The War in Heaven – Novel (The Wrath of Angels) – English

THE WRATH OF ANGELS

Books by Theodore Beale
The War in Heaven
The World in Shadow
The Wrath of Angels

www.eternalwarriors.com

THE WRATH OF ANGELS

Theodore Beale

CASTALIA HOUSE
Milano Minneapolis Zürich

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents
are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any
resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is
entirely coincidental.
An Original Publication of Castalia House.

Copyright © 2006 by Theodore Beale
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or
portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
First Castalia House trade paperback printing December 2006

For Heather
Nameless, she stepped without shroud from sea mist,
A form to spark the Philosopher’s fire.
Her golden hair was by Phoebus sun-kissed,
Her smile was sweeter than Orpheus’ lyre.

31:10-11

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

1

1. J U S T I F I E D A N D A N C I E N T

6

2. S A F E T Y I N S I L E N C E

12

3. E V I L , C O R R U P T E D

21

4. S I N G C H I L D R E N S I N G

35

5. T A K I N G E V E R Y T H I N G A W A Y

43

6. B E A U T Y ’ S B E T R A Y A L

49

7. L O R D O F T H E F O R E S T

57

8. S T A L K I N G T H E B E A S T

65

9. A M O M E N T ’ S P E A C E

78

10. V I O L E N T L Y , I T C H A N G E S

85

11. T H E D E M O N I N M E

95

12. T H E W E I G H T O F H O U R S

105

13. S E C R E T A S S A S S I N

119

14. C L O U D S O F L I E S A N D D U S T

129

15. B L A C K W I N G ' D S H A M E

135

16. S C Y L L A A N D C H A R Y B D I S

143

17. O N E T R E E , T W O , T H R E E

154

18. L Y I N G T O T H E M I R R O R

163

19. T H E G A T H E R I N G S H A D O W

173

20. A D A R K W I N D H O W L S

182

21. T H E C A L L

194

22. M A S Q U E R A D E

203

23. G I F T O F T H E D R A G O N

211

24. T H E L I O N U N L E A S H E D

219

25. M I S P L A C E D T R U S T

228

26. P O I N T S T O P O N D E R

240

27. A D A G G E R S H E A T H E D

248

28. T H E L A D Y ' S L O O K I N G G L A S S

256

29. S H A T T E R E D D R E A M S

265

30. S E A R C H I N G F O R M R . S M I T H

272

31. T H I E F O F F L A M E S

285

32. F O R G O T T E N W A T E R S

298

33. S W O R D A N D S T O R M

308

34. F E L L A N D F E Y

317

35. R E D E M P T I O N

325

36. R E S T O R A T I O N

336

37. R E F U G E

345

THE WRATH OF ANGELS

PROLOGUE

T

he wolf panted hard as it ran through the darkness, its
long red tongue lolling haphazardly from between its
white teeth. It burst out of the sheltering cover of the forest
into a small clearing, where it was bathed momentarily in the
eerie light of the full moon. The beast, a giant of its kind,
dared a quick glance over its shoulder and howled in dismay
upon catching sight of a sparkling rainbow of bright colours
high in the sky behind it.
It redoubled its speed, running faster than it had ever run
in pursuit of even the most delectable prey. But this time, it
was not the hunter, it was the hunted, and no wolf pack had
ever chased its quarry with such implacable zeal. The giant
wolf was scarred on its muzzle, its sides and even its belly
from a hundred vicious battles, most of which had been
victorious, nevertheless, it did not think for a moment to stop
and fight.
Brambles slashed at its face and twigs snapped as it
hurled itself into the underbrush, hoping that the sky-riding
hunters would lose sight of it in the tangled chaos that
clutched and grabbed at its furred pelt. The wolf crossed over
a stream as it headed for the dark heart of the elder forest,
knowing that even the quick-moving water would do no more
than slow its pursuers for a heartbeat, if that.
As the tree trunks grew thicker and the tangled brush
faded into rich-smelling humus, soft beneath its pads, the
wolf was able to pick up its pace somewhat. It loped on for
what seemed like hours, paws beating out a rhythmic cadence
as it picked out an inerrant path between the trees. On and
on it ran, until at last it reached the heart of the ancient
wood. Shielded by the towering canopy of broad-limbed oaks,
the sky overhead was black, showing no sign of the moon, the
stars or, most importantly, that deadly, arcing rainbow of

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THEODORE BEALE

furious colours. Perhaps it had not yet escaped the dread
hunt altogether, but it was safe enough for the nonce.
The wolf paused and caught its breath, its great muscular
chest heaving with the overheated exertion of the last two
hours. Catching scent of nearby water, it stalked wearily
towards what turned out to be another stream, possibly an
offshoot of the rivulet it crossed earlier. The beast twitched
its ears nervously as it sniffed at the air, but the wind carried
no scent of the sky hunters. Satisfied it was alone at last, the
great wolf rose to its hind legs and shivered as its fur
disappeared, dissolving magically into nothingness, and the
night breeze quickly dried the sweat on its pale, hairless skin.
The stream was only knee-deep, but the erstwhile wolf
stooped to immerse its entire body in the ice-cold water. Still
overheated, it lapped thirstily at the water, and scooped up
great handfuls to splash over its human face, which bore the
same wicked scars as the wolf's battle-marked muzzle. Then,
behind it, something growled low in its throat. There was a
second growl, and a third. The werewolf froze, and turned
around slowly, dreading what it might find.
And when it turned, it knew despair. For there, creeping
out from behind the ancient oaks, lurked a pack. They were
no wolves, though, they were far worse than wolves, more
dangerous, even, than the werewolf's own unnatural kind.
They were dogs, with white, spotless fur, red-lipped jaws and
fiery eyes that bespoke a malicious sapience that was neither
bestial nor human. As the shapechanger stared in horror, the
first hound threw back its head and howled, a howl that was
echoed by a terrible horn that sounded deeply through the
midnight sky.
Panicked, the werewolf ran, too surprised and frightened
to manage the transformation back into a more useful form.
The rough whip-edge of branches slashed and scraped cruelly
at his naked flesh, leaving a blood trail for his enemies to
follow. But these hounds needed no sanguinary scent to track
him.
Strangely, the hellhounds made no move to attack,
instead they seemed content to drive him forward; only when
he slowed or tried to change direction did they snap at him
with those deadly, slavering jaws. He sobbed with impotent
rage, but there was nothing he could do except continue to

THE WRATH OF ANGELS

3

run blindly through the night, with a dozen demondogs
growling at his heels.
Light dazzled his eyes as he burst into a large clearing,
and when he tried to shield his face, he stumbled, hitting the
ground hard. Slowly, painfully, he rolled over and groaned
when he saw the great circle of Faery knights riding through
the sky above him, the many-coloured glory of their glowing
splendour putting the wan light of the full Moon to shame.
The knights were encased in glass, though there had never
been a stone capable of shattering that eldritch armor, and
each plated suit was uniquely hued, with variations
marvelous and subtle.
Some of the faces he knew on sight; certainly he knew the
names. They were figures out of legend, heroes and villains of
this age, the age before, and a few from the age before that.
Tales of their nobility and cruelty had been passed down by
his father, his grandfather and his grandfather's father's
father. They did as they pleased, the royal Lords of Faerie,
and there was none to gainsay them or stand against them.
Save one, of course, but He would lift no finger for the lowly
wolfkin.
It was a nightmare, but it was no dream, the werewolf
knew. Sweat trickled down his sides and the salt stung the
bleeding scratches inflicted by the unmerciful forest. Over his
head, the Faery host circled noisily under the stars, waiting
for something, or someone, singing racously all the while.
One knight, armored in lavender and bolder or less patient
than the rest, could no longer resist the sight of their
defenseless quarry. He urged on his magical steed, a great
white horse which, though wingless, soared through the sky
as effortlessly as an eagle. But at its rider's command it
dropped from the sky like a falling star, plunging towards the
ground with heedless abandon.
But when hope is dead, pride yet remains. Still lying
prone on the ground, the werewolf found within himself the
wherewithal to resist, and he transformed into a horrific
figure, a bestial half-man with the brutal jaws, sinewy muscle
and deadly claws of the great wolf. Rolling sideways, he
exploded from the ground just as the onrushing fae came
upon him, and he snarled in furious satisfaction as his

4

THEODORE BEALE

assailant's eyes widened with surprise. The faery knight
tried to pull up and avoid him at the last moment, but the die
was cast and the wolf struck a powerful blow at his attacker
even as the knight's steed hammered into him, sending him
tumbling head over heels.
He hit the ground again, much harder than before, and for
a long moment he saw nothing but red. But, as his vision
cleared, he saw the object of his desire right in front of his
still-lupine face, only a few paces away. Buried in earth
halfway to its hilt was the knight's glassy sword, for the wolf
had struck at the fae's hand instead of trying to smash
through that impenetrable armor. Pain and fear forgotten in
the moment of triumph, the wolf staggered forward to claim
his trophy, then thrust it skyward with a howl of angry
defiance.
The faery host answered him with a rousing cheer, for if
they sought his destruction, even more did they love a battle
worthy of the name. Then, at some unseen signal, the circle
abruptly parted and made way for an imposing figure who bid
fair to obscure the Moon as he reined in his mount high over
the wolf's head.
It was the Hunter, and the werewolf quailed before his
strange golden eyes, as unearthly as they were merciless. His
face was like that of an angel, but from his temples sprang a
pair of great antlers that would have cowed the oldest buck in
the forest. He wore no helm, and his glassy armor glowed
with the verdant green of the springtime grasslands. His
huge horn was in his left hand, but his terrible bow was still
slung on his saddle as he pointed at the wolf.
"Name thyself, child of the Twice-Fallen!"
"I name you, Herne the Hunter," the wolf defied the faery
lord. "Better you send your dogs to bring me down, lest I run
you through and drink the devils-fire from your riven throat!"
The circling Hunt shouted with glee, and a slight smile
seemed to appear on the Hunter's bloodless lips although no
trace of amusement, still less mercy, touched those eerie
owlish eyes.
"Thou art bold, Twice-fallen. Perhaps the devils-fire is still
strong within thee, even lo, these many generations. If thou
wilt not name thyself, then I shall name thee and songs shall

THE WRATH OF ANGELS

5

be sung of thee, Sword-stealer, and thy pelt shall grace none
but the Fae King himself."
The knights cheered, but the werewolf only snarled and
braced himself to meet his doom as the Hunter spurred his
mighty steed downward, drawing a peculiar sword which
flickered like wildfire encased in faery glass. Down, down he
came, like a furious winter's-night wind from which there is
no escape, and the werewolf almost staggered before the wave
of terror that swept before the onrushing Hunter. With a
snarl, he gave himself up to his fate and as the great fae
swept down upon him, he made another desperate leap.
Again, his timing was perfect, and the night sky resounded
with the impact of the cataclysmic collision.
Two swords struck home; one shattered against
impenetrable emerald armor, the other bit through fur,
muscle and bone to pierce a monster's heart. Transfixed upon
the Hunter's blade, the werewolf died as he was borne up
towards the brilliant Moon and the many-coloured splendour
of the triumphant Wild Hunt.

6

THEODORE BEALE

CHAPTER 1

JUSTIFIED AND ANCIENT
YET ALL THESE WERE, WHEN NO MAN DID THEM KNOW
YET HAUE FROM WISEST AGES HIDDEN BEENE:
AND LATER TIMES THINGS MORE VNKNOWNE SHALL SHOW.
—- Edmund Spenser, The Fairie Queene

O

n the south side of London, there is a narrow lane that
comes quietly to an inobtrusive meeting with Regent
Street in much the same manner that a diffident beggar
importunes those upon whom Fortune has smiled more fondly
for the price of his morning coffee. To the casual observer,
this lane appears to be little more than an alleyway, a dim,
seldom-traveled passage of the sort wherein activities
unsavory, illegal and immoral are likely to take place. And
the casual observer would be correct, for the most part, albeit
not in the precise manner most likely envisioned; there were
indeed such activities taking place in the vicinity, they were
not, however, occurring at the street level.
In fact, the lane was almost uninhabited at present,
traversed only by a solitary wanderer, a slender man of less
than average height, whose features were as nondescript as
his clothes. Neither handsome nor ugly, there was a boyish
look about him, but a faded boyishness suggesting that if
Fortune had ever smiled upon him, she had ceased to do so
some time past. He wore a brown leather jacket against the
evening's chill, a cheap unfashionable construction which
looked as if it had probably been purchased from a
remainder's rack at least three years ago. His jeans were
faded, though from long-time wear, not intent, and his shoes,
with salt-white water stains lining the sides, appeared to

THE WRATH OF ANGELS

7

never once to have met with that useful substance, shoe
black.
He looked very much like one of those thousands of
vaguely pathetic men who populate large cities like
depressed, oversized rodents, as full of unworkable schemes
for improbable wealth as they are bereft of either the
trappings or the prerequisites of success. And yet, to describe
this wanderer in such a way would do him an injustice, for his
seeming poverty was born of indifference, not failure, and
perhaps more importantly, he was not a man at all.
The two large black men standing within an alcove in the
middle of the alley, whose massive physiques blocked access
to an unmarked door, did not know this, of course, not even
when he stopped before them and gazed up at them
expectantly. He was not the right sort, not at all, and yet
there was something about the wanderer which left them
disinclined to deny him entrance to the hidden club that they
served as a two-headed Cerberus. There was something odd
about this humble visitor, whose unkempt russet hair hinted
at the disarray in which his humble lodgings - surely a
ground floor studio in Streatham - were likely kept.
Something odd, and perhaps something frightening, too.
For when the larger of the two giants deigned to look down
and meet the little man’s eyes, preparatory to a silent, but
certain dismissal in the form of a head shake, it was the big
man who found himself looking away and stepping aside. Nor
was his muscular companion proposed to dispute the other's
judgement, instead, he silently reached over and held the door
open for their unlikely visitor.
"Think Chelsea can do it again?" he asked the first
bouncer, as he released the door and it closed upon the light
steps of the newcomer echoing off the stairs inside.
"Dunno, mate," answered his bigger companion, whose
accent held traces of a Caribbean ancestry. "Don't much care
for footie. I was two season playin’ wit Wasps, don' ya know?"
As the two men began to debate the unanswerable
question of which human appendage is best used to guide the
irregular movements of an inflated object about the earth,
they were both careful to avoid any mention of the little man
and his strangely intimidating presence.

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THEODORE BEALE

The little man who was not a man snorted disdainfully as
he passed the imperious door girl a card and walked past the
nightclub's second, less visible set of bouncers. Atlantis was
conceived around a mythological theme, Greek, of course, and
the great open space between the gold-plastered walls was
populated with statues purporting to represent the various
deities, who were, by the look of things, rather helpless
against the seas which had already engulfed the sunken city.
A golden fountain sprayed water into the air; it was occupied
by an attractive dark-haired mermaid whose cigarette struck
a discordant note into the classical montage.
But it wasn't the cigarette which offended the little man
who was not a man, it was Kylie Minogue. It seemed strange
to him that a club which had gone to such gaudy lengths to
distinguish itself from London's lesser lights should choose to
inflict the epitome of pedestrian Europop on its clientele. Of
course, most of said clientele was now conspicuous only by its
absence, since it was but nine-thirty and a Thursday night at
that. He shrugged. He was not here for amusement, he had a
rather more important objective in mind.
He smiled up at the solitary dancer, a curvacious darkhaired woman of indistinct ancestry whose lowriding
hotpants and white halter top left little to the imagination.
She swiveled her hips in a desultory fashion, though he could
not tell whether she was warming up for a later performance
or was only bored. She paid him no more attention than she
paid the rest of the world, which was to say, none at all. She
simply stood atop her neo-Doric pillar with her feet shoulderwidth apart and her eyes closed, moving languidly to the
merciless beat.
But the dancer was no more a woman than was the little
man a man. Without warning, her hypnotic motion stopped
and her eyes snapped open. She glanced around the room
uncertainly, and when her dark eyes met those of the little
man, she started, almost violently. Then, as anger filled her
face, she leaped down from the eight-foot pillar as easily as a
cat.
“You!” she exclaimed a hissing undertone. “You were to
come last Friday! Where were you? Did you forget?”

THE WRATH OF ANGELS

9

The little man, (for so it was that he appeared and so shall
we describe him), shook his head and allowed her to lead him
to a quiet table in a shadowy corner. This was a most delicate
business, and it had been many years in the making. He was
not cautious by nature, but the cruel centuries had impressed
upon him the tiresome necessity of prudence.
“Some alterations are unavoidable.” He did not tell her
that he had never had any intention of showing up at the
agreed-upon time. She was unlikely to betray him to the Mad
One’s ever-watchful Eyes, but there was too much at stake to
assume any unnecessary risks. “My most heartfelt apologies.
Still, I am here now and it’s less crowded tonight, so there’s
less risk of any of the Unseen lurking about.”
She nodded warily.
“Perhaps you are right. But I've been warned about you,
trickster. How do I know you aren’t up to your old games? I
wouldn't put it past you to play both sides of the table. You
haven't been seen in five hundred years, and now you expect
me to take you at your word?”
He arched a suggestive eyebrow. “You can take me
however you want me, darling. And I don’t care if you believe
me or not, because your mistress knows that whatever my
shortcomings, and to be sure, my sins are many, I have
always done her the proper homage. Nor need she fear
betrayal – she is too long past the game. She has nothing to
fear.”
The dancer nodded again, this time with rather less
wariness.
“Perhaps. Now, tell me. That which you seek, is it truly a
thing of power?”
“Great power. Older and more precious than you can
imagine.”
She looked skeptical. “And how do you know of it? How
can you be so sure?”
The little man smiled grimly. “I am bound to it. I have
always been bound to it, I just don’t know where it is. But I
believe your mistress does.”
She relaxed at his admission just as the girlish warblings
of the pop princess segued into darker, fast-paced garage.

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THEODORE BEALE

That was rather more like it, thought the little man, tapping
his foot to the underlying jungle beat.
“You haven’t asked me yet if she’s willing to see you.”
The little man’s lips twitched. He was amused by her
pretensions. “Of course she’s willing to see me. She has
nothing better to occupy her these days.”
“If you are so sure, then why did you not simply go to her?
Why involve me?”
Why had he involved her? It was not strictly necessary,
and perhaps it courted needless risk. But there was a reason,
not the most compelling of reasons, perhaps, but it was one
that mattered to him all the same.
“Because one does not intrude upon a queen,” he answered
quietly.
The dancer did not respond immediately, instead she
looked down at the table for a long moment. When she looked
up again, her dark eyes were luminous with impending tears.
“Even a queen without a crown?”
“Especially a queen without a crown.”
She reached out to him and took his hand, almost
gratefully, he thought, and squeezed it. “Thank you. I have
misjudged you perhaps. Do you think you can free him?”
“So you know?” He was surprised. She had said him, not
it. She knew! Had she sought to mislead him earlier with her
questions? No, she was merely testing him. He smiled at
himself. Perhaps she was not so easy to read as he had
thought. But the realization that he had been fooled caused
him no chagrin, instead he was cheered at the thought that
perhaps he might have found a willing ally at last. Her
mistress had long ago abandoned hope, but this one had not,
and if she was sympathetic to his cause, then others might be
too. For just a moment, the long, lonely road he had
wandered for so long seemed to become a little less dark, a
little less impossible.
“I don’t know,” he answered truthfully. “I believe so. If
she can tell me where he may be found.”
The dancer nodded, and as she did, her provocative white
outfit transformed into a formal red gown, still formed to her
figure but eminently more respectable. A Japanese symbol
appeared on each of her bare shoulders, constructed of

THE WRATH OF ANGELS

11

rhinestones, which, upon closer look, he realized were
actually diamonds. Eikou. He smiled to himself. It was true,
he was not the only one who still harbored a regard for the old
days, for the old ways.
She stretched out her palm to him.
“Close your eyes. I’ll bring you to her.”

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THEODORE BEALE

CHAPTER 2

SAFETY IN SILENCE
SIT IN SILENCE, GO INTO DARKNESS, DAUGHTER OF THE
BABYLONIANS; NO MORE WILL YOU BE CALLED QUEEN OF
KINGDOMS.
—- Isaiah 47:5

H

e found himself standing hand-in-hand with his new
companion in a windowless corridor. It was an old
building, clearly, with that singular combination of aged
charm and aesthetic desolation that marks so many
constructions of the late nineteenth century.
Nearly
everything in the hall was painted the same faded shade of
yellow, the walls, the doors, the trim, even the pipes overhead
which presumably were intended to keep the building from
freezing solid in the winter. Judging by their appearance,
though, he had his doubts about their efficacy.
She released his hand, then began walking forward until
she reached a door some three rooms down. He followed her,
and laughed when he saw the name embossed on the small
piece of black tape, peeling at the edges, which was applied
above the door’s mail slot.
“Dr. Gloria Sprite?” he mused in disbelief.
“It’s her little joke. Never mind that.”
She knocked at the door, and after a moment of apparent
unresponse, the door was opened by a birdlike little woman of
indeterminate age. She looked to be somewhere between
sixty and seventy-five, but her visitor knew that she exceeded
that span by at least a factor of ten, if not a hundred. She
was dressed simply, in a red cardigan sweater and an
unassuming navy blue skirt, and her shoes were of the
sensible sort. The room into which she gracefully invited
them was, like her attire, moderate to the point of

THE WRATH OF ANGELS

13

ostentation, with little more than a desk, a wardrobe, and two
small alcoves that presumably served as washroom and
sleeping quarters.
Not that she truly needed the latter, for Dr. Gloria Sprite
was none other than Gloriana, the former Queen of the
Southlands and one of the most powerful fae of fallen Albion.
She had been living this human charade for at least thirty
years, her visitor knew, though it was entirely possible that
she been doing so much longer than that. Something moved
at his feet as he entered the room; he looked down just in time
to avoid stepping on a small calico tabby, which mewed a
feeble protest at the invaders and escaped into the meager
shelter of the smaller of the two alcoves.
“Ah, Robin, how good to see you,” Gloriana told him, a
smile of pleasure creasing her pallid, wrinkled face. “Do
forgive my champion, as we are not much in the custom of
receiving guests of late, you see.”
Robin, for that was indeed one of his many names, dropped
to one knee and kissed the silver ring which was the old
woman’s sole concession to personal adornment. It was
shaped like a coiled serpent, and he remembered the
trepidation with which he had kissed it the first time, for if he
recalled correctly, the jewelry was far more than a mere ring.
Since then, he had learned to defend himself against such
things.
“Why are you living in this manner, Gloriana?” Six
hundred years ago, he would never have been so bold to
address her directly, but many things had changed over the
centuries, himself not the least. “I spent forty years looking
for you and I imagined many possibilities, but the thought of
you living like this amongst mortals, as a mortal, was never
one of them.”
Behind him, there was a polite cough, and his hostess
smiled. Her grey hair was whispy and shot with white and
she stooped, but her blue eyes were still penetrating.
“Don’t be alarmed, my dear. You did well to bring him to
me. Go, now, and amuse yourself. I will call you if I have
need.”
Robin turned and bowed politely to his guide, who shot
him a significant glare that might have been intended as a

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THEODORE BEALE

warning, though of what he did not know. Then she was
gone, leaving nothing but a faintly perfumed scent of roses
behind her.
“She is a good girl, and loyal,” said the erstwhile Faery
Queen. “So many have fallen away, so many have given in to
despair. There are but a few who still dare to hope for a
restoration, but I fear that I am no longer one of them. We
are outside of time, and yet, it still finds a way to leave its
mark on us…. Why did you come to me, Robin? I do not have
the power you seek.”
“I don’t need power, I need knowledge.”
“Silly boy. Knowledge is power.” She pointed to her
solitary window, which overlooked a great cemetery. “And yet
all power fades with time. Behold my realm, which once
extended from Land’s End to Canterbury, and from here to
the Channel. And yet, am I not content? I have my little
studies, and do you know, Mr. Nicholas Royle has intimated
that it is very possible my latest treatise on hidden Miltonian
onomastics shall see publication in the next volume of the
university’s literary review. It’s a brilliant coup, I assure
you.”
“And an unfair one, I should say, considering you were
eyewitness to the events portrayed.”
“Still the rascal!” Gloriana wagged a finger at him, but she
took no offense. “Yes, I was there, but Mr. Milton was not, so
while my particular perspective may be unique, it is certainly
not deceitful. Nor do I see that full disclosure is required,
much less wise.”
“I can imagine it might call your scholarly discernment
into question.”
“If not my sanity!”
Gloriana chuckled, a high-pitched titter that, like her
present facade, reminded him of a bird. She had always been
one to soar, this onetime ruler of sea, land and sky, but now
the great raptor had been reduced to little more a chirping
swallow. Or so it seemed. Robin had learned not to put too
much store in the seeming appearances of others, for if his
own despicable guise was not entirely inaccurate, it was also
more than a little deliberate on his part.

THE WRATH OF ANGELS

15

The whistle of a kettle sounded, and Gloriana rose to her
feet. “Will you take tea?”
“If you please.” Robin’s mind whirled. Of all the many
changes he had witnessed on this benighted planet, this was
perhaps the most outrageous. Gloriana, the majestic, whose
lightning-quick wrath was legendary, feared by man and
sprite alike, now served him tea and scones. Not for the first
time, he cursed Heaven. What hath God wrought? Naught
but degradation and servile humiliation, he thought bitterly.
Yes, what a glorious Creation indeed.
How stupid he had been. Milton was an ass and there was
nothing noble about falling from grace. How stupid they had
all been.
“You look thoughtful.” Gloriana had returned with the tea,
and as he had surmised, scones as well. He took one, and
discovered that it was hard enough to have been prepared
around the time he had last set foot in England. “How very
strange. That is not like you.”
“I was thinking about your treatise.”
“How charming, if unexpected. Would you like to read it?”
“My God, no!” He shook his head in unfeigned alarm. “I’d
rather answer your question. You see, I know there were
seven who laid the seal, only seven who know the place I seek.
Four I cannot think to ask. One has been banished, either to
the Pit or the Void, I do not know. One I cannot find
anywhere, which leaves only you. So, I beg you, Gloriana, by
the memory of the crown that was once yours, tell me where
the seal was laid!”
Gloriana nodded slowly. “I see. And, of course, you
understand, even if you are correct and you can manage this
miracle, that merely breaking the seal and restoring Albion
are two different things entirely. The Mad One has grown
tranquil, at last. Why should I risk provoking him again to
fury?”
“Because it is needful.”
“Needful? Such a strange word in the mouth of a daemon.
Next, you will be telling me that it is the right thing to do!
Perhaps it is not me, but you, who have spent too much time
walking amongst mortals, Robin.”

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THEODORE BEALE

He shook his head. “No, I am simply telling you the truth.
Strange wheels are turning even as we speak, and I fear the
Mad One may soon be the least of our concerns.”
“Your concerns, Robin, and your fears, not mine.”
He ignored her attempts to brush him off and remained
insistent. “I must know, so you really must tell me, Gloriana.
I implore you. Please, don’t make me force you.”
The withered little woman only smiled at him.
“Force me? My dear boy, I am not entirely without
defenses.”
She flicked her finger in his direction, and her silver ring
expanded as it flew at him. He threw up his arm in front of
his face and immediately felt a tight pressure around his
wrist. As the silver serpent bared its fangs and hissed
threateningly in his face, the calico kitten burst from the
other room, leaped from chair to desk to wardrobe, from
where it hurled itself onto Robin’s shoulder.
He shook his head regretfully, as he stretched his arm out
to prevent the ring-snake from striking at his eyes. “Believe
me, Gloriana, I have no wish to harm you. But I must know
where the seal is, you see, for I cannot break it if I cannot find
it, and there’s little your animated jewelry or your kitten can
do to stop me.”
“Robin.” There was reproach in her voice, but no fear, only
amusement in her eyes. “How you’ve changed! And yet, how
little you’ve learned.”
He started as he heard a deep, rumbling voice in his ear.
“This kitten could bloody well do for you, boyo. Don’t you
be forgetting it, either.” A great mass suddenly weighed down
his shoulder, as if someone had placed something
approximately the size of Big Ben there without him noticing
it, and he staggered under the load even as it was lifted
abruptly from him. He gasped and rubbed at his shoulder as
the kitten landed lightly on the floor, instead of plunging
through the wooden floor directly to the basement as he half
expected it would.
It turned and mewed nastily at him, earning a scolding
from Gloriana.
“Never mind that, Orgoglio, and watch your tongue. He
means well.” She crooked her finger and the snake on his

THE WRATH OF ANGELS

17

wrist flew back to her, somehow becoming a ring again in the
process. “It pleases me to see you are so determined, Robin.
But my mind is settled. I am done. I will take no part the
affairs of men or angels again. Albion is fallen and the great
fae are no more. My retirement may have been imposed upon
me, but as you can see, I have found more than a little
contentment in this pasture to which I have been retired.”
Robin was honestly glad to hear the queen had found her
peace, strange though it might be to him, but he could not
leave her to it. He told her of the dark whispers that now
floated on the night winds from the Continent, and despite
her determined indifference, he could see her ears pricking,
for like him, she was well aware that from the first, the
greater part of Albion’s troubles had always come from the
sea. And if Robin had never shirked from exaggeration in the
past, he found no need to do so now. Exaggeration was
unnecessary, for not in seven hundred years had the omens
been more dire.
Unlike most of the world in shadow, their conquered realm
had never been a battleground for the great game of Man,
where demon warred with angel over the fate of each precious
mortal soul. And the King of that realm, though fallen
himself, had never submitted to Lucifer. Moreover, he had
done his best to create a magical paradise as a simulacrum of
the Heavenly joy they had lost. Glorious Albion, the land of
Faerie, over which the first fae reigned as creator, protector
and king.
But Lucifer brooked no rivals, even a rival whose challenge
existed solely in his mind. There had been treachery, bitter,
soul-slaying treachery from the most unsuspected source,
through which the Mad One had deposed Albion’s king as well
as other, lesser royals such as Gloriana.
Now, a new power was rising, swallowing up principalities
and dark princes alike, and yet Lucifer did not bestir himself
to stop her. From this, some thought he feared her, others,
wiser and more cynical, surmised that Lucifer was behind her
rise and was using it to rein in some of his more powerful
servitors. And then, there were the fearful, who worried that
the Shining Prince had wearied of the great game at last, that

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THEODORE BEALE

he was now ready to risk everything with one final roll of the
dice.
Gloriana did not hide her surprise. “Teuvras and Merofael
both? I should not have dreamed such things were possible!
Surely they are too proud!”
“They have submitted before her, and willingly. Her vision
has proved more seductive than one could have imagined.
Nor are they alone, more than twenty lesser princes have
made obeisance as well, Parsoy and Asyael among them.”
“Tellus?”
“No, he alone stands against her. But he is weak, and can
spare no aid for another. It is all he can do to hold out. Like
you, I have long wished to see Albion restored, but now, that
is our only hope. Even if the Mad One intended to resist her,
he could not win. As it stands, who can say what he intends.
He is, as you very well know, quite mad.”
“Yes, if it were not those around him, who keep him
propped up in his place, I should think he would have fallen
some time past.”
Robin smiled at her. “I have good reason to believe that
not all of those to whom you refer now believe that keeping
him propped up serves their interests any longer.”
Gloriana’s eyes widened, then narrowed thoughtfully. She
stood and turned from him, then walked stiffly towards her
solitary window to stare out over what was a wide expanse of
green that led to a great cemetery. Perhaps it was comforting
for her, an immortal, to reflect on the bitter joke that was
mortal death. Robin did not find it so, but Gloriana had
always been unusual, to say the least.
“So, have you become a player yourself, Robin?” She faced
him now. “Does the court jester now think to play the king?”
“No.” He did not rise to the bait. “This fool thinks only to
serve the one he should never have stopped serving.”
“Well said. I hope it is true. And how good is your reason
to believe that you will find support?”
“Excellent. There is one in particular who bitterly regrets
her decision to betray Albion.”
Gloriana laughed out loud.
“Oh, you romantic fool. Or is it only that your perverse
sense of humor grown darker over the long years? No, it is

THE WRATH OF ANGELS

19

the former, I daresay, and I love you the more for it. How you
surprise me, Robin! Now, I shall surprise you. You see, it is
not entirely by accident that I chose to retire here, of all
places, at Oxford. Have you ever heard of the Hellfire Club?”
Robin was puzzled for a moment, confused by Gloriana’s
unexpected segue into human history.
Then, as
understanding dawned, he shook his head and cursed himself
for the fool he was. Of course such a powerful working could
not be concealed completely, but he never thought the Mad
One could be so cunning as to hide his treasure under a
widely notorious nexus of power.
Perhaps, he considered soberly, the usurper was not as lost
in his insanity as everyone imagined.
But that was
unimaginable, for so cruel was the Mad One, there was
insanity and devastation in everything that touched him. He
was the Midas of madness, such horrors had he wrought
throughout the land, upon man and spirit alike. And yet,
there were still darker shadows lurking beyond the horizon.
He dropped to one knee and kissed her hand, like the faery
knights of old. “You are still a queen, Gloriana. I thank you,
for you have given me everything I need.”
“No, I think not,” she replied tartly. “Know this, my dear
fool, if you would rather not inform every spirit on the isle of
your intentions, you will need to enter quietly. Also, it has
been far too many years and there is too much that will need
to be known, and quickly too. I shall prepare a potion, and
my lady, Lahalissa, will bring it to you in three days time.”
She smiled. “I have not stretched my wings in many a year,
but I shall send her with you in my stead. I think you will
find she has more useful talents than her dancing.”
Three days? Robin was chagrined. His destination was
less than thirty minutes away as the crow flies and he was
eager to start immediately.
He protested, but she dismissed his objections with a regal
wave of her hand. In three days, the Moon would be new and
the seal would be at the low ebb of its power. What had lain
undisturbed for centuries would keep for another three days.
And besides, there was the potion. Knowledge, she reminded
him, was not only needful, it was power.

20

THEODORE BEALE

He hoped she was correct. Time was growing ever shorter
and the whispers were ever more ominous, more fearful by
the day. The daughter of Moloch was coming, and she was a
dark and hungry goddess indeed.

THE WRATH OF ANGELS

21

CHAPTER 3

EVIL, CORRUPTED
EVERYTHING SAID SO FAR HAS THE APPEARANCE OF MERE
PARADOX, AND BY WAY OF REASSURING THE TIMID WE CAN
CONFIRM THAT THIS IS SO.
— Umberto Eco, Apocalypse Postponed

T

he night sky was an oppressing shade of deep purple, a
clouded ocean of darkness overhanging the lights of the
nearby town. Three anxious days had passed, but the Moon’s
light was safely obscured by shadow and Robin was confident
that their presence was unnoticed.
“For whom do we wait? Gloria told me there would be a
third.”
Robin found it interesting that Gloriana’s servant,
Lahalissa, referred to the former Queen by her human name.
They were waiting for the last member of the party, without
whom this venture would be for naught, at the summit of a
large hill in Buckinghamshire. Despite the woods to their left
and to their right, the hill provided them with an excellent
view to the lights of their destination less than a mile away.
“Why do you call her that?”
“Call her what?”
“Gloria.” He smiled and shook his head. “Dr. Sprite, it
sounds far too silly.”
“Well, she likes to play with words. She was the Fellow
and Senior Tutor for English, you know? Not this time, mind
you, but the last time around.”
“How very tedious. The last time?”
“Yes, this is her third spell at St. Hilda’s, but this time it’s
Classics. She was here with her very good friend, the founder
of the college, from the start. I shouldn’t go so far as to say a
woman’s college was Gloria’s idea, not at all, but she did help

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THEODORE BEALE

push Dorothea along from time to time when things looked
difficult. They were the best of friends; she was absolutely
bereft when Dorothea died.”
“You baffle me. Do you mean to say that after she’s been
there for a time, she goes away and then returns again? Has
no one ever noticed?”
“Of course not! She always returns as a different mortal.
The problem is that it falls to me to establish her next
identity when the old one is getting too long in the tooth.”
The daemoness seemed to flicker, and the pretty exotic dancer
disappeared, replaced by a young, weedy-looking woman with
a long, thin nose. “Hence the dreary Miss Annabel Queens,
who came up last fall to read for Philosophy. Can you believe
Gloria actually makes me attend the classes? It’s no wonder
those appalling Frenchmen all want to end their miserable
lives, with that boring Sisyphus and those dreadful plays. At
least Gloria writes the papers; slogging away at those would
be simply more than I could possibly bear.”
“I can imagine.” Robin was amused, but he found the
thought disturbing too. No wonder the Mad One had never
lost his lunatic hold. If the great of Albion had not bestirred
themselves to work for her restoration, but had abandoned
everything in favor of peculiar mortal pursuits and petty
amusements, small wonder that her very memory was fading,
even from immortal minds. Humans were contemptible, but
their influence could be pernicious and it crept up on one,
caught you unawares.
“Have you ever been there?” Lahalissa, back in her normal
form, pointed to the great church that perched atop the
largest hill in the area, an unmistakable nexus that Robin
would have sensed even if he had not been informed of its
significance. Somewhere, under that hill, lay the Mad One’s
seal. Trees obscured most of the church from this lower
vantage point, all that could be seen was the square spire,
and, above it, the illuminated golden ball that had entranced
so many curious tourists. “Did you know him?”
“Dashwood?” He knew of the mortal legend since he had
passed more than a little time in the Oxford library in the last
three days, but that was all. “No, I fled when the Mad One
arrived, so I was gone long before his time. But I remember

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23

the fort that stood there before, when Rome still ruled these
hills.”
It was always the same. Power called to power. The
Heaven’s King and his minions did their best to construct
their fortresses in such places, as if the mighty cathedrals and
imposing stone churches were nothing more than massive
mystical corks. But cork crumbled over time, the guardians
grew lax, and sooner or later, an opportunity always
presented itself.
He could feel them, he thought, somewhere nearby, the
emanations of that great seal he’d sought for centuries. It
was more than a mere nexus; the great spell created by the
combined efforts of seven Great Ones had left its indelible
mark. It was not so strong that he would have noticed it had
he not known where to look for it, but it was there. Oh yes, it
was there! The pulsing ambience of the ancient malevolence
was almost sweet to him.
And now, standing here on this idyllic rural summit with a
cool night breeze blowing through his hair, it seemed his
interminable search was at last coming to an end. He
trembled with mingled fear and regret, and with some
difficulty, returned his attention to Lahalissa, who was
speaking to him.
“You still haven’t answered my question,” she repeated. “I
confess, it frightens me to think there is one capable of
shattering a Great One’s spell. Gloriana said even she could
not. Is he a Great One, then?”
“No, he is not our kind,” answered Robin, scanning the
skies. Was that an airplane to the south? A glowing speck
had been lazily circling a point on the horizon for sometime,
but even as he noticed it, it began moving rapidly towards
them. “He is something else altogether, but what, precisely, I
cannot say. A child of the Watchers, I imagine, though one
who cannot leave the material shadow. Or so he claims. Still,
his power is considerable.”
Lahalissa looked skeptical, as well she might, for how
could even the most powerful of the Twice-fallen hope to
break the power of a seraphim, one of the six-winged gods?
But she did not argue with him, instead, she gasped out loud
when he pointed towards the onrushing flier.

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THEODORE BEALE

It was no airplane, but a bird, a great three-headed eagle
with raging wings of fire shining through the lurking
darkness as they beat the air with long, powerful strokes. As
it approached them, it gave out a loud cry that might have
been a greeting, although a less informed observer might
easily have mistaken it for a warning.
Robin shook his head even as he raised a hand in welcome
and caused a bright green light to flare in the sky above him.
He had told the newcomer to be circumspect, and even
suggested that he take the discreet form of a bird. It seemed,
however, that he should have been a bit less circumspect
himself with his suggestions. Then again, it could have been
worse than a mere tri-cranial fire eagle. But not much worse.
The giant raptor, its golden talons outstretched and
shining by the light of the flames, plunged towards the
ground. As it landed, however, it transformed into a tall,
slender man with bronze skin and close-cropped grey hair.
His eyes were uncommonly large, and they glowed with a
strange rainbow sheen, as if they were mere prisms for a
more perfect light within. When he spoke, his voice was deep.
It rumbled as if the earth itself was moving.
“It took me some time to notice that little golden ball over
there. I had my eye out for something larger.”
“Do accept my apologies.” Robin introduced the newcomer
to Lahalissa. “Lahalissa, of the court of Queen Gloriana.
Lahalissa, this is… Worm.”
“Worm? How unusual?”
The strange eyes danced with amusement as they flickered
between Robin and the demoness.
“I imagine it might strike you so.”
“I met Worm a few years ago. I’ve had some experience
with transformations, you know, and Worm was a willing
student. I believe he’s found the ability rather useful.”
“Yes, I am most appreciative.” Worm bowed his head
towards Robin. “And as we agreed, this shall repay my debt
to you?”
Robin was quick to assure Worm that there was no debt,
that there had never been a debt of any kind. This was a
simple exchange of favors between friends, nothing more.
There are few who shoulder the burden of gratitude well, and

THE WRATH OF ANGELS

25

Robin very much preferred to remain in Worm’s good graces.
There were angels who despised these demi-mortal mongrels,
but Robin knew better.
Lahalissa pointed towards the town. “We can’t walk in
there looking like this. For one thing, Worm would freak out
every mortal that saw him. And for another, we’ll need an
excuse to go down into the basement. There usually aren’t
guards there, at the pub itself, but you never know.”
“The pub?”
“The tunnel leads from the George and Dragon into the
caves where the Seal lies. If he can’t walk through walls, the
only other way would take us right past three sets of guards,
one mortal and two human.”
There was a rumble that sounded like thunder, and Robin
looked up to the sky before he realized Worm was laughing.”
“Then lead us to the pub, little demon girl.”
She shot him an irritated look. “You might be a lion
among your kind, Worm, but don’t push your luck with me.
And speaking of little girls, Robin, best you become one.”
“Sorry?”
“Do you want to sneak him in or not?” She smirked. “The
entrance is inside the little girl’s room. I’ll be invisible, so just
tell your Daddy you have to go to the potty, then do what I tell
you to do. And Worm, for the love of your mortal mother, do
something about those ridiculous eyes.”
She vanished, but he could still hear her airy chuckle,
accompanied by Worm’s sub-bass rumble. The Twice-fallen
had taken no offense, and appeared to be amused instead.
Robin shook his head. Lahalissa was probably right. The
point was to sneak in quietly and unobserved, but still, the
notion rankled. The tall man blinked, and his strange eyes
were suddenly brown, as human and commonplace as one
could imagine. He grinned and held out a hand to Robin.
“Ta ta, sweetie. You be a brave girl, now. Daddy will
protect you from the scary monsters.”
Biting back a abundance of scathing replies, Robin
petulantly flipped his beribboned pigtails back behind his
shoulders, then reached up to take Worm’s hand.

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THEODORE BEALE

The pub was two-thirds empty. Robin sat and kicked his
legs, which dangled uncomfortably high above the floor, as he
scanned the smoky, high-ceilinged room for signs of trouble.
There were few angels taking in the hops-sodden atmosphere
tonight, but one could never be sure that the most innocuousseeming Tempter was not actually one of the Mad One’s
roving Eyes. He almost ordered a beer from a passing waiter
before coming to his senses and remembering his current
guise. No, that wouldn’t do at all.
“Where’s the guards? Didn’t you say there were guards
this way too?”
“Down in the caves, but don’t worry.” Her voice was
disembodied. “They won’t be any trouble at all. I’ve been
here the last three nights scouting out the place, and they’re
expecting me tonight. One of them is sweet on me, which isn’t
hard to understand when you consider how irresistible I am
when I need to be. Of course, the fact that he’s been on duty
there for twenty years probably didn’t hurt either.
Robin grinned in the direction of her laughter. He was
starting to appreciate the truth of the Faery Queen’s words.
Lahalissa was far more than a mere lady-in-waiting, much
less a dancer. Unlike most angels, she had an imagination.
“Why didn’t you tell me? I would have come.”
“Because Gloria didn’t want you following me. You were
far too eager.”
Fair enough. “Very well. And how do you plan to explain
Worm and I?”
“Worm can wait in the tunnel. You come in a few minutes
behind me, as if you are my superior, chasing after me. I can
handle the one; I’ve already prepared something for him. Will
you be able to take care of one kesh-adim?”
“I should think so.”
“Good.” He felt a soft pair of lips lightly touch his girlish
cheek. “Then count to one hundred and tell Daddy to take
you to the little girl’s room.”
As she planned, no one paid them the least bit of attention.
None of the angels even blinked, though Robin had no way of
knowing if it was because they did not see Lahalissa or simply
did not care. He felt her hand on his shoulder, guiding him
past the women’s loo to an unlocked door, which opened to

THE WRATH OF ANGELS

27

reveal a stairway leading down to a dank, ill-smelling
basement.
They made it down the stairs without incident, and then
the demoness surprised him as she unexpectedly revealed
herself, not in any of her previous aspects, but as an image of
Divine righteousness. Her lustrous black hair was shortened
into a girlish blonde bob, her dark eyes expanded into huge,
innocent blue orbs, and her curves were trapped in the
bondage of a chaste white robe. If the robe was perhaps a
little shorter than was normal for a Divine, and a little tighter
in certain places, well, he had no doubts that the effects were
intentional.
“Orolin’s a bit of a pervert. He thinks he’s pulling a
Guardian.” She batted her impossibly long lashes, blushed
slightly and took a deep breath. “And, do you know, I think I
might be weakening. Ooh, how much longer can I resist his
evil wiles?”
Robin burst out laughing, although Worm rumbled low in
his throat with impatience.
“Very well, shall I do the same?”
“No, just pretend you’re a Divine musclehead who’s come
to warn him off me. Oro will be so fired up to think he’s
getting somewhere with me that any thought we might be up
to something else won’t even cross his mind. Just don’t
overdo it, I mean, I don’t want him to punch you out before I
make my move. Worm, you just wait around the corner, best
you stay out of this.”
“As you like.”
A moment later, it was Lahalissa’s turn to laugh when
before her stood a hulking, white-winged caricature of a
Divine warrior-angel.
“You might want to try to look a little less vacant. And
don’t drool either, I mean, that’s really a bit much, don’t you
know?”
“Very well.” He made the recommended alterations and
gestured around the basement. “So, where is this tunnel?”
“The caves are under here,” she explained, as she kneeled
down and ran her hands over a seemingly unremarkable part
of the dirty concrete floor. “Worm, move that rack, will you?”

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Worm obeyed wordlessly, and Robin watched as she
mumbled something he couldn’t quite understand, until a
thin line of red light began to shine straight up from the
concrete. The light traced out a square, and a moment later
there was a grinding sound and the outlined square
disappeared to reveal a steep set of stairs, lit by a series of
runes inscribed on the walls.
“How did you ever discover that?” he asked in wonder. He
had not sensed any concealment spell, despite what he
considered to be a highly refined ability to detect such things.
“I got stuck standing guard down there for a decade or two
myself.” She shook his head at his raised eyebrow. “Don’t
ask. And don’t forget to give me a minute or two before you
go in.”
She descended the stairs without concern, and again Robin
followed, though with a little more trepidation than he would
have imagined. He wasn’t the least bit afraid of the guards,
but it had taken him so very long to reach this point; now that
he was almost in sight of his goal, he found that his nerves
were beginning to fray. What if he could not disarm the real
guardian? What if they had moved that which he sought, or if
the Mad One had learned of his search and was playing with
him like a cat with a mouse, allowing him to come this far
only to end the game here. Worst of all, what if he had been
betrayed by those on whose behalf he acted.
No, that was impossible. He shuddered at the very
thought. If after all this time the dream was false, better that
he be banished to The Pit, better that he forget it forever.
At the bottom of the stairs, as she promised was a open
cavern. A series of unlit torches were fixed to the rock;
Lahalissa lit them with a wave of her fingers.
“There’s no need to skulk; they knew someone was coming
once the stairs were opened.”
There was a dim light at the bottom of the stairs; it
appeared to grow brighter in the direction she was leading
them. Small demons squatted and lurked malevolently in the
shadows, but Lahalissa strode past them, uncaring, until a
small purple creature unexpectedly leaped out from behind a
rock and attacked her leg.

THE WRATH OF ANGELS

29

“Get off me, you disgusting little beast!” The demoness
uttered a few choice words that would have surely blown her
disguise as she scraped the Vile off her leg with her free foot
and viciously booted it into the wall, where it splattered like a
squashed grape. She glanced back at Robin, as if daring him
to find any humor in the incident, and both Robin and Worm
wisely pretended that they hadn't seen anything.
They continued down the hall without further
interruption. Lahalissa told him to wait for a minute before
following him around the corner into what appeared to be the
demon's lair and moments after counting to sixty, he found
himself standing in a comfortable, well-lit room. There were
several couches, two wide-screen televisions, a DVD player,
and a large refrigerator. Nor were they alone; one demonic
guard was greeting Lahalissa with all the enthusiasm of a
puppy whose owner had been absent for a month, the other
was studiously ignoring the couple in favor of what looked
like the Bloomberg channel.
He did not seem overly
interested in Robin’s intrusion either.
This close, it was impossible not to feel the seal. Its raw
power sent shivers through him. Could they truly break it?
It was on the south wall, perpendicular to the two plasma
screens. “So, how’s the market doing,” he asked the horned
demon on the couch, not really knowing what else to do but
make conversation. He didn’t want to make his move before
Lahalissa made hers.
“Dow’s up a hundred. And me short, don’t you know!”
“What, you're day trading?” He was incredulous. Maybe
Heaven was right to throw us out, ye gods, just look at how
far we have fallen! “What do you care?”
“It passes the time and Vegas ain't on TV. What’s it to
you?”
Belatedly, he recalled that he was supposed to be a nosy
Divine interloper, not a jaded Fallen angel.
“Because
gambling is wrong,” he waggled a finger at the demon, who
exposed a fine set of razor-sharp fangs when he yawned.
“Whatever. By the way, who are you and why are you
bothering me?”
Robin pointed to the other two spirits. The tall demon,
whose awkward length made him look rather like a gawky

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teenage mortal, was nodding at something Lahalissa was
saying. “She shouldn’t be involving herself with the likes of
him. I came to tell him that.”
“Oh.” The sitting demon lost interest and turned back
towards the television. “So tell him already.”
Lahalissa was an accomplished actress. Her eyes widened
as she turned towards him at the sound of his approach, her
mouth made a perfect circle of astonishment and she leaned
into her demonic suitor as if she were in dire need of
protection. Her actions not only convinced her would-be lover,
but emboldened Orolin enough that he put a long, spike-lined
arm around her slender shoulders and actually jutted out his
elongated jaw.
“Who are you,” he demanded boldly.
Robin puffed out his chest and struck a pose, laying his
hand on his sword belt which, he reminded himself, was only
an illusion. “I am Ar-Thundar, the True, and this Guardian is
one of my cohort. Unhand her, vile demon, for her heavenly
purity is not to be sullied!”
Orolin blinked, but he was not about to back down in front
of Lahalissa. He stepped in front of the demoness as he put
his hand to his own scabbard, which looked as if it held
something more akin to a meat cleaver than a sword, and
puffed out his chest. His elongated limbs no longer looked
awkward, but dangerously long, and for all Lahalissa’s earlier
contempt, Robin saw that this demon was designed for
fighting. Perhaps he’d overdone the confrontational tone
after all.
“I think the lady will be the judge of that!” He glanced
back at Lahalissa, who managed a convincing blush. “Back
off, angel, this place is endowed with wards which strengthen
me beyond what you would believe possible. But since you
are a companion of the one I love, I shall permit you to depart
in peace, if you leave now.”
Robin raised both hands, his palms exposed, and began to
retreat. He tried to look chagrined, and pleaded with
Lahalissa, even as he moved closer to the demon on the couch.
“Please, my dear, reconsider. To fall from Grace is an awful
thing. I know your feelings are strong for this… this fallen
one, but you must not do this!”

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31

Orolin’s face was twitching as he tried not to openly smirk,
as Lahalissa shook her head and pushed her way past him to
confront Robin. She placed her hands in his and smiled sadly.
As she did, he could feel one of her palms begin to grow warm
with an enchantment of sorts.
“My dear captain, I thank you, but my love is too strong.
But though we must be enemies, let there nevertheless be
peace between us.” She leaned forward to kiss him on the
cheek and whispered a single word. “Now!”
When she released his hands, Robin twisted and drew a
black-flame dagger from his belt. He drove it into the throat
of the unsuspecting demon sitting behind him, then leaped
sideways to avoid the monster’s instinctive reaction. The
beast was incredibly strong, though, and despite the knife in
his throat, he was able to stagger to his taloned feet just in
time to receive a hard kick to his unarmored midsection. As
he doubled over, Robin stabbed him in the back of the neck
with his other blade, and that was finally enough to finish
him. With a wailing, goat-like groan, the demon exploded in a
sulfuric green-yellow flash.
Robin turned to see if Lahalissa needed any help, but she
was already standing over the unconscious body of Orolin
staring at him with an expression of disgust. Her demon
lover was snoring loudly thanks to a sleep-inducing rune that
she’d slapped on his forehead, but he was otherwise
unharmed.
“Oh, you… stupid! You didn’t have to kill him!”
“What, he’s immortal!”
“You know what I mean. Anyhow, so much for sneaking
in, Thundar. You’d better find that seal fast, before his lifeward brings about a thousand slayers down on our heads. I’ll
go get the mortal.”
He was about to point out that Worm wasn’t any more
properly mortal than her, when he realized that he had no
idea what she was talking about.
“Life-wards?”
Lahalissa pointed to the first guard’s head, which unlike
the rest of him, had not disintegrated but was hurled by the
explosion over to the far side of the room, and was lying
underneath the plasma screen. To Robin’s horror, a red sigil

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was flashing ominously between the horns jutting from the
demon’s forehead. Gehenna! Realizing she was right and
that they had very little time, he closed his eyes, laid his
hands on the southern wall, and quickly stripped the masking
spell that hid the seal from prying eyes.
Whoosh!
He grunted as the purple flames of the encircled sevenpointed star hurled him backwards and he struck the cement
floor hard enough to make him groan. Why couldn’t he ever
remember to jump out of the cursed material in time, he
grumbled as he pushed himself up to marvel at the great seal.
It was huge, more than thirty feet in diameter, and each fiery
tine was marked with a individual sigil inscribed in silver. In
the middle was an eighth sigil, but inlaid with gold. It was
one that he had seen many times before, the mark that
belonged to Albion’s curse, the Midas of madness.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he protested, pointing at the
flashing head when Lahalissa returned with Worm in tow.
“I never dreamed you wouldn’t know. The Mad One is
crazy, but he’s not stupid, Robin. Oh, but well done, you’ve
found it!” But he took little pleasure in her delight when he
looked at the head and saw its eyes, which were now open.
They were glazed over and possessed no sign of consciousness,
but something must have been controlling them because they
first looked over Robin, then turned their lifeless gaze on
Lahalissa, then Worm. “Someone’s watching us!”
“Then we better get on with it. There it is,” Robin pointed
to the great fiery seal and clapped a hand on Worm’s
shoulder. “Can you do it?”
“Assuredly.”
Worm reached into his mouth, and with a quick jerk,
ripped out one of his canines. Robin groaned, and then had to
look away as his tall companion, betraying no pain, pursed
his lips and spat out a red gobbet from the side of his mouth.
But Lahalissa gasped, and when he looked back, he saw that
the tooth had somehow grown into a great ivory sword, with
an intricately carved handle that resembled a dragon.
“I believe it will serve,” Worm said, offering it to him hiltfirst. “Just stab directly into the heart of the seal. Use both
hands….”

THE WRATH OF ANGELS

33

“What are you,” asked Lahalissa in awe, but they both
ignored her.
Robin balanced the sword in his hands,
surprised at its heavy weight, then lifted it behind his right
shoulder like a giant dagger and drove it into the center of the
flaming rock. To his surprise, it slid into the gold sigil as if
the seal was a scabbard designed for it, and the purple flames
flared, then began to change colour. First blue, then green,
then red, until they finally faded to a sickly yellow fire that
finally fizzled into nothing. The silver sigils melted, then
drizzled down the wall into a metallic puddle, but when Robin
withdrew the sword, he saw that the Mad One’s molten sign
now gilded the sword’s blade.
“Brilliant,” he said, amazed. He bowed respectfully and
offered the sword to Worm, who took it without a word and
held it at his side.
Denuded of all magic, the rock wall began to shudder, then
a large portion began to slide away, revealing a murky
chamber of vast dimensions. The air was oppressive with
wards and spells, and Robin did not like to think of how many
alarms they were probably setting off even as they entered.
Lahalissa snapped her fingers; nothing happened.
Nonplussed, she stared at her fingers and snapped them
again. Nothing.
Robin frowned and tried a light-making spell of his own.
“Fiat lux!” It failed too, and he shared a look of concern with
Lahalissa. Only Worm seemed untroubled, though he was
craning his head around and looking up at the impenetrable
darkness in which the high ceilings were shaded.
“There’s something up there,” he said calmly.
They stopped. There was the faint sound of something
scrabbling in the gloom high above them. Robin’s skin began
to crawl, and his uncertainty bloomed into full-flowered fear
when he tried to shift into a higher shadow and found that he
could not. The wards were unthinkably powerful, never
before had he experienced such awesome might.
“It’s a trap,” he shouted. “Get back!”
But as he turned and started to run for the door,
something shot out of the darkness, something shining and
ominously gossamer, and blocked the door.
He froze,
recognizing the shimmering silk of a spider’s web. Judging by

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the large strands, though, it was an extraordinarily large
spider. The sword! Worm had it, and surely it would slash
through this stuff easily enough, magic or no magic.
Before he could call for the weapon, though, Lahalissa
screamed, and he turned around in time to see a massive dark
shape plunging from the shadows above.
Somehow, it
arrested its fall, and there it hung, seemingly suspended in
mid-air, a giant spider with ferocious mandibles clacking
portentously not three feet away from her.
It was a dreadful creature, five, perhaps six times wider
than Robin was tall, with huge hairy legs, a disgusting cluster
of eyes and a grotesque, bulbous body. But what made Robin
weak in the knees with shock, fear and horror was not the
spider’s great size nor even the noxious odor emanating from
it. For above the ocular cluster was a noble set of antlers, and
beneath them was a face he had known many centuries
before, a face that belonged to one for whom he had been
searching ever since Albion’s fall. Set amidst the shaggy
spider-fur was the handsome face of Herne the Hunter.

THE WRATH OF ANGELS

35

CHAPTER 4

SING, CHILDREN, SING
AND I FEEL LIKE I’M BEING EATEN BY A THOUSAND MILLION
SHIVERING FURRY HOLES. AND I KNOW THAT IN THE MORNING I
WILL WAKE UP IN THE SHIVERING COLD. AND THE SPIDERMAN IS
ALWAYS HUNGRY...
— The Cure, (“Lullaby”)

T

he nightmarish abomination chittered. It flexed its horny
mandibles slowly back and forth, and raised two blackfurred legs in a threatening manner. The massive horror was
a bestial vision from the Pit, but the most dreadful thing
about it was the blank, mindless look in Herne’s
unmistakable eyes. There was no sign of the fallen angelprince therein, no glimmer of the once-feared leader of the
Wild Hunt. Indeed, if there was still so much as a flicker of
intelligence lurking somewhere behind those owlish golden
orbs, it appeared to have been swept away long ago by a devilcursed maelstrom of insanity.
“Herne, what did they do to you?” Robin cried out, more in
shock than fear.
“It can’t be the Hunter,” protested Lahalissa as she slowly
backed away from the stinking atrocity. She recognized him,
too. “That’s not possible!”
Only Worm managed to remain calm; he did not flinch
even when a huge leg brushed over his face and the grotesque
eye cluster turned in his direction.
“The one you call Herne is still in there, somewhere,” he
called out to the others. “I can feel him.”
“Herne!” Robin shouted, forcing himself to step closer to
the thing. “Can you hear me? Who did this to you? Was it
the Mad One? Do you know how we can break the spell?”

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“The spell?” Robin froze as the lips moved on the embedded
face. The voice was strangely high-pitched, almost childishly
querulous, but it was recognizably the Hunter’s. “Oh, there
are no spells here, my dear friends. Mmmmm, the fires burn
brightly. Such sweet little embers. So suck-suck-succulent,
yes…no! No, it is not permitted, oh no, indeed, it is not.”
The Hunter was there, true, but whatever was left of him
was mad, Robin realized. He had been a friend once. Well,
more one with whom Robin would have liked to be friends,
but in any case, not an enemy.
“Herne, Great Lord, we want to help you. Tell us how we
can free you!”
The angelic face seemed to tilt sideways within the mass of
stinking fur, and Robin felt a wave of nausea threaten to
overcome him. It was almost impossible to imagine that it
was the face of one of Faerie's greatest lords.
“Free? No, not free. Not free, not me. But free to feed,
dear, clever friend. Free to feed. Like diamonds, oh yes, the
juice, the flame, the sweet devilfire shines within you.”
Robin did not like the direction this conversation was
taking, nor did he take much comfort in the increasingly
excited way the spider-thing was rubbing its legs together.
He had no way of knowing if Herne was trapped inside the
monstrous outrage, or if he had been melded with it in such a
way that the angel-lord was basically no more. But whatever
the truth, it was beyond his skill to diagnose, much less cure,
and there was nothing he could do about it except edge closer
to Worm and hope that the ivory sword would have the same
effect on the demonic arachnid as it had on the Mad One’s
seal.
“Is this a friend of yours?” Worm asked Robin, thoughtfully
twirling the weapon in his hand as he regarded the monster.
“I don’t know if I’d call him a friend, exactly.”
“So you won’t have any objections if I kill it?”
“I’ll survive any regrets.”
Herne’s face grew slack again, but before the light of
intelligence completely faded again from his eyes, his lips
twitched into a smirking smile. “Killing, killing, the fare
unwilling. And yet, the dear darlings must eat, yes?”

THE WRATH OF ANGELS

37

As quickly as it had appeared, the spider vanished
abruptly, somewhere in the darkness above them.
“What did it mean by that?” Lahalissa asked. She looked
apprehensive, and Robin did not blame her in the least.
“Darlings? You don’t really think that was Herne, do you?”
“I don’t know. I think so.”
“Hmmm,” Worm mused aloud.
“Shhh,” Robin urged.
There was a faint scrabbling sound, somewhere to the left
of him. Or was it actually to the right? He turned slowly,
seeing nothing, but trying to get a fix on the direction of the
noise. “There’s something… that way.”
“And that way,” Lahalissa was pointing in the opposite
direction.
“In front too,” added Worm.
And, Robin realized to his horror, behind them as well.
For when he looked back towards the door, he saw five or ten
spider-things, each the size of a large dog, and in each was
embedded the face of the spell-cursed Hunter.
“I don’t suppose it would do much good to tell them I’m not
an angel, at this point?” Worm commented. Robin felt an
irrational burst of anger at his strange companion for his
apparent lack of fear. Lahalissa was pressed up behind him,
and he was pretty sure that her fingernails had drawn flame
from his arms, which she was clutching tightly.
“If you’re not going to do anything, at least give me the
blasted sword!”
“I can’t imagine that it will suffice.” Worm shrugged, but
he handed it to Robin anyhow. “But have at it, if you like.”
Robin lunged at the nearest spider as it came closer; it
screamed in a horribly angelic voice as the sword pierced it
before curling up and expiring, its legs kicking madly. But its
demise did nothing to intimidate its fellows, indeed, if
anything they were more excited than before. They were
whispering between themselves, conversing in a bizarre
combination of spiderish chitters and semi-discernible speech.
He struck twice more, but the creatures now recognized the
danger of the blade and he was only able to sever a single leg
from one of the slower spiders. And they crept closer… even

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in the dim light he could see there were dozens of the
abominable things, surrounding them on all sides.
“Worm, you don’t happen to have any more tricks, do you?
This isn’t working!”
Lahalissa shrieked as one bold spider-child leaped at her,
and Robin spun around in time to see her smashing her fist
into the terrible mockery of Herne’s face. There was a
crunching sound as purple ichor burst from its nose, but
although the thing screamed, its claws did not release her and
it used its long legs to pull her into its hungry embrace.
Robin brought the sword around in a lethal arc that slashed
the monster in half, killing it instantly, but any hope that its
demise would intimidate its brethren was immediately
dashed. There was a brief moment of silence, and then, the
terrible brood attacked.
Robin was not quite sure what happened next. One
minute, he was being engulfed in a hairy, stinking mass of
arachnid abomination. Only seconds later, everything was
heat, light and flame. Somewhere above him, but nearby,
there was the unmistakable roar of fire, an explosive whoosh
followed by chittering screams and the crackle of things set
alight. He threw an elbow at the monster that was on top of
him, trying to pin him down to the floor, then ran it through
and leaped to his feet. It was a beautifully horrible sight.
Dozens of flaming spider-children were frantically dancing
about in fruitless attempts to escape immolation. They fell
away like midnight shadows running from an unexpected
sun, and in the midst of them was Worm, only not as he had
been before. As Robin stood there, gaping, he saw Worm open
his mouth and send forth a furious jet of hellfire that swept
over a pair of panicking spiders like an incendiary deluge.
But it was not Worm’s flamethrowing that stunned him, even
as he felt the burning heat on his face, but the dragon-heads
that now sprang from the sides of Worm’s neck, both of which
were actively seeking out targets and breathing fire on their
own.
“He’s no Nephilim,” Lahalissa breathed in his ear.
“You don’t think he’s actually….”
“Count the heads.”

THE WRATH OF ANGELS

39

Robin laughed, though it came out a little more
hysterically than he would have liked. He should have
known. Worm had been playing with him, earlier, arriving in
the form of the three-headed eagle. And then, of course, there
was the matter of the sword and its ability to break the Mad
One’s spell. A dragon’s tooth is a powerful thing, even more
so when the dragon is an ancient Lord of Chaos.
“Leviathan!” he shouted, brandishing the sword.
The three-headed Chaos lord turned, and Robin saw that
all six of his eyes were like rainbows. All six of them also
appeared to be faintly amused.
“I believe this belongs to you.” The fallen angel walked
over and returned the sword to its owner with a grin and a
genuflection. “You fooled us. We thought you were merely
twice-fallen.”
“Forgive me, Great Lord,” apologized Lahalissa, falling to
her knees. “I did not know you.”
Worm snorted. “Don’t trouble yourself, little demon girl. I
did not intend you should.” He looked up towards the ceiling,
where the light of the still-burning spider children could not
penetrate. “Shall we see if we cannot perhaps free that
erstwhile friend of yours?”
A pair of red leathery wings sprouted from his back, and
he winked at Robin as he launched himself into the air. “I’m
afraid you didn’t actually teach me the art of transformation,
but I did appreciate the effort,” he called down, even as both
dragon-heads scanned the darkness.
He banked suddenly to the right, as a gobbet of silk barely
failed to ensnare his left wing. It was hard to see exactly
what was going on in the darkness, at first, but three fiery
bursts abruptly revealed the shadowy shape of the great
spider, as it smashed into the smaller, semi-human form of
Worm. Herne’s human face was shrieking wildly as his
spidery legs wrapped around his foe and he buried his giant
mandibles savagely into Worm’s human neck. Lahalissa
gasped as a strangled cry issued forth from Worm himself,
and Robin wondered if he should run for the door.
Or, maybe you should take advantage of the distraction,
fool! In the light of the burning spider-children, he could see
something at the far end of the dark room that looked as if it

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THEODORE BEALE

might be a stairway. He was useless here, Leviathan couldn’t
possibly need his help, so why wait? But he found that even
with the end of his long journey before him, he could not take
his eyes off the struggling monsters.
For never before had he seen a Lord of Chaos battle with a
Great One. And for all that the cherub was ensorcelled and
insane, Herne appeared to be winning. The spider’s long,
hairy legs held Worm’s wings pinned to his body so he could
not escape, and two of them forced the twin dragon heads to
point away, where their bursts of flame could not hurt the
arachnid. And still the mandibles dug in ever deeper,
injecting a poisonous green ichor into the throat of the
struggling Worm.
“We have to do something!” cried Lahalissa.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know?”
Then a thought struck him. The spider hated fire, but
Worm was no longer the only source. All around them were
the corpses of the spider children, mostly reduced to glowing
embers, but still a ready source of flame nevertheless.
“Fire!” Robin shouted to his companion. “Throw it at that
thing!”
“What?”
He demonstrated, hurling a chunk of glowing spider
remnants at the massive creature. He missed, but he could
see that the height was not out of reach. Lahalissa joined
him, and though their first few throws were off-target, soon
they found the range and it was not long before the creature’s
noxious fur was ablaze in three places.
Attacked from an unsuspected quarter, the spider
panicked, and made the mistake of trying to beat the flames
out with its legs, and momentarily freed Worm’s twin dragon
heads. A moment was all he needed, and seconds later the
abomination shrieked under the direct onslaught of the twin
flamethrowers, one of which burned through the silken chord
that held the creature aloft. Together, the two entwined
combatants plunged to the floor like a giant meteor, exploding
in a blinding burst of white-hot flames when they struck. The
flames blazed higher, to twice Robin’s height, as they engulfed
the due and obscured the vicious battle.

THE WRATH OF ANGELS

41

Robin sat up on his elbows, shielding his face against the
blazing heat, and looked over at Lahalissa. She was sprawled
face-down where he had shoved her when he’d realized that
the two great beings were about to fall directly on their heads.
“Holy flaming Latrodectus!” he swore, wiping sweat from
his brow. “Are you all right?”
Lahalissa peered uncertainly over her shoulder, in a
manner that he probably would have considered extremely
seductive had that sort of thing not been completely
incongruous right now.
“I… think so.” She rolled over and sat up. “Yes, all the
bits and pieces appear to be in the proper places. Oh, dear, I
do hope Worm is not hurt.”
“I don’t know if that’s even possible.”
Indeed, as he spoke, something rose from the flames. It
was not shaped in the image of either of the battling beasts, it
was just a simple angelic form. It stumbled awkwardly
towards them, naked and hairless. Robin leaped to his feet,
expecting to see Worm. But it was not Worm, it was Herne,
not the Hunter, perhaps, but truly himself once more, freed of
the spider-curse.
Behind him, Worm stepped out of the blazing fire, but in
his human guise, and apparently unscathed. He smiled, and
the rainbow-coloured eyes smoldered with self-satisfaction.
“You freed him,” cried Lahalissa.
“I haven’t enjoyed myself so much since I devoured that
damnable Lord of the Sword,” Worm declared. “And yes, he is
free, though I believe quite a bit the worse for wear. Better
you take him with you – did you see the stairs over there?
Considering that there appear to be a mass of angels headed
this way in a hurry, I suggest you may wish to expedite
things. I shall be taking leave of you here.”
“Wait,” Robin clutched at his hand. “How can I thank… I
am indebted to you.”
Worm shook his head, and the light from the fire made his
ivory teeth appear to be golden as he smiled. “Think nothing
of it, little demon. As you said before, there is no debt
between us. Go, and free your master. I care little for the
petty wars of man and angel, but sometimes, even a Lord of

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Chaos may find pleasure in, how shall I say it... in exerting
himself for a change.”
“Farewell, Great Lord,” Lahalissa kissed him on the cheek.
“Assuredly. Oh, and Robin?”
“Yes?”
“Speaking of the Sword, you may find it most helpful in
seeking to destroy your enemies, mighty though they are.
Two things they cannot abide, the power of Heaven’s King,
and the power of my kin.”
The ground began to glow beneath Worm’s feet, and he
began to sink into the floor of the cavern, not passing through
the rock but simply melting his way through it.
“Let them follow this way, if they dare!” The Lord of Chaos
laughed and waved at them as he sank beneath the rocky
surface.
Robin waved back, then looked at Lahalissa. Her eyes
were grim with the realization that they did not have much
time.
“Go,” she told him. “Herne and I will try to delay them a
little, if need be. But hurry!”
He nodded and ran for the stairs, sincerely hoping that his
lord and master was in better shape than poor Herne whose
golden eyes were still lost in confusion, if not madness.

THE WRATH OF ANGELS

43

CHAPTER 5

TAKING EVERYTHING AWAY
ANOTHER NIGHTMARE ABOUT TO COME TRUE
WILL MANIFEST TOMORROW
ANOTHER LOVE THAT I'VE TAKEN FROM YOU
LOST IN TIME, ON THE EDGE OF SUFFERING
— Disturbed, (“Prayer”)

H

e screamed. Not for the first time. Nor, most likely, for
the last. Years passed. Decades, then centuries. It was
time enough to shatter the senses of a god. But he was not
mad so much as he was nothing; he was formless and void.
Was it ten days since he had been bound in chains of living
silver fire and sealed to these stones with the unholiest of
magicks, or ten millennia? Only one thing was constant, but
it could not help him mark the time.
Pain, in the moment, is always eternal.
His arms and legs were awkwardly splayed, stretched out
to their full length, and with his head they formed a living
pentagram pointing ominously at the molten core of the
shadow world. The silver fire snaked hungrily about his
wrists and ankles, always gnawing, always burning, but
never devouring.
More time passed, perhaps a minute, perhaps a decade.
Then he noticed something strange. There was an absence,
something was missing. His ever-present companion was
gone. What was it? Somewhere within the deep red haze in
which his awareness furtively swam, a thought gradually
began to take form.
Then he realized the truth. He could feel nothing. His
pain was gone, and the numbness was like paradise, a faint
touch of ice on the lips of one engulfed in the auto de fe. For a
blissful moment, he almost relaxed, but the knowledge that

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his old friend, his only friend, was out there somewhere,
waiting, filled him with such panic that the crimson sea
swelled over him again, and he faded away….
“I say, do you think you’ve had enough, then?”
The bound one blinked as his shroud of darkness was
abruptly violated by a lurid flare of emerald light. A shape
stood before him, no, it was a being, standing upside down on
the ceiling. Or was it the floor? He could feel the tattered
remnants of his mind attempting to find order in the
madness, as a panoply of bewildering shapes and sounds
assaulted his time-deadened senses. He felt confusion and
weariness, and suddenly, unexpectedly, a searing sense of
fury.
And with the rage came a semblance of memory. Not
everything returned to him, very little, in fact, for his mind
was badly abused. But he came alive to the knowledge of
what he had once been, and he realized that he would do
anything, anything at all, if he could only somehow purchase
his release from this unending ordeal.
“Please,” he begged. It was so difficult to form words.
“Release.”
“You are in a bad way, aren’t you. O my lord king, how are
the mighty fallen!”
The words were strange to his ears, but even in his barelylucid state, he could hear the grief in the other’s voice. The
visitor, no, rescuer, gestured and the hissing chains were
blessedly stilled. Their magic disappeared and they became
nothing more than dead metal, mere ornamentation for his
neck, wrists and ankles. Somehow, he found the wherewithal
to strain against them, but they did not move.
“You’re even worse off than I thought. Have you no
strength left to you at all?”
“I exist,” he whispered. “I persist.”
His rescuer smiled enigmatically as he drew a fingernail
down his wrist. Green flames flickered enticingly from the
shallow wound.
“Pray, take no insult in this,” the visitor told him, before
pressing the wounded wrist to his lips. He felt the sweet taste
of raw power, and then the fire was flooding through him,

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45

setting everything from the crown of his head to the tips of his
fingers ablaze with vigor. He absorbed the power, embraced
it and let it engulf him, as he sought more, ever more.
“Stop, that’s enough! Enough, desist!”
A hand struck his face, and the shock of the blow woke him
fully. He released the other, more abruptly than expected,
and almost laughed with joy as he saw his rescuer stumble
backwards and nearly fall. He was still not entirely sure who
he was, or what, but the important thing was that the pain
was gone, completely! He felt like a new creation born from
flux and chaos as the borrowed angelfire coursed through him
and its supernatural essence restored him to life.
With the slightest of twitches, he rid himself of his
restraints and the dead silver flew across the cavern where it
was buried deep within the walls. For a moment, he hung
suspended without support, upside down, in the air. Slowly,
deliberately, he rotated his body until he was fully upright;
only then did he bring his legs together and allow his feet to
touch the ground. Standing erect for the first time in ten
centuries, he folded his arms across his chest, and regarded
his rescuer in silence. Recognition dawned first, and then
anger. He waited, but when his visitor remained mute, he
spoke in a voice cold with age-old anger.
“Revenge delayed is nevertheless sweet.
Had I drained thee it would be meet.
How darest thou come to me, hobgoblin?
Thinkest thou the years my rage would soften,
And void the memory of treachery
Which never the like this world did see?”
“You don’t understand,” replied the other, who continued
to regard him warily but seemed otherwise unfazed by the
bitterness of his accusation.
“I took no part in your great fall,
And treachery was by you fanned
When jealousy cast fatal pall
Upon the Queen, and you cast out
That staunch support of love’s redoubt.

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And furthermore, o king archaic,
We speak now in modes prosaic… in other words, shut up
and listen to me for once, you stubborn old fool.”
But the Faery King’s fury was too great by far to listen to
the admonishments of another, even a rescuer who protested
his innocence.
“Cur! Surely thou shalt see oblivion
Before forgiveness from King Oberon!
Betrayed, forsaken and dethroned uncrowned
The Faery King of Albion renowned.
Speak in thy defense, but know
Thou art of mine no good fellow.
False friend! The villain’s hand unseen–”
“Not me, old fool, it was thy Queen!”
Oberon staggered backwards as if his rescuer, and possibly
betrayer, had struck him a blow. His back smashed into the
rough stones to which he’d so recently been chained, but that
momentary pain was as nothing compared to the cruelty of
the words which now flayed his heart. In centuries of
pondering upon his fate, never once had the thought that his
betrayer could have been his true love even entered his mind.
His eyes saw nothing, he heard nothing, there was only red,
red rage.
Robin saw Oberon fall to his knees, in apparent grief and
pain, and repented his harsh words.
“Sorrow is mine, I dare say
Nor would I ever you betray.
None knew my nature more than you
As I am wicked, I speak true
Naught am I, naught shall I be
Except that ever I served thee.”
But too late, he realized that the king was not griefstricken, but enraged, and his protestations were useless in
the face of the Faery King’s suddenly murderous fury.

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47

Oberon rose to his feet with an expression harder than iron,
as angry red flames flickered from his rage-filled eyes. He
stepped forward and grabbed the traitor’s throat, lifting him
effortlessly into the air. Choked gasps for mercy were met
only with a tightened grasp and disdainful words.
“Well-served am I, by mendacious fae
Accursed of Man and the Throne of Dei.
I reject and rebuke thy lying word
Such claims were better had I never heard
Thee speak. Nay, rather the fiery embrace
Of my chains than to know that her sweet face
Is but masquerade, serpentine façade,
A traitorous beauty and a deceitful fraud!”
Oberon waved his free hand, and the dead silver began to
glow ominously from where it was embedded in the far wall.
The stones around it began to liquefy and melt, giving off a
hot, golden light that was deceptively beautiful in the
unearthly emerald light. As the molten rock ran down the
cavern wall, Oberon summoned his erstwhile chains from the
stone with the force of his will and caused them to circle in
the face of his frightened rescuer. They swam through the air
like silver sea snakes, graceful and deadly, awaiting only a
command to pierce, penetrate and imprison.
It was at that moment that Robin realized he had forgotten
Gloriana’s vial. It had been a mistake to restore Oberon to
even a modicum of his great power without the corresponding
knowledge of the centuries that had passed. With a savage
effort, he twisted himself free of Oberon and dropped to one
knee before his angered liege. Quickly, he produced it and
held it up to the king even as he bowed his head.
“O king, if you will not heed me,
Heed Gloriana Queen, for she
Has prepared for thee this potion magic
To explain the centuries tragic.
For in the time since you were gone
Eight hundred years have seen the dawn
And passed away again as fast.

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Drink this, O king, to know the past.
Oberon was at first inclined to refuse the proffered vial,
suspecting a trap, but the desire to know sparked an
undeniable hunger deep within him and overwhelmed his
anger. Eight hundred years! It was impossible! So much
could happen over so great a span of time. Then, too, how
could he be sure of the truth of his betrayal without the
knowledge offered to him by Gloriana. Doubt assailed him. It
was a queenly gift, to be sure, but did it come at a price? As
little as he remembered, he could not help but remember her.
Surely no one could forget her! A hawk among the pigeons,
she had been. Did he dare drink? And yet, how could he
refuse? For pride's sake, he resisted a moment longer, and
then, with mounting desire, he took the vial from his onetime
servant’s hand.
But it was more than faint recollections that came rushing
back to him. Or into him, rather, for he found himself reeling
before things he had never seen, places he had never been
and beings he had never known. The speed of everything was
shocking, the scale unearthly, and the very language in which
he found himself trying to interpret this alien world was
barely recognizable. It was harsh, unlovely, stripped down to
what, to him, seemed to be a crudely sibilant parody of itself,
and yet there was a certain elegance to its simplicity.
And then, the memories struck him. They struck him as
Caesar was struck, like stabbing knives bent on cruel
slaughter.

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49

CHAPTER 6

BEAUTY’S BETRAYAL
FAIRE YMPES OF BEAUTIE, WHOSE BRIGHT SHINING BEAMES
ADORNE THE WORLD WITH LIKE TO HEAUENLY LIGHT,
AND TO YOUR WILLES BOTH ROYALTIES AND REALMES
SUBDEW, THROUGH CONQUEST OF YOUR WONDROUS MIGHT
— Edmund Spenser, The Faerie Queene

I

t was a fine day, for Albion had been blessed by an early
spring. The air was warm and the dawn winds were sweet
with the promise of budding life. The change was most
welcome to Oberon, for the winter had been rife with rumors
of shifting allegiances within the Principalities and veritably
plagued with emissaries from one dark Power or another
seeking to draw him into what was, to him, nothing more
than an unending web of profitless intrigue.
It was
extraordinary, this unaccountable fascination with the
mundane world of Man, but it was not for Oberon. The King
of Faerie occupied himself with other concerns, which, if less
dramatic, were altogether more satisfying.
Particularly on a day like this, surrounded on every side by
the promise of newly-woken beauty, it was unthinkable to
trouble one's mind with such distasteful, unpleasant matters.
"Hail, Oberon," one of his Knights of the Rose saluted him,
accompanied, the king was pleased to see, by a quintet of
fetching nymphets. Oberon was holding his court in a happy,
sun-kissed glade surrounded on three sides by a young forest
composed primarily of ash and birch trees. The clearing was
open to the east and presented a majestic view of the
Cotswolds, their rounded peaks still dusted with the melting
remnants of the season's last snow.
Oberon was not loathe to see it go. While the Winter Court
held pleasures of its own, it was truly a relief to escape the

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gloomy stronghold of Mount Badon and once more resume awandering throughout his island realm. Spring was always
his favorite time of year, as old friends woke and came to pay
him friendly homage and he met his newest subjects as they
came to receive their names from their lawful lord and king.
Today his throne was a wondrous construction of
brilliantly blooming flowers, and he idly plucked a white lily
from the armrest as the Rose Knight, his noble face
incongruously hidden behind a horned helm, presented the
five wide-eyed nymphets. Dryads, they were, and still more
than a little confused as to the state in which they'd
discovered themselves, if he judged them correctly. One in
particular, a slim dark-haired lady of a young ash tree, was
shivering as if the warm April wind was blowing from the
north. He smiled to himself, knowing that it was not Boreas
who made her quiver so, but Oberon. Perhaps she retained
some semblance of her memories or perhaps she was an
unusually timid spirit, either way she did not yet realize that
she had left her days of turmoil and strife behind her and had
entered into a magical realm of gladness and good cheer.
"To me, my loves," the Faery King cried, smiling, and four
of the five were quick to obey. They came to him joyfully,
laughing and giggling as they covered him with kisses and
embraced him with white limbs lithe and supple.
"I name you, Dainia," he told the first, a pale blonde
birchgirl who clapped her little hands with delight. "You, my
dear, are Vellissima, and you are Kallissima, and you, heart
of my heart, shall henceforth be known to all as Miridriel."
The four nymphets, each visibly pleased with her name,
ensconced themselves comfortably about him as he regarded
the reluctant dryad. Miridriel sat at his feet with her head
upon his knee as the beech twins, Vellissima and Kallissima,
shared his lap and Dainia stood behind the throne, artfully
massaging his royal shoulders. They were good names, and
apt, he considered, for beauty demands nothing less than its
like, in appellations as in amor.
"Don't be afraid, little darling," he tried to coax the shy one
to him. But she was rooted in place, and did not dare so much
as to lift her downcast eyes to meet his own. "Come, my dear,
there is nothing to fear. Put all thought of Heaven and Earth

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51

behind you, you are in Faerie now, and it is a place of love and
joy, sweetling. Come, and be named!"
She did not respond, except to stubbornly shake her head
and, perhaps, to blush a little. Oberon threw back his head
and roared with laughter, and the assembled court joined in.
Never before had a newborn nymph refused him, much less
refused to receive her name. It was remarkable!
He was amused, but wondered if perhaps he did wrong to
overlook her artless breach of protocol, which, after all, might
be seen by some as an insult to his crown. And yet, there did
not seem to be a spark of defiance in her; she simply stood
there mute and unassuming, her eyes locked upon the
greening earth as if she expected to watch it grow before her.
But as he pondered her fate, a horn blew, echoing across
the waking hills, and the whole Court began to stir with
excitement. The sounding heralded nothing less than the
approach of his queen, and all thoughts of the reluctant dryad
vanished from Oberon's mind as he anticipated the prospect
of feasting his eyes once more on beauty which he had not
seen for two long fortnights. Like the red-breasted robin, the
Queen of Faerie was ever eager for the first flowers of spring
and this year she had taken advantage of winter's early
demise to leave their grim redoubt and breathe new life into
the young buds sprouting across the length and breadth of
Albion.
He rose from his throne and the twin dryads tumbled from
his lap onto the still-moist earth with shrieks of startled
laughter. Miridriel, a little quicker of thought, had divined
his intentions and already stood at his side, from which he
banished her with a smile and a pat on her lovely naked
bottom.
"The Queen approaches our presence," he announced
grandly, as if every sprite, fairy and fae there did not already
know. "We welcome her with joy, and we declare her path
shall be strewn with rose petals, nay, with living roses!"
Oberon gestured at the earth and caused a carpet of bloodred roses to rise from the ground, creating a soft, flowery path
which led from the hillside entrance to the glade all the way
to the throne.

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"Let there be music fit for a queen," he commanded, and
immediately a Knight of the Grey Heather produced a harp
from about his person and began to sing in a voice that was as
haunting as it was melodious. It was, however, not at all the
effect the king was seeking.
"Sir Gaeris,” he called out to the singer, “your ready
willingness to serve your queen does you credit, but if you
love me, do be silent! It is spring and this is your queen, not a
love-starved innocent to be beguiled by a handsome knight
with a mournful voice and a plaintive gaze.
Fauns,
spritelings, your pipes, if you please."
He sat back on his throne, satisfied by the distinctly more
cheerful sounds of a fluted fanfare being expertly blown by a
quartet of woodland creatures, and waited expectantly. Nor
was he disappointed when, only a few moments later, a
familiar figure crested the rise and caught her breath upon
catching sight of the blossoming walkway. It was Titania,
and she was more ravishing than ever, clasping her hands to
her heart as she declaimed humbly:
"Too much honor, from thee to me.
For what more may I hope to see
Than him whose worship is my whole,
Lord of my heart, my King, my soul?
The pipers had fallen silent as the court, breathless,
waited for his response. Oberon smiled enigmatically and
forced them to wait as he took in the vision that was his
queen. Today she was more youthful than was normally her
wont, and her long tresses were not pure scarlet, but shot
through with sparkling copper that reflected the sun's
radiance with a primaveric impertinence. She was wearing a
simple white gown, nearly transparent in the sunlight, and
its plunging neckline revealed a leafy silver pattern which ran
up from between her breasts like a liquid metal river that
divided into two just beneath her throat, then traced her
collarbones, jaw and cheekbones until it came to fruition in an
intricate pair of sigils that highlighted her green eyes.
As always, she robbed him of a portion of his glory. And
yet, was her triumph not also his?

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53

She smiled at him, but it was more than just affection, it
was a daring expression of loving challenge. They were more
than mere lord and lady, they were the King and Queen of
Faerie, and so their coming together was as much ritual as
reunion, with equal import given to display as to decorum.
There was a brief stirring amidst his knights and Oberon
frowned, displeased that there should be any interference
with what was, after all, nearly a sacred moment. He cleared
his throat and bowed to his lady, then raised his hands and
caused a gentle breeze to ripple through her curls, framing
her face in a glorious blaze of coppery fire.
"What honor there might be, is mine
O Lady, small be the glory
Humbled before the likes of thee,
Perfection, in sun’s fire refined.
Wherefore would be, without thee, spring?
Like my heart, frozen in winter
I pray, once more, do disinter
This thy heart's slave, O love, thy king!"
Oberon's voice rang out over the hills as he reached his
triumphant climax and his court broke into gladsome cheers
at his flattering eloquence, which he capped off with a deep
and graceful bow. As he righted himself, he lifted his gaze to
meet his queen's, expecting blushing admiration, or at the
very least some modicum of pleasure. He was surprised to
see there were tears brimming in her emerald eyes.
He took a step towards her, but as she turned her face
away from him he heard the unmistakable sound of swords
clearing leather, followed by the deadly crackle of angelfire.
More astounded than alarmed, he whirled around to see the
shocking sight of one of a Rose Knight striking down a pair of
his sworn brethren, who were unarmed and defenseless
against this treacherous attack.
For a moment, Oberon could do nothing more than stand
and stare, even as his court dissolved into a panicked mass of
frightened, screaming spirits. He could not tell if there was
but one false knight or a dozen, so great was the sudden
chaos. In the blink of an eye, two strange fae stood before

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him, they were clad in the livery of the Lily, but their faces
were unknown to him. One brave nymph hurled herself at
the taller of the two knights, but the false knight struck her
down with the back of his fist and continued to advance on
Oberon.
"How dare you," hissed the Faery King, fair bidding to
burst in his apoplectic outrage. "You bring your forsaken war
into my Court? Would you have war, damned ones? Then
you shall have it, but here you will find naught but death,
destruction and the Pit!"
As one, both knights sprang towards him, thrusting their
deadly demonic blades towards his chest, but he parried them
untouched, with nothing more than a broad, sweeping gesture
of his arm. The raw force of his angry will sent both weapons
flying wildly through the air like a pair of flaming brands,
and the disarmed knights cried out as the force that had
wrenched their weapons from them sent them reeling. But
they did not fall, for Oberon was quick to grab them both,
each by his throat, and he roared like an enraged beast as he
lifted them high into the air.
Their legs kicked wildly, but to no avail, and though their
fingers clutched at his hands they would have found it easier
to scrabble at stone. As Oberon slowly tightened his lethal
grasp, he looked about and was pleased to see that only two of
the false knights were still standing, and both were hardpressed, surrounded by the flashing swords of his loyal fae.
Titania, he was relieved to see, was safe, as seven or eight of
her fierce Flower Guard were circled protectively around her.
As the situation was under control, Oberon dared to loose
his grasp on one attacker and drew him closer, even as he
crushed the spirit out of the other. He felt a rush of heat as
the dead fae went up in a rush of evil-smelling green flame,
and cast the flaming wreckage from him with a mixed sense
of fury and disgust.
"Who sent you," he demanded. "I know you not. What
grudge do you bear Albion, or her King?"
"No grudge," gasped the other, still prying fruitlessly at
Oberon's fingers. "Sent... sent by... I can't... no... can't...."
The false fae screamed unexpectedly, and Oberon started
as the other's eyes, only inches from his own, suddenly

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55

disappeared, engulfed by flames burning out of the sockets.
He could feel the hellfire heating up inside the other’s body,
warming his hand even as it incinerated the insides of his
captive. With a horrified shout, he hurled the imposter from
him just as green flames burst through the angel’s skin.
Nymph and knights alike scattered as the burning demon
landed in their midst and was devoured by the unnatural fire.
"I told her that would never work," he heard someone say,
just as an icy, cold sensation flared in his back, as if he'd been
stabbed by an icicle. He clutched at his back, but his arms
felt strangely heavy, and when he tried to turn around to
seize his attacker, he found himself losing his balance and he
fell heavily on his side. He strained mightily to turn his head,
and just managed to do so before the spreading paralysis
froze him motionless on the ground.
"On the other hand, it wasn't a bad little diversion, either."
The nameless nymphet who had defied him earlier now stood
over him with a satisfied smirk on her face. She was demure
no more, instead she was savagely shameless as she
brandished a glowing blue dagger in her hand, which pulsed
in a strangely lifelike manner. "Stand back, all of you, for in
my hand I hold nothing less than the spirit of your king. A
single word from me, and his flame shall be quenched, now
and for evermore!"
Oberon could not see anything but the false nymph - for
whatever she was, she was no newborn spirit of the woods but he could hear his brave fae whispering amongst
themselves, wondering if the assassin could be speaking the
truth and if they dared call her bluff. But before they had
come to a decision, it was made for them. Titania's voice was
calm, but firm, as she ordered Albion's knights to stand down,
lest their king be destroyed.
The sorcerous cold was beginning to lace its frigid fingers
through his mind now, and the vibrant spring colours were
fading into invernal shades of grey when Titania kneeled
down at his side. What haunted him most, though, as he slid
into unconsciousness, was not the two perfect tears which
hung suspended from her long, crimson lashes nor the pale
anguish which filled her bloodless face. What chilled him

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down to the very marrow of his soul was the sight of her lips
forming a single, terrible word.
"Sorry," she whispered. "O my love, I am so very sorry."
Then the cruel night claimed him and he knew no more.

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57

CHAPTER 7

LORD OF THE FOREST
I KNOW A BANK WHERE THE WILD THYME BLOWS,
WHERE OXLIPS AND THE NODDING VIOLET GROWS,
QUITE OVER-CANOPIED WITH LUSCIOUS WOODBINE,
WITH SWEET MUSK-ROSES AND WITH EGLANTINE:
— William Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night's Dream

R

obin watched dispassionately as Gloriana’s potion
worked its magic, dissipating the demonic fury that
earlier possessed the Faery King and replacing it with sorrow.
Without warning, Oberon cried out and fell to his knees
weeping, his face buried in his hands. Robin was distressed
himself, not so much because he had caused such pain to his
king, but because he could hear the clattering of someone
rushing down the deep winding stairwell that led to Oberon’s
prison.
He was loathe to lay hands on the king, but events left him
little choice. Apologizing mentally, he grabbed Oberon’s arms
and pulled him to his feet.
“My king, I fear we must leave, at once! Your enemies
come, and we must fly!
The Faery King looked at him unsteadily, his eyes red and
confused, and sank back to his knees. “Titania… my love, my
queen.”
Bloody Hell! The footsteps were coming closer but it was
only one angel, and, by the sound of it, a feminine one at that.
That better be Lahalissa, or we’re finished. A moment later,
he was relieved to see that it was indeed the lovely demoness,
albeit smoke-stained and more than a little battered.
“You have him! Is he…”
“No, his mind isn’t broken. But he despairs at Titania's
betrayal.”

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“We must fly! Herne won’t be able to hold them off
forever.”
“Herne? He fights?”
“The Mad One sent a cohort of Kesh’Adai who weren’t
exactly prepared to run into a half-mad Great One. He fights
like a demon!” Lahalissa laughed, sounding less than entirely
sane herself. “Oh, he was a marvel of devastation! Half of
them are no more, and the other half ran. But there will be
reinforcements coming. They won't be long.”
“Then we'd better be going.”
“How will we get the king to move?”
“He will. He must.”
Lahalissa's jaw dropped as Robin struck the silently
weeping Oberon, slapping his face with an audible crack.
“You dare!” the Faery King’s eyes flashed death, but Robin
was not about to apologize for his unexpected lese majeste.
“Your majesty, those who bound you are upon us. The
Hunter holds them off, but his strength is failing. We must
leave, now, and seek safe haven. By the way, this is
Lahalissa, Gloriana's lady-in-waiting.”
“Yes, yes, of course, we must.” Oberon extended a hand to
Lahalissa, and with her help the Faery King rose to his feet.
“We thank you, fair spirit. And in light of your service, Puck,
we forgive your crime. You are a spirit loyal, and true.
Lahalissa, your mistress has given us much, including a
suggestion that we join her immediately. Can you take us to
her?”
“She could, but majesty, may I suggest another
destination?” Puck broke in. “I don’t believe the Queen would
betray you, but the Mad One’s Eyes will be everywhere and
with the escape of a royal of Albion, surely one or two will
alight upon the others.”
Lahalissa looked like she wanted to argue, but did not
dare. Oberon’s bearded face was still with thought for a
moment, and then, to Robin’s relief, he acceded to caution’s
counsel.
“I am not sure I know you, old friend. The Puck of my
remembrance was never one to follow wisdom’s course.”
“Nothing's changed, O king. One could argue this rescue
was the epitome of foolishness, and its seeming success

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59

nothing more than fool’s luck. Which appears to be running
swiftly out.”
For even as he spoke, there was the sound of an onrushing
wind, a ferocious howling and then ominous silence. Robin
could feel the weight of great power dangerously near.
Albion’s enemies had arrived – it was past time for her king
to flee. He placed a hand on each of his companion’s
shoulders and squeezed lightly.
“I hope you don’t mind squirrels,” he told them. And with
a flash of green light, they disappeared.
Thirty miles south of London, there is a garden park
located on the edge of the Sussex Weald. It is a quiet place,
and beautiful, graced by a chain of five lakes linked by
waterfalls. Only a few paces outside the park’s boundaries,
three trees stood next to each other in a single row, two
chestnuts and a mighty oak, with branches interlocking and
knobby roots digging deep into the rich, loamy dirt of the
quiet forest. Such a sight would not normally occasion any
cause for comment, except for the fact that ten seconds ago,
the area on which they stood had been largely devoid of
vegetation, with the exception of a solitary ceanothus, the
continued thriving of which looked less than promising in
light of how its access to the sun had been unexpectedly
curtailed.
Two squirrels, which had been happily occupied with
chasing each others tails until the sunlight suddenly
vanished, pulled up from their sport in some confusion. They
were quite familiar with the location of every nut-bearing tree
in the immediate vicinity, and even to their diminutive rodent
minds it seemed implausible to the point of impossibility that
they could have somehow overlooked the massive acornproducing factory that now towered over their furry grey
heads.
The smaller of the two squeaked quizzically at his
companion, who sat back on his haunches with an expression
of overt skepticism that would have been comprehensible
even to an observer who did not happen to be a member of the
greater sciurus family. The small squirrel was not to be
dissuaded, though, not with the promise of what appeared to

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be the finest unmarked claim that southeastern English
squirreldom had seen in five generations.
His nose quivered, then he cautiously took a step towards
the giant oak. Then another, and a third, followed by a little
leap that brought him within a single bound of the great tree.
An ill-timed gust of wind caused its branches to rustle
threateningly, and the second squirrel chirped a warning
which encouraged his more adventurous friend to think twice
about venturing the giant on the first go. Instead, he
scrambled up the leftmost tree, the taller of the two
chestnuts, and edged out on a limb that would bring him to
within inches of one of the mighty oak’s lower branches.
He never made it, though. Without warning, without even
the smallest breath of wind, the limb on which he was
crouching twitched violently and sent him tumbling headover-tail to the ground eight feet below. No sooner had the
surprised rodent touched the ground than he was scampering
off for the protection of more familiar trees, more proper trees,
trees which held still as trees were supposed to hold still, and
suffered the pitter-patter of little feet with forbearance. Only
slightly behind him was his friend, who was squawking angry
imprecations over his shoulder as he retreated hastily.
“Oh, that’s not nice,” commented the tree, now sans
squirrels.
“I don’t think you’re supposed to do that,” muttered the
other chestnut.
“I couldn’t help it, those tiny claws, they tickle!”
“You have to relax, be the tree.”
“I don’t believe everyone is quite as accustomed to the need
to hide from pursuit as you, Puck,” commented the oak in a
deep oakish bass. “So, what do we do now?”
“We wait. Beowaesc will be here soon, I’m sure. I told him
I might be needing to lie low for a while, and this is a good
place to do it. No one ever comes here except the woodland
spirits and tempters stuck watching over the occasional ecofreak. He’ll probably have noticed our arrival, and if not,
those disgusting little squeakers will probably run right to
him anyhow.”
“They’re not disgusting,” protested the first chestnut.
“Their feet just tickle, that’s all.”

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61

“Rats with tails,” insisted the other chestnut, shaking its
branches. “Don’t be fooled by the cute fluffy act, it’s nothing
but a charade. If you’d ever been a tree before –”
“Silence!” The oak commanded an end to the discussion.
“One comes.”
An outline of a face appeared on the bark of the chestnut
tree. The face resembled Robin’s, in the same way that a face
pressed up against a bedsheet resembles the face of the
person behind the bedsheet. It was not entirely recognizable,
but as Robin had said, Beowaesc was expecting him. And
then, Beowaesc was more than a little accustomed to
differentiating between one tree and another.
“Ah, so there you are. You don’t know much about trees,
do you, Puck.”
“Er… a good day to you, my lord. Why do you say that?”
Beowaesc was a tall forest god, with richly hued skin that
shone like varnished beech.
His well-kept beard was
mahogany and of middling length, and his eyes, filled with
the ancient wisdom of the woods, were set deep into his
craggy face. He carried a neatly polished staff, and his bare
feet were so hard and horny that Robin pitied any poor boots
forced to protect the earth from them should he ever choose to
wear a pair. Antlers sprang from his forehead, not a great
stag’s rack like the Hunters, but a humbler pair of three-tined
horns. Like his forest, Beowaesc had a touch of civilization
about him, and yet there was a sense of earthy power
radiating from him even so.
The forest lord pointed to the blue-flowered tree shrouded
by their branches. “It’s quite simple. No ceanothus could ever
grow to such heights enshrouded by the likes of you three.
Anyone who knows the first thing about vegetation would
know something was amiss. Why, even a mortal would have
noted it!”
A look of chagrin crossed the bark face. Robin’s lips
twisted in an expression of frustration, and in the blink of an
eye, the chestnut disappeared and he was himself again,
albeit clad in an appropriately woodsy brown robe.
“You make it sound so obvious!”
“It is, if you know what to look for.”

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“Very well, what would you advise, then, should we seek to
avoid drawing unwanted attention.”
Beowaesc stroked his beard and smiled at Robin, as if he
were a favored nephew. “Why don’t you introduce your
companions to me first. Then, I shall advise you as to a
suitable locale. There is a pleasant glen with a lovely view of
the main waterfall not far from here. It’s only about a five
minute walk. I’ve spent many a pleasant season there.”
Robin tried not to roll his eyes. A season? And more than
once? This was not his first time as a tree, nor even his
twentieth, but it was a guise he wore only out of necessity. It
was mind-crushingly boring, for one thing, and for another,
Lahalissa was right. Squirrel feet tickled something terrible.
“How very kind,” he answered, leaving his thoughts unvoiced.
“This is Lahalissa, in service to… a Shadow Lady of some note
known as Dr. Sprite.”
“Indeed,” Beowaesc nodded politely as the second chestnut
transformed before him. As Robin hoped, the forest lord had
no knowledge of the world of mortal academics and would ask
no dangerous questions. Beowaesc smiled in appreciation,
though, as the lovely demoness curtsied to him wearing a
leafy woodland outfit that honored his position as well as her
figure. “The aspect suits you well, my dear. Be welcome in
my weald, Lahalissa.”
“Thank you, Great Lord,” she breathed submissively.
“And this – ”
“Oh, no. No, no, no.” Beowaesc’s eyes widened and he
backed away from the place where the giant oak had stood
only a moment before. “That’s not possible. It can’t be!”
“So you recognize your rightful liege, old friend?” said
Oberon, and his voice was like frost running down the edge of
a sword blade. “Or perhaps you have forgotten oaths sworn
long ago, sworn by Rose and Thorn.”
“I… I forget nothing.”
His eyes flicked desperately
between Robin and the angry Faery King. “But you cannot
think to stay here! Not here, no! It is not safe!”
“For you, or for your king?” Robin asked sarcastically. He
had not told the forest lord exactly who would be requiring
refuge, but he had never considered for a moment that

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63

Beowaesc would refuse his lawful king. Was he not once a
knight of Albion?
“For none of us.” Beowaesc recovered from his momentary
surprise and drew himself up to his full height, for he was,
after all, a spirit of some substance and standing in his own
demesne. “Oberon, I am pleased beyond words to see you
have escaped, but you are a king without a crown, without
even a kingdom. Albion is no more.”
“I see,” hissed Oberon. “And did you fight for her? Or did
you see the turn of season, and then quickly turn your coat?”
“You wrong me. You do not know how it was. One day,
Albion was there, strong and proud, unassailable, like her
king. And the next, both were gone, swept away like Atlantis
before the waves.”
“Waves of treason, mayhap –”
“Stop!” Lahalissa stepped between the angry Fae, both of
whom towered over her like the oak over the chestnuts. “Lord
Beowaesc, this is not your battle, not yet. We will not stay if
you will only hold your silence, may we not ask that much of
you?”
She stilled Robin’s incipient protest with an upraised
palm, as Beowaesc briefly met Oberon’s eyes, then looked
away. “None shall know,” he said. “I would serve Albion, but
truly, it is not safe here. The mansion – it is over there,
beyond those gardens – is host to two cohorts of Divine. We
have a truce, of sorts, but I do not think your presence would
escape the notice of their captain. He often walks these
woods, and he is not only strong, he is clever as well. He
would know you, Majesty, and he would have no reason to
hold his tongue.”
“But –” Robin almost betrayed himself; at the last moment
he recalled himself. No, it was impossible. It was too soon,
far too soon. First the king, then the sword, and then, with
luck, the throne. For now, he was on his own.
“What’s that?”
“Nothing, a foolish thought, that’s all.” He raised his chin
to indicate his displeasure with their reluctant host. “Will
you give us time to find another refuge? He is your rightful
king! You owe him that much loyalty, at least.”
“How long do you require.”

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“Twenty-four hours.”
“That, you shall have.” Beowaesc raised a long, gnarled
finger in warning, but was nevertheless careful to avoid
meeting Oberon’s eyes. “But no more. Now, return to your
trees, and I shall mount a guard of dryads to watch over you.
They are young, they will not know you, but I beg you, do not
show your faces to them all the same. I am careful with those
I take in my service, but it is not entirely uncommon to see an
animal that watches with more than its own eyes. Be wary.”
“Squirrels, I’ll bet,” murmured Robin to Lahalissa. She did
not respond, except to elbow him viciously in the ribs.
Beowaesc seemed to be of like mind, for as the lord of the
forest bowed to his erstwhile king and nodded to Lahalissa as
he took his leave, he did not so much as look at Robin.
And then, once more, there were three trees standing next
to each other in a single row, two chestnuts and a mighty oak,
with branches interlocking and knobby roots digging deep
into the rich, loamy dirt of the quiet English forest.

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65

CHAPTER 8

STALKING THE BEAST
SETTING UP CATEGORIES AND POLICING THEM IS THEREFORE A
SERIOUS BUSINESS.
A PHILOSOPHER WHO ATTEMPTED TO
REDRAW THE BOUNDARIES OF THE WORLD OF KNOWLEDGE
WOULD BE TAMPERING WITH THE TABOO. EVEN IF HE STEERED
CLEAR OF SACRED SUBJECTS, HE COULD NOT AVOID DANGER; FOR
KNOWLEDGE IS INHERENTLY AMBIGUOUS.
— Robert Darnton, The Great Cat Massacre

R

obin caught Lahalissa as she abruptly reappeared in
front of him and staggered backwards into his arms. Her
hands were clapped to her face, and green flames licked out
from between her fingers for a moment, until she was able to
reassert herself and staunch the bleeding.
“What happened?” asked Robin, incredulous. They were
standing together in a small clearing about two miles from
Oxford, and only a moment before, Lahalissa had disappeared
with the intention of visiting Gloriana. Though he’d imagined
she’d be back quickly to bring him to her lady, he certainly
did not expect her return to be immediate.
“I don’t know! It was like I hit something, like smashing
into an invisible wall, face-first!”
“Ah,” Robin nodded. “I see.”
“See what?”
“A spirit ward. But they don’t last long, and they’re
seldom very large. How close did you go to Gloriana’s rooms?”
“The corridor, just outside. Where I brought you last time.
They don’t last long?”
“No, they’re massively draining. Hmmm. An archon
might be able to set a small one, but based on the size of it –
assuming they covered all of her quarters, I’d imagine it must
have been set by a Power at the very least, more likely a
Domination.

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The two fallen angels looked at each other. Lahalissa
shook her head.
“That bodes ill. Do you suppose they dared take her?”
“I can’t say. It could be they’re using the ward to keep her
inside….”
“Wouldn’t a troop of guards be easier?”
“You’d think so.” Robin shrugged. “Then again, we may be
dealing with the Mad One, after all. I can’t imagine it would
make much sense to try to figure out his logic. And then, we
don’t even know if he’s connected the king’s escape with her.
If we’re lucky, he’s still clueless and we’re only dealing with a
gung-ho archdemon who’s taking every precaution.”
“Lovely, that’s all we need now, an enemy who thinks. I
can’t fight an archdemon. Can you?”
Robin took a deep breath and puffed out his chest. “No,”
he admitted reluctantly. “But brains are better than brawn.”
He tapped his head and did his best to look clever. “Come on,
unless they’re a lot more frightened than I think they are,
there should be an easy way through this.”
“Really?” Lahalissa looked impressed. “What do we do?”
“We walk. Just switch into the material and stroll right
through it.” He grinned at her. “If an eagle’s on the lookout
for another eagle, then best thing to do is act like a snail.
Why do you think they never found me? No one pays much
attention to mortals unless they have to.”
But Lahalissa didn’t return the smile. “I don’t know,
Robin. Perhaps it worked for you, but it doesn’t look as if
playing the mortal worked for my lady.”
It certainly had not, if the strange quiet that pervaded St.
Hilda’s College was any indication. Plenty of mortals went
about their daily business, but there were fewer of their
keepers about, of either sort, than one might have expected.
It was a sure sign that something of supernatural significance
had taken place here, and not too long ago. The two-mile
walk from outside the town was not easy; Lahalissa’s dancing
served her well, but Robin was ill-accustomed to mortal
exercise. They reached Cowley House and he labored up the
stairs, breathing hard and relieved that they were almost at
their destination. Lahalissa was at the top, waiting nervously

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67

as she eyed the invisible barrier that had repulsed her so
firmly less than a half an hour before.
“Do you think it’s worn off?” she asked hopefully.
“Give me a minute,” Robin begged. The faded yellow of the
aged interior corresponded rather well with how he was
feeling at the moment. Interesting to note that the eyes of the
Mad One had been on Gloriana even in these squalid
surroundings. Or, perhaps ominous was probably the better
word to describe it. It seemed eight hundred years was not
enough to make him feel secure on his throne.
Lahalissa caught his eyes, and Robin nodded.
“Sure, I’ll go first this time.” He stepped forward warily,
and when he encountered nothing, he dared another step.
Nothing. Feeling more confident, and a touch less knackered,
he strode to the door marked “Sprite” and gestured to his
companion as he drew one of his daggers.
“It’s good. Come on now.”
He knocked, but there was no answer. Lahalissa joined
him and pushed her hair behind her ear as she placed her
head next to the door. She frowned and shook her head.
“I don’t think anyone’s inside.”
The door was locked, but Lahalissa was not in a mood for
half-measures. The door blew inward and a mass of splinters
peppered the room.
Robin leaped through the jagged
remnants of the door, brandishing his blade, but he felt like a
fool when he realized no one was there.
But someone had been there before them. Of that, there
could be little doubt, for the door was not the only thing
destroyed. The tidy little room looked as if a cohort of
gremlins had run amok in it, as picture frames were smashed,
the china was in fragments and the splinters of the two chairs
mingled with those of the shattered door. Whatever had been
here was far stronger than gremlins, though; the writing desk
was smashed in half, collapsed in upon itself as if a single
powerful blow had caved it in.
I’m glad I wasn’t on the receiving end of that! Robin
shivered. Had they come here first, instead of going to Sussex
Weald, he might well have been.
“We’re too late!” Lahalissa cried. This, in Robin’s opinion,
was not necessarily the correct way to view the matter, but he

68

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held his tongue in view of her obvious distress. “Look, she
must have fought.”
She bent over and retrieved something silver. It was
Gloriana’s ring, and as she picked it up, it came to life and
bared its little fangs. “Hush, Naedrakin, be calm.” She
stroked its tiny head until it stopped hissing and turned back
into a ring. She slipped it on her ring finger and kissed it
gently.
“Tell me what happened, darling. Did someone take
Gloriana?”
Robin could see the ring tighten on Lahalissa’s finger
momentarily. So, it was more than a weapon, it was sentient
too. He nodded approvingly. That was a neat trick.
“Did you recognize them?”
Two squeezes. It looked like one for yes, two for no, unless
he had it backwards.
“Did they harm her?” Two. “Did they hurt Orgoglio?”
One squeeze, and Lahalissa raised a hand to her mouth.
“Oh, no. Did they… did they destroy him?”
One squeeze. Lahalissa looked over at him with tears in
her eyes, and he put his arms around her. “I saw,” he told
her. “I’m sorry.”
“What do we do?”
“Right now, nothing.” He tried to reassure her. “Look, the
Mad One wouldn’t have left Gloriana alone for this long if he
truly feared her. He’s probably just making sure that
Oberon’s escape doesn’t encourage all the old lords, the faery
lords, to rise against him.”
“You’re right. You must be right.” She sniffed and wiped
at her eyes, and bravely forced her lips to smile. “Otherwise,
why take her. If they wanted to, they could have destroyed
her as well.”
“Exactly. Now, let’s get out of here while we still can.
Since Gloriana won’t be able to find a safe place for Oberon to
hide, we’ll have to think of something else.”
“Do you have any ideas?”
Robin shot a self-mocking smile at the lovely demoness,
whose eyes were still moist with grief. “Sure, I’ve got lots. I
just don’t know if they’re any good.” He shrugged. There was
only one way to find out.

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69

Eight hours later, the sun had fallen. Only fourteen hours
remained before Oberon must perforce leave the refuge of
Sussex Weald, and so it was that Robin found himself leading
Lahalissa though a harsh jungle of urban desolation on the
east side of London. Windows were boarded-up when they
were not smashed, and the jagged remnants that still
remained in the frames were fogged with dust and age. Here
and there, a well-executed frieze or a finely carved arch
suggested that the area had once known better times, but for
the most part, it was a depressing portrait of decay and
mortal abandonment.
Indeed, it might have been an indictment of the Mad One’s
derelict rule. There was no sign here of Albion’s green glory,
lost now with the winds of time. Looking at the ugly
collection of vacant warehouses, run-down rowhouses and
rusting chain-link fences, it was hard to imagine that it had
ever existed at all. But Lucere brooked no neutrals in his
rebellion; if Heaven claimed that those who were not for it
were against it, the same was doubly true for its princely foe.
Robin hated it, every inch of it. Even the mortals – in
these parts they were all too similar to the buildings they
inhabited, dark, dirty and decrepit. But he had his reasons
for coming here, and it was not mortals that he had come to
hunt.
Tonight, they hunted the hunters.
“I don’t see why we can’t simply go up to Soho and talk to
the Camerati, if you’re set on vampires,” complained
Lahalissa as she narrowly avoided stepping in something foul.
“They’re a lot easier to find, after all.”
“Yes, mostly because they’ve come to an arrangement with
the Mad One. Don’t underestimate the Twice-Fallen, they
may not be immortal but they’re not entirely stupid either. If
we were to go to them, they’d agree to help and show us their
pointy teeth so very politely, but when we showed up with
Oberon, we’d be lucky if there weren’t fifty archons waiting
for us.”
It wasn’t likely that the Twice-Fallen still held a grudge
against Oberon, no more than they did against the rest of the
Fallen, Robin reflected. It had been centuries since the Wild

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Hunt had ridden, after all, and Robin could always blame that
on Herne anyhow. To be sure, Twice-Fallen was a misnomer,
for it was only their misbegotten children who roamed the
Earth now, their fathers having long since been hurled into
the pits by Prince Michael and his army at the behest of an
angry King of Heaven.
The miserable quasi-mortals took many different forms,
and were known by almost as many different names by the
mortals upon whom they preyed. But even the proudest
vampire lord would fear to challenge a minor demon such as
himself. They were pathetic, neither fish nor fowl, soulless
half-breeds shunned by the Divine and regarded with
contempt by the Fallen. Which, to Robin’s mind, made them
a perfect ally in Oberon’s time of need. Their assistance
would not come without cost, of course, but as long as he could
pay the price in future coin, he foresaw no problems.
“How did you know where to look?” Lahalissa broke in on
his thoughts.
“I don’t.”
“Then why did we come here?” She sounded annoyed.
Because, my dear demoness, it doesn’t matter where in the
world you are. Wherever there are the poor, the desperate
and the dispossessed, wherever the weak and the sick are
found, there you will also find the predators.
“Bear with me,” he advised. They finally reached a likely
location – walking shadow where they were both invisible to
any mortal, or half-mortal eyes –
a relatively busy
intersection featuring three lowlife pubs, two ethnic
restaurants, and most importantly, a narrow alley that
curved and twisted its way into impenetrable shadow.
“Start in the pub with an aspect of a not-particularly
attractive woman. Stumble and sway as you walk, and be
sure to wave off any offers of assistance. Do you see the
entrance to that alley? Walk there, wait a little while, and if
it doesn’t work, we’ll try it again in the other pub.”
Lahalissa frowned at him, but she acceded readily enough
and followed his directions to the letter. Robin laughed when
she stumbled out of the Blue Hog, cursing abusively at
someone over her shoulder. For a moment, he thought
someone had taken the bait, as a dark shadow detached itself

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71

from a wall on the other side of the street and moved to
intersect the meandering path of the fallen angel. But the
silver that flashed under the flickering neon showed that this
was only a lesser predator, of no significance whatsoever.
Lahalissa glanced up at him, and by way of instruction, he
punched his fist into his palm. A moment later, the would-be
assailant was lying unconscious on the sidewalk, and
Lahalissa joined him on top of the nearby building.
“For a moment, I thought – ”
“I know. But next time, go into the alley before flying up
here. It doesn’t look as if his Guardian or his Tempter are
around, but we don’t really want to be attracting any
attention, do we?”
“Oh dear, how silly of me.” Lahalissa made a face. “I’ll
remember next time. Shall I try the next pub?”
“In a bit. Let’s give it a few minutes. I can’t imagine
anyone is watching, but it might look a little suspicious if the
next three women leaving the pub are all doing exactly the
same thing.”
Robin nodded and glanced back down at the mortal his
companion had knocked out. The man moaned and stirred
slightly, and Robin, uninterested in his fate, turned away.
But when a piercing cry from the street below was choked off
a moment later with a strangled, choking sound, he strolled
back to the building edge and looked down. The mortal was
gone!
No, not quite. A flicker of movement caught his eye, and
he saw the strange sight of the unconscious, or now perhaps
deceased, mortal seemingly dragging himself towards the
alley, albeit without moving.
“What do you make of that?” he asked Lahalissa.
“Shadowspawn,” she said with a smile. “Rather poor
substitute for a vampire, don’t you think?”
“If he’s strong enough to drag that mortal, he might know
something worthwhile. What do you say we make him
manifest?”
The problem with talking to shadowspawn was that they
were as insubstantial as their name suggested. They were
hard to see on either the material or the immaterial shadows,
as they were barely strong enough to exist even as pure will.

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After so many generations, the angelfire that coursed within
the children of the Twice-Fallen was thinner than the most
inbred line of mortal royalty, with the exception of those rare
ancients of the early generations who had somehow managed
to survive over the centuries.
But this particular specimen was clearly extraordinary for
a shadowspawn, and with just a little help, there might even
be enough of him to support a conversation. As Lahalissa
watched with interest, Robin slashed his palm with a
fingernail, and from the shallow wound he produced a small
green fireball which he hurled at a slight shimmer in the air
below them. Were it not for the bizarre evidence of the
horizontally sliding mortal, the shimmer might have been
nothing more than a trick of the light, but when the angelfire
struck, it splattered and outlined a short, twisted form, less
than four feet high, pulling at the outstretched arms of its
treasure.
The fire flared up brightly for a moment, then was
absorbed and the fiery outline faded into the shape of an ugly
little goblin, with yellow skin, pointed ears that jutted away
from a misshapen skull at sharp, but differing angles, and a
long, hooked nose. The Shadowspawn, shadow no more,
released its grip on the man and looked down at its thin,
clawed hands in disbelief, then glanced uncertainly in Robin’s
general direction.
Robin burst into laughter at the expression on the thing’s
hideous face, which was frozen somewhere between terror
and delight, and he spread a massive pair of black wings from
his shoulders as he leaped into the air and sailed effortlessly
to the ground. Lahalissa joined him, in equally dramatic
fashion, a moment later.
The little being quailed before them, his knobby knees
literally knocking in terror.
“Please, don’t hurt me!” he pleaded.
“Who said anything about hurting you?” Robin glanced at
Lahalissa. “Of course, that’s assuming you’re willing to tell
us what we want to hear.”
“What is given can be taken away,” Lahalissa added,
examining her long fingernails as if she could not possibly be
less interested in the Shadowspawn’s fate, whatever it turned

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73

out to be. “But to have something precious, and then to lose
it? That, my ugly little friend, is painful indeed.”
It was pathetic to see how the wretched half-breed
whimpered and clutched at his spindly, twisted body as if it
were precious indeed. Though to him, it probably was. Who
knew how many centuries he had spent as little more than a
gauzy presence with a will attached? Robin neither knew nor
cared, but he was sure that the Shadowspawn knew where he
could find others of his kind.
“You want to keep that horrid excuse for a body?” The
goblin nodded fervently. “Then tell me, is there a Camerati
clan hereabouts? Good. And the Raustravi? Them too,
excellent. And you know where they can be found? Not the
Camerati, I want the Raustravi.”
Robin winked at Lahalissa as the goblin nodded again, so
energetically he seemed in danger of spraining his newfound
neck.
“Best you show us where they are, then, little one.” The
goblin shrieked as Robin caught him up and tucked him
under one arm, then leaped skyward. London by night was a
marvelous sight, and the lights of the great sprawling city
below outnumbered the stars overhead. The Mad One could
not possibly search every nook and cranny, there would be
safety out there somewhere, if only he could convince the
Twice-Fallen to hold their lifeless tongues. “Don’t struggle
there, mate. Just you point, and we’ll be on our way.”
They did not have long to fly, as it turned out, although
they were forced to descend to Earth and take shelter at one
point, when a fiery glow on the horizon turned out to be a
marauding band of Divine warriors. Fortunately, the Divine
were too focused on their mission, whatever it was, to take
any real notice of two insignificant demons going about their
business; one Romakhim did lob a desultory fireball at
Lahalissa, but she pulled in her wings, rolled, and dodged it
with ease.
“There.” Robin’s captive pointed a nondescript rowhouse
below them, slightly less seedy than its neighbors but
otherwise indistinguishable. It was made of brick, but the
door looked to be painted metal, slightly more sturdy than the
wooden doors more commonly found with such structures.

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Robin spread his wings and hung suspended in the air for a
long moment, studying the environs first before taking a
closer look at the rowhouse in question.
There was an unusual pattern in the bricks laid above the
door, nothing definitive, but then, Robin was at least two
hundred years out of date with regards to vampire ciphers.
He’d had no reason to interact with any since one aided his
escape from a vengeful African demon-prince who objected to
the little principality over which Robin had briefly ruled deep
in the jungles of the Congo. In addition to the pattern were
also runes that looked like a crude attempt to bar his kind
from entry, three over the door and one over each window.
Lahalissa giggled.
“Do you see those?” she pointed to the runes. “Ooh, I’m
scared!”
“We’re here to ask them a favor, remember?” Robin
couldn’t help smiling himself, but still, this was no time for
taunts, much better to be polite. He swooped down to the
concrete steps, deposited the shadowspawn there and tapped
the door with his fingertip.
“Just knock, and when someone opens the door, tell them I
want to speak with the clanmaster.”
“But –”
“Don’t worry, we’ll be right behind you, mate. I didn’t go to
all this trouble just to set you on fire and leave you here.”
The goblin blanched a paler shade of yellow. He didn’t
seem to like being caught directly in the middle of what
promised to be a dangerous situation, which wasn’t all that
unreasonable, in Robin’s opinion.
“No, great, um, great lord, sir. I only meant to say, who
shall I tell them calls?”
“Tell them Opportunity is knocking. Or, alternatively,
Death. Whichever suits them.”
The goblin eyed him dubiously, but he nodded obediently
enough. As Robin flew up to join Lahalissa some twenty
yards up and away from the step, his envoy attempted to
straighten his hunched shoulders and knocked on the door.
No one responded immediately, and after a questioning
glance upward, the Shadowspawn knocked again. This time,
the door was answered by what appeared to be a loutish

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teenager, with the close-cropped hair and doughy complexion
of a football thug. Only the fact that its chest was not moving
betrayed the fact that the boy was no longer alive, but had
become the fleshy shell of a young Twice-Fallen.
“Whaddya want?” it snarled in an Australian accent.
“Opportunity is kn-knocking,” stammered Robin’s
messenger. “Er, actually, Death, that is to say, I mean –”
The vampire snorted and sent the goblin sprawling to the
ground with a savage backhand. It started to step back inside
the house when Robin cleared his throat. The creature looked
up, and upon seeing two black-winged fallen angels hovering
above him, its dead, piggish eyes widened with fear. Out of
the corner of his eye, Robin saw the shadowspawn take the
opportunity to scuttle away. Cheers, mate. Robin didn’t care
about the goblin one way or the other, but the thing had
served its purpose and since it knew less about his mission
than the trees of Sussex Weald, he saw no reason to stop it.
He nodded at the vampire.
“I fear my envoy lacks for eloquence, but since he’s proven
to be eminently unsuitable, would you be so kind as to inform
your most senior sire present that I should very much like to
speak with him?” Robin thought perhaps the monster was too
thick-witted to follow him, but just as he was beginning to
think he’d have to repeat himself, the beast nodded.
“Yeh, all right. Who’re you?”
Someone who’d just as soon wipe out your wretched little
nest of abominations as look at you, you monstrous eyesore.
“A potential friend.”
The vampire looked skeptical, but it ducked its head and
turned back into the house.
“Oi, Jimmy!” They could hear it shouting. “Git Vashya,
and tell ‘im teh git ‘is skates on! They’s two bad-mother
demons wanna talk teh ‘im outside, right!”
Robin sighed and glanced apologetically at Lahalissa. She
shrugged, and made a what-did-you-expect sort of gesture
with her hands. They were both surprised when an elegant
Indian vampire appeared at the door a moment later. It was
tall, well-groomed, wearing a pin-striped suit that flattered
its lean figure. This Vashya was by no means what Robin had
learned to expect from the Raustravi, and for a moment he

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wondered if they had the wrong clan. In any case, the
vampire was old one, and had seen somewhere between three
and five centuries judging by the rigid appearance of its stilldusky flesh. The demonfire was strong within it, strong
enough, perhaps, to create difficulties should he prove
unhelpful.
“Greetings, my lord, my lady. How may I be of service this
evening?”
The vampire’s voice was deep and cultured, with no trace
of apprehension, and a quick glimpse into the surface of its
mind showed that any attempt at intimidation would likely be
misplaced. Robin descended to the ground and sketched a
sign on his chest with his left hand, indicating he was no
stranger to the greater clan.
“I have not seen such a sign in many a year, my lord.
Indeed, we are most content when we are ignored by your
kind.”
“You don’t strike me as a typical Raustravian prince, Lord
Vashya.” Robin ignored the gentle hint. “I expect an elder of
your years and experience will see the wisdom in seeking a
rapprochement with a great power among my kind. I am but
an envoy.”
The vampire’s face was still, except for a faint movement of
one eyebrow. A betrayal of interest? Or was it merely
curiosity.
“An end to the Wild Hunts… for your clan.”
“An end? There has not been a Wild Hunt since long
before my time.” The vampire’s eyes flared red as they
narrowed. He did not like being threatened.
“You misapprehend. I mean you no harm, it is only that
the Hunter has been loosed and it will not be long before the
Hunt rides again.”
Robin suspected it might be
counterproductive to mention just who had set Herne free,
but he had no aversion to putting a scare into any unseen
ears that might be eavesdropping. “But I offer protection, if
you will provide us with a certain service.”
The vampire lord met his eyes – it was a bold one indeed –
as if to take his measure. Robin held that cold undead gaze
until the Raustravian was forced to look away. The vampire
was too young to recall the terrors of the Wild Hunt, but it

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was of an age to have likely heard tales from the generation
that survived them, and such was the fear that Herne and his
companions had instilled into the Twice-Fallen that tales of
its horrors and other faery cruelties had percolated not only
down through generations of Twice-Fallen, but into mortal
myth as well.
“You bear grim tidings, demon.” Vashya looked as if it
would have sighed, were it still able. “And I fear that your
service will cost us dear, but come inside and let us discuss
these matters privately. If there is to be war among the
Fallen, I would know when, and why.”
Now it was Robin’s turn to raise his eyebrows. The
vampire bared its fangs in a bitter smile of resignation. “I am
not without skill when it comes to reading minds myself,
demon. But, no, your thoughts are sealed to me. It is only
that I cannot imagine another reason for you to seek my aid.
You must be desperate indeed, to seek help among my kind.”

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CHAPTER 9

A MOMENT’S PEACE
SO DID THE FAERIE KNIGHT HIMSELF ABEARE,
AND STOUPED OFF HIS HEAD FROM SHAME TO SHIELD
NO SHAME TO STOUPE, ONES HEAD MORE HIGH TO REARE,
AND MUCH TO GAINE, A LITLE FOR TO YIELD;
— Edmund Spenser, The Fairie Queene

T

he afternoon breeze was peaceful, and carried with it the
rich natural scents of the mature forest, mixed in with
the perfume of the nearby lilac blossoms. The tall oak tree,
now denuded of its two smaller companions, stood in solitary
majesty as it soaked in the glorious warmth of the afternoon
sun.
Time passed. The scent of lilac waxed strong for an hour
or two, then diminished again as the wind shifted its
direction.
Squirrels frolicked nearby, but none dared
approach him despite the promise of acorns. It was clear that
the lord of the forest had warned of him, for even the birds
were hesitant to light upon his branches. This grieved him,
but only a little, for he had far deeper wounds to bear, far
more egregious affronts upon which to reflect. The sky grew
red, then purple, as the sun began to set.
It was a pity he could not stay here for a while, thought
Oberon as the cool evening air ruffled pleasantly through his
leaves, which were green with just a tinge of gold around the
edges hinting at autumn’s approach. The Weald was a
tranquil place, picturesque, an ideal place for one to indulge
in the narcissistic luxury of reflection. But for him, reflection
was no quiet path leading inner peace, instead, it achieved
quite the opposite effect.
Gloriana had shared generously of her wisdom, and yet his
knowledge was infuriatingly incomplete. She could not share

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what she did not know, and she did not know what he most
yearned to learn. The usurper, who was he? Had he a name?
It was not unheard of for angels to descend into madness;
especially in the days after the Awakening, even some of the
great had succumbed to mind-killing despair and selfloathing. But the power of such mad ones inevitably waned,
it did not wax into sceptre, crown and throne.
And yet, perhaps it was possible. He pondered long upon
two of the Shadow Sarim, the greatest of the Fallen, who, in
his opinion, were not entirely sane. Moloch’s nihilistic
appetite for destruction gave even Lucere pause from time to
time, and the once-brilliant tactical genius of Sammael, Hell’s
marshal, had long ago disappeared in the morass of his
overpowering hatred for his Divine counterpart, Michael.
Could it be that one of them had stolen his realm from him?
No, it seemed unlikely. For one thing, Albion was not a
principality either would covet, and for another, if it were
Moloch who had usurped his throne, there should have been
far, far less of Albion and her mortals remaining by this point.
No, he could rule out Moloch, that much was certain.
He studiously avoided thinking of his Queen. He did not
dare so much as think her name to himself. Fortunately,
Gloriana had likewise avoided Titania, though more likely out
of wisdom and survival instinct, not cowardice like him, and
so even with the potion he knew little more of her. He could
not bear to think of her betrayal; just the thought was like the
assassin’s knife entering his side again, only this time the
freezing blade pierced his heart. How had he failed her, that
she should abandon him so? He longed to run his hands
through that thick crimson mane, to kiss those impossibly full
lips, to feel that white, graceful neck in his hands and snap –
no! A red wave of overwhelming hatred – for his conflicted
desires, for her treacherous beauty, for his disloyal subjects,
for the mysterious usurper, for the wasted years, for a
thousand thousand regrets and failures – washed over him
suddenly, and nearly carried his consciousness away on a tide
of desolation.
And then he was clean. The grime of uncertainty and selfcontempt was washed away, leaving little more behind than
an iron will of angry purpose. He waited, without impatience,

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content now to reflect calmly upon the beauty of the Weald
and the quiet strength of the earth that sustained it. Be the
tree, Puck had said, and in doing so had spoken with the true
wisdom of the fool.
His roots burrowed deep into the soil as he bonded with
the land that once was his and, in time, would be again. His
leaves soaked in the sunshine and rustled gently in the breeze
as the sweetness of the forest’s rich breath restored him. He
let his mind flow outward; in the same moment, he smelled a
mouse through the curious nose of a half-grown fox cub,
hopped with a fat robin towards a dark patch that promised a
worm-laden soil and soared high above the treetops with a
sharp-eyed falcon. For the first time in eight hundred years,
the Faery King smiled.
The sun had long since disappeared below the treetops,
and the first nocturnal predators were beginning to make
their presence known with ghostly calls and cries when a
strangely-shaped figure descended from the moonless sky and
landed not too far from where a giant oak towered
incongruously over a lilac tree. Once upon the ground,
however, the shadow divided into two distinct individuals.
“It would be a lot easier if you lot could actually transform
into bats,” complained Robin as he massaged his aching arms.
“Or at the very least, walk shadow.”
Vashya did not respond, it merely brushed at its suit, as if
doing so could restore the dignity it had lost by this
ignominious form of transportation. It was quite clear that
being carried like an unwieldy piece of luggage was something
that the vampire lord would prefer to forget as quickly as
possible.
“I imagine there must be some Twice-fallen who can, but
perhaps they’re more like werebats than true vampires. Of
course, a were-vampire bat would still drink blood, so perhaps
that’s where the confusion lies – ”
“Would you please be so kind as to give the subject a rest,”
said Vashya, gritting his gleaming ivory teeth. “I am
beginning to regret my decision already.”
Robin grinned at it, amused by the vampire’s wounded
pride. “Only because you've never had Herne on your tail.

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Believe me, Fangs, putting up with a little indignity is better
than being run down by hellhounds.”
“Please do not call me that.”
“Of course, Lord Vashya, my… what’s that?”
He nearly swallowed his tongue along with his apology as
a dozen or more trees surrounding them unexpectedly
transformed into tall, spear-wielding warriors. Nor were the
spears tipped with harmless mortal metal; they were
crackling with silvery angelfire.
Robin put up his hands and glanced at his companion,
whose wide eyes belied his seeming composure.
“The
hellhounds are looking increasingly attractive, my lord
demon,” the vampire murmured, and Robin did not find it
hard to see his point of view.
“What is this,” Robin snarled at the most powerfully
muscled of the dryads. “I am in service to the one you guard.
Do you think to keep me from him?”
“Lord Beowaesc told us to expect two angels, not one of
these!” The dryad waved his flaming speartip just under the
vampire’s nose. “You may pass, but leave this bloodsucking
worm here with us.”
“Fools!” Robin slapped the spear down and caused his
form to swell, until he towered over the dryads like an
ominous thunderhead, ready to rain lightning. “You know
naught of what you speak. Begone, lest I give you to it, that it
might not drink blood, but the fire of petty forest imps
instead!”
The bold dryad and two of his companions actually fell
down as they backed away from him, so strong was their
desire to escape his threatened fury. They fled, quickly and
silently, back into the depths of the forest. No doubt running
straight to Beowaesc, of course, but that mattered little now.
His only concern was to get Oberon to a place of safe refuge.
Then, and only then, could they spare a thought for the
morrow.
Now, if I can only remember where that tree is. He moved
swiftly forward, leaving the vampire to stumble along behind
him in his city shoes. The sweet scent of lilac drew him on,
until moments later, he stood before the arboreal form of his
king. One second, they stood beneath the midnight shadow of

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the oak, and the very next, the tree was gone. Oberon, to his
surprise, did not look vexed at his delay, indeed, he seemed
almost at peace as he rebuked his servant.
“You took your time, Puck.”
“Gloriana was gone – there were signs of a struggle. We
had to come up with an alternative.”
“I see. And why have you come with this unusual…
companion?”
“I have found a place for you where the Mad One’s Eyes
will never think to look.”
“With the children of the Twice-Fallen?”
“With a few of them, yes.” Robin glanced at Vashya, who
was staring at Oberon with a doubtful expression on its finefeatured face.
“You spoke of a mighty prince, who could protect us from
the Wild Hunt,” the vampire said. “Yet, he needs to hide
among us, for fear of his enemies?”
For the first time, Oberon took direct notice of the vampire.
He snorted contemptuously.
“Not for fear, vampire, but for time.”
He reached out with his hand, and the vampire flew
suddenly up into the air as if jerked by a mighty string. For a
moment, it hung suspended above the treetops, its limbs
dancing and flailing about, directed by an unseen puppeteer.
An equally invisible flute softly piped a silly circus air. Then
the marionette’s master seemed to abandon it, for it plunged,
spread-eagled, directly towards the jagged top of a broken
pine tree.
At the very last moment, its fall was halted, with the sharp
wood barely piercing the undead flesh covering its unbeating
heart. Then, with a violent backwards flip, the vampire flew
away from the tree and was brought back to the ground on its
feet, exactly where it had been before. But it did not stand
there long. The monster’s mouth worked soundlessly once or
twice, before it crumbled to the ground in a faint.
“I see your powers are returning, majesty,” remarked
Robin, as neutrally as possible.
“Mmm, yes, it is good to touch the land again. Though it
may be decades before my powers return in full, I am greatly
restored. Do you think me unwise, Puck? You have changed,

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I fear. There once was a time when such a sight would have
set you to laughing until the tears ran down your face.”
“Times have changed, my King. As have I.”
“I mourn to see it. But you may trust me in this. I have
known these creatures far longer than you, and they are more
beast than angel, they are less than mortals, even. They obey
only what they fear. This one was wary at my weakness and
would have doubtless contemplated treachery, but now, you
see, it will do so no more.”
Robin nodded slowly. Perhaps the years had enervated
him, or at least drained him of his humor. And certainly
Oberon’s brutality had taught the vampire a real lesson, for
as Vashya struggled to its feet, it regarded the Faery King
with a servile respect bordering on awe.
“Go now, Puck,” ordered the King. “Find Gloriana’s
servant and do what you can to assist her. Her loyalty must
be rewarded. Then find Herne; he will be raising his pack, I
am sure. I shall go to this place of refuge, and when you are
ready to find me, place your mark above the painting at
Burlington House and wait there. I will send for you.”
“The painting? How am I to know which one?”
“You will know it.”
“As you say. And if you want to find me?”
“Then I will do so. Now go, my boy, and quickly. Beowaesc
comes, and I do not think he is pleased. Best you begone
before I set him straight. He will be embarrassed enough
without witnesses.”
Robin bowed, then unfurled his wings and leaped towards
the sky. The lights of London were to his right while to his
left was only shadow as he sped towards Oxford faster than
any mortal aircraft. In a matter of minutes, he reached
Cowley House, and after taking a moment to ensure that the
spellward had not been renewed, he plunged through the roof
into Gloriana’s quarters. But as before, it was empty, devoid
of life and unlife alike. There was no sign that Lahalissa had
ever even come here.
The sound of deep-voiced laughter behind him caused him
to spin around. Entering through the door was an overmuscled wingless monster with four arms. He had to stoop to
enter, so tall was he, and even so he barely fit through the

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frame. His skin was slate grey, his head was somewhat
taurine and his curved horns pointed forward, but the most
frightening thing about him was the symbol branded on his
chest – four linked circles from which sprouted two upsidedown triangles. The sign of the Mad One.
Robin backed away from the massive demon warrior and
drew his dagger. It was a poor counter for the two massive
cleavers that the mutant Kesh’Adai wore at his side, but he
had no other weapon save his wit. The warrior smiled,
revealing four long yellow fangs, and pointed at the blade.
“Put it away, traitor. Even if you sheathe it in your own
throat, it will not save you from the punishment that is your
due.”
“Come take it, if you dare!”
It was a lame retort, even to Robin’s ears, but he had little
choice except to fight. He might flee, but he doubted he could
outdistance the vast wingspan of his foe and he had no wish
to perish with a cleaver in the back. But when he took
another step backward, his movement was stopped
unexpectedly by something large and hard. The black flame
dagger fell to the ground, useless, as someone very strong
pinned his arms to his sides in a crushing grip.
“As you say,” whispered the second Kesh’Adai, breathing
foully in his ear.

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C H A P T E R 10

VIOLENTLY, IT CHANGES
GET UP, COME ON, GET DOWN WITH THE SICKNESS
OPEN UP YOUR HATE, AND LET IT FLOW INTO ME
GET UP, COME ON, GET DOWN WITH THE SICKNESS....
MADNESS IS THE GIFT THAT HAS BEEN GIVEN TO ME
— Disturbed, (“Down With the Sickness”)

T

he Mad One’s court was surprisingly normal, all things
considered, thought Robin as he was marched through
the corridors of the fortress. He was not bound by spellfire or
mindleash, indeed, they might well have left him his two
blades for all the good they would have done him. He was
surrounded by a small troop of four-armed Kesh’Adai, seven
in all, each of whom surpassed him by a good half-meter and
one hundred fifty kilos apiece. If they were not cruel, neither
were they merciful – when he tried dawdling once, the two
flanking him simply grabbed his arms, lifted him off his feet
and continued their inexorable journey towards the heart of
the fortress.
After a few minutes of this, they put him down again,
without ever bothering once to comment. It was really quite a
persuasive demonstration, in its own simple way. Robin took
their point, and did not again attempt to slow them down.
The leader came to a halt as they reached a large door
embossed with the Mad One’s sign, which matched the brand
on the grey-skinned chests of his guards. He turned around
to address Robin, folding his lower set of arms beneath his
huge pectorals as he jabbed a clawed finger perilously close to
Robin’s eye.
“Be still until you are spoken to. Answer any questions
asked, and tell the truth. He knows if you lie. And if he

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decides to destroy you, get on your knees and thank him for
his mercy. He can do worse than that, I swear to you.”
One of the other guards grunted in affirmation. Despite
the underground chill and his astral state, Robin suddenly
felt very, very cold. He was immortal, but there were things
that immortals could experience that were, for a time, hard to
differentiate from mortal death. If your spirit was shattered
and distributed across the planes, it could take centuries, if
not millennia, to become whole again. And if what the
Kesh’Adae said were true, the Mad One had managed to come
up with an unpleasant alternative to that.
The leader seemed to be waiting for a response, so Robin
nodded. Satisfied, the giant demon turned around and placed
his palm on the door. There was a brilliant flash of purple
light, and the door swung slowly open to reveal the Mad One’s
throne room.
It was beautiful, a vast spherical glade that magically
appeared to be open to the sky. No, the magic was greater
than that, for somehow, impossibly, it was truly outside.
Robin could feel the wind on his face and feel grass beneath
his bare feet. Despite himself, Robin was impressed; for all
that they were beyond physical things such as Euclidean
space, after spending the past few millennia on Earth, most of
the Fallen were as uncomfortable with non-Euclidean reality
as mortals. It was not so much a room as it was a woodland
paradise, an idyllic Olympian bower. Strange trees ringed
the glade, with thick trunks and gnarled limbs constructing a
leafy green wall of sorts circling what appeared to be, of all
things, a very large mushroom.
But no conventional woodland paradise he’d ever seen
featured twenty or more giant battledemons with skeletal
wing joints that projected three feet above their shoulders
even at rest. If they did include angelic ladies-in-waiting,
they were usually portrayed with significantly more in the
way of garments than wore the naked Succubi, who lounged
about the foot of the throne clad in nothing but their sleek
blue skins, their white pupil-less eyes taking in the
newcomer’s arrival with what appeared to be total
indifference. And no painting Robin had ever seen showed
two demonesses wreathed in flaming chains, cast to the side

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of the throne-like toadstool as little more than an
afterthought.
They were Gloriana and Lahalissa, Robin realized, but he
spared them barely a thought. He was captivated by the
sight of four angels on the right of the throne, especially a
tall, beautiful one wearing a circlet of silver in her mass of red
hair. In spite of everything, even his dreadful peril, for a
moment he could take in nothing but her striking beauty,
which had not altered in the slightest over the eight centuries
since he’d last seen her. She met his eyes, but without
interest, and if she likewise recognized him, she betrayed not
the slightest sign.
Without warning, a fist struck him from behind and
smashed him to the ground. Everything went red, but as his
vision cleared, he was able to see that the grass was truly
real, for a little beetle crawled up the blade that directly
before his eyes. Oh, but that hurt! He wanted to reach
behind his head to see how bad the damage was, but he was
afraid any movement might inspire another blow.
“I hardly think that was necessary,” commented a strange,
high-pitched voice from somewhere in front of him. “No, don’t
you dare kick him, Uzoth, you leave him be!”
Fortunately, Uzoth was apparently inclined to obedience,
and after waiting a moment to be sure that no further
assaults on his person appeared to be imminent, Robin slowly
raised his aching head. The blinding light had faded a little,
and in doing so revealed a sight that was as strange as it
was… no, it was simply strange, and that’s all there was to it.
For upon the throne, which turned out not to be a throne
so much as a very large red-capped toadstool, perched what
appeared to be a fairy of sorts. Not a tall and proud being
akin to the great fae over which Oberon and his faithless
queen had once ruled, but a gossamer Victorian creature, all
filmy white robes and transparent butterfly wings. She was a
lovely little thing, with features nearly as delicate as her
wings and long white hair that would reach down past her
bottom were she standing. If standing, he realized, the top of
her head might possibly reach as high as his knee.
Wondering just how hard the Kesh’Adai had hit him,
Robin had to glance back and forth between the massive

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guard demons and their attractive little liege lady twice
before he was convinced that his mind was actually receiving
the correct information from his eyes. This tiny creature was
the Mad One? Could it possibly be true? It was too stupid for
words!
“So, Robin Goodfellow!” Her voice was high-pitched and
sounded most pleased, which also seemed a little odd,
considering the circumstances of his visit. “How marvelous to
see you at last! Your fame precedes you, and so little survives
of long-vanished Albion that a relic such as yourself is a
veritable treasure!”
Robin stared at her, not sure how to respond to what
sounded rather like an insult of some kind. But there was no
edge to her smile, and the expression on her tiny face
matched the apparent delight in her voice. And, too, there
was the small matter of her panoply of not-at-all tiny guards
to consider as well.
When in doubt, smile and make nice. While you still can.
Before they break your teeth.
Feeling a little as if he’d somehow stumbled into a Disney
movie, Robin tried not to groan as he pushed himself up from
his belly. He started to stand, but then, thinking better of it,
simply rocked back on his heels in order to meet the little
queen’s eyes.
“You’ve been a very naughty boy, Robin, but I’m told that’s
your motif, isn’t that so? I adore the tricksters, you know. To
curdle the milk, oops! Poor milkmaid!” She clapped her
hands, and threw her head back with a pretty trill of
laughter. “Fiddle-dee-dee indeed!”
While the guards remained impassive, the butterflywinged bug-things, which Robin belatedly realized were also
supposed to be some twisted form of lesser fairies, tittered
and trilled with feigned mirth. At least, he hoped it was
feigned, because it sure wasn’t funny.
The Mad One, if it was truly the Mad One, seemed to
notice that he was disinclined to join in the festivities, for she
began to pout.
“Oh, not just naughty, now, but sour,” she said, frowning.
“And silent too, that’s not a good fellow, not at all, Mr.
Goodfellow. Cat got your tongue? Because you see, if you

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won't be a proper little sprite and use it, I may decide to give
it to him.”
Robin stiffened and flinched away from her, not because of
her silly threats, but because a face appeared to be pressing
out from inside the pink stalk of the toadstool upon which she
sat. The fleshy mushroom skin stretched like plastic, and for
a moment it looked as if the face would burst out. Robin did
not recognize it, but had it belonged to anyone he knew, he
certainly would have, for he could easily discern every facial
detail, from the open, staring eyes and broad cheekbones to
the strong, masculine jaw line. It was a bizarre thing, but
what truly alarmed him was that although he could hear
nothing, whoever the face belonged to was obviously
screaming.
“Er, no,” he stammered, trying to keep his eyes off that
terrible face. “It’s just that I don’t know to whom I am
speaking. I certainly don’t wish to cause offense.”
“Ooh, how very delicate, Mr. Fine Fellow! But I feel so
very strongly that we are destined to be friends. You must
call me Maomoondagh. Yes, you simply must!”
The queen’s face crinkled in a childlike smile.
“Shall we be friends, then? Oh, I do think we shall! And
what do you say to that, Mr. Fine Fellow?”
“I think I would very much like that!”
I know I’d like it a lot better than having those bull
demons stomp my head again, anyhow. He dared a glance at
Titania, who didn’t seem to be paying any attention to his
presence. How did she put up with the creature? The
thought of becoming bosom buddies with this lunatic would
have been frightening enough even without Albion hanging in
the balance.
“Friends, how deliciously wonderful!” She leaped down
from her toadstool and embraced him, planting a little kiss on
his cheek. “And what do friends do? Why, they share their
innermost secrets, of course?”
Maomoondagh put her hands on her slender hips and
regarded him thoughtfully.
“So, who shall go first? I do believe I shall!”
Her translucent wings, nearly as tall as she was, fluttered
prettily as she hovered in front of him for a moment, then

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zoomed in a circle around Titania’s head before coming to
light again on the toadstool. At the very moment her feet
touched the mushroom, the silent screamer lurking beneath
its red cap abruptly withdrew its hideous face.
The little queen cocked her head at him and screwed up
her face as if thinking deeply, then pointed at him and
uttered what did not strike him as a secret, but a riddle.
“The question you deny
Will bring a sure response.
Two questions you decline,
Another I ensconce.
A third one circumscribed
Will bring the dread blood cup,
But you will not imbibe
For I shall drink you up!
Now tell me, faery sly,
Precisely what am I?”
Maomoondagh stared at Robin and fluttered her eyelids
charmingly, but her gaze was like being smashed in the face
with a rock. Robin swayed, and had to put out his hands
behind him to keep from being forcibly toppled over. He had
never known such strength; he doubted even Oberon at the
height of his powers could have met those iron eyes without
reeling.
Had he made a terrible, terrible mistake in
attempting to restore his betrayed liege? He had a horrible
feeling that the riddle and the screaming face on the
mushroom were somehow related, but how, he did not know.
Nor did he want to.
“I don’t know,” he gasped. He was trying so hard to keep
himself upright that when she smiled and the pressure
disappeared, he lurched forward and almost struck his face on
the ground.
“Too hard, my darling trickster? Surely you are not so
slow. It seems perhaps I shall have to provide you with a
personal demonstration. A demonstration for a demon, isn’t
that delightful? But first, your turn. Shall we start with an
easy one?”

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She paused for a moment, then added three more words.
“Where is Oberon?”
This time, he was ready for the gaze, but it knocked him
flat on his back even so.
“I don’t know,” he said, truthfully, staring up at the
cloudless blue sky. Cloudless? Surely that wasn’t right!
When was it ever cloudless in England?
It took him a little while to summon the strength to roll
over and get up to his feet, but she was still regarding him
with a sad little moue of disappointment.
“Answer for answer,” she said simply, and he didn’t
understand her until she flew up into the air and pointed at
Gloriana.
“No!” screamed Lahalissa, fighting against her fiery bonds,
but the flames blazed up and drowned out her cries as she
writhed in screaming agony. Gloriana said nothing, she was
silent as two of the bull-demons approached her and picked
her up as if she was a battering ram, each grabbing an arm
and a leg. She must have been under a mighty geis, for
surely she would not have held her tongue otherwise. But her
eyes sought out Titania, and they were like poisoned daggers.
Titania must have felt their sting, as she stepped forward,
and bowed low before speaking. “Majesty, she has erred
grievously, to be sure, but she was once a queen of Faerie. Is
this an appropriate end for a royal such as her?”
Maomoondagh flitted over to stare down Oberon’s false
queen. She did not say anything, but Titania averted her
eyes and sank to her knees. Once, twice, three queens of
Faerie, Robin said grimly to himself, even as the smallest and
most powerful one angrily waved at her demons to continue.
“Go on, go on,” she cried. They hastened to obey, and as
they approached the toadstool, its red cap seemed to peel
away from itself, starting in the center. There was a wetly
vile sound as it peeled back to reveal a devouring mouth
ringed with jagged white teeth and a long, sinuous red tongue
licked them in an obscene and hungry manner. Strange
sounds issued from its mouth, but not the bestial, hungry
noises that one might have expected. No, Robin realized as
horror filled him and fear knotted his belly, they were the

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screams of those trapped inside this most disgusting of
prisons.
The Blood Cup. He had never heard of it before, and he
wished he had not now. But its purpose was clear. The
horrid toadstool was an abomination beyond abominations, a
thing to make even demons shudder. To feed upon the fire of
an unwilling other was bad enough, but to imprison
immortals and drain them slowly and painfully, over devilsknew how much time, was sadism beyond his ability to
understand.
He could not permit it. Not to Gloriana. Not when it was
his doing that had put her in this peril.
“I tell you the truth! I don’t know where he is! Torture me
if you must, flay my mind, but I cannot tell you something I
do not know! Only do not do this, please, let her go!”
The guards stopped, and for a moment he thought
Gloriana might be spared when Maomoondagh favored him
with a dazzling smile. The incongruence of her seeming
innocence was a violation, like stark blasphemy on the lips of
a child. “But where would be the fun in that? Let her go? I
don’t think so.”
Obedient to their queen’s wish, the guards stepped forward
and the obscene tongue shot out, knocking one of the big
demons down as it wrapped itself around Gloriana’s waist.
She pummeled at it, to no avail, as it drew her inexorably
towards its now-gaping maw.
The geis must have been broken as the monstrous thing
began to ravage her feet and legs, for Gloriana’s lips were
unsealed with an ungodly shriek. The silver flames of her
bonds were engulfed by the purple fire that erupted from her,
issuing a dark grey-purple smoke that smelled bizarrely
sweet. Purple were the flames, the purple of royalty, and
they swirled up and around Gloriana as if to protect her from
the devouring horror. For a moment, they seemed to keep the
ragged teeth at bay, but only for a moment. Then, as her
strength failed, she screamed one last time and was gone,
crushed within the teeth with a terrible snap that echoed
with finality. There was a strange movement within the
stalk, as if the thing was swallowing, and then the terrible
jaws disappeared again under the red toadstool cap.

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“Don’t be sad.” Robin felt a tiny hand stroking his chin,
and it took every ounce of his self-control not to swat the little
monstress away like an oversized insect. “She’ll always be
there in your heart. And in my throne, for that matter.”
“Your throne?”
“Did I say throne? Why, I must have meant stool! It’s
rather useful, don’t you think?” She leaped away from him
and twiddled her toes as she hung suspended in the air for a
moment, then gracefully came to rest upon the quiescent
mushroom, crossed her legs, and propped up her head on her
entwined hands. She regarded him for a moment, but she
must have withheld something, because this time Robin was
able to bear her stare. Then she closed her eyes and sighed
dreamily.
“Mmmm. She had more strength than I knew. Such a
lovely spirit….” The grey eyes snapped open, and her smile
grew crueler now. “If only I could have her mind as well.
Then I would have no need for this silly game of kiss-andtell.”
Robin swallowed hard. There was something strange
about the Mad One, (for he had no doubt that this psychotic
pseudo-fairy was the very usurper he hoped to destroy), there
seemed to be some sort of symbiosis between her and the
mushroom, or throne, as she had let slip. Or, as was much
more likely the case, pretended to let slip. Did she somehow
draw her awesome strength from the spirits it devoured?
Why not simply drain their fire in a more direct manner? He
set the matter aside for the nonce; there were more pressing
issues at hand. Survival, for one.
Once more, he met those iron eyes. Her smile, he realized,
never seemed to touch them, perfect though it was and
whitely though it gleamed.
“Now that you understand the consequences, perhaps you
will deign to answer the second question. Where is Oberon?”
“That’s not a second question.”
“Of course it is!” She was indignant.
“No, it can’t be. It’s exactly the same question you asked
before.” He folded his arms over his chest and hoped for a
less painful demise than Gloriana’s. “You said that if I
declined two questions, another would be, um, how did you

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put it? Ensconced. In that appalling… whatever you call it.
That Cup. But you see, asking the same question twice is by
no means the same thing as asking two questions.”
“Don’t get technical with me, trickster.” She stomped her
little foot. “Just answer the question!”
“Don’t get technical? Don’t get technical? What kind of
faery queen are you, anyhow? Of course I’m getting technical,
that is exactly what every faery in the long and ignoble
history of human-faery relations has always done!” Robin
threw up his hands as if exasperated. “I mean, a mortal asks
for long life, you give it to him and conveniently forget to keep
him from aging… I mean, sure, it’s implied in the request,
obviously, but he didn’t ask – technically!
“It’s the oldest trick in the book! What would we be if we
practiced the spirit of the law and not the letter? Well, I
couldn’t tell you, actually, but we wouldn’t be proper fae,
then, would we?”
Even some of the guard demons were staring at him with
open mouths, as were Titania and Lahalissa. Could he
actually get away with it?
“Enough, you’ve had your chance. I am ending this
charade.”
Robin gaped as a rumbling voice came from the tiny throat
of the white fae, as if she was a direct conduit from one of the
deeper pits of Hell. The little fingers snapped, and abruptly
he was no longer standing in front of a toadstool under an
open sky, but enclosed in a vast and terrible chamber of
bones, a veritable palace of death.

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C H A P T E R 11

THE DEMON IN ME
NOW THE HUNGRY LION ROARS,
AND THE WOLF BEHOWLS THE MOON;
— William Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night's Dream

H

e looked up, and was stunned to see what looked like
an unthinkably large backbone directly over his
head. Ribs arched down from it on either side, embedded in
the rock –as if they were in the fossilized belly of a dinosaur
that would have dwarfed the largest blue whale – and Robin
wondered if perhaps this was where one of the more
monstrous Nephilim had met its end.
It was not only his immediate surroundings that had
changed. The white fae was gone, as in her place sat a tall,
thin man with ashen skin and hair like slivers of platinum
straw. Gone, too, was the smile and even the least pretense of
good humor or charm. Only the eyes were the same, grey like
a starving wolf or a darkening sky threatening rain, thunder
and hail. Nor did she – he, rather – sit lounging on a
toadstool. Maomoondagh was enthroned in bone, ancient
ivory carved all about with sacrileges old and new, and runes
of great power. His long fingers gripped the armrests, which
were carved in the shape of talons gripping a sphere – the
world perhaps? They were like claws upon claws. He gripped
them tightly, as if drawing sustenance from that wicked seat.
And he probably was, Robin guessed, if the rosy flush that
was spreading upward from his hands and beginning to
suffuse his pallid cheeks with colour was any indication. That
was disconcerting enough, worse still was the recognition that
he was alone with this mutating monster. In addition to the
significant changes in décor was the complete absence of
Lahalissa and Titania, not to mention all of the guard

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demons. Theoretically, this absence of defenders presented
him with an opportunity of sorts, but somehow, he felt rather
loathe to avail himself of it. The Mad One’s throne alone
seemed like more than a match for him.
“Where are we?” he asked the monstrous demon-prince.
“We are where we were before. Only deeper in the truth.”
“And what are you?” Robin wasn’t sure, but he had the
distinct impression that Maomoondagh had not been talking
to him in that deep voice about ending the charade, but rather
to herself. Except that herself was now himself.
As Robin tried to unwind the strange situation, he nearly
missed what Maomoondagh was saying.
“I believe the next question is mine, but I find myself
inclined to a similar construction. Are you who you say you
are, Robin Goodfellow? The others seem to believe so. I am
not so sure.”
The iron eyes suddenly bore into him,
unthinkably powerful. They hurled him outside of time and
space, and he hung, impaled, on the merciless spike of that
cruel gaze. “Who are you?”
“Robin G-Goodfellow,” he stammered. “P-P-Puck if you pprefer.”
“So, you are telling the truth. And yet, there is something
more there, I see.”
WHO ARE YOU? WHY DID YOU FREE HIM? WHERE
IS OBERON? WHERE IS OBERON? YOU WILL TELL ME
ALL!
The overwhelming force of the mindream felt rather like
what he imagined a bullet exploding in the midst of a mortal
brain must be like. The shards of his mind seemed to be
flying everywhere, and yet, the very dissipation somehow
protected his thoughts against the violation. He could see a
great black wolf in the very center of his mind, leaping and
snapping futilely at the hundreds of white butterflies that
dipped and swooped and somehow evaded those slavering
jaws. He laughed, until the beast gave up its futile game and
turned to regard him with a pair of merciless grey eyes.
The stones that smashed against his face seemed to come
from nowhere, and it took him a few seconds to realize he was
still in the Mad One’s fossilephilic throne room, if indeed he
had ever left. He stifled a hysterical chuckle; this was

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certainly the most arduous court visitation he’d ever known.
For what seemed like the seventieth times seventh time, he
picked himself up off the ground, or floor, whatever it was
supposed to be. This is getting very old, he told himself.
“So, is it my turn now?” It felt as if someone had been
pounding at his skull with hammers, but from the inside. It
was unfair, he felt, for a transubstantial being such as himself
to be affected by something so mortal and vulgar as physical
pain, even if it was probably psychosomatic. “I don’t suppose
you have any Advil handy?”
“You find this amusing? When I can crush you without
exerting myself in the slightest?”
Robin took in the floor-to-ceiling bones, the harsh lines of
the room, and the elevated dais that left him staring at the
Mad One’s knees.
“I do, actually. But only in a very sad, very unimaginative
way. Did they have some sort of sale on the Dark Lord
Number Three bedroom set at Ikea?” He paused, but to his
surprise, he was permitted to stay on his feet for once. He’d
sort of assumed that the touchy bastard would flatten him
again, and the fact that he hadn’t threw him for a loop for a
moment. “Um, while you were busy breaking my mind into
pieces, I couldn’t help noticing something about yours. You’re
a fake. You’re not insane at all.”
“What is madness? I contain multitudes.”
“I’m not even sure that you’re an angel at all.”
“I might well say the same about you, Puck. It’s a strange
sort of common trickster who, after five hundred years of
absence, suddenly reappears and intrudes upon the affairs of
princes.”
“I’m a late bloomer.”
“Lateness can easily be arranged.”
“If you say. And if you don’t mind my saying so, I quite
prefer these delicate threats to the crude use of force. It’s a
little more ominous and elegant, less vulgar, really. And
speaking of vulgar, what happened to our friendly
spectators?”
“Why, they’re right here. I wished merely to speak with
you alone. You see, there is something very odd about you,
Puck. Inside that homely Aspect you wear, hidden under all

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the jokes and the jibes, is a secret. You are protecting
something and you are somehow able to hide that from me,
even when I enter your mind. That, trickster, makes you a
very rare and interesting spirit indeed.”
“Don’t forget the breaking of your seal,” Robin wagged a
finger at him. “I’m very proud of that. I can’t believe you
haven’t asked me about that!”
That drew a ghost of a wintry smile. “There was no need.
I know very well how you managed that. My compliments on
a most innovative approach.”
“Thank you very much. Now, what do you want?”
“I want your secret. And I want my predecessor, so that I
can see him interned in a more useful and permanent
manner.”
The Mad One smiled as Robin couldn’t refrain from
glancing at the hideous throne. Was it his imagination, or
had the bones taken on a faintly pinkish hue?
“I imagine that the one will soon lead to the other, so
unless you wish me to engage in a more comprehensive
investigation of your mind, I suggest that you tell me now. Or
was my demonstration of the uses to which one can usefully
put a retired queen of Faerie insufficient to exhibit my
resolve?”
“No, I very much took your point. I have no doubt that
you’d pillage my mind like Vikings torching a monastery… if
you could. But you see, you have nothing but brute strength
at your disposal, and my little lockbox here,” he tapped his
head, “well, that requires subtlety. Of which, Mr. Dark Lord
Number What-have-you, you are sorely lacking!”
“You think to anger me, I suppose,” the Mad One
responded slowly. “You hope that I will destroy you in a rage,
and in doing so will buy the safety of your liege with silence.
How very noble.”
Robin bowed low. “Thank you. I thought it up all by
myself – and on the spot, too, I might add.”
“Then I fear I shall have to deny you the satisfaction of
your sacrifice. But, in order that you not be completely
disappointed, I shall allow your erstwhile companion to offer
herself in your stead.” His cruel smile was as palpable as a
right cross to the jaw. Robin had seen this coming, he knew

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there was no way to save either Lahalissa or Gloriana
without betraying Oberon, but even so, the hungry
maliciousness of the Mad One shocked Robin into silence. He
mentally withdrew his previous assertion of the other's
sanity.
A moment later, Lahalissa appeared behind him, slung
over the shoulder of a demon nearly twice her size. She
wriggled desperately, but to little avail. The guard bore the
assault of her fists with stoic indifference as he marched
before his demonic king. Filled with terror, her eyes fell upon
Robin, pleading silently.
There’s nothing I can do! Don’t you see? But her eyes
seemed to condemn him.
There was nothing he could do for her, and yet, that
wordless appeal was not one he could ignore. Not if he
intended to live with himself. Seeing Maomoondagh’s eyes
were on her, he took advantage of the momentary distraction
to transform himself into a reasonable facsimile of a battle
demon, with long, curving horns and long arms that ended in
razor-tipped claws. Without a sound, he launched himself at
the knees of Lahalissa’s captor, hoping to take him by
surprise.
There was a crunching sound as he struck, and as pain
exploded in his shoulder, he realized that the thing being
crunched was him and his foe’s knee was about as vulnerable
as a marble column. It was about as hard, too. Clutching at
his broken shoulder, he rolled onto his back and stared up at
the bemused face of the bull demon. It grinned, then kicked
him off to the side; the force of it was such that he skidded
across the floor until he came to a rest against something
sharp and bony that prodded the small of his back. For a
moment, all he saw was red as the pain washed over him like
a fiery wave.
Taking no notice of Robin’s feeble protest, Maomoondagh
rose from his ivory throne, revealing a strange red cushion
that covered the seat and ran up the back. It was the same
shade of red as the toadstool cap, but it pulsed with an
ominous life of its own, as if keeping time with an impossible
heart located somewhere within. As he stepped away from it,
the cushion parted, and from its scarlet depths came forth

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that obscene tongue once more. As prehensile as it was
deadly, the atrocity curled and wiggled lasciviously at
Lahalissa, whose eyes were wide with terror.
As she cowered before the grotesque thing, another
demonic guard stepped forward and seized her right arm,
kicking out her right leg so she was splayed, spread-eagled
like an ancient offering to the old Nordic demons, in front of
that wicked throne. Gripping her hair in his taloned fist, the
demon pulled back her head and exposed the carmel curve of
her graceful throat to his master.
The Mad One approached slowly, towering over her like a
washed-out version of the Grim Reaper. “I will give you a
choice,” he said. “You will tell me all you know, or I will ream
your mind as I drain you dry. I could not read Gloriana, but
you, little one, pose no such difficulty.”
He reached out and ran a delicate finger over her exposed
throat. She shivered, and a thin line of purple flames sprang
up from where his razor-sharp nail had touched her. Then,
holding the back of her head in his skeletal hand, he licked at
the violet fire and a dreamy look of satisfaction passed over
his face.
“How sweet you are. And how frightened!”
WHERE IS HE! WHERE IS OBERON!
The force of his unexpected mental assault was such that
even Robin, sprawled out on the other side of the room and
benumbed by pain, could hear him clearly.
Lahalissa only stared. Fear, it seemed, had struck her
dumb. The flames flickered enticingly from the wound at her
throat, and perhaps it was the anticipatory look on the Mad
One’s face that helped her find her voice, for a moment later,
she lowered her eyes and whispered her acquiescence. Robin
couldn’t blame her; he was only glad that she knew even less
than he did. Even so, it might be enough to track Oberon
down. And as for the fate of the Sussex Weald and its lord…
he could only shake his head.
“I do not know, Great Lord. But I will tell you everything I
do know.”
Albion’s usurper locked eyes with Lahalissa, pinning her in
place with his mind. Robin, still attuned, could feel the

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echoes of his efforts. *rending – ripping - stripping* DO YOU
SPEAK TRUTH? *disgruntled satisfaction*
She staggered back as he released her with a bitter sigh.
“Of course you will. One way or another. But to volunteer
the information freely is easier for you, even if I deny myself
the indulgence of draining you to the dregs.” Maomoondagh
passed his hand over her throat, and the small wound was
healed. “Free her.”
The two giant guards released her, but no sooner had they
done so when she leaped at Albion’s evil ruler. Or so it
seemed at first. For the Mad One was not her object, she
flashed past him, her wings furled, and past the startled,
flailing tongue to plunge into the still-parted lips of the
cushion like an arrow striking the center of a target. There
was a brief, muffled shriek, and her feet twitched horribly for
a second until they disappeared entirely, followed seconds
later by the throne’s tongue, which managed to convey an air
of pleased, if somewhat befuddled, content.
A content not shared by the Mad One. He emitted a
disturbingly high-pitched shriek followed by a deeply
thunderous oath that made the guards quail and loosed
several bones from the ceiling. They plunged down to splinter
on the floor around Maomoondagh, who was too busy cursing
in various male and female voices to notice the shower of bone
shards. For a moment, it looked as if he might try to leap into
his sorcerous throne himself and drag Lahalissa out of there.
“How very unfortunate!” Robin said, flashing his teeth
defiantly.
For the fallen angel had already been doomed, and Robin
took solace from knowing her sacrifice was not in vain. Even
the merest mention of the Twice-Fallen would be enough to
cause Maomoondagh to turn over every rock and rotting log in
his kingdom, and there was no way that Oberon or those who
hid him could survive such a targeted search. Now, the secret
was his alone, and there was no sustenance that
Maomoondagh could derive from Lahalissa that would make
up for the knowledge he had just lost. One had to take one’s
victories where one found them, meager though they might
be.

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“Hardly a victory,” the Mad One said coldly, back under
control although still visibly angered. “And if you are correct
and I cannot break you through sheer will, that does not
mean I cannot avail myself of other methods. In the
meantime, Puck, recall that nothing has changed. I still hold
the Isles in the palm of my hand; I have lost nothing. You, on
the other hand, have lost your only allies. If this game is not
over, it approaches the end game. How long can a pawn
protect a king?”
“Longer than you might think,” Robin answered.
“Whereas you might do well to consider how long a king may
hold his square, once the hand that guides him decides he
must leave it.”
“No hand guides me!” The Mad One snarled in rage. And
hearing the furiously feminine sound of the little queen’s
voice from the Dark Lord’s visage betrayed the extent to
which he was losing control. Robin smiled.
His smile vanished when Maomoondagh snapped his
finger and pointed to one of the two guards. The guard
jumped, startled, as his sword drew itself from his scabbard
and its purple flames hissed evilly into life. For a moment, it
hung there in the air before the big demon, as if held by an
invisible hand. There was a sudden whoosh and a blur of
violet violence, and the body of the guard crumpled to the
ground, headless, before being sucked down into the
vampirish floor of bones.
Robin forced himself to stand his ground as the flaming
blade levitated over to him and hung immediately before him.
The hilt was about waist level, but he did not dare to move so
much as a whisker. He met the Mad One's red eyes, which
were full of cruel contempt.
“Take it,” the demonic king ordered. “You have seen what
it can do. Now take it up!”
Fearing the consequences, Robin reached out and grasped
the hilt in his hand. It was cool, as if no one had touched it.
“Now wield it, little one. Are you bold enough to raise your
hand against me twice? Do you fear to strike me down?”
“I fear nothing!” Robin shouted and in one mighty leap, he
reached the Mad One and drove the blade deep into the royal
monster's chest. He felt it burn its way in through the black

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armor, through the spirit's shell and into the vital, vulnerable
heart of fire. “To the Pit with you!”
But the Mad One did not cry out or collapse, indeed, he did
not so much as blink despite being pinned to his throne.
Quite the contrary; he smiled, then closed his eyes with a
distinct look of pleasure as he tilted his head back. The
flames around his chest sputtered and weakened, and faded
to a washed out lavender before dying out altogether. What
was this? Robin was horrified. He had never seen the like.
Not even Oberon, not even the greatest Princes of Hell, could
endure such a wound with indifference. No, not indifference,
downright relish!
The Mad One opened his eyes. They were bright and alert,
and his alabaster face was flushed, almost rosy. He placed
his fingers around the hilt of the demonsword, and carefully
pushed it out of his chest, revealing the blackened, shrunken
remnants of a blade. He held it up to Robin in a mock salute,
then flicked it with his finger. Reduced to little more than
charcoal, the blade disintegrated and fell to the bony floor in a
shower of black flakes.
“What are you,” whispered Robin, awestruck for one of the
first times in his long existence.
Maomoondagh rose from his throne and tossed the hilt to
the side. “Now, perhaps, you begin to understand why I
would not fear Diavelina if she came prancing over the water
on the arm of her damned father himself, with six hundred
and sixty six legions marching in lockstep behind her! Now,
speak, wretched angel. Where is my cursed predecessor?”
“I am most impressed, my lord. I misspoke earlier. Your
power is great indeed, but it is truly your madness that knows
no bounds.”
Blood, or some facsimile therein suffused the Mad One’s
face. He did not speak, but his eyes glowed hotly red and
there was fury embedded in every particle of the thoughtscream that smashed into Robin’s mind. And the shrieking
that hurled him helplessly into the blissful black peace of
unconsciousness had the unmistakable sound of a vengeful
fairy queen scorned.
THIS IS MY KINGDOM! MY CROWN! MY THRONE!
MOLOCH’S BITCH PRINCESS WILL NOT HAVE THEM!

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OBERON WILL NOT HAVE THEM! NO ONE WILL HAVE
THEM! THE ISLES ARE MINE!

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THE WEIGHT OF HOURS
THE HOURS WEIGHED LIKE CENTURIES ON HIS HEART. MEMORIES
ROSE UP FROM DIFFERENT PERIODS OF HIS LIFE, CROWDING THE
FOREGROUND OF HIS MIND, CONTENDING FOR ATTENTION. THEY
HAD NO SHAPE, NO ORDER, BUT THEY WERE VIVID AND
EXHAUSTING – AT ONCE SILKY AND PRICKLY AS THISTLES.
— Lawrence Durrell, Livia

I

have built an empire, thought John David Collins, as he
leaned back in his comfortable leather chair and took in
the tasteful mahogany décor of his oversized office. Images
flickered and transformed silently on the four large flatscreen
televisions on the far wall, each one tuned to one of the four
broadcasting channels that made up a large part of that
empire. Books lined the hand-carved wooden bookshelves
that stretched from floor to ceiling, sorted according to his
notoriously eclectic tastes. On one shelf, a three-volume
compendium on the history of chess was placed strategically
between books on Biblical archeology and Christian
apologetics.
Below them, filling two shelves, were various editions of
books bearing his own name. The Tongue Untamed, A
Blameless Walk, and Beginnings of Knowledge were but a few
of the eighteen books he had written or co-authored. Two of
them had cracked the New York Times bestseller’s list, and,
much to his surprise, Joy: The Prospect of the Righteous, won
last year’s Dove award for best non-fiction, beating out Jim
Dobson’s latest book. It was a respectable legacy for any man,
but John David found little satisfaction in what, at the end of
the day, were simply material accomplishments.
For what was an empire, but the flicker of a candle when
compared to the great light of eternity? Even Alexander, that

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golden warlike youth who strode across the ancient world like
an Olympian colossus, would have been swallowed by the
mists of history were it not for the scribblings of a gentleman
scholar writing four hundred years after the young
Macedonian’s empire had collapsed into dust. It was all dust,
all chaff, all nonsense, except for that which was of lasting
value. But how could he, a mere mortal, hope to know what
would survive the divine fire?
He stared at his reflection in the dark glass of the
unpowered computer screen. His hair, long and pushed back
behind his ears, had been grey for years, and now that grey
was mostly white. He had been lucky, he thought ironically,
as he ran his hand through what despite his age was still a
thick, healthy thatch. Height and good hair were important,
for the corporate executive as well as the television
evangelist. How much more so, then, for someone like
himself, who was both.
Threescore years and ten are the days of our years. Surely
the Psalmist knew whereof he wrote, a man after God’s own
heart. And yet even a king such as he had seen them filled by
labor and sorrow, sorrow for that which had been done, and
regret for that which had not. John David found that the
psalm spoke to him now in a way that he never could have
imagined in his youth. How much longer would it be, then,
before his own days would be cut off, and, as it was written,
the time would come for him to fly away? Not too terribly
long now, he suspected. He was in good health, but it was not
beyond the realm of possibility that this last Easter,
celebrated so joyfully over the past weekend, would be his
last.
The telephone rang. It was Terri, his grand-daughter, who
was working as his personal assistant for the summer, giving
her mother the luxury of a three-month vacation.
Surrounding yourself with family was one sure way to keep
yourself out of trouble; over his many years in the ministry,
John David had seen far too many of his colleagues tripping
over that old serpent’s favorite stone. While he himself had
never found it necessary to abide by the Reverend Graham’s
famous custom of refusing to remain alone in the company of

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a woman not his wife, he could certainly appreciate the
wisdom of that policy.
“Granda, there’s a man on the phone who wants to talk to
you, he says he’s, like, a pastor, from Minneapolis, I think.”
Terri paused for a moment. “I forgot to ask his name, I’m
sorry.”
John David chuckled affectionately. It was only her second
week on the job. She would learn, in time.
“It’s okay, sweetie. You can put him through.”
There were several clicks, and the elderly evangelist
smiled as he wondered if Terri had inadvertently hung up on
the caller. Well, if it was important, the gentleman would call
back. They always did.
“Reverend Collins?” he started as the voice from the
receiver barked loudly in his ear. He winced and stabbed
quickly at the volume setting. “It’s an honor, sir, a real honor.
I know how busy you must be, Reverend, but the reason I’m
calling is that there’s a group of us up here, pastors from
different churches around the area, and we’ve been getting
together regularly to, you know, just put our heads together
and see if there isn’t anything we can do to work together
across our various denominations. You see –”
“Excuse me,” John David hated to interrupt so rudely, but
the man left him little choice. “I’m very sorry, but would you
tell me who’s speaking, please?”
“Oh, well, I guess I didn’t tell you my name now, did I.”
The caller had an informal manner of speech that made him
sound very youthful. “I’m Bill Daniels, from Gethsemane
Lutheran. I’m the pastor of a congregation in Maple Grove,
that’s a suburb up here west of the Twin Cities, and, well, I
guess you could say that I’m one of the leaders of this crossdenominational effort we’ve gotten started. There’s about
twenty-five churches involved in our project, Lutherans,
Methodists, Baptists, Pentacostals, and even one of the more
evangelical Catholic dioceses….”
John David sighed. It was all very wonderful, of course,
but he didn’t quite understand where he, a Southern Baptist,
happened to fit into this ecumenical picture taking shape on
the other side of the country.

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“Mr. Daniels, it sounds like you’ve managed to bring
together a diverse cross-section of the Kingdom in your area,
and that's a wonderful thing, but I must admit that I do not
understand what you are purposing to do. If you don’t mind
my asking, sir, I’m curious to know what all of this might
have to do with me?”
There was a brief, uncomfortable silence. Then the caller
laughed, embarrassed.
“I’m sorry, I guess I thought that was, well, obvious. We’d
like to invite you to come up and preach a crusade, of course.
Minneapolis hasn’t seen one since Billy Graham was here in
ninety-eight. The Metrodome, that’s the big football stadium,
seats more than seventy thousand, and we know that an
anointed speaker such as yourself won’t have any problem
bringing in the crowd to fill it. We’ve certainly got enough
souls in need of saving here.”
John David nodded. That was doubtless true, but he
wondered if he still had the energy for this sort of endeavor.
Despite his many years in the ministry, he wasn’t a natural
speaker, and he found the peaceful seclusion of his office far
more comfortable than the harsh glare of the spotlights. It
was hard enough for him to continue meeting the demands of
his weekly television shows, much less contemplate the
thought of speaking before a stadium full of people for five
straight nights. And then there were all of the other elements
involved in the process – the media interviews, church
appearances, and, worst of all, the inevitable prayer
breakfasts.
“Of course, I’ll be happy to do it,” he was shocked to hear
himself say. “But there is one condition.”
“That’s wonderful,” Daniels said enthusiastically. “What’s
the condition? I'm sure we'll be more than happy to meet it.”
“Before I agree to come, I will require four hundred people
from each of your churches to commit to praying for this
crusade, every day, for a month.”
Again, there was silence.
“Four hundred… but that’s ten thousand people!” his caller
exclaimed. “You can’t be serious?”
“Oh, but I am, Mr. Daniels,” John David assured him. “I
would no more embark on a crusade of this magnitude

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without prayer than I would go into battle without an army
behind me. Don’t be alarmed, young man. I know how long it
takes to put this kind of event together, and I imagine that
July or August will be the earliest you could possibly hope to
stage it. You have the time to gather your volunteers, I’m
certain of it.”
“Well, all right,” Bill Daniels said reluctantly, clearly
feeling somewhat put out. “I guess I’ll, ah, we’ll just have to
see what we can do, then. I’ll get back in touch with you if we
think we’re able to meet your condition.”
“God bless you,” John David told him, and he smiled as he
returned the receiver to its cradle without waiting for a
response.
He had no doubts that young Daniels was a well-meaning
man, but like most energetic young men, he was impatient. It
was a disease of which he himself had finally been cured not
all that long ago. John David leaned back in his chair and
closed his eyes, wondering if he would ever hear from the
young pastor again. He was surprised to find that he hoped
so. Empires vanished into history, books crumbled into dust
and a man’s short life was the most ephemeral thing of all.
But to help a lost sheep find its shepherd, now that was a
legacy that lasted.
To his delight, the image of a lost sheep wandering
through strange meadows sparked a promising train of
thought, and the elderly evangelist reached for a pencil. But
not being gifted with the eyes of Elisha, he had no way of
knowing that behind him, two grim-looking angels with great
scarlet wings had entered the room in silence, their swords
unsheathed.
John David Collins was not the only one with reservations
about Minnesota. It was late in the day and Robin had
traveled far, so he regarded the two oversized Fallen
approaching him with resigned equanimity. Lord Tiercel’s
demesne was not a large one, but it was overly stocked with
demonic bureaucracy and it had taken three days for him to
wrangle permission to cross it with his combination of
forgeries and staggeringly outdated credentials from Albion.
Miss Arendt had written more shrewdly than she could

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possibly have imagined, he thought, sighing, when she
contemplated the banality of evil.
“What’s your business here?” said one ugly brute, who was
approximately twice as tall and three times as wide as Robin.
His yellowed tusks gleamed gold in the light of the setting
sun.
“I don’t suppose you’d believe me if I said I was just a
sight-seer, mate?”
“Nothing here to see. Unless you’re a Divine spy.”
“Why would they need a spy when they have millions of
Guardians scattered about the place?”
The tusked brute paused and looked uncertain. Clearly
the thought had never occurred to him before. Ah well, there
was a first time for everything. Robin took pity on him.
“I’m not a spy. I’m a retired jester from the Court of
Albion, and I heard that the lord of this principality might be
in need of one.”
The two brutes looked at each other and grunted with
amusement. They turned back to him and regarded him with
what could only be interpreted, incredibly as it seemed to
Robin, with condescension.
“So, whatt’ya got?” the wider one said.
“Sorry?”
“Show us what you got,” explained the other.
Robin shrugged and caused five small balls of fire to
appear in front of him. He began juggling them, first in a
normal shower, then in a circular fall. The two brutes looked
at each other and snorted, one of them stifling a yawn. Robin
only grinned contemptuously, and reached into their minds to
extract a few useful items; neither was any better shielded
than a mortal.
As he continued to juggle, he made a few surreptitious
changes to the fireballs. Two began to take on the appearance
of the two guards, the other two were transformed into
reasonable facsimiles of twin temptresses whose images he
plucked from the first guard's mind, and happened to hold
more than a little appeal to the him. As for the last fireball,
he transformed it into the shape of a lovely little Divine angel
whose image he’d stolen from the other guard. Tsk tsk. The
treacherous hound!

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111

The circular shower rose and fell, as before, but now the
two little guard-surrogates sprouted wings and began
frantically beating them, desperate to close the gap that
separated them from the objects of their desire. Slowly,
slowly, they gained on their lovely prey, until finally they
managed to get their grasping claws on the squealing
temptresses, while the left-out Divine looked on and shook
her finger with disapproval.
Robin glanced at his audience and shook his head. The
two were enrapt, so much so that the bigger guard was
practically drooling. They were entirely at his mercy, but he
had no quarrel with them and there was no point in doing
them any harm. He hurled each entwined pair high into the
air, followed by the little angel, and as the first pair reached
the very peak of their arc, all three exploded into a fiery redwhite-and-blue column.
The guards gaped at him, looking almost bereft as he took
a theatrical bow.
“But… but you didn’t finish,” one finally said.
“Oh, I rather think I did. Now, are you satisfied as to my
bona fides?”
“Satisfied to the who?”
“Are you content that I am what I say I am,” said Robin.
“Which is to say, a jongleur extraordinaire, one well worthy of
a prince’s court.”
“Er, ah…” the guard looked at the other one, who
shrugged. “Yeah, sure, okay. But, you know, you might want
to find yourself a different court than Bloodwinter’s.”
Robin raised his eyebrows. “Why do you say that?”
“He don’t really go for that sort of thing,” the guard said.
“Ain't got much of a sense of humor, such as demonlords
go,” the other added.
“I’ll keep that in mind, thank you.” Of course, Robin had
no intention whatsoever of trying to find a place in whatever
passed for a dreary Midwestern court here in the middle of
the great American nowhere. But it was interesting to know
that even the local prince’s lowliest servitors regarded him as
a cold fish. Information wasn’t always useful, but you never
knew when what you thought to be nothing but dross turned
out to be pure gold.

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He waved cheerily to them and whistled as he continued
on his long, counterproductive path. Every step took him
further away from his goal, and yet each one was necessary, if
he hoped to see his mission completed. It was maddening!
Rumors, all he had was rumors, that and the sure knowledge
that he dared not turn back until the die was ready to be cast.
He was free, of that there was no doubt, for not even the long
arm of the Mad One’s stretched easily across oceans, but
there were those attempting to track him down, even as he
himself sought to find the kernel of truth that lay beneath the
whispers, spurious inventions and lies.
A disgraced seraph in New York City. A lowly tempter
wearing a cloak of gold in St. Louis. One of the mighty Sarim,
stripped and shorn of power, enslaved by a cruel northern
prince in Canada. Months had passed since he freed Albion’s
true king, but he was no closer to completing the next step in
his plan to see Oberon restored. Methodically, he stalked
each rumor, hunted it mercilessly to its source only to learn
that the disgraced seraph was a domination with an
exaggerated self-image combined with a reprehensible sense
of history, the golden cloak turned out to be a Halloween jape,
and if Prince Michael or any other member of the Sarim present, former or Shadow - should ever set foot in Toronto
anytime in the future, it would be the first time as far as
Robin could tell.
He frowned. As fruitless as his search had been, and as
much as he longed to turn back, the memory of the night
before his escape from the clutches of the Mad One precluded
him from seriously considering doing so. His present freedom
was no accident. He would have liked to take credit for what
could reasonably be portrayed as an escape, but he knew
better.
After Lahalissa’s noble sacrifice and the brutal mental
assault that rendered him insensible, he had woken in
darkness.
An all-too-brief exploration with his hands
informed him that he was in a cell of sorts with only a single
place of egress, while an even shorter investigation forced him
to conclude that whoever had laid the spellshield around his
cell knew exactly what they were doing. It was impenetrable,
at least five times stronger than the one that had previously

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repulsed him at Oxford. But unlike on that occasion, there
was little hope that the shield would be permitted to decay
and fade away, not while he was still held prisoner here.
Imprisoned and at wholly the mercy of a ruthless devil king
who had no intention of allowing his enemies to roam freely in
his realm.
It was hard, not to give in to sniveling self-pity and gloom,
but he did his best. And yet, as he sat in the darkness and
the sands of time seemed to slow with every depressing
thought of his failure, the temptation to submit grew. What
did he owe Oberon, to hold his silence now? He could not
divulge the Faery King’s whereabouts, but surely the
information he held locked away in his mind would be enough
to purchase his freedom. And was not the Mad One his
rightful liege? Was not possession nine-tenths of the law?
And what did he, one of the most worthless angels ever to be
numbered among the countless legions of the Fallen, care for
the good, the right and the true anyhow?
GET OUT OF MY MIND!
His silent scream caught the intruders off-guard. He could
sense their momentary disconcert, then dismay at being
caught out. He laughed, genuinely amused. Did the Mad
One truly think a few Doubters whispering at his mind would
cause him to despair and reveal all? With an audible snort of
contempt, he slammed a stronger thought screen into place.
He had faced far greater doubts without any outside help over
the last eight centuries, thank you very much; all the same, it
was best not to take unnecessary risks.
He was passing the time by watching a duel between two
battling automatons he had created from the dust and dirt of
the cell when there was a scratching at his door. It was quiet,
barely audible, in fact, which led him to conclude that
whoever was out there was not supposed to be there.
Abandoning his tiny gladiators to crumble into their
component materials, he kneeled at the door and placed his
ear against it, then scratched three times himself.
“Robin, is that you?”
“Titania?”
“Shhh, not so loud!”

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“What are you doing here? Can you get me out of here?
Can you break the shield?”
“No! Now, be quiet and listen to me. Tomorrow, they’re
going to let you escape. But don’t be fooled! They’ll be
watching you.”
Don’t be fooled? You either escaped or you didn’t. What
was she going on about?
“What?”
“I won’t say his name, but the one who was trying to break
your mind knows now that he can’t, so he’s counting on you to
lead him to Oberon. After he visits you tomorrow evening,
they’ll lock the door but conveniently forget to restore the
shield. They know you’ll walk shadow and fly out, and they
think you’ll run right to Oberon.”
Hmmm. That did make sense, except Robin wasn’t sure
how far he could trust Titania. While she had told him where
Oberon was bound, she had not spoken up for either Gloriana
or Lahalissa. Or him, for that matter. Not that he was
surprised about the latter. His queen had never forgiven him
for that amusing little affair of old, not so much due to the
embarrassing ensorcellment, but for his later cruelty in
playing the muse for a certain Elizabethan gentleman.
Immortal queen, she was now cursed with an unwanted
immortality of an altogether different sort. Did the old
grudge now outweigh her fickle loyalties? That was the
question.
“Why should I believe you? You didn’t exactly play the
great defender in there.”
“What would that have accomplished? Look, you don’t
have to believe me. You’ll see what happens soon enough.”
She sounded exasperated. “Just promise me that if they leave
the shield down, you won’t go running to him, not right
away.”
“I couldn’t anyway… I don’t know where he is. Truly.”
There was a momentary silence. “Oh,” she said. “Well,
that’s good, I suppose. Under the circumstances.”
“Yes, rather.” A thought occurred to him. “But, aren’t we
just back where we started then, if neither one of us can aid
him? Diavelina won’t wait forever before making her move,

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and we’ve got to unseat the usurper before then if he’s to have
any chance of holding Albion’s crown against her.”
Albion’s crown. And her sceptre. But not that cursed
throne. That would certainly have to go. Robin shivered. He
didn’t know if there was any way to free the doomed spirits
trapped in that abominable prison, but he hoped there was.
Especially since, Titania’s prediction notwithstanding, there
was still a reasonable chance he was going to end up in there
himself.
“We are, and we aren’t. Listen to me. I don’t know if you
figured it out or not, but Maomoondagh is not truly an angel.
He – ”
“I knew it!”
“Shhh! Listen to me. He is, but he's something more as
well. Something older. I don’t think he’s mad, it’s as if
there's more than one mind in there!”
Robin wasn’t sure what he had been expecting to hear, but
whatever it was, it wasn’t that. A demonlord who wasn’t a
fallen angel? He’d never heard of such a thing! And yet, it
would explain a lot about his unpredictability, if not his
madness. His power, too, was anomalous. Could it be that
there were entities that walked unknown amongst the Host
and Legions in the same manner that they themselves
intersected the mortal world?
“Older, like Leviathan?”
“Exactly. Leviathan was the king of Chaos, and he
survived. Is it so unthinkable to suppose that others of his ilk
might have survived the swords of Heaven?”
“Not entirely, no, I guess. Does anyone else know anything
about this?”
“Someone must. I don’t have the time to tell you of
everything that led to… to the betrayal of my love. But know
this. Some of the mightiest names among the Fallen were
involved, and they saw fit to force the Mad One upon us. Why
they should wish to unseat him now, I do not know – I can
only imagine that he has played his part and they have no
need for him anymore.”
“If he is not one of us, how can we hope to destroy him?”
“If he is truly a creature of Chaos, then there is one
weapon that should suffice. Oberon told me stories of the age

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when Heaven first warred against Chaos, when the Thirty
rode with Heaven’s King and Leviathan was struck down and
bound. They bore great swords forged from the very bones of
the Chaos Lords, and the mightiest of them was Arabel, the
Sword of Wrath, and Prince Jehuel was its lord.”
“The Lord of the Sword! I’d heard the name, but I never
knew the story behind it.”
“Then mark this well, Robin. Prince Jehuel is fallen!
Where he is, and more importantly, where Arabel might be, I
do not know. Many years ago, it was supposed to be in
Albion, but I never knew there to be any truth to the rumor.
You must find him, in any case, for no angel can wield that
blade but him.”
Robin was intrigued, although he found it difficult to
believe that there was ever a weapon bonded only to a specific
angel. How did that work? It was possible, he supposed.
Tricky. Mortals were easier. He considered the matter for a
moment when he realized that Titania had gone silent.
“Titania?” he whispered uncertainly. There was no reply,
except for a faint scratching. She was still there, it seemed,
so he waited patiently, until he heard her voice again, even
softer than before.
“A guard passed by, but the spell held and he did not mark
me. Now, I must go before my fortune fades, but remember,
do not go to Oberon when you are freed!”
“Wait! Titania!” Robin did not dare to raise his voice, but
he scratched furiously at the door. He had more questions to
ask, like where he should start looking for this Jehuel, and
why she believed that no one else could bear his marvelous
sword. But she did not reply, and after a long, frustrating
silence, he was forced to conclude that she had abandoned
him again.
The next evening, however, he learned that she had
spoken truly. The Mad One’s visit was almost perfunctory,
although there was nothing half-hearted about the demon
king’s attempt to force his mind. By the time the door
slammed, leaving him in darkness, he was sprawled on his
back and blinking at the tiny, bright-coloured fairies that
appeared to be zooming haphazardly about his vision. After a

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while, they began to fade, leaving behind the unquestioned
grandmother of every headache he’d ever had.
Gingerly, tenderly, he began to examine the interior of his
mind. The first geas he found was obvious, the second rather
less so, and the third would surely have escaped his notice
had he not been on the look-out for even the most subtle
spells of compulsion. Titania was right. Maomoondagh must
see him as the easiest way to ferret out Oberon’s hiding place;
well, he intended to see how long the Mad One’s arm reached,
and just how far he was willing to stretch it. Not too far, he
guessed, not with Moloch's savage spawn preparing to move
against him.
The downside, of course, was that that very same threat
left him with very little time. Not that he had much to do.
Just track down a fallen angel lord and convince him to drop
whatever he was doing and wield his sword on Oberon’s
behalf against someone who had never done anything to him.
Piece of cake, really.
He shifted out of the material world and gave his wings
the faintest flutter. He held his hand up above his head as he
floated slowly upward, just in case Titania had misheard or
the Mad One had changed his mind. But the roof was just a
roof, nothing but easily penetrated plaster and concrete tile –
the more substantial barrier to his kind was no longer there.
He was free, in a manner of speaking. He also had no doubt
that there were eyes upon him, watching closely to see which
way he would fly.
He flew west. But as he flew, he could sense the watching
eyes upon him.
Angels travel in a wide variety of manners. There are, of
course, their famous wings, although a surprising number are
deprived of their use, either as a punishment or because they
have been forcibly removed. There are also the famous
chariots of fire, although these have fallen into disrepute
among the Fallen, who, though they will deny it, find their
preferences insensibly altered over time by their greater
immersion in the crass materiality of the mortal world. Your
average demon would not be caught dead in such an outdated

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vehicle, and would vastly prefer to be seen inside the sleek
lines of a Ferrari, a Lamborghini or a Porsche.
And while it is no great hardship for even the lowliest of
the low to painstakingly wing his way across the Atlantic, the
vast majority of those who must make such a transit elect to
hitch a ride with their mortal lessers – indeed, accounting for
the guardians and tempters who must perforce escort their
mortal charges, the average transatlantic flight may have
three or four times as many unticketed passengers as it does
paying customers.
So it was that after escaping, in a manner of speaking, the
Mad One’s clutches, Robin immediately struck out for
Heathrow. He kept a close watch out for anyone following
him, but he did not see anything until he swooped low upon
the tarmac and there, caught in silhouette against the light of
the Moon, were two fallen archons soaring high above him.
He pretended not to see them until a British Airways 747
began its lumbering takeoff, at which point he ran alongside
the huge machine, leaped nimbly astride one of the roaring
engines underneath the wing, and waved a cheery goodbye to
them.
The archons, belatedly realizing his intention, roared and
plunged towards him, but by then the massive jet was already
leaving the ground and there was no way the demonic pair
could catch up with the mortal machine. They were powerful
spirits, but they were created for battle, not speed, and so
they pulled up, stymied by his unexpected flight, shouting
furious curses that were as harmless as they were ill-meant.

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C H A P T E R 13

SECRET ASSASSIN
I NEVER TRY ANYTHING, I JUST DO IT.
YOU WANNA TRY ME?
— White Zombie, (“Thunderkiss '65”)

N

ow that he was safely past the border, Robin was of the
opinion
that
sharing
the
no-doubt
wretched
accommodation of the Twice-Fallen might well be preferable
to spending even one evening in this pair of podunkvilles on
the great American prairie. The river divided not only the
two mortal cities, but also their corresponding Fallen
principalities. The one on the left belonged to a nonentity
named Bloodwinter, it seemed, and he recalled one of the
border guards saying that the other bank was ruled by a
jumped-up naiad who called herself Lim-Nithural.
He decided to go right. Bloodwinter sounded like a
crashing bore, and the lights of the city to the west were
markedly brighter. He’d hit one or two of the hotspots, ask a
few questions here and there, and then move on. The chances
that his elusive Sarim was here were next to none, so he
might as well see where the local Fallen were congregating
and blow off some steam.
Now that he was safely past the border, he felt free to take
to the air. There wasn’t much of a breeze, though, so he
stroked his way over to the interstate highway, then amused
himself by surfing down the road on the top of a black
Escalade containing a handsome young couple who appeared
to be heading into the heart of the city for an evening on the
town. It was exhilarating; they were only moving about one
hundred kilometers an hour, but the speed of the ground
flashing by just five feet below him made it feel as if they
were going even faster. He was down a strata and partially

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substantial – the threat of some serious road rash only added
to the rush – though he was still invisible to the mortal eye.
“What do you think you’re doing?” A Guardian stuck his
head out the open window and pointed the business end of a
sword at him. Robin could feel the heat of its intense flames
on his face. “Back off, or I’ll throw you off myself!”
“Cheers, mate!” Robin said, and he spread his wings to aid
his balance as he leaped off the back of the Cadillac and ran
up the hood and windshield of the following Audi. An
unexpected shift into the left lane nearly sent him flying off
the second car, but he managed to avoid a nasty tumble with
a lucky grab at the car’s ski rack. He laughed, thoroughly
enjoying himself.
Tunes, that’s all I need now.
A young girl was driving the car, dancing in her seat and
singing along to some execrable kitty pop. Enough of that.
He lashed her mind, barely more sapient than the squirrels of
Sussex Weald. HIT SEEK.
She hit the button and obediently tuned the radio to 93.7,
the local metal station. It wasn’t exactly what he was looking
for, but it was close enough in this colonial cultural
backwater.
“Hey!” a big Tempter sitting alone in the backseat popped
his head up and shouted at him through the open sunroof.
“What do you think you’re doing? Don’t be messing with her
head!”
“Don’t be such a wanker, mate! I’m just skitching a ride
downtown and I couldn’t stand that screechy piddle. I’ll hit
you baby, one more time.... I don’t suppose you know where
there might be any action?”
“You’re not from around here, are you.”
“I can tell you’re the bright boy, you are.”
“Hey, there’s no need for that! Anyhow, it depends on
what you mean by action. The Divine here are pretty tame,
for the most part, but if you don’t have any objection to
getting your head handed to you, you can try over on the East
Side –”
“No, mate, not that kind of action. I’m a lover, not a
fighter. I was thinking more in terms of general debauchery,
lonely Temptresses in need of consolation, that sort of thing.”

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121

“Okay, right. Yeah, well, you definitely want to stay on the
west side of the river, then. Things move around, you know,
but First Ave is always a good place to start. Even if
nothing’s happening on the locality, someone there will know
where it is.”
The car shifted lanes again and Robin swayed with the
vehicle’s motion, then crouched lower as the Audi took an Scurve at speeds well in excess of the limit.
“Hey, what’s the matter with you? You’re not all in the
meat, are you?”
“No, just a tad. You should try it sometime, it’s the
ultimate high-speed skateboard.”
“Yeah, but if you fall off, dude, it’s going to hurt!”
“It wouldn’t be any fun if it didn’t, mate. The whole point
is to stay on, right? So, where’s this street of which you speak
so highly?”
“Not a street, a club. My girl here is heading south, but
we’ll pass right under the Washington bridge. We’re almost
there. Hop off on it and go east to First, then take a left and
head south for seven blocks until you see a black building on
your left. It’s just past the Target Center, the big arena on
the right, you can’t miss it.”
“Brilliant!”
The car crested a rise, and threw Robin about a meter in
the air. Fortunately, the young driver did not elect to switch
lanes at that moment, otherwise, he would have lost it for
sure. For the first time, he was able to see the scattered
skyscrapers of the little downtown district; there were about
six buildings truly worthy of the name. The motorway then
plunged downward and the car zoomed past a series of high
concrete walls; he was surprised to see that there was no
graffiti on them whatsoever. Given a week, the London street
artists would have had them covered with everything from
imaginative murals of Che Guevara and Osama bin Laden to
the crudest vulgarities. Was there some strange Divine
influence at work here, or could it be that the local art proles
simply preferred guerilla street theatre?
“Hey, that’s the bridge I was telling you about!” The
tempter pointed at a concrete-and-steel structure towards

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which they were rushing with some velocity. “Have a good
time!”
“Thanks!” Robin sprang upward, furling his wings as he
spread his arms and arched his back. His body rotated
backwards even as it hurtled forward at nearly 100
kilometers an hour, and he felt a delicious chill of fear as he
wondered if he’d jumped high enough. As his head came
around, he was happy to see the oxidized guard rails
protecting the edge of the bridge flash beneath him, and he
immediately stretched out his wings to serve as an
improvised air brake. They slowed him just enough to allow
him to hit a graceful two-point landing on the sidewalk less
than two meters from the far end of the bridge.
Clap. Clap. Clap. The applause was slow, even sarcastic.
He looked up and saw a blonde demoness eyeing him with
equal parts amusement and contempt. She was gaunt and
her inner fire was barely more than glowing embers – he
guessed she was probably the spirit of the nondescript bridge,
or perhaps simply a wandering dryad who’d lost her tree.
“That was the stupidest thing I’ve ever seen,” she said.
“You were third-street, weren’t you. I could tell by the
sound.”
“It was brilliant, wasn’t it!” he agreed. Street, that must
be the local slang, he decided. It was new to him, anyhow.
He shrugged. Whatever. “No risk, no reward, my dear.” She
laughed, and her half-sneer was abruptly transformed into a
one-sided half-smile.
“So, what’s going on, English? You look new to town.”
“I am. I’m looking for a place on the First Avenue. A
nightclub of sorts. Can you take me there?”
He grinned as she looked him over. A calculating little
devil, she was. Not that he had much to offer her, except
perhaps a break from the everyday boredom of its place. It
wasn’t much, but apparently, it was enough.
“Do I look like I can?”
She didn’t, actually. When he looked closer, he saw that
his initial surmise had been correct and there was a thin
skein of silver circling her neck that kept her leashed to the
bridge. It would stretch, but not more than a block or two
without snapping. The consequences wouldn’t be lethal, not

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123

immediately, but after a few minutes what little fire she
possessed would dissipate into the various shadows as she, or
rather, the remnants of her consciousness, were scattered
across the Void. And by the time they were drawn together
again, as they would inexorably be drawn, ten thousand years
might pass. As with most things, immortality was not quite
all that it was cracked up to be.
“Perhaps I can do something about that.” He reached out
and grasped the skein, and with a twist of his wrist, severed
it. She staggered back and took a deep breath, given the
terror in her eyes an obvious prelude to a scream, but he
raised a hand and silenced her. “Don’t worry, I’m just giving
you a night off.”
“You are? But, how can you do that? It's not possible.”
“It’s one of the few compensations that come with the job.”
He winked at her. “We itinerant sorts have the need to take a
few liberties every now and then. Just don’t tell anyone you
left your bill – it’s not going to fall down without you, is it?”
“Hardly. It’s no Ponte Vecchio, but it’s sturdy enough.”
She was staring, amazed, at the remnant of silver still
attached to her neck. She held it in her hand for a moment,
then dropped it and glanced up at him with a speculative
stare. “Hey, you’re not one of those Teeth guys, are you?”
“By Teeth, I assume you are referring to the oft-rumored,
but never-seen angelic agency known in the vernacular as
Satan’s Teeth, which reports directly to Our Dear Lord
Sathanas and executes His will on those spirits who have
failed, disobeyed or otherwise annoyed him sufficiently to
require their immediate removal from this plane of being?”
“Yeah!” She practically moaned the word. Her eyes were
gleaming and she was quivering with excitement.
“Never heard of them. So, where is this place we’re
headed?”
She frowned, obviously not believing his denial, but
confused enough by his answer to refrain from inquiring
further. She was not the brightest demoness he’d ever
encountered and she suited his needs admirably. Any tales
he left behind him would surely be so blown out of proportion
as to render both him and his activities entirely
unrecognizable.

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“First Avenue? It’s up that way… not too far. Yeah, I’ll
show you, if you like. I don’t see why not. So, what’s your
name?”
“I’ve known a few in my time. But you can call me
Angelus.”
“I don't believe you.”
“You shouldn’t. It’s not my real name.”
She laughed, obviously won over. She was also correct in
saying that it wasn’t far to their destination. After a
surprisingly pleasant walk through the uncrowded city, which
reminded him somewhat of the gauche tourist’s corridor in
the heart of Dublin, they reached a two-story black building
squatting on a corner.
He was disappointed, though
unsurprised to discover that it was not only a grotty little
place, even sketchier than most of London’s naffer clubs, but
three-quarters empty as well.
“Let me get this straight,” he said. “They close here at two
o’clock, and no one even goes out until ten? Is this one of
those towns inhabited by the Amish? Or is it the Mormons? I
can never keep them straight.”
“No, it’s just a Midwestern thing,” said his tour guide, who
had warmed to her temporary job. Her name was Pamillia,
and she was a wealth of mind-numbing information on
bridges and other forms of mortal architecture. “No great
sinners, not much angst, and there's not a whole lot in the
way of human tragedy, but there’s tons of mortal stupidity to
laugh at if you go in for that sort of thing.”
“Farce, in other words.”
“Um, yeah.
Did you know that they call this the
Minneapple?”
“This being what, the city?”
“Yes. I think it's supposed to make you think of the Big
Apple.”
Robin laughed and rolled his eyes.
“How very
cosmopolitan. No wonder they have an inferiority complex. I
swear, if only Dante had ever visited, he surely would have
made it a circle of Hell. Somewhere between the fifth and
sixth, I should think. Annoia, that lonely hell where those
who bore others to tears and madness are sentenced. Isn’t

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there anywhere else we can go? Let’s pretend we’re mortals
and we have livers to mistreat.”
“I don't get it.” She stared at him blankly.
“I want a drink. Something that will put heat in my belly
and make my head spin. Not like Linda Blair or anything,
though. Hells below, that would be redundant!”
“Oh, okay. Do you have any money?”
“Don’t be silly.” He shifted, snapped his fingers and a fifty
dollar bill appeared. “It’s just an elementary matter of
moving around a few atomic particles.”
She stared at him, her gaunt face full of envy.
“I can’t even walk shadow, forget doing something like
that. I’ll go with you, but you’ll have to drink alone. I’m
stuck here.”
“Stuff and nonsense.” He pulled her to him and she did
not hold back. He kissed her, and as he tasted her dry,
cracked lips, he infused her with just enough power to walk
shadow for an evening or two. “Have yourself a go now.”
She did, and a delighted smile spread across her emaciated
face as she dropped two shadows and several centimeters and
landed on the stool over which she’d been hovering. Even if
her frame wasn’t bordering on the skeletal, her mouth would
have been too wide for beauty, but for a moment there was
something lovely in the pure delight which filled her angled
blue eyes. Still smiling, she reached over and plucked the
fifty from his hand.
“You said you’d been wandering the States for a while,
now. If you’re looking for a taste of the old country, I know
where we can go spend this. You might even want to conjure
up another three or four, while you’re at it.”
“Brilliant.” Robin nodded approvingly at the image of the
pub she held in her mind. It would be a poor, tacky imitation
of the real thing, of course, but at least the ale, being
imported, would probably be genuine. And if by the most
remote chance there happened to be any of the Mad One’s
agents lurking about, they wouldn’t be on the lookout for a
mortal couple. He made a few alterations to both of their
appearances. “Like it?”
“Oh, yes, thank you!” She ran her hand over her new
clothing and unfamiliar curves. The Burberry skirt was a

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vast improvement on the tattered black rags that had
hitherto adorned her formerly skeletal legs. “Can I go look at
myself?”
“Go on, powder your nose,” he urged her, as she rose
quickly from the table. “But don’t be too long. If I’m still
sitting here in twenty minutes, my head might explode from
the sheer lack of stimulus.”
She was beaming when she returned, well within his time
limit. He couldn’t help returning her smile; perhaps not all
demons could derive pleasure from the joy of another, but he
could. “Let’s go!” she said, taking his hand and pulling him to
his feet. They walked along the avenue, past a block of dark,
abandoned retail shops that ended in an explosion of neon
lights, headlights, streetlights and people. Arm-in-arm, they
crossed a pair of busy intersections before turning south and
entering a somewhat quieter, though still distinctly urban
neighborhood. There were trees scattered here and there on
corners, and the traffic was reduced to an occasional car or
two instead of the slow-moving throng that choked the main
downtown thoroughfairs.
But as they turned the corner, he was pleased to see that
midway down the block, the sidewalk was barricaded by
white plastic chairs, the vast majority of which were occupied
by mortals in their second and third decades. Guinness was
flowing freely from the taps, it seemed, unless the dark liquid
that filled many of the mugs was Coca-cola. Above the
entrance was a large blue sign proudly adorned with three
white lions and when a waitress emerged from beneath it, she
was accompanied by the unmistakable aroma of fish and
chips.
It was at moments like this that Robin almost envied
mortals. What passed for a stomach in his Seventh form was
rumbling. The taproom itself was crowded and noisy, and he
was forced to resort to a moderate amount of mental coercion
to encourage a party of four to vacate their corner booth in a
timely manner. A waitress, seeing them leave, glanced over
and caught Robin’s eye. It was too loud to call out his order,
so he made do with holding up two fingers of one hand and
pulling an imaginary lever with the other.

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“This is fun!” said his companion of the evening. It was, to
be sure, but it was a rather sad statement, since it was
probably the most pleasure she had known in decades. And,
he reminded himself, her pathetic existence would look like
paradise compared to what his would be should he or Oberon
fall into the wrong hands too soon.
Never mind that. Tonight, he fully intended to put such
thoughts aside. They would wait for the morrow. He saluted
her health and took a healthy slug of ale. Yes, that was
rather better, wasn’t it!
They were on their third mug, and she was doing her
cheerful best to stay with him when a strangely familiar
figure walked past the bar and mounted the steps that led to
what looked like a game room upstairs. It was an attractive
woman, mortal, he’d thought for a moment, until he looked
again and saw the flames coursing inside her. Her head was
cropped close to the scalp, the reddish stubble showing
starkly against the underlying white skin, as if it had been
recently shaved. I’ve seen her before! But where? Could it
be... yes, it almost certainly was! How strange that she
should be here, of all places, although I've not seen her for
ages. What has it been, four hundred years? No, almost five
hundred! Still, he wasn’t entirely sure it was her, until she
glanced back at the room and her green eyes swept
unknowingly across his. But he knew her. He was sure of it.
“My dear, please do excuse me,” he apologized to the
demoness of the bridge. “I believe I have seen an old friend,
and I think it would be best if you left now.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll be fine,” she said, her eyes on a handsome
mortal at the next table.
“I think you misunderstand.” His icy tone caught her
attention, and her eyes widened as he stole an image from her
mind and allowed it to flicker out momentarily from within
him. It was her notion of what the dread Teeth must be like;
merciless eyes, black on black, staring out of a handsome,
debonair face that was insouciant in its cold arrogance. The
portrait of an assassin who gloried in his job and would not
hesitate to destroy all that stood between him and his prey.
She shivered before him, sheer terror mixed with delicious
pleasure.

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“I knew it!” she whispered triumphantly.
“Go,” he urged her, slipping the worthless mortal money
he’d created into her slender hands. “Go quickly, before it is
too late.”
She blew him a kiss, mouthed a silent “thank you”, and
hastily exited the building. Robin smiled, feeling indulgent,
and hoped that she’d make the most of her time in the mortal
realm before the bridge began to draw her back again to her
lonely prison. If nothing else, any tale she might tell was sure
to confuse anyone inquiring into the actions of a stranger in
this town.
He finished off his mug before making his way towards the
stairs. He climbed them slowly, wondering if he was foolish
to risk speaking with one who knew exactly who he was. But
they had been allies before, long ago, and furthermore, if he
could be sure of one thing, it was that she would not betray
him to anyone who served the Mad One. She was at the far
corner of the room, like him, disguised as a mortal, shooting
American billiards with two other fallen angels who were in
similar camoflage.
She was good, he saw. No expert, but a talented amateur.
There were three solids and two stripes remaining on the
table, and as he watched, she pocketed both stripes on a
single, well-struck shot. Her leave was less than optimal, but
somehow, she managed to sink the eight despite the partial
obstruction afforded by the red solid. As it dropped into the
leather, she punctuated her win with a brief cry of triumph.
But her joy was short lived, as her head whipped around at
the sound of his applause. Her eyes, the lovely shade of
emerald green that had made him sure of her, narrowed with
suspicion for a moment, before widening suddenly when he
stepped towards her.
“Hello, Melusine,” Robin said, extending both his hands.
“How delightful to see you again after all these years!”

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C H A P T E R 14

CLOUDS OF LIES AND DUST
A CONSTANT WAVE OF TENSION
ON TOP OF BROKEN TRUST
THE LESSONS THAT YOU TAUGHT ME
I LEARNED WERE NEVER TRUE
— Linkin Park, (“Runaway”)

B

y mutual agreement, no less understood for all that it
was unspoken, Robin and Melusine left the pub together
without sharing more than the most trivial information with
her companions. They had been conspirators once, and there
was something comfortable about this easy complicity,
insignificant though it was. She led him out the back, down
an iron staircase and out onto an open field that looked as if it
would serve equally well for cricket, lawn bowling or a
romantic assignation.
They stopped in the middle of the field and stood together
under the moonlight. Robin studied Melusine, struck by the
changes time had unaccountably wrought on her. It was her,
truly her, not some aspect she'd assumed. Highlighted by the
night shadows, her prominent cheekbones were like blades,
threatening to slice through the white, paper-thin skin that
barely held them in check. Her figure was no less voluptuous
than before, but there was a cavernous quality to her eyes,
which in combination with the prison-camp hairstyle and the
absence of her wings, made it obvious that she had suffered
much since he'd seen her last. The years, for all their
seeming impotence, had a way of leaving their mark on
immortals too.
“What have they done to you?”
“To me?” She sounded startled, but then she ran a hand
self-consciously over her shorn head. “Why, nothing much.

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Just a gentle reminder to watch my nose, that’s all. It's not so
bad. Even losing my wings has turned out to be more of an
annoyance than anything else, really.”
“How can you say that?” Robin, recalling the beauty of
those lustrous, perfectly-symmetrical black wings, was
shocked. “Melusine, were I not so sure that it is indeed you, I
do not think I would recognize you!”
She did not sound at all like the spirited, wildly rebellious
fallen angel he’d known before. Where was the fierce pride he
had known and admired? The towering ambition? She was
like a falcon tethered, her will broken to the falconer. But
where was the falconer?
“I’m not sure I recognize myself anymore. Puck, dear,
what are you doing here in flyover country? Please tell me
you’ve abandoned that mad scheme to find Oberon and put
him back on the throne.”
“I’ve abandoned that mad scheme to find Oberon,” he
repeated obediently.
“Hell's below, but getting a straight answer out of you is
practically a matter of eschatological significance. Tell me,
honestly, what are you doing here?”
“I prefer to think of myself as a being of some
circumspection.”
“Yes, well, everyone else thinks of you as a being who is
full of it. You still haven't answered me.”
He smiled, anticipating her forthcoming reaction. “No, it's
true, I have abandoned it. Looking for him, anyhow. Of
course, that's mostly because I found him. I’m still working
on the latter half of the equation.”
“You found him?” She gasped, her lovely eyes widening
with momentary excitement, before they darkened. She
shook her head despairingly. “Oh, Puck. Didn’t you learn
anything from last time? No, I suppose not. You didn’t enjoy
a decade's worth of close personal attention from the Sons of
Sorrow.”
“Yes, I generally prefer to avoid such experiences.”
“I didn't have a choice, and you know it. So, do you know
what they've made of me now? A temptress, and a disgraced
one at that. That’s how low I have fallen!”

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131

“I have always admired fallen women,” Robin said,
drawing a brief flicker of amusement from the emerald eyes.
“You should be in the Pit!”
“I fear the remnants of my better judgment sufficed to save
me from that sad fate.”
“Yes, well, I should have exercised better judgment when
you came begging us to dethrone Maomoondagh on behalf of
your master.”
He shook his head, but responded gently. He knew on
whose behalf she spoke so bitterly. “Don’t be silly, Melusine.
You leaped at the opportunity. So did he. We all did. It was
a risk worth taking. We failed, but even so, I cannot say that
I regret it.”
“Because you are still here to do so!” Anger flushed her
pallid face. Even bereft of her glorious mane, she was
beautiful still, and Robin felt a pang of the old jealousy,
knowing that he could never compare with the memory of her
magnificent, long-banished love. The more so because her
darling Raimon had fallen before the wicked blade of
Merovael himself when his rebellious hand was forced too
soon by an untimely betrayal.
“He will return one day, Melusine, if he has not already.”
“Yes, of course, but as what? The guardian spirit of a tree
stump? The tempter of a Hindu child living somewhere in the
deepest jungles of the subcontinent? He will not know me,
nor I him! I’ve seen what happens to them, Puck, to those
who finally finish the long road back. They know nothing of
who they are, their memories are blank, as empty as the void
itself! It's true! Why, do you know, one of the tempters of my
charge’s family was once a member of the Sarim!”
“What?” Robin was truly surprised. He'd never heard of
such a thing. “He must be lying! Perhaps he's trying to
impress you?”
“Not at all! I was there when he called out Lord Kaym!
He had once been an angel-prince, but when I met him he was
a dryad calling himself Bog-something or other! He couldn’t
even remember his name!”
“Which was?”
“Prince Jehuel,” Melusine said, and Robin blinked, feeling
rather as if he'd been hit with a face with the side of a

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broadsword. Fortunately, Melusine was too consumed with
her angry diatribe to notice that her audience was standing
slack-jawed in astonishment. Jehuel was here? Jehuel was
here! Robin fought the sudden urge to throw his arms around
his old friend and cackle madly with glee. Jehuel, the Lord of
the Sword his own bad self, was actually lurking about this
civilization-forsaken charade of a jumped-up farm town!
Hellfire and hallelujah!
“The shame, the shame of it,” Robin clucked and shook his
head sympathetically, though at what, he was not sure since
he hadn't heard a word she said since the beautiful name of
Jehuel had passed her lips. He was tempted to make a clean
breast of it and ask Melusine for her help, when the back door
burst open and a giant brute of ill visage appeared in the
doorframe.
Illuminated as he was from behind, Robin couldn't actually
see his face, but judging from the multiple large protrusions
that stuck out of the general region of the elongated shadow's
face, Robin doubted the interloper would be winning any
beauty contests. The demon paused for a moment, then
roared over his shoulder at someone behind him. Robin
groaned. The timing could not have been worse.
“Say, Melusine, it's been delightfully wonderful too see you
again and I'm ever so tremendously sorry, but I need to
vacate the premises – right now.”
“What?” She didn't have the chance to say more as he
shoved her to the ground and leaped into the sky, unfurling
his wings as he rose.
“Where can I find you?” he shouted, darting at the demons
– there were two of them – then spinning up and away. At all
costs, he had to lead them away from Melusine before she
tried to aid him. He wasn't sure, but they looked like
Nazkachi, mercenary trackers who were more than capable of
dealing with those they tracked down.
“The Lewis house. In Mounds Park.”
Wherever that was. Well, first things first. He'd find it
later, assuming there was a later. At the moment, there was
the small, if rather pressing matter of losing this pair of
unsightly brutes, who were showing a rather disturbing turn
of speed as they pursued him, and losing them in such a way

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133

that they would not be in any shape to investigate just what
might happen to be of interest at the intriguing Lewis house
in Mounds View.
He heard a hissing noise behind him and banked left. Just
in time, too, as something very hot warmed the bottoms of his
feet as it passed behind him. Glancing back, he saw the
second demon's jaws open, spitting out another ball of
supernaturally heated flame. Flamethrowing Nazkachi, how
perfectly fascinating! Not for the first time, he was glad that
the first thing he did in any new city was find a place or two
to leave unwanted companions behind, unfortunately, at the
rate they were gaining, he was never going to make it.
Necessity is the mother of invention. After one more jet of
hellfire nearly scalded his shoulder, he tucked his wings and
rolled sideways, then hurled two daggers at his pursuers.
One was forced to roll and drop, buying him a little space, but
the other simply caught the blade, palm-first, and grinned
savagely at him before belching out another roaring miniinferno. Hades and tarnation, so much for fighting it out!
The Nazkachi didn't seem too worried about harming him,
which was good to know. Either Maomoondagh had already
found Oberon, or the Mad One simply wanted him out of the
picture for good….
Robin ducked under a huge, evil-looking sword that was
intended to behead him, then slid sideways. It was a
dangerous move, but he was desperate now. He was trapped
between them, with the second Nazkach coming in hard from
behind.
His timing was flawless. Just as he slipped to the left, the
approaching brute let fly with a prodigious flame that took his
monstrous companion right in the face. Robin didn't look
back; every second counted now and the screaming stopped
sooner than he would have imagined. They were powerfully
strong, these brutes.
He reached the church parking lot in the nick of time,
dropping under a gout of flame so hot it seemed to melt the
air as it flew past him. He winked at the big, armored
guardian, who watched with an expression of curiosity that
turned to shock as Robin crossed the boundary line and
flashed past him. Robin didn't slow down, but the familiar

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crackle of swordfire was followed almost immediately by a
demonic snarl.
The subsequent explosion of white wings and flaming
swords that erupted from the church, its rooftop and the
general vicinity was like an bonfire in a blizzard. Several of
both, in fact. An alert slinger managed to lob a fireball at
him, but he dodged it easily, and then he was clear of the
Divine domain. Turning about, he hung in the air and
watched the ensuing battle with amused satisfaction.
The Nazkachi gave a good account of themselves – he'd
expected no less – but even two Hell Barons might have found
it difficult to defend themselves from what appeared to be half
a Host of outraged guardians. The Divine even managed to
produce a Throne riding a fiery chariot, and the great angel
struck down the burned hunter with a great lance of blue-hot
fire. The other Nazkach laid about him like a maniac, but try
as he might, he could not fight his way to the edge of the
domain, and he finally fell with a terrible, angry cry,
disappearing in a great red-purple flash that made Robin see
spots.
“Good thing they do Saturday services there, he reflected
idly, as he lazily stroked his way back towards the city. Time
to find a phone book and figure out where this Mounds Park
place might be.

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C H A P T E R 15

BLACK WING’D SHAME
WHEN DARKNESS HIDES INSIDE ITS OWN SHADOW
THE DEVIL BEATS HIS DRUM
CASTING OUT HIS NAME
DRAGGING ALL HIS OWN DOWN INTO SHAME
— David Sylvian, (“The Devil's Own”)

T

hese endless days of summer were growing increasingly
dreary, thought Melusine as she stood idly on the freshly
mowed grass of the backyard lawn and watched Jami kick
around a soccer ball with Christopher and Jason. Which was
strange, since little had changed over the last few weeks.
Was it perhaps the unlooked-for reunion with Puck that had
unsettled her equanimity, and the reminder that the proud
angel she had once been would never have accepted her
current fate with such unseemly resignation? The fact that
he had left any such recriminations unspoken actually made
her feel worse; what did it mean that he had spared her his
sharp tongue, except that she was too pathetic to inspire his
obvious contempt.
Still, there were worse things to face than boredom and
contempt, and she consoled herself with the reminder that
things were nowhere nearly as bad for her as they might have
been. She was still surprised she’d survived the dangerous
fallout from Kaym’s disastrous prom night failure; when she
learned that it was Bogharael’s ill-considered and untimely
boasting that had alerted the Divine to the Great Lord’s
deadly plans, she’d given herself up for lost.
But it seemed that Prince Bloodwinter had not been
entirely displeased to see the Master of the Star Wheel
brought low by his pyrrhic victory. Melusine had not dared to
meet the Prince’s eyes when she was dragged into his

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presence, chained and gagged, but it was definitely
amusement that she heard in his voice when he pronounced
her punishment. And there was perhaps some humor to be
found in the notion that one of the Fallen’s greatest angels
had gone to such efforts only to reap the meager harvest of a
single mortal soul, while sending fourteen others straight into
the bosom of the Enemy.
Whether it was Bloodwinter’s unexpected sense of irony, or
simply hatred for Kaym that had saved her, Melusine neither
knew nor cared. She had survived, that was the main thing,
and if a portion of her beauty was taken from her, well, there
was always the hope of reclaiming it again someday. She ran
a hand over her shorn head, relieved that the prickly stubble
had finally grown long enough to soften and feel like hair
again. It wouldn’t be too long before it would start to lie flat,
and even if the glorious mane she’d formerly possessed was
forbidden to her now, there were some shorter hairstyles that
wouldn’t look bad on her. This would be an excellent time to
experiment with them, at least until she was permitted to
grow out her hair once more. She made a mental note to steal
a peek at some of Holli’s fashion magazines.
It was the loss of her wings that troubled her more, her
nonchalant words to Puck notwithstanding. It wasn’t so
much that she loved flying, although she did, but it was such
a massive nuisance to have to walk everywhere, just like a
cursed mortal. She mourned for them, for the loss of those
thick, exquisitely textured feathers, blacker than midnight
and darker than Lord Kaym’s great, night-starred cloak. How
she adored the feel of the wind ruffling through them, of the
wild, wonderful sensation that filled her when she stretched
them wide to ride out the brutal tumult of a violent summer
thunderstorm.
What angered her about her punishment was not its
harshness, but rather, the mistakes she had made in bringing
it upon herself. How could she have been so stupid as to
think Bogharael would keep his mouth shut? Even as a lowly
dryad he had been a fool, and her impetuous decision to
replace the vapid, but harmless Pandaema with him had been
a tremendous mistake. The Enemy must have been laughing
at her all the while, but there was no way she could have

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known beforehand that her wretched tree-spirit had once
been the most vainglorious of all the royal Sarim.
Jehuel’s punishment, like hers, had also been light,
although she doubted the haughty angel saw it that way.
When Kaym, quite understandably enraged by Jehuel’s
exposure of his plan, made to blast the former angel-prince
into oblivion, Prince Bloodwinter interceded, much to the
surprise of every angel present. He claimed sovereignty over
Jehuel as a Tempter active within his demesne, and forbade
Lord Kaym to touch the former seraph. Never one to miss the
opportunity to rub salt on a wound, the Prince of the Cities
further insulted Kaym by insisting that Jehuel be fully
restored to his former princely glory, golden wings and all.
However, there was a catch.
Apparently Bloodwinter’s sense of humor was more vicious
than Melusine had imagined, because his restoration of
Jehuel turned out to be a matter of appearance only, without
power, prestige or responsibility.
Despite his lordly
trappings, the Lord of the Sword was still to be nothing but
an apprentice Tempter, and one assigned to assist a disgraced
Temptress at that, not that he was ever much of a help. In
one fell stroke, Prince Bloodwinter managed to thoroughly
humiliate two major Fallen powers. It was a masterstroke,
nothing less, and one that Melusine imagined would compel
many of the prince’s rivals to think twice before daring to
cross him in the future.
“Whoops!” Jami’s shout interrupted her thoughts, and she
looked up to see the white Adidas ball sailing over her head.
“Sorry!”
“I’ve got it, dude,” Jason called, and he ran right through
her, without any idea that she was there.
How clueless were these mortals!
She smiled
momentarily, but the amusement soon faded from her face.
They weren’t clueless enough, at least, not her charge.
“Hey Mel,”
She started violently as someone poked her rudely in the
back. It was Incandazael, and his handsome, blue-skinned
face was split from ear to ear in a grin that surely boded
someone ill. It was an expression of pure self-satisfaction
that made her want to slap him, but she restrained her

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itching hand. Incanno wasn’t a friend, exactly, but he was
one of the few demons who was still willing to be seen
speaking with her since her disgrace. Of course, since he was
responsible for tempting Mark Lewis, the children’s father, he
had no fear of being tainted by their continued association.
“Don’t do that,” she told him sharply. “You’re like a cat or
something, a big evil blue cat!”
“You flatter me.”
“Not even a little, I assure you.”
Incanno raised an eyebrow and his eyes gleamed wickedly.
“I do love the hair, Mel, but don’t you think it’s maybe a
little on the rough and tough?”
He laughed as Melusine growled low in her throat, and he
held up a hand.
“Relax, my little skinhead beauty, I just wanted to see that
lovely temper flare. I have news, good news.”
“Jehuel was hurled into the Pit?”
“Not that good. Where has your royal apprentice been,
anyhow? Off sulking somewhere, I suppose. But never mind
him, feast your radiant eyes on this!”
The Tempter flourished his hands elaborately, and a scroll
appeared suddenly in his upraised palms. He presented it to
her, accompanied by an extravagant and wholly ironic bow.
She opened it and read it quickly, then shook her head with
disbelief and read it again.
“Did you arrange this?”
Incanno nodded, and his white teeth glistened like lustrous
pearls as he smiled triumphantly.
“I sure did that thing!”
“How? How in the unspeakable name of the netherest
nether power did you score this?”
The Tempter rolled his eyes upward and affected
innocence in a completely unconvincing manner. “I just
presented all the required forms, filled out in triplicate, of
course, and submitted them to the appropriate authorities.
The usual business, you understand. Oh, yes, and I did
promise to assist a certain disgruntled power mired in a flea’s
rump of a principality who is seriously thinking about moving
matters forward with regards to the promotion he has
hitherto been so unjustly denied. With his support, my

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application practically sailed through the committee with
nary a voice raised in opposition, save the usual, of course.”
Melusine stared at him, appalled. “You promised what? I
thought you were smarter than that! Don’t you remember
what happened to Shaeloba, not to mention her massive idiot
of an archon? Or me, for that matter? Sticking your nose in
the big boys’ power games is a good way to lose your wings, or
find yourself riding a one-way ticket Beyond!”
“I’m perfectly capable of performing basic risk-assessment,
Melusine.” Incandazael assured her, his blue face growing
serious. “You might think I’m being short-sighted, but let’s
look at the risks, shall we? Now, I can play the good little
tempter and stake everything on the hope that my bright, if
admittedly self-absorbed charge doesn’t clue into the changes
in his family for the next, oh, twenty or thirty years, and goes
on to bravely face the final darkness like a good atheist. Yes,
he’s an intellectual, yes, he’s arrogant and self-righteous, but
on the other hand, his kids are in close cahoots with the
Enemy, they’re ripping the Damned out of our very hands on
every side, and worst of all, they’re praying for him. Not just
the general, you know, ‘God bless Mummy, God bless Daddy,’
and all that , but specifically, by name! You like those odds?
Well, I don’t!”
Melusine sighed and shook her head. A momentary pang
struck her, as the missing sensation of her long hair in motion
drove home her loss again.
“I suppose you could be right,” she admitted ruefully.
“Five months ago, I thought I had Christopher’s soul well in
hand….” Was it really only five months? It seems so much
longer than that. So much had changed. “But now… you
have to admit, you’re playing with fire here.”
“I know. That’s why I have to kill off my dear Mark as
quickly as possible. I asked for a car accident or a brain
aneurysm, something immediate, but a fast-moving cancer
was the best they’d give me.”
Melusine nodded sympathetically. There were limits to
the protection afforded a nonbeliever by the prayers of others,
but prayer of one sort or another were always a hassle with
which they had to contend. The Terminations Committee,
bipartisan by Heavenly fiat, was the same in every

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Principality; the decks were always stacked against the single
Divine representative, who nevertheless usually managed to
delay, defer and otherwise put off the conclusive riding of the
pale horse in order to allow their accomplices to warn their
doomed charges in some underhanded way.
“How long do you have to give him?”
“One month from the first sign, he breathes his last. I’m
only committed to three minor warnings, though, and we’re
kicking things off with a sharp pain to go with his breakfast
tomorrow morning.”
“Only thirty days? Your power has some swing.”
“That he does, that he does. And here’s the kicker. No
intervention, no miracles, no nothing, unless the man himself
asks for it. Which he’ll never do. I know him, and his pride
will never let him beg favors from what he knows is only an
imaginary being. What he knows… what a laugh! A great
mind like his would never contemplate such a despicable
thing as a deathbed confession, Voltaire’s backslide
notwithstanding. Mortals are made of much stronger stuff
nowadays.”
The demon smiled evilly.
“I do hope you’re right.”
A wayward thought struck her. There was something odd
about this termination notice. Incanno was not the upwardlymobile sort, and he had less ambition than a mouse living in a
Wisconsin cheese factory. Everything about him was petty,
from his taunting gibes to his most cherished goals. While he
wasn't completely stupid, the notion that he had any
connections in far-off principalities seemed more than a little
far-fetched. Then she froze. If she'd had blood inside her, it
would have run cold.
There was no prove that he was involved, of course, and
she couldn't think of any reason that he should be the least
bit interested in the fate of any member of the Lewis family.
All the same, Melusine sensed the delicate touch of a familiar
manipulator extraordinaire.
“Puck, I swear I'll kill you if you have anything to do with
this,” she muttered under her breath.
“What's that?”

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She smiled sweetly up at him. “'Canno, my dear, darling
partner-in-crime, would you be so kind as to tell me the name
of this ambitious friend of yours?”
“Why do you want to know?” His eyes narrowed, making
him look more catlike than ever, and he shook his head. “No,
he said it was best to keep things on the down-low.”
Yeah, I'll bet he did. I swear, I'll stuff his lying head down
low, she vowed to herself, envisioning a hundred different
painful and anatomically-improbable punishments for Puck,
the sum total of which would be far too good for him. Oh, but
he was convincing, just like he always was, smiling and
delighted to see you and patting you on the back just before
slipping in the deadly dagger and exiting town precisely when
the hammer came down and hit you smack between the eyes!
But there was a remote possibility that she was getting
ahead of herself. With some effort, she forced down the anger
that was threatening to boil over. Though it cost her dearly,
she even managed to add a note of false sweetness to her
voice as she attempted to wheedle a at least a little
information from Incandazael.
“I understand, of course, that anonymity must be
preserved. But surely you can tell me the name of this
principality that will soon be looking forward to an
improvement in the management?”
“What's it to you?” Incanno furled the scroll with an adroit
snap of his wrist.
“Maybe I want one of those.”
She pointed to the scroll, and was amused to see the other
demon's eyebrows raise involuntarily. His reaction irked her;
she was not pleased to know that her erstwhile reputation for
ruthlessness had somehow been lost along the way, despite
her forthright handling of Pandaema's treachery.
“Do you think I like following human children around any
better than you? Hah! I may have played and lost, but I was
once a player in the Game, can you say the same?”
“Relax, Mel, baby, I didn't even say anything!”
“But you thought it!” she hissed. “Don't you ever insult me
like that again, ever! Or I'll rip your throat out and throw you
to the tender mercies of the dryads behind the house. You
might consider Pandaema’s example….”

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She flicked her fingernails at him. He nodded, and his
eyes, wide with alarm, were glancing off to the side
anticipating a hasty escape. But she struck before he could
make it. “Now, tell me the name of that cursed principality
already!”
“He said V-Vouvant – I've never heard of it.”
“No, you wouldn't have,” Melusine said sourly. She had,
though, and she knew exactly what it signified. And, for that
matter, what she had to do now. She sighed and resisted the
urge to scream at the uncaring heavens. There was never any
rest for the wicked.

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C H A P T E R 16

SCYLLA AND CHARYBDIS
MEPHISTOPHELES IS NOT YOUR NAME
BUT I KNOW WHAT YOU'RE UP TO JUST THE SAME
— The Police, (“Wrapped Around Your Finger”)

M

elusine was furious. Being lost deep in the heart of the
suburbs, and facing what, given her wingless state,
amounted to a forced hike, did little to improve her move.
She was being summoned, not by word, but by deed. And
while her first reaction to Incandazael's audacity had been
one of admiration, she also had the ominous feeling that
things were about to go horribly wrong again. Now, after
hearing that fateful word – Vouvant – she was certain of it.
There weren't many who knew the story, but there was one
individual in town who knew it almost as well as she did.
Unfortunately for her, the chances that this was a coincidence
were roughly equal to the chances she would get out of this
unscathed. As in none.
When Kaym had first approached her with regards to
Christopher, she’d eagerly agreed to help him out, thinking
only of the advantages that would accrue to her if everything
worked as the fallen angel planned. That they would lose not
only Christopher, but his sisters too, was a stunning and
totally unforeseen result. It had, however, been an object
lesson in the supreme importance of lying low. But in this
case, it was highly unlikely that she would be able to do that.
She had no idea what that infernal Puck had in store for her,
but she had no doubt that she was not going to be happy
about it when he finally deigned to inform her.
But by the time she'd shifted into mortal mode and found a
seat on the bus that would take her to her destination, the
first wave of her anger had subsided and she was able to

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consider things with a little more aplomb. Perhaps even a
little anticipation. Although her initial assumption had been
that this was nothing more than the latest round of Puck's
obsession with Albion, there were other possibilities to bear in
mind. It was even possible that was the first step in
something that would get her back into the only game that
mattered. Was it truly only another internecine Fallen war?
After all, the Enemy was clever, certainly more clever than
Prince Lucere had anticipated when he launched his great
rebellion. How many times had they thought they held a
great victory in their hands, only to learn that they were
caught in the teeth of yet another Divine trap. The disastrous
conquest of Heaven and the Golgotha debacle were only two of
the most egregious examples. There were all too many from
which to choose.
Take, for instance, Moloch’s splendidly malevolent plan to
use the dormant roots of Teutonic paganism to eliminate the
cursed Seed of Abraham once and for all. Sure, millions had
been charred into sweet-stinking incense and ashes, but in
the years following the devastation, Melusine and the rest of
the Fallen had watched in gradually dawning horror as the
Enemy’s Chosen made their long-prophesied return to the
Promised Land after nearly two millennia of Diaspora, thanks
in part to Moloch’s idiotic intervention.
A rhyme suddenly occurred to her, and she hummed to
herself as she constructed a little piece of doggerel in her
head. She grinned at the aptly vulgar meter, and made a
mental note to tell it to Puck. He deserved no less. One of
her fonder memories of Provence suddenly came back to her
as she remembered those pathetic bits of rhyme slapped
together in her honor by unpolished country courtiers. The
poems had generally ranged from badly-rhymed, meter-less
flattery to labored reworkings of hoary old standbys, but
despite the abysmal quality of the poetry, there had been
something wonderful about being the focus of the poet’s
attention. It was so much fun to play the role of a muse
inspiring the efforts of others, however shoddy they might be,
to preserve in words something of her beauty, glory, and
fame. What there was of it. She ran her hand over her head
and shivered.

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145

It was unfortunate that none of the poems written in her
honor had stood the test of time, mostly because they had
been, like their authors, destined from the very beginning for
a miserable end. And her own destiny, she thought, was
beginning to have all too much in common with those
helpless, hopeless, talentless mortals dead so long ago.
Maybe Puck would change all that. Right, for the worse, if
history was any guide.
The bus arrived at her stop, and as her mind ceased its
meanderings, her anger began to reassert itself. She marched
down the crowded sidewalk like a shaven Erinys, forgetting
that her attire was wholly inappropriate for the workaday
mortals that inhabited this part of the city at this time of day.
Realizing that she was drawing too many stares, she ducked
into a Christian Science reading room and transformed into a
more appropriately bourgeois aspect, complete with power
skirt and Manolos.
With happy hour approaching, the pub was lively, and a
waitress protested as Melusine pushed right past her and
nearly upset her half-laden tray. She stormed up the stairs,
and her ire was not in the least diminished by the sight of the
one who had summoned her hence with his mysterious
manipulations. Puck was sprawled in the corner, comfortably
ensconced with his legs dangling over the side of a large
wingback chair. His welcoming smile was impudent in the
extreme, and it was all that she could do to stop herself from
smashing her fist directly into it.
“Why, Melusine, how delightful to see you!” he exclaimed,
sipping at a vile-looking blue concoction through a straw.
“Whatever brings you here?”
“What are you doing messing around with Incandazael?
And who hooked you up with the authority to sign death
warrants in this demesne?”
“I signed nothing.”
“You know what I mean! Don't play the idiot with me,
Puck! It's a little late for that. I already know what a
conniving rat you are.”
“Oh, but I'm so good at it!” He batted his eyelashes at her.
“Very well, I'll come clean with you, just for old times sake.

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And, more to the point, for all the fun we're about to have...
together.”
“No, no, oh, no you don't. I've already gotten into enough
trouble in the last year without your help. Being a good little
temptress and keeping my nose out of everyone else's
business is the height of my ambition for the next sixty or
seventy years.”
Puck looked pained. “You don't know how it saddens me to
hear you say that, Melusine. Such thoughts are really
beneath you, you know. You should be tempting kings and
destroying nations, not wrestling with Guardians over every
naughty thought that goes into that little boy's head. But I
knew you'd feel that way; unfortunately, I can't permit it.”
“You can't permit it?” Melusine felt her throat tighten
with the effort to avoid snarling at him . “I don't recall you
having much say in the matter.”
“Yes, you're quite right. But I think I can persuade you to
see things my way.”
“Color me skeptical.”
“As you like. Here's how I see it. Incandazael is the worst
kind of fool, the sort who honestly believes he's quite clever - ”
“And you're not?”
“I know I'm clever, darling, I don't merely believe it. The
difference is crucial. But as endlessly fascinating as the
subject is to all and sundry, enough about me. And since I'd
prefer to avoid a wholly uninteresting tangent on the
inadequacies of your colleague, let's just say that he's bound
to make a hash of it. I have no idea precisely how it will fall
apart, but one way or another, this attempt to extinguish his
charge will go wildly askew, bringing attention and the
inevitable wrath to follow down on everyone who is
responsible for mortal souls in that particular family.
Including, I am not at all loathe to say, you.”
Melusine wasn't sure that she bought that explanation,
which sounded rather on the flimsy side. But then again, if
he didn't want to tell her the truth, there wasn't much point
in pressing him. He'd simply come up with another, probably
more convincing lie.
“Do you hate me?”

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147

Puck looked genuinely surprised.
“Perish the very
thought!”
“No, seriously. What am I supposed to think. You show up
after five hundred years, we chat for two seconds, then you
disappear for two weeks only to show up and announce that
you're arranging to have me hung by my toenails... if I'm
lucky! So, I'm asking. Do you hate me?”
Puck smiled indulgently and shook his head. “Don't be
silly. The fact of the matter is that I need you. Well, actually,
I need your flamboyant protègè, but since I have no idea of
how to go about pushing his buttons, I need you very much.
And isn't that really all that a girl wants to hear?”
Melusine snorted. “You want Jehuel? Puck, all you had to
do was ask! I would have cheerfully given you his insides on
a stick, preferably a sharp one – no, better yet, a very dull one
with a tendency to splinter.”
“Oh, dear, is he as bad as that?”
“He's much worse.”
Puck spread his hands and beamed at her. “There, you
see?
That's exactly why I need you!
The insight is
invaluable!”
Melusine felt her lips twitch even though she was still
furious with Puck and there was a definite sense of things
beginning to spin out of control again. For all his proud
cunning, it seemed Puck had miscalculated. He didn't need
her to tell him that Jehuel was an insufferable, pig-headed
monster. Thirty seconds conversation with the jerk would
have told him that.
“Well, are you in?”
Melusine chewed at her upper lip and glanced at the
window outside. She needed time to think, but Puck didn't
seem inclined to give it to her. She shook her head,
frustrated. Why couldn't she simply say no to him? And
then, she realized there was no way she could do so.
It
wasn't that she was overly concerned about Incandazael's
idiocies. The salient fact was that Puck had not only been
willing to intervene in the situation, but he demonstrably had
the power to do so. In fact, she suddenly came to the
realization that his confession to her had been nothing of the
sort. No wonder it had sounded false, as his actions with

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regards to Incandazael were really more of a delicate
warning. An angel that could make Incandazael's life easier
could also make hers more difficult. Much more difficult.
With Puck, she reminded herself, it wasn't the words you
heard that mattered, it was the ones you didn't. She shivered
as she grasped the full implications of his insidious hint. The
fact that he did not even bother to voice his threats, but
simply dangled them before her to see if she was sharp
enough to notice them was somehow more intimidating than
the furious bellows of a more obviously dangerous angel. No,
it was much better to submit and give him what he wanted
than to sit on edge for weeks, even months, waiting for the
inevitable shoe to drop.
“I'm in.”
“Excellent!” He beamed happily at her and air-kissed her
hand. Then he snapped his fingers and raised his eyebrows
in mock surprise. “Ah, yes....and by the pricking of my
thumbs, something with shockingly bad taste comes.”
A flash of gold in the mirror caught Melusine's eye, and
she looked back to see Jehuel himself at the top of the stairs
behind her. Speak of the hag-ridden devil! What was he
doing here? She whirled around to face Puck, had the
audacity to tap his fingers and waggle his red eyebrows as if
some mad scheme of his was coming together, and she and
Jehuel were nothing more than pawns on his chess board.
Which was probably close to being the case, she thought
ruefully.
“At least he's on time,” the one-time fae mused so that only
she could hear. “Not that anything could possibly excuse that
dreadful raiment. Dear oh dear oh dear.”
“Melusine?” Jehuel looked personally affronted by her
presence, and put his clenched fists on his waist.
In
combination with the gold lamè cloak, it was a particularly
unfortunate stance for an angel that wished to be taken
seriously. Melusine had to bite her lip, and Puck, less
accustomed to Jehuel's theatrics, appeared to be mere seconds
away from an apopleptic burst of laughter.
“Why is she here, Lord Robin? You told me that we were
to discuss matters of tremendous import?”

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149

“And so we are,” answered Puck gravely, without betraying
a hint of the mirth that was surely gnawing at his insides like
a starving wolverine. Now he was calling himself Lord
Robin? Melusine rolled her eyes. What was up with that?
“Why is she here?” Jehuel scowled at her. “You ruin
everything. Why can't you keep your nose out of my business
for once.”
“Because your business is my business, dear Boggie.”
Jehuel flushed red at the sound of his dryad name,
humiliated by her reference to a time he'd no doubt been
hoping to put behind him. “Your ludicrous – and dangerous, I
might add – machinations aside, it would serve you well to
recall that you are still an assistant Tempter. My assistant
Tempter, to be precise.”
“That's enough!” barked Puck. “Melusine, don't bait him.
You infringe upon my demesne when you do so – let there be
no mistake, if there is taunting to be done, I am more than
equal to the task! And Jehuel, when I told you to come as a
mortal, I was intending for you to blend with the crowd, not
give them the impression that you're dying to go on stage with
Siegfried, Roy and the big white kitties.”
Oh, dear. Jehuel's failure to bother modifying his aspect
had caused Melusine to miss the fact that he was fully in the
material plane with them. No wonder people kept stealing
bemused glances their way. She shook with silent laughter as
Puck ordered Jehuel off to the bathroom, with a very detailed
description of how he was to look when he came out again. A
minute later, a disgruntled young man with bleach blond hair
and a soul patch stalked out. Only his striking violet eyes
betrayed any resemblance to the supernatural being that had
vanished, and they burned now with rebellious indignation.
Melusine sighed. She'd seen that look before. His
wounded pride was like an open sore, and the Lewis twins
had been less petulant when they were going through the
terrible threes together. But she ignored him and turned her
attention to Puck as he lifted his legs over the side of the
chair and sat upright to address them both.
“Friends, Romans, countrymen... oh, sorry, wrong speech.
As a matter of fact, why don't we dispose with speeches

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altogether, since you're both going to end up doing what I tell
you anyhow?”
“And how do you know that?”
“Because you're here,” Melusine told Jehuel. It was true.
Once he set a hook, Puck seldom failed to land his fish.
“Because I'm going to see that you get your sword back, my
dear princeling. La bella Arabel, the sword that slew the
lords of Chaos, the sword with which you made your name, or,
to put it more succinctly, the only thing that you love
anywhere nearly as much as you love yourself.” He winked at
Melusine. “Not that there's anything wrong with the greatest
love of all.”
He closed his eyes, hugged himself and began make kissing
sounds, until Melusine kicked him in the shin. “Knock it off,
Puck.”
“Do you mean it,” Jehuel asked softly. He looked more
vulnerable than Melusine had ever seen him before, not even
when he'd been a lowly, semi-sentient dryad had he looked so
innocent and hopeful. “Can you... do you know where it is?”
“Well, no,” Puck confessed. He quickly held up a hand to
forestall an imminent explosion. “But I'm quite sure I can
find it. I spoke to someone who knows a fair bit about
mystical weapons of great power, and I have some very good
reasons to suspect that your little toy is hidden somewhere in
Albion.”
“Albion?” Jehuel looked blank.
“England,” Melusine explained. “In case you're too thick to
have noticed, Jehuel, my dear assistant tempter, we're being
coerced into helping Puck put his master back on the throne
of England. Which was once known as Albion when Puck's
master ruled over it.”
“Are you lying about the sword?”
“Nope.” Puck met Jehuel's intense gaze without flinching.
Which meant nothing, Melusine knew; he'd always been an
accomplished liar. “Nor would I. You see, without the sword,
you are useless to me, Prince Jehuel. In fact, unless you
promise to do something for me after I arrange for you to
recover it, I will not even permit you to accompany us on our
little adventure.”
“Us?” Melusine said. “But -”

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“I wouldn't wish to deprive you of the pleasure of my
company even if the princeling here proves recalcitrant,
darling. But the question is moot, as he most certainly will
cast his lot with we few, we happy band of desperados. And
he will have to it do soon, as it is in all of our best interests to
vacate this sheep town in the very immediate future. It
occurs to me that I may have been remiss in neglecting to
mention one small detail.”
“What's that?” Melusine braced herself.
“Do you know that broadcast tower near the Lewis house?
The tall one, with all the blinking red lights?”
“Of course. But what does that have to do with anything?”
“It wouldn't, except that someone finally figured out that
ugly pair of slobberknockers who interrupted our little tete-atete the other night have gone awry. Fortunately, the posse
appears to have split up for the nonce, which allowed me to
take an old acquaintance by surprise. I'm afraid we parted on
unamiable terms, though, as he's currently impaled upon the
top of the radio tower. In, as they say, the meat.”
Jehuel and Melusine looked at each other. She wasn't sure
of the implications of Puck's savagery, and she knew he
wasn't either, but they couldn't be good.
“He's not dead? Will he die?” Jehuel asked.
“Death, what is death to we who know not its sting? I
don't see that it matters. Either way, they'll be looking for
him soon, if they're not already. In that neighborhood, no
less. I can't imagine that it will take long to learn that the
former Lord of the Sword is, or, as I soon hope to say, was,
lurking about. I very much doubt they'll be blind as to the
implications.”
“What implications?”
Puck smiled at Jehuel, a shark's amoral smile. “Why so
pale, my lordly friend? Look at it this way. There's every
chance you won't have to deal with your tedious young charge
ever again. The Mad One's Eyes aren't exactly known for a
wide range of imaginative solutions. From what I've seen of
them in the past, they'll simply slaughter every angel and
human in the broad vicinity and then go looking for you.”
It was strange, thought Melusine. Not even the shock of
dispersal in the Void had been enough to quell Jehuel's foolish

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pride, yet Puck's unique blend of friendly charm and
unpredictable ruthlessness seemed to cow him as Prince
Bloodwinter and Lord Kaym could not. She smiled, not able
to help despising him as he swallowed hard and nodded his
head.
“What do I have to do for you?”
“Kill someone. Someone very special, who, I am told,
cannot be slain other than by the likes of your sweet l'objet
d'amor. And, since I am also given to understand that no
angel other than your own bad self can properly wield this
sword of swords, that makes you something on the order of a
necessity in my book.”
“He sounds powerful.”
“Oh, he's not so bad,” Puck waved a disdainful hand, and
Melusine was impressed at how convincing he managed to
appear. She knew better. “Simply a tad on the hard-to-kill
side, that's all. So, what do you think? I find you the sword,
you stick the sword in someone's chest, we shake hands,
compliment each other on a deed well done and go our happy,
but separate ways.”
“That sounds like a good plan to me,” answered Jehuel,
whose color had returned to him. Ever the dramatist, he
slashed his palm and held it, smoking and leaking flame,
upright towards Puck, who grinned and leaped from his chair.
He, too, slashed his palm and pressed it against the fallen
seraphim in a sacred, if obscene, vow of commitment.
Melusine shook her head at the sight of the weirdly
incongruous pair binding themselves to a common purpose.
The rhyme she had conceived earlier seemed more apropos
than ever, and she recited it in a childish sing-song. Let Puck
make of it what he would, but if he was going to force her into
this mess, at least he'd know that she was participating under
protest. And when it all blew apart around their ears, she'd
have the satisfaction of telling him “I told you so!”
“If the best laid plans of mice and men,” she sang.
“Gang aft agley, what think we then
Of demon's schemes that come to pass
And bite us always in the – ow!”
She leaped into the air as something seemed to sink its
teeth into her own backside. Puck's eyes were gleaming with

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amusement as he brandished the responsible thumb and
forefinger at her and bared his teeth. They were white and
sharp and there was suddenly more than one row of them.
“I'd be delighted to sink these into those delectable curves
of yours, darling Melusine. And, if you give me any reason to
believe that you have forsaken Albion, don't think I shall
hesitate to indulge myself.”
Already holding Jehuel's hand, Puck seized hers with all
the speed of an adder striking. Alarmed, she tried to pull
away, but it was too late. His razor-tipped smile widened as
she felt a rush of demonic power ripping her out of the
material world and hurling her right through the lower three
shadows into the dark, unyielding cold of the hungry void.
She screamed, but she could not hear the sound of her own
voice, nor even feel her spirit. Her sole link to reality was the
crushing, vise-like grip on her left hand. She clung to the
pain as if it were a lifeline, until at last, despite her fierce
struggles, the bitter cold began to anesthetize it. Slowly,
relentlessly, the saving agony subsided, until finally all
feeling, all sense of self, was gone, and she drowned in the
midnight sea of nothingness.

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C H A P T E R 17

ONE TREE, TWO, THREE
WHAT HAS KANT GOT TO DO WITH THE PLATYPUS? NOTHING. AS
WE SHALL SEE FROM THE DATES, HE COULDN'T HAVE HAD
ANYTHING TO DO WITH IT. AND THIS SHOULD SUFFICE TO JUSTIFY
THE TITLE AND ITS USE OF AN INCONGRUOUS SET THAT SOUNDS
LIKE A TRIBUTE TO BORGES'S ANCIENT CHINESE ENCYCLOPEDIA.
— Umberto Eco, Kant and the Platypus

C

hristopher eyed the small wooden building hidden behind
the thick copse of trees. Partially protected by a hedge,
its forward location still seemed like a risky spot for the
German panzershreck he feared, and he was desperate to
take out the machine gun hindering his assault on the
outskirts of the town. But he knew the German commander
well, a gambler who liked nothing better than beating
unfavorable odds.
He reached hesitantly for the little tank, his fingers
touching lightly on the camouflage paint job he’d applied just
last night, then drew his hand away. Don wouldn’t dare,
would he? The building was exposed, so even if his men
managed to burn the tank, they ran the risk of seeing their
main line of retreat cut off by Christopher’s lead platoon.
“Chicken,” Don made clucking sounds. “Man, if you keep
taking this long to make up your mind, I’m going to have to
insist on chess clocks.”
Christopher glared at his friend and came to a decision.
The Jagdpanzer was to the south, which meant that the antitank weapon he was concerned about should be somewhere in
its vicinity, protecting the tank destroyer’s poorly armored
flanks. He picked up the miniature Churchill, more decisively
this time. Once he could bring its seventy-five millimeter
main armament to bear on the machine gun’s position, Don’s

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155

northern flank would crack and it would only be a matter of
time before his elite British troops swept the Nazis from the
small Italian town.
“Startup, one,” he called out movement points as the tank
went into motion. “Rotate vehicle heading, two. Three.
Four….”
He paused expectantly. His tank was now adjacent to the
wooden building, and if Don’s half-squad was hiding there,
this would be the ideal moment to fire. But Don said nothing.
Christopher smiled to himself, pleased at calling his friend’s
bluff, before moving the tank again.
“Five. Six – ”
“Wait,” Don held up a hand. With the other, he plucked a
painted pair of kneeling soldiers from one end of the table and
placed them in the building. “Hold it right there. These bad
boys pop up to send a little HEAT love up the wazoo of that
Churchill. They’ve got the ‘shreck, of course.” He picked up a
little blue counter and waggled it triumphantly.
“But… I mean… I thought… then why didn’t you fire when
I was in T-Nine?” Christopher was shaken by the belated
ambush. “Side armor is the same as rear on the Churchills,
so it’s not like your To Kill is any different.”
“Oh, I know that,” Don admitted gleefully as he picked up
his pair of custom-made precision dice. The pips were tiny
death’s heads, white-on-black and black-on-red, which he
used only when playing Germans. He had a pair for every
nationality, except the Axis Minors. “I just wanted to see the
look on your face after you thought you were in the clear!”
Chagrined, Christopher resisted the urge to whine, or at
the very least, pound the wooden table on which the intricate
miniature battlefield was assembled. He gritted his teeth and
hoped desperately for boxcars.
“Are you going to eat the backblast?” he asked, searching
for a silver lining.
“Nope,” Don announced fearlessly as he flicked his wrist.
“To Hit is a … seven. Bang! That’s a hit. To Kill… twentysix minus eight… now what is that?”
“Oh, shut up,” Christopher answered sourly. Even on his
worst day, he could roll less than eighteen with two six-sided
dice.

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“To Kill is a… ten. Kaboom! That doesn’t burn it, though,
so you can still make your crew survival.”
Christopher sighed and rolled his own dice. A matching
pair of sixes stared up at him mockingly. Well, there’s your
boxcars, he thought with bitterness. It might as well have
been the roll for his personal morale check. His dice were
clearly cursed by the dice gods today, and the odds that the
good people of Sinagoga were going to be freed from their
Teutonic oppressors were looking increasingly remote.
“And they don’t make it! Oh, the humanity!” Don pumped
his fist. “That’s the one thing I was worried about. I didn’t
want them surviving to tie up my guys in close combat.”
Christopher was trying, and failing, to come up with an
appropriately cutting retort when the door at the top of the
basement stairs was opened.
“Hello, earth to geekworld!” It was Jami. “Christopher,
Rachel’s on the phone. Do you want to talk to her, or should I
tell her you’re too busy killing elves or whatever?”
“Rachel?”
Christopher pushed himself away from the table and
leaped to his feet. He heard Don burst out in mocking
laughter behind him as he ran rapidly up the stairs, taking
two at a time. But the call couldn’t have come at a better
time. His dice certainly needed the break.
Jami rolled her eyes as her brother bounded up from the
basement and into the kitchen, imperiously demanding the
phone with an outstretched hand. Annoyed, she refused to
relinquish it and continued talking on the cordless, fending
him off with her free hand.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m doing good,” she told her friend. “Jason
and I are going out after the game tonight. No, I think Holly’s
doing something with Angie and Brittany. I don’t know
what.”
“She didn’t call to talk to you,” Christopher hissed.
“You don’t know that,” Jami shot back, and she returned
her attention to the receiver.
Rachel was suggesting
something about a future shopping trip. “Sure, let’s do that.
Next time we’ll blow off the boys and go to the mall or
whatever. Sounds good. He’s right here. Okay, bye.”

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She finally relented and handed him the cordless.
“See, that wasn’t so bad, was it.” she commented airily.
Christopher ignored her, of course, and immediately began
babbling about his ridiculous game. Poor Rachel. Jason had
his own weird little boy things, of course, they all did, but
Jason’s were at least kind of cute. Well, not totally lame,
anyhow. But since her brother insisted on living in the same
house with her, she couldn’t entirely escape his occasional
monologues on elven dragon tanks or whatever the latest
dork thing was.
And while it was within the realm of possibility that there
were bigger wastes of time than spending hours pretending to
be a general of a painted toy army, she’d never actually
encountered one in person. Well, it was possible that
listening to someone talk about it was even worse.
Fortunately, a sister wasn’t actually expected to pay attention
or remember any of it. Girlfriends, on the other hand, weren’t
quite so lucky.
Feeling bored, she wandered out into the living room.
After two months of summer freedom, she was almost started
to dread the early part of the afternoon. They weren’t as bad
as those awful wintry school mornings, of course, where you
were forced to leave your nice comfy bed in order to freeze
your tush off in the pre-dawn dark, but they were tough,
especially on game days like this. It was barely one o’clock,
way too early to start getting up for the game, but not too
soon for that nervous feeling of dread and anticipation that
kept you on edge and would not let you get comfortable. The
ham-and-swiss sandwich she’d had for lunch seemed to lie in
her stomach like a rock and she almost regretted having
eaten it, although bitter experience had taught her that when
you didn’t eat anything, you ended up playing in a weird
light-headed sort of fog. Which never worked out well.
Sighing heavily, she lowered herself to the floor with
tender care and began stretching out her legs. Her left
hamstring was tweaking a bit and she still had an ugly purple
bruise on her left shin from last week’s game, but that was
her own stupid fault for not wearing shin pads. One… two…
three…. She counted to ten, relaxed, then reached out again
for another five-count.

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She was just switching legs for the second time when she
heard her sister coming down the stairs.
“Do you always stretch out like this beforehand? I mean,
for a date?”
“Shut up, you know I’ve got a game tonight.”
“Actually, I didn’t,” Holli corrected her. “I was just going
to ask if you and Jase wanted to go to church with me, but I
guess that’s out if you’re playing tonight.”
“You’re not going tomorrow morning? I thought you were
going out with Angie tonight.” Jason wasn’t much for church
anyway, but that was a subject she preferred to avoid.
“Yeah. Her and Brittany are going to pick me up there
after the service gets out. I’m going to see if I can talk
Christopher into driving me.”
Jami snorted. “Well, if you want to do your good deed for
the day, see if you can get him off the phone and rescue
Rachel. He was giving her the play-by-play from today’s geek
war.”
“Oh, the poor thing!” Holli made a sympathetic face as she
looked out the window towards the driveway. “I forgot Don
was coming over. Is that his new car? Hmmm… I guess I
would have figured him for more of a pickup guy. So, was it
army guys or elves today?”
“Like I care?”
“It doesn’t hurt to show an interest.”
Jami eyed her twin skeptically. Yeah, right.
“Well, not if you’re faking it,” Holli admitted. “Hey, you
never know what kind of secret boy stuff might be useful. It's,
like, cracking the guy code. I mean, say you ran into this
really cute guy, and then you find out he’s into, I don’t know,
Warhammer or whatever. You ask him if he plays Orcs or
Skaven, and bang, he’ll dump ten lingerie models to go out
with you.”
Jami rolled her eyes and pulled her legs into a butterfly
position. She'd rather microwave her soccer boots and eat
them for dinner than spend even one more second than she
had to thinking about dork world.
But she was pleased to
see that Holli was starting to think about boys again. She
even had a little sparkle in her eyes that had been all too rare
of late. It wasn’t that her sister had completely fallen apart

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after the prom shootings last spring, nor was it all that
strange that she still hadn't started seeing anyone less than
four months after losing her boyfriend to the deadly
machinations of the Fallen, but the strangely serious
expression that was all-too-often on her face sometimes made
Jami feel as if a stranger was living in her twin's body. Holli
seldom talked anymore about her two favorite subjects,
fashion and boys, and three months of unread Glamours,
Cosmos and InStyles were piled in the corner of her room.
“There’s two problems with that,” she declared.
“What’s that?”
“One, you might as well wish for a unicorn, because the
geek hotty does not exist. He’s just a figment of imagination
dreamed-up by fat-legged smart girls who wear glasses and
own the complete Harry Potter, including the DVDs and
action figures. You have to either be fat and greasy or skinny
and pimply to be a game geek. It’s the law. And second of all,
I already have a boyfriend, so even if he did exist, what do I
care?”
Holli made a face at her.
“It’s the principle, Jami. Like, for the football players, you
have to know which teams are in which divisions, and who's
the quarterback on each team. For the brains, you just need
to mention the name of a few books like Siddhartha and the
Republic – you don't actually have to read them, thank
goodness - and you tell the guys who are all into money and
stuff that you think it’s kind of funny how Intel is on both the
Nasdaq and the Dow.”
“What about the stoners?” Jami asked, wondering just how
much thought Holli had put into this.
“DARE is the dumbest thing ever, and you can make all
kinds of things out of hemp, like sweaters and rope,” Holli
responded immediately. Jami laughed and held up a hand,
which her sister high-fived with enthusiasm. She had to give
Holli full props for that last one, since she knew her sister
had no time for the smelly, shaggy crew who hung out on the
big rock in the middle of the parking lot.
“Okay, I’m impressed. But don’t they ever catch you out? I
mean, you never read anything except your magazines.” Not
that she'd even read them much lately.

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“Nope,” Holli shook her head, “all you have to do is get
them started, then ask questions every now and then.
Haven’t you ever notice that once a guy starts talking, you
practically have to hit him over the head to get him to stop?”
Actually, that was kind of true, Jami realized. Even when
she and Jason were talking about soccer, he was the one who
did most of it. And when he ran out of things to say, one little
statement on her part was enough to set him off again for
another ten minutes.
“Yeah, I guess you’re right. I never really thought about it.
But why are you telling me this? I mean, I’m the one with the
boyfriend.”
“Yeah, but you’re not going to be dating him forever, are
you? Have you guys even talked yet about what you’re going
to do when he goes to Ohio?”
Jami frowned at her sister, suddenly displeased. She
didn’t necessarily disagree with what Holli was suggesting,
after all, Jason was leaving for college in another six weeks.
She even knew, when she made herself think about it, that
his departure would probably change the nature of their
relationship. College guys always ditched their hometowns,
and if they didn’t do it ahead of time, they did it when they
came back for Christmas break, which was even worse. It
wasn’t a good thing or a bad thing, that was just how it was,
and Jami had seen it happen to too many girls at Mounds
Park to believe that it would be any different for her and
Jason. Even if she didn't want to. But she knew one thing for
sure.
She had no intention of getting sucked into that
hometown trap, pining away for a boy who wasn't even
thinking about you while he was running around with college
girls. If he didn't get around to breaking up with her before
he left, then she'd just have to do it for him.
Still, she didn’t think it was very nice of Holli to rub her
nose in it like that. That was another thing that had changed
since last spring. Her sister was more insensitive now, her
mood was often darker and she dwelled on the negative more
than she ever had before. It wasn’t as if she’d completely
changed, but sometimes, like now, her normally fine-tuned
social skills appeared to disappear.

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“So, maybe I’ll just find another soccer player,” Jami
answered indifferently.
Her tone must have been sharp, as Holli was quick to
apologize. “Look, I’m sorry. That came out wrong, okay? I
don’t want you to think I’m jealous or anything, because I’m
not. It’s just that I don’t want to see you get too wrapped up
in something that might make you, you know, miss out on
things next year.”
Jami met her sister’s eyes and made a little back-and-forth
motion with both her hands on either side of her hips.
“Summer lovin’ it happened so fast…” she sang
sarcastically. “Come on, Hollywood, if Olivia Newton John
could survive it, so can I. Now, please tell me you’re not
already thinking about who’s going to ask you to
Homecoming. It’s, like, four months away and we haven’t
even met the new guys yet. There’s always one or two cuties
that transfer in.”
“Me?” Holli looked horrified. “Oh, no, I couldn’t… I don’t
think I’m ready to go out with anyone yet. I was thinking
about who you could go with.”
“My boyfriend hasn’t even left yet, Holli! Gee whiz, can
you lay off until he’s gone, at least?”
“Sorry, you're right. I don't know, I guess it's just easier
for me to think about, you know, what you're going to do next,
not me.” It was more the flicker of pain in her eyes than her
words that mollified Jami.
“S'allright. And I suppose it doesn't do me any good to just
try to pretend it isn't going to happen. I mean, part of me
wishes that we could just, I don't know, be in love and never
have to think about him going out with college girls and stuff,
but then, it's not like I even want to get married.”
“To Jason?”
“To anyone!” Jami made a face. “I'm going to be a
professional soccer player somewhere, here or maybe over in
Europe if they don’t start up a new WUSA – hey, why is it
that the TV channels will pay all that money to show stupid
golf, which totally no one watches, and here there's millions of
people who want to watch soccer and then they won't even
show it half the time?”

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“Maybe because golf stuff costs more than soccer stuff and
they make more money that way. Just one of those clubs is
something like two hundred bucks! Can you even imagine?”
“That's probably it,” Jami agreed.
“Still, it blows.
Especially the way they announced they were killing off the
league right before the last World Cup. I was so mad!”
“So, what are you going to do?” Holli wrinkled her nose at
the musky smell of Jami's freshly-oiled boots as she joined her
on the carpet. “Are you going to talk to him soon?”
“What's there to talk about?”
“I just think that it's important to make the most of your
time, that's all. Because you don't know when it's going to
end.”
“Except when you do, I know.” She waved away Holli's
denials. “Look, don't worry about it, okay?”
“Well, I do!”
“Of course you do. For the first time in your life you aren't
juggling three different guys, and you don't know what to do
with yourself. So you're butting into my love life, which is
stupid since he's just my first boyfriend and who ends up with
their first boyfriend anymore.”
“You are, like, the least romantic girl ever. If you were
Juliet, you'd look at Romeo and be, like, gee, sorry dude.”
“If I was Juliet I wouldn't have gone for him in the first
place. I'd be like, hey guy, do you ever shut up? Now, give me
a hand and help me up. I've got to go for a jog before my
hamstrings tighten up on me.”
She grunted as Holli helped her to her feet, then shook out
her legs, first her right, then her left. She glanced sidelong at
her twin's face, but her expression was neutral and told her
nothing. Did she really want to talk about Jason, or was that
just a cover for something else. When she reached the door,
she hesitated for a moment, wondering if she should turn
around and badger the truth out of her, but then she
remembered how many times she'd tried, and failed, to do
that over the summer. She sighed, feeling vaguely guilty,
then flashed a cheerful smile.
“I'll be back in fifteen minutes or so.”
“I'll be here. See ya later.”

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C H A P T E R 18

LYING TO THE MIRROR
SO GO ON AND SCREAM
SCREAM AT ME I'M SO FAR AWAY
I WON'T BE BROKEN AGAIN
I'VE GOT TO BREATHE I CAN'T KEEP GOING UNDER
— Evanescence, {“Going Under”)

H

olly felt strangely dismayed as her sister left the room,
but she didn't really know what to say. She wasn't in
the mood to be by herself, but she couldn't quite bring herself
to admit that to anyone, not even Jami. It was strange, and
she didn't know exactly when it had started, but she had
really didn't like it when she found herself alone now. Why,
she wasn’t sure, exactly, but a vague sense of unease seemed
to creep upon her at times, as if solitude left her unprotected
from some shadowy, nameless thing that stalked her.
She hadn't been sleeping all that well either, not because
her dreams were disturbed, but because she just couldn't fall
asleep. In fact, her dreams, when she remembered them in
the morning, were often the highlight of her day. Several
times she had woken with a hazy image of Paul in her mind
and she knew she had dreamed about him, but only once had
she seen him clearly and remembered it afterwards.
The strange thing was that she was still not entirely sure
if she’d only had a daydream or if it might have been some
peculiar form of waking vision.
She’d been reading a
magazine one afternoon when she found herself standing
before an unfamiliar house, an olive-green house with a
cobblestoned courtyard which led to the front door. She
opened the door, and found herself surrounded by walls hung
with bold and unusual paintings, art that was not quite
frightening but was a shade too colorful to be entirely

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comfortable. She shied away from a bright yellow glow which
threatened to overwhelm her, and turned instead to the left,
towards a warm, dark cavern of a room, all weathered grey
wood and brick.
She caught her breath as she saw a familiar, but
unexpected person seated on the far side of the room. It was
Paul, sitting on a white couch in front of long window with
rust-orange curtains. He was not lounging with his feet on
the narrow, rectangular coffee table as he usually did, but
was sitting upright, with both hands on his knees, almost as
if he was expecting something. She had made no sound, but
somehow, he detected her presence, and his eyes lit up with
joy, though only the faintest smile crossed his lips.
He glanced sideways, with a solicitous look that suggested
he was being careful not to make too much noise, and for the
first time she realized that there was someone else on the
couch beside him, lying down with a white blanket wrapped
around her. Holli could not actually see the prone figure, and
the top edge of the blanket obscured the person's face, but she
felt sure that it was a woman sleeping there. Or perhaps not
sleeping; so tightly wrapped, the white blanket looked as if it
might have been a shroud.
At first, she felt reluctant to go to him, unsure of herself,
but after her tentative first step, certainty filled her and she
could feel her heart pounding with anticipation as she
quickly, but quietly, walked towards him across the bare
wooden floor. He rose as she approached, but instead of
embracing her, he only held out his hand. Strangely, she was
not offended, but she took it with a sense of shy wonder. And
as she did so, he smiled, a shining, affectionate smile of such
genuine good will that it warmed her body as if she were
standing in the radiance of the noonday sun. She smiled back
at him, in fact, she could do nothing but smile, for the joy that
filled her heart was almost too much to bear.
She felt a strange tightness around her mouth, as if her
delight was threatening to burst forth from her face, as if her
smile could not possibly stretch wide enough to convey the
happiness overflowed her in his presence. He, too, was
without words, and yet he did not need them, so pure and
white was the light that glowed in his gentle eyes. He only

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smiled, and somehow, that was enough – more than enough –
for there was perfect understanding in the mutual joy they
shared in the simple companionship of the lost other.
His hand felt strange, waxen and paper-thin. She could
feel each separate line distinctly, as if they were a strange
Braille that she was meant to read somehow, but the message
was beyond her. She did not care. She was content to rest in
the salving warmth of his regard, drinking him in all the
while. Not for one moment did she look away from him, nor
did he drop his eyes from hers.
And then, it was time to go. She retreated slowly, glancing
again at the woman, but her sleeping figure did not stir and
her face was still obscured. When she looked back at Paul, he
was still smiling, but she had the feeling that he was bidding
her farewell. She tried to speak, tried to call out to him, in
vain. Tears filled her eyes as she watched him, the woman
and the dark room gradually fade away.
She had awoken with a start, sitting in an awkward
position at her makeup table with her forehead resting on the
flat surface and a kink in her neck. Something dripped from
her nose as she sat up, and she saw two perfect liquid circles
on the tabletop where her nose had been. She dipped her
finger in one, breaking its flawless form, then touched the tip
to her tongue. Tears.
What did it mean? She didn't know. Was she happy or
was she sad? She didn't know that, either. Crazy, probably.
Her hands were shaking and she wanted to scream. Then she
heard Christopher's voice coming from the kitchen; she
couldn't really hear what he was saying, but she found it
comforting all the same. Desperately needing to remain
within earshot, she wandered into the living room. There was
a long, rectangular mirror over the fireplace and she started
to look away, afraid of what she would see there. But
something inside her rebelled against the fear, and for the
first time in months, she dared to meet her own eyes. They
were older, somehow, they looked sadder, if no wiser. And in
them were two reflections within the reflection. One of them,
she felt sure, was still the happy little girl that had no name,
the one who was looking out of this unfeeling shell that looked
exactly like her.

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You are a bad, bad person, she told the mirror silently.
You're nothing but a fake! How much longer did she have to
pretend that her life had been torn apart and ruined forever
by Paul's death? What was wrong with her? Sure, she had
liked him, a lot, but she was only fifteen! Jami might think
she didn't ever want to get married, but Holli knew better.
She knew she wanted a family one day, but she'd also known
perfectly well from the start that her romance with Paul
wasn't ever going to survive college. In fact, she probably
would have been fine if he'd dumped her for another girl –
okay, majorly P.O.'ed for a week or two until she met someone
else – but since it ended the way it did, there was just no end
to it! Everyone had turned her into some sort of tragic
survivor, as if she were a saint or something.
She'd come to hate the way that the coffee shop hushed
noticeably when she and Jami walked in, and the sympathetic
look in everyone's eyes. The sad puppy look was always the
same, from the old married women who blew in with their
special silver car coffee mugs to the dweebs who parked there
for hours with their laptops. No one saw her as herself
anymore, she was simply “the girl whose boyfriend got shot at
the prom.”
And if it was this bad during the summer, she couldn't
even imagine what it was going to be like once school started
in September. The worst thing was that it was all her fault.
At first, she'd enjoyed the attention, all the weird celebrity
that the brush with tragedy had given her. The MartinWallace school shootings were the biggest and most awful
thing that had ever happened in the history of Mounds Park,
and of all the victims, Eric, who’d made the homecoming
court, had been most popular. The best-looking, too, so of
course, the picture that was always in all the newspapers was
one her Dad had taken of the two them in front of the limo
that afternoon.
It was a strange sort of kick, but it had been weirdly easy
to fall into. She didn't know when she'd first realized that she
was faking it – maybe faking it was the wrong word,
overdoing it was probably closer to the truth – but that was
when she'd first begun to feel the strange sense of detachment
from herself. It wasn't too long before she found it hard to

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keep from laughing when someone she didn't know would
walk up to her and tell her how sorry they were about Paul,
even as she would start to put on a delicate hint of the
expected waterworks lurking behind her eyes
God, I hate myself! What is wrong with me? Why do you
just leave me hanging out to dry here? Are you as disgusted
with me as I am? If you are, I don't blame you. I don't like
getting off on this sympathy stuff – I mean, I did, but I don't
now! But how do I stop it? Help me stop it!
She tried to imagine the look on the face of the next guy
trying to be nice to her if she just blew up in their face and
told them: “Look, he was just a boyfriend, all right? And he's
dead! Now shut up about him and ask me out, will you?”
Right, they'd be all over that. Any normal guy would totally
think she was some kind of psycho-ho with less feeling than
your average rock.
Well, she knew one thing for sure. She didn't want to sit
around the house by herself tonight, so she'd better ask
Christopher for a ride before he finalized his plans with
Rachel. After pushing her straying bangs out of her eyes, she
turned from the mirror and headed towards the kitchen.
“Hey!” Christopher shot a lethal glare at Jami as she
flounced triumphantly away.
“Hey, you.” Rachel’s voice was soft, and much lower than
his sister’s. It always made her sound like she was being coy,
although he knew now that it was just shyness. “You were
killing elves? That doesn’t sound very nice. What did they
ever do to you?”
He made a mental note to strangle Jami at the first
opportunity.
“Elves,” he said with remarkable restraint, “were not
involved. I’m afraid you were misinformed. I was playing
ASL with Don.”
“Oh, is that your game with the little toy soldiers? Those
teeny little tanks are so adorable!”
With some difficulty, he managed to choke down the urge
to deliver an extensive monologue on the subject of the finest
historical simulation of tactical World War II infantry combat,
the allure of its intellectual challenge, the difficulty involved

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in mastering its complex details, and the aesthetic, not to
mention technically challenging, appeal of painting the
miniatures. Not only would it be received with the telephonic
equivalent of a blank stare, but it would only make him look
like a bigger dork than he already did.
Assuming that was possible, of course. It had been a bitter
truth to swallow, but swallow it perforce he had. Hard as it
was to accept, chicks did not, in fact, dig guys who played
computer games. At least not on that basis.
“Did you win?” Rachel asked him.
“The issue is still in doubt.”
It wasn’t a total lie, but it was stretching the truth. A
little. Okay, a lot. He quickly changed the subject. “So, are
you doing anything tonight?”
“That depends. Do you want to see me?”
He smiled, picturing her long-lashed brown eyes, always
partially-hidden by her straight, chestnut-colored hair. After
two months of summer vacation, she had a killer tan that
brought out the whites of her eyes most beautifully and made
her teeth almost appear to glow during the dark summer
evenings.
She was tall and strikingly slender, and
Christopher was still surprised that he’d ever had the guts to
ask her out. Of course, his sisters had had something to do
with that. It’s always easier to go for it when you know
they’re going to say yes.
“You know I do,” he told her sincerely. “What are you up
for?”
“I don’t care.”
He grimaced. He’d lived with three women for most of his
sixteen years, and although he wasn’t exactly fluent in their
language, he knew enough to know that ‘I don’t care’ did not
indicate actual indifference on the part of the female
speaking. The proper interpretation was something more on
the lines of: “I don’t know, at least not right off the top of my
head, so be a sport and come up with something that you
think I might like. But if I don’t like it, I’ll be sure to let you
know right away so you can think of something else.” It was a
pain, but he also knew better than to fish for a suggestion
that was never going to be forthcoming.

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“What if we went to the evening service tonight, instead of
tomorrow morning,” he suggested. “I heard they’ve got a new
speaker in town this weekend, this young guy from Texas, I
think. Then, afterwards, we can go to Barnes and Noble, the
big one by the movie theatre, you know, with the coffee shop
in it.”
“That sounds good,” Rachel answered, sounding pleased. A
swing and a hit! He mentally high-fived himself. Rachel was
an avid reader, much to Christopher’s delight, and she shared
his love of bookstores.
“I have some credit left on that gift card my aunt gave me
for my birthday, and it would be awesome if I could sleep in
tomorrow morning.
Christopher jumped as someone cleared her throat behind
him. It was Holli. “You just about gave me a heart attack,”
he accused her.
“Sorry. Hey, can I get a ride to church tonight?”
Drat! Had she overheard him talking? He really didn't
want to have Holli along making a third wheel tonight, but
you couldn't exactly tell your sister to bag worshipping the
Lord because you were kind of hoping for some quality kissing
later.
“You're, ah, not going tomorrow or anything?”
“No, I want to go tonight.”
“Um, sure, I guess.” He winced, but forced himself to tell
Rachel now. Better to get it over with than surprise her with
Holli later. “Say, is it okay if Holly comes along with us?”
“Sure,” Rachel answered. Her ready agreement came a
little too quickly for his liking. He glanced over his shoulder,
upon which Holli was tapping.
“You don't need to take me back, Angie will pick me up
there.” His relief must have been apparent on his face,
because she winked playfully and punched him. “I wouldn't
wreck things for you, you know that!”
Good old Holli. Of course she wouldn't! He returned to the
phone.
“Hey, she's meeting Angie after church!”
“You don't sound very disappointed.”
“I'm not. Should I be?”
“Don't be silly. What time will you be here?”

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“Five o’clock.”
“Okay, I’ll be ready.” She paused for a moment. “Bye,
Christopher.”
“See you soon! Bye.”
He pressed the disconnect and absently placed the cordless
on the nearest flat surface, quite happy with the outcome.
Not only was he going to get to spend a whole evening alone
with Rachel, which was great in and of itself, but their plans
left him with more than three hours to continue the British
assault. Don had killed the one tank, true, but in doing so,
he’d revealed the disposition of his entire force in only the
second turn. Christopher still had two Churchills left, more
than three platoons of infantry, and plenty of time to work
with. The unfortunate tank and its crew would soon be
avenged!
Christopher whistled cheerfully as he walked down the
basement stairs towards the little battlefield and the waiting
enemy commander.
Four hours later, he was sitting quietly in a chair in
between Rachel and Holli, holding Rachel's hand as he
continued to reflect obsessively on what had gone wrong. The
‘shreck-toting tank hunters had cunningly used an orchard to
cover their withdrawal into town, surviving what Christopher
had intended as a lethal barrage of firepower. The German
machine gun crew had also executed an orderly retreat, and
in doing so managed to slow the British advance into the allimportant exterior line of buildings. The tide had finally
turned against the Germans in turn six, as his last Churchill
bagged the Jagdpanzer with a nicely placed side shot and his
infantry took out the machine gun in close combat, but the
delays had eaten up too much precious time. The last turn
came to a close with his troops controlling only five of
Sinagoga’s seven main buildings, one short of the number
required for a British victory. Another ignominious defeat,
about which he’d be hearing for quite some time. Don was
many things, but being a modest winner was not one of them.
“Do you think we should volunteer too?” Rachel squeezed
his hand, and the sound of her voice pulled him back to the
present.

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“What’s that?”
Christopher looked around in alarm. On every side, people
were raising their arms, some cheerfully, others more
reluctantly. Only weeks ago, their fast-growing church had
moved from its meeting place at his old elementary school to
this massive building, which had once housed a Home Depot.
The new auditorium was huge and held something like three
thousand people. It was only half-full for the Saturday night
service, but even so, there were more than six hundred people
holding up their hands.
“Um, what are we volunteering for, exactly?”
“Don’t you ever listen?” Rachel sounded unsurprised. This
wasn’t the first time she’d caught him zoning out. “They’re
going to have a crusade here in September, at the Metrodome,
and they want people to volunteer to pray for it every day.”
“Oh, sure,” Christopher shrugged. “Why not?”
He squeezed the hand that he was holding as they lifted
their free hands together, in unison with hundreds of other
willing volunteers. Then he looked more closely at the goodlooking young man standing at the podium, and he blinked
with surprise. It wasn’t so much the man’s appearance that
caught his attention, although he was dressed pretty casually
for a preacher, even for this particular church. No, what was
unusual was the four massive angels towering over the man,
their hands folded over the hilts of their drawn swords as
they stood in a protective semi-circle behind him.
Christopher smiled, and was overcome with joy as, without
warning, an overwhelming consciousness of God’s stupendous
power flowed through him. Rachel, the chair, the church, and
even his own body seemed to dissipate and fall away into
nothing as he perceived, for just one fleeting moment, the
great web of divine light that bound together the people of
God throughout all time and place. Man and angel, rock and
beast; everything in creation that had freely chosen to submit
its will to that of the Most High was linked together in a
glorious and unbreakable chain of power. It was an awesome
vision, and it took his breath away.
“Do you see what I see?,” he whispered to his sister, feeling
a little light-headed. All thoughts of the afternoon’s minibattle had vanished from his mind.

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Holli looked at him and nodded soberly as the congregation
rose to its feet and the worship band began to play an
energetic song of praise to their awesome God. In front of the
band, the four great angels raised their swords in one accord,
and the fiery weapons began to blaze silvery-white over their
upraised, fanatic faces. They gave a great shout, and the
building trembled on its foundation. These were not mere
Guardians, Christopher realized with unabashed awe. Their
scarlet cloaks and silver wings betokened a loftier station,
and their gesture appeared to be more than just a
benediction. In fact, to him it looked a lot more like a
declaration of war.

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C H A P T E R 19

THE GATHERING SHADOW
YOU TRY TO PICTURE HOW THE WORLD MIGHT APPEAR, THIS
WORLD DENSE WITH WRITING THAT SURROUNDS US ON ALL SIDES,
TO SOMEONE WHO HAS LEARNED NOT TO READ.
— Italo Calvino, If On A Winter's Night A Traveler

T

here was something wrong with this picture, Holli
realized when Angie dropped her off in front of the house
and sped away, trailed by the fading sound of the Back Street
Boys. She looked around, half-expecting to see more silverwinged angels around her, but instead she was aware of an
oppressive sense of darkness. She tried to whistle, but her
lips were dry and she walked a little faster to the door than
normal.
She felt a little off kilter. Ever since seeing those angels at
church, her senses seem to expanded. Out of the corner of her
eye, she kept seeing movement, random flashes of motion by
things that didn't exist when she turned to look at them. Was
she imagining things? She hadn't imagined the angels; she
was sure of that. But was she catching glimpses of the world
she knew surrounded hers, or was her imagination just
running wild?
A third alternative occurred to her when a low chuckle
near the corner of the house arrested her attention. She
whipped her head around, and saw a short blue figure emerge
from behind a prickly shrub. His face was wide, his naked
belly protruded grossly, and his skin was marred with
disgusting fatty lumps that glistened moistly in the pale
shards of moonlight. But he wasn't fully there, either, for as
he waddled slowly towards her, she realized that she could
still see the bush behind him.

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She screamed and fumbled for her keys without taking her
eyes off the grotesque creature. But before she found them,
there was a white flash and she breathed a huge sigh of relief
at the sight of Aliel, her guardian angel, standing between
her and it. She, too, was semi-transparent, but Holli could
hear her perfectly well.
“Go, you stupid wretch!” Aliel didn't even bother to draw
her sword, she simply pointed her finger at the thing. “There
is no one here for you tonight.”
The thing chuckled, but it stopped in its tracks. “She'll
do,” it muttered in a deep, wheezing voice. “She'll do real
nice, she'll do.”
“She is not for you!”
“I was called. I am here by right.” It licked its lips with a
bright green tongue that was obscenely thick.
“They
promised me, and I am so hungry. So terrible, terrible
hungry. Give me pity, sweet angel, give me the girl. They are
so soft, the young ones.”
Aliel drew her sword, so fast that her arm was a white blur
erupting in fire. The lumpish thing froze, gasping, but she
halted her swing with the point of the sword flickering at the
spot between its huge yellow eyes.
“What part did you not understand? She is not for you! If
you wish to visit the Pit, then try me!”
The thing's rounded shoulders slumped with defeat. “Then
where is the one that is mine?” it whined.
“Not here. Come back later, if you must, but the young
ones are forbidden. Touch them and you will burn before your
time.”
The grotesque thing sulked as it faded away into
invisibility. It must have left as well, because Aliel shook her
short blonde bob and sheathed her blade. She turned towards
Holli and sighed, becoming more solid, less see-through, as
she did so. They embraced; Holli was delighted to see her
guardian although she knew it was almost surely an ominous
sign.
“So, it's to be you. I see your eyes have been opened.”
“Me? What do you mean? There were angels at church
tonight. Christopher saw them too.”

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Her angel nodded. “Yes, dear, it doesn't surprise me. He's
been sensitive to such things ever since the Fallen one first
touched him. But you, on the other hand, are not.”
Her pretty face looked sad, which worried Holli
tremendously. “What's wrong?” she asked.
Aliel stroked her cheek. “Nothing, dear. But you shouldn't
have seen it.”
“There's something you're not telling me!”
The angel smiled. “There's an encyclopedia of things I'm
not telling you, Holli. And I'm not going to tell you anything
now.” But she withdrew something from inside her robe and
placed it in Holli's hand. “If you're seeing me, then things are
likely to move rapidly now and you may be in great danger. If
I cannot help you, then you must use this.”
Holli looked at it dubiously. It looked like a grape, but it
was black and hard. A stone, perhaps?
“What is it? What do I do with it?
“Do what comes naturally,” answered Aliel, fluttering her
fingers goodbye. “You'll see me soon enough, I fear.”
Holli frowned as she toyed with the angel's gift and
watched her angel fade away, still smiling sadly. The thing in
her hand was strangely warm, almost hot, as if there was fire
inside. Confused, annoyed, and more than a little scared, she
turned back to the house. She wished Aliel would stick
around. Sure, she'd told off that squat little demon, but
generally speaking, her appearing was usually a warning of
bad news on its way. The first time Holli had seen her, it was
demons with claws and serious skin care issues, the second
time, goat-head demons and guns. She wondered what came
next. Skinhead Nazi devils on tanks?”
Glancing at the upstairs windows, she could see that Jami
hadn't made it home yet, although judging from the glow
coming out of the ground floor windows, she'd forgotten to
turn off the light in the living room. She extracted her key to
the front door from her purse, but was surprised when the
handle turned in her hand before she inserted the key into
the slot. Had Dad forgotten to lock it before they left? Sure,
he might have, especially if they'd left through the garage.
She stepped inside, locked the door behind her and slipped
her purse over the staircase's wooden end rail. But she

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couldn't escape the feeling that someone was watching her, or
at least was nearby.
Her stomach growled, and she decided that a snack was in
order. As she walked towards the kitchen, though, her heart
nearly stopped beating when an unfamiliar guy's voice called
out to her.
“Hey, Jami, is that you?”
It didn't sound like Jason, but on the other hand, it didn't
sound like a psycho-killer either, so she resisted the urge to go
for the kitchen and grab one of Mom's razor-sharp Cutco
knives out of the butcher block.
“No, it's not Jami, it's me,” she said as she left the kitchen
and entered the living room. A tall, slender man stood up;
she did not recognize him immediately, not until she saw his
pale blue eyes. In an instant, she was back in the moment of
her deepest, most painful fear.
He didn't look like a deejay, dressed for the prom in a black
tuxedo, black tie, and a ruffled black-and-yellow
cummerbund. He was messing with the equipment for a
second, and then he stood up, looked out over the crowd, and
smiled. It was an scary smile, full of cruelty and evil....
He had not pulled the trigger that had killed Paul. But
Paul's blood was on his hands all the same, along with the
thirteen other boys and girls who had been murdered that
terrible night.
“You!” She pointed at him, trembling. “What are you
doing here?” But before he could respond, she turned and fled
for the kitchen. The butcher's block was empty, but she
pulled open drawer after drawer until she saw a silver glint.
She reached in and grabbed it, but upon realizing it was only
a small cheese knife she threw it to the floor. On her second
try, she found the paring knife for which she was searching
and pulled it out so fast that she skinned her knuckles.
She looked up and he was there, standing in the doorway.
Derek Wallace, the murderer who was supposedly serving a
life sentence at the Stillwater state penitentiary. He was no
high school senior, not anymore. He looked hard. Prison had
aged him; he was more man than boy now, and he no longer
resembled the tall angry geek that she'd hatefully scribbled
out of the Mounds Park yearbook. His dark hair was shaved

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down to grey stubble, his white skin had not seen the sun all
summer and his face was so thin that his cheekbones were
threatening to break through. But his eyes, pale and cold,
were still frightening. They were as hard as diamonds. A
purple bruise marked the left side of his face.
“You're not Jami, you're the other one,” Derek Wallace said
unexpectedly. “Holli, right? What are you doing with that
knife?”
“If you come any closer, I'll stab you! Stay away from me!”
Wallace put up his hands. He looked alarmed, and,
confusingly, a little amused. “All right, take it easy, blondie.
I'm not going to hurt you. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to surprise
you. I just have to talk to Christopher or Jami, all right?
“You shouldn't be here.” Holli said, relaxing just a little.
He didn't seem too psycho, but she wasn't about to drop the
knife either. Where were her parents? Why did they have to
go out tonight, of all nights? They never went out on
weekends! “You're supposed to be in prison.”
“I was, until tonight.”
“What do you mean, until tonight?
You were in
Stillwater!”
He smiled as her voice rose with anxiety. It made her
blood run cold, to see him smile like that, for it hardly touched
his eyes. “Someone let me out. Or something. I'm not really
sure.”
“How could they let you out? You were in for life. For ten
consecutive sentences!”
“Or three months, whatever comes first. Ironic, isn't it.”
He pointed to the knife. “Look, put that down. You're going
to hurt yourself with that thing.”
“I may be blonde, Derek Wallace, but I'm not that stupid.
Now, get out of here before I call the police!”
“You can't do that.”
“Oh, yes I can!”
He smiled again, that same cold, humorless smile. “I don't
think you understand. I can't let you do that.”
Holli swallowed hard. She'd wrestled with her brother too
many times to like her chances here if it came down to a fight,
even with the knife. Boys were stronger than they looked.
She'd always agreed with her dad before when he'd gone on

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off one of his occasional anti-gun lectures at the table,
especially after the prom, but now she really wished there
was at least one gun in the house. So, now what? If Wallace
was desperate to talk to somebody, then probably her best
chance was to keep him talking. The only good thing was
that he didn't seem to be in any hurry to attack her.
“Okay, well, why don't you tell me what you're doing here.”
“I already told you. I have to talk to your brother. Or your
sister.”
“You said that. Why?”
He scrunched his face up, drawing his eyebrows together
and nodded slowly. “Yeah, that's kind of a hard one. I'm still
trying to figure it out. You probably won't believe me, but to
answer your earlier question, I basically just walked out of
Stillwater.”
She stared at him. “That's not possible. It's maximum
security. Isn't it?”
“I said you wouldn't believe me. Anyhow, I hitched a ride
on 36, then walked up 10 until I got here.”
That was a long walk. No wonder he looked tired. But she
still couldn't figure out what he meant by walking out of
Stillwater. She'd never actually been there, but she'd been to
the Ramsey County jail once to visit her cousin, the cop, and
it didn't look like a place that you could just walk out of.
“But why did you come here? You didn't think Christopher
or Jami would just hide you from the cops, did you? They'd
never do that.”
“Actually, I kind of thought they would.”
Okay, so maybe he was psycho, Holli thought. “And why's
that?”
“Because Khasar told me they would.”
Holli stared at him, unable to believe what she'd just
heard. It wasn't possible, she whispered to herself. It just
wasn't possible. He must have heard the name from Jami or
something, or maybe even Christopher. Christopher knew
the name; they'd told him about the crazy archon who'd
watched over them on Ahura Azhda, and sacrificed himself in
a vain attempt to save them when Christopher, in the full
flow of his evil, had struck him down.

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He was dead, she'd seen him die. Although Christopher
had struck her down too, and she wasn't dead. So, maybe it
was possible, just. But if an angel was going to appear to
anyone, wouldn't Derek Wallace be about the last person it
would choose?
She shook her head. It didn't make sense, but it kind of
didn't make sense in an uncomfortably familiar way.. There
was something a little too coincidental about his being here,
especially now. She started to say something, but before she
could get it out, there was a knock on the door. They both
froze.
“Were you expecting anyone?” he hissed at her.
“No.”
A minute ago she would have leaped at the
opportunity to answer the door, suddenly, she wasn't sure
what to do anymore. “Um, just stay here.”
“Holli!”
“What?”
“You might want to leave that.” He pointed to the butcher
knife.
“Oh, right.” She hesitated for a moment, then put it down.
She could always just run out the front door with whoever
was there if she had to. What are you doing, you idiot?
Leaving a sharp knife with a convicted killer? She shook her
head. She didn't have time to think now. Pound-poundpound! The second knock was more urgent, more forceful this
time.
Glancing out the window, she saw the roof-mounted lights
of a police car. Maybe someone had followed Derek after all.
She took a deep breath, then opened the door. There,
towering over her on the front steps, was a tall man in the
dark blue uniform of the St. Paul police. At least, that's what
it said on the badge clipped to his chest. And yet, she wasn't
quite as glad to see him as she thought she should be.
He was pretty good-looking for a cop, more like her idea of
a fireman, with a strong, masculine jaw and short black hair.
He obviously lifted weights, too. He had the usual male
reaction to her, but he controlled it better than most, limiting
himself to a single raised eyebrow. “Good evening, Miss.” His
voice was deep. “I'm sorry to disturb you, but we're on the

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lookout for a dangerous fugitive that was seen in this area
about an hour ago.”
“A fugitive?” Holli tried to decide if she should tell him
about Wallace, even as she widened her eyes and raised her
hand to her mouth. If there was one thing she was good at, it
was keeping guys from knowing what she was thinking.
“Dangerous?”
The handsome policeman nodded. “I'm afraid so, Miss. I
don't want to alarm you, but I'm sure you heard about the
shootings at the prom?”
Holli nodded, and her brief amusement disappeared as the
man's words caused a knot in her stomach. Wallace was a
killer. He was sentenced to jail. Didn't she have a duty to tell
the police that he was hiding almost right behind her? She
didn't trust herself to speak.
The policeman seemed to be staring at her intensely. Did
he know something? Had someone seen Derek go into the
house? Oh, no, what if someone thought she was his
girlfriend and was hiding him!
You are hiding him, she seemed to hear a small voice
whisper in the back of her mind. But you shouldn't be. Tell
him that he's inside. Let the police handle it. It's their job....
“I'm sorry?” she said. The policeman had been saying
something.
He was definitely looking at her strangely now. “I said, is
there anyone else in the house? We noticed that there aren't
many lights on, and we're pretty sure that the fugitive was
right in this area.”
She met his eyes. They seemed to bore right through her
pretension of indecisive cluelessness. She was starting to get
frightened. What if Derek was lying to her? But that wasn't
possible! And wouldn't she get in all kinds of trouble if they
knew she was hiding him. The small voice – no, voices – grew
louder.
He's in there. We know he's in there. Don't be stupid,
Holli! Don't be fool. We know he's in there. Let us have him
and we'll leave you in peace. What is he to you? Why do you
protect him? Give him up... give him up... give him up....

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181

“Why are you hiding him, Holli?” The policeman raised
one cocksure eyebrow. His eyes glinted malevolently. “Why
are you keeping him from us?”

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C H A P T E R 20

A DARK WIND HOWLS
FROM THE WEST, MEN WILL FEAR THE NAME OF THE LORD , AND
FROM THE RISING OF THE SUN, THEY WILL REVERE HIS GLORY.
FOR HE WILL COME LIKE A PENT-UP FLOOD THAT THE BREATH OF
THE LORD DRIVES ALONG.
— Isaiah 59:19

T

he policeman's words shocked her out of her silent,
internal debate. He knew! And when she met his eyes,
she saw that whatever was lurking behind them wasn't
human. There was a wild dark cruelty in them, an whirling,
maddened glee that belied the calm professional look on the
policeman's face.
“Who are you,” she demanded, even as her knees were
shaking. Wallace had seen Khasar! He had seen Khasar, and
it wasn't the cops who were after him after all, it was the
Fallen! “Name yourself!”
“What?” the policeman blinked at her, confused.
“Name yourself!” she shouted at him. “Tell me your name,
by the Blood of the Lamb!”
The policeman recoiled from her, throwing up his hands in
alarm, but a sneering look appeared on his face as he
recovered himself. “You won't get rid of me that easily,” he
snarled, frothing at the mouth like a dog. “You have no power
over me!”
“Get out,” she shouted right back, pointing away from the
house. “Get away from here, demon, and don't you dare come
back, or I'll order you into the bottom of the sea!”
She nearly fainted when his eyes rolled back in his head,
showing nothing but white, and he gave a moaning, wordless
cry of thwarted rage. But when they rolled back and she saw
that the demonic shining was still there, she pointed her chin

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183

and jabbed her finger at him. “Fine! In the Name of the Lord
Jesus – ”
“No! Stop! Please!” the demon interrupted hastily,
backing away from her. “Look,, I’ll leave, I’ll leave!”
She stared at him for a moment, and relented. “Are you
going to leave this guy you’re possessing alone too?”
“Yes, yes, of course!”
She nodded and pointed her finger down the street. Her
heart was pounding so hard she hardly dared speak. But
before the demon left, he wrinkled his lip and snarled one last
bit of defiance.
“If you won't give him up of your own free will, believer,
then they'll come get him, mortal. And they'll take you with
him!”
It felt a little anticlimactic to watch the demon-possessed
man stomp off to his car and slam the door before he drove
away, but it was a relief to her all the same. She waited until
the brake lights disappeared before going back into the house
and locking the door behind her.
“They're after you,” she called out to Derek. “And I don’t
mean the police, I mean demons! I believe you now. Did he
tell you anything? I mean, Khasar, did he tell you what was
going on?”
“Who’s after me? What was that all about?” he asked with
wonder in his voice, as he emerged from his hiding place. “I
thought it was a cop, and then all of a sudden you started
screaming at him. ”
“It was a cop. And I know this may sound weird, but it's
true. He was possessed. And they seem to want you bad.”
“Possessed by demons?”
“Demon. Just one, I think.”
Derek had a strange expression on his face. Then he
nodded slowly. “Yeah, that happened to me once. That
night... it was really strange. It was like watching a movie,
but from inside your own head. I knew what was going on,
but it was like I was just along for the ride.”
Holli didn't trust herself to answer. His words recalled
memories with which she could not deal, and she had to look
away before she said something she'd regret. But as she
looked to the side, something caught her attention outside the

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window. It was hardly possible, but the night appeared to be
growing darker. Had the power gone out? No, because they
still had lights inside.
“Hang on a second.” She went to the window, and gasped.
It was as if her vision had suddenly shifted from black-andwhite to three-dimensional color. A sudden roar from out of
nowhere made her clutch at her ears. To the south was a
shimmering black-purple wave, darker than the night,
lurking on the edge of the horizon. There was something
overwhelmingly malevolent about it, something worrisomely
powerful. The they of whom the demon spoke? It seemed all
too likely.
Holli spun around the room, looking wildly about. Surely
her guardian angel wouldn’t leave her to face this alone.
“Aliel, are you there?”
Her beautiful guardian materialized, still holding her
burning sword unsheathed. Her wings were furled tight, too,
and her face was uncharacteristically grim.
“The borders are thin, tonight, Holli. That demon spoke
the truth. There is something on its way, and soon..”
Derek was gaping at Aliel, who nodded to him. “He is the
one they want. I suspect they caught wind of Prince Uriel's
machinations. Khasar isn't always as clever as he thinks, but
to give him his due, it was a difficult task. He must not have
gone unnoticed.”
“Wait a minute.” Derek stepped in front of Holli and
forced the angel to look at him. “What's going on here? I'm
the one who wants? And who are you?”
“Her name's Aliel,” Holli answered first.
“She's my
guardian angel. Didn't Christopher ever tell you about this
stuff?”
Derek nodded slowly. His eyes were like blue diamonds,
intensely sharp and suspicious. “Yeah, but I didn't really
believe all of it. I figured it was mostly metaphorical or
something.”
“Well, it isn't. It's for real. And something's happening
tonight, right now. Christopher and I saw four angels with
swords at church tonight, and then all this started
happening.” She glanced at Aliel. “If they’re coming,
shouldn't we get out of here? Can't you take us with you?”

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185

“We were told to wait here.”
“Where's my angel?”
Aliel smiled faintly at Derek. “The idea was to mislead
them as to your whereabouts. So, he's still at the prison,
although that aspect of the plan seems to have failed.” Then,
without warning, she whipped her head around and brought
her sword up.
“What's that?” Derek leaped up, looking wildly around
him. There was a wild howling in the distance, but closer still
was a crazed cackling of a hundred infantile voices. It was as
if a pack of rabid wolves on nitrous whippets were
surrounding them.
“The little ones, the petty ones, they sense the coming of
the Great Ones. It excites them.” Aliel kissed Holli on the
forehead. “Be brave, daughter of the King. Remember the
words of the Prince. And my gift!”
Without further ado, took two steps, then unfurled her
wings and flew through the door.
“Holy....” Derek wisely left his thought unfinished. “So,
that's an angel.”
“That's my angel,” Holli said, a little proudly. Then she
remembered what Aliel had said. “A Great One. Ones. Oh,
that's bad.”
“Are they really that bad?”
She stared at him, eyes narrowed. “One of them put you
up to, um, to the prom thing.”
“Oh.”
There was a long moment of silence. Finally, he broke it.
“So, what do we do?”
She shrugged. “Wait and trust in the angels. They know
what they're doing. God sent them here to protect us, so we
should probably let them do that.”
“Can't we at least watch?”
She folded her arms and shrugged..
It was pretty
amazing, after all, to be able to see Heaven's angels in action.
Now that she knew they were really there, she had no doubt
whatsoever that they'd kick butt all over whatever Fallen
Great One was on its way. Why not? As Aliel had shown, a
mere closed door wasn’t going to keep them out.

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It was growing even darker outside, and it was impossible
to see anything from the window so she unlocked the door and
stepped out onto the concrete steps. Derek stood beside her,
and he marveled at how the stars had simply disappeared
into the inky blackness, as if some great beast had sucked
them out of the sky.
“There!” he pointed, and she looked to the south. What she
saw took her breath away. A vast cloud of darkness was
rushing towards them from the horizon, so dark that the
night sky appeared to be light grey by comparison. Four
violet spirals were at the forefront, wreathing the black
cataclysm that threatened to come crashing down upon her
house. The wind suddenly picked up, hitting her so hard it
made her stagger and reach out to Derek to keep her feet.
“What is it?” Derek shouted at her, over the sound of the
onrushing wind. It howled like a demon-possessed hurricane.
“I have no idea!”
Holli looked about frantically to see where Aliel had gone,
or at least one of the other guardians she knew, but she saw
nothing. The black cloud approached, and she could see that
the purple spirals were nothing more than raw power
emanating from four great angels riding towards them,
tearing and twisting the very air through which they
traveled. Fallen angels, there was no question about it, even
at a distance, their demonic nature was apparent. They rode
beasts the likes of which had never before been seen by any
mortal eye, two-headed wolves with wings as long as a school
bus. The largest demon wore a crown of fire, and bore a red
banner that lashed back and forth as he rode the evil wind.
Derek grabbed her wrist with such force that she could feel
each finger leaving a separate mark in her flesh.
“Christopher never said anything about this!”
“It wasn't exactly like this before.” God, why me again?
“Wait, there's our angels! Can you see them?”
“Yes, yes!” Derek cried, pointing at the small white figures
brandishing their fiery blades at the oncoming storm. “I see
them! I see them!” There were four angels; Holli recognized
Mariel's gorgeous waist-length hair immediately and her
heart leaped at the sight of one she guessed to be Khasar, in
the form a golden lion with blue wings. But it was Aliel upon

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187

whom her eyes were locked, and she was inspired by her
slender guardian's fearlessness before the nightmarish foe.
Derek cheered with her as the angels spread their wings
and leaped off the ground. They sped towards the demons,
each holding their swords pointed before them, transforming
their very beings into deadly missiles of Heavenly fury. They
seemed like tiny figures to be set against such evil; the
darkness filled the entire horizon now. And Holli could see
that the darkness was alive, it was filled with the motion of
hundreds, perhaps thousands of smaller beings trailing in the
wake of the four great demonlords. Still, Holli had no doubt
that her angels would triumph.
Khasar, with his greater wingspan, was slightly in
advance of the others, but even as he was baring his powerful
jaws to attack the lead wolf-thing, the beast's rider swept his
arm forward and some invisible force sent the five angels
tumbling wildly through the sky. Holli screamed in horror as
one demonic wolf's head snapped at Aliel, barely missing her
as she cartwheeled past, helpless to defend herself,
completely out of control.
All five of the guardians
disappeared beneath the tree line just as a foul-smelling wind
passed over their heads, and the stench of its passing caused
her to double over, silencing her in mid-scream. She choked
and gagged, but fortunately, in a moment it was gone.
Derek was racked with fear, and he collapsed to his knees
next to her when the four demonlords shouted out in voices of
thunder and steel, but Holli was too toweringly angry to be
frightened. How dare they treat her angel like that! They
were fallen, damned, cursed of God! How dare they! She
should be afraid, the voice of reason whispered inside her, she
should be quivering like jelly, but instead she gave herself
over to the purity of her outrage. And as she did so, the words
of Heaven's great warrior-prince seemed to echo through her
mind.
“Though the night grows dark, you will not know despair.”
Michael had promised her that. Only her. It was her gift,
her special gift that the Almighty God had given her. And
surely there was never a darker night than this, when the
great lords of evil rode the night sky, black on black. The
terrible demons came on fast, riding with a vengeance; they

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had tasted victory already and were less than half a mile
away from her now. They rode with arrogance, as the
monstrous wolf-heads snapped, snarled and howled, and she
knew that if her angels could not stand before them, she did
not have the faith to command them. She need help, and she
needed it fast. Give me the words, God. Oh, God, I know you
have them. Give me the words!
They came. From where, exactly, she did not know, but
they glowed like neon lightning in her brain. She could see
them as clearly as the raging demonlords in the sky. Raising
her chin, she lifted her open hand as if opening a direct line to
Heaven, summoning a divine storm to answer the terrible
cloud sweeping down upon her.
“To me, warriors of the White Lion! To me, riders of the
Silver Fire! To me, angels of the Most High God! I call you in
the name of the Lamb that was Slain!”
Then she hurled the black stone to the ground at her feet.
A wall of fire erupted in front of her, hurling her back.
Derek, too, fell backwards, struck dumb now with fear and
awe. The fire roared towards the heavens, twenty, thirty feet
high, and when it subsided, twelve angels stood before her,
warriors all, with faces as hard and unyielding as they were
beautiful. They glowed, with a cold silver light, and their
wings were iron-grey.
“Well spoken, daughter of the King,” said the one standing
over her, as he held out a hand to her and pulled her to her
feet. He wore a mercurial circlet of flowing silver. “We have
come, how may we serve?”
She pointed to the onrushing riders, barely a football field
away now. “Destroy them.”
The Divine angels turned around, and she heard one of
them hiss something about the cursed seed of Fenrir. Then,
in a flash, six of the angels transformed into white unicorns,
but with hooves of silver fire and the same grey wings as
before, only larger. One looked at her and bared its teeth; she
shrank back in alarm. Its fangs were twice the size of a lion.
“Show no mercy!” shouted the angelic captain, as he leaped
astride one of the unicorns. Without waiting for the others,
he urged his steed to take wing, which it did with great
powerful strokes that fanned her face as they beat the air.

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189

Beside her, Derek had found his feet again.
“Holy smokes, how did you do that?” he said as he pulled at
her arm. “Are they angels too?”
“What do you think,” Holli answered impatiently. She was
vaguely surprised that he was still there. Right now, nothing
existed for her except the angelic battle. Two of the Divine
were rising higher, falling slightly behind the others as they
ascended, while the other four sped to meet the enemy in a
straight line. The demons howled a challenge and one of the
middle pair raised an arm wreathed by purple electricity. He
hurled it at the angelic captain, but the Divine warrior
blocked it on a shield of red-golden fire. The resulting
explosion dazzled Holli's eyes, and she was seeing nothing but
black and purple dots when the two lines of angels came
together.
But she heard it. There was an apocalyptic cacophony of
screams and snarls that rained down upon them,
accompanied by a thunderous roaring like a freight train. It
was so loud, she was forced to cover her ears, blinking rapidly
as she tried to see what was going on.
By the time her vision returned to her, one angel had
disappeared, one demonlord was falling from the sky and one
wolf-thing was missing a head, with great gouts of green fire
flaring out of its neck. Holli shouted with glee as the riderless unicorn transformed itself back into a warrior, then drove
its flaming blade into the wounded wolf, finishing it off. The
other three pairs were going hard at it, exchanging blow for
blow as their monstrous steeds slashed, bit and kicked at each
other.
One huge wolf's wing dealt an angel a great buffet just as
he blocked a sword thrust from the beast's rider, and he
tumbled from his unicorn. But before the demonlord could
follow up his advantage, the lagging pair of angels descended
violently upon him, pressing him back. The demonlord's
steed managed to slash at both unicorn's with its pair of
terrible jaws, but before it could do much more than worry at
them, a golden lion struck from below, raking the beast's belly
with long claws. The thing roared as purple fire lit up the
sky, and a flaming sword finally found its way past the

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demonlord's defense. Thunder boomed, and both the demon
and his monstrous steed were gone.
“Khasar!” Holli shouted.
“That had to hurt,” Derek commented gleefully. He
seemed to be enjoying the spectacle now. “This is so cool!
Hey, did you see the sky is getting lighter?”
And so it was. With the fall of the second demonlord, the
unnatural storm began to break up. The smaller demons
were fleeing, pursued by two of the mounted warriors and
Khasar, who pounced on them like a giant cat slaying rats.
The remaining angels were ganging up on the last two
demonlords, who fought viciously in an attempt to withdraw.
Desperate to escape, one demon spurred his wolf forward,
then leaped off it in a backwards somersault, fleeing madly as
the giant beast hurled itself howling upon the flaming swords
of the surprised angels. Its savage attack sowed enough
confusion in the Divine ranks to allow the second demonlord
to escape too, and Holli unthinkingly exchanged a triumphant
high-five with Derek as the oppressive cloud faded rapidly
into the peaceful darkness of a normal summer night. And
then, she remembered that the victory had not been won
without cost.
“Aliel,” she shouted, rushing out into the front yard,
towards the trees into which her angel had plunged. “Aliel,
are you all right?”
She breathed a sigh of relief when a flash of white emerged
from the little forest. It was her guardian angel, limping
along with her arm around Mariel's shoulder. She rushed to
her and threw her arms around her. “Are you okay? I was so
worried about you!”
Her guardian smiled wearily. “I was thinking the same
thing about you. Oh, you did so well, sweetie! If you hadn't
done that, I don't like to think what would have happened.”
“They were armed for bear,” said Khasar, as he
transformed into his handsome human form. Holli shrieked
with delight and ran to him. She hadn't thought she'd get to
see him again until she died and went to Heaven.
“Khasar! How are you! How is Jhofor? Is he still grumbly
as ever? Why are you here? How are you still alive?”

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191

Khasar and Aliel exchanged a look. When Aliel nodded,
Khasar cleared his throat and pointed to Derek, who was
sitting on the front steps looking pensive.
“We have need of the two of you. I don't know if the Fallen
caught wind of our intentions, or if this was simply a
coincidence, but regardless, we have to get you out of here,
now.”
“You need both of us, you mean, Derek and me?” Holli
stared at Khasar, not knowing if she should be more
surprised at his uncharacteristic seriousness, or at the idea
she was getting lumped in with a serial killer. “Oh, no, I don't
think so. It's one thing to, you know, keep the demons from
getting him, but I don't want to go anywhere with him!”
“This is about a little more than you, honey.” Aliel patted
her shoulder. “There's a lot of other people involved and one
does not question the means of the Most High. Derek has
been chosen, but he needs a companion, one who has
experienced the spiritual world before.”
“What about Christopher? What about Jami? Why can't
they do it!”
The angels looked at each other again. “Holli, that thing
that attacked you... it's waiting for your father. To witness
what he is about to go through will tear at your faith, which
has been much shaken already.”
“Is he going to die!”
“You are all going to die.”
“I mean now!”
“Not immediately. You will see him again, before the end.”
Tears were running down her face. “No! Then I can't
leave now! You can't ask me to leave my Daddy if he's dying!”
Aliel placed her hands on Holli's shoulders and pressed her
forehead against Holli's temple. “Holli, listen to me. There is
war among the Fallen. If we do not act, if you do not help us
act, it is very likely that millions will be killed. Some of the
most powerful lords of the Pit are stirring, as their decadeslong slumber comes to an end. They were sated, for a time,
but now they hunger for another great blood-offering and
their minions seek to serve them.”
“Isn't there someone else?”

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“There is no one else,” said Khasar sadly. “It is even
possible that this attack on your father was made precisely to
prevent you from acting.”
“You can't make me go!”
Aliel shook her head sadly. “No, darling, we will never
make you serve against your will. If you choose to stay, then
you will stay and Derek will go alone.”
“Let her go!” Derek called out from the steps. “She's
suffered enough. I'm not afraid to go alone.”
“We don't question your courage, boy, only your ability to
succeed,” answered Khasar. He looked deep into Holli's eyes.
“Is this your decision, then, to let him attempt to do this on
his own?”
Holli stared into Khasar's eyes, so like a cat's even in his
human form. She saw blood and fire there, death and
destruction. She saw a tall, thin young man, holding two tiny
bundles in either arm and laughing with delight. She saw a
single tombstone sitting peacefully on a hillside cemetery, and
then a mound of dead, naked bodies piled in a jumbled heap.
“Oh Khasar, is it really necessary?” she whispered. More
than once, he had sacrificed himself for her, and now she
trusted him, perhaps even more than Aliel, to tell her the
truth.
“It is needful, daughter of the King.”
When Khasar called her that, Holli realized what she had
to do. For there was one whose claim on her long preceded
even Daddy's, one to whom she owed everything. What did it
mean to be a follower if you did not follow? But God, it hurt.
It hurts so much! She never thought anything could possibly
be worse than Prom Night; now she knew better.
“I will go,” she said, just before a sob choked her throat.
“But I will see him? You promise?”
“You will see him, darling,” Aliel whispered, kissing her
cheek and wiping her tears away. “Now go, my darling, and
may the blessing and the power of the Lord God Almighty go
with you.”
Despite her blurred vision, she could see that Derek was
already mounted on one of the angelic unicorns. He had a
look of wild exaltation on his face that almost made her smile;
he might be a killer, but she'd forgotten that he was a geek,

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too, and he probably had more than a little in common with
Christopher.
Khasar transformed back into his lion shape, and lowered
his wing for her to clamber onto his back. It hadn't really
been all that long since she'd ridden on him, Holli thought,
not for her, and yet it seemed like several lifetimes ago. So
much had changed, including her. She held on tight to the
loose fur of his ruff to steady herself as he launched himself
into the air. The sensation of flight was as pleasant as she
remembered, but even so, her thoughts were as dark as the
night through which they flew.

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C H A P T E R 21

THE CALL
HE REALIZED IT WAS HIS DUTY TO UNDERTAKE THIS EXPEDITION OF REPRISAL. BUT WHAT IS
DUTY? HOW MANY DUTIES ARE THERE THAT WE SO OFTEN NEGLECT WITHOUT THE SLIGHTEST
COMPUNCTION?
— Herman Hesse, Magister Ludi

O

kay, so that was totally cool!” Derek patted the unicorn
which had borne him to this empty parking lot in a
friendly manner. He was a little taken aback when the beast
disappeared in a flare of silver light, and in its place stood a
warrior angel who stood nearly head taller than him. His
hand, which he had withdrawn in alarm, was still up in the
air; he slowly lowered it without taking his eyes off the angel.
“The Archon Khasarotjofee will take you to those who
await you.” His erstwhile beast of burden nodded civilly to
Derek, then inclined his head to Holli. “Fare you well,
children of the King.”
There was another silver flash, and they watched him soar
into the sky as if he burned rocket fuel.
“Dang, I'm glad he didn't fly like that when I was on board.
Was I supposed to say thanks, or something?”
Holli shrugged. “I don't know. Probably. Khasar likes it
when you scratch behind his ears, even though he won't admit
it.”
“Stop that,” ordered the lion as she flicked the black tufts
that tipped his ears. His human voice was startling, coming
as it did from a set of jaws featuring six-inch canines.
She couldn't blame Derek for his enthusiasm, though. The
lights of the two cities were spectacular when seen from
treetop level; they'd soared down over the murky darkness of
Lake Phalen with the lights of Minneapolis and its towers
across the river to their right.

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The building before which they stood looked desolate, unlit
and apparently unoccupied, and standing alone in the middle
of the huge expanse of the asphalt lot made her feel like the
last man standing in an apocalyptic sci-fi movie. It was a
church, judging from the sign in front of the sidewalk, but one
that had seemingly been converted from an industrial facility.
It was getting to be late, and even on a weekend night, St.
Paul wasn’t exactly the city that never sleeps. The city that
naps most of the day, spends the evening watching TV and
finally falls asleep on the couch halfway through Leno was
more like it. Even the neon signs on the strip mall across the
street were already turned off.
“Okay,” Khasar said. “Let's go in.” He seemed a little
nervous, and that made Holli feel a little jumpy herself.
Either the church wardens were in the habit of leaving the
doors unlocked, or there were some angelic tricks Holli hadn’t
seen before, because they didn’t do anything fancy like pass
through the thick plate-glass doors, instead, Khasar simply
pushed down on the handle of the rightmost door and held it
open for her. The high-ceilinged entry hall was dark,
illuminated only by what little light found its way in from the
sparsely-lit parking lot, but Holli was almost blinded by the
explosion of rainbow-hued radiance that engulfed her when
after walking through the foyer, Khasar opened one of the big
metal doors leading to the main auditorium.
“Holy katzenjammers, what is that?”
Like her, Derek was shielding his eyes from the brilliant
glow surrounding three colossal figures standing in front of
the elevated sound stage opposite the main stage, in an open
area behind the rows and rows of blue plastic chairs that
served in lieu of wooden pews.
“Hail and welcome, Derek Wallace! Hail and welcome,
Holli Lewis! Be not afraid, children of the King, for like you,
we are but servants of the Most High God!”
The voice was not amplified, but it might have well been,
for it boomed like the announcer at a monster truck rally.
Holli found herself physically recoiling from the visual and
sonic assault and wishing desperately for four hands, two to
cover her ears and two to shield her eyes from the
excruciating brightness.

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“I’m not afraid, sir,” she shouted back. “But I can’t see
anything and you need to turn the volume down!
She blinked as the overpowering light abruptly
disappeared, and the towering figures were replaced by three
men wearing a red-and-white uniform that, except for the
color, looked a lot like what the Marines wear in their TV
commercials. The three were seated around a round, wooden
table, in comfortable leather chairs, and one of them indicated
that they should sit down in the other two chairs, both of
which were empty.
“Please, take a seat, Derek, Holli,” the man opposite the
empty chair said. He had an erect, military bearing, and his
voice had a crisp tone that left you with no doubt that he
meant business.
“Thank you, sir,” Holli replied politely, sitting down after
an uncertain glance towards Khasar.
“What's going on?” Derek broke in. “And who are you?”
“Our names are unimportant, my young friend. Suffice it
to say that we are, like yourself, servants of Heaven’s King.
To be more precise, we are angels of an order under the direct
command of Prince Uriel. Unlike your guardians, our order
seldom involves itself directly in human affairs, except in
extraordinary circumstances like those in which we have
found ourselves at the present.”
“Your guardian has informed us that you have made a
practice of studying human warfare, Derek, so perhaps you
could think of us as Heaven’s Delta Force,” the angel to his
right suggested. He had hawk-like features and a look of
sharp intelligence about him.
“Cool,” Derek said, obviously impressed. “I wouldn't really
say I study warfare per se, to tell you the truth, but I play a
lot of Counterstrike and Combat Mission. Some ancients, too,
but mostly fantasy instead of medieval proper.”
Holli blinked in disbelief when the angel nodded. These
guys were up on video games?
“In any event, you take my point. Know that we were
created specifically to assist with special operations, missions
requiring a level of secrecy. It is our job to ensure the Fallen
do not know what the Almighty has in store for humanity.

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Or, if they do catch wind of something, it’s our job to see that
their understanding somehow misconstrues the truth.”
Derek frowned. “I don't know about Delta Force, then.
That sounds more like the C.I.A. to me.”
A smile flickered briefly across the first angel’s face. “As
you prefer.
We seldom work directly through mortal
instruments, but from time to time our responsibilities do
bring us into direct contact with the occasional individual.”
“Like us?” Holli asked. She hoped this wasn’t all the
explanation she was going to get. At least Derek seemed to
have a clue.
“Perhaps it would be helpful if I were to give you an
example. On one occasion, we forestalled a determined
attempt to wipe out the Chosen by the simple expedient of
encouraging a Temptress to lead her charge into disobeying
her husband.”
“To all appearances, it was a petty victory for the
temptress, but that apparent defeat led directly to the
survival of God's people.” The angel to Holli's left spoke for
the first time.
“Okay…I see….” Actually, she had no idea what the angel
was talking about. “But I don’t see how can I do anything for
you guys, I mean, I’m not even a junior yet!”
The first angel glanced at the others, then returned his
eyes to Holli's face. “You are young, certainly, but you have
more extensive experience of the spiritual realm than any
human alive, with the exception of your brother and sister.
We believe your experience is required for our present
mission. The challenge we face is that our orders preclude
allowing this mission to come to the attention of the greater
Fallen powers, which is what would certainly happen if we
were to go about this in the traditional manner.”
He glanced coldly at Khasar. “Indeed, there are some
indications that matters have not been handled in a manner
sufficiently circumspect.”
Khasar didn't say anything; he seemed to be finding
something on the far wall to be particularly fascinating at the
moment. Derek raised his hand.
“Where do I come in? I mean, I assume you didn't bust me
out of prison to play Counterstrike for you.”

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“No, we did not,” answered the first angel. By this point,
Holli was pretty sure he was in charge. “We are hunting a
pair of missing items, but we are not the only ones hunting
them. There are a number of Fallen lords also intent on
finding either or both of the pair, which, as you can probably
imagine, rather complicates things.”
“The Fallen lords, are they like those guys we saw outside
Holli's house?”
The angelic commander glanced at Khasar. “Yes, you
could say that, except that some of them are a lot worse.”
“How worse?”
“If you can imagine the difference between a junior high
school football team and the NFL, that should give you some
idea.”
Derek blinked, though if it was the analogy or the thought
of running into an even greater evil that surprised him more,
Holli couldn't tell. Then again, they seemed be more hip to
vids than she was. What on Earth was Counterstrike?
“I don't know about this,” Derek whispered out of the side
of his mouth to Holli before addressing the commander. “I
think you'd better tell me exactly what you want me to do,
because if there's bigger bads than those wolf-things out
there, I don't know what I can do about it.”
“I'm afraid we're on a need-to-know basis here, Derek. The
scope of the mission is almost surely beyond you, as the
complexities of Fallen politics are incomprehensible to mortal
minds. However, you needn't trouble yourself about the big
bads, as you say. The entire point of this particular exercise
is to avoid them.”
“We intend for you to go undercover,” the second angel
explained. “You will be, for all intents and purposes, an
ordinary human, undistinguishable from the crowd.
However, Holli will play the role of your guardian angel – in
disguise, of course – while Khasar will take the part of your
customary tempter.”
Holli glanced at Khasar. He shimmered, and in his place
stood an arrogant, black-haired demon, with no shirt and a
large sigil marking his left shoulder. His appearance was
almost mortal, except for a pair of black rams horns that
circled down from his temples and behind his ears like a

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199

capricornic parody of a bob. He made a devil's sign with his
right hand. “Rock and roll, baby!”
“Please do desist, Archon Khasarotjofee,” ordered the
commander. “You may indulge your puerile sense of humor to
your heart’s content once you're deployed, until then, please
maintain some sense of decorum.”
“As you say, Captain.” Khasar snapped a crisp salute that
bordered perilously close to insolence in its perfection, but
Holli noted that he returned to his more habitual human form
without delay. Still, she found herself smiling when Khasar
winked at her.
“How am I supposed to act like an angel?”
“You'll be endowed with the appropriate powers. To the
common angel, you will appear to be no different than any
other guardian. You will be able to see, hear and otherwise
communicate with spirits both Fallen and Divine, as well as
the ability to traverse the lower three strata.”
“Will I be able to fly?”
An indulgent smile briefly softened the angelic captain's
stern face. “Yes, of course. It would not make for a
convincing masquerade otherwise.”
Derek held up a hand. “Look, I understand you think
we're too stupid to grok the fullness of this supernatural spy
game you've been playing for thousands of years or whatever,
but don't you think that maybe we'd have a better chance of
succeeding if you'd at least tell us what we're supposed to do?”
“Absolutely, but first you must accept the charge.”
“What, I just have to accept it without knowing what we
gotta do? I'm just supposed to hope that you know what
you're doing?” He glared at the captain, but the angel
answered him calmly.
“Your life will be at risk. Your sanity will be at risk. You
will see things that cannot be unseen, and learn things that
cannot be unlearned. You will be a pawn in a game of which
you know nothing, and even if you are successful, you will not
know the tenth part of what you have accomplished.”
“You really should be in sales,” Derek said, his voice
dripping sarcasm.
“And,” the angel added. “You will be serving the Lord your
God.”

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“Then I’m in,” Derek said without hesitation. He folded his
arms and raised his chin, as if to say, so there.
The angel turned his cool gaze to Holli. She met his eyes
without flinching, but she felt as if he could see her pain and
inner turmoil. The thought of being torn away from her
family now, when her father was dying and he wasn't even
saved, caused her actual physical pain, a terrible hollowness
in the pit of her stomach. And yet, she had no doubt about
what she must do. What was her pain, her loss, compared to
what otherwise might be suffered by the poor murdered
people of the vision?
“I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t in,” she answered softly.
The captain nodded to her, looking satisfied, if not
necessarily pleased, then glanced at his two companions.
“They are worthy,” he said. “Archon, for the love of the
Almighty King we serve, do not fail them in this.”
“I will not fail them, captain.”
“Then let us prepare them.” In the blink of an eye, the
table disappeared and the four angels were standing in a
semicircle around Holli and Derek. The two angels of Prince
Uriel's order approached them, and held out their hands,
palms upward. Derek took those of the angel in front of her
without hesitation, while Holli was a little slower to do
likewise. She looked at Khasar, and was somewhat reassured
by his surreptitious thumbs-up.
“It will hurt,” the angel told her, not unkindly. “But it will
not be more than you can bear. It might be best if you closed
your eyes.”
She nodded, and swallowed hard.
“Good luck, blondie,” she heard Derek murmur, but she
was too busy concentrating on remembering to breathe to
reply. She started as she began to feel a gentle warmth in the
angel's palms, which spread first to her hands, then up her
arms until it surrounded her entire body. It was a rather nice
sensation, almost like whole body massage, but as the heat
began to rise to the point of discomfort, she started getting
nervous. At that moment, she made the mistake of peeking.
Silver filled her eyes; she was engulfed in silver fire! She
screamed, and the flames filled her throat, choking it off and
searing her mouth and lungs.

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201

The flames were incinerating her now, and she tried
desperately to get away, but her hands were imprisoned as
firmly as if they'd been set in concrete. She thrashed
violently from side to side, but it was no use. Then, just when
the pain was reaching its peak and she had given herself up
to a fiery death, she fell back and was bathed in something
cool and glorious.
It was if she'd been bathed in warm milk then dipped in
Estee Lauder moisturizer. Too shocked and exhausted to
speak or open her eyes, she ran her fingers over the top of her
hand. It wasn't the charcoaled x-ray she'd expected, in fact,
her skin felt softer and silkier than it ever had before. She
turned her hand over and felt her palm; the callus from
cheerleading practice was gone.
“That's, like, the world's best chemical peel,” she told the
angel, who was still standing in front of her when she opened
her eyes.
“How do you feel?” Khasar asked.
“Um... great! I'm a little tingly... whoa!” Her foot slipped
when she pushed herself out of the chair, and balanced
herself with her wings. Wings! Looking back over her
shoulder, she saw lovely white feathers, with just a faint
dusting of gold. They were exactly like Aliel's, she realized
with delight.
Thoroughly enchanted with them, she clapped her hands
together and twirled around in a happy pirouette. But when
she saw what they'd done to Derek, she frowned in dismay.
“Why did you do that to him?” Derek looked at least ten
years older, with small, beady eyes, a thick, stumpy neck and
a bald head shaped like a bullet. He hadn't been particularly
attractive before, but now, whatever physical charm he might
have possessed was completely gone.
“I suppose they thought that I'd attract less attention if I
didn't look like someone who's on America's Ten Most
Wanted.” His voice was rough, a smoker's voice, and deeper
than before. Even stranger, he had some kind of English
accent. “I take it I don't look quite as pretty as you.”
“We don't need pretty,” the captain informed him. “We
need someone who will attract as little attention from the
Fallen as possible. You're to act the part of one who's

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unsaved, which, considering your recent salvation, should not
be a problem.”
“That's act as in look the part, not act as in actually act,
you understand,” Khasar added, earning him an irritated
glance from the captain. “And now that they're ready, we'll be
off, Lord Koervael, if you don't mind. Derek's plane leaves
early tomorrow morning, and Holli will need every minute of
that time to practice if she's not going to make a hash of it.”
“My plane?” Derek said.
“Where are we going?” demanded Holli.
Khasar produced an airline ticket from nowhere and
handed it to Derek, whose eyes widened as he looked it over.
“We're going to London?” he said in a wondering tone of voice.
“But what are we going to do there?”
Khasar mimed holding something, and swung it like a golf
club. Holli wrinkled her brow. They were going golfing? Or
maybe not, she realized, as the archon explained.
“It's very simple, believe it or not. We're going to find a
sword and then, if everything goes according to plan, stick it
into a very bad individual who very much deserves to get
stuck. Doesn't that sound like a lovely way to spend your
summer vacation?”

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C H A P T E R 22

MASQUERADE
THE YELLOW LEAVES BEGIN TO FADE
AND FLUTTER FROM THE TEMPLE ELMS,
AND AT MY FEET THE PALE GREEN THAMES
LIES LIKE A ROD OF RIPPLED JADE.
— Oscar Wilde, Symphony in Yellow

L

ondon was nothing like Holli expected. It was a huge
city, much bigger than Minneapolis, and it stretched in
every direction further than the eye could see. It was a busy
place, and far from being a collection the sort of stuffy, pasty
people she’d seen on PBS, it was a mix of people from all over
the world, speaking with at least ten different accents when
they weren't actually speaking another language altogether.
It was dirty too, although now that she was not actually in
the material world, she found that didn't bother her as much.
Getting used to not being solid most of the time wasn't
easy. She was terrified that she'd forget and slip back into
the real world right when she was in the middle of a wall or
something, but Khasar assured her that was impossible.
“It’s what you think of as being the real world that is
actually the shadow. It's like being in a pool, then getting out
of it, no, I suppose that doesn't work now, does it. Look, in a
sense, you could say that you're actually more real now, not
that you weren't real before, if you know what I'm saying.”
After that incredibly helpful explanation, Holli stopped
asking Khasar to explain things to her. As long as she
couldn't kill herself by accident, it would be easier to figure
things out on her own. It was much more fun to hear what
he'd been doing since she'd last seen him; as hard as it
seemed to believe, from his point of view thousands of years
had passed.

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“Of course, it's all kind of a blur when you keep yourself
busy,” he explained. “Or rather, when folks like Lord
Coervael keep you busy. Do you have any idea how many
ways there are to start a war? There are honestly times when
I start to suspect that the entire notion of mortal free will is
little more than an experiment gone horribly awry.”
Holli felt a little strange, having this discussion on either
side of Derek, although he couldn't hear what they were
talking about. The city was even more crowded with angels
and demons than it was with people; most were simple
guardians and tempters going about their business, but she
was surprised to see how many territorial spirits there were,
some of them quite friendly, others about as civil as pit bulls.
There was an uneasy truce between the Divine and the
Fallen, but it was quite clear that the peace only extended as
far as the open spaces.
The most shocking discovery was how little territory was
actually held by Heaven's forces. They passed block after
block of buildings which, to her newly enhanced vision,
appeared to glow slightly red, as if in warning. When she
brushed her fingers close to the wall, there was a faint
crackling sound and her hand tingled like she'd touched an
invisible electric fence.
“Don't do that,” Khasar warned. “And if you set foot in one
of those places, be ready to fight.”
“I don't even know how to use this thing,” Holli
complained, slapping the scabbard that hung at her side.
When she'd tried to draw it the first time, she'd burned her
left hand.
“The idea is to avoid having to.”
“I thought we were supposed to stick a sword in
somebody.”
“Not that sword. Although I admit, I'd feel a lot better if
you had any idea of how to use that thing. I don't expect
you'll find yourself in anything approaching a fair fight,
though, which is good because you certainly wouldn't survive
one.”
“I can get killed like this?”
“Well, not really, but let's just say it would end your little
impersonation in a hurry. But then if you happened to be

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flying one hundred feet up in the air at the time... actually,
yes, that would be a problem, I suppose. So, let's try to avoid
that, shall we?”
The Divine strongholds, on the other hand, gave off a cool
bluish ambience. It was depressing to see how few of them
there were – even some of the churches they passed glowed
ominously red – but she was intrigued to find that they filled
her with a noticeable sense of power, like getting her batteries
recharged. Khasar laughed at the expression on her face the
first time they entered one, a little Catholic church which
consisted, by the looks of it, primarily of African immigrants.
“Faith, my dear, it's our food and drink. It strengthens us,
gives us power.
We can't act without it.”
He had
momentarily changed back into his normal aspect, to avoid
being attacked on sight.
“Aren't you worried someone will notice you changing back
and forth like that?”
He shrugged. “It's a risk we have to take. But I've been
watching. No one is paying anymore attention to us than we
are to them. That's why I told Derek to stay in that game
shop across the street, so no passing Fallen would think we
were working on him.”
“Oh.” Holli watched as the father blessed an old lady who
had come in to bring him a bouquet of flowers, accompanied
by a surprisingly powerful guardian, who nodded to them in
greeting. Except for the two elderly people and five or six
Divine, no one was about. “Well, if he's anything like
Christopher, he'll be happy there for hours. Now that he's not
around, can you tell me what's really going on?”
“He's one of us too now, Holli.” His tone of rebuke felt like
a betrayal. “I know it's hard for you to accept.”
“You have no idea!”
The archon shook his head, but he was smiling. “Be brave,
kitten. Being around him may be the least unpleasant thing
asked of you.” Then he told her of Albion and its king, of that
king's doomed attempt to create a magic kingdom of Faerie
that would stand outside of the insane war that Lucifer had
begun. He told her of the glorious tournaments and balls, and
of the cruel, heartless manner in which the fallen fae ruled

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over man. He told of the king's great betrayal, and how,
centuries later, they had learned of his escape.
“Lord Coervael told me that his Shadow Hunters learned
that this king, Oberon, is hiding with the vampires of London.
So, our first task is to find Oberon. Then we will find the
Sword, and use it to permit Oberon to reclaim his throne.”
“But I thought you said he was a fallen angel, that he was
cruel and heartless.
“A Fallen throne must have a Fallen ruler. And every
fallen prince is cruel, but there are many worse than Oberon.
It is not that we serve his interests, we merely make use of
him to prevent one who is much more dangerous from
claiming Britain's throne.”
“Isn't anyone on it already?”
Khasar wrinkled his lip. “Not one who can hope to hold it.
The present king is feared, and hated. His servants are not
loyal, and will betray him at the first opportunity. Those
among the Fallen who thought he would prove a better king
than Oberon were sadly disappointed. But we must install
Oberon before the other makes her move. There is little
time.”
“I just find it hard to believe that it's God's will to help a
demon king.” Holli shook her head. “This sounds all wrong.”
“Who said anything about God's will?” Khasar laughed
without amusement. “God's will is that all should worship
His Son. He has little to do with this; it is Prince Uriel's
game we play.”
“But I thought everything happened according to some
special plan of God's or something?”
“Hardly.” Khasar rolled his eyes. “You think it is
somehow for the good of Mankind that children are murdered
with machetes in Africa? Do you think it pleased Him to see
six million of His chosen people burned to ashes? God had a
plan, and Adam shattered it by abdicating his dominion.
That's why He had to come up with an alternative. That's
why Man required a Savior.”
Holli's head was spinning. Just the thought that God
might not be in complete control of everything upset her
more than she would have thought.
“But, I thought He did everything for our good!”

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“Every thing he does is for your good, Holli. But nearly
everything Satan does is to do you harm. Was it good that
your boyfriend died?”
“No!”
“Did anything good come out of it? Did you learn anything
about life, the universe and everything.”
“Yes,” she admitted reluctantly.
“There you go. When something bad happens, there is
always a silver lining. We make of it what we can. When
that mega-psycho Moloch tried to wipe out the Chosen People,
Uriel used it as a means of convincing a conscience-stricken
world to fulfill the prophecy. But I'd think it's pretty obvious
who's in charge here – only look around! When Jesus said
that the Prince of this world was coming to kill him, who did
you think he was talking about, Gabriel?”
Holli looked around the cool sanctuary of the church and
thought about how many Fallen strongholds she'd seen just
this morning, and how the demons walked tall and confident,
sneering at her as they went past. “I just never thought
about it, I guess. In church, they just tell us that everything's
in God's hands.”
“We're God's hands, my dear. And do you know what else?
Most of the time, He leaves us free to do as we think best.
Some angels are serious about their responsibilities, some
aren't. That's why you'll be judging us one day.”
“We'll judge you?”
“Yeah,” Khasar winced. “On how we did. I can't say I'm
really looking forward to that. I happened to get busted down
to guardian for a bit after one particularly unfortunate
misunderstanding, and I'm afraid I didn't do quite as good a
job with my charge as Aliel has with you. It all turned out all
right in the end, but it was pretty close there for a while.”
“I had no clue about any of this. How come you didn't tell
me any of this before, when we were on Rahab?” Khasar
looked at her for a moment in amazement. When she stared
blankly back at him, he laughed in disbelief.
“We hadn't exactly had the rules laid out for us then, you
know, considering that it all took place long before God
decided to have another go with Adam. I don't know how to

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break this to you lightly, but this isn't the first world God has
created, and I rather doubt it will be the last.”
Holli felt as if she'd sprained her brain. This was what
everybody must have felt like when that one guy told
everyone that the sun didn't go around the earth, but things
were the other way around. No, she corrected herself, it was
the other way around, wasn't it? Whatever, it didn't matter
now.
“Hey” Khasar was pointing at something outside the
window from which most of the sunlight was coming in. His
voice was quiet, and his brows were knitted together. “Do you
see that demon near the phone booth?”
“The short one with the black hot pants?”
“No, not her. The muscular one with the tattoo running up
his arm.”
“Sure, what about him.” He was hard to miss, being about
a head taller than the rest of the crowd, with a pair of meat
cleavers strapped to his back.
“That's our boy.” Khasar was already moving towards the
rear of the church, and pulling her along with him. “Go
outside, to the alley, and tell me if anyone is coming.” He
gave her a little push and Holli cringed as she stepped into
the rear wall, but she managed to slip right through the stone
of the old church without incident. She looked back and forth.
No one was there, except a fat, mangy dog that was rooting
around an overflowing trash can, his tail wagging
optimistically.
“You're good,” she called back softly. When nothing
happened, she raised her voice. “I said, you're good.”
Yikes! Not anymore. Khasar had bulked himself up a
little, and he'd jacked up the evilness of his Fallen aspect to
match. His black horns were shot through with a glowing red
pattern that pulsed with an ominous air and his eyes were
blood-red, with yellow reptilian pupils. His upper body was
not only huge, but shredded, with thick purplish veins
threatening to burst from his shoulders.
“I think our boy has had enough time mucking about in
that toy shop, don't you?” His voice was deep and grating,
and if Holli had not been sure it was him, she would have run
screaming through the wall at the far end of the alley. As it

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was, she followed him at a safe distance, her hand on the
jeweled hilt of her sword.
Khasar stopped where the alley reached the side street
and turned around to face her.
His face was still
recognizable, barely, and she found it hard to concentrate on
what he was saying, as his two rows of jagged, broken teeth
were tremendously distracting.
“The big dude with the two swords on his back is our
informant. He's going to go inside, and you're going to follow
him. When you get inside, tell Derek that he should call his
mother, because it's her birthday. That's how he'll recognize
you.”
“You want me to go full material?”
“No!” Khasar's evil eyes widened. “No, no, no, no, no! You
never walk shadow to septus unless I tell you to, do you
understand! That would ruin everything. You're supposed to
be his conscience, okay? So, talk to him just like you're
talking to me. You're not talking to his ears, you're talking to
his spirit, right?”
“Um, sure.” Holli wasn't quite understanding all of this,
but as long as she just had to talk, that was fine. “And once
he recognizes me – the demon, not Derek – what's he going to
do?”
“I don't know. But don't talk to him, don't even look at
him, unless he talks to you. Just pay attention to whatever
he does. And don't follow him when he leaves!”
“Unless he tells me to, right?”
“Yeah – although in that case we'd have to consider the
possibility that it might be a trap of some– ”
“Khasar?” Holli interrupted. “Would you please shut up?
I'm already scared enough as it is, all right?”
“Right.” Khasar nodded and patted her on the shoulder
with one huge, black-taloned hand. “You'll be fine, just
remember, his mother's birthday.”
Holli didn't realize that that was the sort of thing guardian
angels concerned themselves with, but then, what did she
know? She stepped into the street, there was a roar and a
rush of wind, and she jumped about thirty feet in the air as a
green Mercedes ran right through her. She'd forgotten that
they drove on the wrong side of the road here! As she spread

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her wings and floated back down to earth, she glanced back
towards the alley where Khasar was leaning against the wall,
burying his horned head in his hands. Demons were pointing
their fingers at her and cackling with amusement; so much
for not attracting unnecessary attention.
Blushing with embarrassment and wishing she was
anywhere but here, Holli bit her lip, chagrined, and stepped
uncertainly into the darkness of the game shop.

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C H A P T E R 23

GIFT OF THE DRAGON
THE NEPHILIM WERE ON THE EARTH IN THOSE DAYS-AND ALSO
AFTERWARD-WHEN THE SONS OF GOD WENT TO THE DAUGHTERS
OF MEN AND HAD CHILDREN BY THEM.
— Genesis 6:4

D

erek looked around his shabby hotel room with
bemused irritation. The last time he'd been to
London, he'd stayed at the Charter with his mother and
father. Of course, that was a different situation altogether,
he thought, as he stared at his unfamiliar face in the mirror.
Only the eyes were recognizably his, and this strange,
unshaven, heavyset man would have looked completely out of
place in any hotel that was less of a dive, even if he wasn't
wearing baggy jeans and a tattered black sweater.
He glanced at his purchases, wondering what on Earth had
gotten into him. It wasn't that he'd never Masqueraded
before, but he wasn't planning on doing a lot of role-playing
on this bizarre little vacation that would probably be his last
bit of freedom before he disappeared behind bars again. A
small worm of self-pity began to snivel inside him, but he
ruthlessly surpressed it. Just enjoy it while it lasts, dude,
there's plenty of time for that later.
“So, are you just going to hang around watching, or what?”
he demanded of the room, empty except for a pair of lumpy
beds, a lamp and a TV so old that it didn't even have a remote
or a cable connection. “Because, I'm thinking it might be nice
to know what's going on!”
Holli immediately appeared in front of him, looking exactly
as she had before going all angel. “I'm sorry,” she apologized.
“I wasn't thinking – what's wrong?”

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For a look of horror had filled Derek's face, and as he
backed away, pointing at something behind her, he caught his
heel on the edge of a bed and fell hard on the wooden floor.
“What's the matter,” asked Khasar. “Oh, right, I forgot!”
In the blink of an eye, the huge demon was gone, replaced by
the angel's more human Aspect. He bent over Derek and
helped him to his feet. “I should have warned you about that,
really, terribly sorry.”
“Are you trying to give me a heart attack!” Derek yelled at
the angel. “It's bad enough not knowing what I look like, let
alone you!”
“I said I was sorry,” Khasar grumbled.
Holli stepped in between them. “It's no big deal, Derek, he
just forgot. You have no idea how complicated this stuff is.”
“I don't? Look at me!” He grabbed two fistfuls of stomach
fat. “I have a gut! What is up with that? It's disgusting!
And why are we staying in this hellhole of a hotel? I mean, I
wasn't necessarily expecting streets of gold or anything, but
this is ridiculous. My mother has better connections than this
guy.”
“I can always arrange for you to go right back to jail,”
Khasar shot back. Holli glared at him. “Right, sorry, that
was uncalled for.”
“I'm going to the bathroom,” she announced, deciding that
she'd leave it up to the two of them to work it out. Ten
seconds later, she'd changed her mind. The bathroom was
disgusting. “Khasar, he’s right, we can't stay here.”
“Just shift up,” he advised. “Then you won't have to go.”
“I have to go sometime!”
The three of them stared at each other. No one said
anything, but Holli was pretty sure they were all thinking the
same thing. She'd had her doubts about this from the start,
but now it was really starting to look like a disaster in the
making. Khasar was fun, but he wasn't exactly cunning,
Derek might be saved now but he was still a psycho and kind
of a jerk, and she couldn't even walk across the street without
getting hit by a car. And this was what Prince Uriel had
come up with to stop some major evil being cooked up by
Hell's nastiest devils? No wonder the world was such a mess!

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“Well, let's see what we have here.” Khasar broke the
silence and picked up the oversized paperbacks. “Vampires,
vampires and... more vampires. Well, that doesn't help much.
We already knew that.”
Holli and Derek looked at each other. “What?” they said in
rough chorus.
“Oh, we know Oberon is in hiding with a vampire clan.
The challenge is finding the right one without leading the
Mad One right to him. He does us no good without the
sword.”
“Okay, wait a minute. I'm cool with the whole angels and
devils thing.” Derek said. “At least, I think I am. But you're
not seriously saying that things like vampires and stuff really
exist, are you?”
“Of course,” said Khasar, looking a little confused. “I
thought all humans knew that. I mean, they're on the
television all the time, aren't they?”
“When were you a Guardian, Khasar?” Holli broke in. She
had a pretty good idea she knew what the answer was.
“Why?”
“Just tell me.”
“Well, it was a long time ago. It was a really bad time,
Baal-Malar had been unleashed across Europe and his
plagues nearly wiped out the continent.”
“The Black Death, I'll bet,” Derek said, looking at Holli.
“Thirteen hundreds.”
“I figured something like that. Khasar, what's on the
television isn't all news. It's just entertainment. Made up
stuff.”
“Like the movies?”
“Exactly.”
“Then why do you go to the movies if you can watch
entertainment at home?”
“Because we’re stupid,” Holli said impatiently. “The point
is, no, we didn't know that vampires existed. Is there
anything else out there that we should know about?”
The angel shrugged. “There's hundreds of creatures like
that. Shapeshifters, ghouls, sprites, soulsuckers, you name it.
They're nothing to worry about, of course, although they

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prefer angelfire to blood, it's not generally an option for
them.”
“My head hurts,” Derek announced to no one in particular.
“Khasar, are you basically saying that every scary monster
that anyone ever invented to keep the kiddies up at night is
real?”
“I don't know about all of them, but sure, most of them,
definitely. And then, there's probably quite a few that
humans wouldn't know about, since they never enter the
material. But really, they're essentially all the same. We call
them the Children of the Twice-Fallen.”
“Why?”
“I should think that's obvious.” He glanced between both
of their faces; Holli was pretty sure hers was as blank as
Derek's. “Well, perhaps I should start from the beginning.”
“That would be nice.”
After Lucifer's Fall and the subsequent Great War, Khasar
explained, none of the Divine were permitted on Earth. It
was a place apart, where Heaven's King had gone to be alone
with his latest creation, following the destruction of Rahab
that completed the Ahura Azdhan cycle. The notion that
Lucifer had fallen out of pique over Adam was absurd, of
course, for the Fall had long preceded the creation of the first
Man. Indeed, Lucifer had been worshipped openly as a god on
Rahab, which was where he'd developed the taste for such
blasphemy, one that he had never given up.
“I still can't believe he tried to get The Lamb to worship
him.” Khasar added as an aside. “What a lunatic! He's either
mad or too narcissistic to see the end of his nose. How he
missed that one, I'll never know. But he did, and that's all
that matters.”
Lucifer, being already fallen, had not feared to break the
ban, and possessed the serpent that led Eve, and through her
Adam, astray. Then, for the first time, angels had been
summoned to bar the garden from the fallen humans, now
mortal, while at the same time, the whole Earth was given
over to the Fallen. The Watchers became the Rulers. They
ruled it openly, did the Fallen, with the more powerful setting
up kingdoms over mortal and angel alike. Many bred with

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mortals, great and small alike, populating the land with not
only the giants described in the Bible, but every form of
spiritual and material monstrosity. It was this wickedness
that had so offended Heaven's King, and finally moved him to
take the drastic measure of destroying what he had made.
The Flood was more than a human catastrophe, it was also
a harrowing of angel-kind. The War of the Flood was even
more bitter than the War in Heaven; this time the Almighty
did not stay his hand and Michael's disciplined forces
mercilessly ravaged the unready legions of the Fallen.
Lucifer was forced to submit, those angels that had broken
the ban on mortal relations were hurled into a hellish prison
inside the Earth's molten core, and the Great Concordat was
signed. Lucifer was to retain his usurped supremacy, but no
more would the Divine be banned from the Earth and if
Lucifer continued to rule in a malicious manner, his reign
would be broken once and for all and he would join his former
followers in the Pit.
“Too bad he didn't just throw him in the Pit then. It would
have saved a lot of trouble,” Holli said.
“Perhaps, or perhaps not.” Khasar shrugged. “He is not
evil incarnate, he is simply the first to fall. If it were not for
the honor he is still accorded by virtue of his former place, I
do not know if he would even be first among the Fallen.
Certainly there are others not so easily hoodwinked as him,
and arguably more dangerous.”
Needless to say, Lucifer had no intention of abiding by the
Concordat, and he ruled much as before, although he did keep
his distance from those who abided by God's Law. But as the
centuries passed and his violations were not marked, his
confidence grew, and he again convinced himself that
Heaven's King had not been a magnanimous victor so much
as a weak-willed beneficiary of some timely good fortune. The
Prince of the World clamped down on his subordinate princes,
and relentlessly drove them to become ever stronger and ever
crueler in mad evolutionary preparation for the third angelic
war, the one that would overthrow Heaven's King and place
Lucifer on the Great White Throne once and for all.
Although the Flood had destroyed most of the monstrous
children of the twice-fallen angels, more than a few survived.

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Some, the sons of angelic princes, were strong enough to
transform into fish, others were so weak that what happened
on the material plane made little difference to them. As the
waters receded, the surviving Children of the Twice-Fallen
gathered on the plain of Durvig at the command of a Fallen
prince, Belial, the Great Dragon and general of the Three
Legions.
Belial cursed them, and laid the blame for the war, the
Concordat and the chaining of their fathers at their feet. He
summoned one of his legions to destroy them, and the
wretched abominations cried out in fear as Belial's demonic
army soared down from the sky like a plague of fiery black
locusts.
But even as the demons threatened to fall upon the
Children of the Twice-Fallen, one of Belial's captains dared to
whisper in the dragon's ear. Belial listened, then roared for
his army to hold, breathing out a great gout of red flame over
the heads of the cowering abominations that stopped the
angry Fallen as if they had been frozen.
“And why should I not destroy them, as they have
destroyed us?” he bellowed at his captain. “Speak, and if your
tongue be not silver, then I swear by the angels of the Pit, you
shall perish with these monsters this very day!”
Mephistopheles was no warrior, but he was prized highly
in the councils of the Fallen for his cunning. He reminded his
angry prince that bound as they now were by the chains of the
Concordat, they could no longer slay mortals out of hand.
Would it not be useful if there were those who knew no such
limits? For as he shrewdly noted, if their existence so
annoyed Heaven's King, there surely must be some value to
be found in them for those who opposed him!
The Great Dragon laughed, and the ground trembled
before him. He sent his legion away, and he honored
Mephistopheles before those he had saved.
“On your knees before your master, your savior, Silver
Tongue!” Belial roared, and the Children of the Twice-Fallen
were quick to obey. “He will be your king and you will be his
slaves! Do you so swear!”
“We swear,” the Children cried, great and small alike, still
fearing for their lives.

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“Do you claim them?” he demanded of Mephistopheles.
When his captain nodded, Belial looked on him and took his
face in one terrible clawed hand. “Then you shall bear this in
remembrance of their debt to you, and yours to me. And I
shall tear it out by the roots, I tell you, if ever any of your
slaves should serve the Enemy.”
“They shall not, I swear it!” Mephistopheles replied, and
when he spoke, the light reflected off his tongue with an
argent gleam. And Mephistopheles accepted Belial's gift to
him with a fierce and haughty pride, for he was a captain of
demons no more, but a true prince of devils.
He called them and they came. He opened his spirit to
them and they drank of his angelfire, great and small alike.
So Mephistopheles Silver Tongue bound them to him, and so
they learned to lust for angelfire, though the blood of the
living will sustain them, and indeed, few indeed have tasted
angelfire since. Now they stalk the night, they float through
the shadows and they creep through cemeteries, always
hungry for that which will make them whole. But they will
never be whole, for they are abomination and accursed of God.
Even their king, Mephistopheles, will be judged before he is
thrown into the Lake of Fire, but his slaves, monsters all, will
be utterly destroyed.
“Dude, that's pretty out there,” Derek commented. Holli
rolled her eyes at him, but Derek blew her off. “Seriously, I
don't even know what to do with that. You said that this guy
we're looking for is hiding with these Children, or vampires,
or whatever?”
“Exactly,” Khasar said. He seemed a little disappointed
that Derek wasn't more taken with his story. Holli was,
though. She stared up at the ceiling, thinking that it would
explain why vampires feared crosses and holy water.
“Can they turn people into vampires?” she asked.
“No, not at all. The strongest and least material can
animate the flesh that remains behind, but that is all. They
cannot soil the soul, nor control the spirit. Only the Accuser's
demons have such power. Of course, a clever one might easily
fool a mortal whose wits are disordered by the very sight of
one who is known to be dead walking about, especially were it
to engage him in conversation.”

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Holli shivered. She didn't even want to think about it.
Scary movies freaked her out, and knowing that there was
some truth behind them only made it worse. “So, I suppose
they don't like you guys too much?”
Khasar threw back his head and laughed.
“As the
hurricane is to the peaceful zephyr, so is your Guardian to the
mightiest of the Children. An Archon like myself would
scarcely fear a hundred of them. As much as they may lust
after our spirits, they fear the flames of our blades more. No,
Holli, you need not be afraid of them. Even if you were not in
a form to strike terror into their hearts, they would know you
for a daughter of the King and tread a wide berth around
you.”
“So how are we going to find this guy?” Derek asked
impatiently. “Don't get me wrong, that's the weirdest history
lesson I've ever heard, which is pretty impressive. But what
are we supposed to do, go catch ourselves a vampire and beat
on him until he tells us where this Oberon dude is?”
“It doesn't sound very elegant when you put it that way,
but essentially, you've boiled my plan down to its essence.”
Derek frowned at the Archon. “How do we catch a
vampire?”
“The same way one catches anything else. One baits the
trap.” Khasar smiled at Derek and his eyes twinkled with
mischief. “Care to guess who gets to be the bait?

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C H A P T E R 24

THE LION UNLEASHED
WHEN YOU WERE A KID AND AFRAID OF THINGS UNDER YOUR BED
OR OUTSIDE YOUR WINDOW, YOU WERE RIGHT TO BE SCARED.
THEY WERE THERE, WATCHING, WAITING. AS WE GREW UP, WE
JUST TURNED A BLIND EYE IN A SUBCONSCIOUS EFFORT TO
REMAIN SANE, TO REFUSE TO BELIEVE THAT CREATURES
PROWLED THE NIGHT. THEY DO.
— Hunter: The Reckoning

D

erek did not look at all happy as they accompanied him,
unseen but not unheard, past the crumbling walls and
rusted pylons of the long-abandoned industrial area. It was a
grim, scary-looking place, especially at night, and Holli was
exceedingly grateful to know that whatever denizens of this
forsaken place might be lurking about would be unable to
detect her, much less harm her. Derek, of course, had no such
assurance, and he seemed more than a little dubious about
Khasar's promise to keep him from harm.
“What is this stuff, turpentine?” he complained, sniffing at
the liquid that the Archon had dumped over his clothes.
“It's reputed to be gin, but it does bear a rather strong
resemblance to paint remover,” admitted the angel. “I'm told
that it is a favorite among the sort of unfortunates who tend
to provide our prey their sustenance.”
“Lovely,” Derek mumbled. Except for his long, loping
stride, he looked the very picture of a man who had reached
rock bottom. “Are we there yet?”
“Almost, I think,” Holli said, examining the scrap of paper
she'd torn off the city map. “Are you sure it was Hackney that
we want?”
“Of course I'm not sure!” Derek snapped. “But that's
where they hung out in the Rage Across London book, and it's

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the only place I could see that made any sense. And don't you
go looking in my head for clues either!”
He was annoyed with Khasar, but he'd been downright
furious with Holli once he'd learned that she could, as his
surrogate Guardian, influence his mind. She couldn't really
pick anything up from it, not anything coherent anyway, but
she could speak to it through his immortal spirit. Derek had
been extremely unhappy when he learned that his decision to
buy the role-playing books that had led them here was not his
idea at all.
“We're here,” Khasar announced suddenly, in a
surprisingly soft voice. She looked around, wondering why he
had chosen this spot. For the last ten minutes, things had
gotten progressively nastier and less populated until they
reached what had to be the bottom. It was so desolate here
that there wasn't even much graffiti about, and yet they were
only 15 minutes away from the nearest tube station. The
light of the Dockyards glowed to the south, but here there was
nothing but darkness and the distant sound of unseen traffic.
Khasar pointed to a building about thirty yards ahead,
then leaped to the top of a brick building and faded into the
shadows. Holli, did likewise, heading for the high point
indicated, although she was still nervous about taking to the
air. She didn't know what to do with her legs or especially
her arms, and the sensation of her wings beating was more
than a little disturbing. She desperately hoped to avoid
having to fight in mid-air – she'd be lucky to avoid cutting off
her own wing and then where would she be?
Derek was turning slowly around, as if trying to determine
where they'd gone, but he did obey Khasar's directive to
remain silent. He kicked at an empty bottle, then picked up a
broken piece of brick and tossed it at the bottle. It broke with
a loud shattering sound that was magnified by the nearby
stone wall, and as if in answer, Holli heard the sound of
something treading quietly over the darkness somewhere in
front of her.
She peered into the shadows, and her angelic vision
showed her a tall, thin flame, green and flickering weakly.
Was it the abomination they hunted? Or was it a vampire;
She knew the Children came in many forms, but what would

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221

they do if it was the wrong kind? Either way, they couldn't let
it attack Derek, even if such attacks were seldom fatal.
Khasar had told them that although the Concordat did not
govern them, Mephistopheles was a harsh King and he
preferred his slaves to dwell quietly in the shadow and avoid
attracting the attention of Man whenever possible.
The shapeless green form edged closer, moving a few feet,
then stopping and waiting for a moment before slipping into
the next dark pool of shadow. It had clearly sensed Derek,
but there was something cautious and fearful about its
movements that corresponded with Khasar's story. It was
strange to think of the terrors that had haunted her dreams
for years as being frightened little parasites; how she'd
regretted letting Christopher talk her and Jami into sneaking
out of bed and watching that stupid vampire movie in sixth
grade.
A faint glow caught her attention, and she saw another
flame, greenish-yellow this time, followed by a third. Then
there was a fourth, and a fifth. She counted quickly as they
quietly stalked towards Derek; there were thirteen of them in
all, and two of them burned nearly as brightly as an angel.
She looked over to where Khasar was, but his cloak was too
powerful for her eyes to penetrate and he might not even be
there for all that she could see. There were so many! Khasar
had told them to expect four or five at most.
As they came closer to her, she could perceive their
physical outlines as well. At least one thing was going
according to plan, as they were pretty obviously werewolves,
if skinnier and smaller than she'd imagined them to be. They
looked more like coyotes than wolves, although their eyes
burned inhumanly red and even if she hadn't been able to see
the angelfire within them, their movements were far too
purposeful to ever mistake them for normal animals.
She nervously fingered the gold chain in her hands. It had
sounded simple enough when Khasar explained it to her, all
she was supposed to do was drop down and trap the last one
in the pack, but she wasn't sure how that was going to work
now. Could she stay in the fifth shadow, or would the chain
pull her down to septus? And if she was pulled down and
Khasar couldn't take them all out before they fled, wouldn't

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they run right over her? Or, if she was unlucky, rip her right
to shreds. That was assuming Khasar could even fight
thirteen werewolves; the two big ones alone looked worrisome.
Those two were directly below her now, as the first
werewolf, obviously a scout, drew near to where Khasar was
waiting. Holli's hands were shaking, she was so nervous. She
clenched the chain tightly, digging her nails into her palms to
make sure she didn't drop it. She counted to ten, then did it
again, before the last werewolf, her target, came within
range. It wasn't too big, thank God, and its flame was nearly
as weak as the scout's. Should she try to capture it first,
before Khasar revealed himself and scared it off? She had
just decided to do so when one of the big wolves rumbled low
in his throat.
As she looked on in horror, each of the wolves began to
broaden, thicken and twist. The one below her changed from
a cute little coyote into a horrid half-man with long gorilla
arms and long claws that stood on its hind legs. The biggest
was the worst, standing nearly eight feet tall, it raised its
muscular arms towards the full moon and howled out an
arrogant challenge. It knew they were here! The realization
struck her like a fist in her stomach just as the howl caused
Derek look up and see the small army of monsters.
“Khasar!” he shouted, just as three of the closest
abominable Children snarled and leaped towards him. The
others were obviously waiting for something, but they were
not prepared for a golden blur that exploded into action with
a roar that caused the building under Holli's feet to quiver.
This was no mere sword-wielding Guardian, he was an
archon, a mighty lion of God unleashing the full power of his
righteous rage. He was gorgeous, his golden fur pierced the
darkness and his radiant blue wings were as wide as a school
bus as he pounced on the attacking werewolves.
One powerful claw smashed the closest beast aside, and he
seized another in his powerful jaws, snapping its neck with
several brutal shakes. He spat it out, leveling the first
onrushing werewolf, and his tail lashed out at the beast that
was hurling itself at Derek. It wrapped around the beast's
throat, lifted it up and smashed the creature once, twice,
three times on the broken pavement.

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223

As the two biggest monsters flung themselves at Khasar,
Holli swallowed hard and leaped from the top of the building.
She spread her wings and stretched out the golden chain as
far as it would go. Her target was circling around to the
right, hoping to get around the furious melee in order to
attack Khasar from behind. Holli lowered her right wing,
drifted lower until she was just above the werewolf, then
dropped the chain around its head and shoulders.
As soon as the gold chain touched the fur of the beast, it
burst into flames! The werewolf screamed horribly and
leaped to the side, which only tightened the fiery chain
although it sent Holli spinning out of control the other way.
She held desperately onto the chain with both hands, and
screamed herself as she hurdled sideways, just over the
flailing arms and snapping jaws of the werepack as they
furiously battled Khasar.
She was afraid to walk shadow, fearing that she'd lose her
grasp on the chain that bound the werewolf, which was
rolling madly on the ground, apparently trying to put out
what it thought was a fire. But when she saw a big dark
mass approaching out of the corner of her eyes, she flinched.
It was a good thing, too, for she leaped two shadows into
quintus just before her spirit ripped through the corner of a
building. The walls and interior space flashed before her eyes
like a black-and-grey kaleidoscope, and then she was in the
open again, the chain still miraculously in her hands.
Of course it is, you idiot, she realized. It's a Divine
weapon, or whatever.
Spreading her wings, she stopped her tumbling then beat
them hard to gain some altitude and see what was going on.
The bound werewolf was still thrashing, but its weight was
almost nonexistent now, and as the chain tightened, she
pulled it off the ground with ease. Gotcha! Khasar was
roaring like the lion he truly was; one of the big werewolves
was down, but the other one was holding onto his front paw
with his jaw and raking at his chest with long, terrible claws
while three of the smaller monsters had his left wing trapped.
In the time it had taken her to capture the beast, he'd struck
down six, but he was in danger of being overwhelmed. And
worse, one of the smaller monsters had leaped past him in

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pursuit of Derek, who hadn't had the sense to run right away,
but stuck around to watch instead.
What now? She could try to draw her sword, but she
wasn't sure if it crossed shadows too. And she didn't think
she could hang on to the captured werewolf if she dropped
down to sextus, much less septus. Then, she had her
brainstorm.
Furling her wings to build up some speed, she dropped and
then flew forward as fast as she could. She grunted as she
dropped down a shadow and the full weight of the werewolf
hit her forearms. It was weird but she suddenly found herself
thinking about Jami, and wishing she'd gone with her to lift
weights in the morning this summer.
The monstrous melee was in full bore when she flew over
it, and the bound and flaming werewolf smashed into the
crowd like a wrecking ball. Fur and fire flew everywhere, and
there was the terrible sound of bone on bone as something
snapped loudly and someone screamed, a terrible piercing cry.
She didn't slow down, but flew furiously after the beast
running down Derek. Just before it caught him, she saw him
turn to face it. It managed to get in one vicious swipe before
Holli dragged her makeshift, madly thrashing weapon
squarely into its back.
The beast went down hard, rolled over, and fled howling,
its fur crackling with Divine fire. Holli shouted at Derek as
she labored to get higher, trying to keep from slamming her
captive into a wall. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I think so,” he yelled as he pushed himself to his
feet, but he only used one hand to do so; the other was
clutching his chest. But he was waving her irritably away, so
she circled around to see if Khasar had been able to take
advantage of the confusion.
He had. The lesser beasts, or pieces of them, were
scattered as if a bomb had exploded in their midst. Only the
one large monster was left standing, and one of its overmuscled arms hung limply at its side while the left side of its
head was a mass of blood.
Khasar wasn't looking a whole lot better himself, but he
was much bigger and even on four legs, his maned head came
up to the wounded monster's chest. He reared up on his two

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hind legs, towering over the brute, then transformed into the
shape of a simple Divine angel. He had a black eye and there
were little flickers of fire here and there about his body,
including the corner of his mouth, but he folded his arms and
regarded the evil beast with contempt.
“You thought you'd try an ambush, did you?”
“Almus wurk,” the werewolf slurred, and Holli noticed for
the first time that its jaw was broken. “Wurn't an urchan,
wuduv 'adya.”
“Who sent you?”
The werewolf's reply made Holli blink. She didn't know
that supernatural beings, even evil ones, had mouths like
that. Khasar didn't seem impressed. He glanced over at the
bound werewolf, saw that it was still alive despite the beating
it had taken, then drew his sword and ran it through the
monster's throat in a single, lightning-like motion that made
Holli cringe and look away.
When he noticed, he cocked an eyebrow and shrugged his
shoulders. “They're abomination, darling. Believe me, even
this fallen world is far, far better off without them roaming
about. There are no prisoners in this war. And by the way,
that was really rather clever, now, wasn't it?”
Holli thought about what she’d done for a second, and
smiled. “Yeah, you know, it kind of was!” Then she looked
around at the nightmarish figures sprawled messily about
and felt her stomach heave. It was terrible. “You're not just
going to leave them here for the police to find, are you?”
“Of course not.” Khasar scratched his palm and scattered
a few sparks of angelfire over each fallen werewolf, then said
something she couldn't understand. A great purple fire
roared instantly to life, hissing and spitting, completely
engulfing each monster. It burned, high and hot, for a little
while, and when the flames subsided, there was no trace
whatsoever that the monsters had ever been there.
“I bet there's some criminals who'd love to get their hands
on that stuff.”
Khasar laughed. “You're getting better at this.”
“What's that?”

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“The flames. I saw you step back. They burn on primus,
but you can only see them in tertius. I think you're getting
the hang of it.”
Holli hoped he was right. Then again, they'd come a lot
closer to getting nailed by a bunch of monsters that weren't
even proper Fallen, so she figured it would be a long time
before she'd be ready to take on the real monsters. Like,
forever, if she was lucky!
“Dang, you kicked some tail there, Khasar.”
“Well done, Derek,” Khasar said as the disguised boy
approached them. “Sorry that one slipped by me. How are
you?”
“Um, not all that great.” Holli whirled around at the tight
sound of his voice. She hissed at the site of his chest in the
flickering firelight. It was dark with blood. “It nicked me
before Holli clocked it with the other one. I think the
bleeding's stopped, but it stings like you wouldn't believe!”
“We have to get you back to the hotel and clean that out
right away. They're filthy beasts, these Shadowspawn.”
“So, what do we with her, then?” Holli asked, shaking the
chain. “I mean, we can't just leave her here, can we?”
“Oh, we won't.” Khasar approached the bound werewolf,
and when he raised a hand, the flames died out and the chain
loosened and dropped from her waist, where it lay in a
harmless gold circle around her feet. “I am going to ask you
one question and you will have one opportunity to answer it.
If you answer it truthfully, you will have the opportunity to go
and reflect on your many sins. If you do not answer it, or if
you lie to me, you will not have the opportunity to commit
another one.”
The werewolf nodded, and then her monstrous furry shape
began to twist and distort terribly.
There were some
disturbing popping noises, the beast grunted two or three
times, and then she stood before them in her human form.
She was thin and her ribs showed plainly. She was not
pretty, but neither she was terribly ugly; her long, horsey face
was mostly notable for being gaunt. Nor did she show any of
the pride of her pack leader, instead, she seemed resigned to
her fate.

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“Will you spare me then, my lord angel?” Her voice was
hoarse, and she did not meet Khasar's eyes.
“To what end? Your very existence is a mockery of the
Lord Almighty's Creation!”
“And so my life is forfeit?”
“Every life on this cursed planet is forfeit,” Khasar
growled. Even so, he slid his blade back into his scabbard;
the flames hissed as they were quenched for the time being.
“It does not fall to me, however, to claim it at this time. At
least not if you can tell me where can I find the prince of the
local Raustravian coterie.
The werewolf's shadowed eyes sparked momentarily when
she realized that Khasar was not after more of her unholy
kind, but of their hated rivals instead. “Oh, yes, my lord
angel, I can tell you that. And gladly too. He is no prince,
though. His name is Vashya. Lord Vashya.”

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C H A P T E R 25

MISPLACED TRUST
IT FEEDS IT GROWS
IT CLOUDS ALL THAT YOU WILL KNOW
DECEIT DECEIVE
DECIDE JUST WHAT YOU BELIEVE
— Metallica, (“The God That Failed”)

I

t was another hour before they reached an ugly little
neighborhood consisting of street after street of dilapidated
rowhouses. It seemed like a strange place for a vampire lord
to live, and Holli was feeling vaguely disappointed that it
hadn't led them to an abandoned Gothic castle out on a lonely
moor. She and Khasar were standing in the front entryway
while the dull-eyed monster that had answered the door went
to find Lord Vashya; they'd left Derek, after cleaning his
wounds and bandaging them, back at the hotel. He'd wanted
to come with them, but Khasar wouldn't hear of it after seeing
how deep the three slashes across his chest were. The
Children of the Twice-Fallen limited their depredations, but
even so, no human who stumbled upon a vampire lord's lair
was permitted to live. Vashya would never dare to attack a
human guarded by two angels, Divine or Fallen, but since
Khasar was looking for cooperation, he thought it best not to
rub the abomination's nose in his impotence.
And thinking of noses, this place had an ungodly stink to
it. There was a noxious air of death and decay emanating
from it; even her human senses were quite aware of the
terrible wrongness that filled the house. She was surprised
that the neighbors hadn't complained. Of course, that was
assuming there were any neighbors, that they hadn't already
been eaten or something.
“Why was she so happy to tell us where this guy is?”

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229

Khasar forced their captive to lead the way before them,
even though he had little doubt she was telling the truth.
Only when he sensed the supernatural air about the shabby
brick residence down the block, he allowed her to depart. She
didn't thank him or even speak at all, she only glanced
fearfully once at Holli before running down the street and
disappearing into the shadows of the streetlights.
“Vampires and werewolves don't get along any better than
we do with the Fallen. Actually, that's wrong. We have the
Law to regulate our dealings, so things tend to be somewhat
more civilized for all that we are at war.”
“They are?”
Khasar glanced at her and raised an eyebrow. “Well, if you
think about it, there has to be a certain amount of restraint
when a Tempter and a Guardian are going to be in relatively
close quarters for a long period of time, particularly when it's
a zero-sum game.”
“A what?”
“Zero-sum. When a soul is at stake, there's only one
winner. When you accepted Jesus Christ as your Lord and
Savior, Aliel won. Your Tempter lost, and knowing how the
Fallen operate, she will probably be very sorry about it for a
long, long time.”
“I really like Aliel, but I wonder what it would be like to
meet, you know, the other one. I mean, I'm kind of torn.
Here's she's trying to destroy me on the one hand, but on the
other hand, I don't see how you could be around for someone
practically all their life, know them as well as you’d have to,
and still hate them enough to try to destroy them forever.”
“Misery loves company.” Holli heard the sound of someone
coming down the stairs, but Khasar ignored it. “It depends on
the individual, of course. The individual demon. Some of the
more foolish and short-sighted become quite attached to their
charges and see themselves as sharing an eternal destiny, if a
doomed one. It’s a twisted form of love, I suppose. Others are
simply full of rage and seek to destroy everything they can.
Most, in my experience, are largely indifferent and slack off
as much as they can.”

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As he pronounced the last word, he turned slowly to face
the tall, dark-faced vampire, who was waiting silently for him
to acknowledge its presence.
“Are you indifferent, Vashya? It is Vashya, is it not?”
The vampire lord inclined his head, reserved and formal in
the face of the angel's obvious contempt.
His darkly
handsome face was blank, but his inner fire, Holli noticed,
was much stronger than the werewolf they'd captured, even
stronger, perhaps, than the two pack leaders. He also had
strangely long-lashed eyes that made him look almost
feminine. She would kill for lashes like that, Holli thought,
as the vampire spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness.
“I fear you have the advantage of me, my lord angel. I am
indifferent to many things, though not, I will admit, my
continued existence.”
“I rejoice to hear it. And I imagine that in the interest of
that continuance, it should not be a problem for you to give
me that which was placed under your protection.”
“I regret to say, my lord angel, that is not possible.”
Khasar seemed to swell, the air around him flickered and
crackled with energy, and for a moment, the room seemed to
fill with the roaring of a thousand angry lions. The vampire
blinked, once, then everything was as it had been before. “I
will not ask you again, Lord Vashya. I commend you for your
obedience, but I assure you, if you do not turn that which I
seek over to me at once, it will not go well with you.”
“It gives me no pleasure to insist that I can be of no help to
you, my lord angel,” the vampire answered smoothly. His
self-control was remarkable, as Holli definitely had the notion
that Khasar would be pleased to wipe out this nest of
abomination given the smallest excuse. “Oberon is not here.”
Khasar stiffened at the open mention of the fallen angelking's name, but his voice remained calm. “I find that very
difficult to believe. I was informed by a very reliable and
trustworthy source that he would certainly be found here.”
The vampire bowed again. “I am humbly at my lord
angel's service, but I cannot provide that which does not exist.
I do not say that the one you seek was never here. I hid him
from the Mad One, at great risk to me and my clan, exactly as
I was commanded by the angel.”

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231

“He was here but he isn't now? Where is he?”
“I do not know.”
“Why isn't he here? Did you permit him to leave?”
“Because, my lord angel, the angel who first brought him
to me in the forest came here to claim him two nights ago.”
Khasar did not reply immediately, and Holli glanced at
him out of the corner of her eye. It barely showed, but she
knew him well enough to see that he was rocked to the very
core of his spirit. His face was uncharacteristically frozen,
and she could almost see him frantically racking his mind for
a face-saving answer.
“I see. Well, if our friend saw the need to precede us, then
I see no reason why we should further trouble you, Vashya. I
suggest, however, that you would be wise to abandon these
premises at the first opportunity. I would further recommend
that you forget the entire proceedings.”
“The thought had occurred to me, my lord angel. I am
grateful for your forbearance.”
Khasar smiled wryly. “Unlike you, vampire, we serve a
God of mercy. Your fate is not in my hands. Tonight.”
Taking Holli by the arm, he turned about and led her from
the stinking house of the undead. She was glad to go, though
she was frightened by the queer look on Khasar's face. Was
he angry? Was he worried? Surely it wasn't possible that he
was frightened!
They took to the night skies in silence. Khasar flew
quickly, his wings beat the air as if he was taking out his
frustration on it, and Holli was hard-pressed to keep up with
him.
“What's the matter,” she asked him as they soared over the
Thames. She'd thought they'd head back to the hotel to check
in on Derek, but they'd flown right past the awful little hotel
and Khasar didn't seem to be heading anywhere in particular.
“I have to make a decision,” he told her. “I need to think,
and I don't have much time to do it.”
He pulled his wings into his body and dropped like a stone
towards the river below. At the last moment, he spread his
wings and arced smoothly out of the fall, then flashed over
the glassy surface of the water like a huge predatory bird.
Then, without warning, he raised one wing and curved

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towards the western bank. In one graceful, impossible
motion, he somersaulted forward, twisted, and landed on a
wooden bench with one leg crossed over another.
Holli wasn't sure if she was supposed to applaud or imitate
him, but in any case, she did her best to land reasonably close
without face-planting on the sidewalk and walked over to
him. The ground rushed towards her alarmingly fast, but she
managed to make an ungainly running landing that involved
two hops, a near collision with a garbage can and one halftwisted
ankle.
“What was that all about?” she asked him, more than a little
bit irritated now.
“Do you remember when we first met? When the Crystal
Tower fell? That was so long ago, thousands and thousands of
years, and I'd almost completely forgotten about Rahab until
they told me that I was to work this mission with you.”
Holli remembered. For her, it had only been a matter of
months, not millennia, and in any case, she was hardly likely
to forget. Until prom night, seeing the rabid, angry warriors
shouting and waving their shining swords as they swarmed
into the beautiful tower of glass was the worst thing she'd
ever seen. Even worse, of course, had been hearing their
mercifully brief screams as the tower exploded into millions of
deadly, razor-sharp shards.
“I remember you breaking through the wall. And the
demons circling in the air, there were so many of them. It
was like a black fog.”
“Do you know what I remember most?”
Holli shook her head. Khasar looked away, towards
something upriver.
“I remember the Lady's face when she realized what she
had done. She'd been betrayed by her son, by the fruit of her
sin, she knew that the Tower was going to fall and there was
nothing she could do about it. The worst thing was, she knew
the blame was hers alone, it had come about through her sin.
I was there, Holli, I was there when she cried out until her
voice was seared into silence, when she stormed Heaven with
her futile prayers, begging that the evil would fall on her
alone, and not her people. But you know what happened.”

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233

She nodded. They had been faithful to the end. To the
bitter end. She remembered. She'd barely known the Lady of
the Tower, but she'd never forgotten the guilt that lay behind
those lovely lavender eyes. What she didn't understand now
was why Khasar was talking about her.
“What does any of this have to do with this guy we're
looking for?”
Khasar met her eyes. In them, there was guilt and shame.
“Because I am beginning to suspect that I have failed, and
there will be a great many innocent people who will suffer for
it. I have been a fool, Holli, trusting where I should not have
and I very much fear that we have been betrayed.”
“You thought you could trust who?” Derek's voice rose
high in disbelief as he confronted the sheepish archon.
Khasar and Holli had flown back to the hotel following his
confession to her, and now Khasar was trying to explain the
situation to the third member of what appeared to be rapidly
becoming a totally dysfunctional team. If it could even be
called that. “Are you kidding me?”
“He seemed really sincere,” Khasar protested, but his
heart wasn't really in it.
“Let me get this straight. Someone you know beyond any
shadow of a doubt is bad guy comes to you and tells you that
after, what, thousands of years, he feels really bad about
everything and wants to clean up his act? And you buy this?”
“I didn't even know angels could switch sides,” Holli said,
feeling as if she had no idea what was going on again.
Neither Derek nor Khasar paid her any attention.
“It wasn't just me, I wasn't the only one who spoke with
him. He was truly repentant. It happens, not often, but it
happens. And Prince Uriel isn't easily fooled.”
“You've been fighting this war for practically forever,
right? A long time anyhow. That dude in the red coat back in
Minneapolis, your boss, he tells me that you guys are always
working to try to trick the Fallen, right? Can you honestly
tell me that they've never played you?”
Khasar mulled it over. “Well, I suppose, there was this one
time -”

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“I don't care!” Derek interrupted, waving his hands in wild
annoyance. “The point is, yeah, it's possible. It's been done
before! That's all that matters, right?”
“I still have no clue what's going on,” Holli said. “Can you
try telling us what happened, like, from the beginning?”
“I don't want to have to do this twice,” Khasar replied. He
shook his head, looking worried, and began to fade away. He
was walking through the shadow, Holli realized, but her
vision only penetrated to quintus and the archon was going
deeper than that.
“Where did he go?” Derek asked.
“I'm not sure... I think maybe he's going to get someone.”
Derek nodded. He was back in his normal form now and
his hair was starting to grow out a little. They hadn't been
out much, but even the little bit of sunlight had given his face
a little bit of color. A random feeling of pity for him floated
through her mind; it must have been terrible to face those
beasts knowing that he was almost helpless against them.
She firmly squelched the notion. He had far worse than a
moment’s fear and a few scratches coming. Still, it didn’t hurt
to be polite.
“How's your chest.”
“I'll be all right. So, is it cool, this angel business? That
was, like, amazing, what you did with that flaming chain
thing. You saved my life.”
She didn't know quite how to respond. She hadn't exactly
meant to, but it wasn't like she could just sit there and watch
a monster attack somebody either. Not even him. “Forget it.”
“Yeah, well, thanks anyhow.” He stared at her for a
moment, looking as if he wanted to say something, then
returned to his RPG book. A moment later he dropped it,
startled by the loud cracking sound that tore through the
room like thunder. There was a strange flash, and with her
angelic vision, Holli saw two figures step out of what looked
like a tear in the very air of the room. There was another
crack, not quite as loud this time, and everything was back to
normal, except that Khasar was back, accompanied by a tall
angel with bright red wings. It was the captain, she realized,
and he did not look happy.

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235

“What is so important that you needed to drag me down
here?” he snapped irritably.
“We have eighty-six
simultaneous ops running, and exactly none of them can be
properly monitored from here.”
“We were ambushed by thirteen Children of the TwiceFallen who knew we were coming. They were expecting
angels or an archangel, not an archon. When we got to the
safehouse, we learned that our bird had flown... with my
original contact.”
The captain rubbed wearily at his temples. “Please, please
don't tell me you've cocked this one up, archon. I told you
from the start that I didn't trust that fast-talking renegade.
This isn't the first time they've tried to slip in a false recanter.
Did anyone else interview him?”
“You said it was my call, sir. I felt that he was sincerely
remorseful.”
“You felt that way, did you?” The captain's words were all
the more sarcastic for its total absence in his tone. “This
could be very bad, archon, very bad indeed.”
“I am aware of that, sir.”
The angel sighed and glanced at Holli and Derek. “How
are you, children? I'm sorry to be rude, but this appears to
have developed into an emergency.”
“Um, fine, sir,” Holli replied, a little awed by his presence.
She wanted to ask him about the false recanter, but this
didn't seem like a very good time.
“Don't worry about us,” added Derek.
“Why don't you tell me just how badly this has gone awry,
archon,” the captain suggested. Khasar nodded dutifully,
leaned against the wall, and began to explain:
Ten years ago, while stationed in England as a part of the
team monitoring Diavelina's growing demesne, he had made
contact with a low-level Fallen who expressed a wish to
recant. “He was concerned about likely retribution on the
part of his lord, a well-founded fear, in my opinion, so I helped
him sneak out of the principality and I passed him along to
the angel responsible for clearing recanters and bringing
them before the Most High.
“About eighteen months ago, our paths crossed again. I
was surprised, but he told me he'd been assigned as a

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Guardian to an infant who did not survive past her first
birthday. When I learned that Puck had once been a servitor
to the former Prince of Albion, I reported this to Prince Uriel,
thinking that there was a possibility that he might have some
information that might prove useful to us. And, as you know,
he certainly did.”
“And as I told you then, I had my doubts about him. He
was much too slick,” said the Captain, who then glanced at
Holli and Derek. “I never saw any record to show that he had
appeared before the Almighty, nor did I feel that he was truly
repentant. Nevertheless, it fell to me to show him where
Oberon was bound.”
“Wait a minute, the first dude's name was Puck right?
And then Oberon, too, like in Midsummer's Night Dream?”
asked Derek, incredulous. “Do you mean they're real?”
“Of course they're real, it's the little, what-have-you, poem
or whatever, isn't,” Khasar confusingly replied. “I know that
was the extent of your involvement, captain, but after Prince
Uriel decided to that Oberon would have a better chance to
resist Diavelina than the Mad One, I was taken off the watch
team and ordered to give all reasonable aid to Puck. With the
Prince's permission, I contacted Leviathan and arranged for
him to help Puck get past Oberon’s guardian. I wasn't able to
tag along, however, since he insisted on bringing along a
servant of Gloriana's, the former Prince of the Southlands.”
“The old faery queen,” commented the Captain, nodding.
“Did Puck know of your involvement with that?”
“I don't believe so, but there's no way to be sure. He
understood the need for secrecy, in fact, he insisted that we
not reveal anything to Oberon, who would surely have refused
our help.”
“Perhaps not. That’s far from certain, though.”
“Under the circumstances, I thought it was best to rely on
the judgment of one who had known him well. Some quiet
approaches to former powers in the past regime seemed to
indicate that his judgment was accurate in this regard. As for
stashing Oberon with the Children of the Twice-Fallen, that
was my idea. The Mad One would not think to look among
them, there was no chance of Oberon building up a force
capable of resisting us, nor would anyone suspect our

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237

involvement even if he was discovered there. And Prince
Uriel placed Puck under strict orders to conceal his
repentance from the other Fallen.”
“That was probably a mistake, though it is difficult to fault
the logic. I would have done the same. And now you say you
were ambushed before learning Oberon had fled?”
“That wasn't the only strange thing. Puck was captured by
the Mad One along with Gloriana and her servant, but he was
the only one that escaped. The rumor is that the other two
were fed to the cursed throne. At this point, I don't know if
Puck is still playing our game, the Mad One's game, or if he's
truly been loyal to Oberon all along.”
The angelic captain nodded. “It's even conceivable that he
thinks to establish himself as a player by using us to free
Oberon, using Oberon to unseat the Mad One, and then
betraying Oberon and taking the throne himself.”
Khasar stood up straighter with a surprised look on his
face. “That's not likely. He has no following. He commands
neither legions nor loyalties. And then, he's aware of the
threat from Diavelina, so why would he scheme to take a
crown he's doomed to lose?”
“Two more possibilities.” The captain held up two fingers.
“He's loyal to Diavelina.
Unlikely, but possible.
Alternatively, he's working with someone who can command
the loyalty he cannot, but someone with whom he'd be willing
to share power.”
The two angels looked at each other for a long moment,
and then Khasar slowly nodded. “Titania. Puck has long
been enamored of her, but of course, there was no question of
his pursuing her in the past. Now, who knows? She could be
the one pulling his strings. Otherwise, why destroy Gloriana?
Puck had nothing against her and she was no threat to the
Mad One. But a restored Oberon might not wish to place
faith in a treacherous queen. He might well look elsewhere
for a consort he could trust, especially if the principality is
riven with those still loyal to the Mad One. It could be
Titania behind this.”
Derek raised his hand. “Hey, why do you think it's all
about power. Maybe he's just got a major jones for this

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Titania babe. Maybe the whole thing is his way of trying to
win her over.”
Holli glanced at him skeptically. “What would you know
about it?”
“Nothing.” He shrugged. “But hey, I've been in prison.
You'd be surprised how many guys are in there because they
were trying to make an impression on somebody, one way or
another. I'm just saying.”
Holli wrinkled her lip and Khasar shook his head. “I've
seen plenty of perversions among the Fallen, but I find it
improbable that even the most desperate spirit would spend
hundreds of years seeking to unseat the same throne three
times in order to win Titania’s favor.”
The angelic captain cleared his throat, and the other three
immediately fell silent. His face was stern, but Holli thought
that it lacked the severity he'd shown when he'd first arrived.
Maybe things weren't quite as bad as Khasar thought.
“I'm disappointed, but not entirely surprised that Puck
turned out to be false,” said the captain. “But despite your
naivete, Khasar, I am not sure this situation is
unsalvageable. Unless Puck is in service to the Mad One,
which I doubt, his interests may continue to serve the King's
Will.
Oberon is still free, and the only thing now is to see
that the Mad One falls. Your task is no more difficult without
Puck than with him. He knows no more than you. Find the
sword and take down the Mad One while Puck plays out his
game out. Hunting him and Oberon serves no purpose.”
The captain rose and his scarlet wings stretched out from
behind his shoulders. He inclined his head to Khasar; despite
the chagrin that was obvious on his face, the archon bowed
deeply in return. “I am very sorry, sir, if I have needlessly
disturbed you. I merely did not wish to compound my
failure.”
“Better safe than sorry, archon. Think nothing of it.” The
captain lifted his hand, preparing to tear the fabric of spacetime again. “Fare you well, children.”
Derek glanced at Holli. For once they were in perfect
accord. “Wait!” he leaped to his feet. “You can't leave us like
this! We're just two stupid humans who don't have a clue
what's going on, and Khasar here barely knows what he's

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239

doing! Before, you told us that the fate of Europe hung in the
balance, you can't just go off and leave us now when it's all
going to Hell!”
The angel paused and looked over at Khasar. Then he
sighed and lowered his hand. “Derek, my dear boy, I'm afraid
you fail to understand. This entire world is going to Hell. At
this very moment, there are eight situations which threaten
to engulf the entire planet in plague, starvation, blood and
fire. Why do you think I could spare naught but an
inexperienced archon for this mission? By our standards, this
is only a code yellow, a probable danger, albeit one of merely
local proportions.”
Holli gasped and Derek sat back on the bed, visibly
stunned. “You're saying that a second Holocaust is, like, not a
big deal?”
“By no means. I'm merely informing you that it is neither
the most-pressing, nor even the eighth-most pressing
situation at this moment.”
“I don't even want to know what those other ones are, do
I,” said Derek, half to himself.
“Not if you wish to sleep at night. Now, be brave and
persevere, son and daughter of the King. There are many
whose lives are depending on you.”
“Great, as if I needed to hear that,” muttered Derek. Holli
couldn't have agreed with him more. There was another pair
of disturbingly loud roars, and the angelic captain was gone.
The two teenagers looked at Khasar, and the archon stared
right back at them. “Well, so much for help from that angle,”
he finally said. “Anyone have any ideas about what to do
next?”

240

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C H A P T E R 26

POINTS TO PONDER
THIS CITY NOW DOTH LIKE A GARMENT WEAR
THE BEAUTY OF THE MORNING: SILENT, BARE,
SHIPS, TOWERS, DOMES, THEATRES, AND TEMPLES LIE
OPEN UNTO THE FIELDS AND TO THE SKY;
ALL BRIGHT AND GLITTERING IN THE SMOKELESS AIR.
— William Wordsworth, Lines Composed upon Westminster Bridge

I

f London was lovely in the sunlight, it was shockingly
depressing in the rain. The cold seemed to penetrate down
to the bone, magnified by a dampness that prevented you
from ever getting completely dry or all-the-way-through
warm. It was dirty too; the water sluicing off of the old grey
buildings was dark with filth as it pooled near the sewer
drains. Derek and Holli trudged along the sidewalk; when
Derek's umbrella entangled itself for the fifth time in the
umbrella of someone walking the other way, he finally gave it
up for a bad cause and folded it down.
“You're going to get a cold,” Holli told him.
“Like you care,” he snapped back. It was hard to disagree.
He had been monstrously unpleasant all morning, although in
fairness, she could tell by the careful way he moved that his
wounds were bothering him, even though he tried to hide it.
Stupid.
Part of his bad humor might simply be jealousy, as
fortunately for her, Holli was able to walk shadow out of the
weather. Her only presence was a voice and the raindrops fell
harmlessly through her. But the grey cloud-shrouded sky
was chilling in itself, that and the knowledge that unless they
found the magic sword and killed this prince of demons,
angelic war would soon be followed by the real thing and
millions of people would die again in Europe. Khasar was out

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241

and about trying to dig up information on the sword, while
the two of them, being rather handicapped by their humanity,
went to have lunch.
“Do you want to try that Indian place?” she pointed to a
colorful red sign. “I bet the curry is really good here.”
“No, we're in England, we've got to try the fish and chips.”
“All right,” she sighed. She wasn't that hungry anyhow.
Nothing like globs of processed fish hamburger fried in oil and
fat. No wonder his complexion was so bad.
The restaurant looked like it wanted to be an imitation of
McDonalds, except the food was worse. The seats were made
of bright shiny yellow plastic but at least they were clean.
The ladies room, on the other hand, was a pit of filth and
Holli was glad that she was only there to conceal her move
down to the lowest strata and visibility. She might be
disguised as an angel, but she still needed to keep her body
fed. Hopefully they'd have a salad or at least something that
wasn't a zillion calories.
She was in luck, sort of. The salad might have been fresh
yesterday, but at least it was edible. She wasn't entirely sure
if that was true about the dripping concoction that was
soaking through Derek's paper plate. Fortunately, he burned
his mouth on the first bite; maybe that was the trick to eating
the disgusting glop. She shuddered.
“What?” he demanded.
“Nothing.”
There was a long silence.
“Do you think Khasar will find this Puck guy?”
“How would I know? If you ask me, we ought to just be
looking for the sword. If Puck needs the sword too, eventually
he'll show up wherever the sword is. That would seem to
make more sense.”
It kind of did, she grudgingly admitted. “Unless he's got it
already. But okay, so, how do we even start looking for a
sword in a place as big as this.”
“I don't know.” He bit into the crunchy fish-stuff, more
gingerly this time. “But I think it's important to consider one
thing.”
“What's that?”

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She tried not to notice as he wiped his hands on a napkin
and dropped the greasy, balled-up paper onto his tray. “Well,
haven't you noticed anything strange about, like, this whole
world of angels and whatnot?”
“I've noticed a lot of strange things.”
“Well, right, but I mean, what's really leaped out at me is
the way that we've somehow picked up a lot of this
information over time. Like, it kind of leaks out onto us. We
being humanity, of course.”
“I don't get it. What leaks onto us?”
He shook his head and wiped his nose with his wrist. “Not
us, like you and me. I mean us, as in Mankind. The collective
us. We have all these stories and myths about things like,
whatever, werewolves and stuff. And then, lo and behold,
they're kind of true. Not really in the way the stories tell it –
I mean the angels think they're about one step down from
pond scum – but the basic truth is there. So, I'm thinking,
maybe this sword is the same deal, you know?”
“That there's stories about swords that are true? But there
aren't any stories about swords!”
Derek snorted and rolled his eyes. “You don't read much,
do you, blondie. There's millions of stories about swords.
Heck, Saberhagen even wrote a whole series, two series,
actually, called the Book of Swords and the Lost Book of
Swords. Then there's Glamdring, Anduril, and Narsil, not to
mention Beater and Biter, there's Excalibur, there's Elric's
sword – what was it called – yeah, Stormbringer.”
Derek clearly needed to get out more, Holli thought.
Although that would, admittedly, be difficult in prison. “But
those are all just made up, aren't they?”
“So are werewolves and vampires, right? At least, that's
what I thought until that Khasar decided to dangle me like a
doggie treat in front of a whole freaking pack. If I'd actually
believed they were real, I don't know if I would have been so,
you know, open to the idea.”
“Khasar is a good angel,” Holli told him. She didn't like
the tone in Derek's voice when he mentioned the archon's
name. “He saved my life twice. Well, actually, I don't think
he did the second time, but he sacrificed himself trying to.”

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243

“Yeah, see, that's my problem with him,” Derek said as he
popped another chunk of fried fish in his mouth. “I mean, I
think he's in over his head here. Like you said, he tried to
save you, but he didn't. He almost got me munched back
there by those werewolves, and from what he was saying to
the Captain, he wasn't prepared for what we ran into either.”
“So he misjudged the situation, so what?”
“Looks like he misjudged this Puck guy too. He seems to
do that a lot.”
“Well, he picked you and me, didn't he?”
Derek eyed her dubiously and laughed, a dry, mocking
sneer of a laugh. “I think he could've done a lot better than
pick me. You think you're up to saving something like half
the world?”
Holli looked down. She didn't like to admit it, but Derek
was right. Then she shrugged. “Well, at least it's only half
the world that's going down. We already know it could be
worse.”
Derek lifted his plastic cup to her in a salute. “Eight times
worse! There's the spirit! I'll say one thing, though. If an
idiot angel, a cheerleader and a convicted felon can manage to
stop these supernatural psychopaths from murdering millions
of innocent people, it'll totally prove there is a God.”
“I think I liked it better when they taught us that God was
in control of everything. You know, that he was, like,
counting the sparrows and whatever.”
“Just cause he knows what's up with the sparrows doesn't
mean that he's personally knocking them down with lightning
bolts, blondie. He'd be a pretty sick, sadistic sort of God if he
did.” Derek indicated the street. “Take a look around you.
Just about everywhere, somebody is starving or stealing or
killing somebody. You think God wanted me to shoot your
boyfriend? No, he's not running this place, and he hasn't been
since he told Adam the deal was his to run the way he
wanted. Adam screwed it up, and we've been screwing it up
worse and worse ever since. That's what I think, anyhow.”
Holli could hear the self-loathing in his voice. For once,
she couldn't accept it. “Derek.” She met his eyes. “You even
didn't shoot Paul. Brien's guilt died with Brien. You've got

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enough guilt of your own to deal with. Jesus is the only one
who can take it away from anyone else.”
Derek's eyes darkened and he looked out the window.
“Brien was a really nice guy. The nicest guy. No one would
believe that now, but he was. He wouldn't hurt a fly. He
must have been pushed around a thousand times without
even defending himself. All his life, he got pushed around
and he just took it, again and again and again. But those
Fallen devils, man, they knew what they were doing. They
channeled all of that hate and rage from twelve freaking
years of getting treated like dirt and we did exactly what they
wanted us to.” He her squarely in the eyes. “And they used
me to talk him into it, so don't tell me that it isn't my fault.
And I'm not trying to excuse myself either.”
“I know.”
“Look, I understand that God forgives me for what I did,
even if you can’t, even if no one else can. And I don't blame
you. I wouldn't if I was in your shoes. I can almost, kind of,
forgive myself now. But I'll never forgive those demons for
using me like that. Never. It’s not what they did to me, but
what they did to destroy Brien, turning him into something
he wasn't. Something that he never was.”
I forgive you, Holli wanted to tell him. She even knew she
should. But she couldn't bring herself to say the words. She
couldn't. She didn't. She looked at him, still so full of anger,
though a different kind of anger now, and she almost began to
understand him. Almost. But forgive him? No, that she
could not do. Not now. Not ever.
“So, what about the sword?” She tried to move their
conversation to safer ground.
“Swords, right. Let's see if we can find one of those
Internet cafes. I hear they're pretty big here. We can look up
a list of all the legendary swords and see how many of them
might happen to be in England. If that doesn't work, we can
just head a few blocks that way.”
He pointed. Holli looked in that direction and saw nothing
but a big Anglican church. “What's that way?”
“The British Museum. If our sword is anywhere, I'll bet
ten pounds that it's in there.”

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245

“It can't be that easy. You're on. Holli reached into her
purse for the unfamiliar coins. “What do I owe you for the
salad, anyhow?”
“Don't worry about it.” Derek grandly waved her off. “I'm
not going to be needing this once we're done anyhow.”
Holli frowned. “You can change it back, you know.”
Derek laughed humorlessly. “Not a lot of shopping in the
state pen, blondie. Now, let's see if we can go find a mocha.
I've been dying for one for three months.”
They found an Internet cafe only two blocks away, in
between a parking garage and another Indian fast-food place.
It was crowded, but a Macintosh was free, so Holli went to
fetch the coffees while Derek paid for an hour on the
computer. By the time they'd served up her vanilla frappe
and his extra-super-large mocha, he was already lost in a
jigsaw puzzle of Google screens. She set the two hot drinks
down gingerly on the edge of the little plastic desk and drew
up a chair as he copied a long chunk of text from a web site
and pasted it into what she assumed was his notes window.
The scraping sound of her moving the chair seemed to pull
him out of his geek-zone, and he accepted the mocha from her
with both hands as if it was an ancient and fragile religious
artifact. “You have no idea... I've dreamed about these.”
He closed his eyes and sniffed deeply at the aroma. “I
think they have generic Folgers at the prison. You can mix
the hot chocolate powder with it, but there's no comparison. I
take it back - Khasar can dangle me in front of a dozen
werewolf packs every day and it'd be worth it for this one
moment. It'd be so worth it!”
Holli stared at him, bemused, as he took a sip from the
large paper cup. “You are a seriously weird guy,” she said.
“And here I thought Christopher was bad.” For the first time,
she thought it might be possible not to completely hate him.
She looked at the list. There were, it seemed, rather a lot
of legendary swords. Mohammed alone had four of them.
“Well, it makes sense, when you think about it,” Derek
said. “People have only been killing each other with guns for
about 200 years, and they've been using swords for more than
ten times as long. So, it's only logical for myths to spring up
around a lot of them.”

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She peered at his list. “There's so many! Where do we
start?”
“Actually, there's only seven, if we just go ahead and bag
everything that's been made up in the last sixty years. I
figure that we can consider everything from Tolkien on as
modern fiction – if we're wrong, we can always go back and
tackle that stuff starting with the British writers.”
He laughed. “Although, I suppose Michael Moorcock will
think we're either retarded or on drugs if we call him up and
ask him, gee, you don't suppose that any of that Elric stuff is
real, do you? I mean, even if some spirit was leaking it out
through him, how's he supposed to know?”
She nodded impatiently. “You said there were seven?
Why seven?”
“Well, we have to trust that our Heavenly CIA knows what
they’re talking about when they said it's somewhere in
England. I mean, if they're wrong, we're hosed anyhow,
right? So, here's the five that have direct connections with
England: Excalibur, obviously, Aroundight, which was
Launcelot's sword, Chrysaor, which belonged to someone
named Artegal, Morglay, which belonged to Sir Bevis and
sounds kind of Scottish, and Curtana, which actually
belonged to one of the English kings.”
“That poor knight!” Holli shook her head.
“Who? Oh, Sir Bevis?” Derek laughed. “I doubt it
bothered him much, considering he lived like seven hundred
years before MTV. So that’s five and there's also these two
other swords that aren't English, but kind of jumped out at
me. These two.”
“Flamberge and Balmung?” Holli read off the screen.
“They don't sound very English to me.”
“Especially since they were made for guys named Maugis
and Siegfried. Those aren't English names either. I have no
idea who Maugis was, but Siegfried is the guy from Wagner’s
Ring cycle. You know what I'm talking about?”
“No clue.”
“Kill-the-wabbit, kill-the-wabbit?” Derek sang, not very
well.
“Oh, right, that opera thing!”

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“Anyhow, it's Germanic mythology, but the interesting
thing is that supposedly someone named Wayland made it.
Very Stone Temple Pilots, right? Anyhow, I remember
reading about John Wayland Smith, he was, like, this Old
One, a supernatural figure, almost a god.”
“He made swords?”
“Right! But what’s interesting is that he’s an English
smith, making swords for this major German hero as well as
what sounds kind of French to me. Flamberge, that's French,
don't you think?”
“So, you're thinking maybe he didn't make one of those
swords, but was handing out swords that he found?”
Derek shrugged. “I have no idea. I just think we should
keep him on the list. For now, anyway. So, we've got five
swords and one sword-maker. Excalibur is the biggy, of
course, and after that, I think Curtana sounds the most
interesting, since it was not only the sword of the kings, but
specifically a king named Edward the Confessor, who's
actually a saint. I'm guessing we can blow off the Scottish
one, since Scotland wouldn't have been part of the deal back
when Oberon was ruling Albion.”
Holli nodded. “You're thinking maybe King Edward had
something to do with the Fallen, and an angel gave him the
sword?”
“I don't know. The problem is that I don't remember
hearing anything about Edward the Confessor ever doing
anything legendary. We know why Arthur needed Excalibur,
since he was turning back the barbarians and all. Launcelot,
same deal. I don't know anything about the other three. But,
at least I know where to look. The funny thing is, I could
have done all this from the prison library. I don't know why
Khasar needed to get me out.”
Holli smiled, and it wasn't an entirely nice smile. “I guess
he just couldn't think of anyone who would make better
werewolf bait.”

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C H A P T E R 27

A DAGGER SHEATHED
THE WAVES WERE DEAD; THE TIDES WERE IN THEIR GRAVE,
THE MOON, THEIR MISTRESS, HAD EXPIR'D BEFORE;
THE WINDS WERE WITHER'D IN THE STAGNANT AIR,
AND THE CLOUDS PERISH'D; DARKNESS HAD NO NEED
OF AID FROM THEM--SHE WAS THE UNIVERSE.
— Lord Byron, Darkness

T

hree weeks later, they were driving up the A23 from
Brighton in the MGB that Holli had insisted they rent.
Khasar had put up a brief resistance, arguing in favor of a
more anonymous Vauxhall, but the combination of Holli's
pleading and the fortuitous appearance of some morning
sunshine had worn him down. Now he was sitting on top of
the convertible’s stowed roof, basking in the all-too-rare
English sun and letting his long, leonine locks dance wildly in
the wind. He was invisible to mortal eyes, of course, and he'd
told Holli to stay in sextus as well, as they drove north from
Tintagel Castle, back towards London.
"You know what's the one thing that blows about these old
cars," said Derek, shouting to be heard over the onrushing
wind. He was delighted to be back looking normal again, as
Khasar had decided no one was looking for him now. "No
cruise control! My right leg is cramping like crazy!"
"So, let me drive," Holli shouted back. "Come on, Khasar,
please?"
The archon shook his head and pointed to the stick shift.
"You can drive if you tell me what that's for."
"It's the automatic."
"No dice, blondie," Derek laughed. "Let's just stop for some
petrol, and I'll shake it off."

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249

Khasar pointed to the fuel gauge, though only Holli could
see him. "We've still got half a tank. Suck it up, old chap.
Petrol, indeed!"
Holli laughed as Derek muttered something under his
breath and twisted in his seat, trying to stretch out his leg.
"We've tried Glastonbury, Cadbury, West Camel, and we've
spent the last ten days checking out every tiny little village in
Cornwall. Why didn't we just stop there before, before we
went down to the south?”
"Because I was in a hurry to get to Glastonbury. That's
where all the legends and histories pointed. Since he was
buried there, I really thought we'd at least be able to find
some solid clues about the sword there.”
Holli sighed.
Glastonbury had been a huge
disappointment. Not only was there not a single Divine angel
there who'd been present during Arthurian times, but it had
become a significant Fallen stronghold, so much so that they'd
barely escaped with their cover intact. Even worse, at some
point in the past fifteen hundred years, all of the trees in the
area had been cut down, so they'd wasted a day wandering
through the wooded swamps and quizzing dryads before their
activity had attracted attention of the local Fallen prince, who
sent a small force to chase them out.
“I still don't see why we didn't just return this and take the
train. It makes me nervous, driving on the wrong side of the
road like this.”
"Did you see any train stations at most of the places we
stopped?" Khasar asked. She frowned. He had a point there.
“There you go, then.”
Holli fumbled through the sheaf of papers that Derek had
printed out. They'd spent hours at the Internet cafe, then,
when Khasar had rejoined them after a fruitless quest in
search of Puck's possible whereabouts, spent the next six days
rummaging through the British Library. During a few muchneeded breaks, Khasar had also taken them to see Big Ben,
the Tower of London and Buckingham Palace, so Holli took
comfort in the thought that even if they failed and England
was swept away by a wave of Fallen-inspired devastation, at
least she could say that the trip hadn't been a complete waste.

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But almost a month had passed now, and they were fast
running out of time.
As if to remind himself of the seriousness of their quest,
Khasar had ordered Derek to stop by seashore, near Brighton.
There he transformed into the winged lion that Holli had first
known and carried Derek far out over the Channel, while
Holli, not entirely comfortable about not having any land
underneath her as she flew, accompanied them. The waters
were grey and rough, but far more worrisome was the dark
and teeming shadows that were massing on the continental
side. They stayed far out to sea, wary of the great, fourwinged demons that were patrolling the European coast.
“Diavelina's army,” Khasar explained unnecessarily.
They were too far off to see exactly what made up her
forces, much less who was leading them, but it was clear that
Moloch’s daughter was not planning a minor, token effort. To
Holli's unschooled eyes, it looked as if she was planning to
sweep over the whole world. The army of the demon princess
looked like a huge black tumor, swelling and boiling, just
waiting to burst and vomit forth its evil.
“They don't need boats, either,” said Derek, in awe of the
fearsome army. “It's almost like watching a herd of locusts on
Discovery, just buzzing and hopping and waiting for the first
one to leap up into the air and set them all off.”
“They will devour all before them,” agreed Khasar.
“Can anything stop them?”
“Michael could defeat them with the Host, of course, but
we never interfere directly in battles between the Fallen. If
we did, we would do nothing else, so great is the hatred
amongst them. The world is still in darkness, not until the
Son of Man returns will it be entirely freed of its bonds and
the shadows shattered once and for all.”
“But what about Oberon? What can he do? Why is he so
important?”
“He can rally the spirits of old Albion to fight for him. The
Mad One will fight alone, except for his slaves and hangerson. There are few among the Fallen who would lift a finger to
defend him. Most will accept Diavelina, however grudgingly,
for they no longer care much who holds their chains.”

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251

“But can Oberon even win? Against that?” The dark mass
seemed to seethe with barely repressed rage mixed with
hunger. It was a sheer and unrepentant evil the likes of
which she had never seen, not even on Rahab.
The golden muzzle turned towards her, the blue eyes
uncharacteristically dark.
“I don't know,” the archon
admitted. “I hope so.”
They had flown back towards the English coast in somber
silence, all three of them lost in thought and sobered by what
they had seen.
But that was many miles, or rather, kilometers, behind
them now. The sun was bright, the top was down, the radio
was cranked, and in the circumstances, it was inevitable that
the sense of doom soon passed. Sevesham was only another
35 minutes away, although Derek nearly ended the quest for
the sword, at least for the two mortals participants, when,
after exiting the motorway, he turned directly into the grill of
an oncoming BMW. Fortunately, the startled driver had the
wit to swerve wide; his outraged honk was drowned out by
Khasar's yelling at Derek to be more careful. Holli had to fly
to catch up with them; she'd shifted without thinking about it
and literally jumped out of her seat. It was a good thing she'd
gone quintus and so was invisible, otherwise the poor BMW
driver might have had a heart attack.
They ate lunch at a pub which claimed to be more than
three hundred years old. Holli believed it too, as neither the
decor nor the menu appeared to have changed in all that
time.
The
elderly
waitress
merely
blinked
uncomprehendingly at her request for a salad, and she was
forced to make do with a roast beef sandwich like the others.
Khasar, as was his habit now, assumed mortal form in order
to join them openly.
Fallen were thin on the ground, which surprised Holli
until Khasar pointed out that demons, like mortals, were
drawn to the alluring lights of London just forty miles to the
south. Only the most conscientious Tempters hung around
here more than they needed to, and while the usual horde of
petty evils were infesting the village, spreading disease,
malice and the usual unpleasantries, they were of next to no
concern to a guardian, much less an archon.

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They had no sooner begun to walk in the crumbling stone
entrance when an angel appeared in front of them, pointing
his sword at Khasar.
“We are not so far gone that you may think to tread here,
demon.”
“I beg your pardon?” said Khasar, astonished and clearly
having forgotten that he was wearing his brutal tempter's
Aspect. “Oh, yes, of course! Do forgive me. Like yourself,
faithful servant, I am in service to the Most High God, albeit
in disguise for the nonce.”
For a moment, the horned image was replaced by that of a
noble, lion-headed angel. The monastery's guard put up his
sword and bowed. “I must ask your pardon in return, my lord
Archon, if I have given offense.”
“None at all, to be sure. The mistake was mine.”
“What's going on?” whispered Derek.
“Khasar forgot to turn off the bad guy look.”
“Figures,” Derek shook his head, disgusted.
Following Khasar's revelation, they were received in
friendly, if puzzled, manner by the remaining Divine who
guarded the village's lone stronghold, an ancient monastery
that was mostly abandoned. Derek was left to cool his heels
in a chilly, stone-floored room where the sole splash of color
was a small television displaying Sky News. His displeasure
at being left behind was assuaged somewhat by discovery that
the monks had 150 stations of digital satellite. They left him
with the remote, flipping rapidly through MTV videos and
what seemed like an endless supply of soccer games.
Jami would dig it here, thought Holli with a momentary
pang of homesickness. This was the longest she'd ever been
away from her twin and she missed her, although she
doggedly refused to let herself think about her family, and
especially her father. Only when she prayed for him, once in
the morning, once again at night, did she allow herself to
think about what they were all going through now. She
wondered if they missed her; was it really possible for the
angels to convince them that something had been planned for
months in advance when none of them had known anything
about it until she was already gone?

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"Greetings, Archon," said the weedy-looking archangel who
received them in what must have been the meeting hall. He
was thin, almost gaunt, and was attended by seven angels
who didn't look much healthier than their lord. "This is a
most unusual pleasure. What brings you to this embattled
outpost?"
"Embattled?" Khasar spread his hands. "I see no signs of
war here. I was remarking to... ah, my companion here, that
is to say, the angel Holliel, that the Fallen appear to have left
this town largely alone. Surely that is a compliment to your
steadfastness here."
The angel coughed. It was a disturbing, hacking cough
that sounded as if it was ripping apart his insides. "We are
but the remnant, Khasar. The battle for England's soul has
been lost. For one hundred years we fought long and hard,
but the evil tide was too much this time. There was no
Arthur, no Alfred, not even a Canute. Though it shames me
to say it, there was nothing for it but to retreat behind these
walls and hope for the best. Mostly, the local Fallen ignore
us, for even when we sally forth, the indifference of these
mortals denies us succor. An army travels on its belly,
archon, and there is no faith here on which to feed."
"You're not saying that this is all you have here?" Khasar
was aghast. "Six angels to defend a stronghold?"
"There are two others, but aye, there are only eight who
remain. And to think we have come to this pass in a land
that once shone amongst the darkness of the nations like a
torch in the night, the nation that brought the Living Word to
every corner of the globe. I have heard the rumors. Soon,
Diavelina will stretch forth her hand and this land shall fall
into darkness until the King comes back. But we shall stay
true until the end, never fear. We may be resigned to our
fate, but we do not despair."
Diavelina hasn't won yet, Holly wanted to say. It was hard
to even look at the angel, he was so terribly sad! She looked
at Khasar, but the archon shook his head. Their mission was
too important to share it with a few downtrodden angels,
especially if the only purpose was to cheer them up.

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"I rejoice to hear it." Holli couldn't tell if Khasar was being
sarcastic or not. "As for us, our purpose is simple enough. We
seek word of the sword Excalibur."
"That blessed weapon once borne by Arthurus?"
"The very same," answered Khasar, glancing significantly
at Holli. "We have traveled to Glastonbury and across Devon
and Cornwall, but the Fallen princes are not exactly
forthcoming and it seems that most of the spirits of the land
are either too young or have lost their memories."
The gaunt archangel grimaced. "Or they have been drawn
into the web of the Fallen. Also, I must tell you that there
was a terrible harrowing here among the Fallen when the
Mad One first came into these Isles, and the last century has
seen a great exodus among our kind, to say nothing of those
who were struck down by the legions. However, I imagine I
can help you put an end to your search, as I can tell you
precisely where you will find this famous sword, Excalibur, or
Caliburn, as it is more properly named."
"You can?" exclaimed Holli.
"To be sure. I was there when Arthurus fell. For you see, I
was his Guardian. Oh, it was a dark day indeed that he fell
to the traitor's sword. A veritable spawn of the Deceiver
himself, that Mordred. The place is not far from here, it is
but an afternoon's walk, if you are so minded.”
“I'm afraid not,” Khasar said. “Our quest for the sword is
rather urgent.”
“So, you were a guardian angel?” Holli couldn’t help
asking.
“Much like yourself, as a matter of fact.” The archangel
smiled at her, then sighed. “You must not think that I was
always as you see me now. Like these rocks, I have been
worn down by the weight of time. Arthurus, his star did not
burn long, but it burned brightly indeed!”
He glanced at the archon. “We fought many battles in
those days, my lord. The Fallen were not so sly, nor
circumspect. Blade to black-fire blade we met them, and we
turned them back, again and again. That last army, the
traitor's, was accompanied by two legions and led by Lord
Heleroth, one of Prince Azarel’s captains. I crossed swords

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with Heleroth myself; he struck me down, but not before I ran
my blade through his shoulder.”
The archangel's voice trailed off and he stared into the
distance, his eyes looking past them towards a centuries-old
battle that only he could see. Then he blinked, and cleared
his throat.
“In any event, it was for naught. Though I failed, Prince
Michael nevertheless saw fit to promote me and gave me
charge of this place. And so you find me now. Are you sure
you don't wish to see the battlefield?”
“Very sure,” Khasar said. “But you said you know where
the sword is?”
The archangel nodded sadly. “Well, never mind. I
understand completely. If you would like, I will take you to
Lady Nimue's lake myself. I fear the sword's keeper may
have grown somewhat feral after all this time; Nimue is long
gone and I must admit, I have been somewhat remiss in
maintaining our old acquaintance. I do not know if I have
visited him even once this century. He is a fearsome creature,
but his spirit is pure. If he knows me, there should be no
problem at all.”
And if he doesn't? Holli wanted to ask. She glanced at
Khasar. The archon was pretending to look pleased, but
something about his expression suggested that he was
thinking exactly the same thing.

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C H A P T E R 28

THE LADY’S LOOKING GLASS
ARTHUR, TURNING TO HIS KNIGHTS, FOUGHT EVER IN THE
FOREMOST PRESS UNTIL HIS HORSE WAS SLAIN BEFORE HIM. AT
THAT, KING LOT RODE FURIOUSLY AT HIM AND SMOTE HIM DOWN;
BUT RISING STRAIGHTAWAY, AND BEING SET AGAIN ON
HORSEBACK, HE DREW HIS SWORD EXCALIBUR THAT HE HAD
GAINED BY MERLIN FROM THE LADY OF THE LAKE, WHICH,
SHINING BRIGHTLY AS THE LIGHT OF THIRTY TORCHES, DAZZLED
THE EYES OF HIS ENEMIES.
— Sir James Knowles, King Arthur and His Knights

I

f the lord archangel of Sevesham monastery was surprised
to know that Derek, a mortal, was involved with their
quest, he was too polite to show it. He did not blink an eye as
Khasar switched back to his tempter's guise, and he refused
Holli's offer of the passenger seat in the MGB, preferring
instead to fly high above the car. Khasar accompanied him,
providing them with air cover of sorts.
“So, check this out,” she told Derek as she filled him in on
the particulars of the meeting. “He was actually King
Arthur's guardian angel!”
“Really? That's so cool. Did you ask him what Arthur was
like, or anything?”
“I didn't dare! I was mostly trying to keep my mouth shut,
I didn't want anyone to figure out that I'm not really an
angel.”
Derek nodded approvingly. “That's smart. It's too bad,
though. Maybe we can get him to tell us some stories tonight.
Man, think how cool that would be, to know what really
happened at Mount Badon and stuff?”
“Where?” Holli looked at him blankly, not that he could
see her.
“You don't read anything except Cosmo, do you.”

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“That is so not true!” she protested vehemently. “I even
subscribe to InStyle!”
“Oh, sorry, my mistake.”
He was such a jerk. Holli stuck out her tongue at him.
Hey, if you were invisible, might as well take advantage of it.
She looked up at the angels flying overhead and started. The
archangel was looking down at her, and pointing to the right.
“Hey, at the next turn, take a right.”
“Right it is.”
They made a few more turns, and after about twenty more
minutes of driving, Derek parked the MGB on the gravel
shoulder in what appeared to be the complete middle of
nowhere.
“How can we only be an hour or so from London,” he
marveled. “There's like, nothing here.”
“There's some sheep over there.” Holli pointed to a flock
that was grazing in a valley below them, forgetting he
couldn't see her. “And that must be the lake!”
“And the Lady of the Lake, her arm clad in shimmering
samite, held aloft Excalibur!” Derek intoned in a solemn
voice.
“What's that?”
“That is why I am your king – oh, never mind. You're
hopeless.”
“You're so one to talk.”
They both fell silent as the two angels alighted in front of
them. “Behold, Nimue's Mirror,” said the lord archangel. He
seemed to be in a particularly good mood, probably, Holli
thought, since he was getting out of the embattled monastery
for once. It suddenly occurred to her that they must be his
first visitors in a long, long time. His first visitors who
weren't trying to stick a flaming sword through him, anyhow.
“It's lovely,” she said, hoping she sounded suitably
impressed.
“It's also much deeper than it looks. Are you going to leave
your mortal here to enjoy the view, or is his presence vital to
your purpose? He certainly doesn't look like the one destined
to take up and wield Caliburn again. But then, I suppose
appearances can be deceiving. And he is young. Still, what a
privilege to witness this moment!”

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Oh dear. Holli realized that the poor archangel was under
the impression that Derek was, like, Arthur's long-lost heir or
something, destined to take up the sword and free England
again.
“Are there any prophecies, or whatever, about
Excalibur? I mean, Caliburn?”
“Well, not as such, no, although there are certainly many
about Arthur himself. The once and future king, that sort of
thing, don't you know? They primarily suggest that he shall
rise again and free Britain from the pagans, and there can be
no doubt that Britain is much in need of saving.” He peered
uncertainly at Derek. “I must confess, I would not have
expected its rightful bearer to come from the Colonies,
though.”
Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy. Holli looked at Khasar, who
shrugged helplessly. Well, the poor dear would find out soon
enough. And they were trying to save Britain, kind of, even if
it wasn't in exactly the manner that the archangel was
probably thinking.
It did not take them long to make their way down the
hillside. There was no path, but the knee-high grass offered
little resistance to their progress. Once Holli slipped, and
only averted a clumsy fall by using her wings. She was really
getting rather good with them, she thought proudly. After a
five-minutes walk across the valley floor, they reached the
sandy shores of the peaceful lake. Nimue's Mirror was, as its
name suggested, as still as glass; not even a hint of a breeze
disturbed the calm blue waters.
“So, the sword is underwater?” Holli asked. “And will this
keeper just let us have it? And what do you mean by keeper,
anyway?”
“I don't know if he will or not. As for the keeper, he is a
child of God, like the rest of us.”
Holli would have liked to get a more informative answer
out of the archangel, but Khasar seemed unconcerned and
was already wading into the water. “Wait, what about Derek?
He can't breathe underwater!” Actually, Holli wasn't entirely
sure that she could – no, that was stupid. Just walk shadow,
doorknob, the water isn’t really there.
“He only has to hold his breath and swim to the bottom.
You'll see. It's perfectly safe.”

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259

All right then. “You have to hold your breath and swim
down as deep as you can go. According to what the archangel
is telling us, there's some kind of air pocket or something so
you'll be able to breathe okay.”
“Swim down to what?”
“I have no idea. Something that looks like it's big enough
to hold a sword, I guess.”
“Actually, there can't be too much on the bottom of the lake
anyhow,” Derek said. He stripped down to his underwear
unselfconsciously, and she looked away. “If it was hard to
find, they would have said something, I suppose. Hey, I can
swim all right, but if I get stuck, pull me up fast, will you?”
“Yeah, sure,” Holli said quickly. He didn't seriously think
she'd leave him to drown, did he? Then, after a moment's
thought, she realized that a few weeks ago, she just might
have. Not intentionally, of course. “Don't worry about it. Oh,
and there's, like, some kind of keeper for the sword or
something, but the archangel says he knows it, so that
shouldn't be a problem.
Derek froze as he stepped into the lake and turned towards
the sound of her voice. “Not exactly a jacuzzi here. Oh well.
Keeper of the sword? What kind of keeper?”
“He didn't say. A child of God.”
“Oh, well, it can't be that bad then, I suppose. Let's do it –
holy mother church, it's cold!” he shouted as the water
reached past his waist. Bracing himself, he leaped into the
air and plunged into the water with an audible splash. Holli,
safely immaterial, dove in behind him and followed his long
white figure as he quickly stroked his way down towards the
lake bottom. Far ahead, down through the murk, she could
see Khasar and the archangel standing in front of an arch of
some kind.
But then Derek turned around and started swimming back
up to the surface. She quickly joined him there as he tread
water. “Did you see it?”
“See what? I didn't see anything, except a couple of fish.
Man, the cold kind of took my breath away. It's not so bad
now, though.”
“You didn't see kind of an arch thing?”
“An arch?”

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“Yeah, it was a grey stone thing.”
Holli was puzzled by the blank look on his face. Then a
thought struck her. “Hang on a second, stay there.” She
slipped into septus, forgetting that she hadn't bothered to
strip down. She panicked for a second at the weight of her
saturated robes dragging her down below the surface, then
laughed at herself and relaxed as she quickly returned to
quintus and the drowning weight disappeared.
Then she blinked at the sight of the reappeared arch.
Hmm, well, that would be the problem, wouldn't it. No
wonder Derek hadn't seen it; it wasn't meant to be seen by
mortal eyes. Or material eyes, anyhow. She switched back to
septus to be sure, and the arch disappeared. Kicking hard
against the weight of her sodden robes, she surfaced and blew
the water out her nose.
“What happened to you?
“You can't see it when you're human. I mean, you won't be
able to see it. I'll stay visible and lead you to it, all right?”
She frowned. He was looking away from her. “What's the
matter.”
“Um, the white... it's kind of see-through when it's wet.”
Oh! She covered herself reflexively, then laughed with
embarrassment as she went into tertius. Miraculously dry
and weightless again, but visible to mortals this time, she
beckoned at Derek to follow her, then flew down through the
water as if it was not there, which, for her, it wasn't.
The bottom was about fifty feet down and Holli wondered if
perhaps she should just grab him and drag him down. But he
flipped over and smoothly kicked his way down towards the
stone arch that stood at the front of the large underwater
edifice. It reminded her a little of the castles you see in
aquariums, although she hoped to never see a crab big enough
to make its home in a structure this size. She stopped when
she reached Khasar and the archangel, who were standing on
either side of the arch, but Derek, with a good head of steam
going, swam right past them all and into the very center of
the arch.
Holli blinked. One moment, Derek was there, a long white
blur. The next, he was gone! Vanished! She glanced
worriedly at the archangel.

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261

“Where'd he go?”
“He's perfectly safe, I'm sure.”
The archangel was
unconcerned. “What were you expecting, an underground
city? Go on, go on.
Khasar was the first to step through the arch, followed a
moment later by Holli and the archangel of the abbey. Holli
clapped her hands with delight. Why, they weren't on the
bottom of a lake at all! They were standing in a narrow
chamber with a high, domed ceiling and walls of dark green
marble. Rich, brightly colored tapestries decorated the walls,
woven with dashing scenes of lords and ladies dancing,
feasting, hunting and generally looking like they were having
a grand old time. She was so distracted by the unexpectedly
lovely room that she barely noticed the regal woman before
whom Derek was standing in nothing more than a pair of
navy blue boxers.
She was strikingly beautiful, even seated as she was at a
loom, from which descended a gorgeous purple cloth. Her
skin was white as the chalky cliffs that they'd driven past
only ten days ago, and Holli envied the artful way two strands
of raven black hair framed either side of her porcelain-perfect
face. But her eyes widened with amazement as she looked
past Holli, even as she finished saying something to Derek.
“...of course you may not have the sword. Lionel? By all
the bones of all the saints, Lionel, that can't possibly be you!
My dear, what have they done to you!”
Holli and Derek both turned around and were surprised to
see their guide, the lord archangel, blush a little before hiding
behind a courtly, one-legged bow.
“My Lady Nimue, yours is a beauty for the ages. Would
that the cruel ravages of Time had treated us all so kindly.”
A little more composed, the archangel – Lionel, apparently –
drew himself to his full height and cleared his throat. “But
what, my dear Lady, are you doing at the bottom of this Lake?
Surely you are not the Keeper of Excalibur!”
“No, to be sure, that I am not,” answered the beautiful
woman, or angel, as Holli assumed was more likely the case.
Clearly she wasn't anything natural to this world. The Lady's
eyes narrowed with suspicion, but she did not press Lionel
further on his decrepit appearance. “Perhaps you have not

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heard, but Gloriana is no more. When I heard Maomoondagh
took her, I thought it best to take flight myself before he
decided to add another queen to his collection. I had thought
that this place would provide safe refuge, being known to few
and forgotten by all, although it appears that I was wrong.
The Keeper is no more; I banished him.”
“From this place?” asked Lionel.
“From this world.” Clearly, the Lady was not one with
whom to trifle.
Appearances, Holli thought, could be
misleading.
“And the sword?” Khasar asked quickly.
“Still here, in the chamber beyond. I have not touched it. ”
“You need not fear our coming, Lady,” Lionel was quick to
assure her. “Maomoondagh will receive no word from anyone
here, except the end he so richly deserves. Have you heard
aught of Morganna?”
“I neither know nor care.” She glanced at Derek, sniffed,
and returned her attention to Lionel. “Surely this cannot be
Arthur's heir! Those tales were naught but fiction, human
legend. Hopes and dreams in a dark night. There was never
a child. There is no truth to the legends.”
“Yeah, I don't know about any heir, all right, but we kind
of need Excalibur,” Derek broke in, and for the first time,
Holli realized that he could see and hear everything that was
going on in this unusual place. “We're going to take out this
Maomoondagh dude, and I’m told we need this special sword
to do it. From what we figured, there's no sword more special
than Excalibur.”
Nimue's thin, perfectly arched eyebrows raised visibly, and
for the first time, she looked at Derek as if he was an
individual and not a strange, intrusive water bug. “I do not
think Excalibur is that sword for which you quest, young
mortal.”
“Actually, we have good reason to suspect it may, in fact,
be exactly what the purposes require,” said Khasar, stepping
forward. “Maomoondagh is no angel. The blade which
defended the Isles against the sea wolves would surely suffice
to strike him down as well.”
“That's preposterous! No angel?” The Lady scoffed. “Do
you suggest that he is a mere mortal? I can assure you

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263

otherwise. And not even a Child of the Twice-Fallen could
dream of wielding such might as him, not for so long! Who
are you, who are so wise in the ways of spirits?”
“The archon Khasarotjofee, at your service. Or Khasar, if
you please. And Lady, while I cannot tell you exactly what
Maomoondagh is, I can tell you with certainty that he is no
angel, Divine or Fallen. My word may not convince you, but
know that I am of the order of Prince Uriel and I am here at
his command.”
“I see. A shadowstalker.” The beautiful queen, who, Holli
realized, had to be the legendary Lady of the Lake, did not
seem pleased, but she sat back at her loom nevertheless. “I
see, but I do not understand. I can't see how this is possible.”
“There is reason to suspect Titania is behind recent
events,” said Khasar. “It has long been rumored that it was
she who engineered Oberon's fall. It is possible that Oberon's
escape may have caused her to induce Maomoondagh to
eliminate Gloriana.”
Nimue's nostrils flared with anger and her alabaster
cheeks colored, just a little. “Oberon is free? Your words
have a ring of truth to them, archon, for I would put very
little past my thrice-cursed sister. Next to Morgana, she is
the most given to intrigue. But what interest could these
Isles hold for Heaven and her King today? Why should Prince
Uriel concern himself over this poor fallen land?”
“Because seeing it fall to Moloch’s daughter is in no one's
interest, Lady Nimue, least of all Heaven's.”
The Lady tapped her fingers on her loom. It was an
exquisite piece of machinery; no doubt it had produced the
wonderful tapestries which adorned the chamber. She sucked
in her cheeks as she contemplated Derek, which made her
finely sculpted cheekbones even more striking. He was,
thought Holli, admittedly less than heroic in appearance, with
his tall scrawny frame exposing entirely too much skin of an
unhealthy pallid color that managed to simultaneously be like
and almost entirely unlike the snowy purity of the Lady
herself.
The Lady frowned, pursed her lovely red mouth, then
bowed her head and acceded to their request. “Very well,
then you shall have the sword, young man. My time is past,

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this matter is not one for me to judge. Go, into the next room,
there is no one there to stop you. Lionel, you will stay with
me, I pray. I have no interest in these darkling times, let us
speak of nobler days, when all was not darkness and shadow
on deeper shadow.”

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265

C H A P T E R 29

SHATTERED DREAMS
THEREFORE, FROM A PRIMARY ICONISM AND THROUGH A
PERCEPTUAL PROCESS ALREADY IMBUED WITH INFERENCES, WE
COME TO AN IDENTITY (IF NOT FINAL, AT LEAST TEMPORARILY
ESTABLISHED)
BETWEEN
PERCEPTUAL
JUDGMENT
AND
IMMEDIATE OBJECT, AND BETWEEN IMMEDIATE OBJECT AND THE
FIRST
NUCLEUS
OF
MEANING
ASSOCIATED
WITH
A
REPRESENTAMEN.
— Umberto Eco, Kant and the Platypus

W

ell, that wasn't so bad," Derek told Holli as he opened
the door that Lady Nimue told them led to the chamber
in which Excalibur was kept. "I mean, I don't see how this
place fits beneath the lake - the ceiling is almost as high as
the lake is deep - but at least we don't have to mess with the
keeper. After you."
"Thanks!" Holli was surprised, until it occurred to her that
perhaps Derek hadn't suddenly learned his manners. "Hey,
you go first!"
"Forget it, I'm not the one who can go hyperspace
whenever I want. You go first!"
It wasn't very gentlemanly, but she couldn't deny that his
argument was persuasive. "Fine," she snapped. She stepped
carefully into the room, and was quickly lost in the darkness.
"I can't see anything!"
"You're in septus," Khasar called out from behind her.
She shook her head. Stupid. How did angels ever keep
straight where they were? This shadow-walking wasn't hard
to do, but it was hard to master. She went to quintus and
gasped. Not twenty feet in front of her was a tall and terrible
being, all covered in armor and standing with his hands
folded on the hilt of his drawn sword.

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"I thought the Lady said there wasn't a Keeper in here,”
she hissed over her shoulder.
“She did!”
"Then what's that?"
“What's what?”
But even as Derek spoke, a golden light began to flicker all
around the floor of the chamber. It grew in intensity, rising
up the walls, which proved to be decorated with intricate
carvings of flowers. There were roses, daisies, bluebells and a
hundred other flowers that Holli couldn't identify. They
practically leaped out at you in the shadows cast by the
golden light, the overall effect was much starker than the
Lady's brilliant tapestries, but it was beautiful in its own
way. Glancing back at the great knight, who still had not
moved, Holli noticed that similar roses were embossed on the
breastplate of his white armor.
"Hey, there's the sword, behind him!" Derek was right.
Excalibur hung, unsupported, in the air, surrounded by a
silver glow. He began to walk gingerly around the motionless
Keeper. Holli wasn't sure who screamed louder, her or Derek,
when a massive white-armored hand suddenly came down
and blocked his path.
"You may not pass," said a deep voice that rumbled up
from one of the less accessible parts of the Abyss.
"Um, the Lady said you, ah, wouldn't mind.”
"The Lady is nothing to me. You shall not pass."
"So, what now?" Derek called out, his eyes never leaving
the Keeper. "Khasar, can you take this guy down, or distract
him or something?"
"I don't think I'm supposed to," Khasar answered. "That's
supposed to be the hero's role, as I understand these things."
"Do I look like a freaking hero to you? I'm buck naked
except for my boxers, and I'm not about to fight a ten foot-tall
armored giant whose sword is bigger than me, all right? It’s
your show, homes, you figure it out."
Holli had an inspiration. “Keep him busy, Khasar. We'll
take care of the sword." She whispered into Derek's ear. "I’ll
help Khasar distract him, then you slip around behind and
grab it."

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267

He looked uncertainly around the chamber. It was just
wide enough for him to slide past, as long as the huge Keeper
was pushed completely off to one side. "Why don't you just go
through him and grab it yourself?"
"Because I don't think he's mortal, so he might not be
limited to this shadow. He can probably see me."
"That makes a weird kind of sense. Okay, just don't let
him cut me in half with that thing. Or step on me, for that
matter."
"I'll do my best." She nodded to Khasar, who without
warning, took on an Aspect of a gilded knight, identical to the
white-armored Keeper except there were lions on his shining
breastplate instead of roses. The big archon stepped forward
in challenge.
"You may not pass."
"We'll see about that." Khasar replied as he drew his own
sword, a gleaming silver blade, and without warning swung it
at the Keeper's neck. Faster than Holli would have thought
possible, the Keeper reversed his grip and brought his sword
up to block it. The clang echoed through the chamber and
then the battle was on. The din was tremendous as the two
mighty knights battled away, hammers and tongs, neither
one moving nor giving an inch. Then Khasar seemed to slip,
and the Keeper began to press his attack, forcing the archon
to retreat towards the right wall.
"Go, now!" Holli shoved Derek forward, and the tall boy
ran forward. Holli ran beside him, ready to try and redirect
an errant back-swing or an ill-timed retreat. But Khasar
allowed the white knight to force him up against the wall,
parrying each powerful blow only at the last possible second.
And then the legendary sword was before them. Excalibur,
which King Arthur himself had borne to glory and fame
everlasting. Holli wasn't much of a reader, but even she knew
the stories, and she felt a little strange to be so close to
something that she'd always assumed was imaginary.
"It's beautiful," Derek whispered reverentially. And it was.
The sword was simple, its stained blade was pitted and
scarred, but it was beautiful too. The hilt was wrapped in
gold, ending in two lions-heads baring their teeth under
glaring ruby eyes.
Several more jewels decorated the

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crosspiece and another, larger ruby was set in the pommel,
but it was damaged somewhat, with several cracked facets.
Derek stood before it reverentially, and his face was full of
awe as he glanced at her and shook his head.
“What do I do?”
“Just grab it!” she urged him, watching warily as the two
giant figures, shining gold and alabaster white, smote each
other with abandon, their blows ringing through the chamber
like thunder.
Derek cautiously moved his right hand forward into the
mystic glowing field, and touched the hilt with one finger, as
if it might electrocute him. When nothing happened, he
breathed a sigh of relief and closed his hand around the hilt.
Without warning, the blade's silver glow suddenly brightened
into a golden sunburst, so bright that Derek had to shield his
eyes with his free hand. From behind Holli, she heard the
Keeper cry out with rage.
“Defiler! Unhand me, thrice-cursed thief!” Empowered by
his fury, the giant smashed a two-fisted blow that caught
Khasar off-guard and sent him sprawling, then rushed
towards Derek and Holli, his massive sword raised high above
his head.
“Khasar!” Holli screamed as the giant bore down on her,
but she retained enough presence of mind to slip into quintus
before she was cut in two. Thrown off by her disappearance,
the knight stumbled and lost his footing as his blade met no
resistance and smashed into the floor with a resounding
clang.
Confused and off-balance, the Keeper was
momentarily defenseless and Derek seized his opportunity.
With a great shout, he leaped forward and swung shining
Excalibur as if he was an avenging, if half-naked, angel of
destruction.
There was an unearthly shriek when the blade burned
through the embossed breastplate as if it was not armor but
molten butter. Derek's shout of triumph died in his throat,
though, when the sun-bright glow abruptly dimmed, sending
the room into darkness. A moment later, there was a loud
crack and the ancient blade unexpectedly shattered into
pieces. One shard flew backward into Derek's unprotected
shoulder; his cry of pain was drowned out by the agonized

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howl of the Keeper. The white-armored giant had fallen to
his knees and a dark purple smoke was rushing from the
ruptured breastplate, hissing like a steam from a teapot.
What was going on?
Holli wasn't sure what was
happening to the Keeper, but at least he wasn't trying to hit
her with that huge sword again. Then, as she looked at the
jagged stump of the sword in Derek's hand, another thought
struck her. How were they going to kill the Mad One with a
broken blade?
Derek was clutching at his bleeding shoulder with the
metal shard protruding from between his fingers. He, too,
was staring at Excalibur in disbelief. Holli drew her own
sword, it came crackling to life and its flames gave them
enough light with which to see. Bright red-gold glitters
marked the places where the other pieces of Excalibur had
fallen.
“What did you do?” Khasar roared at Derek.
“How should I know? I thought this thing was supposed to
be some kind of magic super sword, right? I have no clue
what happened. One minute, it was slicing right through
that guy's armor, and then it just broke apart.
Khasar looked at what was now nothing but an empty suit
of armor, but the armor was already cracking and pieces were
crumbling and starting to fall off. The three of them were
silent for a moment, watching as the armor disintegrated into
a fine white powder before disappearing entirely. Then
Khasar slapped his forehead. “No! That was no keeper, that
was the spirit of the sword!”
“What?” Derek and Holli looked at each other.
Khasar groaned. “When an item has been endowed with
great power, it is possible for it to take on a sort of life of its
own. Unless an object is of Divine origin, in which case the
power is drawn from the Almighty, it necessarily derives its
power from a spirit bound to the object. Given enough time,
the spirit can escape that to which it has been bound. In this
case, it would seem that a partial binding still remained.”
“That means so nothing to me,” Derek answered irritably
and Holli had to agree with him. “Khasar, what are you
talking about?”

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“I mean that a house divided against itself cannot stand.
The spirit was the sword! Well, the magic of the sword,
anyhow. And to use Excalibur against its own magic, well,
you saw what happened.”
“I haven't exactly used a lot of supernatural swords before.
Didn’t you ever bother to think about this before? I mean,
didn't it even cross your mind when you saw the dude
standing there?”
Holli prodded the little pile of dust with her foot. She
almost felt bad for the poor guy, or spirit, whatever he was.
Or perhaps she would have if he hadn't tried to chop her in
two.
Khasar threw up his hands. “I don't know, I thought he
was just your normal, everyday guardian! You have to
understand, I've never seen anything like this before, I'd only
heard a few tales here and there.”
“So, what do we do now?”
The archon bent over and picked up one of the blackened
pieces of the sword. “Obviously we're going to have to fix it
before we can use it to confront the Mad One. If it can be
fixed.”
What were the chances of that? Holli grimaced. You
couldn't exactly look in the Yellow Pages for a magical sword
maker.
Derek looked thoughtful. “Hey, how about this? Maybe we
can look up that Wayland guy. He's a swordsmith, right! If
he can make a magical sword, then he should be able to fix
one, right?”
“Wayland. That's the smith you mentioned earlier, the one
who made some of the other swords you were considering as
possibilities?”
“Yeah, he made at least three of them. Siegfried's, you
know, the star of that Wagner ring thing, and for two other
guys I can’t remember. One of them was the King of England,
I think. I bet if anyone can fix it, he can. And he can't be all
that hard to find, I mean, what with your connections and
all.”
“If he is willing,” Khasar pointed out. “If he is still here on
this isle, we will find him, although considering he's almost
surely Fallen, there's no telling whose side he's on. But it’s

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worth a shot. As it stands, I don’t think we’re going to
accomplish much by throwing these at the Mad One.”
Holli had picked up two of the shards and was fitting them
together. It was hard for her to see what was so special about
Excalibur. Even to her angelic eyes, there was nothing to
indicate any supernatural power, what she held in her hands
seemed to be just two jagged pieces of charred metal. She
eyed them dubiously. Was the magic gone because the sword
was broken, or had it broken because it never had any to
begin with? “Do we have all the pieces?”
“Better fit them together to be sure, then slip them in
here,” Khasar said, bending over the Keeper and sliding the
empty scabbard off his belt. “I'd just as soon not let the Lady
of the Lake know what happened to her precious sword. We'll
just tell her we have what we came for and hope that she
doesn't ask too many questions.

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C H A P T E R 30

SEARCHING FOR MR. SMITH
ASK AND IT WILL BE GIVEN TO YOU; SEEK AND YOU WILL FIND;
KNOCK AND THE DOOR WILL BE OPENED TO YOU. FOR EVERYONE
WHO ASKS RECEIVES; HE WHO SEEKS FINDS; AND TO HIM WHO
KNOCKS, THE DOOR WILL BE OPENED.
— Matthew 7:7-8

D

o you think it's a bad omen, that the sword broke?”
Derek asked, completely out of the blue.
They were sitting on a hilltop, leaning comfortably back
against two thick-trunked birch trees while Khasar asked
questions of the pretty, dark-haired naiad of a bubbling little
brook that ran past an abandoned old smithy. This was their
third lead on John Wayland Smith in three days; as it turned
out, there were an awful lot of John Smiths in England and
not even the angels they'd previously quizzed had much idea
which one might be the semi-mythical smith, who apparently
wasn't advertising for business these days. Derek, however,
was still obsessing about the sword. By this point, Holli was
starting to wish he'd go back to talking about the crazy
murderer two cells down or deliver another monologue about
the evils of institutional food.
“I mean, that just doesn't happen. Ever. I've read a
million books about a hero finding a sword, and I've never
read one where he just accidentally breaks it. Sure, maybe
the bad guy takes it away, or maybe only the one true heir of
Isildur can wield it or whatever. But how can you break
freaking Excalibur? It's ridiculous. It's just not possible..”
“Would you shut up about that already? Anyhow, it would
take a lot more than a sword to make you a hero. You’re a
criminal, remember?”

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273

Derek scowled at her. “If I ever forget, I’m sure you’ll be
happy to remind me.”
“Whatever. Look, I’ll settle for a happy ending where we
don't all end up dead.”
“Along with half of Europe. Again. What is with these
Fallen idiots? It's like all they want to do is kill people.”
Holli bit her tongue and looked away. It was hard not to
come back with the obvious retort.
If anyone would
understand, you’d think it would be him. But he was
thankfully oblivious to her sudden silence.
“Anyhow, this whole thing isn't so bad for you, 'cause at
least you can see what's going on. If it wasn’t for that thing
under the lake, I could almost swear you're just pulling my
leg about all this.”
“You could see the werewolves just fine.”
“Oh, yeah.” He looked around the hillside and rubbed at
his chest. “That was a lot of fun too. Thanks for reminding
me. And then, I suppose there was the whole thing with the
demons and those monster wolf things they were riding. You
know, this world is a much, much weirder place than I'd ever
imagined. No one would ever believe us, assuming we survive
long enough to tell anyone.”
“My brother would. So'd Jami.”
“You're probably right.” He picked up a piece of grass and
bit off the white part on the bottom. “Hey, how did your Dad’s
chemo go?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t called them yet. I used up my
calling card last time.”
Derek frowned, then reached into his pocket and withdrew
a new card, still in the cellophane. “The phone’s in my
backpack over there. Someone should be up by now, it’s
eight-thirty their time.”
Holli wordlessly took the card. She didn’t want to call her
sister, it was so much easier to not think about what was
happening on the other side of the Atlantic, but she knew she
should. She found the pre-paid Motorola Derek had bought in
London and thumbed the power button. There was plenty of
charge, so she sighed and tore open the calling card,
scratching off the silver material that obscured the numeric
code.

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Jami answered on the third ring.
“Hello?”
“Anybody miss me yet?”
“Holli!” Jami sounded delighted despite the morning frog
in her throat. “No, Paulus and Aliel are still messing with
everybody’s heads. Sometimes they have me pretend to take
a nap and then walk around in your clothes, I guess that
makes it easier for them. I think Christopher is a little
suspicious sometimes, but he’s too busy with Rachel to stop
and think about it. ”
“Kinda handy being twins, huh?”
“Yeah, totally. What’s going on over there? Is it still as
crazy as you were saying?”
“Crazier. I probably shouldn’t say too much, but there’s a
lot more going on than I’d ever imagined. Christopher would
be having a ball with all this stuff.”
“Oh, that’s bad! I’m just glad you’ve got Khasar with you.
Scratch behind his ears for me.”
“When he’s a lion or when he’s not?”
“Ha ha.”
“Yeah, I’m glad he’s here. I just wish Aliel was too.”
“Hey, I have to tell you something. I broke up with Jason!”
“No! Are you okay? What happened? Did he cheat on
you?”
“No, it was nothing, really. I’m fine. It’s just, the whole
thing, it didn’t seem very important right now.” There was a
moment’s silence that was perfectly understood on both ends
of the line.
“Daddy’s not doing so well,” Jami finally broke the ice.
“His hair isn’t falling out, so he’s happy about that, but he’s
throwing up a lot and he’s losing weight because he can’t keep
anything down. Mom’s trying to be brave and hold it together
for our sake, but she cries whenever she’s alone.”
“Oh, Jami.”
“I know you wish you were here, but honestly, I’m glad
you’re not. It’s… it’s just not good. There’s nothing good
about it.”
Holli nodded. She could feel tears filling her eyes but she
didn’t know what to say.
“Tell Daddy I love him,” she whispered. “As me.”

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“Yeah, well…” Jami’s voice cracked, then she cleared her
throat and tried again in a firmer tone of voice. “I did. He
thought I was you. He told me that you’re his favorite,
Beautiful. Of course, he says that to all the girls.”
“Shut up, James!” Holli was crying now, but silently.
“He’s fighting as hard as he can, Holli. I don’t know if he
can beat it, the doctors won’t say, but I think he’ll make it at
least another month or two. Do you know when you can come
back?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know anything right now.”
“Yeah, well, I love you.”
Holli sniffed. “I know… I love you too.”
“Anyhow… someone’s coming! Gotta go, bye!”
Holli heard the sound of a door starting to open, then there
was a click and the line went dead. She stared at the phone
for a long moment, then wiped her eyes with her fingers and
returned the phone to the backpack. When she tried to return
the calling card to Derek, though, he refused to take it.
“Keep it, I bought it for you.”
“You did?”
“Who do I have to call, the warden? I don’t think so.”
“Oh.” Holli stared at him a moment, taken off guard.
“Um, thanks. Thanks a lot.”
“No problem. Hey, I was wondering... I mean, I couldn’t
help but notice… I mean, it sounded like your dad isn’t doing
so good. I thought maybe you’d want to pray for him.”
“What do you mean?”
“I want to pray for your dad to be healed, to be saved. We
can do it together, you and me. Right now. Two or more and
all that, right?”
Holli forced herself to look at the boy – at the man – who'd
murdered her boyfriend, her schoolmates and his own best
friend. He was a confessed killer, and he was holding out his
hand to her. His face wore the same arrogant, superior
expression that it always did, but she could see
uncharacteristic sympathy lurking behind the cold blue eyes.
Hatred for him and love for another fought a brief, but vicious
battle inside her breast; in the end it was love that won the
day. Holding on to her hate simply wasn’t worth the price of
Daddy’s life.

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“Yeah, that'd be okay,” she said quietly, taking his hand.
She didn't know how long Khasar had been standing
behind them, keeping a respectful silence, but when Holli
lifted her tear-stained face after the last amen, he cleared his
throat to draw their attention.
“Wayland was here, as recently as twenty years ago. The
angel of the brook said that he left for the city then, and she
gave me an address in Nottingham, of all places.”
“Like, the sheriff?”
“Yes.” Khasar shrugged. “It's not far from here, perhaps
an hour or so by car, but only fifteen minutes if we fly. Derek,
I suggest you stay here in this pleasant little place while we
check it out. You've got the cell phone, so if it turns out to be
anything significant, I'll call you and you can bring the car
down.”
Derek placed his hand behind his head and leaned back
against a good-sized birch tree. “That sounds like a good deal
to me. I don't see what this Smith guy would be doing in the
city anyhow.” Holli met his eyes, and although she didn't say
anything, a momentary smile pulled at the side of his mouth
and he nodded. “No problem, blondie.”
Nottingham wasn't at all what Holli was expecting. There
was no great forest in which you'd expect Robin Hood to be
hiding, although the castle was impressive and made for an
interesting sight as they flew up from the south. It certainly
didn't look like the sort of place you'd break in easily,
especially not with the two giant demons in dragon form who
patrolled the skies above it.
“What's going on inside there?” she asked Khasar.
“Who knows. It's just another Fallen stronghold, probably
has been for centuries. Now, let me see if I can get my
bearings. She said that Saint Mary's was off directly to the
east of the Castle, then we need to go a block or two south to
the canal, which has got to be right there.”
Khasar laughed at the surprised look on Holli's face.
“There's no spirits who gossip so much as water spirits, Holli.
They all roam about, and they're much more inquisitive than
dryads or the spirits of the mountains and meadows, who

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tend to be a little more self-centered. If you need to find out
something, always start with the naiads.”
“I'll keep that in mind.”
They landed without attracting too much attention, and
began to walk along Nottingham's attractive waterfront.
They passed a few stores and tourist traps, a doubtful-looking
Chinese restaurant and a large newspaper building as
Khasar peered at the street numbers, not all of which were
marked in obvious places. Finally, he stopped in front of a
large two-story building, with a tasteful green exterior.
Underneath the street address, gold letters spelled out THE
SMITHY. “I think this may be it,” Khasar declared.
“What is it, a clothing store?”
“I do hope not,” Khasar remarked. Holli had forced him to
take her shopping after she'd spent her second day in a row
wearing the same underwear. She might be able to walk
through walls now, but the archon had adamantly refused to
tell her how to make something from nothing. “Since we don't
have an afternoon to kill, let's hope for humanity's sake that
it isn't.”
“There’s more to clothes than robes and fur, you know. Not
everyone wants to dress like a caveman.”
“Ah, but would a caveman be such a gentleman?” He held
the door open for her.
“Why, it's like, a toy soldier's shop!” exclaimed Holli as she
walked in. “Christopher would love this place!”
It was like a jeweler’s showroom, except that in the place of
rings, necklaces and watches there were a thousand different
tiny sculptures of people and fantastical beings filling the
glass enclosures. Some of them were frightfully lifelike,
others were wild and imaginative creations that, until a few
weeks ago, Holli would have said were completely imaginary.
Now, who was to say that the little figurine with the oversized
green muscles and tusks didn't exist somewhere, although
judging by the enthusiasm with which he was twirling his axe
about, Holli hoped he didn't.
On a table in the center of the room, a spectacular battle
was taking place, with a wizard summoning skeletons from
the very ground of the battlefield, while tall elven archers on
a small hill rained arrows down upon a troop of wolf-riding

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goblins advancing upon their position. The arrows hung in
the air, seemingly suspended by magic, but when Holli looked
away for a second, she could have sworn that she saw a flicker
of movement out of the corner of her eye. It was a colorful
scene, as nearly every color in the rainbow was represented in
the brilliant pennants, tunics and robes of the combatants.
Filling the showcases that made a hollow square around
the room were Vikings and vampires, elves and elephant
riders, soldiers from every age and historical era from spearwielding Greeks to American soldiers firing machine guns.
There was a fantasy section that looked like Christopher's
Warhammer collection, all orcs and intricately painted
knights, and an entire set devoted to a Heaven and Hell
theme that made Khasar laugh out loud.
“I should buy one of these and give it to Prince Uriel. Look
at the nose he's put on Michael! But I don't think that Harab
Serap is anywhere nearly so fat as he makes him out to be
here. Oh, there's little doubt that this is our friend Wayland.”
“May I help you?” asked a dark-skinned girl with a pierced
nose and startling green eyes. She eyed Holli with what
appeared to be surprise, then shrugged and returned her
attention to Khasar, who was looking a little thinner and less
powerful than he usually did in human form. He was, she
realized with a silent laugh, trying unsuccessfully to look like
the kind of guy who'd be out shopping for miniatures. What
they really should have done was sent Derek in here. Of
course, they might never have gotten him out – he was almost
as bad as her brother when it came to game stuff.
“I'd like to speak with Mr. Smith, please.” Khasar had
changed the scabbard which contained Excalibur into a brown
leather briefcase. “It's rather urgent.”
“I'll see if he's available.” She glanced suspiciously at the
briefcase, then shrugged and walked towards a door at the
back. Holli stifled a laugh – as if anyone was going to do a
smash-and-grab just to grab some painted lead figurines!
“Now, that is interesting.” Khasar pointed to the battle,
and leaned over to examine it more closely. “I believe there's
a spell of some sort on these little characters. If you look
closely, you can see them move.”

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279

Holli joined him in peering at the battle. The tableau had
certainly changed since she'd looked at it before. The lead
goblin's mouth was open in a shout and a blue-feathered
arrow that had not been there previously now protruded from
the small round shield he bore. And whereas most of the
skeletons had been waist deep in the dirt, they were now only
buried to their knees as they rose from their violated graves.
“Christopher would give up his whole CD collection for
something like this.” Holli said. “I have to admit, it's kind of
cool.”
The girl with the pierced nose returned and shook her
head. “I'm sorry, but Mr. Smith isn't free at the moment.
Perhaps you could come back on Monday.”
Khasar smiled at her, like a wolf being rebuked by a lamb.
“Go back and tell Wayland that it's rather urgent.” He
gestured towards the miniature battlefield, and suddenly the
hostilities erupted at full speed. The charge of the goblins
slowed as the first round of arrows slammed home, then broke
in dismay as a second and a third flight brought down their
captain and their flag-bearer, among others.
Holli watched, fascinated, as a small troop of elven cavalry
rode out of the nearby woods, galloping madly in pursuit of
the fleeing goblins. They rode them down without mercy,
then swept behind the clumsy skeletons towards the purplerobe wizard who had summoned them. The mage lowered his
wand and a bright beam lanced out to drop one of the lead
elves from his saddle, but moments later, he fell before the
flashing swords of the elven riders. No sooner had he fallen
than the entire troop of skeletons collapsed to the earth, as
the evil spell that had summoned them died with its caster.
But just as the last undead warrior collapsed in a heap of
white bones, the entire tableau froze once more.
“I had thought that my wolfriders would have proved
themselves more doughty, but one underestimates the
lethality of Ulthuan's longbows at one's peril.” The speaker
was a large bearded man, broad-shouldered and muscular,
with a broad, ruddy face, black hair and friendly brown eyes.
He reminded Holli of a good-natured bear; she liked him at
once. “Siobhan, you may take the rest of the afternoon off,
and please turn the sign around as you leave. And, if you

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would be so kind, drop this off with the bartender at the Red
Crown.”
The big man, who Holli was quite sure was not a man at
all, passed her a catalog advertising the Smithy's wares. She
did not look at all pleased to be dismissed, but she nodded
obediently enough and if she closed the door a little harder
than was necessary, it did not seem to bother Mr. John
Wayland Smith in the least.
“You lead a dangerously open life.”
Smith waved off Khasar's criticism. “So have I always.
This town is full of spiritists, occultists, charlatans and
frauds.
And, of course, the occasional genuine article.
Siobhan thinks I am an ordinary man of extraordinary
talents, as have a hundred others before her. They are far too
self-absorbed to spare a thought for my true nature.”
“An interesting choice of occupation.”
Smith glanced fondly at the battlefield, littered with greenskinned corpses. “I have no urge to play at the game of Man.
This harmless dabbling is more to my liking, and I find the
sculpting most relaxing. There is little demand for swords in
this honor-less age.”
He startled Holli by reaching out and grabbing her face in
one large, horny hand. But he meant her no harm, instead,
he tilted his head back and forth, surveying her features.
“A lovely nose. The cheekbones could do with a bit more
projection, but yes, you'd do nicely. What do you say to a fairy
warrior princess? Or a sorceress, perhaps, although that
might be offensive to one of your loyalties.”
“I'm afraid we don't have the leisure to discuss your pasttime, Wayland.” Khasar placed the briefcase on the top of the
display and opened it. At the sight of the metal shards, the
supernatural smith drew his breath in sharply. It was
obvious that he recognized the sword – what was left of it –
immediately.
“This is Nimue's blade!” He glanced sharply at Khasar,
then Holli. “How did this happen? Where did you find it?”
“I want to know if you can fix it.”
The powerful angel frowned at the non-answer, but his
interest in the sword was too great to take offense. “A ritual,
perhaps... I can see there's human blood on it.” He picked up

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281

a piece and ran a finger lightly over the broken edge. “Yes,
there would be power in such a blade, though rather less than
one might suppose.”
“But can you fix it!” Holli demanded.
“My, for two Divine, you are impatient. I can effect some
repairs now, in a manner of speaking, but as for its peculiar
qualities, that will take some time.
How much time,
precisely, I cannot say. Here, come back into my office and I
will see what I can do.”
Without waiting for them, he walked towards the rear of
the room, still holding the bloody shard in his hand. Khasar
looked at Holli, grimaced, then snapped the briefcase shut
and followed. Holli, too, followed, through a short hallway
full of shelves and past what looked like a small warehouse
into a large, dark office. Swords were mounted on the side
walls, three on each side, and the far wall was taken up by
what looked like a huge metal oven of some kind. It was his
forge, she realized, although it was cold and dead at the
moment.
“Did you make those?” she asked, pointing to a wickedlooking black sword, longer than the others, with a pair of
jagged hilt guards long enough to be blades of their own.
“I did indeed. Do you like that one? Don't touch it! It's my
interpretation of Stormbringer, inspired by Brom, of course. I
was rather taken with Moorcock’s notion of a sword that
drank souls. My skill falls rather short of that, unfortunately,
but I daresay it wouldn't mind a taste of that which burns
inside that pretty little Aspect of yours.”
Indeed, the blade was rattling a little inside its metal
supports, quivering at Holli's nearness. She drew her hand
quickly away. What a horrible thing, it was a disgusting
demonic vampire of a sword. She was forced to revise her
initial impression of the friendly, but clearly Fallen smith.
“It takes a true artist to conceive a vision so appalling,”
Khasar commented mildly. He seemed to share Holli's dislike
of the black blade, but he opened the case again and laid it on
Wayland's desk. The smith smiled, unconcerned by their
failure to appreciate his dark artistry, and withdrew the
pieces one by one, placing them together like a toddler's first
jigsaw puzzle.

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“Excellent! I assumed there would be nothing missing, but
it costs little to be sure.” He lifted the hilt and placed the
broken edge in front of his face. Holli didn't realize what he
was doing at first, but then she saw he was breathing on it.
Why, she did not know, until she smelled something hot and
saw that the edge of the blade had turned orange. Without
putting it down, he picked up the joining piece and began to
breathe on it too, alternating back and forth between the two
until the edges of both looked as if they were about to start
dripping.
The burly smith winked at her, then turned and placed the
two overheated pieces on top of his ancient forge, joining them
together with care. Then he reached out and ran his hands
over them.
“No!” Holli cried in horror. But her fear was unfounded.
Wayland only chuckled and shook his head as he continued to
massage the near-molten metal with his hands, stroking out
its imperfections with his surprisingly gentle fingers.
“Never fear, little Guardian. 'Tis but a little trick of mine,
useful when time is pressing, not that I'd recommend it to our
mortal friends.”
Wayland repeated the process four more times, and in far
less time than Khasar had predicted, Excalibur was restored
to its former glory, and to the naked eye, at least, its jeweled
majesty was no less wonderful than before. Wayland picked
it up and brandished it. The blade lacked polish, but for all
that it was still a magnificent weapon, putting the mounted
swords on the walls to shame.
“It's a noble blade, my Divine friend. But better it had
stayed in the waters to which Sir Bedivere consigned it.
There is no future king, and no man shall wield this weapon
again.”
Khasar's eyes narrowed and he reached out for the sword.
“Give me that!” he ordered harshly. But Wayland only
smiled, and as if some unseen, unheard alarm had gone off,
Khasar abruptly whirled around to face the door to the
hallway through which they'd entered.
“What is it?” Holli cried, bewildered, and she had her
answer a moment later as a cold back wind rushed into the
room, swirling and shrieking with the howls of a thousand

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damned souls. Even in her half-angelic form, the twisting
black spirals froze her bones and forced her to clap her hands
over her ears. There were three of the evil whirlwinds, she
realized as they spun faster and faster, then suddenly, there
were three great demons standing before her, tall and
terrible, with not one, but two faces on each head, one in front
and one behind, and a pair of curved spiral horns protruding,
red and glistening, from each forehead.
They had no wings, but instead wore black cloaks beneath
which there were no bodies, only restless, coiling black smoke
that created the illusion of a muscular being. The cloaks were
clasped at the neck with iron in the shape of the Mad One's
mark, leaving her with no doubt of whom they served. They
were coldly haughty, and they radiated a frightening air of
daunting power.
“Stand back, archon,” the one in the middle warned
Khasar, who had stepped in front of Holli. “Our master seeks
no quarrel with the Divine, but even so you may not have the
sword. All that is of this realm belongs to him. Leave it with
us and leave our master's domain in peace, or interfere and
perish. It is all one to us.”
“You are his Eyes!” Khasar hissed.
“Indeed. And we have been watching you, archon, from
the moment you entered Britain. We did not understand your
purpose or we would have intervened much sooner. And see,
brothers, the wisdom of our patience is rewarded. Now, will
you stand aside, or no?”
Khasar hesitated for a moment, then nodded. These
creatures were strong and their pride was not without
foundation, they were no wretched Twice-Fallen. Even for
one as powerful as an archon, it would have been pointless to
resist. The cruel face smiled, not without contempt. “Whilst
it was surely not your purpose to serve the master, you have
served him well even so. Long has he wished to know the
whereabouts of this weapon; even more has he desired to see
it safely in his hands. You have his thanks, archon, and you
are free to leave his realm. I suggest you do not tarry
overlong, lest his grace dissipate with time.”
Khasar acknowledged the Eye with a stiff bow, and he did
not attempt to interfere as Wayland handed over Excalibur

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hilt-first to the two-faced being. For all its insubstantial
appearance, it had no trouble holding the heavy weapon in
one black-gloved hand. Holli felt terrible for Khasar, seeing
the helpless chagrin in his eyes. Breaking the sword had
been bad enough, but seeing it handed over to the enemy was
even worse. Now Prince Uriel's plan was in shambles, and
there was no choice except to let the Fallen fight out their
three-way war and hope that someone could defeat Diavelina.
She knew nothing of Diavelina, but she remembered the
dread army waiting on the coast and she knew that anything
worse than these horrid Eyes could only mean disaster.
The Eye turned to Wayland, who was leaning against his
forge with his arms folded and a faint smile on his bearded
face. “Your loyalty shall not be forgotten, nor shall it pass
unrewarded, swordmaster.”
“The only reward I ask is to be let alone. I want no part of
these internecine battles. And tell your master that he need
fear nothing from the blade.
Whatever magic it once
possessed is gone and is beyond even my skill to restore.”
The Eye inclined his head. “It shall be as you request.
Swordmaster. Archon. Angel.” Maomoondagh's terrible
servitor drew the sword into its whispy body and began to
spin, followed immediately by its two companions. A cold
chill again filled the room, and the howling rush of the
unnatural wind caused Holli's hair to flail about her face as
the evil whirlwinds roared out of The Smithy, taking with
them the precious sword as well as their last hope of
preventing the approaching tragedy. As the black spirals
vanished from her sight, she imagined she could see
Diavelina's storm clouds looming ominously over the island.

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C H A P T E R 31

THIEF OF FLAMES
I'M IN LOVE WITH THIS MALICIOUS INTENT
YOU'VE BEEN TAKEN BUT YOU DON'T KNOW IT YET
WHAT YOU WILL KNOW MUST NEVER LIVE TO BE FOUND
COS IT'S THE SUBJECT OF THE EYES OF THE DROWNED
— Ministry, (“New World Order”)

W

aving off Khasar’s bitter accusations, Wayland sat
down heavily on his leather-backed chair.
“You'd do well to get off your high horse, so sit down and
listen to me. Of course I gave them the sword. There was no
reason not to because it’s not the one you're looking for. I
don't know what put it into your head that Excalibur would
do the trick, but I can assure you that even if you hadn't
managed to break it – and I'm very curious to know how you
managed that, by the way – it would have been useless to
you.”
Khasar and Holli looked at each other, each afraid to first
give voice to the hope that was suddenly rising in their
hearts. “It wasn’t the right sword?”
“You mean, you didn't betray us? You're not on the Mad
One's side after all?”
John Smith laughed, his powerful chest heaving with his
amusement. “I'm on no one's side but my own, little girl.
That's why they kicked me out of Heaven in the first place.
And if I was too proud to bend my knee before the Creator,
how could I ever serve a jumped-up bit of flux and mirrors
like Maomoondagh or whatever it's calling itself these days?”
“Why did you call me that?”
“Little girl?” He smiled again as he reached out and
withdrew a fat, leather-bound book from one of his sagging
shelves.
“I've lived among humans for five hundred

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generations. I know a mortal lass when I see one, for all that
someone's done a clever job of making you appear to be
something you're not.”
Holli glanced at Khasar, who was more than a little
chagrined about the smith’s casual penetration of her
disguise. “Do you think the Eyes noticed too?” he asked
Wayland.
“No. They're nowhere nearly as observant as they'd like to
think they are. Why, it took them fifteen years to figure out
that I was here. And while I'm not entirely sure what you're
about, I assume that you don't have fifteen years to do it so
I'll just do you the favor of pointing out what you're looking
for.”
As he spoke, he was flipping through the fat volume, until
he stopped somewhere in the middle. He cleared his throat,
then read aloud to them in his bass voice that deepened a
little as he assumed a theatrical manner.
“Chrysaor it was hight
Chrysaor that all other swords excelled,
Well prov'd in that same day, when Iove those Gyants quelled.
For of most perfect metal it was made
Tempred with Adamant amongst the same,
And garnisht all with gold upon the blade
In goodly wise, whereof it tooke his name,
And was of no lesse vertue, then of fame.
For there no substance was so firme and hard,
But it would pierce or cleave, where so it came;
Ne any armour could his dint out ward,
But wheresoeuer it did light, it throughly shard.

“Now, there's a man who appreciates a good blade,” he said
admiringly when he had finished reading. He closed the book
with a resounding thump. “You won't see poetry like that
written about a rocket-propelled grenade launcher or a main
battle tank, now, you won’t.”
“What is that?” Holli asked. Khasar was looking pretty
blank himself.
“Oh, it's just a poem that a gentleman by the name of
Spenser wrote four hundred years ago. It's mostly an allegory
of sorts, but not entirely. You see, I happen to know that the

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sword exists, and I'm quite confident that it will suffice to
settle Maomoondagh, since they are of the same substance –
Chrysaor was never forged on this Earth. But the man got it
wrong, understandably enough. No metal of any kind went
into its making, for it was shaped from a single bone of
Valdalena, the Queen of Chaos, after she was struck down by
the Lord of Hosts. Seven swords were made, for the seven
great princes of the Sarim, but only Chrysaor, which belonged
to Prince Jehuel before his fall, ever came into this world.
Unless you count Abaddon's, that is, but I can't imagine he'd
be particularly amenable to a loan. Now, exactly how it got
here, I do not know, but I am quite sure that no angel can
hope to wield any of the seven blades, save one of the seven
princes themselves....”
He peered sharply at Khasar as his voice trailed off. “Was
that your plan? That this little one should take arms against
Maomoondagh? Are you mad yourself?”
“There is another, too. She has passed as his guardian.”
“For shame, archon! Even with the sword, no mortal could
defeat the Mad One.”
“The Fallen have made the mistake of underestimating
mortal men before. Nor are the seven blades forbidden to
Man as they are to angelkin.”
“Bah,” Wayland waved him off. “It's not forbidden for the
girl to set off an atomic bomb in her hand either, but I
wouldn't expect her to survive the experience. I see your
logic, but it is a fool’s hope.”
“A fool's hope is a hope still. And in any case, it is of no
concern of yours. Now, tell me where we can find this
Chrysaor.”
“I do not know.” The big smith spread his powerful hands
in admission of his ignorance. “I am not sure that I would tell
you even if I did, but I tell you the truth. I do not know and I
have never known. Very much to my regret, of course, but I
have never even laid eyes on it. Once, I thought to look for it,
to see if I might hope to unlock its secrets, but it had already
disappeared beneath the sands of time by then. It could be
anywhere, if it is truly on this Earth.”
Khasar did not seem put out by Wayland's answer. “I see.
I thank you, all the same, Smith, for your advice and for

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leaving the Eyes in ignorance as well. Perhaps little hope
remains, but for one dreadful moment there, I thought it
extinguished altogether.”
“Think nothing of it.” The bear-like shoulders shrugged,
then the big Fallen angel turned to Holli and smiled. “I like a
brave heart, and if this cold-hearted archon is going to throw
you in the deep end, then you'll need something to help you
stay afloat. This might serve you a little better where you're
going, and after all, every hero needs a famous blade.
Especially if she is a heroine.”
He reached up and withdrew the wicked black sword from
its rest, and as he did so, the blade began to quiver again.
Holli thought she could even hear a quiet, high-pitched
moaning, as if the sword was too restless to remain silent.
“The Beast is always hungry,” said Wayland. “And so is
this sword, but keep her safely scabbarded away and you need
not fear her cravings. I made her to look like Stormbringer,
but she is no thief of souls, so she needs a different name.
Call her Flamestealer.”
Holli didn't want to accept the nasty-looking thing,
shaking and whining like a long, sharp leech, but she sensed
that the big smith meant well. She glanced at Khasar, but he
appeared to be noncommital, so she nodded.
“Thank you. Would you mind, um, putting it in something
for me?”
“Her. A sword has a life of its own. Especially my swords.”
The smith smiled, but for the first time since she'd met him,
his eyes looked old. Very, very old. “Be careful, little one.
Even a heart of a lion will not save you when the dark gods
are warring and their legions turn your world into a
battlefield beneath their feet.”
“God can,” Holli replied with more certainty than she felt.
“Then may He keep you safe, little one, since his angels
seem determined to do the opposite.”
Holli was feeling hungry, so once outside the Smithy, she
walked along the canal until she found a little pub while
Khasar went to find a telephone and call Derek. She was
halfway through her tuna sandwich when the archon entered,
and she smiled as two women at a table near the door

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whispered and giggled at the sight of his handsome face. If
only they had any idea!
“Derek will meet us in London,” he told her. “I told him
that we had the wrong sword; I didn't bother saying anything
about our unexpected visitors, though.”
“What's the point. He doesn't need to know and it would
only freak him out.” She wiped at her mouth with a paper
napkin and put down her sandwich. “Khasar, do you know
what you're doing? Honestly? Suppose Excalibur had been
the right sword. Would you have let me use it, knowing it
might kill Derek? Or me?”
“Of course not.” Khasar looked pained at the accusation.
“I never thought for a moment that using the sword could
harm either one of you, or any mortal, for that matter.
Arthur wasn't harmed by it, after all.”
“Oh, yeah. I never thought of that. But if no mortal can
use the sword safely , then what do we do?”
“If that’s really true, and we don’t know that it is, then
that still leaves our missing angel prince. Puck claimed that
he knew where Jehuel was, or that he could find him,
anyhow, but I have no idea where Puck is now, even if I
thought we could trust him.”
What a mess. Holli could not shake the sight of that huge
army of darkness lurking on the other side of the Channel,
just waiting for the order from Diavelina to swarm across the
waters and sweep across England like a monstrous black tidal
wave. Evil, evil, evil, on every side, she was surrounded by
evil, right down to the second sword she was wearing,
invisibly strapped to her belt. Two swords, and she didn't
even know how to use one!
“Khase, how do you deal with it?” she asked the archon.
“Don't you get worn down by seeing all this darkness
everywhere? How do you not get totally depressed all the
time?”
“It's not so bad when you see through the charade, my
dear. The mortal veil is just that, a veil. You're seeing
through it now, but you can't possibly digest all the
implications in a few weeks. I don't think any human could,
even if given years to do so. This is the time of the dark. One
day, and that day is sooner now than it has ever been before,

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both the dark and time itself will end. You, of all people,
should understand a little of that. Do you remember the joy
after Rahab was broken?”
“Only for the faithful,” Holli whispered, her vision
blurring. “Not for everyone.”
Khasar was silent for a long moment. Then, at last, he
nodded. “No, not for everyone. And that is why we fight
Diavelina, why we fight the shadow. Not to win, but to buy
time. Every day, every hour that we delay the slayers and we
hold back the shadow, we give the lost sheep that much more
time to repent and return to the shepherd. Even as the
monsters wax great, how can I despair, when every minute
purchased may mean one more lost one returned to the flock.
Holding back the waters may have gained Canute nothing,
but every single moment counts for us.”
Holli nodded, wiping at her eyes, then stared at the
quivering circle that one wayward tear had left on the plasticcoated table. Holding back the waters. Water. Monsters.
Fight. Water. Monster. Fight. Fight. Sword. Water.
Monster. Sword.
“I think maybe I know where that sword is hidden,” she
said slowly. Khasar looked first skeptical, then increasingly
astonished as she shared her thoughts with him. Then,
without saying a word, he rushed outside, presumably to
make another phone call to Derek.
It wasn't long before the archon rushed back in. “He's
turned the car around, and we'll find him on the M6. It's a
good thing you insisted on that little red convertible, it should
stand out nicely when we're looking for it. Come on, let's go.”
“You can't just, like, zoom in on the cell phone or
something? I thought it had a GPS built in.” Holli stuffed the
paper remains of her lunch into the orange mouth of the trash
can and followed him outside.
“Do I look like a GPS receiver? I know a few electronic
virtuosos; I even saw one archangel draw a picture over a fax
line once on a dare, but my talents are sadly limited in that
regard.”
He opened his mouth and a noise that sounded like a
computer dialing a telephone came out. It sounded right to
Holli, but the archon shook his head.

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“The sound isn't the problem, it's the coding. There's so
many possibilities and it's too tricky to pick out the right one.”
They turned a corner into an alleyway, shifted into tertius
and leaped into the air. In a matter of minutes, Nottingham
and its castle were disappearing into the west behind them.
Khasar was flying fast, so fast that Holli could barely keep up
with him. They sped over the Midlands, only about 100 feet
above the ground, flashing past green hills and meadows
divided by knee-high stone walls, past half-abandoned
villages and winding country roads barely wide enough for
two cars. The Cotswolds forced them to climb higher into the
sky, and Khasar gradually slowed his breakneck pace as they
approached the outskirts of Oxford, not wishing to draw
undue attention from the larger congregation of spirits there.
As Divine angels – Khasar now appeared to be an ordinary
Guardian – they were for the most part ignored by the Fallen
border guards, although Holli had seen more than one turn
its ugly, horned head in curious wonder as they zoomed by
overhead.
Just as they were nearly past what looked like the heart of
Oxford, a pair of birdlike demons swooped down from above
and behind them. Only their warlike screeches alerted
Khasar, who shoved Holli hard, causing her to lose control of
her wings as she tumbled awkwardly to the side. The
outstretched claws of the first demonic diver barely missed
her, the second shrieked in pain as Khasar smoothly rolled
and drew his blade at the same time and the fiery sword
separated his attacker's legs from its body as it plunged past.
“What did you do that for!” shouted the demon's outraged
companion. “We were just playing.”
Khasar transformed instantly into an image of a ramhorned Hell baron. “Play somewhere else!” he roared in a
deep, guttural voice that sounded like it came from the Abyss.
Holli, having drawn her own sword after righting herself, had
to put a hand over her mouth as the shocked demon's jaw
dropped open and it turned and fled.
“That should teach him a lesson,” he said. He winked at
her before transforming back and sheathing his sword.

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“You’d think so,” Holli agreed, smiling affectionately back
at him. But she did find herself glancing back over her
shoulder from time to time nevertheless.
Thirty minutes later they reached the M1, and Khasar led
her lower so they could get a better view of the cars passing
beneath them. They stopped and hovered over the motorway,
letting the cars flash past them as they waited for a sight of
the familiar little convertible.
“Are you sure he's not up ahead of us already?” For a
moment, Holli thought she'd spotted Derek, but the car
turned out to be a red Lotus at least twenty years newer than
their MGB. “How long do you want to wait before you’re sure
we missed him? We'll have to find a phone to call him and
find a place to meet.”
“No, he's not here yet,” Khasar explained. “I know where
he was when he left London, and unless he drove faster than
110 kilometers an hour, he can't have reached here yet. Let’s
give him another ten minutes, and then we'll start drifting
south.”
“But what if he did drive that fast? Didn’t you tell him to
hurry?”
“If he tried to drive faster than that, it'll be easy to find
him. He'll be on the side of the road somewhere south of here
– and that's if he's lucky. That little toy is more of a
collector's item than a proper car. It won't go faster than
ninety without shaking itself to pieces.”
Now that he mentioned it, Holli did remember that the MG
did tend to vibrate a little when they got going too fast,
especially around corners. But it was cute.
“There she blows!” Khasar called out, interrupting her
thoughts as he pointed at the red convertible darting in and
out of traffic. Without waiting for her, he furled his wings
and dropped toward the car like a hawk falling on its prey. At
the last moment, he did a half-somersault, spread his wings
and sat lightly on the black fake-leather of the stowed roof.
He looked back up and her and spread his hands, as if to say,
see how easy that was?
Right. Holli was glad she could stay in quintus, that way
even if she messed up she wouldn't hurt herself. Instead of
pulling her wings in and diving, she simply flew lower and

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lower, approaching the car slowly from behind. As she flew
just a foot or two over the empty passenger's seat, Khasar
reached up and supported her from behind as she
simultaneously went down to septus, grabbed the windshield
screen and pulled her legs forward into the surprisingly long
leg space provided by the little car.
“Whoa!” shouted Derek and the MG lurched to the left,
nearly sending Khasar flying off his precarious seat. There
was a frightening moment as Holli thought Derek might lose
control of the little convertible altogether, but he managed to
straighten it out after a moment or two of white-knuckled
concentration. “Could you please let me know before you
appear out of thin air like that?”
“Sorry,” Holli apologized sincerely. Now that her heart
wasn't in her mouth, it was beating like a bass drum. “I was
all nervous about hitting a moving target, and I totally forgot
you didn't know we were here.”
“My bad,” Khasar declared. “I should have thought of that.
But that was a nice save, Derek. Well done, old chap.”
“Thanks,” Derek said, still put out judging by the sour look
on his face. “So, what's the rush? I assume this Smith guy
fixed the sword or something? That was fast. I didn’t expect
to hear from you so soon.”
“As it turns out, we didn't have the right sword in the first
place.” Derek looked back at Khasar with an expression of
surprise on his face. “It seems that Excalibur was simply a
run-of-the-mill magic sword, which turned out to be a good
thing since a few of the Mad One's friends showed up and
took it from us.”
“Dang! Okay, so, what's the hurry, then? I thought we
were driving north to, like, take this guy out!”
“No, in the first place, he's still in London. And in the
second place, we don't have the sword anymore, and then, it
wasn't the right one anyhow. But after I called you, Holli had
a brilliant inspiration... you tell him, Holli.”
Derek looked sharply at her and Holli couldn't help
shrinking back from him. “What?” she asked defensively.
“You guys have me driving up here like a maniac because
you had an idea? Are you freaking nuts?”

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Holli felt a little hurt. It was a good idea! Khasar even
said so. And how were they supposed to see if she was right
or not if they didn't go see? She glared back and him and
didn't say anything. Derek rolled his eyes.
“Oh, so now what, you're not going to tell me? Great, that
makes a lot of sense. Well, fine, have it your way. But maybe
you want to at least tell me where we're going.”
Holli stared primly ahead. Finally, Khasar broke what
would have been silence if the wind rushing past them wasn't
so noisy. “Just keep going north until you hit the M6 to
Birmingham. Then A74 to Glasgow.”
“All the way north... to Scotland? Okay, whatever.” Derek
didn't say anything, he simply drove in silence, until after
changing lanes to get out of the way of a speeding Mercedes,
he looked over at Holli and nodded at her with a look of
newfound respect. “So, Loch Ness, huh? Khasar's right,
blondie. That is brilliant. I should have thought of that.”
Holli didn't feel that Derek had really been punished
sufficiently for his uncalled-for jerkiness, but she was too
excited about the possibilities to maintain the silent
treatment any longer. “You could apologize.”
“Fine. I'm sorry. It's a great idea, seriously. What made
you think of it?”
“Khasar said something about somebody fighting the
water, and I was just thinking about all the monsters that we
saw when we were over the Channel, you know, which is
water, after all, and something just clicked - “
“Wait, fighting the water?”
“The legend of King Canute,” Khasar explained helpfully.
“Holding back the tide... it's really a metaphor for English
fears of foreign invasion, of course, wrapped in a cautionary
tale of overweening royal arrogance….”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever. So, anyway, Holli, you were
saying?”
“Well, I was just thinking that if there was the one sword
under the water, and it had a keeper, then maybe that would
explain what the Loch Ness monster was doing there all this
time. Maybe it's, like, guarding something. And what would
be more important than this sword?”

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“I don't know, unless the Holy Grail is down there or
something like that. But we've been running all over the
south of England without finding it, so if nothing else it's
probably worth the trip to check it out.”
They drove through the rest of the afternoon, stopping only
for gas and to put the convertible's top up as the sun began to
go down and the wind grew increasingly cold. They stopped
for dinner in a town called Cumbernauld; Derek was limping
after almost six hours of keeping the gas pedal pressed to the
floor. After a miserable dinner of hard sausage and dry
bread, and they got back on the road again, Holli herself was
beginning to wish that they'd rented a nice comfortable Ford
Focus instead of the MG, as the little car's feeble heater
barely took the edge off the falling night's chill.
“You don't need to put up with this, just do that angel
thing you do and warm yourself up.
Your lips were
practically blue when we stopped.”
“It's not fair for you.”
“Lots of things aren't fair, blondie. Are you going to try to
make your legs cramp too?”
Derek smiled at her
unexpectedly. “Hey, I appreciate the team spirit and all. But
seriously, just make yourself comfortable and go to sleep, if
you can. One of us might as well be fresh when we get there.
Hey, Khasar?”
“Yo!”
“How much longer?”
The archon was hunched over between the battery cover
and the roof, although he'd unzipped the plastic rear window
so he could sit up straight when he wanted. He peered at the
directions that Derek had downloaded onto the Palm Pilot.
“Looks like another four hours or so. It's not that far – we
could get there in an hour flying – but the roads are pretty
twisty. We should get into Drumnadrochit right around
midnight.”
“So, why don't we fly?” Holli asked. “Derek could ride on
your back again, like we did at the Channel.”
“I'd just as soon not risk attracting anyone’s attention.
And if the sword is there, the very last thing we want to do is
give those black spirals a reason to take a closer look at us. If
they were tracking us the way they said they were, then they

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already know that I took you to the tourist sites. And what's
more natural than two kids wanting to see the Loch Ness
monster?”
“You know, if there really is a monster and it turns out
she's the keeper, I'm kind of hoping we don't see her,” Derek
said. Holli couldn't agree more.
She was sleeping soundly when Derek stopped the car in
front of a three-story building set into the side of a hill. A
rude shaking of her left shoulder jerked her unwillingly from
the depths of a forgotten, but pleasant dream, and she
groaned as her body reminded her that she'd fallen asleep in
an uncomfortable position.
“Are we there, yet?” she asked, blinking her eyes against
the light coming out of the windows. Except for two of the
upstairs windows, most of them were dark, but the lobby still
appeared to be lit. “Sewerpost House?”
“Severpost. It was this or the Loch Ness House, and I
figured that would be too cheesy for words,” Derek said. “I
had this picture of bedsheets with monsters on it.”
“I don't think you need have any fear of that here,” said
Khasar,” peering inside the lobby as he opened the MG's little
trunk. “You don't see a pink hotel very often, do you?” It
wasn't really pink, though, more of a salmon, thought Holli,
although it was hard to be sure in the darkness. She kind of
liked the way the bay windows hung over the front door. She
hadn't expected this sort of mini-mansion so far out in the
wilds of Scotland, not that she'd seen a whole lot of it since
they'd left Cumberwauld.
And if the outside of Severpost House was nice, the interior
was even more delightful than she'd imagined. The walls,
like the exterior, were salmon, with white moldings, and a
little fireplace crackling merrily on the far side of the room.
Then she frowned. There was no one at the desk, but two
men were sitting in the overstuffed chairs positioned near the
fireplace. They were talking quietly and Holli paid them no
attention until the man seated on the right met her eyes and
smiled knowingly. Too knowingly.
“It's about time you got here!” he called unexpectedly. He
looked human, about as human as you could expect to find in

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England, but Holli was suddenly very sure that he was
nothing of the sort.
“Khasar, who's that?” she whispered. “Do you know him?”
“I'm afraid I do,” he answered. “I know him by many
names, but the only one that you have probably heard is
Puck.”

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C H A P T E R 32

FORGOTTEN WATERS
I PRAY HIM, SEND A SUDDEN ANGEL DOWN
TO SEIZE ME BY THE HAIR AND BEAR ME FAR,
AND FLING ME DEEP IN THAT FORGOTTEN MERE,
AMONG THE TUMBLED FRAGMENTS OF THE HILLS.
— Alfred, Lord Tennyson, Launcelot and Elaine

W

ell-met, my dear archon.” The treacherous, or just
possibly not-so-treacherous angel – Holli no longer
knew what to think – smiled as he ushered them to an
adjoined pair of rooms he'd already arranged for them. “By
the last worm-ridden plank of Noah's precious tub, what took
you so long? We've done all the pony rides, trod all the paths
worth treading and daresay I've improved my handicap by a
good dozen strokes over the last two weeks. I was perilously
close to taking up bridge – another two days and I fear I
would have given in to Miss Polly's blandishments.”
Puck glanced at Derek. “Miss Polly being the proprietress,
you understand. Lovely woman, but shockingly obsessive
about card games. My advice is to flee if you see her
approaching with anything remotely resembling a deck of
cards in her hands.”
“How did you know we'd come here?” Derek demanded.
“Where else would you go? Once your companion figured
out where the sword was, and did I mention what a dreary
long while that took?
Why, I couldn't imagine that the
archon would take his mortal pets anywhere but here! And
even if I was wrong, I was hardly likely to miss you cruising
about the lake and annoying its most famous resident.”
“Am I correct in assuming that this is your long-lost liege?”
Khasar ignored Puck's prattle and addressed the other man, a
older, bearded gentleman who appeared to be human, except

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for his eyes. They were like calm pools of ancient wisdom,
albeit pools tainted by something that seethed angrily deep
beneath the surface.
“It is better if my name remains unspoken,” said the other,
who Holli belatedly realized must be the mysterious Oberon
for whom they'd been going to all this trouble. He didn't look
like anyone special, but by now she'd learned that looks could
be even more misleading in the angelic world than in the
human one. “Archon, please accept my apology for any
deception in which my loyal servant has perpetrated on you.
The situation being what it is, I believe our separate interests
lie in parallel... for now.”
“For now,” Khasar agreed. He still looked annoyed,
though. “I find it very difficult to believe that you managed to
play a member of the Sarim for a fool.”
“Prince Uriel?” Puck's face betrayed astonishment. “He's
hardly a fool. And if you think about it, he's been doing
precisely that to a former member of that august institution
with some degree of regularity for quite a long time now. But
let bygones be bygones, that's what I always say.”
“I imagine you say it a lot,” Khasar said dryly, but even
though he shook his head, Holli could see his tension
evaporating. “Did you know the sword was here from the
beginning? Why didn't you tell me? And why did you wait for
us?”
“I didn't,” Puck answered. “At least, I had no intention of
doing so. And while I'm not entirely sure that the sword
under the lake is the correct one, I am sure of one thing.
There is a sword there, and the monster guarding it has no
intention of letting any angel walk off with it. We all tried,
and dear old Nessie remained completely unmoved by even
our most passionate appeals.”
Derek turned to her and silently held up a hand. Without
saying a word, Holli slapped it and accepted the tacit
compliment. It was nice to be proved right, although Puck's
unexpected appearance and the fact that he'd figured it out a
lot faster than her did burn her a little bit. Of course, he had
the advantage of about a million years on her, so, if you took
that into account, she'd actually done pretty darn well.
“Who is we?” Khasar asked.

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“An old friend of mine, by the name of Melusine, for one.
And for the other, it's someone who should prove very useful
if our mortal friends here should manage to sweet-talk the
sword from that unreasonable miser of a monster down there.
The Lord of the Sword his own bad self, Prince Jehuel,
formerly of the Sarim, speak of the devil.”
“Did you just say Melusine?” Holli demanded. She wasn't
sure she'd heard the demon correctly. “I think I've heard that
name before.”
“It wouldn't surprise me, considering what she's told me
about you. She's your brother's Temptress. Actually, now
that I come to think of it, Jehuel has been yours for the past
few months. But don't hold it against him. He's incredibly
bad at it and in fact, if you've been feeling a little more saintly
of late, that's probably why. That royal wretch couldn't tempt
a starving dog to eat a pound of freshly ground hamburger!”
Holli was so stunned, she had no idea what to say. And
then, she could feel herself blushing. Imagine what these
demons knew about her! Her Tempter had to know her most
secret thoughts, he must even know – no, it was too
embarrassing to even think about it! How could she possibly
look them in the eye? Puck was grinning at her; the
amusement in his eyes only made her blush more.
Khasar was surprised at the news too, although he was
considerably less distressed. “Prince Jehuel has been a
Tempter – her Tempter? You're kidding me! No wonder I
couldn't find him. But why? And how?”
“Melusine iced his predecessor – she can be a difficult
minx, believe you me - and she gave him a battlefield
promotion of sorts. Lest you think it was some sort of
brilliantly nefarious plan ala the purloined letter, rest
assured, it was mere happenstance. In fact, if I understand
the story properly, his principality consisted of a single tree
when she first came across him.” The demon laughed out
loud. “Once you get a chance to know our prince, you'll see
why that's so funny.”
“Perhaps, although I rather doubt we share a taste in
humor. But I must tell you, Puck, the Mad One's Eyes have
been at our heels for the last month. We found Excalibur,
thinking it was the sword for which we searched.

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Fortunately, Wayland informed us that we'd been mistaken
after three black spirals took it from us.”
“Never worry about them, archon. They've been combing
all of England for weeks looking for your humble servant, not
to mention my friend here. That was why I dared not contact
you. But leave them to me. What is of more concern is how to
get these young mortals past that ill-tempered beast in the
loch.” He nodded at Holli. “Her power-up is a nice touch, but
it won't avail us much in the circumstances. If angels could
get past her, Jehuel would have sheathed that sword in the
usurper's chest weeks ago. Believe me , we haven't been
sitting around here for our health’s sake.”
Derek was sitting on a chair poring over a map of Loch
Ness. At Puck's mention of the monster, he spoke up. “That
lake is pretty big, did you find the sword just swimming
around in there?”
“My, a dedicated young fellow, aren't you,” Puck walked
over to the map and placed his finger on a little black icon.
“There's an old castle right there, less than two miles away.
In the old bailey, there's some steps that lead to an
underground passageway that leads beneath the loch. I'm
pretty sure that's how the sword was brought there by
mortals in the first place.”
“But there's a problem, obviously, or you'd just have us
walk there.”
Puck nodded. “Indeed, there is a challenge that requires
surmounting. At some point in the past, the tunnel collapsed,
leaving most of it under water, or if you prefer, nonexistent.
There appears to be a door of sorts, beyond which lies the
sword, so that may well be dry but I can't really say. Nessie
took exception to my having a closer look, unfortunately. To
be specific, she ripped my arm off, the little pest.”
Holli gasped, horrified, but Puck only smiled and flexed his
fingers on both hands. “Oh, but we are a hardy sort, we
angels. Don't trouble your pretty little head over the cruelty
of my lot, darling. I am the perfect heroic stoic, or do I have
that the wrong way round?”
“How can a monster like that mess with demons like you?”
Derek looked suspicious, and he jerked his thumb at Khasar.
“He beat down a whole pack of werewolves by himself. How is

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this friend of yours supposed to deal with the big bad witch
king if the two of you can't even deal with a single monster
without help?”
Puck smiled thinly, and his eyes flared red. How had
Khasar ever been fooled into thinking this evil spirit had
repented of his no doubt countless sins, Holli wondered. “It is
amazing, human child, but I vow you tempt me into giving
you the opportunity to discover that for yourself. But no, I
remain strong and pure for the noble, or more precisely, regal,
cause. As to the monster, Nessie is no mere child of the
Twice-Fallen, she is instead a naiad of sorts, though her mind
now is little more than a beast's. Unfortunately, it takes no
great genius to defend one's environs; fish and insects do as
much.”
As they pondered that, the false angel waved a hand. “And
yet, I forgive you. See, archon, the good influence you have on
me! The children are tired and they must sleep, for we have a
big day tomorrow.”
Holli didn't like the mocking curl of his smile, nor the
triumphant look in his eyes.
Neither did Khasar, for the
archon's lips turned white as he pressed them together,
saying nothing as Puck and his demonic liege lord exited the
room.
Miss Polly's passion may have been bridge, but she served
them what Holli and Derek had learned by now was an
uncommonly decent breakfast at an incredibly indecent hour.
Sausages and eggs, followed by toast and marmalade, as well
as sardines which both of them quietly pushed to one side,
unsampled. There was even orange juice, although it was a
pale, almost tasteless liquid that was unworthy of the name.
But at least they would face the day with a full tummy, Holli
thought, feeling stuffed to the gills, and the sensation took a
little of the edge off her nerves.
The merest glimmer of sunlight had not yet begun to
pierce the gloom of the early morning. The darkness cast a
solemn shadow over their undertaking, and Holli felt as if she
were girding for battle as she slipped her feet into the hiking
boots that either Khasar or Puck had magically obtained for
her. Underneath her sweater and jeans she wore a sports bra

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and running shorts just in case she had to ditch the angel
mode and swim like a normal human. She didn't know what
would happen if Nessie ripped off her arm, in either form, and
she absolutely didn't want to find out. Truth be told, though,
she wasn't keen on seeing just how cold the lake was either.
She'd never realized Scotland was so far north; even
Minnesota had warmer summers.
Urquhart Castle was actually a little closer than Puck had
told them, and it took less than an hour for them to hike there
over the grassy hills. The first rose-gold rays were licking at
the edges of the horizon when they reached the crest of the
last hill and caught their first glimpse of the castle sprawled
out across the green promontory, looming majestically over
the lake. It wasn't as massive as some of the medieval
fortresses they'd seen, but it was an impressive sight
nonetheless.
The castle was a series of half-crumbled old structures,
though rather more solid than Holli had been expecting, and
was surrounded on three sides by the dark waters of Loch
Ness. As they followed the three angels across the old
drawbridge it occurred to Holli that the tall tower on their
left, perched nearly on the water's edge, would have been a
pretty good place from which to keep an eye on everything
nearby. Like the sword and its hiding place? Maybe.
“You know they're just waiting for the right moment, and
then they'll stab us in the back and take Chrysaor,” Derek
hissed in her ear. “Why are we going along with them?”
Holli shrugged. This quest was starting to make less and
less sense the further they went, not that it had ever made
much sense from the start. “Weren't there supposed to be
those two other angels, or demons, rather?”
“Yeah, what happened to them?”
They had their answer soon enough, as a hatefully
gorgeous demon-girl with a short red pageboy sashayed her
way down the bricked path from the watchtower, followed by
a tall spirit who was wearing a ridiculous gold lame cape like
he was about to go onstage or something. Melusine, no doubt,
and Prince Jehuel. But he looked more like a magician than
the Lord of the Sword.

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“Who dresses him, Prince?” Derek whispered. “No wonder
the doves were crying!” Despite herself, Holli giggled. But
she stopped giggling fast when the devil-girl parked herself in
Holli's face and wrinkled her lip scornfully.
“Well, this is seriously irregular. Robin, do correct me if
I'm wrong, but isn't mixing mortal blood and angel fire
generally considered grounds for a good swift kick out of
Heaven's good graces?” She met Holli's eyes, and Holli
realized that this was one evil that was easy to hate. “Oh,
don't give me that, little girl. I know everything – and I do
mean everything – about you and the rest of your wretched
family!”
Hate, hate, hate, hate, hate! Holli thought a vicious string
of not very nice words at her. Who did this demon-bitch think
she was?
“There's no time for this,” Puck broke in as Melusine began
to open her mouth. “As much as I'd like to indulge your little
love-fest, we have common interests at stake at the moment
and I'd very much like to get on with it before the castle staff
shows up and wonders what this boy is doing wandering
about the premises. Khasar, this is the angel Melusine and
Prince Jehuel, once of the Sarim and one-time Prince Regent
of Rahab. Melusine, Prince, the archon Khasarotjofee and his
mortal proteges, Holli and Derek. And as you may note, Mel,
shadowstalkers are a little more wont to stretch their
interpretation rules than their less creative brethren, which
may prove to be quite handy here. Follow me.”
Holli saw that Khasar's eyes had narrowed when Puck
mentioned shadowstalkers, but when the archon noticed her
looking at him, he shrugged and urged her to follow the
diminutive Fallen. They climbed the short distance to the
tower and entered it, then climbed several flights of stairs
until they reached the top.
From there, they had a
spectacular view of the loch, as the slowly rising sun began to
illuminate the ripples on the quiet water.
“The chamber of the sword is only about three hundred
yards out from the shore,” Puck pointed to the middle of the
lake. “There used to be an sub-aquatic tunnel leading out to
it, but it collapsed a long time ago, either right after the
sword was put there, or when the castle was blown up in

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1692. Khasar, what you and Melusine and I are going to do is
to dive into the water off the top of the Great Hall over there,
on the right, and splash around enough to attract Nessie's
attention. We'll lead her off to the north, at which point the
Prince and the once and future Faery King will resurrect the
tunnel in order for the children to run through and grab the
sword.”
“Forget it,” Khasar replied instantly. “You expect me to
leave the two of them with two Fallen princes? You may hold
me in contempt, having fooled me once, renegade, but do not
think to do it again. We Divine are not so stupid as you think
us.”
“Suit yourself,” Puck shrugged. “Of course, I'm assuming
that you've got the firepower to blow through hundreds of
tons of rock, and enough muscle to hold back thousands of
tons of displaced water.”
His eyes glinted as he showed his teeth to Khasar, who
said nothing. “I didn't think so.”
“Can you really do that?” Holli asked the Faery King.
Oberon nodded thoughtfully and stroked his short beard.
“This was never my demesne, but it is not so far from Albion.
Now that I am freed of my bonds, I can draw upon the very
power of the earth and water itself. However, I must caution
you that an effort of this magnitude will never pass
unnoticed. You must make all haste in recovering the sword,
and tarry not in returning it to its master.”
Oberon gestured towards Prince Jehuel, who smiled primly
and looked pleased, although he seemed to be avoiding Holli's
eyes. I wonder what's up with him, she thought, as he
glanced at her then looked away again.
“Will they come? Are you sure they will notice us?”
Khasar was looking frustrated, but what choice did he have?
Someone had to keep the monster busy, and both Oberon and
Jehuel were needed elsewhere.
“On wings of eagles, one might say, if eagles were very
large demons capable of out-flying a jet fighter.” Puck shook
his head. “Nice try, archon, but the king does not exaggerate.
When he draws upon the land, even mortals will know
something is afoot. The Mad One and his warriors will be
here within minutes.”

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“So, we have no chance even if we have the sword?” Derek
cried. “There's five of you, plus Holli is six, and I don't count
because I can't even see what's going on! If he shows up with
an army, what will you do?”
“Never fear, child,” Puck said, reaching up to pat Derek on
the head. Holli flinched, as the anger in Derek's eyes flared
up so fast that she thought he was going to punch the
irritating demon. “We have a surprise awaiting him as well.
Just run along now, fetch that sword, and I'll take care of
everything.”
I just bet you will, Holli thought, glaring at the evil little
being. Why was Khasar just going along with him? Why?
But with no clue of what she could possibly do about
anything, she reluctantly followed Derek back down the
crumbling stairs as the archon leaped off the parapet and
followed the two demons over to the northern tower. Entering
it felt disturbingly like entering her own tomb.
With her angelic vision, the hidden steps to the
passageway were not difficult to find in the tower's cellar.
What looked like nothing but an ancient stone floor to her
human eyes glowed brightly purple, a circle of violet fire with
a green rune sealing it shut. Oberon stepped inside the circle,
kneeled down and placed his palm upon the rune and said
something long that sounded like complete gibberish.
Nevertheless, it quenched the purple flames instantly while
the rune flickered twice, then disappeared itself.
Oberon rose, took a step back, and with a wave of his hand
caused a huge six-foot by six-foot square of stone to rise from
the floor and deposit itself to the side of the huge hole it had
just exposed, a hole which proved, upon closer look, to be
steps. Prince Jehuel immediately plunged down them, but
Oberon waited for the two mortals.
“Um, not to be a wuss, but I can't see anything,” Derek
muttered. Holli grabbed his hand, and he took it with a grunt
that she accepted as a thanks of sort. He was, as usual,
disgruntled about her advantage, but at least this time he
wasn't too proud to accept her help. As they began their
second descent, she heard the large stone block grinding back
into place. Even though she knew she could fly right through

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it if necessary, the sound still made her blood run cold. She
squeezed Derek's hand; after a moment, he squeezed it back.
These secret steps went far, far deeper than she'd ever
imagined possible. It was like walking up a skyscraper in
reverse, and she dreaded the thought of trudging back up
them. Assuming, she thought darkly, they even got the
chance. As they descended, she wondered who had built
them, and how they'd managed to dig through the solid rock
and under what she had read at the hotel was a very deep
lake. They must have had some serious angelic help, she
decided after losing count somewhere around fifty flights.
“Eighty-one floors,” said Derek, breathing hard in her ear
after they finally reached the bottom. “We're hundreds of feet
down.”
Holli wished he hadn't said that. She could feel the
oppressive mass of the rock surrounding them, millions of
tons just waiting to collapse upon her. But worse still was the
sense that all that rock was just a thin skin keeping back all
that water from rushing in and drowning them. She could
feel her sense of hysteria rising, but she bit her lip and forced
it down. Daughter of the King. You're a Daughter of the
King. You're a Daughter of the King and you're not afraid of
anything! She told herself that over and over as she and
Derek followed Jehuel and the golden glow that now
surrounded him as he led them forward, into the tunnel and
under the menacing weight of the terrible dark waters only
feet above their heads.

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C H A P T E R 33

SWORD AND STORM
ARTHUR O' BOWER HAS BROKEN HIS BANDS
AND HE'S COME ROARING OWRE THE LANDS
THE KING O' SCOTS AND A' HIS POWER
CANNA TURN ARTHUR O' BOWER.
— Mother Goose's Melodies for Children

T

he tunnel ended abruptly in a jumbled pile of broken
stone. Holli swallowed hard at the realization that
somewhere on the other side of that pile, however thick, were
the waters of Loch Ness. She looked at Derek; his face was
glistening and he nervously ran his forearm over his sweating
brow. At least she wasn't the only one who was scared. Even
the two fallen angel-lords looked a little uneasy, but after
taking a deep breath, Oberon stepped forward and placed his
hands on the closest stone. Holli would have preferred it if
the Faery King had looked a little more confident, though,
and she grabbed onto Derek hard enough that he grunted
with pain when the earth began quaking.
The rumbling grew louder and Holli was about to start
screaming when suddenly two huge bolts of green lightning
leaped from the Faery King's open hands. There was a
deafening roar, and the two mortals fell to the broken stones
of the tunnel as an almost unthinkably powerful magic hurled
aside the massive pile of rocks that kept out the waters. Holli
cried out and clung to Derek in fear, burying her face in his
chest, but the horrid watery onslaught never came. Instead,
she felt hands at her back, pulling her to her feet.
“Get up, Holli Lewis, and run!” Jehuel shouted in her ear.
“There is no going back!” You are a Daughter of the King, she
told herself again. You don't fear anything. She didn't really
buy it, but between that and Jehuel's urging, she managed to

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get moving. But she came to a stunned stop when she ran
forward a few steps and saw what the Faery King had
wrought.
A circular hole was bored through the water, throbbing
and undulating with the terrible pressure of the deep. The
ground was murky and wet, black, foul-smelling goop with
weird, unidentifiable things sticking out of it. Surrounding
her, above and on either side, was the inky dark of Loch Ness,
held back by nothing but the invisible force of the Faery
King's will. Derek was at her side, but he was no more eager
to step into that disgusting black lake bottom than she was.
“Do not tarry, children,” Oberon muttered, the strain of his
effort showing in his voice. “I cannot hold this for long.”
Holli looked at Derek. His eyes were wide and full of fear,
but he shook his head. There was no need to say anything.
Without a word, they took off running with Holli leading the
way, stumbling and slipping through the murk that sucked at
their shoes and slowed them down.
“I can't see anything,” Derek shouted suddenly. Holli
realized that she'd adjusted her sight without thinking about
it.
“Take my hand,” she said, turning back and grabbing his
when she realized that he couldn't see her either. But when
she started to turn around again, her attention was grabbed
by something moving in her peripheral vision. She looked to
her right, to the north, and saw to her horror, that something
very large was moving towards them, and moving towards
them fast.
“The monster's coming!” she shouted, and the two of them
somehow managed to run even faster. Her left foot sank in a
soft spot and her shoe came off, but she didn't hesitate to
abandon it.
“There! I can see something – there's light ahead!” Derek
yelled. Sure enough, there was, a soft white light glowing
wondrously in the black abyss. Thank you, God! She dared a
quick glance off to the side, and saw to her relief that Khasar
and the two demons had managed to draw off the monster. It
looked like snake threaded through a turtle without a shell,
which might have been funny if it weren't for the violent
speed with which it turned and snapped at one of the brightly

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glowing figures that twisted and rolled about its long, snaky
neck.
At least it wasn't snapping at her, she consoled herself as
she kicked off her other shoe. The light was close now, only
another hundred feet, and she was practically flying towards
it, though not so fast as Derek, who'd let go of her hand as
soon as he was able to see again. He was sprinting like a
track star towards what looked like an undersea cavern, in
the middle of which was the sword, Chrysaor.
It was the sword itself which was shining, casting out a
light that was almost blinding at close quarters. It shone in
the darkness like an emblem of their hope, its white blade
sheathed halfway in stone. There was nothing overtly special
about it, no jeweled hilt like Excalibur, but there was a power
radiating from it that struck her with such awe that she
almost forgot to be afraid. Derek, reaching the blade, leaped
up on the broad stone and pulled Chrysaor from its
adamantine scabbard. He brandished it triumphantly at her,
but his shout of joy died in his throat and she saw his eyes go
wide at something behind her.
“Down!” he shouted, and she hurled herself to the muck
without delay. Something huge and leathery swept over her
head with an earsplitting roar; the neck of the monster! It
roared again and as abruptly as it had come, it disappeared.
Holli rolled over and saw it swimming back towards the
depths, and when she looked back towards the cavern, she
understood why. There was dark green blood dripping from
Chrysaor, staining its white brilliance.
“That’s the Loch Ness Monster?” Derek said, bemusedly,
looking at the blood from the wound he'd dealt it. He seemed
to be in a state of shock, or at least stunned that he was still
alive.
“Come on!” Holli lurched towards him, her feet sinking in
the muck, and pulled at his sleeve. “I don't think we have
much longer.” She couldn't really tell, but the tunnel carved
through the water seemed a little smaller and tighter than it
had a moment ago. Maybe Nessie's violation of Oberon's spell
had weakened it or something. It didn't matter. They had to
get out of there, now!

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Again, they ran, knowing that the monster could strike
again at any moment. Holli looked to the left and to the right,
but she saw nothing, not even the three angels in the water.
It seemed like an eternity, but it could not have been long
before they saw the green glow surrounding Oberon's hands,
but it was dimmer now, and shaking. They had almost
reached them when there was a sudden flash of movement to
the left and again the snaky neck slashed through the magic
tunnel, this time in front of them. Holli saw nothing but
onrushing white teeth, coming directly for her, when the
tunnel abruptly collapsed under the massive pressure of the
black waters.
She screamed and reached for Derek, grabbing his arm as
black liquid Hell exploded all around them.
Holli woke up lost in darkness, wondering what had
happened. It might have been seconds or centuries after that
dreadful moment of sheer terror. She blinked, and with
angelic eyes saw that Derek was lying next to her, his hand
still clutching Chrysaor. Blood was trickling from beneath
him and she caught her breath, thinking he was dead, until
she saw that his back was moving up and down. He was still
breathing? But where were they? She rolled him over and
saw that he had landed on two broken rocks, tearing open the
old wounds on his chest. They were bleeding, but nothing
life-threatening, thank God. She whispered a quick prayer of
thanks for their mysterious rescue, then looked about the
vicinity.
They were at the foot of the stairs, of all things, at the
bottom of that unthinkably deep staircase below the castle
watchtower.
The minus-eighty first floor, she thought.
Something groaned, and she jumped, until she realized it was
Oberon, nearly unrecognizable under a veil of shattered stone
dust. He shook his head and blew dust out of his eyes, then
nodded to her.
“Well done.”
“I don't know what happened. I thought we were dead.
The water... it came rushing in.”
The Faery King smiled ruefully. “I could not hold it out
any longer. The monster was just too much. If you had left

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the mortal shadow a moment later, I could not have saved
you.”
“I did what? Jumped out of septus?
“You did. What astounds me is that you took him with
you.” He indicated the prone figure of Derek. “I did not know
such things were possible, but it seems you managed to draw
upon the power of the sword through him, or perhaps it was
something else, I cannot say. Fortunately, the monster was
caught off-guard by the collapse of the tunnel, so I was able to
seal off the passage against the water and pull you through
the stone. The beast is a spirit of water and would not
follow.”
Holli looked disbelievingly at the tons of rock that once
more served as a huge underground cork. He pulled them
through that? Even considering what she knew of the
shadows, it was still remarkable. “Thank you,” she said.
He smiled again, this time genuinely amused. “I'm told we
need that sword.”
Okay, fair enough. Either way, she was glad he'd bothered
to grab her and Derek as well. But how had she done that?
Derek stirred, and she kneeled down next to him as he began
to wake up. “Where's Jehuel?”
“I sent him up to the tower when I felt my strength failing.
Let us make haste to join him. There will be aftershocks to
my working here, and the seal may not hold.” Even as he
spoke, the earth shivered and Holli fancied that she could see
a trail of water seeping through the rocks. But when Oberon
quickly stooped to lift Derek in his arms, she realized that it
wasn't her imagination.
“Take the sword,” the Faery King commanded as it fell
from Derek's still-nerveless grasp. “I cannot touch it.”
Holli picked it up; the hilt felt oddly warm to the touch.
Then a cracking sound behind her gave her wings, literally, as
she leaped into the stairwell and began flying upwards right
behind Oberon as the stony seal broke and the waters of Loch
Ness rushed in with all the mindless fury of a subterranean
hurricane. They spiraled up the staircase, with the water
nearly lapping at her heels as the explosive pressure sent it
rushing higher, ever higher.

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She was getting dizzy with the constant upward spinning
and her vision was reduced to little more than endless grey
stone, whirling around and around, but she did not dare leave
the material for fear she'd drop the sword. The water seemed
to be alive, ravenously pursuing, and droplets of spray lashed
out at her as if from foam-flecked jaws. Oberon, too, was
handicapped by the need to carry Derek, and for one terrible
moment, Holli thought they were lost when the cold liquid
licked at her feet before engulfing them entirely.
But just when she had determined to leave septus behind
and hope that she could still somehow manage to hang on to
Chrysaor, or at least note where it fell, the icy burn that was
freezing her feet suddenly dropped in temperature. Still
swirling higher, she was too sick to her stomach to look down,
but when she twiddled her feet, she realized they were dry.
Oberon, too, had noticed something, for she had to spread her
wings and arrest her frantic climbing in order to avoid
running into him.
“The waters have stopped. We've reached the tower and
we're above the ground,” he said, floating to the nearest
stairwell and gently depositing his burden before slumping to
the stair. He was looking almost green beneath his beard.
With a groan, he buried his face in his hands. “I think if I
could vomit, as you mortals do, I would.”
Holli was glad he couldn't, because if he did, she had no
doubt that she'd quickly follow suit. “Is he okay?”
“I believe so.” The Faery King placed a hand over Derek's
face. For a brief moment, a greenish light flared, and Derek,
choking and coughing, rolled sideways away from the fallen
angel's hand.
“Get that thing away from me!” he shouted.
“I am sorry, but I am no healer,” Oberon apologized and
Holli caught a whiff of the acrid stink as he waved his hand.
Holy cow, that was foul! “I thought that might wake you.”
“Yeah, along with the dead buried in that cemetery over
there,” Derek said, still gagging. “Hey, Holli, you got the
sword! What happened?”
“Stuff, lots of stuff,” Holli said wearily. “I'll tell you later.
Let's get this thing to that Jehuel before those black spiral
things get here, m'kay?”

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They made their way uncertainly down the stairs, which
were blessedly dry, and learned that they were only two floors
up. They emerged into sunshine and a scene of rampant
devastation. While the two towers on the promontory still
stood, the hill overlooking the approach to the castle had
collapsed, as had the drawbridge, the remains of which could
be seen in the ditch it had so recently traversed. As they
looked around in stunned amazement, another aftershock
nearly knocked them from their feet and three large stones
tumbled down from the watchtower, one landing not more
than ten feet from them.
“The land is troubled. It knows I am here now, but it
cannot serve two masters.”
“I thought this wasn't Albion?”
“It isn't.” The Faery King shook his head reflectively. “If
this had been Albion, I daresay the very Cotswolds would
have been riven. I am glad that the sword was not hidden in
my demesne proper. Even so, I fear this will continue until
the matter is settled.”
Holli elbowed Derek, carefully. “You okay?”
“I'll be all right.” Derek pointed to the south. The sky was
growing darker, and it was growing darker fast. “I mean,
under normal circumstances, I would. Hey, Oberon, you got
any more tricks in hand?”
“Leave that to me,” Puck declared, materializing in front of
them, followed by Jehuel, Khasar and Melusine. He looked
worried, but his eyes lit up with delight when he looked at the
blade in Holli's hand. “Well done, my liege! Oh, well done,
you two! You've done quite a number on the property, I'm
afraid, but that’s an issue for the Historic Society to deal with
and I could never stomach the Jacobins anyway. Prince
Jehuel, I believe you may be familiar with this particular
blade?”
If Puck looked delighted, Jehuel's eyes were blazing with a
mixture of emotions that Holli couldn't have attempted to
describe. Awe, love, lust, greed and an overpowering joy were
only the start, and his handsome face was like that of a child
who had tasted chocolate for the very first time. She glanced
at Khasar, and when he nodded, she turned Chrysaor around
and presented it to the angel-prince, hilt-first. He reached

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out slowly for it, oh, so slowly, as if he feared it would
disappear or turn into a snake before his eyes.
But when his fingers closed around the hilt, there was a
hum, a flare of golden light, and thunder boomed over their
heads, shaking the entire headland. For a moment, even the
shadow rushing towards them from the south appeared to
freeze, before resuming its headlong advance.
The ecstatic angel-prince cared nothing for the oncoming
storm, instead he threw back his head and shouted
triumphantly as he thrust Chrysaor towards the darkening
sky. There was a terrible crack, as if the Earth itself was
fractured, and four bolts of ebon light struck the tip of the
blade from the four points of the compass, hurling everyone
but the two royal angels to the ground. Jehuel howled, but in
joy, not pain, and before their eyes he swelled until he was
nearly twelve feet tall.
Suddenly, he no appeared longer ludicrous, but terrible,
and what had seemed like pretentious affectation before now
looked like nothing more than his princely due. He whirled
about and pointed the glowing white blade at Melusine's
throat; the prostrate demon-girl's eyes were wide with shock,
perhaps even a little guilt.
“What do you think of your despised protege now,
Temptress?” His eyes were hard and cruel, and they gleamed
with unholy delight. “Like so many others, you have wronged
me. And yet, but for you I would not be here now, so I will
spare you my wrath. Consider the debt paid.”
Without waiting for her response, Jehuel turned back to
face the south. Holli's eyes lingered on the devil-girl, who
wrinkled her lip and rolled her eyes when she noticed Holli
looking at her. “I’d say it’s time to bring the noise, Robin,”
she told Puck.
“Indeed,” the treacherous angel agreed.
The Faery King, too, seemed surprisingly relaxed about
the dark host's approach, and Holli wondered what it was
that they had planned. It had better be something good, she
thought. The wind was rising fast, lashing her hair wildly
about as the massive shadow came closer and she began to be
able to pick out the individual demons that comprised it.
There were riders of the great winged wolves and their two

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roaring heads, there were dragons and griffins and things
that looked like lions with a snake jammed through them.
There were the whirling black spirals and more ram-headed
goat-demons than she could count. There were huge hellknights in heavy black armor and red-skinned, black-winged
demonesses wearing hardly anything at all. And in the midst
of this great Fallen army was a malicious darkness, a black
and evil void from which no light escaped. The evil storm was
nearly upon them now.
“Is there any chance that anyone could let me see what's
going on,” she heard Derek complain. Khasar said nothing,
but he nodded slowly before he transformed into his fighting
Aspect of the great blue-winged lion. Holli fingered the
wicked blade at her side, wondering which sword she should
use, that or her fiery Divine blade. Neither would do much
against what looked like two legions of fallen angels, but she
wasn't going to go down without a fight. She only wished she
could see Daddy one more time and tell him how if he ever
wanted to see her again, he had to stop fighting so hard and
accept God’s grace. Heavenly Father, Almighty God, if you've
ever heard a single thing I've said, please, make him listen to
you, please! Let them kill me in his place, God, but in the
name of Your Son, Jesus Christ, please just give him more
time!
She drew Flamestealer and nearly dropped it in shock.
The evil thing was humming, moaning actually, and visibly
shaking at the feast of angelfire that surrounded it.
“Whoa! Is that thing alive?” Derek shouted. “Holy cow!”
Forget it! Holli quickly slammed the evil thing back into
its scabbard. If an angel’s sword was good enough for Aliel,
then one was good enough for her. But she had no chance to
draw it, for just then, as the Mad One's army began to
descend upon them, the Earth exploded.

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C H A P T E R 34

FELL AND FEY
WHEN THE POETS DREAMED OF ANGELS
WHAT DID THEY SEE?
THE BISHOPS AND KNIGHTS WELL PLACED TO ATTACK
— David Sylvian, (“When Poets Dreamed of Angels”)

I

t was as if a bomb had burst in their midst, only there was
no blast ripping them to pieces. And instead of shards of
steel flying in every direction, there were petty spirits of every
sort and shape imaginable launching themselves skyward.
Wood and water, sand and stone, the wild spirits of earth, sea
and sky rose up from the water of the Loch, from the hills,
from the nearby forests and from the very ground under
Holli's feet. They were small, they were without armor and
poorly armed too, but there were thousands, tens of
thousands of them, and they hurled themselves against the
Mad One's host without remorse or restraint, aroused by the
hatred only seven centuries of demonic misrule could inspire.
Oberon rose into the air with them, and again from his
hands the green lightning struck, carving two deadly bolts of
devastation out of the enemy's ranks. Those gaps were barely
filled with new warriors when the Faery King's horde
smashed into the foe, shrieking and shouting, with far more
bravery and ardor than discipline. They were brave and they
outnumbered the usurper's host three to one, but they were
small, so very small. Nor did they look like warriors and Holli
found it hard to believe they could prove a match for the Mad
One's great army of evil.
It was like watching water breaking upon a stone. When
the two forces collided, the Faery horde shattered upon the
darkly burning blades of the shadow army. Holli saw one
Hell-knight smash aside at least a dozen sprites with a

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mighty blow of his sword, and the fiery breath of his black
steed incinerated six more. The hungry jaws of the Cerebei
snapped up spirit after spirit, even more than the brutal
studded clubs their riders wielded so cruelly. And hundreds
went flying in all directions at the merest touch of the dread
black spirals, only to regroup and fly at the foe again. But try
as they might, none managed to come anywhere near that
deadly quiet darkness at the center.
And yet, their efforts were not completely in vain. Holli
saw that many, if not most, of the lesser demons and
demonesses on the perimeter were being ripped to shreds by
the vicious teeth and claws of the wildlings. The reckless
abandon of the Faery assault seemed to dismay their foes,
and the terrible shadow was arrested halfway between Earth
and Heaven, not retreating, but no longer advancing either.
One particularly ferocious band of wood sprites even managed
to disembowel a dragon, then ripped apart the shrieking rider
of a two-headed wolf before being driven off by a deadly pair
of Hell-knights. Still, the battle wasn't looking good as far as
Holli could tell.
“They can't break them,” Khasar muttered, confirming her
opinion.
“It's those cursed knights, Melusine snarled. “Nothing
short of a prince’s fire will penetrate that armor.”
Off to the side, Prince Jehuel was trembling, his face white
with barely restrained passion, as he watched the terrible
destruction of the Faery King's forces. Once he shouted and
made as if to leap into the fray, but Puck's firm hand
restrained him.
“Bide your time, Prince,” he advised the seething angellord. “It will be soon. You must not strike too early, at all
costs you must reach Maomoondagh and strike him down. If
you attack now, you will never reach him!”
Puck walked over and placed his hand on Khasar's
muscular shoulder. The great lion's golden fur twitched and
the archon growled low in his throat, but Puck did not flinch.
“I am aware that it is considered unseemly to take sides, but
in the current circumstances, I wonder if perhaps you might
see fit to lend us a paw or two.”

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319

“I have a dispensation,” Khasar rumbled, not sounding
displeased at the prospect of wreaking havoc among the
Fallen. “If Oberon will tell me where he will strike, I shall
clear a path for Prince Jehuel. But he must follow me closely.
They will fall quickly upon us.”
“Khasar, no!” Holli cried, pulling on his mane. She
couldn't bear it. There was no way he'd be able to fight his
way through that chaos in the sky. If a pack of Twice-Fallen
had nearly pulled him down, how could he survive the HellKnights?
“We are created for a purpose, my dear.” His breath was
hot and sweet in her face. “There is nothing to fear.”
“Then I'm coming with you!” Holli answered, even though
her eyes were burning. “So am I,” she heard Derek announce.
The two demons, Puck and Melusine, glanced at each other;
their silence conspicuous.
“Derek, you will stay,” the archon answered, and his voice
brooked no argument. “Though you can see them now, they
could strike you down with little more than a glance. Holli,
are you sure?”
“Let me ride on your back again, the way we did before.
And this time, if someone shoots an arrow at you, try to
dodge, will you?”
The lion's rumbling laughter eased the fear gripping her
heart as he lowered his shoulder and she climbed onto his
back. It wasn't exactly comfortable, but it wasn't completely
unfamiliar either. Once she was settled, Khasar growled at
the Fallen.
“Follow me, Prince Jehuel, and may the Lord Almighty
guide your hand.”
Jehuel blinked at the unwanted blessing, but he saluted
Khasar and Holli with his sword, then threw his cloak back
with a dramatic flourish. “Strike them with thy vengeance, O
king of Faery, and with this most sacred sword shall we
inaugurate the reign of the once and future king of Albion!”
Khasar snorted and Holli, despite feeling like she was
going to throw up, couldn't help smiling. Well, Jehuel could
be as pompous as he wanted, as long as he took down that
horrible Mad One up there, hiding behind his black veil of
shadow. Khasar roared a defiant challenge, and then they

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were arcing skyward. Holli kept her own wings furled to keep
them from getting in Khasar's way as his powerful blue wings
brought them towards the raging battle in seconds, but it was
nice to know that if she was thrown off, she wouldn't plunge
straight down to the Loch below.
The battle was even more vicious when seen up close. It
was confusing, a mass of screaming, shouting blurs and
colorful bursts of light exploding everywhere as spirits were
obliterated left and right. She saw five dryads clinging to the
neck of a wolf-thing; as its rider plucked one off and smashed
it to bits with his club, another managed to dig its fingers into
the wolf's eye, causing the demonic beast to thrash so wildly
that it threw its rider.
She didn't see what happened to him, nor did she see the
flash of green lightning that smashed into the battling figures
in front of her, she only heard a loud hiss followed by a
booming crack, and then the aftereffects. Where a moment
before there had been a large black dragon leering at Khasar
and opening its jaws wide, now there was nothing, and for
twenty yards on either side of them, demons were shrieking
and beating at the incandescent flames flaring out from their
tattered Aspects.
“For the Most High!” Khasar roared, and Holli lurched
back as his powerful wing-strokes sent them speeding
forward. She slashed wildly at a black-armored helmet, then
screamed and nearly dropped her sword when the knight
parried her stroke and struck back at her. But they were
already past him, Khasar's terrible paws were smashing
demons aside and a burst of silver flame from his mouth sent
one black spiral spinning off into three of its dark kin, setting
all four of them alight with holy silver fire.
A griffin dove towards him from the side, its huge eagle
claws outstretched, but a stroke from Holli's flaming sword
forced it into a keening retreat, minus one leg. A Hell-knight
thrust at Khasar's maned head, but the archon ducked,
twisted and ripped at the unarmored belly of the knight's firebreathing steed with his curved claws. A moment later, Holli
saw a white-hot Chrysaor carving through the black helm as
if it was soft plastic. Seeing this, the two demons behind the
knight turned tail and fled before Prince Jehuel, and Holli

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herself ran through an unwary black spiral that was
attempting to evade Khasar's powerful jaws.
“Show yourself, coward, before I send you to the Pit from
which you crawled,” shouted Jehuel, looking not at all
ridiculous any longer, but like a true Lord of the Sarim, like
the angelic warrior prince of Heaven he had once been. A
small dragon, half again the size of Khasar, flew towards him
snorting fire and Jehuel struck it down with Chrysaor as
easily as if he was swatting a fly.
There was a tearing sound, and the demons on either side
of them fell back as the shadow parted, dissolving as it fell
away. Behind it was Maomoondagh, the Mad One, the
usurper king of Albion, in all his hideous splendor. He was
white, like a corpse, and on his brow he wore a crown of
woven bone. His eyes were a colorless shade of grey, but they
glowed with a dark, occultic fire. His long silver hair swirled
about him like a cape, and he wore no armor, exposing an
emaciated frame. He was gruesome, like a Grim Reaper
without his cloak and yet there was a twisted beauty to him
that fascinated even as it appalled.
He carried no shield, only two thick black-fire swords, each
with a wicked hook at the end. He regarded Jehuel without
fear, and a faint smile even pulled at his thin grey lips. “You
cannot defeat me, renegade. Not even with that sword. I am
immortal beyond immortal. I am a god among gods.”
“With this sword I have slain your uncles, your brothers
and your sisters. And with it, I shall slay you, Son of Chaos.
You do not belong here; you never should have come.”
“This is my realm. The land is mine, as surely as that
blade belongs to you. Leave, or suffer the due consequence of
your presumption.”
Jehuel drew himself up to his full height, which would
barely have come to the chest of Maomoondagh were they on
the ground. But a flutter of his four wings brought him eyeto-eye with the false angel and he smiled contemptuously as
Chrysaor burst into golden light and he sprang forward, a
falcon attacking an eagle.
His speed was incredible, and yet Maomoondagh managed
to turn aside his first blows. The mass of surrounding
demons rustled as those behind pushed forward to see this

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epic battle or soared higher in the sky to get a better view.
Holli could see all too well, as she and Khasar hovered behind
Jehuel, who was darting forward to strike, then dancing back
again before the great blades of Maomoondagh could find
their mark. Each time one of those hissing blades fended off
Chrysaor, there was a hollow, booming sound, like thunder in
the dark sky. Maomoondagh was stronger, but Jehuel was
faster and it looked almost as if he wielded three blades to the
Mad One’s two. For a brief moment, they furiously traded
blows as if neither of them would ever tire.
But if the combatants were well-matched, their weapons
were not. Whatever evil forge had produced Maomoondagh’
twin swords was no match for the fires of Heaven, and the
deadly black flames of one blade were beginning to fade into
dull grey when Chrysaor met it squarely, just above the hilt.
There was a burst of purple light, then Maomoondagh hissed
with irritation as he stared at the flamed-out useless stump
in his hand. He hurled the hilt at Jehuel, who grinned
triumphantly and pressed his attack even harder. Chrysaor
was a golden blur, striking, thrusting and chopping, and the
roars of the vast demonic audience fell to a hush when
another purple flare left Maomoondagh unarmed.
But the Mad One seemed strangely unperturbed. “This is
your last warning,” he warned Jehuel. “Strike me and you
shall surely perish!”
“You are well-named,” Jehuel scoffed, and he brought
Chrysaor back over his head, then buried it almost to the hilt
in the Mad One’s bare chest. Maomoondagh screamed with
pain, a cry that shook the heavens, and clutched at the naked
blade with both hands. His cry was echoed by his shaken
army, dismayed by the mortal wounding of its leader. Jehuel
smiled cruelly and he made as if to twist the blade in the
wound, but he blinked, surprised, when he found that he
could not. And then, to Holli’s horror, the golden glow
surrounding Chrysaor abruptly disappeared as if its power
was being drained out of it.
And so it was.
For a moment, all were silent as
Maomoondagh grasped the hilt and pushed the dying sword
out of his body with a terrible crackling sound. Jehuel was
too stunned to react immediately, and by the time awareness

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of his danger dawned in his eyes, it was too late.
Maomoondagh, with a single powerful throw, drove the point
of the magical blade into its owner’s head, directly between
the eyes. Jehuel did not cry out, he did not make a sound, but
even if he had, it would have been drowned out by the
demonic roar that hailed the Mad One’s victory. Transfixed
by his sword, the defeated angel-prince did not so much as
move or even blink as Maomoondagh taunted him.
“Long have I prepared for this moment, Lord of the Sword.
Countless spells did I cast, countless angels did I drain, but
not until this very moment was I sure that my preparations
were sufficient. Now I am a god among gods and Satan
himself will fear to challenge me! But you, o prince of fools,
shall return once more into the Void that is your destiny!”
And with those words, Prince Jehuel, once of the Sarim,
vanished in a blinding flash that sent streamers of gold and
silver arcing across the sky before plunging to the ground
below. Holli was caught up in the strangely beautiful sight
when Khasar growled at her and brought her back to her
senses. “Get the sword,” he snarled, and he twisted his body,
sending her tumbling from his back.
She furled her wings and dove, catching the sword less
than twenty feet from the ground. It no longer glowed white,
but was the color of old, yellowed ivory, like the tusk of an
elephant long dead. Was it useless? Had they already lost?
Then all Hell seemed to break lose as the green lightning
leaped into the sky and battle was again joined. But the Mad
One’s army was invigorated by Maomoondagh’ triumphant
duel, and though Oberon’s wild spirits flew recklessly into the
breach for a second time, they did so without hope of victory.
“To London!” she heard Puck shouting, but not until she
looked at him did she realize he was yelling at her. “Fly, as
fast as you can!” The problem was that London lay to the
south, on the other side of the demonic army. She couldn’t
see Khasar anywhere, but she did her best to stay low and
keep the stubbornly savage fairies between her and the
enemy. Now, where was south, exactly? She saw a spot of
sky that was less dark and headed for it, just as a quartet of
Hell-knights smashed through a score of tree sprites, sending
the smaller spirits flying in all directions.

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“Angel!” one of them shouted, and only through a
desperate twisting roll did she avoid being spitted on a devil's
lance. But though the demon missed her, its evil steed was
trained for battle, and she looked up just in time to see one of
its flaming hooves heading directly for her face. It struck her
hard in the head, and then she was falling, falling, falling….

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C H A P T E R 35

REDEMPTION
FOR KNIGHT TO LEAUE HIS LADIE WERE GREAT SHAME,
THAT FAITHFULL IS, AND BETTER WERE TO DIE.
ALL LOSSE IS LESSE, AND LESSE THE INFAMIE,
THEN LOSSE OF LOUE TOT HIM, THAT LOUES BUT ONE;
— Edmund Spenser, The Faerie Queene

A

m I dead? Holli thought, too confused to be afraid. She
was cold, horribly cold, the sky was empty and dark over
her head and she had a strange sensation of falling. But if
she was dead, why was she wearing a sports bra? Then she
looked over her shoulder and no sooner had she realized that
she was still alive than she learned she wouldn’t be for long.
The ground was approaching fast, very fast, and she was
painfully aware that she no longer had wings.
“Oof!” Something hit her hard around the midsection, and
then she was no longer falling, but was instead moving
rapidly parallel to the ground. There was a faint scent of
cinnamon, which seemed vaguely familiar. “Melusine?”
“Don’t you dare drop that sword,” the demoness ordered.
Holli was somewhat surprised to see that her right hand was
still holding onto Chrysaor. I guess that’s what they mean by
a death grip. Only I’m not dead, I don’t think.
“You’re not dead,” Melusine answered her thoughts as if
she’d spoken them aloud. “If you were an angel, you would
have been, or at least as dead as angels get. Fortunately, you
aren’t, so that was just a violent means of shedding the
angelic guise with which those shadowstalkers cloaked you. I
assume it was shadowstalkers, anyhow, I don’t know anyone
else who would dare.”
“Um, who?”

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“You may be a good liar, Holli, but it’s a little harder when
I can read your thoughts.”
“Can you read this?”
“Very funny. I’d expect you to be a little more grateful.”
“Yeah, well, you’re trying to drag my brother off to Hell!”
“Not at the moment!” Melusine sounded almost offended.
“Okay, fine, maybe I did just keep you from going to Heaven,
but that’s different. I’m not sure why, since I don’t know
what else Puck thinks he can do to Maomoondagh that will
work any better than sticking that useless sword in the ugly
beast’s chest, but I’m sure he’s got a backup plan. He always
does.”
Holli nodded, then screamed as Melusine rolled to avoid
impaling Holli on a pine tree. They were flying at a rapid
pace, really fast and really low. “Um, even if you don’t drop
me or run into something, I’m going to freeze to death here if
you don’t do something fast. And also, people are probably
going to think it’s really weird if I go sailing by without an
airplane or at least a helicopter.”
“Good point.” Holli sighed with relief as Melusine took her
and the precious sword out of septus and into the warmth of
the higher shadows. Then, much to her surprise, she fell
asleep.
She woke to a cloudless blue sky and the sound of demons
arguing. Looking down, she saw they were high over the
Thames, not far from the cross-topped peaks of the Tower
Bridge. “I can’t see anything,” she heard Derek complain.
She couldn’t see him either. “Are you sure she’s all right?”
“Fiat visum,” Puck said, then he and Derek came into
view, as well as Melusine’s arms. Holli gasped at the sight of
dried blood on Derek’s chest, until she remembered that he’d
been hurt under Loch Ness.
“Are you okay? Did you see Khasar? What happened?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. I’m not sure, exactly, although Khasar did
manage to fight his way free after you got run over by that
hell-horse. He and Oberon were getting chased north while
we snuck around and followed you down here. Man, Holli, I
thought you were smoked for sure, but Melusine was quick as
a cat; she caught you and didn’t look back.”
“I hung onto the sword,” Holli said proudly, waving it.

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“Both of them. That’s quite the look.” He pointed at her,
and she realized that she still had Flamestealer strapped to
her side. It didn’t go with her workout stuff quite as well as it
had with the angelic robes, though.
“Like you’re one to talk, Joe Boxer.” She pointed at him
and laughed. “You think maybe we can get them to stop and
get some clothes for us? Your chest looks pretty bad.”
“Merely a flesh wound.” Derek grinned, then glanced up at
the demon in whose arms he was hanging suspended. “Say,
you don’t think you could get us some clothes, do you?”
“No time, sorry,” said Puck. He jerked his chin at a small
dark cloud, far away on the northern horizon. It was distant,
but it was approaching a little too quickly to be anything
natural. “Melusine, stay on my heels and let me do the
talking. Holli, you just hang onto that sword, and Derek, I
suggest you close your eyes.”
Derek made a face and Holli wondered what the demon
meant by that. Then she found out, as Puck pulled in his
leathery black wings, hugged Derek close to his chest and
dive-bombed towards the river hundreds of feet below. Holli
couldn’t help shrieking as she felt Melusine’s arms tighten
around her and then her stomach was dropping out like she
was riding the mother of all rollercoasters as they plunged
recklessly downward, with the gray water below looking
disturbingly like asphalt.
They hit, without impact thank God, and then they were
rushing along underwater. Puck led them into some sort of
huge tube that ran into the river, and they had sped through
several turns down and in before Holli realized they must be
traveling through the London sewers. The mere thought
made her gag, and even the knowledge that she wasn’t even
on the same strata as the polluted liquid didn’t help a whole
lot. They cruised through a twisting maze of corridors, and
Holli just starting to wonder how Puck could possibly have
any idea where they were when they emerged from the water
in front of a large, circular door.
Melusine released her, and Holli stood unsteadily upon her
own two legs for the first time in a while, wrinkling her nose
at the smell. The water, as she had correctly suspected,

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reeked abominably, although the two seven-foot demons
standing guard at the door didn’t seem to mind.
“Oi, what you got here?” one of them demanded of Puck.
Puck didn’t flinch as the guard invaded his personal space,
instead he reached up and pulled the demon’s head down by
one horn until they were nose-to-nose.
“We have to see Titania, now!”
The big demon tried to pull away, but Puck was much
stronger than he looked. “Hey, let go! No password, no
entry!”
“The password is this: Oberon lives and struck down the
Mad One.”
The guard’s large yellow eyes widened, and he glanced
worriedly at the other. “Right, then. Well, um, go right in…
I’d better stay here.” Holli saw Puck shoot Melusine a cynical
glance; even she could tell that the guard had no intention of
sticking around for a change of management.
They passed five more guard-posts in like manner, leaving
a trail of stunned and frightened guards behind. None
seemed especially inclined to face their former liege lord, and
whatever vengeful grudge he might be bearing after having
centuries to consider his betrayal. But the seventh door was
an entirely different matter. There were more guards, five to
be precise, and they were not so easily finessed. Their
captain, a short but massive creature with four arms and an
intelligent expression merely folded both pairs as Puck ran
through his breathless routine. “You’re lying,” he said calmly.
“The rebels were crushed this morning. And yet, I fail to see
what you hope to accomplish in the absence of the King with
two young mortals and a petty temptress.”
“Rather a lot more than you’d probably imagine,” answered
Puck, meeting the guard captain’s gaze directly.
An
unspoken communication seemed to pass between them.
Holli was surprised when the captain smiled faintly and
stepped aside.
“Very well. If you would see the Queen, see her you shall.
Let her judge your fate.”
“But sir,” one guard protested. “The mortal bears arms.”
“What of that!” The captain waved his concerns away and
placed his lower right palm upon the door. A sigil, hitherto

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unseen, glowed red and the door opened. “Do you think the
Queen fears a mortal bearing metal sticks?”
The chastised guard retreated and the captain indicated
that Puck and his companions were free to enter. As he
walked them into the massive chamber, Holli heard him
whisper to Puck. “If you succeed, remember me. If not, best
do your cursed best to forget.”
Puck’s answering grin was full of cynicism as the captain
took his leave. The chamber in which he left them was a
high-ceilinged throne room, nearly as long as a football field.
It was an architectural monstrosity, with high arches and
alcoves lining either side. As Puck led them down the long
march towards the dais at the end, Holli peeked in the nooks
as they passed and saw both beautiful sculptures and
exquisite paintings as well as frightening demonic trophies.
At first she thought the things displayed on columns were
busts, but she learned otherwise one horned devil’s head
opened its eyes and moaned unexpectedly.
A hand caught her wrist in an iron grip as she started to
bring the sword up in instinctive response. “Control yourself,”
hissed Melusine. “Do you want to leave yours here too?”
Not if she could help it. She swallowed hard and tried to
ignore the unblinking stare of a lion-headed archon in the
next alcove, but the awful sight only made her start worrying
again about Khasar, the word of his escape notwithstanding.
They were two-thirds of the way to the end of the chamber
now.
“Robin Goodfellow, is that you?” Titania rose from the
lesser of the two thrones on the dais and irritably waved her
hulking bodyguards and ladies-in-waiting aside. “How come
you here?” The Fallen queen was the most beautiful thing
Holli had ever seen. She wore only a simple emerald sheath
with nothing more than a silver tiara set in her mass of
crimson hair, yet her appearance permitted no doubts of her
royal nature.
“Stand aside, Titania,” Puck ordered. The queen’s honor
guard bristled at his tone, but fell silent at a glare from the
glorious queen, who swiftly returned her attention to the
fallen angel. “As goes the Blood Cup, so goes Maomoondagh.
Stand aside and leave it to me.”

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“We are told the field was Maomoondagh’s this day,
Robin.” Her green eyes were unreadable.
“Oberon is yet unconquered, Titania.”
The Fallen Queen of the Isles raised one elegant finger and
stroked her cheek in contemplation. It seemed as if she
considered the matter forever, but it was really only a few
seconds before she turned towards the waiting demons. “Out,
all of you! Begone!” They vanished instantly.
“Damn you, Robin, you’d better be right,” Titania warned
him, though she smiled as she reached down and rumpled his
hair. “Or there will be Hell to pay.”
The demon closed his eyes for a second, but his expression
was darkly amused when he opened them again. “There will
be Hell to pay in any case, Faery Queen. If we fail, it is not
the wrath of Maomoondagh you need fear, but rather the
endless hunger of Diavelina.”
His words struck home. Titania nodded once, her lips
pressed firmly together, then she, too, disappeared. Puck
whirled about and pointed to the larger of the two thrones,
constructed of ivory embossed with a sumptuous crimson
velvet cushion inlaid. “Well, what are you waiting for?”
Holli approached it cautiously. For all that it looked
inanimate, the Mad One’s throne had an evil presence all its
own, lurking as if it was liable to spring out at her. Then she
realized, to her horror, that it wasn’t inanimate at all,
because the cushion, red as blood, was pulsing slowly, as if it
was alive.
“There’s something seriously wrong with that thing,”
Derek said unnecessarily. “Kill it already!”
Holli raised Chrysaor, but her hands were shaking. She
took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and brought the sword
down hard.
Something stung her hands as it struck
something unyielding – the sword rebounded violently and
went flying out of her hands.
“Oh, give me that,” Derek said, in a disgusted tone. He
reached down, picked up the sword and thrust it at the
pulsating throne. There was a flare of red light and Derek
was thrown backward five or six feet. He hung onto the
sword, but he stared at it grimly before showing his reddened
palm to the two demons. “It burned me through the hilt. I

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don’t know if the sword’s got no juice left in it or what, but I
don’t think this is going to work.”
“No, it is not,” a thunderous voice rumbled through the
vast chamber. Maomoondagh was standing on the far end of
the chamber, surrounded by a score of his greatest
champions. “And you, mortal, are going to die.”
Derek brandished Chrysaor and stepped between Holli and
the advancing demon king. The prongs of Maomoondagh's
iron crown nearly touched the ceiling, and he covered more
than a man’s height with each step. Yet Derek did not
retreat. “Stay back, or I’ll destroy your throne and your
power with it!”
Maomoondagh stopped and laughed, his pallid eyes narrow
with contempt. “Strike away, little boy. Do you think me so
foolish as to leave it unprotected?”
Holli stepped out of the way as Derek spun around and
with a frustrated cry, smashed the blade down as hard as he
could with both hands. This time, the crimson burst was
accompanied by a thunderclap and Derek was hurled off the
dais as the demons shouted with laughter.
“Derek! Are you all right?” Holli jumped to the edge,
drawing Flamestealer as she did so, ready to make a last
stand. Melusine and Puck were already at his side, pulling
him to his feet. Chrysaor was several feet away, still sickly
yellow, and when Derek, groaning loudly, limped over to pick
it up, she saw the beginnings of a huge purple bruise on his
back.
“I warn you, Son of Chaos, if you come closer, you shall
perish,” Puck was shouting at Maomoondagh, but Holli found
herself looking at her weapon. Flamestealer was vibrating,
and what she’d at first thought was Derek was actually the
sword, moaning as it tried to bend around her shoulder to get
at something behind her. But there were no angels behind
her. What did it want? Wayland said it drank angelfire. She
glanced backwards. The throne!
An idea struck her. Five of the dark champions were
marching ominously towards them and Derek was struggling
to raise Chrysaor to face them when she reversed the madly
twitching sword in her grasp and thrust it backwards into the
crimson seat of the living throne.

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An inhuman shriek shook the chamber, freezing everyone.
It came from Maomoondagh, who clutched at his breast and
reeled backwards. Holli drove Flamestealer deeper into the
soft scarlet, and when she twisted it, Maomoondagh cried out
again and fell to his knees. She glanced under her arm and
what she could see of the blade was glowing yellow-orange, as
if the raw essence of angels was infusing it with pure volcanic
power. Something like electricity was crackling all around
the edges, and through the handle she could feel the sword
was almost ready to explode.
“Stop them,” Maomoondagh whispered painfully, and his
champions sprang forward. But before they reached Puck
and Derek, Holli pulled Flamestealer out from the throne and
pointed it at the closest demon. A fiery torch of molten lava
erupted from the Fallen-forged blade, incinerating the big
demon in an instant. With a cry of joy, she swept the sword
back and forth like a flamethrower, roasting three or four
more demons and driving the survivors back.
“So you want some of that? You digging that? How you
like that? What about some more of that?” She shouted
incoherently as another evil spirit shrieked its last and
erupted in a lethal rainbow of colors.
There was a moment of shocked silence when she paused
to consider the strange sight of the mighty fallen angels
cringing before her. Then she turned the deadly stream of
angelfire on Maomoondagh himself. The usurper of Albion
howled as the flames he’d stolen burned into his massive
body, engulfing him in a raging inferno.
His champions wailed in dismay, but the Mad One’s howls
soon died out as his strength finally gave out and he collapsed
onto the floor, overborne by the fury of the angelfire. But
then, even as Holli was starting to sigh with relief, a very
strange thing began to happen. The flames that were
devouring the remains of Maomoondagh’s prone form began
to change color and swirl about counterclockwise, going first
from an orange-red to a yellow-orange, then to a glowing
white heat that seared her eyes and forced her to look away.
“What’s going on?” she heard Khasar say. But before
anyone could answer him, the swirling flames began to rise in
a miniature tornado of fire about Holli’s height, leaving

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nothing underneath but a few charcoaled bones and a
blackened skull that looked vaguely human. As angels and
demons alike looked on in fear and confusion, the flames
began to coalesce into a figure, a female figure, Holli saw, that
mirrored her own, right down to her face.
It was almost like standing in front of Jami, except her
twin’s blonde hair had never shone with the white brilliance
that radiated from the fiery goddess like a furnace, and the
flaming eyes were not blue, but a madly roiling rainbow of
colors instead.
“Free at last!” the beautiful creature exclaimed, raising her
hands above her head in exultation. “Free at last, by all the
Hells, I am free at last!”
“Master?” whispered one of Maomoondagh’s dark
champions incredulously.
Her glowing hand whipped around and caught him across
the face with an audible crackle. The demon grunted, and
Holli saw that his cheek was scorched where she had struck
him.
“Mistress!” she spat, before smiling sweetly at Holli. “Oh,
my dear, darling mortal, I cannot thank you enough for
ridding me of that blundering buffoon. You don’t know how
long I have been trapped under the weight of his tedious
mind.”
“Um….” Holli wasn’t sure what to say, but Puck finally
managed to find his tongue and stepped forward to bow
rakishly before her doppleganger.
“I do believe I am acquainted with a relative of yours, my
lady. And I suspect that I have had the questionable fortune
to have encountered you before, although I don’t know if you
would happen to recall our meeting.
The rainbow eyes narrowed and the fiery head tilted to the
side as the goddess regarded the irrepressible demon. “The
trickster,” she commented, as if she was speaking to herself.
“You were important, but I can’t recall why.”
“Oh, I rather doubt that,” Puck said quickly. “But may I be
so bold to inquire as to your name and your intentions?”
“Of course!” The goddess smiled, showing perfect teeth of
fire. “I am the Queen of Albion and I intend to rule it as I did

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before. Well, that’s not precisely right, but I imagine you get
the point.”
One of Maomoondagh’s champions pointed a clawed finger
at Puck and Holli.
“They wasn’t trying to help yer, yer Majesty, they was
trying to kill yer.”
“They were?”
The goddess looked surprised, then
shrugged. “I suppose you’re right. But then, if that’s so, why
aren’t you attacking them already?”
The demon took a step forward, but quailed when Holli
raised Flamestealer and pointed it at his face. “Yer majesty…
that sword.”
“Oh, yes, of course.” The goddess gestured at Holli and
made rueful face. “I’m sorry, my dear, but we simply can’t
permit that sort of regicide to go unpunished, even if it
worked out rather nicely in the end.”
She took a step forward, but Holli knew what she was
doing this time and she was ready. She didn’t speak, she
simply unleashed a blast of angelic hellfire right into the
goddess’ face.
Only this time, the flames didn’t burn through this new
Maomoondagh, they only flowed around the contours of her
head until the colors changed and merged with her white-hot
form. As they disappeared, she closed her eyes and an
expression of enigmatic ecstasy flashed across her face.
“Mmmmm, hit me one more time.” The goddess opened
her luminous eyes and laughed. “Savaged by a little lamb!
Oh, darling, my precious, don’t you understand, there is
nothing in this creation that can do me any harm!”
“To be sure,” Puck agreed loudly. “After all, what could
possibly harm a true Daughter of Chaos?”
Holli wondered at his strange emphasis, until she saw a
flash of motion to her left. It was Derek. No sooner had Puck
spoken than he ran towards the goddess, holding Chrysaor
aloft. And although the burning flames licked out at him as
he approached her, he did not hesitate, but cried out in
wordless triumph as he plunged Chrysaor into the Chaosthing’s burning side like a spear.
“No!” Holli screamed, suddenly realizing what Derek had
done as the Chaos fire erupted from the wound like a blazing

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volcano and he disappeared from her sight in a mass of
blinding-white flames. She took an uncertain step forward,
desperate to help him, only to be met by a diving Khasar, who
smashed into her and sent her flying backwards.
There was a brilliant flash and a deafening roar, and Holli
felt herself rising into the air. Then something struck her, or
she struck something, and the world vanished into darkness.

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C H A P T E R 36

RESTORATION
WHEN ALL THE WORLD DISSOLVES,
AND EVERY CREATURE SHALL BE PURIFIED,
ALL PLACES SHALL BE HELL THAT IS NOT HEAVEN.
— Christopher Marlowe, Doctor Faustus

H

olli awoke in a dark and formless void. It was cold. Her
arms were trapped, as were her legs, though after a
moment’s panic she realized that she couldn’t be paralyzed as
she found that she was able to wiggle her toes. Whatever
pinned her down was hard, either metal or stone of some
kind. It didn’t feel rough enough to be concrete. She tried to
picture what had happened and where she was, but try as she
might, she could only summon up the terrible explosion and
the brief sensation of flying backward. How far below the
ground was she? She had just enough room to move her head
from side to side and for her chest to rise and fall, but that
was all.
Despite her dire straits, she couldn’t help a burst of
hysterical laughter. Sure, she was buried beneath only God
knew how much rubble, she couldn’t move and she had no
idea how long her air would last, but her chances of survival
were looking a whole lot better than they were about five
minutes ago.
Maomoondagh was dead twice over,
Flamestealer must have burned at least six or eight seriously
evil demons to a crisp and maybe Puck or Melusine would be
decent enough to come looking for her. She didn’t count on it,
though. They’d have no reason to assume she survived the
collapse of the great chamber, and even if they suspected as
much, she was pretty sure that Melusine would be just as
happy to leave her buried alive, for all that she’d saved her
life earlier.

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And it would probably never even cross Puck’s mind to
think of her. But Khasar would look for her. He'd know she
wasn't dead yet. He had pretty good connections in Heaven,
after all. She did her best not to think about the many tons of
rocks or whatever on top of her and turned her mind towards
Derek. It didn’t seem possible, first, that he was gone, or
second, that she even cared. But after what they’d been
through, after what he’d done, she knew she’d never be able
to think of him as nothing but a self-centered, cold-blooded
killer again. Even if he’d survived, which really didn’t seem
all that likely at the moment, what he did was pretty darn
heroic. The thought made her sad, but it gave her hope too.
If God could change a brutal, violent heart like his, then
surely he could change a stubborn one like Daddy’s....
“You have to get me out of here!” she cried out to her
Heavenly Father, and as if in response, she suddenly had the
vague impression that the weight above had lessened a little.
A faint grayness appeared somewhere to her left, not so much
a light as a crack in the total darkness that surrounded her.
There was a creaking, groaning sound, and for one terrifying
moment, she thought everything was going to collapse in on
her.
“Hey, be careful!” she shouted.
“We found her!” she heard an answering shout. It was
only a matter of moments before she was blinking and
squinting as her eyes adjusted to the light. Huge blocks of
broken stone were magically being lifted off her, but not until
she sat up could she see who was freeing her. It was the
Faery King himself, magically tossing monstrous chunks of
concrete aside, accompanied by Khasar. Then she cried out as
she tried to move her left leg and realized it was broken.
“Hold still,” Khasar ordered, and he leaped easily down to
her and placed both hands around her shin. She felt a warm
sensation and the pain quickly disappeared. “You’ll limp for a
few days, but you’ll recover. How’s your head?”
My what? Holli reached up and felt something wet and
sticky. When she drew her hand away, it was covered with
blood. She felt light-headed at the sight of it, but the archon
quickly reached out and healed that too. “That’s a good trick,”

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she told him, doing her best to wipe off her hand on the stone
next to her.
The archon glanced at the Faery King and smiled.
“Mortals are perilously fragile. It comes in handy, when it's
permitted.”
“Derek, is he okay?”
Khasar smiled, a little sadly. “It depends what you mean
by that. He did not survive his victory, not in this shadow.
He surprised me there, at the end. I did not truly believe he
possessed the strength to see it through.”
Holli bit her lip, surprised at the pain she felt. She didn't
like Derek. She'd never liked him, and yet, pain of a sort that
she had not known since losing Paul suddenly wracked her.
But then, suspicion dawned suddenly in her mind. “You
didn't think he'd have the strength... you don't mean you were
counting on me!”
The archon shook his head. “No, he was chosen – he had
prayed many times for a chance to serve so that his life would
not be wasted behind bars. But his heart was always unsure.
We were more certain of you, although when Jehuel
appeared, I was of course delighted. Once he entered the
picture, I hoped that no one need perish.”
“I could never have done that, Khasar. Never. He was so
brave. I don’t think I could have run into the fire like that.
Honestly, I don't think I could have done it.”
“Then let us praise the Most High that we shall never
know. Now, let’s get you out of there.” Khasar bent down and
started to cradle Holli in his powerful arms, but he stopped
when Oberon laid a hand on his shoulder.
“Leave her, archon, and allow me the honor.” The Faery
King was in excellent humor, and his bearded face was
wreathed in a smile as with a mere gesture, he lifted Holli
from the debris and gently deposited her in the midst of an
open area cleared of the chamber’s wreckage. A path had
been cleared all the way to one of the great doors, and already
dozens of angels had come to pay homage to the new lord of
the realm. Some were entering slowly, and uncertainly, while
others rushed in with expressions of delight and glee, but
Oberon ignored them all as he bowed his head and kissed
Holli’s hand.

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“Albion is in your debt, mortal maiden.” He started to say
something else, but then his eyes widened and he stiffened,
forgetting Holli entirely as he stared at someone entering the
hall. There was a sudden rush of murmurs, and then all
conversation in the great room died down at once.
It was Titania. The spirits gathered in the chamber parted
like the Red Sea before her. Her eyes were downcast, but she
was entirely ravishing. Her waist-length hair was swept up
and back, bound with a complicated silver filigree. She was
wearing black robes and she was not only wingless, but
barefoot. She paid no attention to the hushed demons around
her, but walked slowly and gracefully towards the Faery
King, whose bearded face was impassive, even haughty. He
said nothing until she stopped ten or fifteen feet from him and
curtsied, refusing to so much as look at his face before
kneeling in front of him.
Oberon stood there and stared at her for a long moment, a
stunning red, black and silver vision despite her
conspicuously humble entrance. Holli saw his jaw bulge twice
with repressed emotion before he spoke, harshly and coldly.
“Too much honour, it seems I paid.
All love and faith, Lady, mislaid.
How can it be that you come here,
For have you then nothing to fear?
For decades was I lorn and lost
Reckoning treach’ry’s bitter cost.
What price a crown? What price a throne?
What think you could ever atone?
But Titania looked up to meet his gaze, and it was not she,
but the Faery King, who blinked first. Her eyes were like two
massive emeralds set in a sea of ice, and there was no
humility in her voice as she answered with words that echoed
through the shattered throne room.
I do not come for pardon, king,
Nor do I regret anything.
I had no thought to save your throne
I lived for Albion alone.

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The whore of Chaos, yes, 'tis true,
Abandoned, what else could I do?
I come merely to acknowledge
Albion’s king, and make my pledge
Of my undying loyalty
To Faerie and her royalty.
Oberon's face suffused with red, and Holli wondered if
perhaps he might burst with rage. He swelled up and for a
moment she actually thought he was going to strike Titania.
But instead, he jabbed a finger in her face and, enraged, spat
venom as poisonous as any snake's.
You beg no pardon, Lady, well,
Then get thee gone, posthaste, to Hell!
And learn no king can e’er ignore
Betrayal by an unfaithful –”
There was a flash of movement next to her and suddenly
Puck was standing beside Titania. He raised his palm in
shocking rebuke, and the makeshift Faery Court gasped in
collective dismay. But Puck cared as little for the sensibilities
of demon kings as he did for anything else and he shouted
fearlessly back at the Faery King, interrupting him before he
could complete his furious accusations.
“Speak not one more word, Oberon!
She thought of naught but Albion,
And your true faeries to protect.
She was ever the architect
Of your freedom, now listen well,
‘Twas I who changed the faery spell!
Lest you attempt to seek what’s thine
And bring to ruin my grand design.
“It was me,” he repeated, more calmly. “I changed
Gloriana's spell, and thus your memories. They are mostly
true, it was only the end that was false. The queen never
apologized to you, as she had nothing for which to apologize.

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By the time you fell, she was already gone; her honor guard
whisked her to safety as soon as the attack began.”
Puck turned to Titania and went down on one knee. “Do
forgive me, dear Lady. It was needful. There was no other
way to keep him from your side once he was free, and I dared
not let him fall into the hands of Maomoondagh.”
Titania ignored him, and rose slowly to her feet. She and
Oberon stared at each other, their faces impassive. Holli
could not tell if they were about to embrace or engage in
mortal combat. Immortal combat, she corrected herself, as
she and all the watching demons held their breath waiting to
see who would speak first. Finally, Oberon bowed his head
and held out his right hand to Titania. She took it, held it for
a moment, then curtsied again and kissed his ring. But
Oberon's face was still cold and his voice was rough as he
addressed her for a third time.
“Lady, it seems I have wronged you. And you have ruled
Albion as its queen and seen her through her longest, darkest
hour in my absence. Will you not stay, then, and defend her
as her true queen against this new power rising from across
the sea?”
Titania, still holding the Faery King's hand, threw back
her head. Her beauty was overpowering, but Holli, from her
vantage point, could see the beginnings of a tear in the corner
of her eye.
“For all that I love Faerie, I shall not consent to be her
queen alone, never! Nevermore shall I sit her throne,
nevermore shall I wear this crown unless you first assure me
that I am still the queen of your heart.”
The waiting demons was silent and tense as they waited
for the king's answer. It came quickly, as Oberon closed his
eyes and pressed her hand to his chest. His eyes, too, were
moist as he answered her in a voice husky with emotion.
“There is but one fire between us, Lady.”
He crushed her to him in an embrace that was like a river
bursting through a dam. Their audience roared with both
relief and approval, and Holli looked around in awe as green
grass began to shoot magically up from the dead, shattered
concrete, transforming the wreckage of the Mad One's throne
room into a glorious spring bower. Flowers blossomed, roses,

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bluebells, tulips and more in a mad panoply of color and joy,
and the sweet scent of them was like perfume filling the
secret glade.
The Faery King slipped his arm around the slender waist
of his queen, and with an imperious gesture quelled the
cheering watchers. “Thus is Albion reborn! Now, my friends,
you have been angels and you have been demons. But will
you stand with me, will you stand with my queen, will you
stand once more with this my realm as my Fae, against
Heaven and against Hell, against Diavelina and her damned
legions, evermore?”
The tumultuous assent of the reborn Faery Court was
deafening, and Holli, caught up in the moment, found herself
getting elbowed disapprovingly by Khasar as she started to
join in.
“Then rise, Knights of Rose and Thorn! Rise, Knights of
Hedge and Heather! Rise, o you beautiful blossoms of
undying Faerie! Oberon, your king, commands it!
In a flash, the gathered demons were transformed into a
brilliant rainbow of glass-armored warriors and gorgeously
gowned winged ladies. Holli stared about with her mouth
hanging open, overcome by the sheer spectacle of it all. It was
like something out of a children's book, but as only a child
could imagine it, a vision far beyond the feeble imaginations
of the adult world. The colors were richer than rich, brighter
than bright, and only once before, in Heaven, had she ever felt
such a palpable sense of uninhibited and riotous beauty.
“Now, there are debts that must be paid,” King Oberon
said, his teeth showing whitely through his beard as he
smiled. “Robin Goodfellow, old friend, you have but to ask of
me what you will, and you shall receive it.”
Puck bowed deeply to the Faery King, but there was
something strange about the look on his face. Melusine
caught it too; she glanced quizzically at Holli. Puck's habitual
expression of sly contempt was gone, and in its place was an
uncharacteristic wistfulness, even regret. His next words
were a complete surprise to everyone in the flowered
chamber, above all, to the Faery King.

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“It pains me to say it, but I fear I may not ask you for
anything, Oberon. For I am not your servant and you are not
my king!”
The diminutive spirit spread his hands, almost
apologetically, and in an instant was transformed into a tall
and lordly angel, clad in pale blue robes belted in gold. His
white wings were high and arched like an eagle's, and his
rumpled hair was gone entirely, revealing a smooth scalp.
“I am sorry to have deceived you, Oberon, but I knew you
would not accept my guidance had you seen me truly. For as
you see, I am yours no more; long ago I renewed my vows to a
king with a prior claim on all that I am.”
Titania raised a horrified hand to her mouth. The Faery
King's eyes darkened, and he shook his head in disbelief. The
Court fell abruptly silent as an electric sense of danger filled
the air while the two erstwhile companions stared at each
other. For a moment, Holli thought Oberon might strike
Puck, but then she saw his lips twitch beneath his beard, and
then the king smiled broadly.
“It is fitting. A trickster to the end!” The Faery King
placed his hands on Puck's shoulders. “If we must be
enemies, then so shall it be, but would that all my enemies
served me so loyally and well!” The two angels embraced, and
Holli thought she saw Puck whisper something to his former
liege lord. Certainly, Oberon was laughing as they released
each other.
Puck bowed again, then kissed the hand that Titania icily
held out for him. The Queen, it seemed to Holli, was not half
so forgiving. The renegade glanced at Holli, and for a
moment she saw a flash of the old demon he had been in the
half-smile that accompanied the wink he gave her. And the
look on Khasar's face was priceless. He looked as if he
couldn't decide to hug Puck or slug him one.
Melusine was less uncertain. “I can't even count on you to
be evil!” she snarled angrily at him before vanishing in a
cloud of red, sweet-smelling smoke. “You stupid, treacherous,
unreliable, undependable son of a misbegotten snake!”
Holli felt severely conflicted as she watched the lovely
devil-girl disappear. She had the strangest feeling that they
could have been friends, if only things were different. But

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they were on opposing sides, and in the end, that was all that
mattered.
Then the Faery King was calling to her. “Mortal maiden,
is there not aught that we can do for you? Puck is not the
only servant of the Most High to have done us great service.
What would you have? Beauty to slay the world? Riches to
buy it? Your secret heart's desire?”
Unsure if she could accept a gift from the fallen angel,
Holli glanced at Khasar. He shrugged. Good enough.
“Can you heal my father?” she asked eagerly. “He's dying,
he’s got cancer.”
Oberon's warm brown eyes clouded over. “No, child, I
cannot. I am the master of my realm, but even here, the Crab
heeds me not, I fear.”
Holli swallowed hard, nodding to hide her bitter
disappointment. She hadn't really thought he could, but she
couldn't help asking anyhow.
“And yet do not mourn overmuch, my dear,” Titania said
cupping Holli's cheek in her cool palm. “Death comes in time
to all mortals, but you shall always be welcome in Albion, and
though no man may know your deeds, the Faery Court shall
sing of them until the end of Time.” She kissed Holli on both
cheeks, then smiled as Holli did her best to imitate Titania's
own curtsy. “Fare you well, Daughter of the King.”
Puck stepped forward to claim her, and she felt Khasar
grab her other arm. She heard the assembled faeries begin to
cheer them, and then, as the riotous colors began to swirl
madly around her, she knew she had seen the glorious Court
of Fairie for the first, and, almost certainly, the last time.

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C H A P T E R 37

REFUGE
BUT AS FOR ME, I WILL ALWAYS HAVE HOPE;
I WILL PRAISE YOU MORE AND MORE.
— Psalm 71:14

H

olli found herself sitting in the hard blue plastic shell of
a stadium seat. She blinked several times before she
recognized her surroundings. She was downtown, in the
Metrodome, seated high on the upper deck between Khasar
and the smoothly regal Divine angel whose real name, she
realized, was very likely not Puck at all. At least, not
anymore. Down below was not a football game, but a stage
set up on the fifty yard-line, with a band playing soft music
and an old man with white hair praying silently in front of
the microphone. It was a church service of some kind, she
realized. Then she recognized the man.
“Why, it’s John David Collins! He was going to preach
here, I remember. They must be doing the altar call.” Sure
enough, there was movement around the edges of the field, as
the first ten or twenty people began to approach the stage,
followed by a growing stream of newly repentant sinners
leaving their seats and going forward.
Holli smiled at the heartwarming sight, which never failed
to touch her heart, and turned her attention to Puck. “So, you
were on our side all along?” she asked.
“That I was,” he answered, with that same half smile she
was kind of starting to like. He was rather more handsome
than before, but there was still something about his
expression that seemed to suggest that he regarded
everything as some sort of inside joke.

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“Why?” Khasar finally broke down and demanded an
answer. “What was the meaning of all that subterfuge? Why
didn't you tell me?”
“Oberon would never have trusted me if he knew I was on
the other side. After centuries in his company, I couldn’t help
but know exactly how he thinks. He would have gone straight
for Maomoondagh's throat and been defeated. He’s a decent
enough sort as demon king’s go – I don’t know if he’d have
even fallen in the first place if it weren’t for Titania – but he’s
no friend to those who serve the Almighty. It was best to
keep it secret.”
“Fine, but you should have at least told me!”
“Ah, but your actions would not have been half so
convincing in that case, my dear archon. No, I’m afraid that
leaving you in the dark was integral to our success. Prince
Uriel agreed; he was the only one who knew the truth. Not
even Captain Korvael or any of the other Shadowstalkers
knew.”
“Did any of them know what Maomoondagh really was?”
“I'm still not sure that anyone does, save the Most High.
The Mad One boasted of being a Son of Chaos, but I don’t
think that's entirely true. Titania told me that she eventually
came to believe that he was not a single persona, but several.
I think she may be right although it’s hard to imagine how a
spirit could possess another spirit. However, I once heard
rumors of a rite that was performed in Venice on the eve of
the first millenium. An alchemist by the name of Prodius
Marrone attempted to trap a demon inside a philosopher's
stone. If he was successful, and if there was already
something sleeping within that stone, one can imagine what
the result might be.”
Khasar grimaced. “Like the Nephilim, only worse. I hope
there's no more of them.”
“I doubt it. Alchemy has fallen rather out of fashion these
days. Even so, we'd know how to deal with another now,
thanks to that Derek.”
“You found the sword?”
“Maybe....”
Holli was only half-listening to the angels' conversation,
but hearing Derek's name caught her attention. Derek hadn’t

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347

been her friend, not exactly, but they’d been through a lot
together and only now that she was back in the real world
was the full impact of his death beginning to hit her. “Oh,
Khasar, I wish he hadn’t done that!”
She didn't have to explain who she was talking about.
Khasar put his arm around her and gave her a comforting
squeeze. “Don’t weep for Derek, darling. He found precisely
what he sought. He found purpose. A grand purpose. And
his journey is complete, from raw hatred to the greatest love
of all. He asked nothing more than to be used as an
instrument of the Almighty and a weapon against the foe, and
the Almighty gave him the opportunity. And what a weapon
he was! Every servant of God should hope to die so well.”
“I know.” Holli brushed away a tear. “I guess that’s not
the only reason I’m sad, though.”
“What is it?”
“I just… maybe it's wrong, but I just really wish King
Oberon could have done something for my father. That’s all I
really wanted, was for Daddy to be healed. To be saved and
healed.”
Puck and Khasar exchanged a glance over her head, and
Puck nodded. “Oberon’s writ may not run so far, but there is
nowhere one can go that exceeds the reach of the Most High.
In three days, let the three Warriors gather together and pray
for healing, in the full confidence that their prayers will be
granted.”
“But I thought you said Daddy had to get saved first,
Khasar, before he could be healed.” Holli’s heart leaped, but
she was afraid to hope. “And he’s too proud, he’ll never do
it.”
Khasar’s only response was to smile broadly and point to
the large screen behind the end zone. Holli looked over, and
her eyes widened at the sight of a too-thin older man walking
painfully forward, supported on either side by a tall, darkhaired young man and a blonde girl whose face was as
familiar as her own. It was Daddy, and though he looked
terrible and grimaced with every step he took, he did not slow
down for as long as the camera remained on him.

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“That’s Daddy!” she shouted, leaping up from her seat and
pointing excitedly towards the field. “It's my Dad! Khasar!
Do you see him there! Did you know?”
But when she looked back at the archon, he was not there.
He was gone. She whirled around to the left and Puck, too,
had disappeared. Only then did she understand why they
had brought her here, of all places. Overcome with the
fullness of God’s boundless grace, mercy and love, Holli buried
her face in her hands and began to cry.
Four thousand miles away, a powerful black-armored
demon cautiously approached a slender figure standing on the
windswept edge of a steep precipice, staring over the dark sea
at a colourful array of lights moving rapidly across the
northern sky. The demon did no more than let its presence be
known, for one risked more than mere displeasure in
speaking first to a Princess of Hell.
“Oberon does not wish it to escape my notice that the Wild
Hunt rides again,” Diavelina said, mostly to herself, never
taking her eyes off the rainbow-armored knights of Faerie.
She said no more, and the demonic captain wondered if
perhaps she’d forgotten him when she unexpectedly glanced
back at him. “Well?”
He fought the urge to cringe before the writhing fury in
that black gaze. “Gog Sheklah has sent word at last. He
orders you to stand down. There will be no invasion. It is felt
that the risks are too high, now that the Faery King has
returned to the throne of Albion and the Fae are united once
more.”
There was a long moment of silence, uninterrupted but for
the sound of the waves of the incoming tide crashing against
the jagged rocks far below. He had no desire to know what
she was thinking, he was only hoping to be permitted to
depart from her presence before she gave vent to her feelings.
“Lucere is a coward and a fool!” she snapped. “Had I only
the strength to defy him, I should give the order in his despite
and see my legions take to the skies tonight.”
Thank Hell for small favors! At least she did not dare open
defiance. Still, the demon could not help glancing around the
lonely outcropping, worried that someone might have

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349

overheard her treasonous words. Not even Moloch’s daughter
might dare to speak so freely without consequence. But no
one was about. He felt a moment’s relief, until she spoke
again.
“Tell Gog Sheklah that I hear, I obey and I wait… for now,”
Diavelina said in a voice as bitter and as cold as the frothing
sea. “But tell him this too. I will not wait forever.”
CLOSING TIME