The alarms still assaulted their senses as Deacon turned and walked from the dining room. Scrimshaw took the frightened Teddy’s hand, and, with a little urging, the two followed into the melee outside.
The golem was about to drag Teddy to someplace safe when he saw his master walk dangerously close to an open window. There was a flurry of movement on the other side of the broken glass, and Scrimshaw pushed the wild child away as he darted to intercept his master, who seemed totally oblivious to the potential harm.
A tentacle as black as ink flowed in through the broken window, ready to embrace the man. Scrimshaw grabbed a jagged piece of wood from the floor just as the muscular appendage wrapped about the transformed Deacon.
There was a searing flash of white.
Scrimshaw shielded his eyes from the sudden brilliance, then dropped his hands to see the stump of the tentacled monstrosity withdrawing through the broken window, the wail of the injured beast ear piercing over the still-insistent alarms.
The release of divine light had driven not only Deacon’s attacker away, but all the mansion’s attackers. Scrimshaw watched as the golem staff gradually began to recover.
Deacon turned his glowing gaze to Scrimshaw. “Turn that off, will you?” he said, hand indicating the blaring alarm around them.
Scrimshaw called to one of the other stone men to shut down the alarm, and in a matter of seconds, it was quiet in the house again. He watched as his master strolled to the door, peering outside at the now-still shadow place.
“Do you want me to go after them?” Scrimshaw asked, and Deacon turned his attention to him.
“The angel and the girl…do you want me to go after them?”
Deacon began to smile as he looked back through the open doors. “No need.” He held up his hands, tongues of divine fire leaping from the tips of his fingers. “I’ve already gotten far more than I could ever have hoped.”
Angelina Hayward did not want to go to sleep.
If the little girl could have had her way, she would never go to sleep…never ever, for she believed that she had already spent way too much of her time unconscious to the excitement going on around her.
Since awakening from a coma that the doctors swore she would never recover from, the girl had become the center of a maelstrom. Not only was her return to consciousness considered a minor miracle, but she had also awakened with the promise of a very important message for the world.
A message from God.
The little girl sat in her bed, propped up by multiple pillows. She was trying to put the pretty new dress that her uncle had bought on her favorite baby doll. She was supposed to be resting, but how could she do that when her mind was racing round and round?
Angelina’s life was now filled with excitement. Everybody wanted to speak to her. She’d been afraid of the television people at first, with their cameras and the pretty ladies who never stopped talking and smiling, but she had grown used to their visits and their questions.
The same questions, over and over.
When is God going deliver His message?
And Angelina would just smile at them and tell them that God was very busy, although as soon as He contacted her, they’d be the first to know.
Her parents mostly made the TV people stay outside the home her uncle had provided for them while she recovered, but every morning Angelina would ask her father to carry her to the window so she could wave to those who were camped on the front lawn. This morning she had been especially excited to see them, for she had something she wanted so badly to share with them.
The most beautiful angels had come to her in a dream that night, but she had been so excited to see them that she had woken up. She had nearly burst into tears, until she realized that the angels had followed her. They had worn shimmering robes and golden armor in her dream, but now, as they stood around her bed, she saw that they were dressed in handsome suits and ties. They were still quite beautiful, even without their special angel costumes.
She had been so excited to see them, asking if God had sent them…if it was time for her to give His message to the world.
The angels had smiled at her then, and it was like being out in the sunshine, it was so bright and warm.
And they had told her in pretty voices that sounded like music that they had come to help her prepare for what she was going to do. One of the angels, whose name was Armaros, sat down on the side of her bed and took her hand in his. He told her that it would soon be time for her to speak to the world…although not quite yet.
“Will you be ready, child?” Armaros had asked her.
And Angelina had answered yes, meaning it with all her heart and soul.
It was no wonder that she didn’t want to sleep. What if God and the angels came again? What if they found her asleep and decided to pick some other little girl?
She’d voiced these concerns to Armaros and the other angels as they’d prepared to leave her. They had laughed at her, and it had sounded like church bells on Sunday morning. Then Armaros had told her that no one else could do what she had been created for.
That she was so very special.
Angelina smiled as she remembered the angel’s words.
“Did you hear that, Dolly?” she asked the baby doll that was her favorite toy and confidant. “They said I was special.”
And she hugged her doll to her chest, secure in the idea that no one could replace her-the angels had confirmed what her favorite Uncle Algernon had always told her.
No one else could do what she was created for.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Francis had no desire to be back in Louisiana so soon after laying his wife to rest.
His wife.
The words still felt wrong in his mind, but so much had been wrong there already. He figured he should be grateful for remembering Eliza Swan at all.
The former Guardian had decided that it might be wise to follow Angus Heath. He’d watched from the shadows as the fat sorcerer let himself into his New Orleans home, and was considering making a call to Remy when anguished cries from somewhere inside cut through the silence of the Louisiana night.
Francis studied the old home for a moment, then closed his eyes and imagined what it would look like on the inside. It was a talent that he’d once put to much use while serving the angelic Thrones, but it was a muscle that he’d allowed to wither-until now, in his service to the Morningstar.
The house had three stories, so he imagined a passage opening before him that would place him at the foot of the stairs on the second floor. The air rippled and the existing reality grew thinner, weaker, until Francis tore it apart and stepped through to the darkened house.
The passage closed with a whoosh of air behind him. He drew his pistol, listening for any sound that would tell him where he needed to go.
Then, as if in answer to a prayer- fat chance of that — another, weaker cry echoed from upstairs. Francis took the steps, two at a time, bounding onto the third-floor landing. He paused again, the few angelic senses he had left since the fall searching for clues.
There.
There was no mistaking the smell of death and magick wafting out from the behind the wooden door to his left. It was like dirty socks and gasoline, only not as pleasant.
Francis charged straight for the door, putting all his weight into it as he slammed his shoulder against the wood. He could feel the resistance as he struck, then bounced back into the hall- magick.
He aimed the Pitiless pistol and fired at the lock. Bullets made from the divine energies of the Morningstar tore into the enchanted wood, obliterating the magick, and a solid kick gave him access to the room. Francis
