Chapter 8

Dean

My wife and her sister are enough to drive a man to drink. If they're not going at each other for one thing, it's another. The constant bickering is a little too much sometimes, and I wondered momentarily how their father survived the teen years.

"He didn't," Grace replied to my thoughts without looking up from making a pot of coffee.

I swallowed, realizing that Truman Browning had been dead before Serra was sixteen, and when Grace was barely out of nineteen. "I know, baby," I cringed at my inconsideration. "Shit, I'm sorry."

Grace shook it off, turning and waving her hand as she leaned against the countertop. "Dad wouldn't have known what to do with us anyway. When Serra was young, she was a great little soldier. Took orders and followed directions really well." She hesitated momentarily, searching for the words. "She still is, out in the field, when it matters. I'm just always curious how much Dad knew about the job assignments."

I pursed my lips and nodded at my wife, pretending that I knew what she was talking about.

"Warrior," she stated, holding out her hand. "Nephilim. Now Gatekeepers and Vessels." She closed her eyes and shook her head slowly, looking disappointed. "It's all a little much."

"I'd like to think that if he knew, he would have talked about it with you guys," I offered, tilting my head. "But at the same time, dads like ours suffered a bit when it came to the communication skills. Thought it was better if we just didn't talk about it."

"Something tells me that Tru and John would have gotten along well."

I chuckled, picturing it. "Star-crossed brothers," I chuckled. "Oh man."

Serra came back into the kitchen, carrying duffle bags and empty gun cases. "So when are we leaving?" she asked, not wasting another minute. "I wanna get out there before anyone else does and empty that house."

Grace nodded, sighing heavily at her little sister. "Yeah, yeah," she grumbled. "Alright."

Grace

We stood in front of the dead Warrior of Heaven's house and I put my hands on my hips, considering what to do next. "Only take the stuff that's actually useful. We have plenty of weapons. Take the spell work, the chest of ingredients, the Weapons Stone weapons and ammo." Serra was nodding as I explained what to do. "And let's take the research he did on us too. I'd rather not have it be made public when someone finally gets out here."

Dean sighed. "I'm already tired," he complained.

"And what are you going to be doing, bossing us around?" Serra chimed in. "What if something we think is valuable, but you don't?"

I glanced at my sister and lifted an eyebrow, "Like what?"

"I don't know," she rolled her eyes. "I'm not gonna bother telling you."

"Fine."

Dean and Sam both walked towards the house, ignoring our mini argument. We both hesitated, watching our men head towards the house and nodded appreciatively. "Are his legs that bowed for the reason I'm thinking?" Serra muttered, falling into step next to me.

"I'll let you use your imagination," I smiled wryly.

"Guess they have that in common," Serra chuckled, shaking her head.

We worked for close to three hours, sorting through boxes of ingredients and stores of ammunition. Serra made piles by the door of boxes to go out to the Tank and Sammy wore a path in the overgrown front yard, taking the boxes one at a time out to the truck. Dean helped me sift through the ingredients and spell books that littered the house. There was no rhyme or reason for organization, so it seemed to take us longer. Once we thought we got through a certain subject, we would find another box with similar ingredients or books. It was a never-ending nightmare.

As Dean sorted next to me, he hummed "For Whom the Bell Tolls" under his breath to pass the time. Turning towards the phone, I heard it before anyone else, so I was the only one who wasn't startled when it began to ring. Jumping to his feet, Dean whipped around to face the land-line that shrilled next to him.

We all glanced at each other, barely allowing ourselves to breathe as an antiquated answering machine picked up. "No one is available now," the mechanic, computerized voice began, "please leave a message after the tone."

There was a long beep and we stared, still collectively holding our breath. "Daniel," a man's voice echoed through the room and waited as if Daniel would suddenly pick up the phone. "Daniel, you haven't checked in and Nehemiah needs a status report."

I glanced at Dean and he shrugged, then turned his attention to Sam, who had already pulled out a notebook and was writing furiously with a pen. "We can replay it," Dean muttered, chuckling quietly.

"Daniel, are you really not there?" the man's irritated voice continued. "Look, you need to check in by eight or we're going to assume the worst. Nehemiah will send the next guy if you weren't able to do your job…and you know what that means. He'll come for you."

Serra glared at the answering machine, listening intently. She turned and lifted her eyebrows, "The next guy?" she asked. I shushed her.

"When you're out of the can, call me back, man. I need to tell Nehemiah you took care of the Nephilim."

With that, he hung up the phone and the answering machine beeped loudly, rewinding the message it had successfully recorded.

Sammy made a couple more notes and closed the notebook with a snap. "So, our Warrior was Daniel and our new Big Bad is Nehemiah," he ventured. "Glad introductions have been made."

I pressed my lips together, reaching out with my abilities, listening for the signature of the voice we just heard over the answering machine. It wasn't something I had ever practiced, so I had no idea what I was looking for and got frustrated quickly.

"Alright, so we have a starting point," Serra commented. "It's nice to know that these assholes have names."

Sam tilted his head. "What, are you just going to look Nehemiah up in the phonebook and hope for the best?"

Clicking her tongue and rolling her eyes, Serra stared at Sam, irritated. "No, Samantha," she sighed. "But at least we don't have to stand around, scratching our heads, and wondering who the hell it is." She turned and shoved another box towards the entry way. "Took us months just to figure out Delilah's name."

"Did you just call me Samantha?"

"Yeah, you big baby," she muttered. Dean laughed next to her and Sam shot him a look.

I took a deep breath and nodded, surveying what was left. "I don't like that someone's out there looking for our dead Warrior," I sighed. "We need to wrap this up and get out of here."

"Don't have to tell me twice," Dean answered. "We're out of here in twenty."

"Did Daniel answer the phone?" a quiet deep Southern accented voice rolled lazily into the small room like coils of smoke. "Or am I about to be disappointed once more?"

A tall, lanky man with short, curly black hair turned towards the voice slowly and carefully, taking a slow breath and hoped it wouldn't be his last. "No, sir," he whispered. "I left a message."

"A message," he repeated, taking slow steps into the room. "And what of the other three warriors at our disposal, Carter?"

The man called Carter winced when his name was said aloud, almost as if he had been physically struck. "They are ready when you are, Nehemiah," he answered. "I told Daniel he had until eight to call me back and report in."

"Generous," Nehemiah answered. Standing up to his full height, Nehemiah Clay stood over six feet tall. In his previous lives, he could have been a basketball star or a cross country runner. He was long and lean, but muscular enough to be intimidating when necessary. Slowly and methodically, Nehemiah rolled the sleeves of his white linen shirt up to his elbows, exposing intricate, detailed tattoos that began at his wrists and lead their way up both of his arms. Entire sleeves of protective sigils and Enochian lettering wound their way up both sinewy arms.

Carter waited patiently for Nehemiah to speak, running his hands over his tight curls nervously.

"Who is the next, well-prepared Warrior?" Nehemiah asked, buttoning the rolled sleeve into place. "Daniel had his research in order. We can simply pass his work onto the next Stone worker."

Turning and moving towards a tall table, Carter flipped open a book, skimming through the pages for a name. "The next one with a Stone is Angelique Dawes," Carter explained. "She's a police officer in Indiana."

"Police officer," Nehemiah repeated. "That could get messy in a hurry. Too legit, although we will have to relieve her of her Stone." He sighed, turning towards Carter and joining him at the table. "Next."

Pointing, Carter glanced up at the extremely large man. "Ryan Strauss," he whispered, pointing at the list. "He has a Stone and his mother is recently deceased, meaning he's a bit vulnerable."

"And what does Mr. Strauss do for a living?"

"He works for Browning Arms Company, assembling rifles."

Nehemiah smiled, nodding his approval. "Isn't that appropriate?" he chuckled. "I think it's time to give our friend Ryan a call. He seems like a nice opportunity."