about to run again, when he noticed that he was no longer alone.

The strange creatures that had been relentlessly hunting him and Jeremy had arrived.

One by one, the Agents slunk from hiding, their skintight bodysuits refracting what little light managed to permeate the
thick clouds that obstructed the sun, making them seem to become invisible, and then appear again. There were three of the thin, black-garbed assassins, and one by one they withdrew their blades.

The toddler could feel their eyes upon him as they scrutinized their prey through the masks over their faces. He stood as still as he was able, struggling to maintain his balance, disgusted that it was taking him so long to get the hang of this standing business.

The Agents moved closer, drawn to him like hungry dogs to a bloody piece of meat.

“C’mon,” the child whispered. “Closer . . . closer. Yes, that’s a good bunch of filthy murderers. Come close so you can’t get away.”

He noticed that one was turning away. The child couldn’t have that. He needed the killers’ attention 100 percent.

“Hey!” the boy yelled. “Look out! I might just take off in a flash.” He did a little dance, turning in an awkward circle and almost falling on his butt, but his maneuver achieved what he wanted. All murderous eyes were riveted to him once more.

And it wouldn’t be long now. They were just about where they needed to be in order for . . .

A god-awful scream and the sound of pounding wings interrupted the quiet.

Jeremy Fox dropped from the sky amid the group of
Agents, his ax of fire clutched firmly in hand.

If the assassins were surprised by the Nephilim’s sudden appearance, they did not show it as they shifted their attention to the young man.

The three attacked as one. The Agents thrust and slashed with their blades, spinning, leaping, and jumping in a graceful, yet murderous ballet.

There was nothing graceful about Jeremy Fox. He went at them with a cold, determined efficiency, swinging his burning battle-ax as if it was an extension of his body.

The first Agent to fall lunged, aiming his blade at the Nephilim’s heart, when Jeremy’s ax liberated his head from his body. This did nothing to slow the other assassins. Instead, they doubled their efforts in an attempt to bring down the Nephilim.

The child watched, mesmerized by the conflict, as the pair attempted to drive Jeremy away from the little boy.

Curious,
the toddler thought, before sensing movement behind him. He turned as quickly as he could to see a fourth Agent raising his blade.

“Jeremy!” the child screeched.

“Roger!” Jeremy responded, and the toddler hoped—prayed—that the Nephilim would not be too late.

The Agent reached down, cobra quick, snatching the child by his chubby arm. The toddler struggled, kicking his feeble legs and waving his other arm. Then the air was knocked
from his lungs, as the assassin slammed him to the ground, pinning his little body with one hand as the other drew its blade ominously closer.

The toddler thrashed, managing to wiggle out from beneath the restraining hand. But the Agent was faster, grabbing him around the middle with both hands so their faces were just inches apart.

Close enough for the toddler to act.

Gathering all his strength, the boy flailed his arms, jamming his chubby fingers into the assassin’s eye.

The Agent grunted in pain, dropping the child as he reared back, clutching at his damaged orb.

The toddler crawled toward where Jeremy was still fighting.

He watched as Jeremy dispatched the other two Agents, one managing to sink his knife into the young man’s shoulder just before Jeremy cut him in two at the waist. The other fell away as Jeremy buried his ax blade deep within the Agent’s chest.

The toddler’s eyes met Jeremy’s as he heard the sound of rushing feet behind him.

“If you would be so kind as to finish that up for me,” the child said.

Jeremy spread his wings and leaped into the air, killing the fourth assassin with a newly created knife of fire plunged deeply into his skull. Jeremy lay atop the still-twitching body of the Agent for a moment, then rolled off, fixing his gaze on
the toddler.

“Are you all right, Roger?” Jeremy asked, out of breath and practically wheezing.

“Enoch,” he corrected, pushing himself up from the ground and standing erect.

“What?”

“Not Roger,” the toddler corrected. “My name is Enoch.”

“Roger, Enoch, whatever you’re calling yourself, you’re still a pain in the ass,” Jeremy said as he, too, stood.

“I’m a pain in the ass?” Enoch asked indignantly, tiny hand poised upon his chest. “Who’s the one who doubted that we were being followed? And who agreed to put a child—a mere toddler—at risk, only to be proven wrong? Who? Who did this? Could it be some other pain in the ass? Maybe one with wings and flaming cutlery?”

“Cutlery?” Jeremy asked. “They’re swords and battle-axes, not some sort of kitchen knives.” He slowly pulled out the blade the second Agent had lodged in his shoulder. “That bloody hurts,” he grunted, tossing the weapon to the ground.

“Well, it might as well have been cutlery,” the toddler said, crossing his arms and approaching the dead bodies to examine them. “Did you happen to notice that I was almost killed?”

“Yeah, I saw,” Jeremy said. “There were four instead of three. My mistake.”

“Your mistake?” Enoch repeated, spinning to look at the
young man. “Isn’t it your job to be aware of such things, and protect me?”

“Yeah,” Jeremy admitted. “I guess.”

“You guess? Perhaps I should be searching for another angel to safeguard my wellbeing until—”

“Until what?” Jeremy interrupted. “What am I protecting you from anyway?”

The toddler fell silent, looking at the carnage around them. It wasn’t the first attack since Enoch had remembered who he was, and they’d gone on the run.

“You’re protecting me so that I can fulfill my special purpose,” he said finally, turning his wide-eyed gaze to the Nephilim.

Jeremy sighed. He heated the tip of his finger with angel fire and cauterized his still-bleeding wound with a hiss. The young man grimaced in pain.

“Do you even know what that special purpose is?” he asked the child.

“No,” Enoch admitted. “Not completely, but—”

“We should get out of here,” Jeremy interrupted again. “If these guys tracked us, then there are probably more right behind them.” He reached down, grabbing Enoch by the back of his pants and placing him on his shoulders.

“And there always seems to be at least one you miss,” Enoch added.

“I don’t always miss one,” Jeremy corrected.

“You most certainly do,” Enoch explained. “There was that one at the mall in Denmark . . . and then this?”

“I knew about the one at the mall,” Jeremy said defensively.

“So you’re intentionally putting me at risk?” the toddler asked.

“Now why would I do something nasty like that?” Jeremy asked. The Nephilim opened his wings to their fullest. “You’re such a pleasant little bugger.”