shucking off the destructive effects of the sorcerous handiwork that should have been strong enough to keep them out.
But never underestimate the craftsmanship of demonic ingenuity.
Leona’s cries were deafening; it sounded like all the engines of every NASCAR race ever run had been spooled together to create one horrendous clamor. Her spinning tires were finally able to gain purchase, and the vehicle leapt forward, battering through the revolving doors in an explosion of metal and glass.
And as soon as she was inside, her engine died, cutting out with a sputter.
Francis knew that the car had done the nearly impossible and that was all they could expect from her.
“We’re in,” he said, already swinging open the driver’s-side door. Angus moved as he did, extracting his bulk from the vehicle.
Alarms wailed and an artificial rain from the sprinklers fell upon them. Francis could hear scuffling in the smoke and dust and saw movement toward them.
“Trunk!” he yelled, slamming his hand down on the back of the vehicle, and Leona managed one more act for them, popping the trunk and allowing them access to their gear.
Shots rang out, pinging off the open trunk as both Francis and Angus reached inside and readied themselves for the task ahead.
Francis tossed a handful of the walnut-sized grenades first, the explosions of magick canceling out any sorcery that was being used in the lobby. Then he moved around the car, pistol in hand, firing one shot after another, taking out the stunned golem sentries. Angus backed him up, handgun firing from one hand while the other wove powerful new magicks to repel their attackers.
“Do you think the elevators are still working?” Angus asked, waving his hand in a circle and creating a mini twister that spun four of the guards in the air before slamming them into the gray marble wall beside the reception desk.
“Can’t see why not,” Francis said, firing into the face of a golem whose body exploded in a cloud of dirt.
An engine roar captured his attention, and Francis turned to see Leona, battered and broken, backing out of the lobby.
“Thanks, sweetie!” he called after her. He could see the flashing of police lights outside and hear the sounds of angry voices screaming for the car to stop, but Leona didn’t listen. A distraction; something else he’d have to thank her for later.
“Shall we go find Remy?” Francis asked, throwing the weapons-filled duffel bag over his shoulder as he stepped through the open doors of the elevator. He stabbed at the button that would take them up to the studio level, but the door refused to close.
He looked at the pained expression in the sorcerer’s face.
“Sorry, Chubs,” the former Guardian angel said, leaving the elevator with the dejected Angus in tow.
“Looks like we’re using the stairs.”
The scared little girl had been replaced.
No longer was a sickly child hiding beneath the covers; now an almost-regal figure sat, back perfectly straight, and spoke directly to the cameras that were pointed at her.
“Hello, my name is Angelina Hayward,” she began, a slight distortion to her voice, evidence that the power wielded by the Grigori was flowing through her. “And I am about to deliver unto you a message from the Heavenly Father.”
Remy struggled fruitlessly in the grip of the golem sentries, fighting to get to his feet, attempting to find and rekindle even the slightest bit of angelic fire that might have been left by the sorcerer Deacon.
“No!” he screamed, fighting and thrashing, even though it felt as if his limbs might snap like twigs. “No…you can’t do this!”
The child was distracted by his outburst, turning her gaze from the camera to him.
“Don’t let them make you do this,” Remy implored her. “It isn’t a message from God; it’s something else entirely.”
A silent nod from Stearns was all the sentries needed to begin punching Remy with their flesh-covered fists of stone. But over the sounds of his vicious beating, he could hear the child questioning his outburst.
“What does he mean that it isn’t a message from God?” she asked.
“Hush, child,” Armaros soothed. “Prepare yourself for…”
“Hurry!” Stearns bellowed. “We can’t afford this distraction… We can’t afford to lose any eyes.”
“She will speak the words when it is time,” the Grigori leader responded in a calm yet threatening tone.
Remy tried to remain conscious, tried to cry out, but the fists were like hammers and he found it harder and harder keep the darkness at bay.
Maybe oblivion was best right now.
But the thought just enraged him.
The blows continued to fall and suddenly he welcomed them, taking each hurtful strike and using the pain as fuel for his rage. He may not have the divine fire at his beck and call, but it did not change what he was.
Seraphim.
He’d tried to hide it for so very long, so it would not remind him of what he had lost.
Heaven.
Yet it was always there, waiting beneath the veneer of humanity that he had constructed. It had always known what he truly was, even though Remy had liked to think otherwise.
Seraphim.
And of late he had come to accept this, finally understanding that there was no way to ignore his divine nature, no way to ignore the soldier of Heaven that lived beneath his skin.
We are one and the same.
Sometimes he needed a little reminder of that, something to stir the memories of where he’d been…where he’d come from…
And what I’ve done.
Remy was a warrior, and he could not even count the number of lives he had extinguished on the battlefields of Heaven in his Creator’s name.
Remy remembered who he was- what I was -
Warrior. Killer. Murderer of my own kind.
No matter how painful.
He remembered the long-ago past with a surge of anger, the memory of the horrors committed in the name of his master inflaming his blood and summoning a fury that could not be bridled.
In the here and now, he surged to his feet, an inhuman bellow of rage escaping from a place deep within him. He yanked his arm away from one of his attackers, bringing his elbow up into its face before it could grab him again. The force of the blow was tremendous, caving in the artificial man’s face and revealing the inhumanity beneath. But the warrior was already on to the next, taking hold of his front, lifting him up from the floor, and hurling his great weight across the room with ease.
The cries of his foes were frantic, the Grigori, clutching their tarnished blades, already on their way to him. The warrior’s nature was still in full control, and he searched for a way to defend himself. His eyes fell on the weapon holstered at the waist of a fallen golem guard. Remy dove for the gun, yanking it from its resting place, and started to fire.
Bullets connected with the fallen angels’ flesh, driving them back, injuring but not killing the creatures.
Finally he saw the opportunity that he was waiting for, a way to stop this insanity. He saw the little girl sitting up in her princess bed.
Remy aimed the gun…
But hesitated.
He knew she wasn’t real, nothing more than magick and clay, but at the moment, he saw a little girl…
The magickal blast struck him square, enveloping him in a cocoon of electrical agony. Remy screamed, his body experiencing pain down to a cellular level.
Stearns stood there, arm outstretched, magick streaming from his fingertips.
“I’ve had just about enough of you,” the sorcerer said, casting him off to float above the room in a bubble of torment. What made it all the worse was that Remy could still see, watching it all through tears of agony.
