Behold ! Read online

  “We only have one in the bedroom, because I only watch it with Clara,” Frank said, looking worriedly at his wife. She still stared vacantly into the middle distance, but her breathing was slow and regular.

  “Try using the mirror on the wall next to the hallway,” Marrisa suggested.

  “Huh?” Pris said, confusing dancing across her features. “Mom, the mirror isn’t plugged in, and isn’t used to communicate.” She spoke as if she were explaining something to a young child having difficulty grasping a concept.

  “Young lady, you may not use that tone of voice with me,” Marrisa replied harshly. “I saw a movie once where a magician used a mirror to talk to people in another country,” she explained stiffly, as if embarrassed.

  “Hey, can’t hurt to try,” Frank admonished. “You said yourself; you have no idea the limits of what you can do.”

  Dutifully, yet hesitantly, Pris turned to face the mirror, which was about 20 feet away. Closing her eyes, she sighed as she relaxed, thinking about Ham. “Mirror, mirror, on the wall...” she began.

  The reflection of the room they were in, as seen from several different angles, shimmered for a moment before it disappeared. In its place was a sharp, crisp image of Ham in a hospital bed. An IV ran into his left arm, and his right lay across his chest. As they watched, a woman came in and consulted his chart, then glanced around the room before stealthily pulling a syringe from her smock pocket. Frank was immediately on his radio.

  “Get in Ham’s room now,” he screamed into the microphone. “There’s a woman I don’t think belongs in there, and she’s about to inject something into him or his IV.”

  As they continued to watch the drama unfold, an officer burst through the door, weapon drawn. There was no sound, but you could tell by the way she flinched he had shouted at her. She held up her hands, assurance and calm radiating from her as her lips moved and she gestured toward Ham’s unconscious form.

  The officer wasn’t hearing it, he’d been ordered to stop her, and that was his intent. Shrugging, the woman began to pocket the syringe, walking toward the officer. As he backed toward the door, he spoke something to her again, and this time she lunged at him as she pulled the syringe from her pocket.

  It was apparent she intended to inject the officer with the contents, and as her hand began the downward arc toward his chest, the pistol in his erupted. The concussion from the discharge was obvious in the way the air between them rippled, and the woman staggered backward, grasping her abdomen.

  Realizing she was found out, she turned the syringe on herself, jabbing it into her own neck and thumbing the plunger down. She convulsed once before dropping to her knees. As she fell forward onto her face, she threw her arms out to her sides as her legs and back locked in a rigid spasm. The officer could be seen shouting into his shoulder mic, and the sound of his voice came out of Frank’s radio.

  “Officer needs assistance, room 113, recovery ward.” Then the mirror was just a mirror.

  “What is going on?” Pris nearly screamed the words. “That woman just tried to kill Ham.”

  Frank was busy on the radio, shouting orders. “Nobody moves her body until I get there, is that understood? Double the guards; one outside the door and one in the room on the other side of the bed. Inside officer to stay as far away from the door as possible, and everyone remain extra vigilant. Clear the floor of all non-essential personnel. Acknowledge.” He was headed for the front door, still talking on the hand-held.

  “Jennings, Omikawa, get inside here now. I want two more cars here immediately; one in front and one on the next block watching the back of this house. Move,” he barked.

  Frank yanked the front door open without waiting for a response from the officers outside. Clara screamed his name as a blast came through the opening doorway, accompanied by a brilliant fireball of light.

  FOURTEEN

  AS FRANK WAS BLOWN back into the room, four men rushed through the open doorway. Dust filled the air, and the blast had caused all three women’s ears to begin ringing painfully. Marrisa had risen from her chair to walk toward the front door, intent on asking Frank what he was going to do about them if he left, and had stopped when she heard him calling the officers in from outside.

  Now she was thrown backward, landing flat and knocking the air from her lungs with an explosive grunt Pris heard and felt even over the explosion. She tried to call for her mom, but her voice wasn’t working. In fact, nothing was working. She was struggling just to draw a breath.

  Clara was slumped in her chair, her eyes closed.

  “Grab the girl,” she heard someone yell, as if from a great distance.

  “What about the other two?” called a different voice.

  “Leave them, it’s the girl he wants,” the first voice said.

  One of the men began fumbling with her chair motor, trying to disengage the drive coupling so the chair could be pushed. As he finished this, the third man grabbed the chair from behind and whirled it toward the door; inconsiderate of Priscilla’s body being slammed around in the chair’s confines.

  “Stop,” Pris tried to shout. It was all she could do, and poorly. She repeatedly tried with every fiber of her being until it was a full-throated scream.

  “Shut up or I’ll stuff a towel in your mouth,” the man growled in her ear. Pris just kept screaming.

  When they reached the door, two more men appeared just outside. All six were carrying tactical rifles except her driver; his was slung across his back. Abruptly, Marrisa leapt to her feet and dashed toward the group. One of the men at the door was facing in and saw her coming. Shouting a warning, he turned the barrel of his rifle toward her and brought it to his shoulder.

  Throwing her hand out in front of her, palm out and fingers splayed upward, Marrisa shouted something unintelligible. A crashing boom of noise, light, and force struck the two men in the doorway, flinging them out into the night. Two of the original four men whirled to face her, bringing their weapons to bear, and were greeted with a repeat of her previous display.

  One was hurled against the wall next to the door with sufficient force to break through the sheetrock. The other attacker slammed into the open door, knocking it off its hinges while he crashed into the wall before rebounding onto the floor. The door fell heavily onto his still form.

  The other man, who had disengaged the chair’s drive, was close enough he could reach out and touch Marrisa, and he did so; or at least, he tried. As he lunged for her, she slashed the same outthrust hand across the air in front of his face and he spun into the center of the room.

  The man would have made Baryshnikov jealous, the way he was pirouetting across the carpet. He spun five or six times before his upper body weight pulled him down. Hitting the floor, he bounced into the far wall, where he remained motionless.

  The remaining man shoved the wheelchair toward the open door and whirled, his hand outstretched in a similar manner as Marrisa. An azure ball of energy appeared between the two, writhing and roiling around like a huge display of St. Elmo’s Fire. Red streamers crackled and spit out of the ball, and it shifted back and forth between the two for several seconds.

  “Commendare,” Marrisa shouted, bringing her second hand into position alongside her first.

  As the ball moved decidedly toward the man, he mimicked her pose and arrested its movement. Now it remained between them, closer to the man than before, but still roiling and sizzling.

  “Imperium commendare,” Marrisa screamed, and the ball began moving toward the man again.

  He began to slide backward across the carpeted floor, his hiking boots making tearing noises as they sought traction in the fibers. He slid backward into the corner by the doorway, and now had nowhere else to go. Fear danced across his face, followed by determination. Hunching his shoulders and screaming a hoarse war cry, he redoubled his effort.

  But the ball kept moving toward him, until it touched his outstretched fingertips. There was a blinding flash, like looking at an arc welder
when it makes contact, only much larger. It was followed immediately by a concussion which seemed to shake the very foundation of the house; and the man vaporized.

  He didn’t disappear; the action happened very quickly, but slowly enough for Pris to see. Her chair had rolled to a stop near the front door, facing into the same corner in which the battle had culminated. The man simply...dissolved.

  Pris tried to turn her chair to face her mother, intent on demanding to know just what in the Blue Hades was going on, but the drive was still disengaged. She could just turn her head far enough to see her mother’s eyes roll back before she collapsed onto the carpet.

  Pris called for help into the night sky for several minutes before one of the police officers on duty outside staggered up the walk. His face was a bloody mask, and he was dragging his left leg. His right arm dangled uselessly at his side, but he was trying to reach his epaulet mic with his left hand.

  “Officers down. Officer needs assistance, Lieutenant Kratos’ house. The LT is down, I repeat, the LT is down. Three suspects also down. Officer needs assistance right now, damnit!” he finished.

  Pris looked at the tattered man and hesitated to ask him if he could reengage her drive, but she wanted to at least be able to stay out of the way for the ensuing chaos she knew would shortly begin.

  “Sir, I hate to bother you at a time like this, but can I tell you how to engage the drive on my chair so I can get out of the way, please?” she asked as calmly as she could manage.

  She could see his name badge on his shirt: Omikawa. The officer stared at her blankly, as if he couldn’t comprehend the request.

  “Officer Omikawa, can you help me, please?” Pris tried again. Omikawa shook himself, grimacing in pain. His face flushed, and Pris thought for a moment he might pass out.

  Then his eyes cleared and focused. He looked at her carefully and said, “Tell me what to do.”

  THE HOUSE WAS INDEED chaos; at least a dozen police officers and plainclothes detectives crowded into the living room. Frank had been rushed away via ambulance; Pris heard someone say critical condition. Clara was coming back around, and two policemen had picked the limp form of Marrisa Benson off the floor. She was still unconscious, and after first assessing her vitals, they laid her gently on the sofa.

  Officer Omikawa had at first refused to be treated until Frank and the women were seen to, but he’d been outvoted by the paramedics. They’d taken one look at him and immediately forced him to the floor. He now sat in the kitchen at the counter, an untouched cup of coffee cooling in front of him.

  He’d repeated the story to investigators at least three times, and was tired of talking. His head was bandaged, and his right arm was in a sling and swath. He’d lost one of his shoes somewhere along the way, and his stocking foot rested on the ring of the stool. Pris sat next to him, sipping water from a bottle with a straw someone had found in a drawer in the kitchen.

  “You really should go home and get some rest,” Pris told him. He did indeed look like he was ready to pass out.

  “I’m not sure I can make it that far,” he replied. “I surely can’t drive, and I don’t want to take another officer away from the investigation just to chauffeur me home.”

  “Why don’t you go down the hall and lay down in Frank’s bedroom?” Pris suggested. “I’m pretty sure he won’t be home tonight.” And then she had burst out crying, in great, jagged sobs which wracked her body.

  “Hey, hey, it’s over now, everyone will be okay,” he soothed.

  “How can you say that?” she wailed. “Frank is in critical condition, my mom is unconscious, and Clara seems to be stuck somewhere in la-la land.”

  “Actually, I’m just back from la-la land, and it was NOT a pleasant journey,” Clara said from the other end of the counter.

  “Oh, my goodness, I’m so glad to hear your voice,” Pris enthused.

  “And I yours, young lady,” Clara replied. “Tell me what happened.”

  Looking directly at her, Pris locked her eyes with Clara’s, before cutting them toward Omikawa. “I’m not really sure where to begin,” she fudged.

  “Officer, this is my home,” Clara informed him. “I would be pleased if you would do as this young lady suggested; go down the hall to the second door on the right and lie down on the bed. You can remove your soiled shirt if you desire, or just stretch out on top of the blanket. I really don’t mind either way.” Clara’s eyes had glowed as she spoke, and now Omikawa rose from his stool.

  “Thank you, ma’am. I believe I’ll do just that,” he said, now under Raquel’s influence. He stood and stumbled toward the hall.

  “Now, tell me,” Clara said urgently.

  When she told Clara about Frank, the woman seemed to age right before her eyes. She sighed deeply; then focused on Pris again. “Continue,” was all she said. After recounting the battle between her mother and the attacker, Clara’s eyes glowed fiercely. “Are you sure she said Imperium Commendare, child? Be absolutely certain.”

  “Yes, I’m certain. Where else would I have even heard such words?” Pris asked belligerently. “What do they mean, anyway?”

  “They’re words of power only angels can use,” Raquel replied. “And only certain angels; warrior angels.” She paused to consider. “It would appear one of my brethren interceded on our behalf while I was indisposed. He must have taken control of your mother’s body, as she was the only person here capable of unrestricted movement.”

  She paused, considering the importance of the action. “It was a serious breach of protocol, and a price will be paid. But the fact that one of the attackers could respond to her in kind means only one thing; at least a second hierarchy demon was in possession of his body. That would be the only way one of our own would be allowed to interfere.”

  “What is a second hierarchy demon?” Pris asked, enthralled and aghast simultaneously.

  “There will be time for me to share all of our history with you,” Raquel said. “But right now, we need to get to the hospital and see to Frank and Ham. Things are advancing much more rapidly than I had feared.”

  “Who can take us?” Pris observed. “I don’t think any of these policemen will, and mom’s still out.”

  “Actually, mom’s right here,” Marrisa said from the entrance to the living room.

  “Mom,” Pris shouted. Heads turned her way, but she didn’t even care.

  “Oh, baby girl, I’m so sorry you had to go through all this,” Marrisa said as she moved to embrace her daughter.

  “Mom, did you know you were inhabited by an angel; a warrior angel?” Pris whispered.

  Marrisa’s head whipped around to Clara, her eyes locking on like a radar tracking system in a fighter plane. “Is that so?” she observed casually.

  “Marrisa, there is much to discuss, and even more to explain, but for right now, we need to get to the hospital,” Raquel said pointedly. “As one of my brethren was so bold as to enter your body unbidden, Frank and Ham must be in grievous danger.”

  Marrisa looked at her long and hard. “I’ll get the van warmed up,” she said.

  “There’s no time,” Raquel replied. “We must make all haste to get to them. I fear the worst.”

  “Well, then let’s go,” Marrisa said.

  She grabbed her purse and headed toward the garage, then had a second thought. Going back to the kitchen counter, she picked up Omikawa’s radio from where he had left it. Glancing around, she put it in her purse.

  FIFTEEN

  “I’M CLARA KRATOS. MY husband, Detective Lieutenant Frank Kratos, was brought here recently by ambulance,” Clara explained to the ER nurse. “I need to see him right away. It involves the case, and is a matter of extreme importance.”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Kratos, but your husband is in surgery,” the nurse replied. “You’ll have to wait for the surgeon or one of the team to come out in order to find out any information. As far as speaking to him, that’s just not possible right now.”

  “Where can we wait
that one of the team may find us?” Clara asked calmly.

  “I can lead you to the ICU waiting room, but it’s for immediate family only,” she said, eyeing the others.

  “This is Frank’s sister, Marrisa, and her daughter Priscilla, they’ve been staying with us,” she lied easily.

  “Very well, ma’am, if you’ll follow me?”

  Nothing was said about the deception Clara had passed on the ER nurse, it was more expedient than trying to explain all the reasons why they were together. Once in the ICU waiting room, she turned toward Marrisa.

  “Do you think you can find out where Hamilton is?” Clara asked in a stage whisper.

  “Probably, it’s not a very big hospital,” Marrisa replied. Why do you want to know?”

  “There are some wards Raquel can place on his room to keep anyone associated with the demonic bunch from entering, but she has to be physically in the room,” Clara explained.

  “I’m sure there will be several guards posted, as well as who-knows-what else after Frank was injured,” Marrisa reminded her. “And, do we even know what exactly happened to Frank? Was he shot?”

  “There was an explosion at the door just as he opened it, and he flew backward into the room,” Pris explained.

  She had told her part of the story to at least three officers or detectives, and Clara, but now realized her mother had not been privy to any of those conversations. She hit the high points again so as not to delay the quest for Ham.

  “When I get back, or when there’s a dull moment, you will explain to me how a Warrior Angel can just take over my body, right?” Marrisa asked pointedly of Clara.

  Eyes flashing, Raquel spoke. “In days past, some considered it a rare honor to be the vessel for any angel, especially one of the warrior caste,” she stated rather aloofly.

  “And given the choice, I would be honored to do the same,” Marrisa said to mollify the angel. “I just want to hear how it can be done without my permission.”