London, 1810
The shrieking man went immediately limp in Yates’ grip as Zerachiel pulled the glowing ball of light out of his body.
One couldn’t fully divorce a soul form its body without killing them, at least on the earthly realm, but both angels and demons, those that had been active on earth, had centuries of experience in walking right up to that line and keeping a soul there. The ball representing the assassin’s soul had several luminous tethers keeping it attached to the body, but these stretched almost to breaking point as Zerachiel slowly tugged.
“Now ask him if there’s a larger group funding this.”
He’s just a low level enforcer, Yates. I doubt he would be privy to such knowledge and if he was, we wouldn’t be able to glean any pertinent details from him regardless.
Questioning a disembodied soul was always an exercise in patience. For one only supernatural beings could talk to them, so questions were always posed through an intermediary. Angels of the Second Order were possibly the best possible choice for this as they had relatively few idiosyncrasies compared to their brethren. However, souls could only respond in the most basic terms, that is, positive or negative. Thus they were restricted to yes or no questions, which was always a pain to have to work around.
“You’re right. Ask him if they mean to release Lucifer on the city.”
Zerachiel stared at the soul for a second before shaking his head no.
He says no. Lucifer himself likely wouldn’t do something like that. Any archdemon activity on earth would invite retaliation from the archangels, breaking the Truce. I doubt he would want Anael or Michael down here with him.
Again, Zerachiel mentioned this mysterious Truce. Yates was endlessly curious about what could spark such an agreement, but Zerachiel would only say he was forbidden from speaking about it by his archangel, Raphael. Interrogation of angels from other hosts and other Orders revealed they had all been sworn to silence.
A problem for another day.
The Radiant Sun likely intended to ask for forbidden knowledge or riches or some other inane thing. There was no chance they were ready for the immensity of summoning an archdemon. The archdemon.
With a whomph, a fire broke out in the building adjacent to them. Yates sighed.
“Ask him if they knew Gatwick would be here.”
Zerachiel paused, then shook his head.
“This is good. This is good. By now, reports should have reached them that there’s a cardinal in the city. They know what that means. They’ll either flee or concentrate their forces to defend the ritual site. Either way, we get some breathing room while we regroup.”
We’ll have to hit them soon, Yates. They had no reason to rush while they were unaware of Gatwick’s presence, but now they will need to abandon secrecy and accelerate the ritual.
Yates’ mouth set in a grim line. There were a few ways to accelerate rituals safely, but unfortunately the cheapest and easiest method was blood. Human blood.
They needed to get to that site right now.
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“I apologise in advance, Eminence.”
Gatwick, startled by Yates’ sudden explosion of motion, could barely get his bearings let alone understand the man.
You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.
Why is h-
With a yelp, Gatwick was launched bodily into the top floor of an office building, crashing through the brick wall into a thankfully abandoned room, rolling twice before coming to a stop.
Coughing from the dust and winded from the impact, the cardinal felt the spark of an indignant rage begin to form. What the blazes had gotten into the man? They had no time fo-
Bang! Bang!
Gatwick heard the shots ring out for the first time, and understanding dawned on him. This was an attack. Immediately his thoughts went to Mary back at the manor, but he shook his worries away. He was a cardinal. No one would dare hurt him.
Seraphim, being the most prideful and finicky Choir among the heavens, refused to dedicate a part of their power to enhancing their summoner’s bodies. What physical enhancements a given cardinal had was dependent on their heavenly Numen, and that varied wildly though was usually on the low end. Notoriously difficult, the seraphs only deigned to allow themselves to be called upon by the highest Church officials, and even then sparingly. However, one benefit to their pride was that they refused to allow any slight upon their summoner to go unpunished. Every last cardinal thus was filled with Divine Fire that would pour out and viciously immolate any who dared break the skin of one tied to “God’s favourites”, as they style themselves.
He was completely safe.
I’m safe. I’ll be fine.
Reassuring himself with a nod, he got up and began to search around for an exit, when he heard the creak of a staircase. His heart thudded in his chest.
“Wh- Who’s there! Show yourself! I demand it!”
The door to the room slammed open, kicked by the hooded man now making his way through. Gatwick put a hand to his breast, feeling nothing.
Curses, I’ve dropped my pistol.
He fell to the floor, dodging just as the assassin rose his rifle and shot.
Bang!
Gatwick felt the bullet zip by his face, very nearly touching him.
Bullet spent, he and the assassin just stared at each other, before Gatwick found that spark again.
“Are you insane? I am a cardinal! You could torch this entire block if you hurt me.”
He stood up and dusted himself off, expecting the hoodlum to realise his mistake. Instead, he heard the hiss of a blade leaving its sheath.
“We know. I have already contacted my superiors and those more… equipped to deal with you are on the way. In the meantime, however, you cannot leave this place until they arrive. I know I cannot kill you, but I can cripple you for long enough, at the cost of my life.”
Gatwick’s heart leapt into his throat. The man was right. His base healing factor would stop any fatal wounds and he could recover from anything given enough time. But that was the issue. He didn’t have time.
“Have you no heart, man? Think about how many women might die in this fire, how many children! Don’t do this, please!”
Bargaining turned to pleading as the assassin walked closer, brandishing a short sword. With a grin, the brute lashed out with the blade, severing Gatwick’s Achilles heel.
The cardinal squealed and fell to the floor once more, as a jet of golden flame burst out of the wound, while golden-flecked blood pooled on the floor. The walls and ceiling around Gatwick began to blacken and smoulder as the temperature sharply rose.
The assassin then made a flurry of strikes, slicing through Gatwick’s neck, lopping off his left arm, then finally ramming his sword home into the cardinal’s gut, severing his spine and pinning him to the floor. Each wound he caused created another gout of brilliant flame to fountain out, flame that sought him out and incinerated him slowly, too slowly.
Gatwick, lost in the haze of agony and terror both, didn’t realise what that meant. As the flames fully engulfed the assassin, he fell to his knees, spasmed once, then moved no more.
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Yates leapt up the side of the building, smoothly somersaulting through a window on the floor underneath the blaze. Rolling to his feet, he immediately took note of the Numen in the air.
I knew, but I still had hoped.
Gatwick was bleeding somewhere.
At peace, Yates, I’ll deal with it.
As Yates left his room and climbed the stairs to the floor Gatwick was on, Zerachiel flew up the face of the building, directly entering the conflagration. A second later, the fire died down to a smoking char.
Mother of God.
They found Gatwick in a wretched state, a broken, blubbering mess in the middle of the room, spewing a directionless, sputtering flame. His throat was cut, his arm lay a few feet away from the rest of him and there was a sword hilt-deep in his stomach. He lay in a veritable lake of blood, golden flecks glittering within the crimson liquid. He saw the pile of ash that likely used to be the being that did this.
Yates closed his eyes, held the bridge of his nose, and sighed.
“I apologise once more, Eminence, but we do not have time for this. Zerachiel.”
The angel plucked a petal from the deep red rose in his hand, and dropped it over the cardinal. It fluttered down as it descended and when it touched Gatwick, a wave of pure energy washed over him.
Yates came forward and pulled the sword out of the man’s body, tossing it aside. As Gatwick’s body crackled and popped during the intense healing, the Inquisitor just hefted him onto his shoulder, ran for the hole in the wall and leapt out of the building, racing for the ritual site.
This will have to be it. A broken cardinal and I. God help us.