The Book of Doom - By Barry Hutchison Page 0,71

back to square one. This whole thing may have been a trick right from the start.”

“Right,” said Zac. “Which would make you the idiot.”

Gabriel glared down at him. His jaw moved from side to side, as if chewing over his next few words. At last, he glanced at Michael. “Dispose of him,” he said.

Michael’s face cracked into a smile. “Now you’re talking.”

“Do whatever you feel necessary,” said Gabriel. He turned and walked back towards the archway. “Just be sure to have someone clean up afterwards.”

“By the time I’m finished there won’t be anything left to clean up,” Michael said.

Gabriel paused, but didn’t look back. “I don’t want to know,” he said, then he continued walking. He was almost at the archway when a voice made him stop for a second time.

“Problems, Gabriel?”

Zac looked for the owner of the voice, but found no one. Then he remembered. You didn’t see the Metatron, you only heard him.

Gabriel cleared his throat. Zac heard the silken rustle of Michael’s sword sliding back into its sheath.

“Uh, no, sir,” Gabriel said. “Or rather, yes, sir. We retrieved the book, but it was a fake.”

“Bless it all,” said the disembodied voice. It sounded to Zac like an old British military general. It was the type of voice that had a moustache and drank brandy and knew a lot about horses and cricket and impaling foreigners on bayonets. “So, what do we do now, then?” it asked.

Gabriel hesitated. “I... do not know, sir. We begin the search anew. Try to determine where the book is, then formulate a plan for getting it back.”

Zac stepped away from Michael and looked into the centre of the room, as if that was where the voice was emanating from. “They’re leaving someone down there in Hell,” he said. “The boy, Angelo. Hell has him and they won’t do anything about it.”

Silence followed. Zac got the feeling he was being scrutinised. He stood his ground, waiting for a reply.

“Really?” said the Metatron at last. “Gabriel, is this true?”

“Yes, sir,” Gabriel said.

“Was that your intention all along? Why wasn’t I informed?”

“We, uh, thought it best to leave that part out, sir,” Gabriel oozed. “In order to protect you from any fall-out. They wanted Angelo. We wanted the book. It seemed like a minor sacrifice to make.”

“Ah, a sacrifice, eh? Haven’t had a sacrifice in a long time. Ah well. Shame for the poor chap, of course, but these things have to be done, what?”

Gabriel’s politician grin crept across his face. “My sentiments exactly, sir.”

Zac shook his head in disgust. “You’re just as bad as they are.”

“Come on now, lad,” spoke the Metatron. “The needs of the many and whatnot. Can’t make an omelette without breaking some eggs.” The voice addressed Gabriel. “What about him? What do you plan on doing with him?”

Gabriel glanced sideways at Michael. “We... weren’t sure, sir. We had yet to decide.”

“Send him back home.”

“Sir?”

“You heard. Send him back home. Wasn’t his fault the book was a fake. You know what they’re like down there. Shower of wrong ’uns, the lot of them. Always up to no good. Not the lad’s fault.”

“But, sir, our concern was that—”

“I believe I gave an instruction, Gabriel,” said the Metatron, and Zac felt the temperature in the room drop several degrees. “The boy completed his part of the deal, so he shall be returned home just as he was. Is that clear?”

Gabriel nodded. “Crystal, sir.”

“Good. And you, lad. I believe the arrangement was that your sins would be wiped clean. Is that correct?”

“Yes,” said Zac. “But I don’t want it.”

The Metatron snorted. “Pardon?”

“If being sin-free means coming here when I die, I want to keep them.” He glared at Michael and Gabriel. “At least in Hell they don’t pretend to be something they’re not.”

“Well... as you wish,” conceded the Metatron. “Gabriel?”

Gabriel gestured to his fellow archangel. “Michael.”

Zac recoiled as Michael’s hand grabbed him roughly by the shoulder. He heard the man in the golden armour mutter, and then a burst of white exploded behind his eyes.

And then he was in his bedroom, sitting on the end of his bed, looking out through the open curtains at the bright summer’s day just beyond the glass. He blinked. There had been a thought right there in his head, but it was gone, floating just out of reach.

He looked down at his clothes. They were filthy, stained with dust and soot and something dark and treacle-like. He was wearing a backpack he didn’t recognise. He slipped it off