Leviathan

Interlude Two

  STEVIE STANLEY huddled in a dark corner of his mind, trying with all his might to hold on to the things that made him who he was—those pockets of recollection, moments that had left their indelible marks on his fragile psyche. But the excruciating pain was systematically ripping those memories away. One after another they disappeared: the blue, blue sky filled with birds; the black-and-gray static on the television screen; the yellow dog running in the yard with a red ball in his mouth; Mom and Dad holding him, kissing him. And Aaron—his protector, his playmate—so beautiful.

  So beautiful.

  Seven Archons surrounded the child’s writhing body and continued the ritual that so often ended with the death of the subject. Stevie fought wildly against his restraints as Archon Jaldabaoth painted the symbols of transfiguration upon his pale, naked skin, muttering sounds and words that a human mouth could never manage. Archon Oraios stabbed a long, gold needle into the child’s stomach and depressed the plunger to implant the magical seeds of change.

  The sigils on Stevie’s flesh then began to rise, to smolder—to burn. The boy screamed wildly as his body was racked with the painful changes. Archon Jao placed a delicate hand over the child’s mouth to silence his irksome cries. Things were proceeding nicely, and the Archons waited patiently as the transformation progressed.

  Soon there would be nothing left of Stevie. His memory of Aaron burned the brightest, its loving warmth providing some insulation against the agony his tiny, seven-year-old body was forced to endure. Aaron would come for him. Aaron would rescue him from the pain; he need only hold on to what little he still had.

  Archon Sabaoth was the first to notice. He tilted his head and listened. Sounds were coming from the child’s body—other than the muffled screams of his discomfort. Cracking, grinding, ripping and tearing sounds: The boy’s body had begun to change—to grow—to mature beyond his seven years. This was the most dangerous part of the ritual, and the Archons studied their subject with unblinking eyes, searching for signs that the magicks might have gone awry.

  Archon Katspiel remembered a subject whose bone structure had grown disproportionately, leaving the poor creature hideously deformed. Its mind had been so psychologically damaged by the pain that they’d had no choice but to order Archon Domiel to put it out of its misery. It had been a shame, really, for that subject had shown great potential—almost as much as this latest effort.

  Stevie held on as long as he could, clutching at the final memory of his brother, friend, and protector—but it was slipping away, piece by jagged piece. He wanted to hold on to it, to remember the beautiful face of the boy who had promised never to leave him, but the pain—there was so much of it. What was the boy’s name? he wondered as he curled up within himself, no longer knowing the question, no longer caring. It didn’t matter. Now there was only pain. He was the pain—and the pain was he.

  Archon Erathaol unlocked the manacles around the subject’s chafed wrists and ankles while the others watched. The ritual appears to have been successful, he mused as they watched the subject curl into a fetal position on the floor of the solarium. What had once been a frail child was now a mature adult, his body altered to physical perfection, and his sensitivity to the preternatural greatly augmented. The Archons had succeeded in their task.

  Verchiel would be pleased.

  Chapter Six

  IT WAS quite possibly the best meat loaf Aaron had ever had. He shoveled the last bit of mashed potatoes and peas into his mouth, leaving a good bite of meat loaf uneaten. Gabriel lay beside his chair looking up pathetically a puddle of drool between his paws.

  Aaron looked at Mrs. Provost across the kitchen table. She was sipping a cup of instant coffee—made with the coffee bags, not that granule crap, she had informed him.

  “Do you mind?” he asked, pointing at the piece of meat covered in dark brown gravy and motioning toward the dog.

  “I don’t care,” she said, taking a sip of her coffee. “Would have given him his own plate if you’d’a let me.”

  Aaron picked up the meat and gave it to Gabriel. “He had his supper, and besides, too much people-food isn’t good for him,” he said as the dog greedily gobbled the meat from his fingers, making certain to lick every ounce of grease and gravy from the digits. “Makes him gassy.”

  “Are you trying to embarrass me?” Gabriel grunted licking his chops.

  Aaron laughed and ruffled the yellow dog’s velvety soft ears.

  “That’s something I can relate to,” the old woman said, hauling herself up from her seat. “Somedays I feel like that blimp for the tires, I’m so full a’ gas.”

  Aaron stifled a laugh.

  She reached across the table for his plate and stacked it atop hers. “Meal couldn’t’a been too bad,” she said, staring at his empty plate. “I don’t even have to wash this one,” she said with a wise smirk.

  “Didn’t mean to be a pig,” Aaron said as Mrs. Provost took the dirty dishes to the sink. “It was really good. Thanks again.”

  She turned on the water and started washing the dishes. Aaron thought about asking if he could do that for her, but something told him she would probably just say something nasty, so he kept his offer to himself. When she wanted him to do something, he was certain she wouldn’t be shy in asking.

  “I was cooking for myself, anyway,” Mrs. Provost said, wiping one of the dinner plates with a sponge shaped like an apple. “And besides, it’s kinda nice to have company to supper every once in a while.”

  Aaron wondered if the old woman was lonely since the death of her husband. He hadn’t seen any evidence of children or grandchildren.

  “Then again, cooking for somebody else can be a real pain in the ass after a while … makes you remember why you was eatin’ by yourself in the first place.”

  Well, maybe she was just fine after all…

  She left the dishes in the strainer and hung the damp towel over the metal rack attached to the front of the cabinet below the sink. Then she returned to the table to finish her coffee. Aaron wasn’t sure if he should thank her and go to his room, or stay and chat. The kitchen was quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator in the corner and Gabriel’s rhythmic breathing as he drifted off to sleep.

  “Where you from, Aaron?” Mrs. Provost abruptly asked as she brought her coffee mug to her mouth.

  “I’m from Lynn—Lynn, Massachusetts,” he clarified.

  “Didn’t think it was Lynn, North Dakota,” the old woman replied, setting her mug down on the gray speckled tabletop. “The city of sin, huh? Family there?”

  His expression must have changed dramatically, because he saw a look of uncertainty in her eyes. He didn’t want her to feel bad, so he responded the best way he knew how. “I did,” he said as he looked at his hands lying flat on the table. “They died in a fire a few weeks back.”

  “I’m sorry,” Mrs. Provost said, gripping her coffee cup in both hands.

  Aaron smiled at her. “It’s all right,” he said. “Really. It’s why I’m in Maine right now. You know, change of scenery to try to clear my head.”

  She nodded. “Thought about leaving here once myself—about the time I met my husband,” she said, a faraway look in her eye. “Never did, though. Ended up getting married instead.”

  Mrs. Provost abruptly stood and brought her coffee mug to the sink. Gabriel awoke with a start and lifted his head from the floor, wanting to be sure he wasn’t missing anything. Aaron reached down and stroked the top of his head. “So you never left Blithe?” he asked her as she rinsed the cup.

  “Nope.” She put the cup in the drainer with the other dishes. “But I often think about what might’ve happened if I had—if my life would’a been different.”

  It was becoming uncomfortable in the kitchen, and Aaron found himself blurting out a question before he could think about it. “Do you have any children?”

  Mrs. Provost wiped her hands on the dishtowel and began to straighten up her countertop. “I have a son—Jack. He liv
es with his wife and daughter in San Diego.” She had retrieved the apple sponge from the sink and was wiping down the tops of her canister set. “We were never that close, my son and I,” she said. “After Luke died—that was my husband—we just grew further and further apart.”

  “Have you ever gone to visit them?” Aaron asked, suspecting he already knew the answer.

  “Nope,” she said, wiping the countertop for a second time. “They bought me one of those computers last year for Christmas so we could keep in touch with e-mail and all, but I think that Internet is up to something. That and the Home Shopping Network.”

  “You have a computer?” Aaron was suddenly excited. It had been days since he’d last had an opportunity to check his e-mail and communicate with Vilma.

  “It’s what I said, isn’t it?” Mrs. Provost pointed toward the parlor. “It’s in the office off the parlor,” she said. “My son insists on paying for it even though I never touch the thing. You can use it if you want.”

  “Thanks,” he said.

  “But don’t go looking up no porno,” she warned, placing the apple sponge back where it belonged beside the sink. “I don’t tolerate no porno in this house—that and the Home Shopping Network.”

  ••••

  Camael knew that he wasn’t in Aerie, but a voice in his mind tried to convince him it was so.

  “Calm yourself, angel,” said the hissing presence nestled within his fervid thoughts. “This is what you have sought.”

  He wanted so much to believe it, to succumb to the wishes of the comforting tongue and finally let down his defenses.

  “Welcome to Aerie, Camael,” it cooed. “We’ve been waiting so long for you to arrive.”

  An image of Aaron—the Nephilim—flickered in his mind. If this is indeed Aerie, he’ll need to be brought here, Camael thought as he attempted to move within the thick, viscous fluid surrounding him. Muscular tendrils tightened around his body, holding him firm.

  “There is no need for concern,” the voice spoke soothingly. “The boy will come in time. This is your moment, warrior. Let yourself go, and allow Aerie to be everything you have desired.”

  The membranous sack around him began to thrum, a rhythmic pulsing meant to lull him deeper into complacency. The heartbeat of asylum.

  “Let your guard down, angel,” the voice ordered. “You cannot possibly experience all you have yearned for—until you give yourself completely to me.”

  Deep down, Camael knew this was wrong. He wanted to fight it, to summon a sword of fire and burn away the insensate cloud that seemed to envelop his mind—but he just didn’t have the strength.

  “Your doubts are an obstacle, warrior. Lay them aside—know the serenity you have striven to achieve.”

  No longer able to fight, Camael did as he was told—and the great beast that pretended to be the voice of sanctuary—

  It began to feed.

  ••••

  After a few more hours of small talk, Aaron was finally able to get to the computer when Mrs. Provost announced that she was going to bed. He slid the mouse smoothly across the surface of the bright blue pad and clicked on Send. “There,” he said, as his e-mail disappeared into cyberspace on its way to Vilma.

  “What did you say?” asked Gabriel, who rested on the floor of the cramped office.

  “Nothing, really.” Aaron shrugged. He began to shut the computer down. “I told her I was thinking about her and that I hope she’s doing okay. Small talk—that’s all.”

  “You like this female, don’t you, Aaron?”

  “I don’t like to think about that stuff, Gabriel,” he said, turning off the computer and leaning back in the office chair. He ran his fingers through his dark hair. “Verchiel and his goons would like nothing more than to get even with me by going after Vilma. For her own good, e-mail’s the closest I’m getting for a real long time.” He paused, wishing he could change things. Then he shook his head. “It’s the best way.”

  “At least you can talk on the computer,” Gabriel said, trying to be positive.

  Aaron stood and switched off the light. “Yeah, I guess that’s something,” he said, and the two quietly left the office, making their way up to their room.

  Once inside, Aaron undressed and prepared for bed. “Are you going to sleep with me or are you staying on the floor?” he asked the dog.

  Gabriel padded toward the comforter on the floor and gave it a sniff. “I think I’ll sleep here tonight,” he said as he walked in a circle before plopping himself down in the comforter’s center.

  Aaron pulled back the covers on the bed and crawled beneath them. “Well, if you want to come up, wake me and I’ll help you.”

  “I’ll be fine down here. This way I can stretch out and I don’t have to worry about kicking you and hurting my leg.”

  Aaron switched off the light by the bed and said good night to his best friend. He hadn’t realized how tired he was. His eyes quickly grew heavy, and he felt himself drifting away on the sea of sleep.

  “What if he doesn’t come back?” Gabriel suddenly asked, his words startling Aaron back to consciousness.

  “What was that, Gabe?” Aaron asked sleepily.

  “Camael,” the dog said. “What if Camael doesn’t come back? What are we going to do then?”

  It was a good question, and one that Aaron had been avoiding since the angel came up missing that afternoon. What would he do without Camael’s guidance? He thought of the alien power that existed within him, and his heart began to race. “I wouldn’t worry about it, pally,” he said, taking his turn to be positive. “He’s probably doing angel stuff somewhere. That’s all. He’ll be back before we know it.”

  “Angel stuff,” Gabriel repeated once, and then again. “You’re probably right,” he said, temporarily satisfied. “We’ll see him tomorrow.”

  “That’s it,” Aaron said again, closing his eyes, which felt as though they’d been turned to lead. “We’ll see him tomorrow.”

  And before he was even aware, Aaron was pulled beneath the sea of sleep, sinking deeper and deeper into the black abyss of unconsciousness, with nary a sign of struggle.

  But something was waiting.

  Aaron couldn’t breathe.

  The grip of nightmare held him fast, and no matter how he fought to awaken, he could not pull himself free of the clinging miasma of terror.

  He was encased in a fleshy sack—a cocoon of some kind, and from its veined walls was secreted a foul-smelling fluid. Aaron struggled within the pouch, the milky substance rising steadily to lap against his chin. Soon it would cover his face, filling his mouth and nostrils—and he began to panic. Then he felt something in the sack with him, something that wrapped around his arms and legs, trying to keep his flailing to a minimum. Aaron knew it wanted to hold him in its constricting embrace so the fluid could immerse him completely in its foulness. His body grew numb.

  “No,” he cried out as some of the thick, gelatinous substance splashed into his mouth. It tasted of death, and left his flesh dulled.

  He’d had similar dreams when his angelic abilities had first started to manifest. He didn’t care for them then—and cared even less for them now. He intensified his battle to be free of it, but the nightmare did not relent, continuing to hold him fast in its grip.

  Aaron was completely submerged now, the warm fluid engulfing him, lulling him to a place where he could quit all struggle. And it almost succeeded.

  Almost.

  Suddenly, in his mind, he saw a sword of light. It was the most magnificent weapon he had ever seen. Never in all his imaginings could he have built a sword so mighty and large. It was as if the weapon had been forged from one of the rays of the sun.

  And as he reached for it, its unearthly radiance shone brighter, and brighter still—burning away the liquid-filled cocoon that held him and the nightmare realm it inhabited.

  He awoke with a start, his body drenched with sweat. Gabriel had joined him on the bed, and his dark brown eyes gli
stened eerily in a strange light that danced around the room.

  “Gabriel, what…?” he began breathlessly.

  “Nice sword,” the dog said simply.

  Fully awake now, Aaron realized that he held something in his left hand. Slowly he turned his gaze toward it—toward what he had brought back from the realm of nightmare.

  A blade of the sun.

  Chapter Seven

  “WHAT DO you think it means?” Gabriel asked from the foot of the bed as Aaron stepped from the shower and grabbed a fresh shirt.

  He pushed his arms through the sleeves and pulled the red T-shirt down over his stomach. “It was kind of like the dreams I had before this whole Nephilim thing blew up,” he said, fingering his hair in the mirror and deciding that he looked fine. “Where I was experiencing old memories that didn’t belong to me.”

  “Like the sword?” the dog asked.

  Aaron shuddered as he remembered the amazing sight of the sword that he seemed to have brought over from the dream. He knew he was not responsible for the creation of the blade. He was certain that it belonged to someone of great importance, but the question was who—and why had the weapon been given to him. It had only stayed with him for a short time. As if sensing it was no longer needed, it had dispersed in an explosion of blinding light. “Just like the sword,” Aaron finally replied. “And like the dreams, I think it was given to help me.”

  “I thought it was all very scary,” Gabriel said, and sighed as he rested his snout between his paws.

  “I agree,” Aaron said, sitting beside the dog to put on his sneakers, “but it all has something to do with this town.”

  “Is this a mystery?” Gabriel asked, his floppy ears suddenly perky.

  Aaron laughed and gave the dog’s head a rub. “It certainly is. Listen, I’ve got to go to the clinic this morning, but you need to stay here and give that leg a chance to heal. Why don’t you think about all our clues and see if you can come up with some answers.”

  “I’ve always wanted to solve a mystery,” Gabriel said happily.