Devil's Day: A Nephilim Thriller, #4

April 26, 2042, 11:53 PM

Normally, I’m not a big picture person. I tend to go from one mission, one objective, to another. I’d rather focus on the small things: who needs saving, who needs killing, and how do I accomplish my goals. Those are safer, more immediate, easier to accomplish than to worry about the larger picture. Still, I’m no coward, and there comes a time when you just can’t ignore the big picture or it will swallow you whole. The past few months have forced me to think about the larger view, the one involving heaven and hell and the End of Days, and it really sucks.

The world is more complicated and screwed up than I thought, and it’s terrifying. People can barely deal with each other on a daily basis. Ask any waiter or waitress; they see it all in one shift: the pretentious twat, the self-entitled slug, the angry loser, the good-hearted, the well-intentioned yet clueless—and that’s only on the surface. Once I peel away the outer layers and come closer to the core, to the start of it all, the worse things get. I find the light and dark angels at the center of things, with all their problems. Man, you might as well toss gasoline on a wild fire. Nothing is ever as it seems; it’s almost always worse, and far more complicated.

No straight lines exist amongst the chaos, and every new development complicates the path forward, adding trap doors, and twists that are all subject to the tick and tock of a doomsday clock that only gets louder with each passing hour! In short, the End of Days is almost at hand, and in an unfortunate twist of fate, it turns out that I’m the bloody Antichrist at the center of this clusterfuck.

I’d calculate my chances of avoiding the Apocalypse, but I don’t know all the variables or players yet, which worries me. I’ve met my biological father, Lucifer, and the dark archangel Apollyon. I’ve also had my share of nasty run-ins with demons and a prince of darkness who rules the third circle of hell. He escaped to the above-ground world of the living until I defeated him, with Apollyon’s help, and sent him back. When I meet him again, he’s not going to thank me for that.

On the light angels’ side, I’ve only met Father Paul, so the light archangels, and even God, remain complete mysteries. Father Paul uses me as a cleaner of sorts, to fix problems the angels don’t want to dirty their pristine hands on. I gave him my oath when he promised to keep Kate, my childhood love, and my daughter, Megan, safe. At the time, I didn’t know my father was Lucifer, which complicates things. It would be messier if Father Paul found out that Satan is my father; he’d slit my throat to prevent the End of Days from becoming a reality. Or, more likely, he’d get someone else to do it to keep his angelic hands clean. Either way, killers would descend upon me like locusts.

I’ve also recently discovered that magic exists in the world—independent of angels and demons—a third front in this war for me to consider. Can I harness magic to help me, or will I find only enemies among those who can wield it? I suspect the Fates are the key. They’ve interfered in my life from the beginning, but they’ve also kept me alive, so like everything else, they represent good and bad, life and death.

Basically, I’m lost in a minefield, and if there’s a map, it’s just been eaten by a rather hungry and not particularly nice hellhound.

My best friend Hank fiddles with the radio in our Expedition. He knows what we face, but his faith keeps him strong.

I wish it were as easy for me. He wears his faith like armor, and it shields him from the very doubts that plague me.

Stop screwing with the radio, I tell him. You’re as nervous as a murderer in a one-man lineup.

You don’t understand. In clergy circles, Bishop Peña is a rock star. I’ve been wanting to see him preach for years.

Get a grip, man. I’ve broken every speeding record known to man to get there on time.

He frowns. I’m not all that pleased we’re arriving in a stolen SUV. It doesn’t seem right.

The pirates we took it from won’t be needing it anymore.

That’s because they’re all dead.

You say that like it’s a bad thing.

Killing is generally frowned upon, he says. I’m pretty sure it’s one of the top commandments.

I twist my hands on the steering wheel, annoyed by his faith—it gets under my skin at times. My voice reflects my mood, jagged and on edge. Yes, but you told me you wouldn’t hold that against me. Sometimes killing needs doing, and it was the only way to save Jen. Plus, I didn’t kill them all. Apollyon did the heavy lifting, and remember, they didn’t seem overly fond of us when they tied us up and tried to kill us. So, there’s that.

"True. Still, the car is stolen."

Permanently borrowed, I correct him. When we’re done with it, we’ll donate it to the Bishop. Will that make you happy?

Yes, yes it will.

So long as you stop crabbing about it. We’re here.

I park the Expedition on Amsterdam and 115th Street in a metered spot. By the time I flash a credit card against the meter, Hank’s already lumbered across the street, so I have to jog after the big man to catch up.

Are we in a race? I say.

The mass starts at midnight and it’s already two minutes past. He huffs up the stairs in front of the massive, stone, gothic cathedral and through one of the two open front doors. When he steps inside, he pauses and makes a sound similar to air blowing from a balloon. It’s the reaction I was hoping he’d make, and it makes all the speeding worthwhile. It’s amazing.

No kidding. It’s the largest cathedral in the world. They’ve never finished it. They would have decades ago, but fires keep delaying things. At this point, they’ve given up.

Saint John the Divine is one of my favorite churches. The sheer scope of the place, the gothic ceilings, the long aisle to the altar, the organ, and the rose window—all work together to cast a flicker of light into my dark soul. Some places are thin places, where the separation between this world and the divine barely exists. This is one of those places. I knew Hank would feel it right away.

The aisle that leads to the High Altar is more than a football field long, and the ceiling stretches ten stories tall. The pews are a little less than half full, which is a lot of people for a service that starts at midnight on a Tuesday.

Hank taps me on the chest. Let’s find a place to sit. He makes the sign of the cross and walks along the right exterior wall to a crowded pew, which still has space for us on the end. We’re almost 100 feet from the Bishop, but we can make him out clearly enough.

He’s wearing a simple white cassock, an emerald stole over his neck with golden crosses embroidered on it, and a rope belt made of the same color. He’s average height, with dark skin, brown shaggy hair, and penetrating mahogany eyes.

He doesn’t look old enough to be a bishop, I tell Hank. How old is he, and where’s the miter?

He’s in his early thirties, and he always dresses simply. I don’t think he’s ever worn the traditional bishop’s hat.

No formal choir joins him at the altar; instead, only a single priest plays a guitar. The guitar player wears similar vestments as the Bishop: white cassock, green stole, and a belt—nothing ostentatious.

A ghost joins the two priests, shrouded in a gray aura, standing just next to the Bishop on his left. The ghost must have been a bishop in his day, because he’s dressed in fine vestments, including a decorative miter and an ornate golden cross that hangs from his neck. From the scowl on his face, I’m guessing he’s not happy with the casual service. Some ghosts can’t let go of the living and move on. I’ve become pretty good at tuning them out, but some are stronger than others.

The guitarist stops, and the Bishop lifts his arms outward in a gesture of greeting. Welcome, Searchers. Good evening.

The pew erupts with a response. Good evening!

The Bishop’s voice is deeper than I expect from his build, with a touch of a Spanish accent. May God be with you!

The congregation responds, And also with you.

You can do better than that, he chides the gathering. May God be with you!

"And also with you!"

Tangible electricity hums through the sanctuary, as if these people’s faith has been turned into some form of energy, similar to the magic I felt in Charleston.

Hank smiles. He looks like a kid at his first concert, as his weight shifts forward, his eyes widen, and his breathing comes in shallow swallows.

Yes, the Bishop says, God is with us today. I want to discuss the Good Samaritan with you. He....

As he continues, a strange sensation washes over me, and the skin on my arms and neck pebbles in response. Mixed with the energy from the congregation, I feel something else, something odd that I haven’t felt before—a cold and slippery sensation at the same time.

Do you feel something weird? I ask Hank.

He arches an eyebrow at me. Weird, how? Angel and demon weird?

Not like that. Like something else.

Maybe it’s just the preaching.

I doubt it. When I study the Bishop, his image flickers. I shake my head, and it happens again. I see another face: a flash of bone white skin, a sick grin, black eyes, and pencil thin eyebrows. It’s the face of a monster.

Did you see the Bishop change? I say.

No. Can’t this wait until after the mass?

A cold sensation slips down my throat and twists in my gut, as if I’ve swallowed a toxic slushy. I doubt it. You stay here.

I slide out of the pew.

The Bishop’s voice sounds halting now. The... Good Samaritan... is really... a... sucker.

The white face flickers back, revealing black eyebrows that look like they’re painted on a powder-white face, and the hair turns platinum and straight.

Hank joins me. I’ve never heard a sermon on the Good Samaritan like this one.

The parishioners grow restless: someone coughs, people rustle, and some murmur in hushed tones.

The smell of ozone burns my nose now, and the Bishop’s speech pattern changes. A guttural accent, more like one you’d find in London’s East End, replaces the Spanish one.

The cold sensation intensifies into a full-on frost, and the hair on my arms stands on end. My flesh stings now, as if someone has opened a hose of static electricity and is washing it over me.

The ghost bishop waves his arms, a desperate warning that only I can see.

I draw my Smith & Wesson from my back holster and stalk closer to the Bishop. He swings his right arm outward, and I catch a glimpse of wires underneath the cassock.

Shit.

The East London accent grows strong now. All you wankers came down here to know God. You call yourself Searchers. Now I’m going to give you all a right proper introduction.

I flip off the safety.

Hank whispers, For once, I’d just like for things to turn out normal, dull even.

The Bishop, or whatever he is now, reaches inside his robes and pulls out a detonator, his thumb poised over a thin stick with a red button.

Consider me a right Good Samaritan then!

I’m still sixty feet away, which is damn far for this type of shot, but he’s left me no choice. He turns and looks right at me, a weird expression of surprise burning in those black, beady eyes. We make an instant connection, as though I’ve touched an electric socket, and my heart summersaults.

Not today, I say, and plant a bullet over his left eye.

The Bishop falls backwards, his thumb a sliver away from pressing the detonator.

Panic ensues and people scream. Most race for the exits, stumbling over each other, while a few others start to weep in the pews.

Hank shouts, It’s okay now! Stay calm!

No one listens.

Hank and I fight our way to the Bishop, swimming upstream.

The priest who’d stood with him at the altar still holds the guitar in limp hands, and stares at us blankly, a splash of blood on his white tunic.

You shot him, he says.

Yeah, you can thank me later. I lift the Bishop’s robe and find a vest full of explosives, but that’s not all. A timer with a digital clock counts down from ten seconds—a secondary explosive mechanism if the detonator failed for any reason, including an untimely hole in the Bishop’s head.

8 seconds.

I look at Hank. Two wires lead from the detonator to the vest, a blue one and a red one. Which one do we unplug?

6 seconds.

How should I know? he says.

4 seconds.

I grab both wires. Choose one!

Blue.

As I’m about to pull the blue wire, he barks, No! Red!

2 seconds.

I yank the red one.

The digital clock stops at 1 second.

Blue, no... red? I glare at him.

It worked, didn’t it?

Either that or hell has changed a lot since the last time I was there, I say. You don’t reckon we died, do you?

"Probably not. Why’d you let me choose anyway? You never let me choose."

"We are in a church. I figure you’d have home field advantage."

The priest clutches the guitar like a life vest and looks at us with dull eyes. I don’t understand. Why would the Bishop try to blow up the church?

If I had to guess, I’d say a bad day, I tell him. If I don’t start the morning with a good cup of Joe, I’m lousy all-day long. I could tell him the truth—that someone, or really something, possessed the Bishop, so he wasn’t really to blame, but the priest won’t believe me, and I have no proof. Besides, he doesn’t seem like the type to have an open mind toward the supernatural, so why tilt his world into that direction for no good reason? He’s got enough to worry about now as it is.

The priest, his voice flat and lifeless, says, Bad coffee?

He’s not kidding, Hank adds. I stay away from him until he has his second cup. And he needs cream and sugar. Don’t get me started about that. God forbid there’s only low-fat milk. The entire week is ruined.

Come on, let’s go. I pull on Hank’s arm. Mass is canceled.

As we leave the cathedral, a parade of SUVs and sirens scream toward us, undoubtedly, Homeland and the Sheriff’s Department. I’m surprised it took them this long to arrive.

We don’t look back as we slide into our black Expedition. I start the vehicle and turn toward Hank. Did you see the Bishop’s face flicker with that of someone else? Someone totally creepy?

No. I saw the Bishop strain, like he was fighting something, and then his voice changed, and he spoke with a weird English accent. I didn’t see any other face. What did it look like?

Wicked. I sigh. Looks like events have taken another turn into the weird.

The what?

I’d rather not explain how complicated everything appears to me right now, or how I can’t seem to get my footing. Hank knows I’m struggling, and my appearing mental won’t help him any. He’s added enough on his plate just by coming with me, so I focus my comments solely on the immediate, avoiding the big picture. I think a fiend of some kind had the Bishop under a spell. I’m pretty sure I saw the monster’s face flicker in that of the Bishop’s. I don’t know how else to explain it.

I describe the face to him and pull the Expedition from the curb.

Possession. That’s swell. Hank taps his knuckles against the dash. I can’t believe Bishop Peña is dead. He was a leading light for those searching for God.

My hands start to shake, so I twist the steering wheel tighter to steady them. I had to kill the Bishop to prevent the mass tragedy, but I’m not happy about it. By all reports, he was a good man, a man of faith. I don’t mind killing—heck, I usually enjoy it—but only when killing someone who has it coming. The only thing Bishop Peña had coming should have been a long life, helping others find their way. I stopped working for bosses because I won’t take orders to kill. Now, this monster forced me to kill someone, with whom I had no beef, by possessing him and threatening to blow up the cathedral. It really pisses me off. I’m going to find him and make him pay for it, and he’s going to suffer, nice and slow.

You okay? Hank asks.

I’m fine.

You don’t look fine. You’re strangling the steering wheel.

Drop it.

Do you think dark angels are behind this? he asks. The Bible is full of stories about possession.

It’s hard to say, but I don’t get the feeling we’re dealing with a dark angel. This isn’t their modus operandi. They like a more straightforward approach, like a punch to the teeth or a sword to the heart. Maybe it’s something else.

Another prince of darkness?

Possibly, or some other monster we haven’t faced yet.

Isn’t that swell. It was not a question.

We take the West Side Highway south, get off at 14th Street, and stop at a Homeland checkpoint. They’re using heavy metal barriers and two teams of six agents each to inspect cars—more security than the last time I was here six months ago. Violence must have increased.

I hand my ID to one of the agents and he scans it. Thanks to my former employer, I’m cleared for all the districts in the city. I had to pull a few strings to clear Hank’s ID, but it works, otherwise they would have stopped him. Lower Manhattan isn’t one of the most difficult districts to get into, but Homeland won’t let just anyone in. Not anymore.

The guard hands back our IDs and they lift the metal barrier.

I step on the accelerator and head east on 14th Street.

Where exactly are we headed? Hank asks. You’ve been highly evasive on the subject.

Me? No, I told you I own a property in the Village, where we can stay for a stretch.

"Excuse me for thinking that’s evasive. So long as it’s a property."

I head south on University and turn left onto Waverly. Two blocks later, I park along the curb.

What type of property? Hank asks. Or is that too much for me to know? Do you want me to put on a hood?

No hood, but a gag would be nice. I point across the street. I own that building.

Hank whistles. ‘The Reclamation Project Pub and the apartment above it.

Yep. I grab my duffel from the back, toss Hank his hemp bag filled with his stuff, and stroll across the street.

Don’t tell me you stole the entire building. Hank keeps pace with me, and when we cross the street, he grabs my arm and pulls me to a stop. How did you become the owner of a nice pub like this in Greenwich Village? And don’t tell me you inherited it. I want to know before we go inside.

It is nice, isn’t it? Why can’t I own something nice?

Exposed brick and large glass windows face the street. A rather classy red neon sign with the name of the pub in script sits above the door—well, as classy as red neon gets. The building stands four stories tall and takes up a third of the block. The top two floors above the bar form one large apartment. The pub looks to be half full, which is pretty good for this late on a Tuesday, and the smells emanating from the kitchen tell me that Andres is doing a bang-up job.

Hank crosses his beefy arms against his wide chest. What’s the story?

He won’t budge unless I tell him, and he has a right to be suspicious of me. I’ve kept secrets from him. I still do, but I always tell myself it’s in his best interest. At least I can tell him straight about the pub.

A little more than a year ago, I worked security for a guy named Robinson. You would have hated him. Everyone did. He was a greedy, blood-sucking, pear-shaped douche bag, but he was rich. I mean more-money-than-he-could-count type of rich.

Hank frowns. So, you stole this from him?

No, I did not. You always think the worst of me. Just because my father’s Lucifer doesn’t mean I go around stealing everything.

He lifts his hands and holds them palms up. My bad. Now can you get on with the story? He’s not convinced by my feigned display of outrage. He knows me too well.

Ok, then. I did a particularly nasty job for him, and convinced him to sign over the deed to me as a tip of sorts.

Convinced him... how?

I shrug. I’ll admit he might have been inebriated at the time, and maybe I even helped him sign over the deed, but he had forgotten he even owned the place. It was closed at that point, a real dump before I renovated. I did the entire neighborhood a favor. Kids could have been hurt if they’d wandered inside. It was a win-win as far as I can tell.

Won’t he want it back now that it’s fixed up?

"He’s dead. And before you ask, no, I didn’t kill him. He died after I left his employ. This place is all mine. It was a fair deal even if Robinson didn’t remember making it. I’m not responsible if he couldn’t hold his liquor. That’s on him."

And think of the kids, Hank says.

Absolutely. And Robinson was an addict.

Drugs?

No, even worse. He was addicted to misery and inflicting as much on those around him as he could manage.

A rich guy like that?

I shrug one shoulder. I’ve known a lot of rich people, and for the most part, they’re an unhappy bunch. Robinson had it in spades. He hated himself and made everyone around him miserable. Even worse, he had the means to really make that stick. That’s only one reason I stopped working for him.

And the other?

He wanted me to kill President Sheppard. This was before Sheppard went into politics. The two were rivals of sorts. I couldn’t do it. I became friends with Sheppard and switched teams. One of the best decisions I’ve ever made.

Hank looks back at the pub and licks his lips. It does smell good inside. I could use a midnight snack.

It’ll be on me. I clap him on the shoulder. One, because this is my place, and two, because you don’t have any money.

I’m good with that, he says.

That really makes me feel warm all over. I’m happy you’re good accepting free grub.

The place looks way better than the last time I was here. A long metal bar stretches to the right in front of a mirrored wall. The tables are an eclectic mix of different metals and old distressed wood. The floor is made from light oak planks that were once part of a barn upstate. A metal staircase winds up to a balcony with additional tables, which is new.

I quickly scan the customers—thirty-four of them, twenty men and fourteen women. None look dangerous, although two are armed, one man and one woman. The man is on the drunk side of buzzed. He’s smiling a goofy grin and sitting with three others, one male and two females. They’re on a double date. Everyone looks happy but the woman sitting next to him. Her eyes search the place looking for someone else, anyone else, to save her. She glances at her watch.

The armed female sits at the end of the bar, watching the basketball game on the television. Her clothes, tan slacks and a white blouse, are cheap but functional. Her shoes probably had cost her the most—looked high-end and comfortable. Her clothes, particularly her shoes, tells me she’s off-duty and works for the Sheriff’s Department. Undoubtedly, the group standing closest to her knows—they give her plenty of space. She’s into the game, her focus fully on the TV.

I take in all the details, which is just how my mind works—all that happens in a heartbeat or two. What catches my eye, though, isn’t any of the improvements to the place or the customers.

Quinn stands behind a small metal podium, wearing a red strapless dress that fits snugly over her athletic frame and ends mid-thigh. Her curly, dirty blonde hair falls freely below her shoulders. Her blue eyes burn, and a touch of makeup on her cheeks combines with red on her lips to accent her light complexion. She has a new tattoo on the right side of her neck, the face of a dragon, with the body meandering underneath the dress.

Before I say anything, she turns to the bartenders and yells in her Norwegian accent, Look sharp! The boss is here!

All three bartenders, two men and one woman, salute me, their backs straight, their hands forming perfect knife-edges.

She smiles at me mischievously. I hope you like some of the improvements around here, boss.

What did you do with Quinn? I’m only half kidding. The Quinn I left behind had a crew cut and wore camouflage T-shirts, ripped jeans, and old combat boots. I’m pretty sure she didn’t even own any makeup. The only hint of the old Quinn on this version is a silver hammer pendant hanging from her neck on a leather strap, a nod to her Nordic heritage and her belief in Odin and Thor.

She glares at me. Just because you’re the boss, doesn’t mean I won’t knock you on your ass.

There she is.

Quinn can flip from cold to hot in a flash. It’s one of my favorite things about her. She’s a lightning storm, ready to fire at any moment—unpredictable, powerful, explosive.

Hank nudges me in the ribs and clears his throat.

I introduce him before he blows a gasket. Hank Freeman, meet Quinnlon Ragnarson. She runs the joint.

She smiles and shakes his hand. My friends call me Quinn.

He says, Hank works for me.

She turns to me. It’s good to have you back, boss. I hope you’ll be staying for a good, long time.

At the moment, I’m on a day-to-day basis. I like the improvements you’ve made to the place. Nice to see you’ve completed the balcony.

She nods. We’ve been doing all right financially. I used some of the surplus building up in the operating account to renovate the balcony. The added tables help during the peak times.

And all the employees are still former military or security?

Every one. We’ve stayed true to our name.

About that, Hank says. Why The Reclamation Project?

Quinn explains, All the construction materials and all the people here are reclaimed from prior lives or uses. We hire only vets, either from the military or private security. It was the boss’s idea. He wanted a place where people can change and be born again as something new.

Very enlightened of you, Steven, Hank says.

Don’t sound so surprised. I have my moments.

If everyone is ex-military, how come there’s no army memorabilia?

You’ll find none of that crap here. We know better then to glorify war. I point to a series of modern paintings hung on the back wall. Each one has neat, clean lines, with gray backgrounds and different colored circles in the center that take up almost the entire canvas. Quinn decorated the place. I’m pretty sure she had a crush on the artist when she bought those.

She shrugs. It turns out he was more of a boy than a man—almost useless in the sack—but I wouldn’t have acquired the paintings if I didn’t like them.

I like them, Hank says. It classes up the place.

Let’s grab a drink before we head to the apartment, I say.

A half dozen people mix by the bar. When we reach the end, the bartender, Francisco, meanders over. He’s in his mid-thirties, strongly built with wide shoulders and sharp eyes that would make a hawk proud. His gray golf shirt has The RP stitched in red over his heart. He moves with only a slight limp. He lost his left leg somewhere in Africa, on a battlefield no one’s ever heard of. I bought him a prosthetic limb when we hired him. He was gaunt back then, a haunted look in his eyes. Now, he looks almost whole. Almost. If you look closely, you can still see echoes of the ghosts that haunt him. Sometimes almost is the best you can do.

What’ll it be, boss? He grins. A glass of Scotch or the entire bottle?

A glass will work for me, but make it a tall one. You’re looking well.

I have some good days, but I still get in my share of trouble. It’s impossible to avoid around here.

Hank and Quinn join me for a Scotch.

Breaking news flashes across the TV feed, which reflects off the mirror behind the bar. The volume automatically increases to an obnoxious level, like it does everywhere in the city, as if we’re all partially deaf. Even sets that had been dark switch on and blare the government’s Breaking News.

What now? Quinn mutters, It’s never good news.

A newscaster stands in front of St. John the Divine, dressed in a navy suit and tie and a crisp white shirt. He has one of those perfect haircuts where