The Left Hand of God -Book 4 – Story 1 – Michael’s Right Hand

Rituals are plays of meanings for those who cannot improvise to remember with.

They smelled like Christians. They were obviously witches, but they were way too clean. Holy Ones.

Fuck he hated Holy Ones. Not an “I’m going to murder you all” hatred. More of like an “Ewwww”.

They had souls like hair that had been washed in scalding hot water with shitloads of soap made from the fat of rendered cows. Stripped of life and frayed at the ends. Fuck. What did these uptight bitches want with him he really couldn’t fathom.

His room is small, he smokes his spliff. Inhaling he returns there.

He sees his Warder moving behind him, and tells her clearly to stay at the back. They are in a Room.

There are many Rooms in the world, built by many people, for many purposes. With many tricky devices.

He looks at the women. Barbies in robes. Not cool. Barbies like power, not truth. Barbies don’t care if people die. Their souls are too greedy for themselves. A steaming pile of shit was about to descend. When shit hits the fan, Barbies always become followers or batshit crazy. Fuck. Or they RUN.

There are 9 of them, which is odd for witches. 9 and a priestess. But it was possible there were more. His vision was murky at the corners of the room. They stood in spots a few feet from a stone table with a longsword lying upon it. Shitty. Blades suck in Rooms with pretty girls in robes. Rooms were unpredictable. He tried to calm his energy. They were fools to bring him here with a Blade. There might be more too, somewhere else in the Room. They might possibly be unaware of its presence.

If they do not stand in the proper spot…or they run…

White robes. Purity. Fuck this was shitty. What did that idiot priestess want. Did she realize one of her charges might die here? Barbies in white. So definitely not good at all. Not a single one of them would be able to hold the Blade strong enough to stop it. They were not warrior Barbies.

He looked. Fuck. Old patterns of magnetism. Shit. Old unused unknown untested unmoved fucking bands of shit. Fuck.

“Don’t fucking move, Priestess.”

He turned to her young charges, he couldn’t see their faces clearly. It must be an old glass, starting to warp.

“Stand in the places as you have learned to stand.” He barked. There wasn’t time to waste. These were starry eyed bookworm girls and they didn’t realize how fucking fast one of them could die here. They were clueless.

He expanded his range. There was one. There.

A small thin dagger like object flew out of a wall hole and through the edge of the priestess’ robe. She wasn’t exactly on her spot.

“Stand on your spot!” They all shifted a couple inches. the dagger was sticking to something on the other side of a pillar, he couldn’t see it. They obviously could.

He didn’t know who the hell they were, but they were playing with fire being in this Room without understanding it.

The priestess was continuing her Ritual as she had learned it, she didn’t break stride at the dagger, but her face registered. She understood the implications. Finally.

There was still the fucking Blade on the table. He could feel at least 7 more small ones in the walls. He’d seen rooms that gyrated serrated walls of blades before. He hated Rooms. Rooms had a habit of activating when he was in them for any length of time. But once they started moving, it could kill everyone inside if it stopped before the sequence was finished.

What would they gain that they would risk this price by calling him here?

He flexed his reddish leathery wings and snorted as he inhaled in Real Life. The Axe was fully engorged with the Fire in his hand. He looked at it. They were calling someone. Stupid bitches. This would be Bad.

A tall beautiful Angel with a slightly cruel smile of benevolence appears. The Fucker of all Fuckers himself. Michael.

This would be REALLY bad.

Michael has his sword out, spitting out the words he thinks will give him power over me in this world. That is what the book has told him the words will do.

The book has set him up.

He reaches the end of the monolog. The witches say their short chant. They believe they are cheering their triumphant Knight of God as he vanquishes the greatest of Demons. That is what the book has told him.

They have spoken the words in their places, they have stood in the proper spaces, they have worn the proper clothes and faces. I have no choice you stupid cunts. Fuck. If you only understood what you had just said you would not have spoken. They had no idea what they were saying. The book had not been translated.

The words spit out of my mouth in 3 languages, only one of which I can partly hear, but I have no time to think.

He strikes with the sword of brilliant blue steel and yellow energy in his Right Hand, cutting a swath of chi across lines of magnetism carefully balanced. Balanced and Charged now with the Key.

Michael, the Right Hand of God. That is the aspect he calls with this Play.

He and his ladies have called me to take part in their Play, without asking.

My Part is Samael.

The Left Hand of God for 2 millennia as Gabriel was still an infant and Before.
Redeemer.

The Blade flies from the table, much faster than the dagger flew. On ancient fields of carefully placed magnetic stones it flips, as it was set to do. Waiting for the blue sword to be swung from this spot. The Blade could finally complete the Ritual the book had set in motion.

The young rich wizard who hopes to fill himself with power, falls much slower than his Right Hand holding the sword.

I spit out the remaining words as the Blade stops still for a few moments in the air, where my hand is grasping. I have never spoken them before, and hope to never speak them again. I do not know what they were. I was staring at the women, pissing themselves, yellow on trembling white, too frightened to even budge from standing in their sacred “spot”. The Blade clatters to the ground with a sound much wetter than just metal.

They would not be able to help him anyway.

Tears streaming down my face, I see my Warder hack the cord completely.

I’m staring at the hand, and the bright blue sword, as I disconnect.