Leviathan

  “Nephilim!” the monster raged, its muscular body stretching as high as the ceiling would allow, its injured eye swollen closed and dripping. Its head moved from left to right as it searched for its prey. “I will find you—and all that you are shall belong to me!”

  Aaron stood rooted, watching as the enormous, sluglike monstrosity began to undulate in his general direction, its tentacles writhing in the air, as if somehow replacing the sensory organ that had been violently stolen away.

  “Even the monster knows what resides within you,” the angel Gabriel said. “And still you deny it.”

  Leviathan shambled closer, its tentacles lashing out, snatching at the air as it attempted to find its quarry. “Where are you, Nephilim?” it spat.

  “The power I had inside me … I think it’s gone,” Aaron stammered, eyes upon the sea beast. “I’ve tried to communicate with it, but it doesn’t answer. I think Leviathan might have done something and—”

  “Is that what you wish happened?” the Archangel asked. “Or is that what actually occurred?”

  At first, Aaron didn’t understand what the angel was suggesting, but the meaning was suddenly clear.

  “I’ve been inside your mind, Nephilim,” Gabriel said, touching the side of his own head with a long, delicate index finger. “I’ve seen the fear that fills your thoughts.”

  “I… I don’t think I’m strong enough to control it,” Aaron said flatly, watching with terror-filled eyes as Leviathan drew closer.

  “And if it were gone,” suggested Gabriel, “you would no longer have to be afraid.”

  Aaron nodded, ashamed of his fear and that it would allow him to put the lives of his loved ones—as well as the fate of humanity—at risk.

  “The power of Heaven is your legacy,” the angel explained weakly. “It is this might that exists within you that will allow you to perform your sacred duties as messenger.” Gabriel again climbed unsteadily to his feet. “It belongs to you—you are its master.”

  And Aaron came to the realization that his angelic power had not gone away, but had been there all along, hidden beneath the shroud of his uncertainty—waiting patiently to be unleashed.

  “Own this power,” the angel said, turning his attention from the boy to the quickly approaching foe. “Show that you are an emissary of Heaven.”

  Leviathan was almost upon them, and Aaron closed his eyes and looked upon what he had created to keep the power at bay. He imagined standing before a gigantic gate of his own construction, made from the logs of some mighty tree. It was like something he’d seen in the movies used to keep King Kong on his side of Skull Island. Within the face of the gate was lock, and in the center of the lock, a keyhole. He produced an old-fashioned skeleton key and tentatively brought it toward the keyhole. The gate rattled and shook, as if something of enormous size were waiting the other side, eager to be set free. He could hear it breathing; slow, steady breaths like a locomotive gradually building to speed.

  Tentatively he brought the key to the lock. He knew that this was what had to be done—he could no longer be afraid of the force that shared his body; there was too much at stake for fear. With a deep breath, Aaron turned the key and listened to the sound of the lock as if came undone with a tumbling Clack.

  The slow and steady breathing on the other side of the gate came to an abrupt stop. He could feel its anticipation grow as it suspected what he was about to do. Without further hesitation, Aaron threw open the great wooden gates and set his power free.

  Aaron gasped as the archaic markings began to appear upon his flesh. They burned from the inside out, rising to the surface to erupt smoldering and black on the skin of his body. He had no idea what the strange sigils were for, or what they meant, but they were the first sign that the ancient inner power residing within him was about to be unleashed.

  The sensation was far less painful this time, and not entirely unpleasant. It’s like the world’s biggest head-rush, he thought as he was caught up in the transformation of his body. Muscles that he’d only recently become aware of contracted spasmodically, pushing the latent wings furled beneath the flesh of his back toward the surface. Aaron winced as the skin split and tore, the feathered appendages that would allow him flight emerging. He flexed the sinewy cluster beneath the skin of his back and felt the strength within the mighty wings as they began to flap.

  The power was intoxicating, and Aaron felt himself caught up in the enormity of its strength. It wanted nothing more than to explode out into the world, to vanquish the enemy before it—and then to move on to the next. It was a power of battle that had become part of him, and it reveled in the art of war.

  The transformation nearly complete, Aaron gazed with new eyes upon the weapon still clutched within his hand. “This isn’t mine,” he said, his voice like the purr of a jungle predator. He tossed the blade of light to its originator, the Archangel Gabriel—who caught the sword with ease, taking strength from contact with the radiant weapon.

  A sword of Aaron’s own design came to life in his hand, and he gazed at the weapon with a growing sense of anticipation. “This belongs to me,” he said, admiring the blade’s potential as it sparked and licked hungrily at the air.

  “Yes,” Gabriel said with a nod. “I believe it does.”

  The power sang within him, and Aaron found it hard to remember what exactly he had been so afraid of—but only for the briefest of instants, for the monster Leviathan attacked.

  “I’ve found you, Nephilim,” it growled, its ruptured eye still dripping thick streams of yellow fluid, the other wide and bulging. “And what I see, can be made mine.”

  Before he could act, Aaron felt his mind viciously assaulted, and his perceptions of the here and now suddenly, dramatically altered. He was no longer standing in an underwater cave, sword of fire in hand, a monster of legend looming above him; Aaron now stood in the middle of the playroom of his loving home in Lynn, Massachusetts, his foster parents familiarly nestled into their appropriate pieces of furniture. It was Friday night—movie night at the Stanley household.

  “Are you going to sit down and watch the flick, or are you going out?” Tom Stanley asked from his recliner, the plastic box for the video rental in his lap.

  Aaron smiled sadly at his foster dad, a mixture of happiness and sorrow washing over him—and he didn’t quite remember why he would feel that way.

  A new feeling forced its way to the surface of his soul, violently attempting to tear the heartfelt emotions away. Aaron actually twitched, eyes blinking severely, the level of feelings washing over him so intense. What’s going on? he wondered, too old to blame it all on puberty.

  “It’s the new Schwarzenegger,” his dad said, holding up the plastic case. “The one where his family is killed by terrorists and he gets revenge.” There was an excited grin upon his face.

  “He always liked those kinds of movies…,” said a voice inside his head that sounded more like an animal’s growl than his own. And again he shuddered.

  “Are you all right, hon?” the only mother he had ever known asked from the corner of the couch. She put down her latest in a long succession of romance novels. “You look a little out of it,” she said with genuine concern. “Why don’t you sit down, watch the movie, and I’ll make you up some soup.”

  The growling voice inside his head was back. “That was her first line of defense against all kinds of illness,” it said, letting the meaning of its statement begin to permeate. “It didn’t help her a bit against Verchiel.”

  An anger fueled by sorrow ignited in his chest, and the palm of his right hand began to grow unusually hot, tingling as if asleep.

  Lori Stanley got up. “Go on,” she said, touching his shoulders. “Sit with Stevie and Gabriel and I’ll make you something to eat.” She headed for the kitchen.

  For the first time, Aaron noticed his foster brother sitting on the carpet surrounded by blocks of all sizes and shapes. The dog was sleeping soundly beside him, his breathing rhythmic and peacef
ul. Aaron scratched at the tingling sensation in the palm of his hand and wondered where he had heard the name Verchiel before.

  “I really think this is going to be a good one,” his dad said excitedly from his recliner, staring at the picture on the front of the video box. Distracted, Aaron gazed down to see that the little boy was spelling something out in the letter blocks upon the carpet. But that was impossible; he knew Stevie could barely talk, never mind spell.

  Aaron knelt down beside the child, his body torn by a maelstrom of emotions that were attempting to take possession of him. He hadn’t a clue as to what was wrong with him—until he read what Stevie had spelled out upon the floor.

  Your mother and father are dead, it said in multicolored plastic letters, which he unnecessarily remembered had magnets on the back of them so that they could be stuck to the refrigerator.

  Aaron sprang to his feet, and a fire sparked in the center of his hand as his mother returned to the room with a steaming bowl of soup. Aaron was holding a sword of fire now, and he gazed in awe upon it as if he had never seen its like before.

  “Sit down, Aaron,” his dad said as he motioned with his hand for him to get out of the way of the television. “This is going to be the best movie night ever.” Again, Tom motioned for him to sit, to forget all the conflicting emotions running rampant through him—to forget that he was now holding a flaming sword.

  “Here’s your soup,” Lori said, holding the bowl out to him. “It’s chicken with stars,” she said.

  This was what he wanted, more than anything, but something inside him—something very angry and quite powerful—told him that it wasn’t to be, that it was all a lie.

  He again looked down at the words spelled out in plastic letters.

  Your mother and father are dead. The words were like the powerful blows of a sledgehammer, breaking away the false façade of a world that no longer existed, and Aaron began to scream.

  He lashed out with his sword of fire, giving in to the rage that tried so hard to show him the deceit of it all. Aaron felt nothing as the weapon of fire passed through the form of his mother. She wailed like the mournful screech of breaks on a rain-soaked highway. His father cried out as well, still eagerly holding on to the video box as his body slumped to one side, consumed by fire.

  “It’s all a lie,” Aaron bellowed, letting the living flame from his weapon extend into the playroom, burning away the untruth—and the screams of the unreal grew all the louder.

  Aaron became conscious in the grip of Leviathan, the monster recoiling from the ferocity and violence of his thoughts. This was the personal heaven of his angelic nature unfolding within his skull that the sea beast now bore witness to. A heaven consisting of untruths burned away to reveal reality, the enemy vanquished—consumed in the fires of battle. It was a version of Paradise that Aaron doubted the great beast had ever created in the minds of its prey—a perfect bliss that involved its very own demise.

  And it could not stand the thought of it.

  The monster howled its displeasure and hurled him away. He could not react fast enough, his wings crimped from being entwined in the multiple tentacles of the beast, and bounced off the cave wall, falling to the rocky floor.

  “What’s the matter?” Aaron asked as he struggled to his feet, and slid across the loose rock. He flexed his ebony wings, their prodigious span fanning the stale air of the undersea cave. “See something you didn’t like?”

  He sensed that the power within him had a streak of cruelty; exploiting the weaknesses of his enemy, prying away at the chinks in its armor, and that it would stop at nothing to achieve its victory. Aaron wondered exactly how far it would go—and, if it became necessary, was he strong enough to stop it? He would just have to hope that he was.

  Aaron spread his wings and sprang into the air, sword at the ready. A savage war cry escaped his mouth that both frightened and excited him with its ferocity. He flew at the swaying monster, ready to bury the flaming weapon into the creature’s flesh and end the nightmare’s threat to the town of Blithe—as well as to the world.

  He slashed at the half-blind beast, his sword of fire connecting repeatedly with the body of Leviathan. Sparks of flame leaped from the weapon’s contact with the monster’s scaled flesh, but to little avail. The scales were like armor, protecting the ancient threat against his attack. His angelic nature yowled with displeasure, and he attempted to push aside the overwhelming bloodlust so that he could rethink his course of action, but the ferocity was intoxicating, and he continued with his fevered assault upon the beast.

  “Strike all you wish, little Nephilim,” it gurgled as sparks of flame danced into the air with each new blow upon its seemingly impenetrable scales. “It matters not to me.”

  One of Leviathan’s multitude of limbs lashed out, wrapping around one of his legs. Before he could bring his blade down to sever the connection, the monster acted, whipping him back against the wall, with savage ferocity. His head and upper body struck the side of the cave wall and he felt himself grow numb from the impact.

  “They have all thought themselves superior,” the monster continued, slapping him against the opposite side of the cave with equal savagery. “The righteous against the wicked—is there ever any doubt against the outcome?”

  Leviathan then threw him upon the ground, and it took all the inner strength that he could muster not to slip away into unconsciousness. The inner angel struggled, but it, too, was fighting not to succumb to the ferocity of the attack.

  Aaron heard the gigantic animal shift its mass closer—and then what sounded like the fall of heavy rain. He could not begin to discern the source of the sound until he felt the chitinous limbs of one of Leviathan’s spawn scurry across his outstretched hand. Its spidery children were crawling out from beneath their master’s scales to pour down upon him. Aaron could feel them moving across his back and legs and was filled with revulsion.

  “They never could imagine the strength that I amassed,” the behemoth boasted. “Overconfidence has always been their downfall.”

  Aaron felt it again attempting to intrude upon his mind and he blocked it, temporarily locking it behind the fortified fence that he had mentally erected to keep his newly awakened angelic nature isolated. He needed to think, to come up with a way to vanquish the monster before it had a chance to do the same to him, but time was of the essence.

  Aaron picked himself up from the ground, the hissing spidery abominations clinging to his clothing, attempting to reach his mouth where they could crawl inside, making him docile enough so that their progenitor could consume him with the least amount of effort. He would have none of that; tearing them from his body by hand and spreading his wings, beating them furiously.

  Leviathan loomed closer and opened its damaged eye to glare at him. The injured orb had begun to heal, but the reminder of his sword’s cut across it could still be seen.

  “Nowhere for you to run, nowhere for you to hide,” cooed the beast. “Others far mightier than you have tried to destroy me—and look what has befallen them.”

  Aaron’s glance shot to the severed digestive sacks. He could see that many still lay within the protective cocoons of oblivion, while others, he believed, were most likely dead, their life forces drained away by the nightmare before him.

  Leviathan slithered closer, and Aaron gazed up into the monster’s flapping mouth, staring into its soft, pink gullet—and an idea began to coalesce.

  His angelic nature had received its second wind, and surged forward eager to continue the struggle. Aaron gritted his teeth with exertion, placing a mental choke chain around the powerful force’s neck and drew it to him. The power of Heaven fought, wanting to ignite a sword of fire and again leap into the fray—wanting him to battle against the ancient evil from the primordial depths.

  But that was not his plan, even though holding back was probably one of the most difficult things he had ever had to do. Aaron stifled screams of pain as the essence of his angelic nature fought again
st him to be released.

  “Not yet,” Aaron whispered through gritted teeth, as the monster shambled closer to where he crouched. The beginnings of a heavenly blade sparked in his grasp, but he wished it away, turning his entire attention to the beast that now lorded over him.

  “What shall the game be this time, Nephilim?” Leviathan asked, obviously expecting their conflict to resume.

  Aaron shook his head, gazing up into the face of the horrific nightmare that was Leviathan. “No games,” he told the beast. He held up his empty hands to the behemoth, showing the monstrosity that they were empty of weapons. “I can’t fight you anymore.”

  Leviathan laughed, a horrible, rumbling gurgle. “How sensible of you, Nephilim,” it said, tentacles squirming in the air with anticipation.

  Aaron stood beneath the monster and spread his arms in a show of surrender. His body was still racked with pain as he tried to contain the furious forces that fought desperately to emerge and to defend itself; but he held it back, for it was not yet time.

  “Take me,” he told the wormlike creature that had existed since the dawn of time.

  And Leviathan entwined him in its clutches, pulling him up toward its hungry mouth. “I shall use your power well,” it said, staring at him with its cold, unblinking eyes, viscous saliva beginning to pour from its circular orifice to run down the length of its black, glistening body.

  “Eat me,” Aaron shouted. “And I hope you choke!” he added as the muscular appendages shoved him into its gaping maw, and he was swallowed up whole.

  The first thing that Aaron noticed was the unbelievable stench. It stank even worse on the inside. He recalled the putrid aroma of a single mouse that had died in the kitchen wall of the Stanley house, and how he had thought nothing could smell as bad.

  He couldn’t have been more wrong.

  He would rather have been wearing the dead rodent around his neck as jewelry for the rest of his life than endure the overwhelming stench of Leviathan’s insides.

  If it wasn’t for the thick lubricating fluids that flowed upon him as the muscular throat of the beast contracted, sending him down toward its stomachs, there was the chance that the aroma of the monster’s internal workings could very well have rendered him unconscious.