Ray cut through the lobby at high speed, closing his ears to the cries of the wounded civilians he passed. No time for you now, he thought. Just hang on, hang on and we’ll get to you ASAP. If we can.
He spotted Angel just outside the tall glass doors leading up to the lobby’s main entrance at the top of the set of marble stairs. She was looking out into the courtyard in front of the hotel and the surrounding parking lot.
“Angel—”
She turned to him, and silently gestured outwards. In the courtyard were the Witness and Butcher Dagon, both. They were surrounded by armed goons. Alejandro Jesus y Maria C de Baca stood on the lowest step of the marble stairs, looking up at Angel.
Ray grinned his crazy grin. “Alejandro,” he called. “Now’s your chance, kid. Let’s see your stuff.”
Alejandro nodded slowly. Behind him, the Witness and Butcher Dagon approached, though the gunmen kept their distance. Alejandro did or said nothing until the two aces joined him. He looked at them and nodded, then he looked up at Ray.
“It’d be best if you just gave up, Billy. I don’t want to see either you or Angel get hurt, and I’m afraid you’re pretty well out-numbered.”
Ray frowned. His pulse beat with sudden anger. “Why you little bastard,” he said. “I always thought that you were too polite.”
Alejandro shrugged. “I’m sorry to hear that. I am a great admirer of yours.”
“Yeah, well, I never liked you.”
“He gave you good advice,” Witness said. “You’d better take it. We have to join the party inside. If you let us pass, we’ll just let you go. If you try to slow us down, we’ll kill you.”
“How’s your knee, you prick?” Ray asked. “Still walking with a limp?”
Witness scowled, but Dagon grabbed his arm and shook his head.
Alejandro shrugged again. “As you will, Billy.”
“Call me ‘Mr. Ray,’ you traitorous shit.”
Alejandro turned and looked over his right shoulder, a frown of concentration on his youthful features.
Angel lifted her arms to the Heavens. “Save my soul from evil, Lord,” she intoned, “and heal this warrior’s heart.” Her sword appeared as always, a roaring flame in her hands. She smiled at him. He was happy to see that her smile was without the taint of fear. “Stand with me, Billy,” she said. “‘One sword at least thy right shall guard.’” she semi-quoted.
Ray grinned crazily. “‘One faithful heart shall praise thee,’” he responded in the same spirit. “With all due respect to Thomas Moore.”
Her eyes widened in surprise. “Why, Billy. I’d never guess you went in for poetry.”
“Stick around, babe. I’m full of surprises.”
“I believe I will,” she said, nodding.
From the parking lot came the sound of ancient stone groaning.
“Oh, crap,” Ray said.
The statues of the three apostles that stood in front of The Angels’ Bower climbed down creakily from their daises and approached the lobby entrance like arthritic giants.
Peaceable Kingdom: The Angels’ Bower
John Fortune could no longer sit on the bed without the sheets smoldering. The glow of his halo was so bright that it made Fortunato’s eyes ache. Downs, at his side, stared at the boy with a gaping mouth. The reporter was so stunned by the unexpected turn of events that he didn’t even ask Fortunato any questions.
John Fortune wore his sneakers to insulate the bottom of his feet so that he wouldn’t leave burn marks on the carpet. A wet towel was wrapped around his waist. Fortunato was afraid that anything else would burn. He had to get a new one every few minutes and exchange it with the one his son was wearing. There was no sign as to how high his temperature would eventually go.
“Maybe,” Fortunato said, “you’d be more comfortable in the bathroom. You could lie down in the tub for awhile. Rest some.”
“I’m okay,” John Fortune said, “but, yeah, you might be right.”
He seemed to realize what Fortunato didn’t want to say. That he was becoming a fire hazard in a hotel room that had so many flammable objects in it.
“I’ll go with you. We can talk for awhile.”
“That’d be nice,” the boy said.
As they headed for the bathroom, the doorbell suddenly rang. Fortunato stopped, looked at Downs. “Digger,” he said. “Go with John. I’ll be with you in a moment.”
Downs nodded. “Jeez,” he asked the boy, “does it hurt?”
John Fortune looked more bewildered than frightened. “No. Not really. It’s just... strange. I feel warm, but it’s not uncomfortable. The heat feels soothing. I am hungry, though.”
Fortunato watched them go off together, then went to the door and peered out through the spy hole. He quickly unlocked the door when he realized who was outside. The ace who called himself Creighton came in, accompanied by the enigmatic Mushroom Daddy.
“What happened?” Fortunato asked, then realized there no time for niceties. He read the story from Creighton’s mind. He glanced at Mushroom Daddy, who looked back innocently at him. Fortunato took one stab at his mind, but could not gain access to it. The man clearly was a mystery, a puzzle that would be interesting to solve, but Fortunato had no time for idle past-times. “All right,” he said. “I get it. Alejandro is out of our hands, for now, and there’s no time to retrieve the Trump, anyway. It’s no longer an alternative.”
“Right,” Jerry said.
Fortunato nodded. The only question was what to do now, and Fortunato had no answer for it.
Peaceable Kingdom: The Angels’ Bower, lobby
“Inside,” Ray shouted, and the Angel followed him unhesitatingly.
They went back into the lobby through the tall glass doors, the statues following them ponderously, like twenty-foot high golems.
“How is this possible?” Angel asked.
“It’s that frigging kid,” Ray said. “His power is animation. He can make inanimate objects obey his will. And apparently his will is for them to squash us.”
Glass shattered as the first statue hunkered down and smashed through the doors, showering shards all over the lobby’s interior. To her shame, the Angel was unsure which of the apostles this stature represented, so she thought of it as Peter. Even though it was a holy figure, she screamed an inarticulate battle cry and hurled herself at it, swinging her sword as hard as she could.
“Hamstring the bastard!” Ray shouted.
It was a good idea, but the Angel decided to aim even lower. The bastard couldn’t walk if it didn’t have any feet, she thought, and immediately wondered if Ray was being too great of an influence on her. Her sword skimmed the floor and chopped at Peter’s ankle. It clanged against stone, shivering in her hands. Her arms went numb almost up to her elbows, but she felt her blade bite deep. A sizeable chip flaked off Peter’s ankle, running up into his calf. The force of her blow caused the statue to sway like an oak in a storm. She suddenly wished that she had John Bruckner’s morningstars. With those she could reduce the statue to rubble in a matter of minutes.
One of the other statues, Call him John, the Angel thought, was crowding past Peter. John took a ponderous swipe at the Angel as Ray called out a warning. She ducked and the very tips of John’s fingers brushed against the back of her shoulders, hurling her backwards on the floor. She slid a dozen feet, broken glass scraping her leather jumpsuit, but it held.
Ray darted forward, grimacing in anger. He leaped at Peter, planting one foot on the statue’s injured leg, and swarmed up his chest like a monkey climbing a cliff. He rammed his shoulder under Peter’s chin and heaved. The ponderous sculpture tipped over backwards and fell hard to the lobby floor with all the grace of a drunken sailor.