The dog heard a noise behind him and turned to see the front door slowly open. Vilma stood there, wrapped in the knitted afghan that had been thrown over the back of the couch. She appeared cold, her body racked with chills. Her eyes were wide, as if awakened by something that had truly terrified her. The smell of sickly sweat wafted from her body in waves.
Gabriel padded back up the concrete path toward her. “What’s the matter, Vilma?”
On bare feet she stepped out of the house and proceeded down the path. She seemed drawn to the sounds of the explosions and looked off in the direction where the angels had just gone.
“Vilma,” Gabriel said, standing by her side. “What did you see, Vilma?” he asked her softly, not sure he wanted the answer.
“He’s still alive,” Vilma said softly, a tremble in her voice. “Aaron’s alive.”
And, overcome with relief and happiness that his master was safe, Gabriel tilted back his head and howled with joy.
Aaron regained consciousness gradually, his brain fumbling for connections to his senses. Hearing was first, but that only caught his own labored breathing and the rapid-fire beating of his heart. Pain came next, a thousand aches, bruises, and cuts. He wiggled toes and fingers, flexed muscles in his arms, back, and legs. They all hurt, but everything seemed to be working.
As he opened his eyes, he recalled the battle he had been fighting before … before what?
His blurred vision gradually cleared to reveal the obscene level of devastation that had befallen Aerie. He remembered fighting Verchiel. The last thing he recalled was the Powers’ leader attacking, a blade of fire destined for his throat. He was about to reveal the identity of the angel that had sired him—Verchiel was about to say his father’s name when there was a blinding flash, and an explosion that tossed the angel aside like a rag doll.
The air was thick with acrid smoke, but it did not hide the corpses that littered the ground. On weakened legs Aaron walked among them, his eyes falling upon bodies so badly burned that their identities were a mystery. Friend or foe, he had no way of telling, and an incredible sadness washed over him.
“Verchiel,” he whispered with disdain, somehow knowing that his enemy’s body was not among the blackened corpses at his feet. Aaron knew that somehow Verchiel had survived the cataclysm that had ravaged this place.
He heard an awkward approach behind him and whirled, a sword of flame coming to life in hand. He was exhausted, emotionally and physically, but he was ready to fight again if necessary. From the thick smoke they came, a bedraggled Lehash supporting a weakened Lorelei, followed by other residents that had survived the Powers’ attack.
“You’re alive,” Aaron said, beaming as the gunslinger and his Nephilim daughter lurched toward him.
“Appears that way,” Lehash responded. His clothes, face, and hands were covered in a thick mixture of dirt, dust, and dried blood. “Can’t say that would’ve been the case if it weren’t for Lorelei here,” he said, his attention upon the young woman at his side. Lorelei looked the way he felt, drained of all strength. “She brought the wrath of Heaven down on them sons a’ bitches,” Lehash said proudly, and Aaron then knew that it had been angel magick that rained down upon Aerie that day.
Lorelei slowly lifted her head, her blank, exhausted stare suddenly focusing on Aaron. “He’s gone,” she whispered. “He never got a chance to see it all come together.” Tears streamed from her eyes, leaving trails down her dirt-covered face. “Belphegor’s dead.”
Aaron’s body began to tremble. It was a feeling he had experienced before and he knew what it meant. “Where is he?” he asked, a sense of urgency to his tone. “Where’s Belphegor’s body?”
Lorelei feebly pointed to what remained of the church behind them. “He’s there,” she said. “In the rubble of the church. He died trying to defend it from Verchiel.”
As before, Aaron felt the power building at the center of his being and he spread his wings to fly, soaring over the heads of the surviving citizens, and then above the ruin that had once been their place of worship. He had to act quickly before the opportunity passed.
The Founder’s body lay half buried beneath the debris of the church, and Aaron touched down to kneel before his lifeless form. As he leaned closer to the fallen angel’s corpse his suspicions were verified. Belphegor’s angelic essence was faint, but it still lived.
The power swelled inside Aaron, flowing up and out of his center to pool in his hand. “You are forgiven,” he said to Belphegor, and laid his hand upon the fallen angel’s brow. There was a blinding flash, like a thousand and one photographs being taken at once, and a creature of the purest white light emerged from the rubble of the church to hover above him.
Aaron sensed the presence of the citizens nearby as they struggled to climb the debris, and heard their collective gasp as they looked upon what he had done.
“It’s time to go home, Belphegor,” he told the being of light.
And the angel, once again in its purest form, looked up to the heavens, toward what had been denied it for countless millennia. The heavenly creature then spread its gossamer wings of radiance, and in a silent flash, was gone.
Aaron knelt upon the rubble, awash in the relief of Belphegor’s release. But this time, he felt no satisfaction, as if he had not yet completed the task at hand. And then he understood, for it was true that he had not yet finished his work.
He stood, turning to those around him. “Gather the remains of those fallen in battle,” he stated firmly. “All of them, Powers’ soldiers included.
“I have work to do.”
EPILOGUE
Aaron had marked his brother’s grave with a rosebush. It was taken from one of Belphegor’s many gardens scattered about the property that was Aerie, and it appeared to be doing quite well within its new patch of earth.
A warm presummer wind ruffled his hair, and he could barely smell the stink of devastation it carried. After three days the aroma of burning buildings and charred flesh had finally begun to fade. He had been surprised that no one in the outside world took notice of the destruction that plagued the abandoned neighborhood, but when dealing with angels and the magicks they wielded, nothing should have surprised him.
He knelt in the damp, freshly turned soil to inspect the red buds. An insect that he could not identify—some kind of green-shelled beetle—alighted on one of the rosebush’s leaves and looked as though it might be ready for a little snack. In the language of the beetle, he asked it to please find somewhere else to dine, and to pass the word to his fellow bugs that this particular bush was off limits. The bug obliged with an irritated buzz and a flutter of its wings.
Aaron looked up from his brother’s grave to see Lehash and Lorelei crossing the yard toward him.
“Did you check it for bugs?” Lorelei asked him, gesturing with her chin toward the rosebush.
“The bugs and I have an understanding,” he answered as he stood, leaning over to wipe the damp earth from his knees. “But I’m keeping my eyes open.”
Lehash removed his Stetson and combed his fingers through his white hair. “And speaking of keeping an eye out,” he said, placing the hat back atop his head, “we got our feelers out to see if anyone’s caught sight of our wayward Powers’ commander.”
Aaron looked back to the grave, imagining that he could see beneath the earth to his brother buried there. It turned his stomach to think that he was the one who put him there. Yet again he saw the blade of his sword slicing toward Stevie’s—Malak’s—neck, and a savage chill coursed down his spine.
“Anything?” Aaron asked.
Lehash shook his head. “Nope,” he said. “Are you sure that Verchiel wasn’t killed—that one of Lorelei’s lightning strikes didn’t turn his sorry carcass to ash?”
Gabriel’s sudden burst of barking distracted them and they looked to the far corner of the yard. Vilma was holding a tennis ball, pretending to throw it, whipping the Labrador into an excited frenzy.
“
How’s she doing?” Lorelei asked.
Aaron watched as she threw the ball and Gabriel eagerly bounded across the sparse grass in pursuit.
“She’s doing all right,” he said. The dog had snatched the ball up and was returning for another round. Besides eating, there was nothing Gabriel enjoyed more than a game of fetch. “I think it’s going to take her some time to adjust, but I think she’s going to be okay.”
They were silent, watching the dog as he tirelessly chased the tennis ball and dropped the slobbered toy at Vilma’s feet. She laughed out loud at the dog’s antics and Aaron couldn’t imagine a nicer sound. He remembered how lucky she was—how lucky he was—that Vilma had survived the ordeal with Verchiel.
“He’s still out there,” Aaron suddenly said. “I can feel him, biding his time.” He shook his head slowly. “But I’m not going to give him the opportunity. I’ve got some questions, so this time I’m taking the fight to him.”
There was a wooden picnic table in the yard, and the trio headed over to sit in the spring sunshine, a little breather from the violence that seemed to be an integral part of their lives lately.
“What kind of questions, Aaron?” Lorelei asked, pulling her snow-white hair back on her head and using an elastic band from her pocket to tie it in place.
They sat on the wooden benches, Lehash and Lorelei across from Aaron. Since the invasion of Aerie and Lorelei’s attack on the Powers, father and daughter seemed much closer, as if Lehash were developing a whole new respect for Nephilim.
“Belphegor told me that he had some information about the source of my powers—and Verchiel was going to tell me who my father was before the lightning strikes started to fall.”
“Sorry about that,” Lorelei said sheepishly.
Lehash chuckled. “Hell, boy, you don’t need to track down Verchiel to tell you that,” he said, a twinkle in his eyes. “I know all about the one that sired you. Scholar worked it out.”
Gabriel was happily barking in the distance, but all Aaron could hear was the thrumming of his own heart.
“It makes perfect sense when you think of it,” Lehash said, casually scratching his chin. “It’s all about absolution.”
Aaron stood. “Tell me,” he demanded.
“Maybe you should sit down for this,” Lorelei suggested.
“Is there anybody besides me who doesn’t know who my father is?” Aaron asked, annoyed. He fixed Lehash in a steely gaze. “No more games. Tell me, who my father—”
“Lucifer.”
Aaron felt as if the world had fallen away beneath him and he had to sit down. “What … what are you saying?” he stammered.
“Can’t get any clearer than that, boy,” Lehash answered with the slightest hint of a smile. “Your daddy’s the Devil.”
Verchiel strode through the abandoned Saint Athanasius School, his heavy footfalls echoing ominously. The five remaining Archons followed close behind. The Powers had been diminished greatly in the devastating battle at Aerie and a part of him wished he had died that day as well. Opening the Nephilim’s throat with his burning blade before his own life was taken by the elemental forces unleashed there would have been a satisfying end. But it was not to be. The Archons had been watching, and they conjured a doorway to retrieve him. At the time he had been enraged by their audacity and had lashed out at his loyal magick wielders, killing two of them before finally succumbing to his injuries.
Verchiel reached the classroom at the end of the hallway and entered.
The blind healer, Kraus, was changing a bandage on the prisoner’s arm. It had been this same human servant who had also helped Verchiel to heal after the battle at Aerie, and during his recovery he realized that the Archons had been correct. It was not yet time for him to die. There were things that he still had to do.
The leader of the Powers seethed at the sight of the imprisoned angel. Here was the source of all his misery, the reason for the fall. He thought of the Nephilim and the prophecy he personified; it too was because of him—the first of the fallen. The depravities this creature was responsible for appeared limitless, and Verchiel would rather bring about an end to all things than see this one forgiven by God.
“Hey, there,” his captive said in a voice that oozed with disrespect. “I was having a bit of a problem with the burns on my arms, and Kraus here said he could help me out.”
Verchiel stifled the urge to smother the human servant in fire. He had to remind himself that humans were merely animals. Most of the time they meant no offense, but to see his servant caring for the needs of his prisoner was almost more than he could tolerate.
“Away from the cage,” he ordered the sightless creature, and watched as Kraus obediently gathered up his supplies, and using the wall to guide him, scurried from the room.
“Nice guy, that Kraus,” the angel in the cage said, admiring the bandage that covered his arm. “He thinks the world of you.”
Mere days ago the prisoner’s flesh had been charred to black, but now, other than a few stubborn patches, he had completely healed. Verchiel recalled the burns that he had suffered as a result of his first battle with the Nephilim, and how they still had not completely healed.
A tiny pair of eyes stared at him hostilely from the bare shoulder of his adversary. Verchiel would have found it strangely compelling that the mouse had chosen to remain with the prisoner, but there were things of a far more important nature for him to ponder than the actions of vermin. The first of the fallen was the Creator’s greatest failure, and to have him absolved of his sins would mean that all Verchiel had dedicated himself to had been a lie, that what he had achieved in the name of the Father was all for nothing. It was enough to drive him mad.
Verchiel stared at the angel imprisoned behind bars of magickally imbued metal, and felt his hatred bubble forth. “Open the cage,” he ordered the Archons behind him.
Archon Jaldabaoth raised a long, spidery hand, and uttered a spell of release. The door of the prisoner’s confines slowly swung open with a high-pitched whine. But the prisoner did not move.
The absolution of the Morningstar would be a devastating blow to his cause. Verchiel could not allow that to happen. He would complete his sacred mission, whether it be the will of God—or not. He would see it through, for it was what he believed to be right.
“Step out of your cage … Lucifer,” Verchiel said the name as though there were pieces of glass lodged in his throat.
“That’s the first time you’ve called me by name since we’ve been together,” the prisoner said, still peering through the bars. “To what do I owe that?”
“Get out of the cage!” Verchiel shouted, the rage inside him becoming more difficult to contain.
All the pain, sorrow, and misery that Lucifer had caused was collected by the power of the Almighty and placed inside the vessel that was the Morningstar’s corporeal form. For as long as he existed, he would suffer the magnitude of what he had done. This was the first of the fallen’s punishment—his penance.
Lucifer carefully eased his naked frame from the prison. “What’s this, Verchiel?” he asked. “Don’t tell me you’ve seen the error of your ways and are letting me go.”
Verchiel’s wings snapped opened. “Silence!” he bellowed, raising a sword of fire above his head.
His sudden movement startled the mouse upon his captive’s shoulder, and it leaped to the ground to scamper off to a hiding place.
The prisoner fixed him in an icy stare. “What’s the matter?” he asked. “Bad couple of days?”
The Archons moved forward, ancient arcanum spilling from their mouths. They extended their arms toward Lucifer and he was enveloped in an aura of crackling energy. The prisoner screamed, a long, mournful wail that seemed to come from somewhere deep inside, and his body went rigidly stiff as he was lifted up by the power of the angel magicians.
“Is it there?” Verchiel asked as they swayed to some silent song of another’s misery.
“The accumulated sorrow of the un
iverse,” Archon Oraios hissed, his body trembling.
“Locked away,” added Archon Jao.
“Sealed away behind barricades fortified by His word,” Archon Jaldabaoth explained.
Archon Domiel started to twitch, his body suddenly racked by convulsions. “Powerful magicks were used here,” he said, his voice rising in pitch. “Powerful magicks that keep us at bay.”
Verchiel did not want to hear this. The maelstrom of desolation locked away inside the first of the fallen was to be his weapon. Unleashed it would bring a veritable Hell to the world of God’s favored creations.
“Tear them down!” Verchiel screamed. “Remove the obstructions and allow Heaven’s suffering to flow free.”
Archon Katspiel was the first to suffer for his arrogance. The angelic magick user cried out as his eyes exploded from his head in a geyser of steaming gore, and he crumpled to a moaning, quivering mass upon the floor. The other Archons broke contact with the first of the fallen, setting his body free from their hold.
“What has happened?” Vercheil bellowed, stalking toward them, murder in his gaze. “Why have you stopped?”
The Archons knelt before their injured brother, attempting to heal his wounds with incantations of healing.
“The barriers are too strong,” Archon Domiel said with a shake of his head. “Katspiel attempted to peel away the layers and it gave him but a taste of what was locked behind them.”
“You will remove these obstructions and set this force free,” Verchiel demanded.
“But the word of God …,” Archon Oraios tried to explain.
“The word of God shall be broken,” Verchiel spat. He would have victory at any cost.
“I’d do anything to be free of it,” said the weakened voice of the angel that had started it all. Lucifer was picking his naked form up off the ground, his body shivering as if in the grip of unimaginable cold. “But even I know what it would do if it were ever set free—I could never be that selfish, to let it loose upon the world.”