Demonic Designs (To Absolve the Fallen) (29 page)

Abbie stood and brushed her clothes off in a seemingly unconcerned way.
 
“Did you come here to kill me, Patheus?”

“Yes,” he answered honestly.

Abigail Martin had not sensed fear in a long time—at least, not like this.
 
She feared for all sorts of things all the time in a very abstract way: the state of the world, the future of her prophets, that, one day, the Elder Prophet Council might have to make do without her, but she had not often feared for her life.
 
This was not terror by any means, but she respected the force standing in front of her.

“Arrogant of you,” she said, composing herself, “to come in here with the intent to kill an Elder Prophet.
 
I understand, however, that you have been spending your time of late threatening and killing the defenseless.
 
I suppose I should appreciate the opportunity I’ve been given.”

“Yeah,” he replied, ignoring the jab.
 
“You like that?
 
The pattern, I mean.”

“What?” she sneered.
 
“You mean the symbolism?
 
Sure, I caught it.
 
And what were you going to do with me, Patheus?
 
Were you going to skin me alive?”

“The thought had crossed my mind,” the demon spat at her.

She forced a laugh.
 
“That seems a little presumptuous at this point, doesn’t it?”

“You’re not that powerful, prophet.
 
You should know better than to entice an angel’s wrath.”

“Fallen angel,” she corrected

Patheus roared laughter.
 
“Oh, this will be enjoyable.”

“You might reflect on your position a little more before counting this victory,” she contended as she strengthened her hold on the demon.

Abbie turned around and opened a drawer in her desk.
 
There lay a jagged dagger that looked like the one Matt Hartley bore.
 
She picked it up and showed it to the demon.
 
He arched an eyebrow, and suddenly he exerted his will against hers.
 
She reeled from the force.
 
She’d attempted mental combat with powerful demons on several occasions, and, on rare occasions, it almost cost her dearly.
 
Patheus, she could sense, was stronger than most.
 
He was filling her mind with feelings of woe and dread.
 
Sorrow tore at her soul.
 
She sought that safe spot, the bright light in her mind she had found as a child.
 
It was there as always.
 
It was warm.

Patheus had already begun to move toward her again when she regained control.
 
He dropped to his knees and howled.

There was venom in her voice as she approached him with the knife.
 
“You’ve never been to Hell, Patheus.
 
Would you like a taste?”

Patheus felt the tendrils of the Abyss pulling at the core of his being.
 
This was the moment he had feared since the Fall.
 
He could hear the voices of other demons, beckoning him to join them in their torment.
 
He could almost see them in their primal forms, clawing at each other to get a little closer to him.
 
They were wailing promises of grandeur and threats of everlasting suffering simultaneously.
 
Though they were twisted and ugly, Patheus could recognize each and every one of them.
 
And they were calling his name, not the name that he had become so accustomed to on Earth, but that which was designed to connect angels to each other.
 
It was a feeling, a pulling of the soul.
 
Through it all, he could hear her voice.

“Soon, you will join them,” she said, devoid of emotion.

He pulled himself away from the chorus of pain.
 
He focused his mind for just an instant and disappeared.
 
Abigail looked at where Patheus had been and shivered.
 
She studied the knife in her hand.
 

“Even if not tonight,” she told the once occupied spot on the floor.

She put the knife back in the drawer and collapsed into her chair.
 
She wasn’t sure if she could sleep after an ordeal like that, but she would have to try.
 
Tomorrow, she would be meeting the child Jeremiah thought to be the next Jesus.
 
She had been reading over his file, and she hadn’t been overly impressed.
 
Nevertheless, this mission would require everything she had to offer, and she’d just burned a great deal of energy.

***

Jeremiah tossed down his cigarette and checked the magazine in his gun.
 
Of course, it was fully loaded.
 
It was always fully loaded.
 
After millennia of being prepared, it had just become force of habit anymore to check those kinds of things.
 
He knew that there would be two armed men standing guard at the door and probably no less than five others in the house.
 
He screwed on a silencer and stowed the gun in a holster underneath his arm.
 
He looked at his watch—five minutes until show time.

He began his walk toward the house.
 
As he predicted, two men in suits—one was the size of a linebacker with a shaved head, and the other was shorter than Jeremiah with greasy, black hair and a thin mustache—sat in chairs under an awning at the front entrance, playing cards.
 
He approached, and their hands went inside their jackets and rested there.

“May I help you?” the gorilla asked in Italian.

“As a matter of fact,” Jeremiah responded in the same tongue, “you may.”

The big man’s eyes narrowed, and the other was beginning to look fidgety.

Jeremiah continued, “I’m here to speak with Don Gibaldi.”

The spokesman eyed Jeremiah suspiciously.
 
“Who are you?”

“Just an old friend,” the demon answered, smiling innocently and showing his empty hands.
 
“Let him know that I have a proposition for him.”

The short one threw a card on the table and smiled triumphantly at his partner.
 
“I think he’s sleeping right now.
 
You’ll have to come back later.”

This is taking too much time
, Jeremiah thought.
 
“Okay,” he said, “on second thought, why don’t you take me to see him.”

The guards’ eyes rolled back in their heads.
 
They stood up stunned, and then the larger mobster opened the door and motioned for Jeremiah to go through.

“Thank you,” he told them with a nod.
 
There was no reply.

They followed him inside, and, once the door was securely shut behind them, Jeremiah afforded a moment to look around.
 
There was no one else in the foyer with them.
 
Perfect.
 
He turned to the guards and signaled for them to take the lead.
 
They walked in front of him, and one after the other fell with broken necks.
 
Jeremiah stepped over them and checked his watch.
 

He knew that this was the Don’s usual nap time.
 
In two and a half minutes, Francesco Gibaldi would get an urgent call about business.
 
Like always, he would take this call in his office where he could access his paperwork.
 
There, he would meet a most unhappy long-lost acquaintance.

Jeremiah slipped into the office, and, as he did, he could see a light on a phone in the office begin to flash.
 
Marla was known for being punctual.
 
He stepped into the shadows and waited.
 
Moments later, Gibaldi walked briskly into his office and greeted the person on the other line.
 
But, to his surprise, there was no one on the other line.
 
He returned the phone to the receiver as Jeremiah stepped out of the shadows.

“Long time, Jeremiah,” Gibaldi said in accented English.

“What happened to you, Francesco?
 
You used to be such a good boy.”

“Isn’t it funny how things change?
 
I suppose it would be pointless to call for security.”

Jeremiah smiled.
 
“You know me too well.
 
I thought we would have this conversation alone.”

“Once they told me that you were back, I knew you would come for me eventually.”

“You fought against Mussolini.
 
You kept him from ever becoming a true threat to the rest of the world.
 
Then, you became a leader in Italian crime.
 
What happened?”

Gibaldi’s still youthful face contorted.
 
“The world didn’t change.
 
Your poison ran too deep for there to be any lasting impact.
 
Now, I have a family to protect.
 
People rely on me not to make decisions to protect the world, but decisions to protect them.
 
How can you judge me?
 
No matter how many people die at my hands, that number will never come close to what you have personally overseen.”

“I was shocked when I intercepted information that you intend to help Metatron in killing my prophets.”

“They’re not
your
prophets, Jeremiah.
 
You’re a demon.
 
They fight for God.
 
Have you so quickly forgotten why you fought?
 
God let all of this happen.
 
It was His will that my parents and sister die at the hands of that bastard.
 
Remember?”

“Yes,” Jeremiah verified, looking ashamed, “I do remember what I said to you.
 
But I was wrong, and the world
is
changing.
 
There is now hope, and I’m seeing that hope more clearly.”

Gibaldi shook his head.
 
“Though it happened after you would have liked it to, you converted me once.
 
Don’t think you’re going to do it again, Jeremiah.”

“What did Metatron give you?”

Gibaldi shuddered.
 
“He threatened to torture and kill my family.”

Jeremiah held a menacing glare.
 
“As you can see, that may happen anyway.”

“And here I thought you’d turned over a new leaf, Jeremiah.
 
Threatening an innocent woman and children?
 
That’s reminiscent.”

Jeremiah rolled his eyes.
 
“I have no intention of harming your wife or children unless they get in my way.
 
My point is that they are not well-protected.
 
At any time, if Metatron wanted to up the ante, he would only have to threaten your family again to make you jump.
 
I could put them in a safe place, and you could do the work you began—fighting evil, instead of aiding it.”

“I am not that easily won, Jeremiah.
 
I’m tired of empty promises.
 
Metatron has the power to follow through on what he says.
 
No offense, Jeremiah, but he seems to be winning.
 
He’s got you on the defensive, and you’re running around the world trying to stop him before he gets wherever it is that he’s going.
 
I foresee that he stays, and you go.”

“Your visions don’t mean as much as they used to,” Jeremiah retorted, though he could not shake a growing fear that this ex-prophet might know what he was talking about.
 
And the thought of Hell was ever-present on the demon’s mind.

“Maybe not,” Gibaldi replied, “but it’s what I see nonetheless.”