of David Anderson's robe and pulled the man out of his processing chamber. The hairless reindeer dragged him for a few steps until Mr. Anderson got the idea and found his own motivation to move.
Vixen triggered his flamethrower, illuminating the far side of the octagonal chamber and burning away some of the smoke. Something larger than a cherub caught the brunt of the blast, becoming a pillar of fire. The larger angel came on, and Dasher caught it from the side, tracers from his mini-gun rounds cutting holes through the smoke. The angel twisted and bucked, knocked around by the force of the bullets. The assault must have finally breached its body because it came apart suddenly, opening up and imploding like a balloon popping. For a split second, all that remained was an amber light, burning where the angel had vanished. Then it was gone.
The ruined portal to David Anderson's cell wavered then transformed back into the tiny cube within the floating grid as Mr. Anderson moved farther away from his waiting cell. The floating grid was quite evident in the smoke-filled room—the indigo outline of the boxes made each cube stand out. Rising up through the insubstantial lattice structure were more angels like the one the Dasher had just popped. Seraphim—if I had to guess, all clean, white marble wreathed in white streamers with stoic faces frozen with hard expressions.
We fell back from the 78th chamber; Dasher and Prancer brought up the rear, their weapons sporadically going off as a seraphim got too close. Rudolph slowed down long enough for me to get one foot in the strap of the satchel and he was off again, running down the hallway. Mr. Anderson was riding Vixen, and Donner didn't seem to be bothered by Santa's additional weight, even with the large missiles on his back.
I caught myself wondering if two Hellfire missiles were going to be enough . . .
We reached the outer edge of the second cube with only a couple of altercations. The cherubs were acting as spotters for the seraphim. When we entered one of the chambers, there was invariably a pair or three of the tiny winged angels, and they would immediately start piping their celestial alert. Santa had evidently been spending some time at a target range because he rarely needed more than a single shot to dispatch a cherub.
But they were waiting for us in the first room: a full rank of seraphim ranged in front of a line of solid stone pillars. Stubby wings jutted from the top of these massive columns, tiny wings that didn't look like they could lift a hamster, much less a three-hundred-pound block of stone. Blitzen was leading the team, and he slid to a frantic stop. "Thrones," he shouted. "We've got thrones."
"Get out of the way," Santa yelled from behind Rudolph and me. Rudolph put on a burst of speed and, as he entered the room, executed a tight turn. I stayed low and held on tight as centrifugal forces tried to tear me off his back. Rudolph didn't slow down; he dashed for the first door—the passage to the first cube—and Blitzen was right behind him.
Donner fired both of his missiles.
My head hurt from the sound as they streaked into the large chamber and impacted the assembled host. My skeleton ached as the shock wave threw me from Rudolph's back, and a good two years worth of memory cells in my brain burned out in a flash as I slammed against a hard surface. My sense of smell took an extended vacation, and I couldn't feel my toes. I just wanted to lie on the floor for about six weeks until my bones stopped hurting.
Blitzen kicked against the rippling wall, shaking his head. The mini-gun enclosure hanging across his left flank was twisted and bent. He frowned at the damaged gun. He couldn't see that his left ear had been torn as well, and it looked like the pain hadn't registered in his brain yet.
Rudolph had been scorched across his back, and he was favoring a rear hoof. He worked his jaw like there was something loose in his mouth that he couldn't
Vixen triggered his flamethrower, illuminating the far side of the octagonal chamber and burning away some of the smoke. Something larger than a cherub caught the brunt of the blast, becoming a pillar of fire. The larger angel came on, and Dasher caught it from the side, tracers from his mini-gun rounds cutting holes through the smoke. The angel twisted and bucked, knocked around by the force of the bullets. The assault must have finally breached its body because it came apart suddenly, opening up and imploding like a balloon popping. For a split second, all that remained was an amber light, burning where the angel had vanished. Then it was gone.
The ruined portal to David Anderson's cell wavered then transformed back into the tiny cube within the floating grid as Mr. Anderson moved farther away from his waiting cell. The floating grid was quite evident in the smoke-filled room—the indigo outline of the boxes made each cube stand out. Rising up through the insubstantial lattice structure were more angels like the one the Dasher had just popped. Seraphim—if I had to guess, all clean, white marble wreathed in white streamers with stoic faces frozen with hard expressions.
We fell back from the 78th chamber; Dasher and Prancer brought up the rear, their weapons sporadically going off as a seraphim got too close. Rudolph slowed down long enough for me to get one foot in the strap of the satchel and he was off again, running down the hallway. Mr. Anderson was riding Vixen, and Donner didn't seem to be bothered by Santa's additional weight, even with the large missiles on his back.
I caught myself wondering if two Hellfire missiles were going to be enough . . .
We reached the outer edge of the second cube with only a couple of altercations. The cherubs were acting as spotters for the seraphim. When we entered one of the chambers, there was invariably a pair or three of the tiny winged angels, and they would immediately start piping their celestial alert. Santa had evidently been spending some time at a target range because he rarely needed more than a single shot to dispatch a cherub.
But they were waiting for us in the first room: a full rank of seraphim ranged in front of a line of solid stone pillars. Stubby wings jutted from the top of these massive columns, tiny wings that didn't look like they could lift a hamster, much less a three-hundred-pound block of stone. Blitzen was leading the team, and he slid to a frantic stop. "Thrones," he shouted. "We've got thrones."
"Get out of the way," Santa yelled from behind Rudolph and me. Rudolph put on a burst of speed and, as he entered the room, executed a tight turn. I stayed low and held on tight as centrifugal forces tried to tear me off his back. Rudolph didn't slow down; he dashed for the first door—the passage to the first cube—and Blitzen was right behind him.
Donner fired both of his missiles.
My head hurt from the sound as they streaked into the large chamber and impacted the assembled host. My skeleton ached as the shock wave threw me from Rudolph's back, and a good two years worth of memory cells in my brain burned out in a flash as I slammed against a hard surface. My sense of smell took an extended vacation, and I couldn't feel my toes. I just wanted to lie on the floor for about six weeks until my bones stopped hurting.
Blitzen kicked against the rippling wall, shaking his head. The mini-gun enclosure hanging across his left flank was twisted and bent. He frowned at the damaged gun. He couldn't see that his left ear had been torn as well, and it looked like the pain hadn't registered in his brain yet.
Rudolph had been scorched across his back, and he was favoring a rear hoof. He worked his jaw like there was something loose in his mouth that he couldn't
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