I want to take a moment to thank everyone who takes the time and reviewed this story. It really does help to keep me at the keyboard.
And as always a big, huge thank you to Kiss316 for going over the chapter and pointing out inconsistencies, asking questions and being awesome in general. You rock!
Legend Killer 14
As he watched Randy turn to leave the room, John got the feeling he was missing something extremely important. That something terrible was about to happen but he had no idea what. All he knew was that he was at a loss on how to stop Randy from going out there and destroying his soul.
On the table Roman finally slipped into unconsciousness, yet it was obvious the young man was still in agony. His long hair was wringing wet with sweat and his face was lined of pain. His breathing was shallow. Usually Roman Reigns was the picture of strength and vitality. There was something quietly invincible about Roman. But injured like he was, he looked young and vulnerable. If he were to be found by the Beast or the Nexus, he would be helpless to defend himself. Randy's whispered words from that morning as they stood side by side and watched the sun come up came back to John.
'I can't keep them alive.'
And suddenly John thought he could understand why Randy was doing what he was doing.
But Roman wasn't dead yet. He would need a lot more time and care before he got back on his feet but he was still alive. And that gave John hope that somehow they could make it through the day.
Then Mark spoke up. "Wait, just hold up a second," he said, his voice mild but the Saint of Killers paused at the request, looking back at them. John looked over at Mark and thought he saw a brief look of infinite sadness cross the doctor's face but it was gone before he was sure. "There is nothing more medically I can do for him right now but we both know he is still in great danger. Let me get Reigns out of here before you go out there. The Beast is close and so is the Mayor. If either of them find him, Reigns doesn't stand a chance. And if this goes bad, you can't afford to lose both of them."
Briefly the Saint considered and then nodded in assent. He set his feet, waiting, the pale green eyes watching the room like a hawk. Mark turned to John. "My wagon is out back. Check to see if there is anyone out there."
John went to the back door and opened it cautiously, taking his time in scanning the area as he searched for threats. Randy's, John's and Roman's horses were standing ground-tied nearby, but further down he saw a large pale horse hitched to a small wagon. He didn't see anything more hostile than a cat lurking nearby, but he remained on guard. "It's clear," he reported.
"Good. Get Reigns into the wagon." Mark started gathering some bandages and other supplies. While John didn't have Randy's supernatural strength, he was still very strong for a human. He picked up Reigns' limp body like a child's, careful of the bandages and maneuvered the unconscious man out through the back door. He laid Roman as gently as he could into the back of the wagon. Mark followed with a blanket which he spread over Roman, covering him from his chin to his feet. John looked over at the horses and on impulse tied the reins of Roman's horse to the back of the wagon, just in case. Mark tossed his bag into the back of the wagon beside Roman and turned to John. "You stay with Orton."
John looked at Mark with uncertainty. He was more than willing but wasn't sure how he could help Randy. "What can I do against the Beast?" he asked.
"Nothing. But you do realize even though that boy has the most powerful weapon ever created at his beck and call, he can still die? And if anything happens to him…" Mark paused. "He needs someone to watch his back, or there will be consequences," he said firmly. Even though his mild tone never changed, John got the feeling the consequences Mark was referring to were something they really didn't want to deal with.
Mark went on. "He's used to going it alone. But it would be better for all of us if he were to have a partner he could actually trust." The man sounded almost fond of the Legend Killer. John wondered why but obviously Mark had no intention of telling him the history between himself and Randy Orton right then. "These boys need help if they are going to win this war. They can't do it by themselves."
Knowing how much Seth contributed even if he wasn't a vessel for the Saint of Killers, John understood. "I'll do my best but I don't think he's the trusting type. Besides, I'm not sure how much longer I'll be alive."
Teeth bared in a terrifying smile Mark said, "That holds true for all of us." He clapped John on the shoulder, who had a hard time not staggering under the impact and turned to climb into the wagon. The wagon groaned at the added weight but it steadied as Mark settled into the driver's seat. He picked up the reins.
"Wait," John said. Something had been bothering him about the doctor since Mark first acknowledged Orton. "You seem to know a lot about what's going on. Are you one of them?" he asked. Seeing Mark's inquiring look, he clarified his remark. "One of the Saint's men?"
"Nope, I'm just a simple country doctor." Mark slapped the reins across the horse's rump to get it moving. John watched the wagon carrying Mark and Roman drive away for a few seconds, and then reentered the doctor's office. Randy was nowhere to be seen. John listened but only heard an entirely unnatural silence. A brief stab of panic flashed through him and he hurried through the doctor's building to the front, pausing briefly before opening the door. He wasn't sure what he was expecting, but the area was empty except for Randy who was standing out in the open, facing up the street. It seemed that the rest of the town's population had found somewhere else to be. It struck John as he looked at Randy how powerful the Legend Killer was, and yet he seemed very much alone.
A movement caught his eye. A man, shortish, pudgy and balding on the top of his head, strolled out into the street towards Orton, stopping prudently several feet away. He was dressed in a suit and something about him just screamed 'shyster'. He looked up at the Saint of Killers with wide eyes, sweat dripping down his temples and into the rolls of his chin. He paled when Randy turned his dead-eyed gaze to him. He cleared his throat and quaked visibly. "Mr. Saint of Killers? My name is Paul Heyman and I am the advocate for the being known as The Beast. Mr. Saint of Killers, I know you are here to slay The Beast but I am here to tell you The Beast will not be slain by you."
Randy said nothing, but John couldn't help it. "What the hell are you talking about?" he asked as he moved over to stand beside Randy. John had met many lawyers over the course of his law-enforcement days, some were better than others. But there was something about Heyman's soulless eyes that reminded him a scorpion sunning itself on a rock. He knew this man could only be trusted to sell out his own mother.
The Saint merely stared at Heyman, who audibly gulped but didn't back down. "My cah-lient has reached an understanding with another party who has interests here in this realm. As a result, my client The Beast is not to be harmed, or attacked in any way by the Saint of Killers or his men. Any unauthorized aggression against my client The Beast will result in swift retribution, as you have already discovered." Heyman actually had the nerve to smirk in satisfaction. They all knew to whom he was referring to.
Edge.
This whole situation made absolutely no sense to John, and apparently the Saint wasn't buying it either. Randy casually put a hand on the butt of one of the holstered Colt Walkers and Heyman's face got even whiter. He shook in his shoes and tried again. "Puh-Please, Mr. Saint of Killers, I promise you an agreement has been made. Killing me and my client The Beast will bring down a wrath upon your men that will leave them all dead and even worse, denied an afterlife. And you yourself will be powerless to interact with any human beings until the next war breaks out, which is in about ten years if I understand it right."
"How do you know all this?" John asked in consternation. Had everyone on the planet known about demons and the Saint of Killers except him? If he got back out East, he was going to track down his teachers and demand to know why they never thought to include this bit of information in his education. On second thought, maybe he needed to hunt down his priest…
Glaring at John in disdain, Heyman sneered. "Do you think your friend here is the only being in this realm that has access to higher powers? There are many, many different individuals walking around that don't like the Saint of Killers. And with damned good reason! He has many enemies! He is a murderer! The Saint of Killers irresponsibly murdered the master of Hell, Satan. You can't have someone like that running around not answering to anyone! He is a rabid dog that has been allowed to run loose for too long! He needs to be put on a leash or put down!" Heyman ranted, only to stop when Randy narrowed his eyes.
"Well, you are certainly entitled to your opinion," John started, but Heyman preferred the sound of his own voice to John's.
"It isn't just my opinion, Mr. Marshal!" Heyman stated, but John hated being interrupted. "Do you really know who this is?" he asked, his patience wearing thin.
"I know this is the Saint of Killers! I know he has weapons made from the Angel of Death's sword before he disappeared! I know he killed Satan before leaving hell! I know that now demons are escaping from hell and into our realm! I know the Saint of Killers had been using mortal men to wield those guns in our realm! I know the Saint of Killers has been killing demons at the cost of his own men's souls!" Paul glared at John, finding that easier than looking Randy in the eyes. "The Saint of Killers is not the only higher power operating in this realm and now this renegade will be reined in, exactly how it's supposed to be!"
"You seem to be very well informed, Mr. Heyman," John observed. "Just who are these other parties you mention?"
"I can answer that," a new voice called. Mayor Shawn Michaels was striding towards them with a self-confident swagger. He was dressed all in white and his long golden hair reflected the sun like a halo. There was a smile on the man's face that never wavered but to John, who had spent years learning how to read people, the smile wasn't exactly warm and friendly. In fact, if he were pressed to describe it, it looked more like a snarl. If he had never met the Saint of Killers, John might have even felt a bit uneasy in the mayor's presence. But despite that, John thought the cocky swagger of his walk was a cover. With a jolt of insight, he realized that Michaels was definitely wary of the Saint and doing his best to hide it.
For the first time the Saint of Killers reacted. "You finally decided to get involved?" he growled, his voice sounded like rocks grinding against each other. John had to fight to stand still. Heyman looked like he was about to wet himself and even Michael hesitated at the rage in the Saint's voice.
"You know this guy?" John asked.
But he didn't get a reply from the Saint. Instead, Michaels turned his gaze to John. "We haven't met personally but the Saint here killed my brother while he was in hell."
"Your brother?" John asked completely confused.
"Lucifer, the morning star. He was my brother even after he fell from grace. The Saint murdered him."
Holy shit. "Are you saying that you're a…" John started but apparently Heyman decided he had been quiet for too long.
"The mayor here is a member and representative of the heavenly host," the lawyer said. His beady eyes were fever-bright, shifting between Shawn and the Saint in a strange glee. "Lower lifeforms know them as angels."
"No shit?" John asked in amazement. "Huh." So there were angels around, which really shouldn't have surprised him, having encountered several demons after all. And angels were supposed to be good, weren't they? But after a closer look at Shawn and seeing how the Saint reacted to him, John wasn't sure if he should feel hope or dread. Somehow Shawn was giving him a vibe that spoke of having his own agenda, and not necessarily one for the betterment of mankind. But still, if the guy was an angel…John looked over at Orton, whose expression hadn't changed.
As the two higher beings stared at each other, Heyman started talking again. "It's obvious the spirit known as the Saint of Killers cannot fight the demons he himself let loose from Hell without causing serious damage to the souls of the mortals he possesses. And it's also obvious that he can't keep the demons from invading this realm and inflicting serious suffering upon its citizens without the help of mortals. However, as the representative of The Beast, who has reached an agreement with heaven's representative, Shawn Michaels, we are willing to make an offer," Heyman said. The man's confidence was astonishing considering who he was dealing with.
"What offer?" John asked, insanely curious on what they could possibly offer Death that would tempt him.
"Without someone giving you orders, you cannot be trusted to wield those weapons, ahem, prudently and we ended up with the situation we have in Hell." Michaels' smile vanished and the angel glared at the Saint of Killers. But the Saint of Killers didn't react. He just glared back at Michaels. But then the mayor recovered and smiled again. "So we, the angels and demons currently in this realm have come to an agreement. We agree that you need to work for the higher powers once again."
"Sort of like, the enemy of my enemy is my friend?" John muttered to Randy, who didn't respond.
Heyman pulled a sheaf of papers from the inner pocket of his suit coat. Making a show of unfolding them, he cleared his throat and stated, "From this point on The Saint of Killers will work for the combined forces of the realm of Heaven and its sub-realm Hell, carrying out orders and responsibilities for the office of the Angel of Death. Like you were supposed to all along. And to show there are no hard feelings, the representatives from Heaven will work to ensure the damaged souls of Dean Ambrose and the recently deceased Roman Reigns are able to move on." Heyman looked up at Randy. "Of course you realize this is no small feat because Ambrose and Reigns were remorseless killers and are destined for hell. But once you start working with us, we will be willing review their cases due to the extenuating circumstances as a show of good faith."
"You know about Reigns?" John asked surprised they didn't know Roman was still alive and decided it was smart to play along. "It literally just happened."
Heyman gave a long-suffering sigh. "Mr. Marshal, who do you think informed Marshal Batista that there are, or were, two deserters in the area?" Heyman asked, like John shouldn't be so dense. "Marshal Batista accompanied The Beast here to Helena. Mayor Michaels took advantage of this convenient occurrence and requested the good Marshal help with an urgent issue of having two former deputy Marshals murdering the local law enforcement."
"The 'local law enforcement' they killed were demons," John argued. He refused to use the term 'murdered' when it came to demon disposal.
Heyman waved his hand in a shooing motion, papers crackling. "Irrelevant. What matters is the Saint has been killing without authorization. Once he starts doing what he's supposed to do, mainly, working for the parties in agreement, he will no longer have to worry about his followers continuously being hunted down like the renegades they currently are. By now US Marshal Dave Batista has disposed of Dean Ambrose. And with Roman Reigns dead, the only mortal killer you have access to is your boy Randy here. And if the Saint continues to work unauthorized, then we will have no choice to but eliminate any future killers that join him."
"It was you the whole time," the Saint growled at Michaels. Randy still hadn't moved but the air seemed to get a bit colder, despite the bright sun overhead.
Supremely confident, Heyman confirmed it. "You are finally catching on! Not the sharpest knife in the sheath, are you? Here is the message we are sending you: every follower you recruit will be eliminated until you agree to work for us." Heyman was so smug John was tempted to punch him in the face.
"Your 'partners' killed Edge and the others?" John asked slowly.
"Oh, we didn't kill them personally, but we did whisper the right words in the right ears to ensure they met their demises in a timely manner."
For the first time, Randy moved. His hand tightened on the grip of the Colt Walker.
Heyman noticed. "Finally figured out that Judge Hunter is one of our many allies, I see. But don't worry, he is not the only one. There are many humans that are willing to do anything on the side of the angels."
"What about Randy?" John asked. He was almost shivering now and Heyman was even pulling his suit coat closer around his round stomach. "You mentioned Ambrose and Reigns, but not him."
The only being unaffected by the unnatural chill was Michaels who hadn't looked away from the Saint of Killers. There was an air of peaceful confidence about him as he answered John's question. "Oh, we would never dream of eliminating young Mr. Orton."
"As we said, if the Saint of Killers refuses to work with us, any of his future followers will be eliminated. However, his boy gets to live a long life continuing to watch his 'brothers' die needlessly. And it will eat him alive. He already hates the Saint of Killers and blames him for having to carry on while everyone around him dies! How does it make you feel, Mr. Saint of Killers to know the only human being you can work through hates your guts! And since he is the only one you will be able to work through, it will be you that destroys his soul. And when he eventually dies, a very long time from now, Randy Orton will not have enough of a soul left to go anywhere. How does that feel, Mr. Saint of Killers, knowing your boy will pay the price for your continued defiance?" Heyman smirked.
When he heard that, the Saint's eyes turned solid white. John later swore he could see his breath. Eyes wide, both John and Heyman instinctively backpedaled from the enraged spirit. For a long moment no one moved. The quiet was unnerving. Even the ever-present grinding of the mining equipment seemed muted. The air was so still, it was like nature itself was holding its breath. The glare of the sun illuminated the building lining the street in harsh relief.
"You set this up."
"I admit we did arrange for the young Marshal Orton to escort Benoit and his men." Shawn smirked in self-satisfaction. With a serene confidence Michaels spoke up. "Given your history, we had to make it absolutely clear that unless you work for Heaven, you weren't going to be able to work at all in this realm except through one person. The only one that matters to you. And in doing so, you will condemn him for eternity. But if you work for us, we will ensure your followers will be well protected. Face it, you need our help if only to retain your followers. Those guns were never meant to be wielded by anyone except the Angel of Death. But now, since he vanished without a trace and we are stuck with you, we needed to make it absolutely clear that your continued defiance will not be tolerated."
"Where is the original Angel of Death?" John asked Heyman in a low voice.
"No one knows," Heyman shrugged, unwilling to tear his eyes away from the two being in front of them. The power in the air was palpable.
"So if you want the souls of your men to get into Heaven and if you want any future recruits you might gain to work without interference, you will work for us. Are we agreed?" Michaels asked. He was still wary of the Saint. But Heyman had spelled it all out and the Saint of Killers would surely see reason.
Then the Saint spoke. "You set my boy up, you helped the demons invading this realm to murder and torture not only civilians but those I have claimed as my own, because you want me to work for you?" he asked in a low voice.
"Yes. So what's your answer going to be?" Michaels was asking when the Colt Walked fired and Mayor Shawn Michaels, an angel, the representative of heaven, fell dead at their feet.
Both Paul and John stared wide-eyed in shock at Randy as the report of the Colt Walker rolled off the buildings and mountains. Heyman's open mouth moved but for once no sound came out.
"Did…did you just kill an angel?" John asked in wonder. It never occurred to him or to Heyman apparently that the Saint could or would do just that.
"Arrogant cur," The Saint growled. Randy's eyes glowed white with the Saint's rage. The spirit was so furious that the bones of his skull showed clearly through his skin and now both Heyman and John moved back in terror. Death was there, in the street with them.
"You tell them," the Saint said to Heyman, who really did wet his pants. "You tell them that I am coming for them! And there will be no mercy for I bring Hell with me!" His voice had grown from the soft growl to thunder. "YOU TELL THEM!" And with that warning, he was gone.
Randy staggered as the spirit left him. John caught his arm before he fell on his face. He looked pale under his tan and his blue eyes were wide with shock and pain. His entire body was shivering. "He's pissed," he gasped.
The comment was such an understatement that John barked a laugh in surprise. "No shit," he agreed. The air was warming up and there were signs the people who had sought refuge from the confrontation were coming back.
"We should get out of here," John advised. The mayor's body was still lying in the middle of the street, but Heyman was running away from them as fast as his legs could carry him. Randy had committed murder in front of god knows how many witnesses, and John hadn't even tried to stop him. Sighing, he mentally kissed his US Marshal career good-bye. He was drawing a breath to suggest they get out of there when at the far end of the street something appeared. It looked like a very large, very muscular man. Its skin was a pinkish red and the hair on its head was very blond. There was an almost visible aura radiating off of him and even mentally wrecked as he was, Randy's eyes widened at the sight of it.
"Holy shit," John muttered. "Is that the Beast?
"Yep," Randy confirmed, squinting through his pounding headache. He instinctively reached for his guns but his holsters were empty.
"Any chance the Saint is coming back?" John asked, trying to sound casual. He really wasn't sure if he wanted the spirit back though. Compared to the rage of the Saint of Killers, the Beast seemed to be the lesser of the two evils.
There was a pause, and then Randy shook his head, nearly vomiting at the movement. "He's not listening right now," Randy wasn't sure he could physically take another round of the Saint in that mood anyway. He had never felt such cold rage.
"Great, so we get torn apart by the Beast while he has his little hissy fit?" John asked pulling Randy's arm over his shoulder and taking most of his weight as they slowing began to back away. Randy really didn't look very well and John was concerned that he was going to pass out right there in the middle of the street.
"Given that he just killed an angel, I'd call it a little more than a hissy fit, but yes," Randy said, looking around for an escape route.
Knowing that Randy was unarmed, John drew his gun and shot the Beast right through the head. Blood poured down the thing's face. The Beast just laughed through the blood and started walking towards them. Heyman was smiling in satisfaction.
John looked at Randy. Randy looked at John.
"Run?" John suggested.
"Not sure that I can," Randy admitted, trying and failing to take more of his own weight back from John. His knees seemed to be made out of rubber and the ground wouldn't stay still beneath his feet.
The Beast moved to follow but Heyman shouted at the demon to stop. John practically dragged Randy through the doctor's office, pausing long enough to scoop up Randy's Smith and Wessons, and they staggered out the back, making straight for their horses. After pushing Randy onto his roan, the pain in his back and head forgotten in his haste, John swung up into his bay mare's saddle. The mare rolled her eyes in panic at the proximity of the Beast. Beside him, Randy was leaning over the saddle horn and looking utterly miserable, but he put the spurs to his roan. They had barely cleared the alley when the Beast tore out of the building, the door flying clean off its hinges.
The horses bolted, running flat out towards the edge of town. The Beast followed, running easily.
"What do we do?" John shouted to Randy. The horses weren't going to be able to sustain the pace for ever and the Beast didn't look it was going to slow down anytime soon.
"Back to the cabin," Randy suggested, trying to clear his head. If Punk's earth spirit friends were still around, they might just slow the Beast long enough for them to get away. They guided the horses through the trees, jumping over ravines. Randy's horse could gallop all day but John's mare was starting to get winded. Then, for no reason either of them could fathom, the Beast stopped pursuing them.
"I don't think he's back there anymore," John said after a while. His mare was lathered and starting to stumble a bit. But Randy wasn't taking any chances. Despite feeling like utter crap, he pushed on, forcing John to spur the mare to keep up. Finally they approached the cabin. They pulled to stop right in front where Seth and Dean's horses were tethered.
Seth came out with his revolver drawn, putting it away when he recognized them. "Where's Roman? Is he…" he demanded, feeling a hot stab of panic race up his spine at seeing those two coming back alone and in a hurry. They had run the horses flat out all the way from town by the looks of them.
"He's alive. He's with Mark Calaway, who just so happened to be in town too," Randy answered, sliding off the blowing roan and barely staying upright. Damn it was taking too long to recover from the Saint's possession. He still felt cold and bruised.
Behind him, John had pulled his mare to a stop and jumped down. She hung her head in exhaustion, sweat and foam dripping down her belly as her sides heaved. He loosened her saddle and started walking her around to get her to cool down and catch her breath. He couldn't afford to have her out of commission for long.
"Looks like we all had the same idea," a freshly bandaged Dean observed as he came out of the cabin. He too looked like he had been through the wringer. He was carrying his saddlebags in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. He slung the saddlebags over the back of his saddle and secured them. He and Seth decided it was time to take the fight to Hunter, but the appearance of Randy and John all hot and bothered meant that plan might have to be put on hold while they dealt with the latest crisis. "Is the Beast coming?"
The brat actually sounded excited and John wanted to smack him. "We have bigger problems than the Beast," he said, exchanging glances with Randy who was doing a quick check of his horse's shoes. He thought he had heard the horse catch one during the mad dash out of town, but they seemed to be on tight. He stood up, putting a hand out to the horse's shoulder to steady himself.
"So what's going on?" Seth wanted to know. On second thought though, did he really? He didn't like the grim look on Randy's face. This couldn't be good. Beside him, Dean sipped his coffee.
Randy shifted his weight and looked distinctly uncomfortable. "I think the Saint just declared war on Heaven."
TBC