The Blood Angel’s claws raked the cathedral’s stone side, unleashing a torrent of sparks, and its wings rustled above Thomas. Wheeling, Thomas brought the great broadsword up before him. Emerald-green energy, a blending of NanoDyne technology and arcane forces, sparkled along the blade.
The demon flapped its leathery wings and heeled over, coming back on target with the speed of a swooping falcon. The bigger ones, and more powerful, had taken out some of the British special forces jets within hours after the Hellgates had opened two weeks ago. Thomas had watched in helpless horror as the aircraft had dropped into Central London and taken out whole city blocks. Only carnage and rubble had remained.
Come on, you blackhearted hellspawn. Tonight’s a dance of death, and devil take the hindmost.
Thomas knew he’d never live to see morning. They’d known that—all of them—when they’d left the Underground to bring a final battle to the demons that had invaded their earth.
But Thomas hadn’t been able to turn away, not even knowing that. He was a warrior. More than that, he was a Templar, a knight who had pledged to follow the Rule. He was Seraphim of the House of Rorke. As the First Guard of the House, his loyalty and courage were unquestionable.
He stood clad in the armor his father had helped him make in the eldritch forges beneath London, in the hidden tunnels of the Underground the Freemasons had started building back in the seventeenth century. Pewter-gray and black, the armor yet sparked with the arcane energies Thomas had pounded into the metal when he’d cast it. He’d also layered in NanoDyne upgrades that turned the armor into more of an exoskeleton, powering him up rather than merely protecting him. He’d forged his sword as well, crafting a Negotiator.
Made from an arcane alloy of palladium, strengthened by the holy energies Thomas had called to his cause all those years ago, the sword was a fierce weapon. It was light enough to be employed with one hand and sharp enough to slice through an engine block.
Yelling, Thomas raced forward to meet the beast, hoping to strike quickly enough to throw the Blood Angel’s timing off. Thomas attacked, swinging with all the considerable strength the armor lent him.
The demon stretched forth one of its lower extremities, intent on seizing Thomas’s head. The sword met the demon’s clawed foot in a spray of green sparks. The keen blade sliced through the demon’s leg, lopping the limb off near the body. Black ropes of blood hit the ground and cathedral wall. The dark, viscous liquid hissed and smoked.
Angry and in pain, the Blood Angel squawled and turned toward the dark sky.
Thomas followed the creature, moving to take advantage of the scant cover afforded by the trees along the outside of St. Paul’s Cathedral. Fires already danced along the top of the building, promising complete destruction if they weren’t put out.
A few weeks ago the London Fire Brigade might have been able to arrive in time to save the cathedral. But most of those brave men and women were dead now, and the ones that hadn’t fallen in battle or to a disaster had other tragedies to deal with tonight. Death walked through the city on cloven hooves and clawed feet.
The Blood Angel glided to the high branches of one of the nearby trees. It held the stump of its maimed leg in its taloned hands. The crimson runes burned into the demon’s skin glowed fiercely. Abruptly, the severed stump stopped bleeding. Turning its baleful gaze on Thomas, the nightmarish creature launched itself into the air and attacked again.
Spinning to his right, raising his armored left arm to provide some protection from attack, Thomas took a fresh grip on his sword.
“Down, Thomas!”
Thomas reacted instantly to the familiar voice of command, dropping into a crouching position. Armor scraped against his own as someone took up a position at his back. Then he saw the squat, ugly body of the six-barreled Spike Bolter thrust before him. Instantly, the pistol barked and jerked in the mailed fist.
Palladium bullets with sharpened tips erupted from the barrels as it whined to life. The rounds impaled the Blood Angel, opening up bloody craters and furrows in the scaly flesh. Crossing its arms before its head, seeking to protect its face, the demon veered away and gained altitude. The Spike Bolter kept whining. Holes opened up in the demon’s wings and allowed the moonlight to shine through.
Relieved, Thomas turned to the Templar behind him. He instantly recognized Guy Wickersham’s distinctive royal purple-tinted armor. Guy was older than Thomas, in his sixties now, old enough to be Thomas’s father. He had helped train Thomas, and had even helped Thomas train his son.
Thomas grinned but didn’t dare lift the faceplate on his helm. “Thanks, Guy.”
The older Templar nodded. He leaned heavily against the wall behind him. “Don’t mention it.”
“Are you all right?”
“Just…just trying to catch my breath…is all. It’s…been an eventful…night.”
Thomas put his left palm against the other man’s breastplate. Deep grooves showed where a demon’s claws had almost penetrated.
“Scan,” Thomas ordered.
As soon as the connection was made, information pulsed into Thomas’s HUD. Medical readouts about Thomas and Guy pulsed across the screen. Guy’s heart rate was up but the blood pressure was dangerously low.
“What happened?” Thomas surveyed the other man, turning him slightly and finding two deep slices that had penetrated the armor covering Guy’s back. Something had cut through the armor and deeply into the man.
“Carnagor.” Guy sagged against the wall. The Spike Bolter dropped from his nerveless hand.
Thomas knew about the Carnagors. They were fierce monsters, as large as an elephant and as strong and unstoppable as a rhinoceros. They were equipped with tusks, hundreds of teeth in a gaping maw, and hands—not paws.
“Came up out of the ground behind me,” Guy gasped. “By the