chapter IX
Springdale School, Oregon, present day
STILLNESS.
The building had been a school at one point, the kind found in small towns. The gym also served as the cafeteria and the concert hall; it had a stage on one side. There was a baseball field out back too, maybe four buildings including the maintenance shed.
This one…like a judge he had made determinations, ruling out possibilities until he made his ruling on…this one.
The mostly abandoned buildings had been commandeered as a staging ground for the Portland pod of the Brotherhood. The leader, Trina, had foolishly kept studious records, images on her computer at the bar, and even more good information at her apartment. She wasn’t the first woman to find her way into the Brotherhood. The Celts of old had started it. Their women were fierce in battle; plus it was a clever tactical decision.
This clan boasted one thousand three hundred twenty-one members, not counting stragglers and recruits. It was simple to do, really; an emergency meeting called by the Infernal—through Trina’s easily hijacked Facebook account—and the pod members gathered like dumb little sheep.
The deputy Infernal called the meeting to order. The hosts of the demon horde sat on folding metal chairs like obedient Nazi party members, ready to salute. They all awaited the Infernal, the master propagandist. Soon she would come out from the shadows, stride to the dais and begin the exhortation.
Kreios could feel his power draining with each second. He would need to make this quick. “This should be quick and easy,” Kreios said softly as he quietly bolted the door and drew his sword. He couldn’t think about the questions surrounding the disappearance of the Sword of Light. He could think of no reason why it should be lost—he was the last of his bloodline—again, and he should be carrying it. Why was he not? Only El knew. He had simply placed a lid on those questions, purchased a massive hand-made Irish hand-and-a-half sword from Fred Harmon’s smith shop in Portland, and got on with it. He was just a workman who needed a tool.
His battle plan was elegantly simple. Kreios threw the breakers, killing all the lights. He stepped in, took to flight in a circle around the room, and cut down each putrid crust of flesh as he moved inward, tightening the noose. By the time those in the middle perceived him it was too late for them.
They had sown the wind.
They would reap the whirlwind—Kreios.
And then it was still.
Dark.
Kreios was soaked in it.
The familiar smell of blood, urine, and bile filled his nostrils; it was strong, pungent. He took in the enshrouded scene in the dark. He cracked a smile, an indulgence. It was the sort of smirk one might suffer to admit upon the countenance after stealing something, getting away with a crime.
Bodies. The detritus was littered everywhere. It was difficult to get a count, but the carnage was nothing if not complete. Kreios stepped over a head and made his way to the door. There was moaning and whimpering. The room hummed with it. Most were in the throes of death and missing limbs, bleeding out. They were soft, untrained. Compared to what Kreios could muster they were but children in the arts of war.
A voice stopped him in his tracks. “You will pay for what you’ve done. Our Infernal will not stand for this!”
He opened the door, allowing a shaft of orange-yellow brightness from the security light outside to penetrate into the meat grinder of the gym, illuminating a man. “Shame. I missed you,” Kreios said.
The man stood twenty feet away holding an H&K Granatpistole; a compact 40mm grenade launcher. It was in his only hand. His other arm was gone. His voice trembled. “Our Infernal will—”
“Your Infernal is already dead. Trina Wilson, the host? She burned to death not long ago.”
The man tried to keep a bead on the angel, but the weapon was heavy and his hand shook too much; he was going into shock. Evil laughter. “Why should I believe anything you say, Kreios Son of God—” his mouth clamped shut involuntarily; it was asymmetrical, out of order.
Kreios brought the massive Irish sword around to guard again, point to the ceiling, both hands on the grips. “Your Brother still lives, I see. Turn your weapon on yourself now or I shall finish you myself.” He bent at the knees, ready to spring.
“We know of Airel! We will kill her!”
“Filthy Infernal! I should remove your mouth from your face for speaking those words!” Kreios felt his world collapse in on itself a little more at the mention of her name. “She’s already dead, fool! One of this clan killed her!” Rage exploded within him once again, but he stalled for more information, circling his prey.
“Maggot, it was you and your kind that started this; it has always been that way. Your kind declared war. And now…this last thing you have done…you have unbridled me. You have backed me into a cave, provoking me. I am now about the business of finishing.” Kreios leaned into him. “I will erase—unmake all of you.” Before he could go further, the ripping sound of a demonic separation broke through the room.
“KREIOS!” a booming guttural voice tore from the jaws of a skinny one-armed beast as it broke free of the man. Both fell to the floor and the winged creature rolled and slipped in the greasiness of rent bodies and limbs.
The man came to his feet, bringing the grenade launcher around, pulling the stock into the crook of his remaining arm. The deputy Infernal was struggling to rise up with only one arm, saying, “We know of The Alexander, Kreios! We know what he has wrought!” Kreios ignored it, focusing instead on the man. Kreios feinted left as the man took his shot.
The grenade launched with a little pop as Kreios spun right. It sailed across the gym and exploded in the opposite corner, shattering brick and tile, sending chunks of flesh into the rancid air and setting fire to a large banner. “Thank you,” Kreios said as he closed and took the man in the midsection, thrusting his sword into his abdomen.
Man and beast screamed at the same time. Quickly he brought the sword around and decapitated the man.
The Infernal fell to the ground writhing in pain. The wounds shared between demon and host were only in the mind, but the mind was a powerful thing. Kreios took full advantage of the demon’s temporary insanity and hacked its head off. The demon burst into thousands of shards and scattered across the floor. In seconds each piece evaporated into the air leaving nothing but a memory.
Kreios wasn’t even breathing hard. He stood and scanned the area. The fire was spreading to the ceiling. From there it would find the hundred-year-old rafters, dry as a tinderbox.
They knew his name. They knew of Airel and the boy Michael, that he had betrayed both the Seer and the Brotherhood. Kreios knew what it all meant but he did not care. Let him die. He deserved it after all, did he not?
The blackness of his wounded and grieving heart suited him as he sheathed his sword into its scabbard on his back.
He then burned them. “Just a taste of what is to come.” He lit a single match and dropped it onto the hideous floor. Human remains spontaneously combusted, filling the air with burning sulfur and phosphorous. He watched the unholy fire wound the evening sky with red haze.
Airel. And the boy, Michael.
It is a lie. He tried to convince himself that the falseness that had been spoken into the air did not matter, that it was meaningless. But it mattered. He remembered Airel. And Kreios wept as his eyes reflected the light of the consuming blaze.