Devil's Cut: Order of the Rod Book 1

By Chris M. Williams

A SECRET SOCIETY
Ryale’s daughter is dead because of what he is ― the last surviving member of an ancient society of warriors trained by Archangel Michael. Bound by an oath to fend off evil and give mankind a fighting chance, Ryale must answer the call to the battlefield.
A FORBIDDEN PACT
Destroying an entity that can’t die may cost him more than his life, but for Ryale the fight is personal, and no gamble is too steep. He forges an alliance with one enemy to defeat another, but the pact threatens to turn him into the very thing he’s fighting to destroy.

A FATHER’S SACRIFICE
There’s a fine line between justice and vengeance. Justice answers to a divine law. Vengeance is a darkness that will swallow a man’s soul. Bound by the Order of the Rod, Ryale is sworn to uphold the more honorable of the two. As a father, he has his own agenda. The fiery pits of hell won’t stop him from getting what’s his. But win or lose, the devil always gets his cut.

From author Chris M. Williams comes an age-old battle between good and evil that reaches beyond the gates of Heaven and deep into the bowels of hell. If you’ve been waiting for a hero who’ll strike evil at its root, now you’ve got one.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chris M. Williams
• Release date: Oct 20, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301337989

Book preview

Prologue

Elizabeth clung to the trembling stone window ledge with one hand and to the ancient rod with the other. Rain soaked ash lay in murky puddles on the low rooftops of the older buildings downtown, and smoke rose from her father's barrel factory a few blocks away. Flames lashed at the large paned windows, and the red bricks of her family's business grew black. All around her Bay Harbor burned.

On the streets below, blood and rain streamed toward the gutters. Opportunists, as dark as the night, searched the wounded, the dying, and those paralyzed by fear. The shadows and dark alleys had eyes, and some of them saw her. Her grip tightened on the smooth wooden rod she'd all but stolen, ready to use it if she had to.

Another explosion in the midnight sky rained fire and sent twisting tendrils of smoke in every direction. One of the chimneys of her father's factory belched a dark cloud and crumbled. Bricks showered the street, and the sweet scent of charred white oak drifted past the window ledge where she sat. Elizabeth closed her eyes and inhaled the aroma. The factory had been her second home.

The rod clutched at her side was longer than she was tall. Her thumb worried the carved lines of an X formed by a chained rod and staff, the ancient symbol of the Order. Her birthright.

Wind howled around Saint Michael's Church and rushed past the stained glass window at the base of the steeple that she'd claimed as her post. The window ledge made a good seat, but the stone trapped cold and the echoes of war shivered her bones.

For two days, the singing clash of weapons and armor had vibrated the air. In those forty-eight hours, half the city had been destroyed, but when the sun set on this, the third day, all hell had broken loose.

Cold gusts tore through the dark streets. Oily puddles rippled, blurring reflected flashes of lightning and fire. A few blocks away, boats bobbed in the Bay Harbor marina where choppy white-crested waves smacked the sea wall and the bay itself was as dark as the night.

Stunned people stood in the street below. Their faces pointed skyward while rain soaked their clothes and their bodies trembled. No one questioned how a girl barely a woman, dressed like an embattled angel, had seated herself on a window ledge more than twenty feet off the ground. They had bigger worries.

Saint Michael's and every church in the world was packed with people who prayed, cried, sang, cursed, begged and grew stoic. There was finally proof for what some of them had always known, what others had refused to believe, and what most had questioned. Heaven did exist. And so did hell.

Elizabeth braced herself in the window frame as a crack opened in the asphalt parking lot below. The movement of the church was subtle, but war-weakened buildings further down the street crashed to the ground.

Shadows moved across the falling city as massive wings blocked the dim moonlight. Weapon wielding angels defended the skies with the expulsion of every slithering, hunchbacked, fanged and grotesque creature attempting to gain entry into the heavens. Demons hit the ground like fat, splattering drops of rain. Serpent-like creatures slithered into alleyways, down sewer grates, and disappeared into the open mouths of terrified onlookers. No matter how many of the defiled beasts the angels flung down to the earth, more clawed their way heavenward as if there was no end to their numbers.

Without warning, everything stilled. Elizabeth sat forward, clenching the stone ledge with one bare hand. Electricity popped in the air, left a tang on her tongue and tingled against her skin.

As one, the angels closest to the ground retreated for Heaven, and the entire angel army stood shoulder to shoulder like an impenetrable wall of weapons and wings.

Storm clouds swirled with the force of a hurricane. The night grew darker. Screaming and screeching demons threw themselves to the ground and scurried for cover.

Elizabeth clung to the stone ledge so hard her fingers burned.

The dark bay at the end of the street bubbled and rolled toppling the boats and devouring the crested waves. The ground shook violently as if a great force within the center of the world was ascending from the dark fiery depths, pushing upward, clearing everything in its path.

People in the streets fell to their knees. Windows shattered, and buildings around the church dissolved into piles of rubble.

And then with a deafening roar the dragon burst forth like lava from a volcano. A six-lane road towered like an anthill around him. An army of dark souls poured from his asphalt mountain and marched through the streets.

Angels fired their weapons, but the beast swatted away the arrowed bolts of light as if they were matchsticks. His tongue waggled. Fire spewed from his mouth. His great tail whipped, leveling more of the city. His army trampled people, automobiles, park statues, even the strays and rats that took cover behind garbage dumpsters and in alleys. Bodies lay flattened. Souls rose like smoke from the trampled fur and flesh, ascending into the dark sky and disappearing behind the angelic front line.

The beast whipped his tail again, smacking it against Saint Michael's and the churches that remained standing. Elizabeth clung to her ledge, dug her heels and shoulders into the stone, and wedged herself deep into the corner. The church swayed, but didn't fall. The stained glass window didn't crack. She sucked in more tangy air and held her rod against her chest.

The sky rumbled. The veil concealing the lower levels of Heaven opened like a stage curtain. A glistening city filled the sky with golden streets, shimmering buildings, and folks bathed in light. Above the great city, cottony white clouds parted revealing a majestic staircase.

A figure unlike the others appeared near the top and descended slowly. Elizabeth's heart pounded.

Michael. She breathed his name, buried the rod next to her leg, and tucked herself as close to the window as she could.

The archangel's armor shone like silver against his chest. Leather hung in strips down his upper thighs. His flawless face held a look of steely resolve, and his wings stood half-spread against his back. In one hand, he carried a great chain, and with the other, he drew his sword. On either side of him, Gabriel and Raphael brandished their weapons and matched him step for step. They descended from the highest realm of Heaven and advanced onto the battlefield.

The angels on the front line parted to give them room. A blinding light leapt from Michael's sword and flashed down to the earth, hitting the beast's chest and illuminating the sweat on his smooth blood-red head. Short horns curved above each of his ears. A gold hoop pierced his bull-like snout. His mighty chest swelled. His arms pumped. And a thunderous roar filled the night.

Ry...ale! The name reverberated through the heavens. A call. A command.

Elizabeth leaned forward so suddenly she fell from the window ledge. She jolted awake with a gasp, her heart pounding. It wasn't a dream, but it wasn't happening yet.

She was still a child, safe in the warm glow of stained glass and well-oiled wood inside Saint Michael's. She burrowed her cheek into the soft powdery scent of her grandmother's thigh and curled her arm around the doll pressed beneath her on the pew.

Thunder rumbled through the church rafters. The choir sang the final hallelujahs of the Christmas program, and the nativity cast knelt around a swaddled infant in a manger.

Elizabeth was six years old, young enough to remember who she truly was. Her small hand curled into a fist. She would never forget.

PART ONE

Into the hands of every individual is given a marvelous power for good or evil... - William George Jordan

Chapter 1

Outside Saint Michael's the wind had grown teeth. Ryale pushed his hands deeper into his pockets and curled his shoulders against the cold as he made his way into the church's courtyard. He stopped in the shadows just beyond the glow of the stained glass windows and lampposts to wait for his life to come barreling out at him.

The broad double doors of Saint Michael's opened and parishioners spilled down the stone steps and into the courtyard. Couples huddled together against the biting wind, and children were hurried toward the parking lot.

Elizabeth saw him and broke into a run. He wrapped her in a hug that made her squeal as a sudden gust brought with it the sweet odor of charred oak from his barrel factory two blocks over in the heart of Bay Harbor and the damp promise of rain. His hand sank into the soft curls that hung down his daughter's back, and the toes of her church shoes bumped his thighs.

I hope you haven't been out in this long. Miriam tugged her scarf tighter as she joined them and they made their way toward the parking lot.

Nah. Long day. Had to get a big shipment out to Kentucky before all the bourbon ran dry.

You should've been here. Elizabeth pulled the yarn hair of her doll from the stubble on his chin. There was a big battle. Angels and demons fought and a monster exploded from the ground. The cold reddened her angel fair skin and added a watery glint to her pale blue eyes.

He raised an eyebrow at Miriam. They change the Christmas program that much?

My darling granddaughter fell asleep in my lap and dreamed of Revelation. Her doting laughter drifted over the chatter of the people walking with them toward the street.

It wasn't a dream. It just hasn't happened yet. Elizabeth snuggled in closer, and the pulse in his neck jumped against her small fingers.

When you go to bed, how about you see something less violent? Miriam gently scolded. Or you'll keep your daddy up all night.

I wasn't afraid, she said. I was ready to fight.

Did you ask Mimi if she wanted to go to the mall with us? Ryale said into her hair.

She wants hot tea and her housecoat, Elizabeth said.

Miriam laughed but Ryale recognized the sadness in her eyes, and he understood. This time of year was hard for her, too. They were soldiers in the same war. He'd lost a wife, and she'd lost a daughter. Elizabeth was the only link they had to Melody, and she connected them like an unbreakable chain.

I don't want to go either, Elizabeth said.

He bounced her on his arm. Don't want to go see Santa Claus? But it's tradition. Do I need to remind you why Cooper's don't break tradition?

She straightened her back and deepened her voice. 'Cause there wouldn't be a decent barrel ever made.

He tickled her ribs. Are you making fun of me?

She giggled and squirmed, but as soon as he stopped, her mouth turned down. I don't like Santa Claus.

Next to her car, Miriam fished her keys from her coat pocket. I'll see you both tomorrow.

Elizabeth leaned out of his arms to kiss her grandmother goodnight, but she remained silent as he carried her to his truck. He hefted her in on the driver's side just as the rain started to fall.

Why don't you like Santa Claus?

She hugged her doll and walked across the seat on her knees. You don't like church.

Apples to oranges. Ryale turned up the heat and helped her with her seatbelt. I know you like presents. And reindeer, and the elves, and baby Jesus, and decorating the Christmas tree. How can you like everything about Christmas, except Santa?

She shrugged and waved to one of her friends getting into the minivan parked next to them. I just don't.

You liked him last year.

She crossed her arms and stared out the window. She was as stubborn as he was. Melody used to say watching them together was like watching someone playing in a mirror.

He followed the traffic out of the parking lot as fat drops of rain began sliding down the windshield.

A driver in the oncoming lane swerved, and Ryale slammed his fist against the horn. Since Melody died, every car on the road was a potential lethal weapon aimed straight for his little girl, and nothing was going to happen to her on his watch.

I've got this Santa Claus problem figured out, he said. You always whisper in his ear. You got any idea how old that man is? He probably doesn't hear half of what he pretends to.

She leaned forward as far as her seatbelt would let her and stared at the sky through the windshield. He hears me.

Let's test the old geezer. Same's we test our barrels.

We can't put water in Santa Claus.

You don't reckon he'd like that?

She shook her head, but a smile curled her lips.

How 'bout this then? Tell him straight out everything you want. I'll stand back a ways. You say it loud enough for me to hear. Come Christmas morning we'll know if his ears work or if he's deaf as a stump.

They approached an intersection. He eased off the gas and looked both ways before trusting the lights. The night they lost Melody had been like this one. Spitting rain and snow. Gray as a rat's ass.

Did you see that? Elizabeth's hands gripped the dashboard, her nose inches from the windshield. Did you see it, Daddy?

Snow flurries? They starting already?

An angel. I saw its wings.

Mmmm hmmm. He turned into the parking garage of the mall.

You should come to church with me and Mimi. You can learn about the angels. Then you'd believe me.

I went to church for a long time. I know the same stuff you do. He backed into a parking space and helped her unfasten her seatbelt.

When did you stop believing in angels?

I never said they weren't real. I just haven't ever seen one all dressed up with wings.

He stepped out of the truck and waited for her to slide across the seat. Before she climbed down, he fisted his hand and held his forearm diagonal to his chest. She locked her wrist and pressed her forearm to his, making an X. He clasped the intersection of their arms in one hand. She added her hand to close the bind. To the end, he said.

The end! She yelled.

The ritual started when she was still in diapers. He'd probably gotten the idea from the crossed and chained rod and staff on the family crest that got branded into every Cooper barrel. The gesture had become their symbol of alliance, their stand against the world, a vow to be stronger together than anything they'd ever face.

She climbed down from the cab and took his hand. "It was an angel. I wish it was Michael."

Why do you wish that?

She stared up at him, her eyes sparkling. He's got big muscles, and a chain, and a sword that flashes light. And he's not afraid of anything. One day I'm going to fight just like him.

And you'll probably wear the skirt better.

It's armor.

Ryale chuckled at the defensiveness in her voice. She had the face of a doll and the heart of a warrior.

She curled her hand tighter into his. Do I have to go?

How else are we gonna test the old coot? Let's give it a quick run then I'll buy you a hot chocolate.

They wove through the Christmas crowd to the atrium in the center of the mall and fell in behind twenty other families being corralled through a red velvet rope maze. Santa sat on