Last of the Mighty (7 page)

Tucker stepped into the sunken room, Smiler's grin stapled to his face.

“Hey, Tuck.” I gave him a chin bob, playing it cool.

I stood and put out my hand to shake.

The bait.

He bit. Tried to bat away my hand.

I latched onto the inside of his wrist with the grip of a pit bull.

His annoying smirk contorted. Pain. “Aaayyyy!” he screamed, yanked his arm back, desperate to break my hold.

But I was locked on. I'd take a bullet before letting him go.

Vines of smoke climbed from where my palm met his flesh. The little round Eucharist Amos had given me burned itself into Tucker's inner wrist.

“Blessed be the name of Jesus,” I said, like Amos had taught me.

Tucker, still yowling, jerked and kicked and grabbed at my hand. The wafer made him weak. He plummeted to his knees, smoke pouring freely from his arm.

Now the Latin. “Benedictum Nomen Iesu!” Amos had suggested it.

Tucker was on the floor now. Writhing. Squirming. Squealing. He looked to Shemja-za and Chool for help.

Yet the Watcher and Nephilim remained at a distance, entertained by the action. Chool even mumbled, “Hmmph. Kid knows Latin.”

I brought on the Aramaic, Jesus's native tongue. Repeated the sounds just as Amos had instructed. “A-von dvash-may-ya.” It meant Our Father in Heaven.

That was Christmas. Like Tucker had been dunked in boiling oil.

“Okay Mighty Man,” Shemja snickered. “That is quite enough. Free him.”

“No!” I pulled a crucifix from my jeans and pushed it at them.

They gaped at each other and laughed.

“Do we look like vampires, Og?” chuckled Shemja-za, and snatched the cross away. “Now set the poor boy free.”

“No!”

He tore my hand off Tucker and tossed my two hundred and fifty pounds across the room like I was a dishtowel. Thankfully, I landed on the couch.

Tucker rose, cradling his wrist. “You will pay for this double, Mighty One!” He spat in my direction. “Filthy Gibborim, I—”

“Knock, Smiler, please,” Shemja warned, then turned to me, clearly impressed with how I'd handled Tucker. “Now, in answer to your query of why you are here, Augustine.” He sniffed his wine and flashed all thousand watts of his Hollywood smile. “It is because I have deemed you worthy of a second chance.”

Deemed me worthy? What a dweeb.

“Are you the type of man, Og, who believes in second chances?”

I held my stare. Silent.

“Good.” He nodded. “I, too, am such a one. And am certain our loving Father feels the same.”

He took a slow sip of wine, savoring it. Studying me.

“You Mighty Ones are a curious breed. Exceptional. The pinnacle of human existence. Physically and morally. Beings as close to angels as God ever created.”

Man, he could talk.

I sighed, gazed around the room, impatient.

“Did you know, Og, that many of my kind believe it impossible for a Mighty One to place himself on the wrong side of a battle?”

So that's why they wanted me to join them. To prove to God that He had made a mistake when condemning the Watchers.

“Dearest Augustine, with you on our side, it would be implausible that Vero and his Court could ever find us guilty. He would be forced to restore our innocence...” His eyes glazed over at the thought of it. “God would invite us back to Heaven… How I have waited for it!” His eyes lifted to the ceiling. “He would apologize for His error…” He brushed a tear from his eye. “And request that we once again take our rightful thrones beside—”

“So why do ya need me?”

Chool had mentioned how a few Mighty had already accepted the offer to sign up with the Watchers.

“Regretfully,” Shemja sighed, “your brothers have recanted. You alone, Og, have the power to clear the names of two hundred pure and innocent...”

Blah, blah, blah. I tuned him out and stared out the window.

“Friend.” He sat down beside me. “I would not mislead you. I was designed to love and protect humanity.”

I was aware of his history. And mine. My ancestors were created to clean up the mess left by Shemja-za and his like. Growing antsy, I stood.

Chool shoved me back down.

“We strive to be more like you, Augustine. Human. We married—”

“And when you did, you fell!” A righteous anger stirred in me. “You're never goin' back to Heaven, Shemmie. Ever. Get it?”

His face hardened, and it was a miracle his wineglass didn't shatter in his tightening fist.

“You are young, Augustine, and your words rash. One day you will—”

“Get to the point, Shem-bozo.”

Chool grunted and stepped toward me, aggressive.

Shemja lifted a hand to stop him.

“Before answering this next question, Og, I recommend against haste.” He glanced at Chool and smiled. “For one reply shortens your time here on earth, while another extends it.”

I shook my head, answering the question before Shemja-za even asked it.

“But even your precious Bible suggests it is better to be a live dog than a dead lion.”

Chool snorted. Rolled his bull neck, bones popping like Orville Redenbacher's.

I stood and drew a deep breath, prepared myself to act with the honor my religious convictions required.

“Last chance, Augustine. Please, I beg you, reconsider.”

My expression said it all.

The Watcher looked to his son, and with a flick of his head, sent in Chool.

I told my mom I'd see her in a few minutes.

Then launched Plan A—the shinobi weapon.

Ka-ton jisu is the shinobi—or ninja—art of using fire and smoke for purposes of distraction, offense, defense, and escape. Merryn and I had made our small shinobi firebomb in order to distract the murderer who we had expected to break into my room while I was recovering. The bomb would not only give me a few seconds to mount a defensive, but would also set off the fire alarm. We constructed our egg-sized explosive to detonate on impact, no matches required. There were hundreds of online vids that showed you how to mix up the combustibles, add some match heads, and wrap it all in a soft cloth. I'd been carrying the firework with me everywhere since the day we made it.

Chool approached, chest out, his boiled face smirking.

I squared off, making sure to hide the small black ball in my hand.

He swung.

My adrenaline spiked, the familiar blood-rush roaring in my head, and I grinned as the world went slo-mo.

I ducked under Chool's roundhouse and pitched the firebomb at Shemja-za's feet. You know the plan, always take out the biggest guy first.

The grenade exploded, on target, a wall of flames vaulting to his waist.

My only aim was to distract him. It worked.

While Shemja was frantically stamping out the blaze, I blasted a foot at him.

My heel hit the bull's-eye, Shem's wineglass. A shower of glassy thorns rained onto his face and eyes. Cabernet dripped from his cheeks.

He staggered back, and I rifled a second kick to the knee—one of the body's weakest points.

That should have turned his leg into water.

Nothing.

The guy was granite.

I sent a knife-hand to his throat.

Blocked. By that sturdy, gold forearm thing. Can't tell you how nice that felt. But, with his arm raised, Shem's armpit was open.

I took advantage. With my teeth.

I bit down, hard, on the muscle and tendon that connected the upper back to the armpit. I ripped at it, shaking my face like a Great White. May have even growled.

Shemja-za yelped. Just a little.

With my teeth burrowing deeper, I hammered a fist into the back of his neck.

Someone did the same to me.

Chool had joined the party.

Tucker, too, was on his way.

I snapped out a blind back-kick and found a gut. Heard a grunt of pain and the wheezing outflow of breath, followed by a panicked in-suck of mouth and lung scrabbling for air.

Teeth still in the Watcher, I gnashed and chomped, but no blood came. Either his shirt was too thick or his skin was made of rhino. Nonetheless, Shem was reeling. A bucking bull trying to throw its rider. He slapped at me, clawed, grabbed at me—missing. My fist dropped bomb after bomb on his neck in search of the carotid artery. If I could find it, compress that vessel even for a second, Shemja-za would black out.

That was, if Watchers even had carotid arteries. How was I to know?

I was closing in on the blackout artery when an anchor dropped from a hundred stories and pounded into my ear. The world went white. Gray. Then pitch. My jaw, slack. My body, dust. I sifted to the floor.

An explosion in my hip—Tucker's steel-toe boot. Like a wrecking ball.

I regained my sight to see Chool, airborne, a second before his knees slammed into my chest. My turn for the wheezing outflow of breath and the begging in-suck for air that wasn't there.

Another steel kick. Two busted ribs as Smiler and Knock worked their way up to my face.

Shemja's boulder fist was cocked and ready to drive my nose through the back of my skull.

A bright flash. Lightning. In my head or in the room, I couldn't tell.

“SHEMJA-ZA!” An earth-shaking voice.

Lights blinked. Windows shivered. A hurricane gust whipped at the walls and lashed the fire till every flame extinguished.

Shemja-za froze, mid-punch.

So did Chool and Tucker.

“Watcher!” The voice was deep, resonant. “Withdraw from the boy at once.” Chinnggg! A sword came free of its scabbard. “Lest my blade send you to Pit faster than a viper's strike.”

Shemja rose from off of me, slow and cautious, eyes wide, hands up like a criminal. “Phaeus,” he said as he backed away. “To what do we owe the honor of—”

“SILENCE!”

The white-winged angel advanced on him, bronze breastplate shining, sword at arm's length.

He was radiant. A sunbeam. Over a foot taller than Shem. His weapon glowed, some kind of fire dancing within the blade. When it moved to the Watcher's neck, a trail of flames followed behind it.

Shemja-za gulped, his chin rising to ease the pressure of the sword's tip at his throat.

They stared at each other a while before the swordsman shifted to Chool. “And you, you filthy Half-Soul,” Phaeus circled him, “will be severed into thirds at the—”

“I'm sorry, sir. I—”

“Harness your tongue, Nephilim!” boomed the angel, so loud the chandelier swayed. “Or lose it.” The sword waved out a warning in front of Chool's lips.

Making the rounds, the blade found Tucker.

“Smiler and Knock…”

The angel's complexion was fair and his hair the color of wheat. His knee-length war kilt of the purest white.

“Fallen since the hour of Lucifer's raid.” The flat of his sword played with Tucker's ear. Its flame-trail reflected in the angel's gold, wrist-to-elbow forearm guard—the same as those worn by Shemja-za and Mr. Lavender.

“You have no authority to Pit me, Phaeus.” Smiler pushed away the blade. “Your rank in the Choir is well below mine, and until the rules of engagement change, your sword is powerless against me. Perhaps you have forgotten that as long as I remain on earth, it is Lucifer alone that I obey.”

Phaeus leered at Tucker as he sheathed his sword in the scabbard hanging from his thick, jewel-studded belt. Then he turned and strode to me, massive wings ruffling to find a more comfortable position behind the mountains of his shoulders.

“Augustine Caffrey, I am Phaeus.” He bowed his head. “An angel of the Fifth Choir.”

“Do you renounce Satan?” I had to test him. “And confess that Jesus Christ is Lord?” That was the way to tell what side a spirit was on.

“I renounce Satan and all of his works,” he touched my broken ribs, hip, and bruised chest, “and testify that Jesus Christ, the only begotten Son of God”—my pain vanished—“has come in the flesh. And that He is Lord.”

I nodded while examining the places where he'd healed me.

“My superior, Vero, is the Chief Magistrate of Heaven's Court of Judgement. The proposal I bring is his, not mine. I am but a messenger.”

His eyes matched his hair, golden wheat. Stunning.

“The End Times are at hand, Augustine, and the Final Battle nears. Yet, as the enemy horde grows thick, the flock of God's faithful dwindles. The Nephilim,” he glared at Chool, “and the possessed,” then Tucker, “have been expanding their reign since the day Azazel, Shemja-za, and Uzza negotiated an early release from Pit one-half a generation ago.”

Chool and his father shared a sheepish glance.

“In this time of great tribulation, mankind is losing hope, faith. Evil prospers and the righteous suffer. Civilization is fat with sin, society reeking with decay. Despair has taken root, and the efforts of Souls to heal the rot of your world have proven fruitless.”

My anger churned for the sorry state of humanity, what we'd become.

“Vero believes the advent of a champion, a hero, will strengthen the hearts of the faithful. Inspire them in a time of great need and remind the flock that God loves them and works in the lives of all His children.” He stepped closer and smiled. “Augustine, stem of Jashobeam, Man of Valor, last of the Gibborim…the day has come for you to do as your forebears. To accept your fate and become a holy soldier in the name of Heaven, a warrior for God.”

I nodded along with him.

“What Vero asks, Mighty One, is that you make use of the gifts the Lord has given you. To fulfill your purpose. To heed the calling of your sacred bloodline and train yourself up in the art of war.”

His words were like a rallying cry, and my heart was responding.

“To drive the wicked from their secret places…”

This was what I was born for.

“And annihilate them from the face of the earth!”

Whoa! Hang on. My heart slowed. Annihilate…people?

My confusion caused Phaeus to pause.

“Is there an issue, Mighty One?”

“It's just that…I dunno if I could…y'know, annihilate God's children from the earth. I've never killed anyone. I don't even know if I could.”

He smiled. Probably at my G-rated naiveté.

“The wicked of which I speak, Augustine, are anything but God's children. They are abominations. They are Half-Souls, as loathsome to Heaven as the hounds you faced in the cemetery.” He squinted at Chool. “And the law of God states that all Watcher born are to be exterminated.”

“Then why is Chool alive?” I asked.

“For reasons mysterious, Vero has yet to order his capture. Until the Court finds him guilty, it is unlawful for any of Heaven's Choir to slay this filth.” He looked Chool up and down. “Or his unholy spawn. The Mighty, however,” Phaeus brightened, “are born with the right to slaughter Nephilim and their offspring. At random. Without fear of reprisal.”

As much as that sweetened the deal, I was still on the fence.

“So what say you, last of the Mighty?”

I gazed at Phaeus. Then at Shemja-za, Chool, and Tucker, taking my time. Every eye was on me as they awaited an answer. I don't know if it was fear or youth or something to do with the death of my mom, but I wasn't sold.

“What if I said no?”

The question stunned Phaeus and his face went rigid. Angry even. How dare I, a kid, disrespect him by not agreeing to his master's proposal?

“Free will,” he said, his temper cooling, “is the right of all mankind. But every decision has consequences, Mighty One. If you decline, your life's purpose will go unfulfilled. Your soul will pull away from God, grow cold and wither. And, of course, danger from Watchers, Nephilim, and demonic forces will only increase. Not only in the world as a whole, but also in your life and the lives of your loved ones.”

Merryn.

“Yet if you were to consent, Vero has arranged extra protection for you, as well as your uncle and aunt and cousin. As long as you remain faithful to the way of the Mighty, your kin will not be harmed by demon, Watcher, or Nephilim.”

He smiled and his wings moved a little. Like they had an itch.

When I didn't answer, he continued, “There is one further dispensation that Vero has arranged. If you agree to his proposal, then upon completion of your training, you will meet your father.”