Chapter 3 – For The Reckless Ones
The seven of them had been taken to the testing area by Dr. Roarke, one by one, until only Lorrie and Ursula were left, waiting to be called on.
Perhaps it was by design, but they were the worst two people Benoit could have left alone with each other. After a few minutes of them throwing surreptitious glares at each other, Lorrie couldn't stand it any more.
"Look, I know you don't like me, and I don't like you, either," the brunette said bluntly. "But I'm getting sick of you glaring at me, all the time."
"You should consider yourself lucky," Ursula said disdainfully. "If I was really glaring at you, you wouldn't be alive, right now."
Lorrie felt a chill, but she didn't want to seem intimidated. Still, she avoided Ursula's gaze by wandering around the room. They were in a place that looked like a mad scientist's laboratory, or something. Actually, that was probably a pretty apt comparison, she thought with faint amusement. That was exactly the type of guy Dr. Roarke was. He gave her the creeps. She picked up a beaker of liquid, and gave it a tentative sniff. Yuk.
Ursula was still staring at her, though, and Lorrie lost her temper. "What the hell is your problem?" she said, wheeling on the blonde woman.
"You are," Ursula told her. "What do you think is going to happen, here? I see the way you're looking at him. Well, don't bother. I've been keeping him very happy, and I'll continue making him happy after this weekend."
Lorrie laughed harshly. "Really? Well, if you've been keeping him so happy, then why is he sleeping with me?"
Ursula looked at her with an incredulous expression. "You're delusional," she said spitefully. "You only wish."
"Where do you think THIS came from?" Lorrie reached into her blouse and took out the gold necklace. Benoit had taken her shopping to L'Image, the most exclusive jewellery store in the city, and bought her the outrageously expensive piece. Then they'd had a sumptuous meal, and then...
Ursula was doing the slow burn, now. Benoit had never bought HER anything. The irony of being his mistress, and being jealous of Benoit sleeping with another woman a few days before his wedding to a third woman, was completely lost on Ursula. All she knew was that she was so sick of Lorrie, sauntering around like she was the most special person in the universe. "You're nothing to him," she hissed.
"Oh, and you think he's got feelings for YOU?" Lorrie scoffed. She was looking directly at Ursula now, forgetting for a moment about her power. All Lorrie knew was that somebody had to give this girl a wake-up call.
"It's me that he asks for help," Ursula said in a clipped tone, "not you. Not any of you. I can protect him. What are you? Just some slut he uses like a prostitute. Instead of giving you money, he buys you things. You're a whore, Lorrie. That's all you are."
"Oh? And you're not?" Lorrie said sarcastically. "Well, at least I'm getting something for it. And I'm going to keep on doing it, too, long after you start getting wrinkles, and your boobs are down to your knees. At least I don't have black roots, like you do. Who are you trying to fool, with that hair colour?"
Ursula was enraged, but she still didn't quite have the nerve to hurt Lorrie with her power. Benoit might be very upset to lose one of his staff like that. Still, she wanted to teach the bitch a lesson, so she looked around wildly for something to -
Perfect. Ursula saw a glass container full of clear liquid on the counter. She grabbed it and screwed the lid off, hurling the acid at Lorrie's face.
The young brunette was caught completely by surprise. The caustic liquid burned her eyes immediately, and then the flesh on her face began to bubble. She screamed, accidentally swallowing some of the acid, which then began to burn her throat.
"At least I still have my looks," Ursula said nastily. Then she turned on her heel and left the room, as Toby and Cody pushed past her. Toby dropped to his knees beside Lorrie, who was writhing on the floor. She'd stopped screaming by now, but by the time Cody had run to get help, Lorrie had passed out from the shock and the pain.
Benoit could have had Dr. Roarke or Huey transport Lorrie to the hospital immediately, but he chose to have Roarke call an ambulance, instead. Then, he had Huey take him and the others back to the office. He wasn't about to take the chance that someone might spot him or one of his cabinet members at the warehouse facility; not with what was going to be happening there shortly.
Dr. Roarke met the ambulance attendants outside in the parking lot. He had Lorrie bundled up in a blanket, and as the men rushed out of the vehicle with the gurney, Roarke placed her gently on the stretcher. He apologized profusely to the emergency workers, saying that the girl, who was an employee of his, had had a terrible accident. If they could please take care of her, he would dismiss the rest of the staff for the day, lock up the facility, and be right there.
Hours later, Lorrie had received as much care as the hospital had been able to give her, and she was sitting up in bed with a morphine IV drip in her arm. Visiting hours were over, but Dr. Roarke winked Benoit into her room. Then, the Angel stood guard at the door. It would not do for an employee to come into the room unexpectedly, and find the President there. Benoit could not be associated with the facility where she had been injured. On the surface, it looked like any other workplace, and there should be no reason for anyone to think otherwise. But Benoit had built his career on a solid foundation of respectability, and he meant to keep it that way.
As it was, a lot of money and influence would likely have to be utilized to ensure that there was no investigation done at the premises. But the President didn't think it would be too much of a problem. As far back as his leadership of Les Rebelles Blancs, he had known that anything could be accomplished, if the price was right. Anything.
He drew up a chair at Lorrie's bedside, forcing himself to look at her face. The acid had done its job very well. Lorrie's eyes were opaque, and the skin on her face was corroded, and an angry red in colour. She was truly repulsive to look at. Ursula hadn't even had to use her powers, though Benoit sorely wished she had. That was why he'd left the two girls alone, in the first place. Ursula was supposed to have done her thing, and then, once Lorrie was dead, he was going to have her cremated in one of the ovens. No muss, no fuss, except for the inevitable cleanup of bodily fluids. But for some reason, Ursula had pulled back, leaving him with this mess. What to do?
"How bad is it?" Lorrie said dully. Her tone was raspy; almost guttural. The acid had burned her vocal cords when she had opened her mouth to scream.
Benoit reached into her bedside table and pulled out her purse. He took out her compact, preparing to hand her the mirror, but then he stopped. "Can you see?" he asked her.
"Not really," Lorrie said in a tearful voice, her lower lip trembling. "I wouldn't be able to tell that it was you, if I didn't recognize your voice."
Levesque was silent for a moment. Then he dropped the compact back into her purse. "You're hideous," he said softly. "Grotesque. The sight of you makes me want to vomit."
He rose from the chair. "Do the right thing, Lorrie," Benoit added harshly. Then he strode over to Dr. Roarke, and the Angel winked him away.
Lorrie sat there for a while, thinking about her situation. Finally, she made up her mind. She pressed the call button, and when the nurse came, Lorrie told the woman she was starving. Could she please have something to eat?
The kitchen was closed, the nurse told her. But the young girl started to cry, and Beth felt sorry for her. The poor thing had been through such an ordeal. She would need to have multiple surgeries and years of therapy before she would be able to cope with her life, going forward. The least that Beth could do was show the girl a little kindness.
"I'll tell you what," she said to Lorrie, patting the patient's hand. "I brought some homemade stew for my supper. I'll bring you that, and I can get a sandwich for myself later on. Would you like that?"
Lorrie smiled and said that would be very nice. And when Beth brought her the stew on a plate, Lorrie took a bite and told the nurse that it was delicious. But, even though the morphine was helping, it would take her a little while to finish. Would Beth mind?
Not at all, the nurse said. She had to update some charts, anyway. Just push the call button when you're done, she advised the patient.
Once Beth had left her room, Lorrie took a deep breath, even though it hurt her throat to do so. She'd never actually done this before, of course, so she wasn't even sure it would work. But there was no other way.
She plunged her hand into the plate of stew, and concentrated.
Michelle hung up the phone in her hotel room, dazed by the news. Benoit had just called his fiancee to tell her that young Lorrie, one of his assistants, had committed suicide the previous night.
Michelle was shocked. What a terrible thing for the poor girl to have been through. Benoit had told her about the disfiguring accident, going light on the details. He'd been to see the girl at the hospital as soon as he'd received word that she was there, pledging his support. But Lorrie had been despondent. Prior to the accident, she had been a very attractive young woman, Benoit reminded Michelle. There were quite a few young men who had expressed an interest in her, he'd said sadly; but as far as Benoit knew, she had kept them all at arm's length. He really hadn't known the girl all that well. Perhaps she had been dealing with some other issues in her life. In any event, it was an awful shame. He was going to make sure to invite all of her young friends to her funeral, and he would be footing the bill, of course.
She hadn't known Lorrie, but Michelle had cried for the girl nonetheless. Then she had asked Ben if they shouldn't postpone the wedding. Wouldn't it be insensitive to celebrate such a joyous occasion less than a handful of days after a tragedy like this had befallen one of their own?
Benoit had cursed to himself. He hadn't thought of that. How would it look to the public? But the elaborate plans had all been made, and the bottom line was, he didn't want to postpone. After all, it wasn't his fault that things had worked out the way they had. If Ursula had just done her job properly, no one would ever have known about what had happened to Lorrie. She could have just...disappeared. Maybe Benoit could have told everyone she had resigned her post, and moved away. Now, at least the girl was dead, but she'd left a stain behind. He hadn't decided whether he was going to talk to Ursula about it, or not. Perhaps a little "accident" should be arranged for Ursula as well, if she wouldn't stay in line. It would be a real shame to lose that kind of power, though. But first, they would have Lorrie's memorial, and then would come his and Michelle's wedding.
"I think it's very good of you to make such an offer," Benoit said to his fiancee in that smooth tone he had. "But even though I didn't know the girl all that well, I happen to know that she was very much looking forward to our wedding. So are the rest of the staff. I think it could be just the thing to lift everyone's spirits, after such a sad incident. Besides, I confess I can't wait any longer to make you my wife. And Gerard is almost as excited as I am. He keeps on asking me when Maman Michelle is moving in."
Michelle smiled now. Gerard was adorable. Immature for his age, but she guessed that was understandable, considering the type of lifestyle Ben had his son accustomed to living. The boy was cloistered away in that mansion, deprived of interaction with people, especially kids his own age. Ben had expressed regret about this, but he'd said it couldn't be helped. When he had adopted Gerard, the boy had been terrified of other people. Then, after showing him love and compassion, Ben had gotten Gerard to emerge from his shell somewhat. But then, Benoit had been in the public arena, and then he'd been elected President, and he had worried about the possibility of kidnapping. So in the end, he'd kept the child at home and given him books and a computer, and had done his best to help Gerard in his education, when there was time in his busy schedule. Perhaps they could talk about sending him to private school, once Michelle had moved in.
Benoit had no intention of sending Gerard away to school, of course. With the boy's powers and present inability to control them without being dosed with Dr. Roarke's formula, it was far too dangerous. Luckily, Michelle had balked at the idea, telling her fiance that she would love to spend time with Gerard, and help him with his education.
So everything was on track, after what had turned out to be a minor setback only, Benoit thought to himself. He spoke to Michelle for a few more minutes, and then told her that he had to go. Arrangements for the memorial needed to be made. They would talk again, soon.
Back in the United States, Bobby was taking care of Heaven's business. He had finally bitten the bullet and called Crowley for a meeting.
The King was surprised to hear from his opposite number after all this time. It had been quite a while since he'd had to have anything to do with Heaven, or with any of the Angels. Who needed Eden? That was his version of Paradise, right there.
But at least it was Bobby calling, and not Castiel. Crowley was bemused when God had suggested that they take their meeting in a little hole-in-the-wall pub that Bobby used to go to once in a while, when he'd been human. At least they could have a drink while they were chatting, like civilized beings. Maybe even toss a few feathers; make a friendly wager. What could Bobby put up for grabs? If Crowley won, maybe his opposite number would agree to smite Frank or the Winchesters, just a little. Maybe they could go double or nothing on Cas.
When Crowley slid into the booth, Bobby surprised him again by having pre-ordered the King's favourite brand of scotch, which was on the table waiting for him. God was nursing a bourbon. The men clinked glasses silently and drank.
"Must be one hell of a favour you're looking for," Crowley said affably. "If you'll pardon the pun."
"Actually, what I need to talk to you about will benefit us both," Bobby replied calmly.
"Now, now, Bobby. I haven't done anything like that in years," Crowley joked. "Not since lights out, at boarding school."
Bobby rolled his eyes. "Cut the crap, Crowley. If I know you, and unfortunately, I do, you know exactly why I asked to meet."
The King took another sip, looking thoughtful. "It could be any number of things, I imagine. But if I had to guess, I would venture to say that you're looking for a few suggestions on what to get your grandson for his birthday. What does one get the Beast of the Apocalypse, anyway? Actually, the way things are going here on Earth, maybe a Thank You card would be in order. Tell Moose I'm sorry that whole parenting thing didn't work out for him, but at least he's rid of bubble-headed Becky, now. I always felt he could do much better."
Bobby let out a frustrated breath. "So, bottom line: Are you gonna help me find her, or not?"
"Her?" Crowley said, puzzled. "The Beast is young Brian, is he not?"
"Your intel isn't as good as you think," Bobby retorted, pleased to score a point on the King, for a change. "Yeah, the Beast WAS Brian. He goes by Damien, now. But it's not him that I'm talking about. It's Abbadon."
Crowley had been in the process of taking another sip, and he sputtered now. "Abbadon?!" he exclaimed. "Why would you be talking about THAT one? Dean killed her, years ago. I witnessed her murder, myself."
Bobby sat back in the booth, regarding Crowley over the rim of his glass. "Well then, ya might need to see the eye doctor, 'cause she's alive. She's teamed up with Vincent and Damien, and they're holed up somewhere. According to Vincent, Abbadon is the Angel of the Abyss."
The King regarded God for a moment, and then he brayed loudly. He laughed so hard that he had to grab a napkin to wipe his eyes. "Oh, believe me," he chortled, "Abbadon isn't an 'Angel' of anything. I haven't met anyone so corrupt, so perverse, and so diabolical in my entire existence. Well, except for myself, of course."
Bobby half-shrugged. "The question is, can you track her? If we can find her, we can try to find out what Vincent's got planned." His beard twitched briefly. "I don't think you'd have a problem with joining me and Gabriel in having a little conversation with her, right?"
Crowley's forehead wrinkled. "Gabriel? Why Gabriel?" he inquired. "Where's Castiel? Why send a Pekingese to do a pit bull's job?"
"Boy, your intel really IS slipping," Bobby said, smiling thinly. "Cas is...elsewhere right now, on another mission."
"Yes, I know," Crowley said smugly. "He's in Gay Paree with the Missus and the Winchesters, trying to prevent another Holocaust. I was just curious whether you were going to tell me, or not." He took another sip. "So, Gabriel, eh? Are you sure he's got the stomach for that kind of interrogation?"
"Leave that to me," Bobby said curtly. "Are you gonna help us, or not?"
Crowley considered this for a moment. The last thing he needed was Abbadon, back on the game board. What was bothering him now was the fact that he hadn't known that she was back. He hadn't been able to sense Abbadon's presence, at all. Even now, he sent out the feelers and...nothing. He sighed. God the Father, the Original Recipe God, certainly played fast and loose with the definition of retirement, didn't He? The King know that it could only be God Himself that he had to thank for Abbadon's re-emergence. What had he done lately, to piss his Father off so badly? Then again, who was he kidding? The list of possibilities was endless.
"I suppose I could lend a hand," the King said expansively. He drained his glass. "Fancy a game of Feathers?"
Kevin was sitting at his desk in Heaven, squinting at the text of one of the oldest, mustiest reference books their library had. He'd shut down his computer about an hour ago. There wasn't going to be any help there. The only thing he'd gotten about False Prophets on Google was pictures of televangelists, and things like that. Kevin had other team members working on the Beast of the Apocalypse, the Angel of the Abyss, and voodoo culture. Imagine that: he had a team of research Angels, a staff that he was the boss of. Him. Kevin Tran. His mom was walking around Heaven looking like she was going to sprout her wings any second now, and even Paul was acting like a proud father.
Truthfully, Kevin was kind of proud of himself for his elevated status too, but he'd been frustrated that he hadn't been able to come up with anything of any substance. Of course, it didn't help that the visions had started to come back, robbing him of his concentration. Just this morning he'd had a brief glimpse of a funny-looking, jewel-studded crown. Okie-dokie. So he'd waited, but there had been nothing further, so he'd gone back to work.
But now, a picture was coming in again, and it was pretty clear: A middle-aged woman standing out in an open field somewhere, lighting what looked like sticks of dynamite. Then she would throw them, but because the women threw poorly, she would have to retreat hastily from where they landed in order to protect herself from the subsequent explosion. Kevin almost smiled. He remembered playing those video games on Earth with Rob and the guys, and losing sometimes, when his character couldn't throw a grenade more than a few feet. They'd teased him, saying he "threw like a girl". Kevin knew it was politically incorrect and insulting to women to think that way, but it was the first thing he'd thought of when seeing that woman.
Unfortunately, he didn't know who the lady was, or what the significance was of what he was seeing. So once again, when no further information was forthcoming, Kevin bent his head to the reference book.
He had no way of knowing that the field the woman had been standing in was located due east of Paris, and the woman was Alice.
Cas and Gail and Sam and Dean were at the Resistance headquarters on the day before Benoit and Michelle's wedding.
After a less-than-stellar introduction, their individual groups were merging seamlessly now.
When Cas had just suddenly appeared in the middle of the room a few days ago, a couple of the men who had been holding guns had shot him multiple times, out of reflex more than anything else. Cas had stood there stoically and borne the bullets. They wouldn't do any lasting damage to him, but it was a good thing he had packed several shirts, he'd thought wryly.
Still, he couldn't blame them too much. People had to be very careful when opposing a Fascist government. All too often, people who did oppose that sort of regime tended to go missing, under mysterious circumstances.
Following their outing with Michelle, the two Angels and the pair of Winchesters had had a brainstorming session. Since their American friend was going to be of no real help to them when it came to finding out about the inner workings of Benoit's government, they'd had to come up with another method of getting to him, and to Vincent's kids.
Unfortunately, none of them could seem to come up with a definitive answer as to how to tackle the problem. If it had just been a simple matter of assassination, Cas could take care of that easily. Any one of the four could, but it would be much safer for an Angel to do it. Such a high-ranking politician was bound to have plenty of security protecting him, some of whom were visible, and some of whom were not. Also, even if Gail was able to recognize one of Vincent's offspring in time, she had advised the men that at least a couple of them had lethal powers, ones that could be utilized from a distance.
So it wasn't just Benoit that posed a problem, it was those young people, too. Sam had proposed trying to infiltrate the government, but both Cas and Dean had argued that they didn't see the point. Besides, that would take too long. Every instinct they all had was telling them that the guy was on the verge of starting a full-scale genocide.
Then had come the lucky break: the quartet had decided to go to the government building to see if they could spot any of Vincent's offspring heading in or out of the place. Then, depending on which one of them it was and what sort of powers they had, they would determine the next course of action. At least, it was someplace to start, anyway. This was proving to be the most complicated situation they had ever faced.
They had staked themselves out in a small bistro across the street from the building. Benoit knew who all four of them were, of course, but Gail was the only one that the young people would recognize. So she sat beside Cas at the table by the window, hiding herself behind him but periodically peeking out at the people who were coming and going.
Just as they had begun to think they were wasting their time, Sam spotted a woman coming out of the building and getting into a car that was parked around the corner, by the alleyway. What had caught his eye initially was that she looked like she was crying. Then, when she got into the vehicle, the woman began to gesture wildly with her hands. What the - ? Wait a minute. The woman was signing.
Sam had a fairly rudimentary knowledge of sign language, so he was able to make out bits and pieces of the communication. A while back, when the Winchesters had had some downtime between supernatural cases and Angel emergencies, Sam had started to take an online ASL course. He had been thinking about doing that for a while. It was something that Sam had always wanted to learn. A couple of times, he and Dean had encountered a deaf person in the course of an investigation, and Sam had thought that having some knowledge of American Sign Language would be very useful.
That was mainly what Cecile had been using to communicate with Eileen, when Sam spotted them. Like many other languages, the signs that the sisters used were based on ASL guidelines, but they also had their own signs for certain terms, almost like a separate dialect. Still, Sam was able to pick out a few words here and there, enough to determine that the woman who'd gotten into the car from the government building worked in Benoit's cabinet, and the cute brown-haired woman she was signing with was named Eileen, and she was the leader of a Resistance group that was dedicated to opposing Benoit's regime.
Now they were finally getting somewhere. The Angels and the humans hurriedly paid their bill and hailed a cab that was parked at the curb just outside the bistro. And, in a moment they would laugh about much later, Dean was able to use one of the biggest movie cliches in the world when he looked at the cab driver, pointed to Cecile and Eileen's vehicle, and said, "Follow that car."
Usually, the women were very careful about being followed. But their attention wasn't really on the surrounding cars. Cecile had been crying for a reason; she had just finished reading a Confidential memo that had been on Jean Hamelin's desk, that stated that the arrests of the undocumented immigrants had begun. They weren't using the term "arrests", of course. The people were "detainees". They were being held in an undisclosed location, and the parents were being separated from their children, and in many cases, even from each other. There were no further details supplied.
"How can they do this?" Cecile had signed angrily to her sister. Eileen had gone on an expletive-laden tirade, commanding Sam's attention. He could only understand part of what she was saying, but what he was getting would have amused him, under other circumstances.
This was no laughing matter, though. The quartet were grim-faced as they followed the women to the Resistance headquarters. Cas had a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. This sounded all too familiar to him; although he was still unaware of his own connection to the events, this was the sort of thing that had gone on during the Holocaust. It was all too easy to imagine what would befall those families, if it hadn't, already.
When they'd arrived at the sprawling ranch house that was the headquarters of the Resistance, Cas had winked himself inside the place, and once they'd gotten over the shock of his explanation about what he was and the reason that he and his little group were there, the alliance had been formed.
Sam and Dean were pooling their weapons with those that the Resistance group had amassed, and they were bonding with some of the men and a couple of the women over the selection and effectiveness of the various guns. Eileen had been delighted to discover that Sam knew sign language, and she loved that he had a good sense of humour, too. Not that there was a whole lot to laugh at in this situation, but sometimes, both of them had agreed, a little black humour went a long way towards helping cope with the kind of ugliness that had been going on in Eileen and Cecile's country.
Most of the people in the Resistance group, which numbered a few dozen dedicated members and a handful of sympathizers, were originally from France. Luckily for the Winchesters, most of them spoke fairly good English. Cas was good in either French or English, as was Gail, but he had admitted to his wife that he was at a total loss when it came to the sign language that Sam and the two sisters were using.
"Now you know how we feel, every time you bust out one of your other languages," Dean had said to his Angel friend. Cas have him a half-shrug, acknowledging the point.
Eileen had been very glad to find out that the quartet had the inside track on the former operations of Les Rebelles Blancs, but she was less than pleased to discover that they had absolutely no proof of what they all knew to be true. Out of necessity, they had informed the group about Vincent's offspring, as well. That had been another interesting conversation, to say the least. Angels, and children with supernatural powers? What the hell was this, Eileen had signed, The Twilight Zone?
But in the end, the American quartet had far too much detailed information for their new friends to be able to deny that they were telling the truth. And there had been that incident with Cas, that first day. The fact that he had appeared in the house out of nowhere and survived multiple gunshots had been one hell of a convincer.
"We have been invited to the wedding, tomorrow," Cas was saying now, as Cecile signed for Eileen. She could read Cas's lips for the most part, but their leader wanted to make sure she missed nothing. This was way too important.
Neil was outraged. "You're actually going to the Nazi bastard's wedding? Did you get him a present, too? Maybe a nice tablecloth with a swastika on it, or a lampshade made out of human skin?"
"Neil!" his wife Celine exclaimed. She smacked him on the arm, hard, and nodded towards Eileen and Cecile. They all knew that the sisters had lost most of their ancestors in the camps.
"I'm sorry, ladies," Neil said, instantly contrite. "It just makes me so mad - "
Eileen was signing. "Me, too," she said, nodding vehemently.
Cas's lips were pressed tightly together, but he bit back the retort he'd been about to offer. Actually, Neil reminded him quite a bit of Frank. That was something that Gail's brother would have probably said, if he were in Neil's position.
Gail wasn't as charitable. "Look, we hate this guy as much as you do," she said to Neil, shaking her finger at him. "Probably more. We have a personal history with him. I had to deal with him in close quarters at that compound. I had to look at his big, fat, stupid Nazi face and resist the urge to slit his throat, trying to save all those kids from being blown up! Do you know how hard that was for me? Do you know how guilty we all feel for not having killed the crap out of him in the first place?"
She took a deep breath. Wow. Where had that come from? Suddenly, she had a vision, a mental flash of a bunch of people working in a factory, and Cas in a suit, wearing a fedora. What the hell?
As Gail shook her head in reaction to the image, Neil sighed. "I'm sorry, Short Stuff," he said to her. Like Cas, Gail thought of how much Neil reminded her of Frank, with a dash of Gabriel thrown into the recipe. As soon as they'd been introduced, the French-Canadian man had stood to his full height, looked down at Gail, and dubbed her "Short Stuff". His wife Celine had apologized for Neil, saying that her husband was one of those types of men who tended to just say whatever was on his mind, and worry about the possible consequences later. Gail had laughed and said that she had one just like that at home; her brother was the same way. Then Celine had laughed too, and Neil and Cas had smiled, and the two couples had shared a nice moment.
But, nice moments or not, there was no way that Gail was going to put up with anybody talking to Cas like that, or to any of their group. They all felt terrible enough about having let Benoit get away before; not just once, but twice. What the hell had they been thinking? Now look at the mess they had on their hands. How many deaths had he caused already, and how many more might there be, if they didn't act now?
Cas took Gail's hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. She was still shaking from her tirade, and his frown deepened. He respected how dedicated the Resistance group was, and he understood and shared their frustration about having been unable to stop Benoit from pushing through his insidious agenda. They had tried to overcome the New Order by lawful means, but Eileen was edgy and tired of waiting, and Cas agreed completely. He appreciated Gail's love and support as always, but with every passing hour, he became more and more aware that they had no more time to waste.
"We will go to the wedding, because there will be security there, scanning the invitations and verifying the chip imbedded in them," Cas said in a clipped tone, still stinging from Neil's comment and Gail's upset reaction. "Michelle has informed us that all but one of Vincent's progeny will be there; all except for one of the young girls, Lorrie, who is now deceased. We will abduct them from the reception, and kill Levesque. If whoever is here wants to go to the venue, you're welcome to come along. But be very aware that we can't guarantee your safety. There are seven young people we will have to neutralize, some with lethal powers. My wife is the only one of us who knows what they look like, so she will be instrumental in spotting them and helping to subdue them. Once they are all contained, I will go for Levesque, myself. You can bring all the weapons you want, but they will only be so effective. I don't want anyone here to minimize the potential risk. Even Gerard, the young boy, possesses extremely lethal powers. I would suggest that anyone who wishes to help can come along, but as backup, only. You may take your instructions from any one of the four of us."
Eileen walked over to where Cas stood and faced him, frowning. Sam moved up too, getting ready to translate. The younger Winchester wondered how what Cas was saying was going over with these people. Eileen couldn't hear the tone of their new friend's voice, of course, but when Cas got into soldier mode, he came across as imperious, to say the least.
Eileen stared at Cas for a moment, and then her hands began to move. "You heard the man," the leader of the Resistance signed. "Let's pack up the weapons and get ready to mobilize tomorrow, on Cas's signal."
She tipped him a salute, and Cas nodded his head to her in acknowledgement. It was a good leader indeed who could put aside their pride and personal feelings for the greater good of a successful mission. He made a vow to himself to compliment her on this, later on.
But right now, the mission was the mission. "We'll be back here first thing in the morning, and then, we will mobilize," Cas said grimly.
Alice had abandoned her tests with the sticks of dynamite by now, because at the eleventh hour, she had been able to come up with a much better plan.
It had proven to be a lot more difficult to obtain explosives than she'd originally thought it would be. Any number of weapons and munitions were available in the States, if you knew where to go, and which rocks to look under. She had several shady sources back home, where she could obtain any number of deadly instruments. But she had been unable to bring any of them on the plane with her, of course. When she'd gotten to Paris, she had contacted the dealer whose information had been provided to her by one of her black market sources in the U.S., but the man had stonewalled her, saying he had never heard of the guy she was referring to, and he had no idea what she was even talking about.
Thus stymied, she had attempted to buy a gun, but the rules and regulations in place for ownership of a firearm in France were maddeningly restrictive. Since she was a foreigner, she would have to get a special letter of permission from the American consulate, after a suitable waiting period, of course. She would have to bring her passport, and a couple of other pieces of identification. Then...
Never mind, Alice had said, sighing. Then she had exited the store and walked to a park down the street, sinking onto a bench to think. The weather was warm and pleasant, but the park's serenity was marred by some hammering from a construction site across the way. She frowned. Apparently, America didn't have a monopoly on noise pollution.
But then, a sudden inspiration hit her. Construction! Didn't construction companies use explosives, sometimes?
After some further research, Alice had been able to locate one such company. She had gone there in the dead of night and used a gris-gris bag to hex the guards on duty, then stolen a case of dynamite. When Kevin had had his vision of Alice, she had been testing her proficiency with it. But she'd been frustrated once again, finding that one individual stick of dynamite was not nearly destructive enough. And, even if it had been, she'd found that she was incapable of throwing it any appreciable distance. It looked so easy in spring training, she'd thought with uncharacteristic humour. But the bottom line was that she was going to have to abandon that approach. She'd been hoping to take out all eight of Vincent's bastards at once. Alice had no way of knowing that there was already one less target. Benoit had greased the right palms, and the story of Lorrie's suicide had gone unreported.
She'd been on the verge of giving up and flying back to the States to regroup, when the lucky break had occurred: her contact had e-mailed her with instructions to go to a certain location at a specific time, if she still needed assistance with her "business needs". Once again, Alice had found herself grimly amused. But she could certainly understand the need for discretion, considering what she was in the market for.
The meeting had taken place, and the deal had been made. Alice had had to pay through the nose, but she had come away from the transaction with enough high-grade explosives to do the job.
The news services had all reported many details on the upcoming nuptials, including the church where the ceremony was to take place, the processional route to the reception, and the address of the reception hall. The ceremony and reception were going to feature armed police guards at every entrance and exit, and the processional motorcade was going to incorporate the French military. Pomp and ceremony, befitting a Head of State.
In order to use the explosives to their full effectiveness, Alice had to make sure that her targets were all in the same place, at the same time. The logical venue would probably be the church. However, even if she was able to break into the church somehow, eluding the security detail, she couldn't quite bring herself to contemplate setting off bombs in a church. There were still a few lines she wasn't prepared to cross. A strange thought, coming from a woman who had killed so many young people, including her own adopted son. But Alice didn't view what she was doing as murder. She was ridding the world of Vincent's abominations, one by one. She was on a divine mission.
The reception hall, then? She took the Metro to the area, getting off the train at the station where, ironically enough, an unfortunate young girl named Lise had blown herself up to escape her domestic abuse at the hands of Etienne, Benoit's right-hand man, when the President had been the head of Les Rebelles Blancs. It was also ironic that the headquarters of the white supremacist organization had also blown up, at the hands of an Angel of the Lord who was currently in a Paris hotel room making love to his wife, as the Angels waited out the night until the morning. The very same Angel who had transported Etienne deep into the catacombs below the Parisian streets and left him there in the dark, terrified and bloody, to become a meal for the rats. All that was left of Etienne now were a few stray bones with tooth marks on them, and Castiel was determined to ensure that come tomorrow, Etienne's former boss would be joining him among the ranks of the dead.
Alice walked to the venue where the next day's wedding reception was to be held. It was an unassuming, fairly ordinary Parisian building which had been converted into a place for banquets and large parties. Astonishingly, there were no guards posted around the place, just a sign at the front entrance, in both French and English, stating that the place was going to be closed the next day, for a private event.
This was unbelievable. People were walking past the building, not giving it a second glance. Could it really be as easy as this?
She walked past the place and around the city block it was situated on, slowly and casually. Just another American tourist, enjoying a balmy spring afternoon in one of the most romantic cities in the world.
Alice appeared to be nonchalant, but she was eyeing the building from all angles, gauging the likelihood of the explosives being detected if she were to plant them in certain spots. She completed her recon, satisfied that her plan was a viable one, then hailed a taxi to take her back to her hotel.
"So, Eileen's a real badass, isn't she?" Dean said to his younger brother as they cracked open a couple of beers. It was nighttime now on the eve of the wedding, but both of them had been too edgy to sleep. They'd better have their act together tomorrow, though. Hunting monsters was one thing, but they were playing in the High Limit room now. A Nazi President, the French military, and youths who could kill a person just by looking at them. Yeah. Good times, Dean thought, shaking his head. But they were used to bucking the odds by now, and they had a lot more backup than usual this time, in the form of the Resistance group.
Sam smiled in response to Dean's question. "Yeah, she is. I'm glad I taught myself some sign language, but I think I need a lot more practice. I tried to make the sign for the word 'fight', when I was trying to find out how much experience she and her sister had, and she told me I'd actually signed a slang word for a particular sexual position, instead." His smile widened into a grin. "Which made the rest of my question really, really awkward."
Dean smirked. He wished he'd been there for that; it would have been fun to have seen the look on Sammy's face. "Oh, so your interest in her is only academic, then," he teased his brother.
Sam continued to grin, but he didn't rise to the bait. He didn't have to. His big brother knew him very well. Despite the very real danger they would be facing tomorrow, and the horrors that a guy like Levesque represented, Sam realized something: he hadn't really thought about the boy who was supposed to have been his son since the four of them had gotten here. The change of venue and the need to concentrate on something much bigger than himself and his heartache had been just the kind of medicine that Sam had needed. Provided they didn't all get themselves killed tomorrow, of course.
"We'd better try to get some sleep," Sam said, finishing his beer. He got into bed and closed his eyes, picturing Eileen's eyes, and her smile.
Elijah was sitting behind his desk, writing notes for the speech he was going to make the next day. He leafed through the Bible, picking out the most impressively apocalyptic phrases he could find. This was going to be quite an occasion. His followers had been coming in slowly, in dribs and drabs, as Eli's mother used to say. But followers were followers, and now, he had a couple of dozen of them. Even Jesus had to start somewhere, he thought with amusement.
But Elijah wasn't Jesus, he was just a man, one who had been raised in an extremely fundamentalist, religious household. He believed in the Bible, and the teachings he'd received at his parents' feet. Every night when he and his siblings sat on the floor in their living room, Eli's mother and father would read to their children from the Bible. But the vast majority of those readings, and the lessons that had followed, had consisted of dire warnings, and apocalyptic scenarios. Sin and punishment. An eye for an eye. Hadn't Isaiah written about the Lord's wrath, stating that He was going to lay waste to the world, and devastate it, using people as "the fuel of the fire"? Or had that been Eli's father, embellishing the Scriptures? In any event, Isaiah had been a Prophet, so that was good enough for Elijah, who had come to believe that he was a Prophet, too. He must be; he kept having visions of the sky darkening, and the Trinity on a mountaintop, watching as the bowels of the Earth regurgitated their Army. But this wasn't the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit that Eli had been seeing, though the man and the boy were indeed father and son. No. Not even close. The Trinity were Papa Lega, Damien, and the Angel of the Abyss, who was a beautiful but very wicked woman. Boy, had the legends ever gotten THAT wrong.
At first, Elijah had rejected what he had been envisioning as a lie. This Unholy trio was the complete opposite of everything that Eli had ever been taught to believe in; weren't they? But then, Eli had started to think about it, really think, about what the three of them represented. The world had gone crazy in the last couple of decades. Up was down, black was white, and vice versa. What the Earth needed now was a good cleansing. Eli's parents had been saying that kind of thing when he was just a child, and he realized that it was even truer, now. Vincent's triumph would signal the End Times, and those who wanted to survive had better heed The Word. And who better to give it to them than a modern-day, self-professed Prophet by the name of Elijah, who was poised to become bigger and better than David Koresh or Jim Jones ever dreamed of being?
Because this time, it wasn't going to be the bad guys who were going to lose. Up was down, black was white. Lies were the new truth, and the False Prophet was going to be one of the last men standing, after the smoke had cleared from the burning of the Earth.
"Yeah, Bobby. OK. I'll be there in a couple of minutes," Gabriel said impatiently. He shook his head to clear the echo that God's transmission had left behind. Although nobody would ever have the deep and compelling voice of authority that his Father had, the reigning God also had a way of expressing himself that left little room for back-talk.
Gabriel turned his attention back to the matter at hand: finding the third one. Where the hell WAS the guy? It had taken about a hundred years in-between, but the other two had finally been eliminated. But there was a loose end out there somewhere, somebody who could bring the whole thing tumbling down. Gabe had been designated to take care of it, but now Bobby was summoning him, and Bobby was God. The Brother who was pulling the Archangel's strings right now wouldn't be pleased, but he wasn't in the position to call the shots. Not yet, anyway. Once everyone who knew the truth was dead, he would emerge to claim what was rightfully his.
Bobby called again, and Gabriel shook his head again. He looked down at the book he'd been studying. The Bible. Gabe knew, more than most of Heaven's denizens, that there were a lot of myths and legends in that book. But there were also a lot of clues in it too, clues which would assist certain people in unlocking the truth to past and future events, if they only knew where to look.
But, it was strange: Bobby had asked Gabriel to look for any clues about the so-called Apocalypse that Vincent was planning. What form would it take? How could they prepare for it? Crowley had said that he would be in touch when he located Abbadon, but so far, nothing. It was spring, now. Damien was due to turn ten years old in the autumn, and from what Bobby had been given to understand, once that happened, and once Vincent found the False Prophet to complete his happy little League of Doom, they could all just pucker up and kiss their asses goodbye. Gabriel had smirked briefly at that, despite the seriousness of the situation, trying to picture the original God the Father using that kind of terminology.
When he'd looked down at the Bible after Bobby's second wake-up call, though, Gabriel saw that he hadn't been looking at references to the Apocalypse, the Beast, or the Angel of the Abyss, like he was supposed to be doing. Instead, he had the book open to the writings of Matthew. Matthew? What would HE have known about the Apocalypse? He was long gone, anyway. Lucifer had sucked ol' Matt into his vortex along with the other Gospel writers, and when Matthew had gotten an inkling that he was about to be busted, he'd taken his own life. That was what Cas and Bobby had said, anyway, because that was what they had believed at the time. But, like many other things that they thought they knew the facts about, Matthew's suicide had not been a suicide at all. It had been an assassination, a murder that had been perpetrated to eliminate one of those who had known the truth. The truth about what? Gabriel had no idea, just as he had no memory of having been the one to have killed Matthew in the first place. There had been a number of modifications performed on the Archangel over the centuries, and there would be more to come, until everyone who needed to die was finally dead.
Gabriel closed the Bible and left his room in Heaven to answer Bobby's call.
END OF BOOK 45.