The Night Everything Fell Apart (The Nephilim Book 1)(98)

“Um...” Reginald looked uncertain as to what reply he should make. Suddenly, his fingers snapped to the audio feed in his ear. He cleared his throat. “Well. Thank you, Professor Dusek, for that...um...unique, if...um...fanciful perspective on the volcanic eruption.” Abruptly, Dusek’s face vanished from the screen. “We go now to Carmarthen where we’ll speak with a number of eyewitnesses...”

Cybele didn’t realize how tightly she was holding the remote until Arthur pried it from her fingers. He hit a button. The screen went black. Cybele continued to stare at it. “Not all humans are going to be as incredulous as that reporter,” she said. “Now that the idea has been planted, a lot of people are going to realize what’s going on.”

“What I don’t understand,” Arthur said slowly, “is how Dusek knew of the cave and the hellfiends in the first place. The false memory he sent me seemed so real. I would have bet my life it belonged to Merlin.”

“That memory was real,” Cybele told him. “But it wasn’t Merlin’s. It was Nimue’s. She wasn’t a witch, Arthur.”

His eyes narrowed. “She was a Nephil. An Alchemist.” She saw understanding dawn in his eyes. “She was Dusek’s ancestor.”

“Yes. At least, that’s what he told me. He knew about the portal to Hell that Nimue opened with Merlin’s staff. And he knew the fiends were still trapped below the cave, waiting to burst out. When he couldn’t pull the staff from the stone himself, he tricked you into doing it for him.”

“I fell right into his trap.”

“You couldn’t have known,” Cybele said.

“That’s no excuse.”

Cybele met his gaze. “What I don’t understand is why this TV interview? Why would Dusek want the whole world to know the truth?”

Arthur looked as much at a loss as she felt. “To create a global panic?”

“Panic’s inevitable, that’s for sure. There must be hundreds of millions of those things, spreading all over the globe. Who’s going to fight them?”

Arthur shifted Merlin’s staff from one hand to the other, his gaze trained on the lifeless crystal.

“I will,” he said.

***

The door to the second bedroom squeaked open a crack.

“Are they gone?”

“Yes,” Lucky said, opening the door wide.

“Thank the everlasting fires of Hell,” Maweth muttered. A shudder ran through him. “It was bad enough when the archangel was here. Then Michael left and things got even worse. Geez.” Ignoring all the plaster dust, he plopped down on his back on the carpet. “When that staff exploded, I thought for sure we were goners.”

“Um...we can’t die,” Lucky pointed out, hovering in the air above him. “Either of us.”

Maweth looked at him and sighed. “Lucky, Lucky, Lucky. It’s just an expression. But even so. We might not be able to die, but we can get extremely uncomfortable.”

“I guess,” Lucky said, fluttering down to the floor.

“You know what?” Maweth sat up suddenly. “I’m hungry.”

“Hungry?” Lucky’s blue eyes blinked. “I didn’t know you had to eat.”

“Oh, I don’t have to,” Maweth replied. He flew into the kitchen, Lucky buzzing in his wake. “I just like to sometimes. My favorite is the food that kills people,” he added. “Especially the newer stuff—you know, trans fats, high fructose corn syrup, artificial coloring. But good old-fashioned sugar, salt, and lard are fine, too.”

He bumped about, opening and closing cabinets. “Here, gimme a hand with this refrigerator.”

It took both of them pulling on the handle, but the door finally popped open. Maweth peeked into a white paper bag. “Whoa! Doughnuts. Jam ones.” He crammed one into his mouth and held the bag out to Lucky. “Wnahnt some?”

Lucky landed on the counter. “No. But thank you.”

“Suit yourself. No use letting these babies go to waste.” He ate another jam, and then three custards. “Yum.”

Lucky frowned.

“What?” Maweth paused mid-chew. “Grossed out by my table manners?”

“What? No, that’s not it.” Lucky flew to the windowsill and peered out. “I was just wondering where all those hellfiends are going.”

“Oh, that’s easy. They’re going anywhere humans are.” He grabbed a bottle of milk and chugged some down. “Especially evil humans. And the angry ones, the hating ones, the grief-stricken ones—”

“But why? What are they going to do with them?”

“Influence them. Or outright possess them. Depending on how suggestible they are.”

“And then what?

Then what? Maweth put the milk bottle down on the counter. He suddenly felt a little sick.

“Then what?” he repeated. “Don’t ask. Because you really, really don’t want to know.”





TWENTY-FIVE


Michael had never seen Raphael so angry.

Or so frightened. His brother’s habitual pacing had morphed into a frantic scurry. With each pivot, cloud droplets frothed into Michael’s face. He didn’t dare wipe them away.