Envy

CHAPTER 43

Adrian Vogel was a bloody fucking lunatic.

Staring out the picture window from the flat above the garage, the archangel Colin measured the battlefield down below. Previously, the quarter acre had been nothing but a dirt drive and a squat piece of lawn. The moment those minions had showed their oily faces, however, an alteration of purpose had been affected, and now Adrian was facing a legion of Devina’s bastards.

This had catastrophe stamped all over it: Even though Colin had no respect for the denizens of the demon’s lair, they were very dangerous, especially in these kinds of numbers. And that daft son of a bitch was facing off at them with nothing but a thin suit of leather and a farming tool.

Colin closed his eyes briefly and cursed. The angel was not going to make it out of this. He was an extraordinary fighter—as good as even the savior who was a master. But the sheer numbers he was facing? It was a swarm.

Except there was no leaving Eddie to go down there and help. Devina would want the body undefended, for one thing, and Jim had only a notification spell up with that bloody handprint of his. If something broke in here?t would only trigger a signal to the savior—and pulling Jim away from his work with the soul in question was not what anyone needed.

Moreover, if Colin assumed arms and went down upon the ground, he’d have to deal with Nigel for interfering—and less strife betwixt them rather than more was advisable at this point.

Except one couldn’t stand by and just watch the massacre, could one.

Getting up and going over to the door, Colin opened up the fragile, worthless barrier. Immediately, the wafting stench of acid blood tingled in his nose, and the shouts and grunts of fighting burned in his ears.

Adrian was astonishing, wielding the hay fork with piercing success even as the tide of the enemy pressed forward and threatened to close ranks to surround him. Stabbing front-wise, then angling left, then right, then returning to center, he was picking off minions with such capability that for a moment, one had to reconsider involvement.

But then a minion, backed up a mate, came in low whilst Adrian was working at the chest level.

The bastard was going for the angel’s feet, trying to get him off balance and then on the ground—at which point they would all seize control and own him like a dog.

Colin ducked back into the house and looked around.

Mirror. He needed a mirror.

A quick survey of the premises yielded one that hung over the sink in the bathroom. Unfortunately, it was part of a built-in unit upon the wall, not something he could take down from a hook. He would, however, make it work.

Focusing upon his forefinger, he gathered a coldness upon the tip, intensifying the energy, building it up and keeping it harnessed.

When he made contact with the reflective glass, the pane shattered but held itself within its frame, the cracks emanating from where he had touched. Glancing around, he found a publication upon the back of the toilet marked Car and Driver, and picking it up, he pressed the folios flat against that which he had splintered.

With a drawing force of will, he called the shards forward, separating them from their backing, affixing them temporarily upon the face of what he held to them.

When he removed the stack of papers, the pieces stuck as if they had been glued, the rest free-falling into the white sink in a tinkling, sparkling rush.

He was zip-quick as he raced back through the flat and went out upon the landing of the exterior stairs once again.

Adrian was nearly surrounded. He had done incredible work, however. With just the lowly hay fork, he had incapacitated so many, the lawn and drive were an obstacle course of black writhing bodies. Steam, from where he’d been splattered with that corrosive blood, rose off his leather outerwear, giving him a foggy shadow as he jabbed and whirled.

Holding the magazine flat in his palm, Colin commanded the mirrored shards to rise and fly, sending them in a group out to Adrian. When they arrived at their destination, they rotated en masse so that their reflective surfaces faced him and then began to circle him, picking up his image . . . and throwing it.

One Adrian became two. Two became four. Four became sixteen. Sixteen became a countless army to meet a finite force.

Each had the leather coat. Every had the pitchfork. All were the proficient killer.

They were Adrian multiplied, perfect reproductions who fought and thought exactly as he did. And as he looked around at himselves, he lost his rhythm for a moment as he realized he had backup of an unexpected kind.

He was not one to waste time in the heat of battle, however, and as he reengaged, the others of him fell into fighting stances and then made good on the preparation, engaging the minions.

“Now ’tis fair,” Colin murmured as he shut himself back in the garage and resumed his perch at the window.

It was a full-blown melee down below, a ground war of proper dimension with well-matched combatants. The minions snapped out their expandable limbs, their fangs flashing white in featureless, noir faces whilst they sought for purchase upon angel arms and legs. And in return, the Adrians engaged with no less aplomb, striking with vicious accuracy and a kind of brutal elegance of movement, that humble farming tool transformed into a most worthy weapon. As time passed, the angel brigade lengthened their territory, cutting off any avenues for rear-flank dominance, and then they began to conquer their foes, squeezing the minions into a wedge as they closed in from the sides, leaving contorted bodies underfoot.

’Twas so very satisfying to watch, but even better to be a part of, Colin thought with envy.

Up above in heaven, this war was of grave importance, yes, but there was a staunch lack of visceral feel. Here . . . this was where it was happening.

Here was where he wished he was.

Abruptly, he thought of Nigel and wondered whether the archangel was correct. Colin had long seen himself as a logical being, rising above all base emotion—and that was a big part of what defined him.

He had passion in his gut, however. Deep rivers of it.

And it made him want to fight, not play witness.

Alas, he wanted to be in Adrian’s combat boots . . .