The Claws of Evil - By Andrew Beasley Page 0,15

bed and in minutes the pair of them were snoring again.

Ben stayed awake. He listened for footfalls on the roof. He listened for noises in the street. But the only thing that he could hear was the echo of his father’s words.

Although he loved his father, there were times when he could almost hate him too; hate the injustice of it. All his life, he had felt as if he were being punished for a crime that he didn’t commit.

It had never been spoken out loud, but Ben saw it in his father’s eyes, felt it in the tone of his voice. You murdered her, Ben. We’d be a happy family if it wasn’t for you.

He missed her too, didn’t they understand that?

He hadn’t killed her. It wasn’t his fault.

How did they think he felt? Knowing that his mother gave her life to bring him into the world.

The Feathered Men were restless. Their screeching echoed through the tunnels of the Under, a shrill and angry conversation in a language no human ear should hear.

Claw Carter watched them cautiously. He had stalked tigers and the rules were much the same: move slowly, move silently. Try not to reek of fear.

There were hundreds of hidden chambers in the subterranean world of the Under, the secret realm of tunnels and catacombs that the Legion called home, but none were as dreaded as the nesting pens where the Feathered Men took their rest. Few dared to approach unless they were under strict orders, and then only reluctantly. Claw Carter, however, was not like other men.

The Feathered Men were remarkable creatures: part man, part bird; all evil. Carter admired them, admired their simplicity. They were killing machines, nothing more. Looking at them, it was hard to imagine that once they had been angelic beings, members of the high order of the Seraphim, whose sole purpose was to sing the praises of their Creator. But that had been a long time ago, before the rebellion in Heaven, Carter reminded himself. A lot had happened since then. The uprising had failed and the once majestic Feathered Men had been cast out with all the other rebel angels; hurled down into the depths of the Pit. Far, far away from Heaven’s light.

In a way, the Feathered Men had never stopped falling, Carter thought, as he watched them. It was as if their hearts were set on descending lower and lower into depravity and greed. One at a time, they had been summoned by the Legion down the centuries, through sacrifice, ritual and blood. Lots of blood. And now they did the Legion’s bidding, if it suited them. The relationship between the Feathered Men and the Legion was not an easy one, Carter knew, neither side having much to offer in the way of trust. But it worked because of a shared vision: they both wanted revenge on the One who had rejected them.

Carter observed the Feathered Men as they roosted in the eaves, squatting on the beams high overhead, gripping tight with their strangely elongated hands and feet. They did not require much in the way of comfort: a vaulted ceiling where they could take their rest, straw to defecate in, fresh meat to eat. A sconce of tallow candles flickered in the corner nearest to the stout oak doors, providing just enough light to cast the nesting chamber into shadows. These ageless, immortal creatures disliked the light; perhaps it reminded them too much of the life they had left behind, Carter mused.

Every now and then a squabble would erupt and they lashed out spitefully, snapping with their beaks and raking their talons across each other’s flesh until the dispute was resolved. They were kindred spirits, Carter thought; they did what they wanted, took what they desired. Much like myself.

And although they were monstrous in appearance, like Carter with his claw, the Feathered Men were spiritual beings too; they understood the invisible things of this world. They understood the nature of the Coin. That was why he was here now.

Although he was not in the habit of explaining his plans to anyone, he continued to be amazed that even someone as intelligent as Ruby Johnson failed to grasp the significance of the Coins. Thirty pieces of silver; wasn’t it obvious? Didn’t everyone know the story of Judas, the man who betrayed Jesus for a purse of Roman coins?

The Coins of Blood.

For nearly two thousand years they had brought out the worst in men, whispering to them in the