“Are you all right?” Cameron asked, concern in his tone.
“Hungry,” the child said. “We’re all so very, very hungry.”
The hair along the back of Cameron’s neck stood on end. He stepped back, reconsidering his sword, and it sparked to life in his grasp. The light thrown by the weapon reflected strangely in the little boy’s dark eyes. They glowed like an animal’s.
The little boy tossed back his head and roared. It was a strange sound, unlike anything that might come from a human throat.
Cameron knew he was in trouble. From the corners of his eyes, he saw other naked children creeping from the forest.
Backing away slowly, he tried to keep his eyes on their moving shapes. More unearthly howls came from the woods. Cameron flexed the muscles in his shoulders, calling forth his wings.
The little boy with the dirty face let out a gleeful squeal.
“We’ve been smelling you for days,” the child said. “We knew there was meat close by, but we didn’t know how delicious and rare.”
Cameron tensed.
“I’m the kind of meat that will seriously mess with your stomach,” he said in a threatening voice, waving his blazing sword. Maybe I can scare them away, he thought. He didn’t want to hurt a child, no matter how screwed up the kid was.
“No worries, special meat,” the filthy boy said. “So hungry we be willing to take the risk.”
The other children giggled, their laughter eerily transforming into growls. And then the little boy began to claw at his skin, ripping it away to reveal thick black fur beneath.
Even after all the crazy stuff he’d seen in his short Nephilim life, Cameron doubted he would ever get used to this.
The boy transformed into a muscular, bearlike creature. The thing roared, showing off thick yellow teeth designed especially for ripping flesh from bone. There then came a succession of similar growls and thrashing from behind Cameron, and the Nephilim saw that the other children were also shedding their skin.
“Okay then,” Cameron said. “Demon bears? Why not.”
They rushed at him all at once, wild eyes glistening and fangs slavering. Cameron felt his angelic nature practically squeal with delight as it rushed forward to battle.
Cameron leaped into the air, hovering above the beasts’ slashing claws. He lashed out with his sword of fire, hacking away limbs and singeing fur. The creatures’ howls and cries mingled together in a nearly deafening cacophony of violence.
The demon bears retreated, and Cameron dropped to the ground, bracing for the next wave of attack. He had whittled down their numbers, some of the beasts holding back to nurse their wounds, but there were still quite a few with hunger in their gazes.
“Not used to your meat biting back, are you?” he said, crouching and switching his sword to the other hand.
The demon bears continued to growl fiercely, pacing back and forth as they decided what course they must take next to achieve their special meal.
“I’m feeling generous today,” Cameron then said. “Leave me now, and we’ll call it even. You won’t get to eat me, and I won’t cover my floor in new rugs.”
The bears looked at one another.
“Special meat feels he is merciful,” growled one.
The bear that Cameron believed to be the little boy by the woodpile came forward. “Save your mercy, special meat,” he proclaimed. “You will fill our bellies before—”
Cameron wasn’t quite sure what happened exactly.
One second, the bear was telling him how he would soon be inside their bellies, but the next he was gone—disappeared—into thin air.
The other demon bears sniffed the air, just as surprised by their comrade’s sudden, inexplicable disappearance.
Suddenly, the demon’s body dropped from the sky, landing in a twisted, bloody heap.
Cameron stared with the other beasts at the damaged body. Then he searched the night sky, the starlight obliterated by thick clouds.
Is that the flapping of wings? he wondered, straining his ears and scanning the velvety darkness.
“What did this?” one of the bears roared.
Another strode forward to sniff at the bloody corpse; then he, too, disappeared.
But this time Cameron saw a black shape with enormous wings, moving incredibly fast, drop from the sky to snatch another of the beasts.
“Holy crap,” he whispered. A nearly overpowering sense of foreboding fell upon him, and he had the urge to escape—to run—to get away from this place before . . .
A life-form that seemed to be made from the darkness itself swooped down from the sky once more, attacking the bear demons with abandon. All Cameron could do was watch as the winged creature landed amongst the shifters and, with elongated, razor-sharp claws, eviscerated all who attacked. It was a scene out of nightmare.
Eyes locked upon the carnage, Cameron watched as the creature, armored in the stuff of shadow, bloodily dispatched the last of its attackers.
The killer slowly turned, its masked, featureless face, also as black as pitch, directed at Cameron.
Sword still blazing in hand, the Nephilim prepared for the worst.
Then the figure’s shadow helmet faded, revealing a pale, female face.
A face that Cameron recognized, and had called a friend, before she had died.
“Hey, Cam,” Janice said, her bloodless lips stretching into a smile. “It’s been awhile.”
* * *
Verchiel flew across the blighted lands ravaged by monsters and nearly endless night.
It both surprised and appalled him how quickly the world had fallen to darkness.
His eyes trailed upward, to the churning clouds that masked the sun, preventing light and warmth from touching the earth. Verchiel then turned his gaze down to the loathsome goblin that dangled from his hand.
“How did this happen?” Verchiel bellowed over the howl of the wind and the beating of his wings.
The goblin Ergo squirmed uneasily as he dangled precariously in the angel’s grasp. Verchiel held on firmly to the collar of the goblin’s armored chest plate.
“What?” the goblin asked, his voice even higher than usual from fear. “What are you talking—”
Verchiel gave the goblin a violent shake, and Ergo shrieked again.
“Please . . . please be careful . . . even in my armor, a fall from this height would—”
“Answer me!” Verchiel’s voice boomed over the sounds of their flight.
“It is as I said before,” Ergo cried, turning his gaze upward toward his captor. “Satan Darkstar controls powerful magicks, powerful enough to blot the sun from the sky.”
The goblin had shared stories of how this mysterious leader—this Satan—had called together all the nightmares of the world, forcing them under one flag.
The banner of the Darkstar.
Any who fought back against the Darkstar’s edict were destroyed.
Verchiel noticed that the goblin had stopped thrashing. He followed the creature’s gaze to the encampment of tents in a mall parking area.
“Friends of yours?” he asked the goblin.
Ergo didn’t answer, which made Verchiel guess that this was the battalion from which the goblin had defected.
The angel angled his body earthward, much to Ergo’s chagrin.
“What are you doing?” he screeched. “Take me back up!”
Verchiel sneered. “I thought you would want to be reunited with your friends.”
“They’re no friends of mine,” Ergo spat. “And besides, they think I’m dead.”
Verchiel gave a powerful flap of his wings to slow his descent. “Then let’s give them a surprise, shall we?” he said. “What joy the sight of you will bring when they realize that you are still among the living.”
Verchiel released the goblin as his feet touched the ground. Ergo fell to all fours with the impact.
“You don’t understand,” the goblin said, his beady eyes riveted on the sprawling encampment.
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“What is it that I don’t understand, foul thing?” Verchiel asked.
Ergo turned to look at him pathetically. “They’ll torture me for abandoning my position.”
“Then we’ll go together,” Verchiel said. “Perhaps some of my courage will rub off on you as we walk.” He yanked the goblin to his feet.
“Perhaps you would grant me a merciful death,” Ergo suggested as they walked side by side, Verchiel’s hand on the goblin’s shoulder.
“Do you honestly believe that you deserve such a thing?” Verchiel asked as they reached the perimeter to the army encampment.
“Have I not been the perfect captive?” Ergo pleaded. “Sharing all that I know about our glorious leader? Surely this must count for something.”
Nearby, a goblin soldier relieved itself on one of the parking lot’s tall light posts. The goblin turned to look at them dully, as its liquid waste splashed on the concrete base. Its eyes grew saucer wide as the angel and his captive approached.
Barely finished, the goblin fumbled with a yellowed horn hanging over its shoulder, bringing it to its mouth and blowing an alert.
The horn brought the goblin army streaming from the tents.
“Kill me,” Ergo begged, as the army came at them, weapons of war in hand.
“Why would I want to do that?” Verchiel asked, picking up the goblin and tossing him into the crowd. “Especially after we’ve become so close.”
The army recoiled in caution as Ergo landed at their feet. They looked from Ergo, to Verchiel, and back again.
“A trade,” Verchiel announced. “I give you this deserter, in exchange for an audience with your commander.”
Ergo scrambled to his feet, but the goblin legion was faster, grabbing him roughly and placing a sword beneath his chin.
“Traitor,” Verchiel overheard one of the soldiers growl, as they dragged Ergo off into the mob, where he became lost amongst the hundreds of other loathsome goblins.
“So,” Verchiel said, as pleasantly as he could. Aaron and the others had always scolded Verchiel for his lack of social skills, so he would see if the benefits they touted were indeed true. “Do we have a deal?”
The goblins looked to one another and began to laugh.
Verchiel wasn’t amused.
Still laughing, the goblins charged, blood-encrusted weapons at the ready.
“I guess that would mean no,” Verchiel said, shaping a weapon of fire in his hand.
The goblins fell upon him in a noxious wave of blood, sweat, and filthy flesh. They hacked and slashed at Verchiel, their weapons barely scratching the divine armor that adorned him, as he allowed their thirst for violence to arouse him. Then Verchiel struck back.
The air became suddenly filled with the screams of the dying. The goblins fought valiantly, but they were no match for a soldier of Heaven—even one who had fallen from the grace of God.
For a moment, Verchiel thought of the three hags and the offer they’d bestowed on him from their masters, the Architects.
Serve them.
The memory just enraged him, the rushing of the blood through his veins deafening him to the goblins’ cries for mercy. If they had wanted mercy, then they should have done as he’d asked in the first place, and allowed him to speak with their commander.
The blacktop was awash in goblin blood, as Verchiel hovered upon his mighty wings, finishing off the stragglers still brave enough—insane enough—to come at him.
Then he flew through the encampment, setting the leathery tents ablaze with gouts of holy fire dispensed from the tip of his blade. Verchiel’s fire was ravenous, devouring not only the tents, but all those still within them. Burning goblins ran about until they dropped to the ground, flaming pyres that lit Verchiel’s way as he flew over the carnage he had wrought.
Ergo emerged through the flap of a burning tent, fleeing his captor, who was engulfed in angel fire.
“The commander,” Verchiel demanded of him. “Where will I find him?”
Ergo turned his attention to the tents that remained untouched. There, across the lot, was a larger, more elaborate tent.
The frightened goblin pointed.
Verchiel stared at him for a moment, enjoying the sheer terror that rolled off the foul creature in waves. Then he flew toward the tent.
Touching down just outside, Verchiel was met with the shrieks and whoops of more armored goblins. They had as much effect on Verchiel as the previous goblin soldiers, dying just as quickly despite their fancy armor and weaponry.
Verchiel stood before the tent, the dead at his feet, watching the flaps blow invitingly in the breeze.
“Come out and face me,” he proclaimed.
His request was met with silence.
From the corner of his eye, he watched as Ergo came to join him. “Perhaps you’d care to go inside to bring him out,” Verchiel suggested.
“Perhaps you’d care to kiss my puffy rump,” the goblin replied with a snarl, his anger at being turned over to his former comrades obviously outweighing his fear of the angel.
Having no desire to drag the commander out, Verchiel touched the edge of his burning sword to the entrance flap, setting it ablaze. It didn’t take long for the commander to emerge.
“Ah, there you are,” Verchiel said as the goblin leader dropped to his knees before him. “I wasn’t sure if you’d heard me.”
The goblin sprang up, a dagger in hand, poised to strike. Verchiel was having none of it, swatting his attacker back to the ground with a swipe from one of his huge wings.
“I called you before me to ask you a question,” Verchiel said, watching as the commander recovered from the blow, groggily sitting up. “Are you listening?”
The commander spotted Ergo standing nearby. “You there,” he bellowed, ignoring Verchiel’s words. “Protect your superior!”
Ergo didn’t move.
The commander appeared stunned as he rose to stand upon shaky legs.
“Are you listening?” Verchiel asked again, raising his voice.
The commander cowered, but slowly nodded his head.
“You have seen what I have done, and what I am capable of.” Verchiel raised his arm, presenting what remained of the encampment. “After seeing all this,” the angel continued, “who do you serve?”
The commander stared at Verchiel with hate-filled eyes, as the survivors of the goblin army drew closer, awaiting their leader’s response.
“I don’t . . . ,” the commander started, then stopped.
“I will ask you again,” Verchiel said. “Who do you serve?”
The commander again looked at the damage and those who had fallen under his command. Then he turned his gaze back to Verchiel.
“Who do you serve?” Verchiel repeated, stressing each word.
The commander spit something thick and black onto the ground, a sign of disrespect.
“I serve the one true lord,” he declared. “I serve Satan, the Darkstar, with all my—”
Verchiel sliced the commander’s head from his body before he could finish.
“Wrong answer.”
Turning, Verchiel addressed the remaining survivors, with a slow, menacing flap of his wings. “You serve me now. Any questions?”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The longer Aaron followed his parents, the more it all sank in: His life was an elaborate creation of his subconscious.
It was more than Aaron could take. He sat down on the solid shadow, unable to go on.
His parents stopped.
“Aaron?” his foster mother asked. “What are you doing?”
“I can’t,” he said, refusing to look at her. He stared at the brown dress shoes on his feet, shoes that he’d bought specifically for his job.
A job that didn’t really exist.
“I can’t go any farther,” Aaron said, his strength beginning to ebb. “I can’t do this.”
“Aaron, please,” his foster father said. “You have to go with us if—”
“
I’m forgetting,” Aaron interrupted. Even as he spoke, the memories that had once been rock solid inside his mind were already fading.
“Those experiences were never real to begin with,” Lori told him. “They have to vanish to allow your real memories to come back.”
“Real memories,” Aaron said, then laughed sadly. “Up until a little while ago, they were my real memories.”
“Aaron,” Tom Stanley began. “We understand how hard this must be for you, but—”
“You understand?” Aaron asked. “You’re not real either. You’re some sort of screwed-up mechanism to help me get back to whatever screwed-up reality I left behind.”
His parents shared a look.
“We’re not going to say that you’re wrong,” Lori acknowledged.
Her face was now almost obliterated by flames. Tom’s wasn’t much better. All that remained of his human visage were a few tufts of hair.
“If I tried hard enough, I could probably wish you both away,” Aaron said, returning his gaze to his shoes.
“Probably,” Tom agreed.
“But would you really want to do that?” Lori asked.
Aaron shrugged.
“Maybe if you did, you’d hold on to your memories?” Lori prompted him.
Aaron was silent for a moment.
“We were going to get a dog,” he said finally, playing with his shoelaces.
“You already have a dog,” his mother reminded him.
“Aaron,” Tom said. There was agitation in his tone. “It isn’t safe here.”
“What do you mean? It’s my subconscious. Why wouldn’t it be safe?”
Lori took her husband’s burned skeletal hand in hers.
“You ended up in this place for a reason,” his foster mother explained. “You escaped here to heal from . . .”
“From what?” Aaron urged.
“You were struck down. Some of what hurt you was left behind,” Lori said.
“Kind of like a poison in your system,” Tom added.
“Is it still inside me?”
His parents nodded their burning heads.
“Where?”
“Somewhere here, in the darkness,” Lori said.
“Is that where you’re taking me?”
Lori again nodded.