The Fallen

  “It is I, Lord,” he uttered in the language of animals. “It has been too long since we last spoke, and I am in need of Your guidance.”

  The angel gazed around the holy place for signs that he was being heard. There was nothing but the fading echo of his own voice.

  Perhaps if he were closer. He left the pew and strode back to the altar.

  “My mission, my very reason for existence, grows murky these days.”

  He gazed intently at the golden cross, hanging in the air above.

  “There is a prophecy of which I’m certain You are aware. It talks about forgiveness and mercy for those who have fallen from Your grace, oh Heavenly Father.”

  Verchiel began to pace in front of the altar.

  “It says that You will forgive them their most horrid trespasses—and that there will be a prophet of sorts, one who will act as the bringer of absolution.”

  He was growing agitated, angry. The air around him crackled with suppressed hostility. “And he will be a Nephilim,” Verchiel spat, reviled by the word. “A Nephilim, a creature unfit to live beneath Your gaze, a mockery of life that I have done my best to eradicate from Your world with fire and flood.”

  The angel stopped pacing. “The wicked say that the time for the prophecy is nigh, that soon a bridge between the fallen angels and Heaven will be established.” He moved up onto the altar, his gaze never wavering from the golden symbol. “You need to tell me, Lord. Do I follow my instincts and ignore the blasphemous writings of those little better than monkeys? Or do I ignore the purpose bestowed upon me after the Great War in Heaven? I need to know, my Father. Do I continue with my sacred chores and destroy all that offends You, or should I step back and let the prophecy prevail?”

  Verchiel waited, expecting some kind of sign, but there was none, his plaintive questions met with silence.

  The rage that had served him in war all these many millennia exploded from inside him. His wings came forth from his back and a mighty blade of flame appeared in his grasp. He shook the burning sword at the cross and voiced his anger. “Tell me, my God, for I am lost. Give me some indication of Your will.”

  There was a sound from somewhere upon the altar, and Verchiel stood mesmerized.

  Has the Creator heard my plea? the angel thought. Was the Almighty about to bestow upon him a sign to assuage his doubts?

  An old woman came out from the back room, a plastic bucket of water in one hand and a mop in the other. It was obvious that she had heard his supplication and was curious to see who prayed so powerfully.

  Her eyes bulged from her ancient skull at the sight of him. The bucket of soapy water slipped from her grasp to spill upon the altar floor.

  What an awesome sight he must be to behold, he mused, spreading his wings to their full span, catching the muted, morning sunlight.

  She attempted to flee, wild panic in her spastic movements, but stopped cold in her tracks. An ancient hand, skeletal with age, clutched frantically at her chest and her mouth opened in a silent howl. The old woman fell to the ground in a heap, her dying gaze rooted upon the golden symbol of her faith displayed above her.

  Verchiel smiled. “So nice to hear from You again,” he purred, divining meaning from what he had just borne witness to.

  “Thy will be done.”

  Still in his sweatpants and T-shirt, Aaron slowly descended the stairs. Gabriel waited eagerly at the bottom. Aaron yawned and smacked his lips. The foul taste of sleep still coated the inside of his mouth. Hopefully he could get some juice and then get back upstairs to run a toothbrush around his mouth before he had to speak to anybody.

  He’d slept longer than he wanted to, but seeing that he’d had some problems last night, and that it was Sunday, he wasn’t all that concerned—just very thirsty.

  “Can I eat now?” Gabriel asked from his side as Aaron padded barefoot down the hallway to the kitchen.

  “Just as soon as I get some juice,” he told the dog.

  The linoleum was cold on the soles of his feet, and it helped to clear away the grogginess that came with morning. Lori sat at the table beneath the kitchen window, feeding cereal to Stevie.

  “Hey,” Aaron said, pulling on the refrigerator door.

  “Hey, yourself,” his mother answered.

  Gabriel momentarily left his side to wish Lori and Stevie a good morning. Aaron almost drank from the carton, but thought better of it and reached to the cabinet for a glass. Filling it halfway, he leaned against the counter and attempted to quench his great thirst.

  Lori was staring at him. She had that look on her face, the one that said something was wrong—that she had bad news to tell. Aaron was familiar with the look; it was the same one she’d worn when the family vacation to Disney World was canceled because the travel agency had unexpectedly gone out of business. They never did get to Disney.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  Stevie decided to feed himself and took the spoon from her. He shoveled a mound of Sugar Smacks onto the spoon and then, halfway to his mouth, dumped it on the floor.

  Gabriel immediately went to work cleaning up the spillage.

  “Stevie, no,” Lori said as she took the spoon away from the child and pushed the bowl from his reach. “I have some really bad news for you,” she said, placing a soiled, rolled-up napkin on the table.

  “What is it?” Aaron asked, moving to join her.

  Lynn’s Sunday newspaper was on the table, and she turned it around so that he could see the headline.

  PSYCHIATRIST KILLED IN BLAZE it read.

  Aaron wasn’t sure why he should be upset, until he noticed the picture that accompanied the story. The picture was of Lynn firefighters as they fought the blaze in an office building. The caption below read, “Dr. Michael Jonas was killed yesterday when his office at 257 Boston Street was engulfed in flames. Fire officials are still investigating the blaze, but believe that a gas leak may have been responsible for the explosion.”

  Aaron pried his eyes from the newspaper and looked at his mother. “Oh my God” was all he could manage.

  Lori reached across the table and squeezed his hand. “I’m so sorry, hon,” she said supportively. “Did you try to reach him last night?”

  Aaron heard the question at the periphery of his thoughts. Dr. Jonas was dead. He was supposed to have seen the man yesterday, but after the business with Zeke, he’d completely forgotten. He’d planned on calling Monday to apologize.

  His mother’s hand was still on his. She gave it a squeeze. “Aaron?” she asked.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I zoned out. What did you say?”

  “Dr. Jonas—he called yesterday while you were out,” she answered. “Did you try to return his call?”

  Aaron slowly shook his head. “He called? I…I didn’t see the message.”

  When he’d come in last night he’d been tired. The family was out to supper, and the quiet in the house was so inviting. He’d fed Gabriel, taken him out, and then gone up to bed to watch some television. He hadn’t even thought to check for messages.

  “I didn’t know he called,” he said dreamily, picturing the man just two days ago, full of life and eager to help him. “How could this happen?” he asked, not expecting an answer.

  “They said it was probably a gas leak,” Lori replied as she picked up the child’s cereal bowl and brought it to the sink.

  Stevie got down from his chair and toddled off toward the family room, oblivious to anything in his path.

  Gabriel hovered around Aaron and he realized that the dog had yet to be fed. “I’m sorry, pal,” he said, going to the drainboard at the sink and retrieving the dog’s food bowl.

  Lori was doing the breakfast dishes. “If it was gas, just one spark would do the trick—”

  Aaron filled Gabriel’s bowl and placed it on the mat near his water dish. His mother was still talking, but it was her last words that created the disturbing image in his mind.

  He saw Zeke lighting his cigarette.


  “If it was gas…”

  His mother’s words echoed through his head.

  Zeke lit his smoke with the tips of his fingers. Fire from the tips of his fingers.

  “…just one spark would do the trick.”

  chapter eight

  Aaron couldn’t wait for Monday to arrive.

  Ken Curtis High had become his safe haven. Once behind its walls, the rules were simple—go to class, do the homework, take the test. Not so in the real world lately, a place that was becoming less and less real for him with each passing day.

  At school he could push thoughts of talking dogs, Nephilim, Powers, and death to the back of his cluttered mind—at least until the bell rang at two thirty. School was the ultimate distraction, and that was exactly what he craved.

  At lunchtime Aaron was at his locker dropping off books from his morning classes. He wasn’t feeling hungry, but knowing he had to work at the clinic right after school, he figured he should probably eat something.

  His psychology text slipped to the floor, and his thoughts turned to Michael Jonas as he bent to pick it up. The questions flooded forward as if a faucet had been turned on to its maximum. What really caused the fire?

  He saw Zeke’s fingertip flash and his cigarette ignite.

  Why am I thinking like this? he wondered, returning the book to the shelf in the locker. He knew that Zeke didn’t have anything to do with the fire that took his psychiatrist’s life. The newspaper said it had started in the early afternoon, when he and Gabriel had been with the fallen angel in his hotel room.

  But what about the others? he thought with a wave of foreboding. What about the…Powers?

  His stomach churned uneasily as he slammed closed his locker. Maybe I’ll just skip lunch and go to the library.

  Head down, he turned and nearly plowed into Vilma Santiago.

  Aaron stumbled back. “Hi,” he blurted out nervously. “Didn’t see you there, sorry.”

  “Hi.”

  She seemed unconcerned with his clumsiness, but as nervous around him as he was feeling around her. In the background by her locker, he could see two of her friends playing Secret Weasel, trying not to be noticed.

  “How’re you doing?” Aaron asked lamely. If he hadn’t blown it yet, it was only a matter of time.

  “I’m good,” she answered. “How’re you?”

  “I’m good,” he said with a nervous nod and an idiot grin. “Real good.” His mind was blank, completely void of all electrical activity. He had no idea what to say next, and wondered how she’d react if he started to cry.

  The silence was becoming painfully awkward when she spoke. “Are you going to lunch?” she asked, looking quickly away.

  And all of a sudden lunch seemed like a wonderful idea.

  “Yeah, lunch is great—it’s lunchtime—sure, I’m going to lunch.” Aaron couldn’t believe how he was acting. What a complete idiot. He wouldn’t blame her in the least if she turned around and walked away. No. Ran away.

  “Do you want to have lunch with me?” she asked, her voice growing incredibly soft, as if expecting rejection.

  He was speechless. No words available, please try again later. He was horrified, he couldn’t even think of something stupid to say.

  Vilma suddenly looked embarrassed. “If you have something else to do, I completely understand and…”

  “I’d love to,” he finally managed. “Sorry…it’s just that I’m kind of…y’know, surprised, that you’d want me to.”

  She smiled slyly, and it felt as though the temperature in the hallway rose sixty degrees. Great, now I’m sweating, he thought. Real cool.

  “I’m full of surprises, Aaron Corbet,” she said with a flip of her dark hair. “So, do you want to go to the caf or off campus?”

  Just then somebody called his name. They both turned to see Mrs. Vistorino, the guidance office secretary, coming down the hallway. She was notorious for her brightly colored pantsuits, and today she was wearing lime green with shoes to match.

  “Aaron,” Mrs. Vistorino called again. “I’m glad I caught you.”

  “Is there something wrong?” he asked cautiously, the sickly feeling in the pit of his stomach returning.

  “There’s an admissions representative from Emerson College in the office, and he wants to see you about your application.”

  “Emerson?” Aaron muttered to himself. “But I didn’t…”

  The woman turned and started back from whence she came. “He mentioned something about a full scholarship, so I’d get my butt down there if I were you.”

  Vilma touched his arm. “You’d better get going,” she said, looking genuinely excited for him.

  He was torn. He really wanted to go to lunch with Vilma, but the potential for a scholarship was something he couldn’t pass up. “What about you?” he asked. “I really want to—”

  “We can do lunch tomorrow,” she said, cutting him off. “Don’t worry about me.” She turned toward her friends who were still gawking from across the hall. “I’ll just grab some lunch with them. No problem, really.” Vilma pointed him down the hall. “Maybe you could meet me later—let me know how the interview went?”

  “Sure,” he responded, stunned by her interest. “I’ll meet you at your locker after last period.” He was going to turn and wave good-bye, then decided against it. It wouldn’t be cool.

  But as he turned the corner he lost control, looked back, and waved. Vilma was still watching him and waved back. Her two nosey friends were with her now and they both began to laugh.

  As he headed toward the guidance office, he mentally reviewed the college applications he had already sent out. And try as he might, he couldn’t remember ever sending one to Emerson.

  Mrs. Vistorino was on the phone behind her desk as Aaron entered the office.

  “He’s in Mr. Cunningham’s office,” she whispered as she put her hand over the receiver. “Mr. C’s gone for the rest of the day.”

  She removed her hand from the phone to resume her call. “Good luck,” she mouthed as he tapped on the office door. Then he turned the knob and entered.

  The man’s back was to Aaron as he stared out the window on to the school’s parking lot. Aaron gently closed the door and cleared his throat. The man turned and fixed him with a stare so intense it was as if he were trying to see through Aaron’s skull to the inside of his brain.

  “Uh…hi,” Aaron said, moving away from the door. “I’m Aaron Corbet—Mrs. Vistorino said you wanted to speak with me?”

  He held his hand out to the man. It was something his foster dad had stressed. When you meet someone for the first time, always introduce yourself and shake the person’s hand. It shows character, he’d say. The man looked at Aaron’s outstretched hand, as if deciding whether it was clean enough to touch.

  “And you’re…?” Aaron asked, to break the uncomfortable silence.

  “Call me Messenger,” the man said in a powerful voice, and took Aaron’s hand in his.

  “It’s very nice to meet you Mr…. Messenger.”

  Aaron was suddenly overcome with panic. He couldn’t remember ever feeling this way before. He wanted to run—to get as far away from this man as he possibly could. What’s wrong with me now? he wondered, using every ounce of willpower he had to not yank his hand away.

  Messenger released him, and Aaron quickly brought his hand to his side. It felt odd, tingling, like it had when he’d brought Gabriel back from the brink of death. He rubbed his palm against his pant leg.

  “I’m glad that I have reached you first,” Messenger said, studying Aaron with a strange look in his eyes. “You’ve matured much faster than most, a sign that you are certainly more than you seem.”

  Aaron was startled by the admissions rep’s words, unsure of their meaning and how he should react. “Excuse me?” he began. “I really don’t understand what…”

  “I believe that you do,” Messenger’s voice boomed, and for a split second, Aaron saw the man for what he was. He was c
lothed in armor that seemed to be made from sunlight, and in his hand he held a sword of fire. From his back, enormous wings emanated.

  “I am Camael,” he said in a voice like the rumbling growl of a jungle cat. “And I have come to protect you.”

  Aaron closed his eyes and then opened them. Camael had returned to his human state. No armor, no wings, no flaming sword; just a distinguished-looking gentleman with spiky, silver-gray hair and a goatee to match.

  “Messenger my ass,” Aaron grumbled with disgust. “I should have known. Zeke said you’d be coming for me.”

  Camael looked perplexed. “Zeke?” he asked.

  “Ezekiel,” Aaron answered. “Zeke—he’s a Grigori…”

  “A Grigori,” Camael said, interested, stroking his goatee. “Then you’ve already made contact with our kind.”

  “Right, and he told me the Powers would be after me because of what I am—but I won’t go easily.”

  Camael chuckled. “Spirited, that’s good. We’ll need a bit of fire if we’re going to weather what is to come.”

  Aaron started to back toward the door, at the moment, confused. “Aren’t you one of them—the Powers?”

  Camael shook his head as he casually sat on the corner of Mr. Cunningham’s desk. “Once it was my holy mission to eradicate the likes of you.” He pointed at Aaron and then crossed his arms. “But that was long ago. I’ve come to save, not destroy. If my suspicions are correct, you have a very important destiny to fulfill, Aaron Corbet.”

  Aaron suddenly remembered his dream from the weekend—the old man and his tablets. “Does this have anything to do with me building some kind of bridge?”

  Camael nodded. “Something to that effect.”

  Aaron could feel it again, that dangerous curiosity that got him into this predicament. If he’d ignored it originally, he would never have gone in search of Zeke and things would have stayed status quo, or so he tried to convince himself. Well, this time he would put an end to it here and now. He didn’t want to hear anything more from Camael.