Angels and the Bad Man Read online

  Angels and the Bad Man

  by

  M. K. Gibson

  Copyright © 2018 by Michael K. Gibson

  Published by

  Amber Cove Publishing

  PO Box 9605

  Chesapeake, VA 23321

  Cover design by Steve Beaulieu

  Visit his online gallery at https://www.facebook.com/BeaulisticBookServices/

  Interior Logo by T.J. Salyers

  Edited by Valerie Kann

  Book design by Jim Bernheimer

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  Visit the author’s website at www.mkgibson.com

  First Publication: January 2018

  Dedication and Acknowledgments

  In previous books, I’ve thanked a lot of people. My wife/editor Valerie, my son Jack, my mother Bonnie, my friends, and of course my publisher, Jim Bernheimer. And naturally, I thank them again, now and always.

  But for this book, I want to thank you.

  Whoever you are, I thank you.

  A lot of writers, especially first-timers, pour a lot of themselves into their protagonists. And I’m no different. Salem is me in many ways. No, I didn’t live through a biblical apocalypse, I’m not a superhero, and I don’t know any gods or demons.

  But I do know my demons.

  My issues with alcohol in past. My issues with connecting to others. Isolation. Fear. Sadness. Depression. And all the dark, dark thoughts that come while in those places.

  This particular series is where I work a lot of those demons out. I punish Salem, perhaps because part of me thinks I deserve it for my past sins.

  During my years, especially when I was in the military, I had some dark times--being in the world, but not feeling like I was part of it.

  I’ve worked out a lot of my issues, but I think we both know those feelings never truly go away. You manage them. And for me, writing helps. It helps a lot.

  So I thank you, for allowing me to connect with a stranger. I hope my books bring you amusement. If nothing else, they are fun tales of action and adventure.

  But if you feel, or have felt as I have, alone and unwanted, then please, seek help. Keep your head above water no matter how easy it would be to just let go. Find something on the horizon to focus on. Swim to shore. Pull yourself up. Reach out a hand. Even if you’re rejected over and over, never give up.

  You--we--are not alone.

  The Technomancer books are about hope. But hope isn’t needed when things are good.

  Hope is needed when times are dark.

  And in a self-serving way, I thank you for reading my books because it leaves behind a piece of me. A fraction of my psyche that my son might one day read and come to understand his dad as a person.

  For all that, and so much more, I thank and dedicate this book to YOU.

  Cheers

  M. K. Gibson

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Giant Flesh-Eating Demons and Morons

  Chapter Two

  A Great Lance

  Chapter Three

  Forty-Four Reasons

  Chapter Four

  Eleven Herbs and Spices

  Chapter Five

  Gnashing Wails of Hatred and Violence

  Chapter Six

  Ground Beef

  Chapter Seven

  I’m Going to Hurt Them

  Chapter Eight

  A Good Ol’ Fashioned Herd-Stomp

  Chapter Nine

  Against All the Fae

  Chapter Ten

  As Long As Wakinyan Wishes

  Chapter Eleven

  Trophies

  Chapter Twelve

  To Be Cold

  Chapter Thirteen

  I Just Condemned My People

  Chapter Fourteen

  Born or Hatched

  Chapter Fifteen

  Godly Vomit

  Chapter Sixteen

  A Wise Child Obeys

  Chapter Seventeen

  Old Blood and Power

  Chapter Eighteen

  To Ask for Help Is To Expose Weakness

  Chapter Nineteen

  Trust But Verify

  Chapter Twenty

  Chimera

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Orphans

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Plan B

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  You’re Late

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Hooks

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  It Was Never About You

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Hope

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Too Much Blood

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  A Big Ass Farm

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Just a Bed

  Chapter Thirty

  I Can Smell You

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Liquid Poo-Goo

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Fragments and Fluid

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  All Forty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Old Grudges and Older Scores

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Final Warning

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Many People

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  A Choir of Pissed-Off Angels

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Whispers of the Dead

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Room With No Doors

  Chapter Forty

  Just A Prayer

  Chapter Forty-One

  Are You Worthy

  Chapter Forty-Two

  We Were There

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Beyond Strangers, Beyond Enemies

  Chapter Forty-Four

  The Return of Something Lost

  Chapter Forty-Five

  The Shuddering Pain of Loss

  Chapter Forty-Six

  God’s Gonna Cut You Down

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  My Own Personal Skynet

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Innocence of a Child

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Help Has Arrived

  Chapter Fifty

  Kneel Before Zod

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Mischief and Johnny Cash

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  A Certain Ring

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Homecomings

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Redemption

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Three months ago, at Dante’s Bar & Brothel

  The entity known as Mr. Rictus, or Ricky, sat as he normally did: with his arms over his head, his fingers interlaced, and an expression of amusement at the world around him.

  Rictus was often amused by the events around him. For more often than not, those events were the direct result his machinations. If he were guilty of a singular sin, it would be Pride.

  Pride in his work.

  Pride in his skill.

  After all, the first Archangel, Lucifer Lightbringer, the Morningstar, was the Sin of Pride.

  “Explain yourself,” Father Grimm said to the shorter, heavily muscled, bald man sitting at the glossy black table.

  “What’s there to explain?” Ricky asked.

  Leaning forward and removing a cigar from an ornate wooden box sitting on his large desk, Ricky bit the end, spat it away, and lit the cigar with the tip of his glowing re
d index finger. Puffing the cigar to life, Ricky turned his gaze towards his old apprentice. Even through jet-black sunglasses, Ricky’s gaze was unsettling.

  “Is this about Salem?”

  “You know it is,” Grimm said, his eyes narrowed.

  “What’s the big problem?” Ricky asked. “A little prison time will do him wonders. Toughen him up. Give him the perspective he so desperately needs.”

  “But Flotsam?” Grimm asked. “That place is a nightmare.”

  “Is there another kind of prison?” Ricky asked with a smile. “Oh, lighten up. It’s all part of the plan.”

  “Damn it!” Grimm yelled, slamming his fist on the table and cracking its polished veneer. “Why send him to prison? You played us both!”

  “Sit down,” Ricky said.

  Grimm remained standing. The ancient mage adjusted the black leather gaucho stetson atop his head, brushed phantasmal dirt from his ancient black cassock, and crossed his arms. Grimm’s gray eyes locked onto the dark black sunglasses. He stood, resolute, in defiance of his former master’s request.

  Ricky had to admit, he was once again proud. Proud of Grimm, his creation. The former pet project-turned-student-turned-unknowing-instrument-of-his-will had grown so very strong.

  But it was time to remind him who he was.

  “SIT DOWN,” Ricky commanded, pouring a fraction of his power and will into the words.

  Grimm’s body acted of its volition, divorced from his will, and took a seat at the table. His hands rested on the tabletop,next to the spiderweb fractures. While his body moved independently, his face remained hard, locked in frustration.

  “I do not appreciate this,” Grimm said though gritted teeth.

  “Noted,” Ricky nodded. “But you were beginning to walk very close to a line.”

  “And if I wished to cross it?”

  Ricky smiled. “Trust me, kid. You don’t want to find out.”

  Grimm forced himself to relax. Slowly he nodded, willing his emotions into check. “Fine. What about Salem?”

  “You’ve grown fond of him.”

  “Yes.”

  “You’ve figured it out then?” Ricky asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Good. It’s all part of the plan. You will just have to trust me on this.”

  “And your plan, has it remained the same?” Grimm asked.

  “Checking to see if I’m still telling the truth?” Ricky asked. “Yes, the plan is the same, more or less. Everything we mapped out. But . . . variables have to be considered as they arise. This is one of them.”

  “Will he be safe?” Grimm asked.

  “No,” Ricky said honestly. “He won’t. In fact, he will suffer greatly. But he will survive. And he will come out stronger, which is what I’ll need.”

  “Why?”

  “The boy has to be made ready for what is to come.”

  “I do not understand,” Grimm said.

  “You’re not supposed to.” Ricky smirked, puffing on his cigar. “But since he means so much to you, you have my assurance that Salem will be fine. . . relatively. But that’s not what you need to be focused on at the moment.”

  Grimm’s face twitched as he cocked his head to the side. “Then what should I focus on?”

  Ricky laughed. “Come on, don’t act like I don’t know. You’re dying to know. Is he alive or isn’t he . . . Freischütz?”

  Grimm made a grimace at his old name. “I should never have made that deal with you.”

  “Probably not.”

  “Now the hex bullets are back. Rasputin was the only person I shared that secret with.”

  “Rasputin,” Ricky confirmed. “Your old apprentice. Grigori Rasputin. Josef Mengele. You thought he died as . . . Wolfgang Gerhardt? Back in what, 1977?”

  “1978,” Grim corrected. “Drowned off the coast of Brazil, swimming of all things. Years after he fled Germany. I thought he was gone. Yet there is evidence here, now, to the contrary.”

  Ricky nodded. “I see. And how could you investigate while your friend is in prison? Go,” Ricky said with a bemused smile. “The smuggler will be well taken care of, I promise.”

  Grimm pondered for a moment, mulling the information over. Ricky smoked his cigar, waiting for his old pupil to make up his mind to leave.

  “Yes,” Grimm said, coming to a decision. “Vali seems to be genuine in his recovery. The arm that was recovered from Andromalius’s vault is now with Tesla. If you give me assurance that Salem will not suffer any more than absolutely necessary, then yes, I will see what came of my old student.”

  “Salem will not suffer any more than necessary.” Ricky repeated his promise, pantomiming crossing his heart. “So where will you go first? Straight to Brazil?”

  “No.” Grimm shook his head. “Red Testament. The items needed for the hex bullets are more readily found there. The wilds of South America along with the Abominations have taken over almost all outposts and cities there. The materials would be far more scarce.”

  “That’s a long trip and a lot of power. Do you have the juice?” Ricky asked.

  “Probably,” Grimm replied. “If I use The Lines, then I could. But I will be drained.”

  “Be careful. He was always tricky.”

  “I am aware.”

  “What did you see in him?” Ricky asked.

  “I thought he had potential. I could not foresee what he would become. Not even you have that manner of foresight.”

  “You’d be surprised.” Ricky grinned. “Now, go on. I’ll take care of things from this end.”

  Grimm stood, paused, and began to laugh.

  “What?” Ricky asked.

  “I came in here angry, looking for conflict. Yet now I am leaving with a sense of resolution. After all this time, you still are capable of educating me.”

  “It’s what I do. Contact me if you get into trouble.”

  “I will. Thank you, Rictus.”

  Grimm departed Ricky’s conference room, deep below Dante’s Bar & Brothel. Holo-displays projected from Ricky’s desk fed him the security footage confirming Grimm’s departure from the establishment. Once Ricky was assured his former protégé was no longer on the premises, he opened a secure comm-link.

  “My lord.” The distorted voice came over the link. The voice modulator made identification impossible. “How may I serve?”

  “Cut the shit,” Ricky said with a chuckle. “You know I hate that ‘lord’ crap.”

  “I know,” the voice said, laughing, “which is why I do it.”

  Ricky laughed, deeply from the stomach. “Oh, that’s why you’ve always had my favor.”

  “So, is everything a go?”

  “Yes. It’s taken time, but I’ve gained access to all of Löngutangar’s security systems. When the time is right, the squad will be able to get in.”

  “Excellent,” Ricky said.

  “But why the children?” the voice asked.

  “Bathin and Maz’ael will need to use them as leverage. If you’re worried about the children, don’t fret. I’ll only need enough to make the threat credible. But there is one in particular I’ll need.”

  “Oh, do not mistake my questioning for concern. I’ve done far worse to many children in my time.”

  “I know,” Ricky said. “I taught you.”

  ********

  Grimm first traveled to the former Russia, to the eastern supercity of Red Testament, where St. Petersburg once stood. Red Testament was at constant war with its western neighbor, the supercity Cold Dominion. Both cities were in truth one massive city split down the middle along the old Russia/Finland border and divided by a history of mutual hatred.

  Upon arrival, Grimm’s nostalgia forced him to visit the Malaya Nevko, at the Bolshoy Petrovsko bridge river where Rasputin had been killed by the attendees at the Yusopov Palace. It was there that Grimm first met Grigori, floating face down in those black nighttime waters. He was late to the party. Late to stop the assassination. Because Grimm wanted to be the one to
kill him.

  Grimm sensed something in the nephilim. He had the potential to become a great mage. He already served as a mystic, because he was able to sense the world beyond. But like all would-be mages, he needed the final push. The ability to see the foundation of the world in a way those living could not.

  Therefore, Rasputin needed to die.

  Before his death, Grigori would have been one of the practitioners of magik, those known as Cunning Folk. A witch. Those who could influence the world rather than shape it.

  Rasputin had been a great apprentice to Grimm. However, Grigori’s tastes began to run . . . dark. He became obsessed with cruelty and evil. Grimm suspected it had something to do with Mastema, the angel who had sired him.

  After investigating Red Testament and knowing for sure Rasputin was not there, Grimm traveled once again along the Ley Lines of creation, bringing himself to Brazil, the last known resting place of Mengele.

  Father Grimm materialized in the middle of a green grassy field. The rolling hillside was lush and untamed with vegetation.

  Sao Paulo, Brazil was once a thriving metropolis. A jewel of South America. Now, it was a desolate place where nature fought to remove any record of human existence.

  Grimm knew it was dangerous to be there, but Brazil was the supposed final resting place of Wolfgang Gerhardt. Or as the world knew him during World War II, Joseph Mengele.

  Grimm was one of the very few who knew that Mengele was once his apprentice Grigori Rasputin. Grimm heard that Rasputin had reinvented himself into the German named Josef Mengele. And under Hitler and Thule society, Mengele performed dark acts for worse men.

  Grimm never believed in the axis powers. But he believed in their hatred, evil, cruelty, and hunger for the occult. Stopping Hitler was his first and foremost reason for infiltrating their ranks. Stopping his former protégé was his second.

  Standing there in Brazil, Grimm knelt on a grassy hill, the very spot where Gerhardt’s grave was. Grimm sensed that something of Rasputin was in this earth, but that was not enough. Grimm had to know. As he placed his hand into the earth, a languid, greenish energy poured from his mouth and eyes like a thick, putrid syrup into the ground.

  The earth absorbed the energy and the ground beneath Grimm started to glow with a similar phosphorescence. The energy delved deep into the ground, searching for a host to reanimate. Then, the power found what Grimm sought, and Grimm took control of the find.