NINE
I WANTED TO RUN TO CUSTOS, waving my hands and shouting, “Hey, it’s me! I’m here!” But the presence of Watchmen inspires an intuitive respect that doesn’t allow for spastic outbursts or casual hellos. Besides, Custos was on duty. Who was I to disrupt him?
I was sure he already knew I was there, anyway. I believed he knew exactly where I was at all times. That’s how aware and protective God is—of his Lights, yes, but I’d seen him dispatch Watchmen to rescue shackled people too. I’d been there when a Watchman showed up to save Jess’s life—not once, but twice—and she never claimed to even believe in God.
And the scent . . .
If I could have bottled the Watchmen smell, people would have paid a fortune for it, even without knowing where it came from. And the way it feels in their presence—if only that could have been compressed into a pill. No one would bother with drugs or get drunk or have so much as a depressed thought.
All eyes were on Custos, still facing the line of kneeling archers who were backed by a row of standing soldiers with shields. As for Ray Anne’s and my eyes, they were watering, physically reacting to the blazing-bright spirit-world. But I was so enthralled, I didn’t want to shut them.
Custos gazed up toward the dazzling heavenly portal, and a third stream of Watchmen flooded Masonville’s airspace. These wore robes instead of armor, with golden circular headbands resting like crowns on their flawless heads. And these new arrivals clutched long, electric-blue wand-shaped objects in each hand, sizzling with some kind of current, like mini lightning bolts.
In precise unison, the Watchmen holding shields did an about-face, standing face-to-face and toe-to-toe with the electricity-carrying ones. They exchanged warm smiles like they’d been a brotherhood since the dawn of time. Ray and I couldn’t help but smile too.
All motion ceased, and intensity hung in the air like a nuke was about to drop. Custos lowered to one knee, his helmet still in hand while his face angled toward the heavens. He belted out a command in the heavenly tongue.
That instant, like some kind of rehearsed dance, the Watchmen with shields turned them faceup like tabletops, holding them at their waists. Then in unison, using those electrified rods, the robed Watchmen pounded their sticks on the shields in a steady, single-beat rhythm that struck a kind of terror in me—not tormenting fear, but an undeniable awareness that this army had annihilation power. The epic drum corps’s tempo reverberated against my chest, and I thanked God out loud that I was not their enemy.
At a precise moment in the cadence, the kneeling Watchmen with bows and arrows strapped to their broad backs bent down and began pounding the parking lot to the beat with clenched fists, while the ones with electric wands raised their hands above their crowned heads and hit their sticks together in the air. A sound went out like nothing I’d ever heard—or felt. It was like jet engines blasting with every beat. Ray and I both felt the power in the cement beneath our feet. The divine frequency traveled through our shoes, all the way up our legs and through our bodies.
The archers on bended knee didn’t shoot a single arrow. Instead they got all the way down, facedown on the parking lot, prostrate on their stomachs. And they started weeping loudly, pleading in their native language—to their Creator, no doubt.
That really threw me. These were astonishing beings built for battle—why come here and sob?
The other Watchmen took turns chanting, several together at once, shouting what sounded like a war cry.
Hissing, wailing, and anguished howls began seeping from the school—petrified Creepers whimpering from their hiding spots. I held out hope this was a preattack ritual, and any second, the Watchmen would rise and advance. But they just kept up their passionate cries.
Custos remained on bended knee, hands raised, worshiping. I think they all were; it just didn’t look like anything I’d ever envisioned or witnessed. It was a loud, fervent mix of pleading and chanting. Even the horse had its head down, like it was paying homage.
I turned to Ray Anne. “This is incredible, but I thought they came here to fight.”
She looked at me, teary eyed but grinning. “Owen, they are fighting. Their worship is drawing God’s presence here—that’s bound to be evil’s worst nightmare.”
Oh . . .
Hand-to-hand combat had its place between Watchmen and Creepers, but apparently there were other ways to inflict damage on the kingdom of darkness. The way I now saw it, hell had recently unleashed heightened, cosmic evil on Masonville, but Heaven wasn’t just sitting idly by, tolerating it. God’s forces were ramping up the fight too.
The Watchmen carried on for nearly an hour, changing formations at times with military precision, marching to the beat.
“Owen, that’s it!” Ray Anne searched my face. “We should follow their lead and worship here with the student pastors this Sunday.”
Maybe she was on to something, but I couldn’t wrap my mind around what that would look like. Don’t get me wrong—it was the coolest thing ever to witness the Watchmen’s synchronized worship. Truly profound. But a handful of humans gathered on the front steps of Masonville High, beating a drum and marching around, crying and singing with our hands in the air?
Besides Ray Anne, the only person I could envision actually doing something like that was Pastor Gordon’s son, Ethan—the med school grad who’d crushed on my girlfriend but failed to win her away from me.
All at once, the Watchmen ceased moving and bowed their heads, holding their positions like exquisite statues until they broke rank in line order, swarming the sky. They charged up through the air and disappeared into the beaming oval.
Custos stood and slid his helmet on—even more impressive than the other fighters. Like a noble general, he held his post until he was the last one remaining. Then he mounted his majestic horse and raced toward the heavenly portal, pausing midair to look back—at me, I like to think.
“Owen!” Ray Anne didn’t care that an occasional vehicle was passing. She spun around like she was back on drill team. “How amazing was that!”
I might have danced too, if I could have ignored my pride. And been more coordinated.
Ray and I got back on my motorcycle, and as I started the engine, she pointed ahead. “What’s that car doing?”
The familiar Suburban was parked on the shoulder, headlights facing us, windows too dark to see inside.
I drove fast toward the vehicle, invigorated by the Watchmen’s boldness. As we passed it, I slowed exaggeratedly, so whoever was in there would know I was on to them.
They didn’t follow us.
Around ten o’clock, after I’d dropped Ray Anne off, I stopped by Gentry’s house—an ordinary one-story. I used to love hanging here with Lance. It was weird walking up the driveway after all this time.
It was a little late on a weeknight to go knocking on the door, but I had to check on Gentry. If I was right about the meaning of that black line across his neck, his life was on the line. And if I’d really heard from God like I thought I had, I’d been told to fight for him.
I was questioning things now, mainly because I still had no sense of direction about how to intervene, and I couldn’t stomach the thought that yet another life might be lost because I wasn’t wise enough or spiritual enough to piece together how to protect him.
And there were twelve more unnamed souls on the Cosmic Rulers’ hit list. If any or all of their lives came to ruin, I’d feel responsible for them, too.
Gentry’s stepdad answered the door and shrugged when I asked for Gentry. “He ain’t here. I never know where that boy is. His mama and I gave up months ago on trying to get that kid to do right. He’s hopeless.”
Hopeless? Kind of harsh.
He seemed eager to shut the door.
I was headed back to my bike when I spotted Gentry struggling to pry into his house through a window. I hurried over just in time to watch him drop to his bedroom floor like dead weight, mumbling to himself.
“Are you okay?” I tried a couple of times to get his attention, but it was no use. He was out of it. I shut his window and walked away, hoping that the next day I’d find him sober. And alive.
When I pulled up at the church, the infamous black Suburban was idling across the street, on stalking duty. I didn’t have the luxury of calling the cops and reporting it—not in this town. But I did shoot my father a text:
For once, he texted back immediately:
I replied.
I was exhausted and fell into bed, mindful of how grateful I was for the financial inheritance from my father’s parents. Yes, I seriously resented the spiteful motive behind it—a bribe to persuade my mother, pregnant with me, to abandon my father and annul their marriage—but the money kept me from having to worry about employment right now. The way I saw it, I had a job; it just didn’t pay. Transforming Masonville’s spiritual atmosphere deserved my full-time attention. My online college classes got the leftover scraps.
I turned onto my side and fluffed my pillow, wondering if Custos would show up outside, or maybe even inside my room tonight, and how it would feel to be near him now that I knew who he was. A superior among superiors. I never would have imagined I could have admired him even more.
As usual, I had a restless night. I slept past noon the next day, and I might have slept later had an annoying racket not woken me. I didn’t have to open my eyes to know something was traipsing around on the balcony outside my room. Then came the distinct sound of my half-dead potted plant—a housewarming gift from Ray Anne’s mom the day I moved in here—toppling over, the clay pot shattering.
As I lay there in my sunlit room—groggy, working to pry my eyes open—I sat up and spotted Daisy next to the bed, her gaze fixed on the locked double doors that open to the balcony. Was some injured bird flapping around out there, or . . . ?
My good-natured Labrador retriever lowered her head and growled, flaring her gums. So, maybe the demon woman was back, lurking on the balcony, trying to scare me in broad daylight. Whatever the commotion was, I had to get up and face it.
By the time I slid on a pair of jeans and peeked out the sheers, the noise had stopped. Sure enough, my potted plant was in a broken heap. But there was no person or animal out there, earthly or otherwise.
I opened both doors, invigorated by the feel of the warm summer breeze against my bare chest.
I took a deep, energizing inhale, walking out onto the balcony, three times the size of the one at my old apartment. I reached to grip the wood railing in front of me, but something in my peripheral vision stopped me mid-stride. I turned to my left, and there she was. Veronica, in a flimsy white tattered dress that draped below her knees, her back pressed against the handrail. My stomach dropped like I’d been pushed off the balcony. Her feet were bare and muddy, just like the pair that had climbed my window the night before.
She smiled, but her green-eyed glare was narrowed and hostile. “I see you, Owen.”
My knee-jerk reaction was to dive back into my room and slam and lock the doors. But after a few panting exhales, I threw the doors open again, ready to confront the demonic imposter and drive it away with the Name above all names. But it was already gone.
I didn’t waste time pacing around and coming unglued. Instead I took Daisy outside for a potty break and scanned the property. I looked over my shoulder a lot, but I refused to be scared or let my focus be derailed.
Daisy sniffed the wide-open lawn, and I shook my head, annoyed by my latest realization: dark forces insist on playing mind tricks, even when their charade is a tired act.
That wasn’t Veronica—not today and not at Ray Anne’s yesterday, brooding over Jackson’s crib.
I went back inside the building with my dog, and the pastor’s administrative assistant—a plump, friendly lady—spotted me. She stopped me, handing me an envelope she said had arrived in the mail for me today. From the Hilltop Unit penitentiary.
Another one? Seriously?
Back in my room, I trashed the letter without opening it and got busy cleaning up the broken clay pot and mound of soil on my balcony. But curiosity got the best of me. I dug the letter out of the trash can and ripped into the envelope, unfolding a piece of notebook paper identical to the first, a childish handwritten statement in the center, in pencil again: You’re as easy to break as your pitiful little plant.
Then a signature: Eva.