Armaros turned to his brethren, Stearns, and the little girl cowering in her princess bed.
“They will believe in their Creator again, and they shall fear Him as they should. And then they will be prepared for the troubled times to come.”
Remy had no idea what to say; it was all so insane. He knew that there were changes in the wind…
But war?
Could he have been so blind?
Stearns cleared his throat, and Remy looked over to see the sorcerer fully adorned in the armored apparatus that would feed him the death energies of those cut down by the Grigori’s message. He was tapping a watch on his wrist, urging them to proceed.
“Of course, Algernon Stearns,” Armaros said, returning to stand with the other Grigori.
The fallen angel turned his attentions to the little girl partially hidden beneath her covers.
“Are we ready, my child?” he asked her.
“Is God gonna tell you His message?” she asked, peeking out.
The angel nodded and smiled. “He is, and then we are going to tell you…and then you will tell the world.”
“Armaros,” Remy cried out again, hoping that this time…maybe.
But he succeeded only in annoying Stearns, who gestured to his security guards, and Remy was forced to his knees, his arms bent unnaturally behind him.
“Make him watch,” the sorcerer ordered before turning his attention back to Armaros and the other Grigori.
“Are we ready?” Stearns asked.
“We are,” Armaros answered.
The world went deathly quiet. Armaros leaned in toward the small child, his lips dangerously close to her ear, as the remaining Grigori joined hands.
And suddenly all Remy could hear was the whine of the television cameras’ auto focus as they fixed the child in their robotic sights.
And the Grigori leader’s whispering voice…
“Hear the words of the Lord.”
The wards of protection cast around the plaza were doing their job.
The vintage car, engine racing like a turbulent ocean surf as it drove at the Hermes Building in a breakneck pace, felt as though it had struck an invisible wall.
The Lincoln came to a screaming halt, the shining chrome bumper and front end of the awesome car buckling. Francis and Angus were like rag dolls in the front seat, whipped viciously forward but prevented from continuing their journey through the broad expanse of windshield by their straining seat belts.
Leona was angry. The living car did not stop for long, its thick tires digging into the brick and spinning wildly, filling the air with the acrid smoke of burning rubber as she moved inexorably forward toward the building.
It was one supernatural force against the other.
The air was filled with so much smoke and noise that Francis had no idea what was truly happening. Angus sat perfectly still, holding on to his seat for dear life as the car bucked and bounced, the sounds of twisting metal like a symphony of destruction in their ears.
This can go one of three ways, Francis thought as he continued to grip the warm wooden steering wheel. Leona could be totally decimated, or the living car could show the wards who was truly queen shit by getting them inside the building, or the two unmovable forces could cause one helluva explosion, leaving Hermes Plaza with a decent-sized crater that could be used as a swimming pool in the summer.
The car began to thrash like a Jack Russell with its fangs buried deep in a rat, giving it that special shake to snap its neck.
There were bursts of fire and the smell of brimstone and the sounds of screaming somewhere off in the distance. For a second Francis believed that the wards had won, that Leona just didn’t have what it took to beat the protective spells.
But then her engine began to roar and the tires spun even faster, and Leona lurched forward, seemingly 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.