Armageddon (7 page)

“You’re being sarcastic. I may be a child, but I know sarcasm when I hear it.”

Enoch couldn’t quite make out Jeremy’s answer as the Nephilim’s wings closed around them.

Although he was certain that it was anything but pleasant.

*   *   *

Satan hung weightless in the black, cold vacuum of space, gazing down at the earth, now under his sway—or at least under the sway of creatures who swore their fealty to him.

Squinting his eyes, he could just about see through the shifting cover of gloom that prevented the light of the sun from shining upon the earth’s surface. It was a world of shadow now, perfect for the monstrous breeds that served him. Great cities were in flames; historic monuments were crumbling, swallowed by a shifting ground that quaked as giant serpents burrowed beneath the earth’s crust. From space, Satan, the Darkstar, admired the world that had been given over to chaos.

A world on the brink of oblivion. His dream for so very,
very long.

But now, he had to wonder . . .

Is it enough?

Satan could not help himself. He turned his gaze from the orb slowly spinning below, to the star-filled void above—and the endless expanse beyond.

And the kingdom of Heaven that lay beyond that.

The earth was nearly under his control, but he found himself yearning for more.

The Lord God Almighty had stolen his universe of all-encompassing darkness with the utterance of four simple words, “Let there be light,” leaving the Darkstar and his family to flee to any pocket of darkness that could hide them.

For eons, Satan had hidden himself away, planning and plotting, waiting for the time when he would take everything that the Lord God held dear.

But first, he would take away His earth.

Satan drifted closer to hear the anguished cries of those who had survived thus far. He took extra pleasure from their prayers that asked the Lord of Lords why He had abandoned them during their time of need. These pleas were another victory for the Darkstar, for he had broken the connection between Heaven and earth. The prayers of the planet’s sad inhabitants would never reach their intended ears.

Entering the atmosphere, Satan felt the heat of re-entry upon his body, which was nothing in comparison to the fires
of hate that burned inside him.

He dropped through the heavy layers of cloud that kept the sun’s rays from caressing the world, denying it warmth, and emerged in the night sky above the monolithic citadel that served as the base of his growing kingdom. Satan circled the fortress that he had raised from the depths of the ocean, then landed near its great stone doors.

A multitude of monsters had gathered to greet him. Many held weapons of war, while others—their bodies covered with scales and quills, mouths filled with razor-sharp teeth and poison—were weapons unto themselves.

They watched as the Darkstar gently touched down, his solid black wings splayed out on either side of his armored form. He was an awesome sight to behold, of that he was certain.

Not long ago, tribes of these creatures had fought against him, refusing to accept him as their one true liege. Many had died fighting his claim of supremacy, but after Satan had slain the planet’s divine protectors—the Nephilim—they had at last accepted him for what he was.

Their king . . . their lord and master . . .

Their god.

Satan advanced toward the great cathedral’s entrance, the gathering of monstrosities parting to create a path for him. He remained alert for signs of danger, for while they all had sworn their loyalty to him, the honor of such creatures was not to be
trusted.

“All hail the Darkstar!” a beast proclaimed, raising a blood-encrusted sword above its malformed head as Satan approached.

“Hail!” the crowd shrieked as one.

The closer Satan got to the massive doors, the louder the beasts roared their allegiance, stamping their feet, tentacles, and cloven hooves upon the hard ground. He should have felt energized by their veneration, but instead he felt empty. It was as if he barely heard their cries of adulation, distracted by what was still denied to him. He would not be satisfied until Heaven, and the loathsome God enthroned within it, fell to his legions.

The cathedral opened to grant him access; then the stone doors slammed closed behind him, cutting off the cheers of the beasts outside. Satan stood in the shadowy silence.

“Do I sense troubles?” asked a creeping voice from somewhere within the vast chamber.

“Troubles? Who is troubled?” asked another voice.

“Certainly not the one who is now called king. What trouble could there be for one who rules us all?” questioned a third.

The Sisters of Umbra gradually shambled from a patch of impenetrable darkness, their robed and hooded forms swaying before him.

Satan strode into the sanctuary.

“You read my mood as if it were your own,” the Dark-star said.

“How can this be?” asked one of the Sisters.

“Has the jubilation of your achievements waned so quickly?” asked the second.

“Certainly, we are mistaken,” said the third.

Satan walked past the crones, moving deeper into the citadel, toward the throne that had been constructed from the bones of those who had denied his supremacy.

Furling his great wings of ebony, the Satan plopped his armored form down onto the skin-upholstered seat.

“You are not,” he said.

The Sisters moved as one, slowly turning and shuffling to stand before him.

“But what could be troubling you, great Lord of Shadows?”

“Could it be that some of your enemies—though routed—remain at large?”

“And perhaps still threaten your glory?”

Satan scowled at the thought. Yes, some who opposed him had managed to avoid his wrath, but he had demonstrated his omnipotence. Surely the Nephilim were holed up somewhere, terrified by what he had done to their world, and waiting for the inevitable.

Waiting to die.

But the Sister’s comment would not leave him. What if the Nephilim were not hiding, but planning another assault
against his rule?

“They are still out there,” he said. “And as long as they are alive . . .”

The middle Sister finished his thought. “How can you truly enjoy what you have achieved?”

“Knowing that they are out there, plotting against you,” added another Sister.

“Threatening to disrupt all that you have worked so hard to attain,” said the last of them. “It would be enough to drive one mad, we’d imagine.”

Satan knew that the Sisters were right—how could he possibly focus on conquering Heaven, knowing that he had enemies on earth who might thwart his plans?

“Scox!” Satan roared, his voice echoing through the vast stone structure. “Damn your eyes, where are you, servant?”

The red-fleshed creature, the last of an imp species wiped from existence by the angry Satan, ran breathlessly into the chamber.

“Forgive me, my Darkstar,” the imp said, head bowed, hands before him. “I wasn’t aware that you’d returned. I was watching the human military’s latest attempt to attack us.”

Satan cocked his head to the side. “And how did they fare?” he asked, mildly amused that humanity was still trying to fight back.

The imp slowly raised his head to gaze upon his lord and master. “Quite poorly, my lord,” he said with the hint of a
smile. “A swarm of enthusiastic gargoyles tore the aircraft to pieces before they could pose a threat.”

A threat. The word swirled around the Darkstar’s thoughts. The humans, try as they might, would never be successful against him. But the others . . . the half-breeds . . . the Nephilim.

Even though their numbers had dwindled, and they were scattered to the far corners of the earth, hiding from his wrath . . . still . . .

A threat.

“Scox,” Satan said.

“Yes, m’lord.”

“The corpses.”

“Corpses, m’lord?”

“The bodies of the dead Nephilim that I had exhumed from their graves.”

“Ah, yes, the corpses,” Scox affirmed.

“Bring them to me,” Satan ordered. He glanced at the Sisters, who eagerly nodded their hooded heads.

“I hate to see perfectly good corpses going to waste.”

T
he Architects felt pity for the world of man.

Or at least it was the closest thing to emotion that such beings could feel. The twelve Architects saw imperfection and were called by duty to correct it.

In a place neither here nor there, the first of God’s angels perched on ledges in the circular room they called Habitat, staring at a ghostly image of earth slowly spinning before them.

“Would it not have been easier to wipe it all away with fire or some cosmic event?” asked one of the pale-skinned creatures, his large, dark eyes fixed upon the globe.

“We’ve talked of this before,” answered another dispassionately. “It was not our purpose to destroy or create anew. We were here—are here—to guide this world to its fulfillment. The raw materials that we require are present for us to utilize . . . clay to be shaped into something wonderful.”

“It has proven to be nothing but a disappointment,” another Architect added.

“We are in the process of fixing that,” the one that they called the Overseer interjected.

The Overseer was the first to have been birthed by God, standing at the right side of the Almighty as his eleven Architect brothers were brought into existence.

The Overseer and the other Architects were the personification of the Lord’s vision for a world in the throes of birth. They were to oversee its creation, helping to bring the Creator’s vision for this wondrous place to fruition.

And when that job was done, they were to be no more.

But the Overseer looked upon the world and saw not perfection, but chaos, and knew that the Architects’ job was far from complete.

And it wouldn’t be until the earth was like unto Heaven.

A new Paradise.

The world had yet to attain that level of perfection . . . but with their assistance, it was closer now than it had ever been.

So very, very close.

The Overseer’s mind could not help but wander, recalling soon after the earth was born when his Creator had deemed their services complete.

How can the Lord think that?
the Overseer had thought.
This planet . . . this world . . . can He not see the pandemonium that will continue into perpetuity?

But He was the Lord God Almighty, and to question Him—

The Overseer remembered the horror as he watched his fellow Architects fade from existence, one after the other, as he prepared to meet his own similar fate.

And was made nothing with just a thought.

Nothing.

The Overseer became slightly agitated with the recollection, as he often did when his thoughts returned to that moment. His brothers turned their watchful eyes from the facsimile of the world to him.

“You’re thinking of our creation again,” said one.

“Our second creation,” the Overseer corrected, for he had willed himself and his brethren back into existence.

The Lord God had moved on to some other grand scheme pertaining to the creation of all things, carelessly leaving behind some minor spark of thought—some flame of inspiration—that took hold of the moment and shaped itself into an idea.

And then a purpose.

The Overseer was that idea, and thus lived again, and saw with even more clarity, what it must do to fulfill his beloved master’s aspirations of perfection.

So it was the Overseer’s time to influence, and his brothers were re-created from the same fires of inspiration that had brought him back.

It was important to stay focused. They were so close
to achieving the perfection their God had yearned for in the earliest of earth’s days.

“And what of us then?” asked one of the twelve Architects. “What shall our purpose be when perfection is finally attained?”

The Overseer sensed tension in his brothers. It was thrilling to be on the verge of finally completing their task, but it was also a little frightening.

They had no desire to cease their existence.

“Perfection is so easily corrupted,” the Overseer explained. “We will remain, ever vigilant, to ensure that it is maintained.”

His brother Architects grew calmer, turning their gazes back to the ghostly representation of the world. They liked that answer.

And so did the Overseer.

*   *   *

The Morningstar was falling.

Lucifer, who had once been the most blessed of God’s angels, plummeted into darkness, his body stolen by an ancient evil that possessed his physical form, driving his essence deep into hiding within his own damaged psyche.

Lucifer struggled to regain control, but the creature that called itself Satan was far stronger than he could ever have imagined. And the farther he fell, the harder it would be for him to return—to be forgiven for his sins.

To finally achieve redemption in the eyes of God.

Lucifer carried the burden of his many sins, and this misery
lived within him. It became his strength. It had fueled his desire for redemption, but now Satan drew power from the Morningstar’s pain.

Hiding in the recesses of his psyche, Lucifer’s conscience was not spared accountability for the acts performed by the ancient evil inhabiting his skin. In fact, it pushed Lucifer even deeper within himself. From this darkness, he witnessed the murder of the Nephilim Lorelei, a magick user. Tricked by the trusted visage of her teammate, the sweet girl had been viciously struck down.

And as if that was not enough, Lucifer was forced to endure the agony of seeing Aaron, his only son, lured into an ambush by the guise of his father. As the evil entity plunged a sword of darkness through the boy’s body, Lucifer Morningstar had felt Satan’s supreme joy.

It had been more than he could bear.

But as the nothingness rose up to greet him, the Morningstar recollected a long-suppressed memory.

The memory of his creation.

He had sprung from nothing to kneel in the Lord’s hand.

“And I shall call you the son of the morning,” God had said, and the Morningstar had become filled with the light and love of his Creator.