Read Online The Fallen 3 by Thomas E. Sniegoski - Free Book Online
Authors: Thomas E. Sniegoski
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that was when Tobias had turned his blind stare on Dusty and offered the horn to him.
Dusty left the restaurant, and went out to wait for his bus in the damp cold. But he barely felt it, as the instrument in his pocket radiated a heat that warmed his body. He put his hand into his jacket, allowing his fingertips to gently brush the metal of the harmonica, and felt an electric tingle race through his body.
He’d felt that same tingle when he had accepted the horn from Tobias, gasping aloud as the metal touched his flesh.
The old man had smiled at him then. “She likes you.”
And Dusty had to wonder,
What if she didn’t?
That night in the alley had been the first and the last time Dusty had seen Tobias, although he had dreamed of the old man’s death—feathered wings mercilessly pounding him into darkness.
The instrument had shown him many things during the ensuing days. He previously would not have seen those visions, but now that he was the instrument’s carrier, they were images that he
must
see.
It was one of those visions that had brought him to the Seattle bus station tonight.
A bus pulled around the corner and into a space in front of the station. Its doors opened with a loud hydraulic hiss.
It was one of those images that had shown him where he needed to go. He was to go east, for
they
would be looking for him.
Dusty didn’t know who they were exactly, and felt that perhaps it would be best that he didn’t know. Images of the Corpse Riders appeared inside his head, and he quickly drove them away.
The driver stepped off the bus, fished a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, picked one out eagerly, and lit it up. Dusty climbed the stairs onto the bus and walked all the way to the back.
The instrument told him that they needed to keep moving, that it had much to show him before a decision could be made.
A decision for what?
He wondered.
Hunkering down, and closing his eyes to the whispering voice in his head, he realized that he didn’t have the courage to ask.
T WO W EEKS A GO
Geburah hated to be in the foul presence of the Corpse Riders, but he took great pleasure from the sounds of their screams.
He had ignited the fire of Heaven in his right hand and was bringing it closer and closer to the monster’s pale face.
“You promised you would find me the instrument if Ispared your miserable life,” the Powers’ leader stated, his words lacking any emotion.
The demon squirmed beneath the holy light in Geburah’s hand while the other denizens of the demon nest were held in place by the razor-sharp stares of Geburah’s angelic brethren.
“We have done what you asked!” the Corpse Rider cried, cowering beneath the glow, his pale flesh blotchy in the cruel light of Heaven. “But since a new carrier was chosen—”
Geburah cut off its words as he pressed a burning finger down onto the bare skull of the demon, reveling in its pathetic wails.
“Why is it that what we ask has become so difficult?” the angel demanded, the smell of seared, dead flesh wafting up to assault his senses. “We have allowed you to live for this reason alone, and now you make us regret that decision.”
The Corpse Riders were a loathsome race of demonic beasts that found their way from their world of shadow to God’s earth through rips in the fabric of reality. Rips believed to have been caused by Verchiel’s attempts to unleash the Hell contained within Lucifer Morningstar.
It was an unfortunate side effect of their previous leader’s plan.
The Riders’ natural forms could not survive the harsh, sunlit conditions of this plain, and so they chose to hide themselves away in an environment more hospitable to their needs.
They chose to live in the bodies of the dead, somethingthat the world had little shortage of. They animated corpses as if they still contained the glimmer of life, but instead of a spark of divinity, they held a vile worm of darkness.
The idea of working with creatures as foul as these made
Dusty left the restaurant, and went out to wait for his bus in the damp cold. But he barely felt it, as the instrument in his pocket radiated a heat that warmed his body. He put his hand into his jacket, allowing his fingertips to gently brush the metal of the harmonica, and felt an electric tingle race through his body.
He’d felt that same tingle when he had accepted the horn from Tobias, gasping aloud as the metal touched his flesh.
The old man had smiled at him then. “She likes you.”
And Dusty had to wonder,
What if she didn’t?
That night in the alley had been the first and the last time Dusty had seen Tobias, although he had dreamed of the old man’s death—feathered wings mercilessly pounding him into darkness.
The instrument had shown him many things during the ensuing days. He previously would not have seen those visions, but now that he was the instrument’s carrier, they were images that he
must
see.
It was one of those visions that had brought him to the Seattle bus station tonight.
A bus pulled around the corner and into a space in front of the station. Its doors opened with a loud hydraulic hiss.
It was one of those images that had shown him where he needed to go. He was to go east, for
they
would be looking for him.
Dusty didn’t know who they were exactly, and felt that perhaps it would be best that he didn’t know. Images of the Corpse Riders appeared inside his head, and he quickly drove them away.
The driver stepped off the bus, fished a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, picked one out eagerly, and lit it up. Dusty climbed the stairs onto the bus and walked all the way to the back.
The instrument told him that they needed to keep moving, that it had much to show him before a decision could be made.
A decision for what?
He wondered.
Hunkering down, and closing his eyes to the whispering voice in his head, he realized that he didn’t have the courage to ask.
T WO W EEKS A GO
Geburah hated to be in the foul presence of the Corpse Riders, but he took great pleasure from the sounds of their screams.
He had ignited the fire of Heaven in his right hand and was bringing it closer and closer to the monster’s pale face.
“You promised you would find me the instrument if Ispared your miserable life,” the Powers’ leader stated, his words lacking any emotion.
The demon squirmed beneath the holy light in Geburah’s hand while the other denizens of the demon nest were held in place by the razor-sharp stares of Geburah’s angelic brethren.
“We have done what you asked!” the Corpse Rider cried, cowering beneath the glow, his pale flesh blotchy in the cruel light of Heaven. “But since a new carrier was chosen—”
Geburah cut off its words as he pressed a burning finger down onto the bare skull of the demon, reveling in its pathetic wails.
“Why is it that what we ask has become so difficult?” the angel demanded, the smell of seared, dead flesh wafting up to assault his senses. “We have allowed you to live for this reason alone, and now you make us regret that decision.”
The Corpse Riders were a loathsome race of demonic beasts that found their way from their world of shadow to God’s earth through rips in the fabric of reality. Rips believed to have been caused by Verchiel’s attempts to unleash the Hell contained within Lucifer Morningstar.
It was an unfortunate side effect of their previous leader’s plan.
The Riders’ natural forms could not survive the harsh, sunlit conditions of this plain, and so they chose to hide themselves away in an environment more hospitable to their needs.
They chose to live in the bodies of the dead, somethingthat the world had little shortage of. They animated corpses as if they still contained the glimmer of life, but instead of a spark of divinity, they held a vile worm of darkness.
The idea of working with creatures as foul as these made
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