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AS FRANK WAS BLOWN back into the room, four men rushed through the open doorway. Dust filled the air, and the blast had caused all three women’s ears to begin ringing painfully. Marrisa had risen from her chair to walk toward the front door, intent on asking Frank what he was going to do about them if he left, and had stopped when she heard him calling the officers in from outside.
Now she was thrown backward, landing flat and knocking the air from her lungs with an explosive grunt Pris heard and felt even over the explosion. She tried to call for her mom, but her voice wasn’t working. In fact, nothing was working. She was struggling just to draw a breath.
Clara was slumped in her chair, her eyes closed.
“Grab the girl,” she heard someone yell, as if from a great distance.
“What about the other two?” called a different voice.
“Leave them, it’s the girl he wants,” the first voice said.
One of the men began fumbling with her chair motor, trying to disengage the drive coupling so the chair could be pushed. As he finished this, the third man grabbed the chair from behind and whirled it toward the door; inconsiderate of Priscilla’s body being slammed around in the chair’s confines.
“Stop,” Pris tried to shout. It was all she could do, and poorly. She repeatedly tried with every fiber of her being until it was a full-throated scream.
“Shut up or I’ll stuff a towel in your mouth,” the man growled in her ear. Pris just kept screaming.
When they reached the door, two more men appeared just outside. All six were carrying tactical rifles except her driver; his was slung across his back. Abruptly, Marrisa leapt to her feet and dashed toward the group. One of the men at the door was facing in and saw her coming. Shouting a warning, he turned the barrel of his rifle toward her and brought it to his shoulder.
Throwing her hand out in front of her, palm out and fingers splayed upward, Marrisa shouted something unintelligible. A crashing boom of noise, light, and force struck the two men in the doorway, flinging them out into the night. Two of the original four men whirled to face her, bringing their weapons to bear, and were greeted with a repeat of her previous display.
One was hurled against the wall next to the door with sufficient force to break through the sheetrock. The other attacker slammed into the open door, knocking it off its hinges while he crashed into the wall before rebounding onto the floor. The door fell heavily onto his still form.
The other man, who had disengaged the chair’s drive, was close enough he could reach out and touch Marrisa, and he did so; or at least, he tried. As he lunged for her, she slashed the same outthrust hand across the air in front of his face and he spun into the center of the room.
The man would have made Baryshnikov jealous, the way he was pirouetting across the carpet. He spun five or six times before his upper body weight pulled him down. Hitting the floor, he bounced into the far wall, where he remained motionless.
The remaining man shoved the wheelchair toward the open door and whirled, his hand outstretched in a similar manner as Marrisa. An azure ball of energy appeared between the two, writhing and roiling around like a huge display of St. Elmo’s Fire. Red streamers crackled and spit out of the ball, and it shifted back and forth between the two for several seconds.
“Commendare,” Marrisa shouted, bringing her second hand into position alongside her first.
As the ball moved decidedly toward the man, he mimicked her pose and arrested its movement. Now it remained between them, closer to the man than before, but still roiling and sizzling.
“Imperium commendare,” Marrisa screamed, and the ball began moving toward the man again.
He began to slide backward across the carpeted floor, his hiking boots making tearing noises as they sought traction in the fibers. He slid backward into the corner by the doorway, and now had nowhere else to go. Fear danced across his face, followed by determination. Hunching his shoulders and screaming a hoarse war cry, he redoubled his effort.
But the ball kept moving toward him, until it touched his outstretched fingertips. There was a blinding flash, like looking at an arc welder when it makes contact, only much larger. It was followed immediately by a concussion which seemed to shake the very foundation of the house; and the man vaporized.
He didn’t disappear; the action happened very quickly, but slowly enough for Pris to see. Her chair had rolled to a stop near the front door, facing into the same corner in which the battle had culminated. The man simply...dissolved.
Pris tried to turn her chair to face her mother, intent on demanding to know just what in the Blue Hades was going on, but the drive was still disengaged. She could just turn her head far enough to see her mother’s eyes roll back before she collapsed onto the carpet.
Pris called for help into the night sky for several minutes before one of the police officers on duty outside staggered up the walk. His face was a bloody mask, and he was dragging his left leg. His right arm dangled uselessly at his side, but he was trying to reach his epaulet mic with his left hand.
“Officers down. Officer needs assistance, Lieutenant Kratos’ house. The LT is down, I repeat, the LT is down. Three suspects also down. Officer needs assistance right now, damnit!” he finished.
Pris looked at the tattered man and hesitated to ask him if he could reengage her drive, but she wanted to at least be able to stay out of the way for the ensuing chaos she knew would shortly begin.
“Sir, I hate to bother you at a time like this, but can I tell you how to engage the drive on my chair so I can get out of the way, please?” she asked as calmly as she could manage.
She could see his name badge on his shirt: Omikawa. The officer stared at her blankly, as if he couldn’t comprehend the request.
“Officer Omikawa, can you help me, please?” Pris tried again. Omikawa shook himself, grimacing in pain. His face flushed, and Pris thought for a moment he might pass out.
Then his eyes cleared and focused. He looked at her carefully and said, “Tell me what to do.”
––––––––
THE HOUSE WAS INDEED chaos; at least a dozen police officers and plainclothes detectives crowded into the living room. Frank had been rushed away via ambulance; Pris heard someone say critical condition. Clara was coming back around, and two policemen had picked the limp form of Marrisa Benson off the floor. She was still unconscious, and after first assessing her vitals, they laid her gently on the sofa.
Officer Omikawa had at first refused to be treated until Frank and the women were seen to, but he’d been outvoted by the paramedics. They’d taken one look at him and immediately forced him to the floor. He now sat in the kitchen at the counter, an untouched cup of coffee cooling in front of him.
He’d repeated the story to investigators at least three times, and was tired of talking. His head was bandaged, and his right arm was in a sling and swath. He’d lost one of his shoes somewhere along the way, and his stocking foot rested on the ring of the stool. Pris sat next to him, sipping water from a bottle with a straw someone had found in a drawer in the kitchen.
“You really should go home and get some rest,” Pris told him. He did indeed look like he was ready to pass out.
“I’m not sure I can make it that far,” he replied. “I surely can’t drive, and I don’t want to take another officer away from the investigation just to chauffeur me home.”
“Why don’t you go down the hall and lay down in Frank’s bedroom?” Pris suggested. “I’m pretty sure he won’t be home tonight.” And then she had burst out crying, in great, jagged sobs which wracked her body.
“Hey, hey, it’s over now, everyone will be okay,” he soothed.
“How can you say that?” she wailed. “Frank is in critical condition, my mom is unconscious, and Clara seems to be stuck somewhere in la-la land.”
“Actually, I’m just back from la-la land, and it was NOT a pleasant journey,” Clara said from the other end of the counter.
“Oh, my goodness, I’m so glad to hear your voice,” Pris enthused.
“And I yours, young lady,” Clara replied. “Tell me what happened.”
Looking directly at her, Pris locked her eyes with Clara’s, before cutting them toward Omikawa. “I’m not really sure where to begin,” she fudged.
“Officer, this is my home,” Clara informed him. “I would be pleased if you would do as this young lady suggested; go down the hall to the second door on the right and lie down on the bed. You can remove your soiled shirt if you desire, or just stretch out on top of the blanket. I really don’t mind either way.” Clara’s eyes had glowed as she spoke, and now Omikawa rose from his stool.
“Thank you, ma’am. I believe I’ll do just that,” he said, now under Raquel’s influence. He stood and stumbled toward the hall.
“Now, tell me,” Clara said urgently.
When she told Clara about Frank, the woman seemed to age right before her eyes. She sighed deeply; then focused on Pris again. “Continue,” was all she said. After recounting the battle between her mother and the attacker, Clara’s eyes glowed fiercely. “Are you sure she said Imperium Commendare, child? Be absolutely certain.”
“Yes, I’m certain. Where else would I have even heard such words?” Pris asked belligerently. “What do they mean, anyway?”
“They’re words of power only angels can use,” Raquel replied. “And only certain angels; warrior angels.” She paused to consider. “It would appear one of my brethren interceded on our behalf while I was indisposed. He must have taken control of your mother’s body, as she was the only person here capable of unrestricted movement.”
She paused, considering the importance of the action. “It was a serious breach of protocol, and a price will be paid. But the fact that one of the attackers could respond to her in kind means only one thing; at least a second hierarchy demon was in possession of his body. That would be the only way one of our own would be allowed to interfere.”
“What is a second hierarchy demon?” Pris asked, enthralled and aghast simultaneously.
“There will be time for me to share all of our history with you,” Raquel said. “But right now, we need to get to the hospital and see to Frank and Ham. Things are advancing much more rapidly than I had feared.”
“Who can take us?” Pris observed. “I don’t think any of these policemen will, and mom’s still out.”
“Actually, mom’s right here,” Marrisa said from the entrance to the living room.
“Mom,” Pris shouted. Heads turned her way, but she didn’t even care.
“Oh, baby girl, I’m so sorry you had to go through all this,” Marrisa said as she moved to embrace her daughter.
“Mom, did you know you were inhabited by an angel; a warrior angel?” Pris whispered.
Marrisa’s head whipped around to Clara, her eyes locking on like a radar tracking system in a fighter plane. “Is that so?” she observed casually.
“Marrisa, there is much to discuss, and even more to explain, but for right now, we need to get to the hospital,” Raquel said pointedly. “As one of my brethren was so bold as to enter your body unbidden, Frank and Ham must be in grievous danger.”
Marrisa looked at her long and hard. “I’ll get the van warmed up,” she said.
“There’s no time,” Raquel replied. “We must make all haste to get to them. I fear the worst.”
“Well, then let’s go,” Marrisa said.
She grabbed her purse and headed toward the garage, then had a second thought. Going back to the kitchen counter, she picked up Omikawa’s radio from where he had left it. Glancing around, she put it in her purse.