Dancing on the Head of a Pin Page 7

  “I know you’re right,” Malak conceded. He forced himself to stand up, then offered Cael his hand. “C’mon. I’ll get the Bible, and you make the cheeseburgers.”

  “Cheeseburgers?”

  “I’m hungry,” Malak replied with an impish grin.

  “Oh, Lord, I’ve created a monster,” Cael groaned, shaking his head. “Whatever happened to not eating anything that used to have a face?”

  “I’m pretty sure that if the situation were reversed, the cow would eat me.”

  “Cows are herbivores.”

  Malak laughed and swatted Cael on the ass with the flat of his hand. “Stop arguing and start grilling. I need protein, and lots of it.”

  “I can give you plenty of protein. No calories, and fat-free besides. A little salty, but….”

  “Get moving or I’ll take you up on that, and then we’ll never get a plan together.”

  “You know, I don’t know if I like this new side of you, Malak. It’s a little too much like me.” Cael grinned.

  “Well, get used to it.” Malak smiled, slinging his arm around Cael’s shoulders and leading him up toward the house. “Because if I have anything to say about it, we’re going to be together for a long, long time.”

  BOOK TWO: THE WHITE HORSE

  And I saw, and behold a white horse: and he that sat on him had a bow; and a crown was given unto him: and he went forth conquering, and to conquer.

  —The Bible, King James Edition, Rev 6:2

  Chapter Ten

  “CAEL!”

  Malak’s voice echoed throughout the house, the urgency in it causing Cael to drop the glass of iced tea he held. It fell to the floor at his feet, exploding in a shower of sparkling glass and amber liquid.

  Dashing through the house, half flying up the stairs to the bedroom they’d been sharing, Cael’s shoulder slammed painfully against a wall as he cut a corner too closely. Grimacing, he burst into the bedroom, looking for Malak.

  “What is it? What’s wrong?” he gasped, rubbing his shoulder.

  “Look!” Malak cried, pointing at the television set that played atop Malak’s dresser.

  “It’s the fucking television set, Malak. I’ve seen it before,” Cael groused, frowning at him.

  “Not the set. Look at what’s on it!”

  Cael peered at the small screen, eyebrows knitting as he concentrated.

  “Brothers and sisters!” the man on the screen yelled, his arms spread wide as if to embrace the large audience before him. He looked like a ghost to Cael, dressed in white from the top of his neatly styled hair to the bottom of his snakeskin shoes. “I have had a vision! All around us, the world is crumbling under the yoke of sin, the very planet beneath our feet cracking from its decay. Who’s to blame? Not you, not me, not the righteous! No, the fault lies with the blasphemers, the fornicators, and the sodomites! Those damned souls who refuse to come to see the light, who turn their backs on morality and virtue! They are lost and will continue to taint everything and everyone with their evil unless we do something about it!”

  As Cael watched, the man continued to fan the flames of fanaticism until it burned brightly in the wild eyes of his followers.

  “That’s him, Cael,” Malak whispered, drawing his attention from the television.

  “That’s who, Malak?”

  “The Antichrist.”

  Cael laughed, shaking his head. “Malak, he’s a preacher!”

  “No true man of God I ever knew spewed garbage like this one, Cael,” Malak replied, the look on his face earnest. “Just because he’s got the right title doesn’t make him righteous. He’s convincing these people that their government, their neighbors—even members of their own families—are sinners if they don’t belong to his church! He’s talking about taking up arms, about committing violence in Heaven’s name. And he’s got a large following, Cael. Huge.”

  “Large enough to help bring about the End of Days?” Cael asked, taking a closer look at the man on the screen. He would look like someone’s kindly old grandfather if it weren’t for the hateful gleam in his eye.

  “Hate spawns fear, and fear spawns hate, Cael. You know that. Violence begets violence. It’s a self-propagating, ever-widening circle. It may start relatively small, but it spreads like a disease, Cael.”

  “You really think this is him? The first Horseman?”

  “Look at the banner behind him, Cael. What do you see?”

  Squinting at the screen, Cael focused on the huge blood-red banner that spanned the stage behind the preacher. It was printed with the silhouette of a large white horse and the name of the preacher’s church, The Right Arm of God, spanning the width of the banner. The words Suus ira est puter were written in flaming letters below the horse. His anger is loose.

  “Shit. It really could be him, Malak.”

  “It is him. I can feel the evil wafting off him right through the television screen, Cael,” Malak replied softly.

  Cael saw that he was shivering. He sank down beside Malak, drawing him into his arms.

  “Does he look familiar to you, Cael? Do you remember seeing him in Hell?”

  “No, but that doesn’t mean much, Malak. I was only one demon in a legion, and there were more legions than I could count down there, each with their own general.”

  “Well, what do we do now?”

  “I guess we’ll need to go have a talk with him, Mal. Up close and personal, as they say.”

  “I’ll go get the box,” Malak said, disengaging himself from Cael’s arms.

  There was a note of finality in his voice. He must be convinced the preacher was the first Horseman—that was the only reason Malak would ever bring the box out from its dark hiding place in the back of his closet.

  Malak hadn’t touched the contents of the box in almost three thousand years, except to move them from place to place. In the beginning, the contents had been wrapped in leather. Later they’d been put in a wooden crate, and a hundred years ago Malak had placed them in a sturdy trunk, secured with a large silver padlock. There was a thick layer of dust coating the top of the trunk, some of which puffed up in a cloud when Malak deposited it on the coffee table.

  Coughing, Cael waved a hand in front of his face, shooing away the irritating particles of dust. He watched Malak take a deep breath, steadying himself, before producing a key and fitting it into the lock. He popped it open, placed his hands on the trunk’s lid, and looked at Cael.

  “Go on, Malak. I’m right here with you,” Cael said softly, knowing how difficult this was for him.

  The trunk’s lid creaked open, a smell drifting out that brought the past rushing back to Cael. It was the smell of sex, of blood, and of brimstone. It was the stench of Sodom.

  Malak lifted a heavy bundle from the trunk and laid it on the coffee table. Carefully he peeled back the ancient leather wrappings, some of which disintegrated into dust at his touch, exposing a long tunic of lustrous chain mail and a gleaming silver sword. Time had not tarnished the Heaven-forged weaponry. They shone as if they had been made that very day.

  Cael held his breath as Malak donned the heavy chain mail and took up the sword in his right hand. The ages fell away, and Cael once again saw the frightened, trembling angel Malak had been, crouching amid the carnage of Sodom. He hadn’t worn his armor since he’d returned from his self-imposed exile and had agreed to stay with Cael.

  “Are you okay?” Cael asked, standing up, touching Malak’s cheek tenderly.

  Malak nodded. “Fine. Never better. Damn, this stuff is heavier than I remember it being.” Holding the sword up, he eyed the edge critically. “It’s old, but it’s still sharp enough to cut paper,” he said, swinging it experimentally.

  Cael smiled. Malak was adorable, dressed up in his old battle armor, swinging his sword around like a little boy. His smile faded, though, as he realized two things. First, the Horsemen were no amateurs. If the preacher were indeed a general of Hell, he would know how to fight dirty. Second, Malak had little experience
as a warrior. Sodom had been his first—and last—battle.

  “Be back in a minute,” he said, catching Malak’s arm as he swung the sword in an upper arc. “Try not to accidentally cut off any parts of you that I’ve grown fond of while I’m gone.”

  Malak snorted at him, returning to thrusting and parrying as Cael slipped from the room.

  Reentering the living room a short while later, Cael cleared his throat, trying to gain Malak’s attention. From Malak’s wide eyes and gasp of surprise, he figured he’d succeeded in impressing him.

  Malak, being an angel, had to follow the rules when engaging in battle, and that included using nothing but Heaven-sanctioned weapons—swords, shields, chain mail, and the like. Heaven was a little behind the times when it came to warfare.

  Luckily, the same rules did not apply to demons.

  Cael had donned a camouflage jacket over a black Kevlar vest. His army-issue fatigues were tucked into laced-up steel-toed boots. Strapped to one powerful thigh was a long leather sheath that held a knife that was nearly big enough to be called a machete, and at his hip was a holster for his Luger. His broad chest was crisscrossed with wide leather ammo belts, and he held a Škorpion, a submachine gun, cradled in the crook of his arm.

  “Great. Just what we need—a demonic Rambo.” Malak laughed, and eyed Cael up and down.

  “I’ll be back,” Cael said with a cheesy accent that sounded a lot like Bela Lugosi.

  Malak shook his dark head and seemed amused. “That was Schwarzenegger. Stallone was Rambo, you goof.”

  “So sue me. C’mon, Malak. This show is broadcasting live from Atlanta.” Cael paused, putting a hand on Malak’s arm. “Are you sure you want to do this? There’s no guarantee that we’ll beat him. We could lose. Will probably lose, as a matter of fact.”

  “We have to try, Cael. I don’t want to go to Hell, and I don’t want you going there either. I want to spend forever with you, here. If the Horsemen win, well… at least we’ll have tried.”

  Cael felt his throat thicken with emotions that were still new to him. “I love you, Mal.”

  “I love you too, Cael. Now let’s go kick some Antichrist ass.”

  Chapter Eleven

  THE RIGHT Arm of God Ministry had its headquarters in a towering glass-and-steel monolith in the center of downtown Atlanta. Fifty-two stories high, it cut Atlanta in two like a great shining silver sword stabbed into the city’s heart.

  A city within a city, accounting, personnel, marketing, and legal offices, mailrooms, several printing presses, a recording studio, a television studio, several restaurants, and a bank took up most of the floors of the skyscraper. The uppermost floor, a huge penthouse suite, was reserved solely for the use of the Most Reverend Randall Kincaid, the self-proclaimed Savior of the World, and figurehead of the Ministry.

  His story was a classic rags-to-religious-riches tale. Born in abject poverty to a mother who died shortly after giving birth and a father who’d been gutted like a fish in prison without ever laying eyes on his son, Kincaid had spent his formative years being passed from one foster home to another. By sixteen, he’d been heavily into drugs and crime. Then one day, while he’d been lying in an alley hovering near death from an overdose, he’d had a vision.

  An angel had appeared to him, telling him he had great work to do, that God had chosen him as his greatest prophet.

  He’d dragged himself out of the gutter and had built the Right Arm of God Ministry from the ground up, with his own two hands.

  Or so the story went.

  In truth, nothing of Kincaid’s life could be traced back before he’d appeared in public for the first time with a sermon on his lips, a Bible in his hand, and a healthy bankbook in his wallet. It was as if he’d appeared out of thin air. Oddly enough, no one ever tried to dig very far into his past. Those few that tried had ended up dead or missing.

  He had the media, and most of Atlanta’s officials, wrapped up neatly in webs of blackmail and payoffs. Wheels and palms were greased with regularity, assuring Kincaid of complete freedom.

  He was a mesmerizing speaker, as his growing flock attested. He could work a crowd up into a fanatical frenzy in moments, until they were seething with religious fervor and itching to do his bidding.

  It was a gift, albeit not a Heavenly one.

  “When?” Asmodai hissed, his other heads snapping at the air in frustration. “Lucifer grows weary of your theatrics, Balam. He handpicked you for this role, and you’re fucking it up!”

  “Shut up,” Balam rumbled. The shadow of his familiar, a monstrous bear, coalesced in a smoky swirl behind him. “I know what I’m doing.”

  “Oh? Then kindly explain your plan to me, because I fail to see the logic! Every time we turn around, you’re broadcasting another fucking sermon! Lucifer sent you up here to start a war, not to be a fucking movie star!”

  “I don’t need to explain myself to you! Get out, before I really lose my temper with you, Asmodai!” Balam gestured with his hand, and a heavy crystal ashtray shot through the air at Asmodai, nicking the bull’s head. A thin trickle of blood oozed between the bull’s eyes as Asmodai’s triple roar thundered through the penthouse suite.

  Asmodai dabbed at the blood. “I’m going to enjoy watching your ass fry after you fail, Balam. The angel and demon will find out about you, my friend. They’ll be coming for you, and if you haven’t started the war before they get here, you’re as good as toast.”

  Balam narrowed his eyes at Asmodai, his voice a low growl. “And how, exactly, did they find out about the Horsemen in the first place? Don’t think your mistake hasn’t reached Lucifer’s ears, Asmodai. He knows that you told Cael and his angelic whore about us. If we fail, it’s on your head.”

  “If you fail, it won’t matter in the slightest. There are three others coming after you, and Cael and Malak will have no idea who they are. They haven’t had their faces plastered across the boob tube every five minutes!” Asmodai spat.

  “Get the fuck out!” Balam roared, the thunder of his voice echoing in the penthouse, rattling the fine crystal arranged on a nearby credenza. It shattered, spraying the parquet flooring with tiny shards of glass. Balam’s breath was thick with the stench of brimstone as he charged at Asmodai, shape-shifting instantly into his familiar, claws extended and jaw agape. His huge shaggy arms closed on nothing but air as Asmodai winked out of the room.

  Breathing heavily, Balam shifted back into his human guise, smoothing his rumpled white suit with his hands. Of all the demons in Hell, Asmodai was no doubt one of the most obnoxious, annoying ones. When I succeed in my mission, he eyed the shards of the broken ashtray that still held bits of the bull’s scalp on them, I believe I’ll ask Lucifer for Asmodai’s mangy heads on a platter.

  Putting Asmodai out of his thoughts, he strode to the elevator that would take him down to the television studio. He didn’t have the time or inclination to dwell on a flea-bitten, two-bit demon like Asmodai. Randall Kincaid had a sermon to give and a war to start.

  “DO YOU remember the plan, Malak?” Cael asked as they hovered over the Right Arm of God Ministry building in downtown Atlanta. “Think you can pull it off?”

  “Do I look like a two-year old, Cael? Kindly stop speaking to me as if I am. Of course I remember, and I wouldn’t have agreed to it if I didn’t think I could handle it,” Malak growled.

  “Sorry, hon. Really. It’s just that the last time you fought, things didn’t go so well for you,” Cael gently reminded him.

  He was referring to Sodom, and damn it, he was right. Malak rolled his eyes, conceding the point without actually saying so. “This is different. I can handle this, Cael.”

  “I know you can. I believe in you, Mal,” Cael said, darting in for a quick kiss. “Just remember that we have to get the preacher to reveal himself before we destroy him. We need positive identification, or Heaven will have both our heads for taking down one of their mouthpieces.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t refer to the clergy as ‘mouth
pieces,’ Cael. Most of them are sincere.”

  “Sorry, hon. Guess that’s the devil in me.” Cael grinned. “We’d better get a move on. It’s showtime.”

  “CHILDREN! LISTEN!” Kincaid’s deep, commanding voice echoed throughout the large auditorium, filled to overflowing with his faithful followers. His broadcast had just begun, and he’d just started working the crowd. “Evil has become so firmly entrenched in this world that only the sword can pry its wicked fingers free!”

  A chorus of “Amens” and “Hallelujahs” greeted Kincaid’s well-timed pause.

  “Last night, the angel of the Lord came to me. He told me that now was the time for the righteous to stand against the wicked! To cast evil back into the Pit! Now! Today! He told me to gather my army and to set across this land, grinding the wicked beneath our boot heels!” Kincaid thundered, working himself up into a frenzy now, pacing back and forth across the stage. “The angel said—”

  “The angel said nothing of the sort.”

  Kincaid blinked, looking at the dark-haired man in old-fashioned chain mail who had appeared out of thin air on Kincaid’s stage. The security team was staring with gaping mouths at the man, as if they couldn’t believe he’d managed to slip by them.

  “You, sir, are mistaken. The angel of the Lord said to me—”

  “An angel of the Lord wouldn’t cross the street to spit on you, you lying bag of shit,” Malak interrupted, narrowing his dark eyes at Kincaid. “Angels do not condone violence against people simply because they follow another faith or love someone people like you think they shouldn’t. Angels do not rabble-rouse. They do not pick the pockets of good, if misguided, people. They do not—”

  “Blasphemer!” Kincaid roared, pointing a finger at Malak. “You are one of them! An infidel! Black-hearted demon spawn, sent by Lucifer to destroy all that I’ve built!”