Page 39 of Metatron
“We could if humanity joined us. If a religious leader blessed our mission.”
“I’d rather take the deal Astaroth offered.”
At that statement, Metatron decided he’d had enough of the traitor and blasphemer. He was also done catering to the non-believers who plagued his every move. He strode forward and grabbed the pope, dragging him outside.
No one stopped him. He leaped into the air, dragging along the squirming and shrieking pope. He rose high enough that the crowd gathering outside the palace could see him, hard to miss given how bright he glowed.
He held out the pope for all to see, his voice amplified as he announced, “People of Eden, I am Metatron, archangel and warrior in God’s army of light, here to give you warning. The imps you saw tonight are only the beginning of the terror coming for you.” He didn’t need to look to feel the crowd’s rivetted attention. After a slight pause, he continued. “Hell is coming. That asteroid in the sky is Hell’s kingdom, and soon, you will face its army of darkness.”
A few wails broke out along with moans. “What can we do?” someone yelled.
“Nothing,” exclaimed the pope. “We can’t stop—"
Rather than let the man finish, Metatron let go of the pope, who fell screaming toward a wide-eyed crowd. It would have been easy to let him die, but Metatron heeded Francesca’s words and held out his hand, extending the power he’d long been cultivating in hiding. He slowed the pope’s descent and deposited him on the ground, where the man proceeded to scream, “He’s not an angel. And Hell isn’t the evil we’ve been taught. We can bargain for our lives.”
His words led to much murmuring and anger. Metatron heard more than saw those who spat and called him a Judas, which led to him saying, “God rejects this sinner.” He pointed and focused his power to strip the robes from the pope, along with his cross, leaving him in his undergarments, looking weak. He then cast his gaze upon those watching and added in a whisper they all heard, “Who here will follow God?”
To his surprise, the cardinal who’d been dropped by the imps and managed to escape the precarious roof was the first to kneel. “I am the Lord’s servant.”
Metatron pointed. “Behold, the true believer and, as his reward, your new pope.”
The man in red appeared surprised for a moment but soon nodded as he replied, “The church will aid in your fight.”
“Will any others join the pope in battling the forces of darkness?” Metatron usually wasn’t one for flowery speeches, but with this rapt audience, he could ask for no better time to convince.
“Tell God I am his loyal servant!” a woman screamed from a balcony as she fell to her knees.
Metatron pointed. “You are now a soldier in God’s army.”
“Me too!” a man by her side declared, also showing fealty.
Metatron extended his arms and said, “All those who bow now will be remembered after the coming war with Hell and will receive the reward of life.” Not a lie. If they beat hell, they’d get to survive.
The singing began with a single voice, “Glory to God in the highest…” And then others chimed in, the overall melody beautiful. It almost covered the whining of the traitor.
“Do not listen to him. I am your leader. I tell you what God wants.”
“False prophet.” A man with scrubby whiskers spat.
“God sent his angel to remove the rot in his church,” said another.
As the people below crowded the former holy man, others kept singing, their prayers and sudden belief almost visible in the air.
He’d done it. Improved Eden’s odds in the coming battle. Wouldn’t Francesca be so proud? Thinking of her led to him winging his way back to the rooftop where he’d left her, only to find it empty. No Francesca.
He glanced at the open door on the roof. Had she gone inside?
A few strides took him to the opening, reeking of imp. Definitely no subtle perfume. Still, he went down a few steps, holding his breath, noting how the landing was too filthy to have avoided her leaving any steps. She’d not come this way.
He headed back to the fresh air and muttered, “Where are you?” Perhaps she was on board. He contacted the cantorii and asked to be beamed aboard. Still no Francesca.
It led to him grumbling, “Where is she?”
The cantorii didn’t reply. Couldn’t or wouldn’t? Either way, the HALO had to go. Not being able to talk properly hindered.
It took a few deep breaths and a stilling of his psyche before he softly said, “Please remove my HALO.”
The ship didn’t answer, but it did act. The painful process didn’t take overly long, and when it was done, he felt no different except for the voice in his head that said in a distinctly feminine tone, “About time.”