Fallen Reign (Sins of the Father 1)

“Now,” Quill shouted. “Seize him!”

“Again with this shit,” I yelled, struggling and kicking as more and more of the demons fell upon me. Powerful hands fought to restrain me, but when that wasn’t enough, the demons dumped onto me in a dog pile. Assholes. “I’m so sick and tired of you rat bastards, always up my ass with your bullshit and – ”

“Mason!” My head turned towards the sound of Florian’s voice. “Suit up,” he shouted, riffling momentarily in one of his pockets, brandishing a handful of tiny pebbles.

Wait. Not pebbles. They looked like – lima beans? Were those the seeds that Dionysus gave him? I didn’t intend to find out the painful way. Suit up, he said. I gritted my teeth, hoping against hope that I could do just as well as Raziel when it came to protective divine magic. I squeezed my eyes shut. Here goes nothing, I thought.

Warm light enveloped my body, though not with the familiar balm of sunshine. This was different. Sunshine didn’t shape itself around the contours of your body, bending and molding. Sunshine didn’t harden into durable plates all over your torso, your legs, into an entire suit of armor.

The demons around me gasped. I only had time to look down at myself as Florian let out another warning cry, grunting as he hurled the beans in our midst. I was in a full suit of golden armor, staring out of the slits of the visor of a helmet that wrapped fully around my head. It wasn’t nearly as ornate or as complicated as what Raziel had made, but it was a damn good try. I hoped that it was strong enough to protect me.

The first little bean landed at my feet with a soft clatter, followed by the next, and the next. Then came the almighty kaboom.

I would’ve been a goner if I hadn’t been cloaked in divine armor. Dionysus’s magic beans exploded with the force and fury of grenades. The demons closest to me were obliterated, splattering my armor with their infernal blood and gore. Gross.

But still, I’d survived. The explosions hadn’t even tossed me off my feet. Grudgingly, in my heart and my mind, I sent a quiet, prayerful “Thank you” up to wherever Raziel was. Yeah, fine. I guess he was my mentor after all. Whatever.

I looked down at myself, grimacing at all the minced demon stuck to my greaves, dripping off my pauldrons and my breastplate. Aww, yuck. I wondered if I’d have to clean myself off before returning the suit to the Vestments.

But speaking of cleanup, there were still three demons left standing.

I was going to have to get rid of those, too. I closed my fist, feeling the satisfying crackle of my joints going up my arms. Lifting my hand, I aimed my gauntleted fist for the closest demon. Now, I don’t want to exaggerate or anything, but I fully punched his head off.

That armor wasn’t just divine in nature, but heavily enchanted, too. It was already so light, feeling like hardly anything on my body, but it also imbued me with strength far beyond my human bounds. I didn’t have to inspect myself to know that the glyphs on my skin were working on overdrive, spilling light out of me like a huge, golden aura.

I dealt with the second demon, screaming as I punched a hole through his chest, then tore the head off the last one. Where this thirst for violence was coming from, I couldn’t be sure, but it satisfied this primal, wanting urge inside of me. Was this how the son of Samyaza was meant to fight in battle? Was this my purpose, my mantle, as a prince of the fallen?

It was all I could do to stop myself from throwing my head back and screaming “Mason, smash!” to the high heavens. Lifting the visor on my helmet, finally exposing my face, I looked to either side of me, murder frothing in my blood as my brain raced between the two options I had: to attack Mammon, or break Quilliam’s face.

Upon catching sight of me, Mammon broke off from its fight with Florian, slashing itself free of the last tangle of vines. “Time, perhaps, for an expeditious retreat,” Mammon said. “Consider yourselves fortunate. This isn’t the last you’ve heard of the Prince of Greed.”

Florian’s fist would have connected with the side of Mammon’s head if the prince hadn’t collapsed into the pool of gold at its feet, sinking into an abyss of pure, molten wealth. The two of us watched in helpless frustration as the liquid gold seeped into the ground, until it was a speck, then, until nothing was left.

“Damn it,” I grunted under my breath.

Well. Break Quilliam’s face it was, then. I rounded on him, taking pleasure in how his eyelashes fluttered in sudden fear, how he backed up against the wall. Stupid move. I had him cornered. With one gauntleted hand, I reached for Quill’s throat, then slammed him into the wall. Plaster fell about his head in little chips. He gasped, pawing at my hand. I pushed harder.

“Start talking,” I said. “Because in less than a minute, I’ll have crushed your windpipe as easily as a beer can.”

Quill laughed stutteringly. “I thought you didn’t drink.”

I slammed him into the wall again, my other hand pressing against his chest. Dust and broken plaster clung to his hair. “I’m not fucking around, Quilliam. Who are you, and what do you want from me?”

His head lolled around, like the pressure I was putting on his throat was cutting off his air, or maybe all the smashing of his head was making him dizzy.

“Can’t tell you,” he breathed. “If I did, I’d have to kill you.” He laughed hoarsely. “We’d both be as good as dead.”

Sneering, I brought my face closer to his, so close that only he could hear what I had to say. “You’re going to have to talk, because I can guarantee you this: one of us will be very, very dead, very, very soon. And it’s not going to be me.”

“Fine.” Quill wheezed, his eyes rolling around in their sockets. “I can tell you one thing, then. Guess what.”

I spoke through clenched teeth. “What?”

Quill’s eyes sparked, his irises turning bright orange. I crushed my hand harder around his throat, but he only smiled. When he spoke his next word, it was through a grin, in a hoarse, taunting whisper.

“Ignis.”

A pillar of fire consumed him utterly, his entire body bursting into flames. I would have thought that he was dying if it wasn’t for his mocking laughter. I pressed harder with my hand, but it was like groping for thin air. He’d slipped from my grasp.