“There’s trouble at the house,” the angel began. “It’s Vilma, she …”
Aaron didn’t wait for him to finish. Immediately the image of the home in which the girl he loved was staying formed in his mind. His wings of solid black surged from his back, toppling stacks of books as they closed around him, Scholar’s frantic gasps the last sound heard before he was gone in the blink of an eye.
CHAPTER SIX
Traversing the void between the here and there, Verchiel listened to the fearsome shrieks of his soldiers. They sensed the battle to come, and reveled in the opportunity to honor him; their cries of war an inspiration to his cause.
Verchiel had never trusted the Malakim. He had always been suspicious of the level of knowledge and power that had been conferred on the angelic trinity by the Supreme Being. How ironic that these same gifts would be used against their most Holy Father. It almost amused him, but since the horrible realization that he had been cast adrift by the same Master he had most dutifully served since the beginning of time, there was very little room left for amusement.
They were close now; Verchiel could feel their presence, their complex magicks no longer able to hide them. The Archon Katspiel had again proven his worth. Though it drained his life force like a thirsty desert nomad sucking greedily upon a canteen, the angelic magick user had managed to weave an intricate spell that revealed the secret location of the two surviving Malakim.
What’s that monkey expression I’ve heard so many times? Verchiel mused. Two birds with a single rock, he thought as his wings parted to reveal his journey’s end.
Two Malakim, clothed in shimmering robes seemingly woven from the purest sunlight, stood over the body of the first of their kind slain at Kilimanjaro. His armored body had been laid out upon an ancient stone altar and encircled with burning candles of various heights. The inscrutable creatures of Heaven, oft believed to be as close to God as any of His creations, were mourning their kindred’s passing. How quaintly … human, Verchiel thought while he surveyed their whereabouts.
They had traveled to a vast cave, its walls dappled with man-size recesses filled with desiccated remains. The stink of the dead hung heavy in the stagnant air. Based upon the religious trappings around the cavern, Verchiel gathered that they were in some early Christian burial chamber, long forgotten and probably hidden deep beneath some sprawling metropolis. The Malakim had always been fascinated with the ways of the human monkeys, observing their every movement along the evolutionary path. Verchiel still believed the species to be little more than clever animals and saw no real future for them. And if he accomplished what he’d set out to do, there would indeed be none.
“You have not been bidden here, angel,” one of the Malakim said, his voice dripping with conceit. “Take your host and depart. We respect your empathy, but wish to grieve for our departed brother alone.”
Was that the slightest hint of fear Verchiel saw on the faces of these supposedly superior beings as they stood over the remains of their brother? How disturbing it must have been for them, to find one of their own brought down to ground, its most precious resource torn from its body.
“We didn’t wish it to be this way,” he said to the Malakim, moving closer. He noticed that they had cleaned the corpse, but it did little to hide the ravages of the Powers’ search for their prize. “We begged him to surrender, but he chose instead to fight.”
The two angelic beings shared a quick glance before looking back to Verchiel. It was exactly as it had been with the first of their ilk: so arrogant that they couldn’t even begin to fathom the idea that they would soon be under siege.
“It was as if he wanted to die,” Verchiel said, gazing down upon the corpse in mock sadness and then smiling a predator’s smile.
At that moment, the Malakim finally understood, and the look upon their oh-so-superior faces was priceless. The Powers leader raised his hand. “Take them,” he barked to his troops.
His warriors sprang at his command, weapons of flame appearing for battle. Startled by this overt display of hostility, the Malakim backed away from the stone altar on which their fallen comrade had been laid.
“The others have arrived,” Archon Katspiel whispered, his sightless head tilted back, nose twitching, and Verchiel saw that he was correct. The air behind the distracted Malakim had begun to distort, a magickal entrance for the remaining Archons.
The Malakim were standing back to back, the blessed light of their divinity radiating from their bodies, illuminating the ugliness of the burial chamber around them, the heat thrown from their omnipotence igniting the remains of the interred. Weapons of crackling, blue force had appeared in their hands, and they fought Verchiel’s soldiers with a ferocity that impressed the Powers leader greatly. If only they would give up their knowledge willingly and join him in his endeavor against a Creator that had gone mad. But Verchiel knew that it would never come to be, for he imagined they were still under the misconception that their God could do no wrong, and nothing would sway them from their faith.
Poor deluded fools.
His Powers did what was expected of them, their fury relentless, their numbers expendable for the greater good. Many had begun to burn, the intense heat radiating from the Malakim devouring their flesh with a ravenous hunger, but still they fought, the first wave of a two-pronged assault.
The Archons had taken up their positions behind the battle, their arms waving in the air as they recited incantations that would render their prey helpless. From Verchiel’s side, Katspiel joined his voice to his fellow magicians as he removed the sacred blade of extraction from within the folds of his robe.
A high-pitched squeal echoed through the burial chamber, and one of the Malakim fell, writhing and twitching upon the mausoleum floor, fighting the Archon’s magick. But the other acted as his partner fell, conjuring a shield, a protective bubble that kept out the spell of incapacitation, as well as the fury of the remaining Powers soldiers.
Verchiel spread his wings and leaped into the air, a sword coming to life in his grasp. “Step aside,” he bellowed as he landed before the crackling sphere of magickal energy that contained his quarry. His surviving warriors, blackened and blistered, quickly scattered.
“Give me what I want, and I will let you live,” Verchiel said as he placed his hand against the sphere. There was a flash of supernatural energies and the Powers commander pulled quickly away, his palm blackened by the discharge.
“We know what you took from brother Peliel,” the Malakim said from within the bubble. He had fallen to his knees, exhausted from the expenditure. “You tamper with forces far beyond your capacity to understand. I ask you, angel of the Powers host, to abandon this madness before it is too late.”
Verchiel smiled, more snarl than grin, and ran his tongue over the tender flesh of his burned palm. He turned away from the sphere to look upon the Archon Katspiel. The blind sorcerer had found his way across the room and now stood over the body of the Malakim they had brought down, clutching the fearsome tool of extraction.
“Katspiel,” Verchiel said, looking back to the magickally protected Malakim. “Take what I came for.”
The blind Archon raised his arm, preparing to bring the dagger down.
“Please,” the divine being begged from within his sphere of protective energy. “Allow us our lives and we’ll give you what you want.”
“Raphael, no!” shrieked the Malakim beneath the awful dagger, eyes wide in defiance.
“Silence!” Verchiel ordered, turning his attentions back to the Malakim Raphael. “Drop the spell of protection and I will consider your offer.”
Raphael stared at the Powers commander for a moment, then did as he was ordered, the bubble of magickal energy dissipating in the air, like the smoke from the burning remains within the burial chamber. “It is done,” he said.
“Yes. Yes, it is,” Verchiel replied. “Katspiel.”
The Archon brought the dagger down into the skull of the immobilized Malakim, the s
ound of splitting skull explosive in the quiet air of the tomb.
“Your offer is too costly,” Verchiel said to the surviving Malakim. “You and your brother are too dangerous to be left alive. I hope you can understand my position.”
The angelic being nodded as the Archons surrounded him, the spell of immobilization beginning to spill from their lips. “As I hope you will understand mine,” Raphael said. A sword of crackling energy sprang suddenly to life in his grasp and he spun around to plunge it into the chest of the nearest angelic magician.
Chaos erupted. The Archons began to scream, their concentration broken as Jaldabaoth slumped to the ground, the blade of light protruding from his chest. The surviving Powers soldiers surged forward in an attempt to apprehend the last of the Malakim. But Verchiel already knew it was too late. Raphael had taken advantage of the moment, and before they could put their hands upon him or recast their spells, he had sprouted wings of gold and taken flight.
Aaron felt the ground appear beneath his feet and opened his wings, his blood running cold with the sight before him. The girl he loved was attacking Lorelei and Gabriel. No, not the girl I love, he corrected himself, but the ancient power that has spun out of control within her.
Vilma was screaming, an ear-piercing mixture of anger and pain, as supernatural flame streamed from her fingertips to consume everything it touched. Lorelei had extended her arm, and a spell of defense spilled from her mouth as she attempted to restrain the rampant Nephilim. Tendrils of magickal force erupted from her outstretched hand, striking Vilma and knocking her violently to the ground. Aaron was moving to help her when the girl began to shriek—a scream he had heard before. A scream he himself had bellowed in times of battle. It was a cry of war.
Aaron opened his mouth to warn Lorelei of the impending danger, but it was too late. The flash was blinding, an explosion of heavenly fire that propelled the Nephilim sorceress backward, her body landing in a broken heap in the front yard. Vilma was on her feet again and she began to wander toward the street, but Gabriel surged forward to block her path.
“C’mon, Vilma,” he said to her. “You’ve got to calm down before somebody really gets hurt.”
And Aaron noticed then that his dog was burned, patches of Gabriel’s beautiful, golden yellow coat still smoldering from the bite of the angelic essence. He held his breath, watching as the girl gazed at the canine obstacle, her head tilting strangely to one side, the angelic essence peering out through her eyes.
“That’s it,” the dog continued in a soothing, rumble of a voice. “No need to be so upset, we can work it out.”
They were still unaware of his presence and Aaron remained perfectly still; at the moment Gabriel seemed to have the situation under control and he didn’t want to disturb a thing if this had a chance of working. Since his rebirth, the dog had developed a number of rather unique abilities. It seemed that there was a strange psychic connection between the Labrador and all things Nephilim. If there was anybody that could calm the raging angelic essence, it was Gabriel.
“I’m … I’m trying,” Vilma said, her voice small and trembling. She sounded very far away. “But it’s fighting me.”
Aaron saw the tears streaming down her face and his heart just about broke. He remembered how painful it had been for him when he had tried to hold back his own emerging angelic essence.
“I’ll help you,” Gabriel said. “Just let me inside your thoughts and we’ll see if we can’t put it back to sleep. That’s it,” the dog cooed.
The girl began to sway slowly, her eyes clamped tightly shut. Gabriel swayed as well, psychically connected, adding his own strength to hers. But suddenly her body stiffened and a gasp of agony escaped her lips. Gabriel yelped as well, recoiling from the psychic pain. And then Aaron heard the sound of something tearing.
“Gabriel, get away from her!” he screamed in warning, waving his arms as he ran toward them, his sneakered feet slipping on the wet grass, the smell of things burning assailing his nostrils.
Vilma cried out as the wings, hidden beneath the flesh of her back, began to grow. Her clothing tore as they slowly unfurled. If the moment hadn’t been so intense, Aaron would have thought them the most beautiful wings he had ever seen; fawn feathers, dappled with spots of white, brown, and black.
Her body shuddered with release, her new wings fanning the air. She gazed down upon Gabriel, a sneer of cruelty on her tear-stained face. The dog seemed stunned as he sat before the out of control Nephilim, furiously shaking his head.
The language of messengers—the language of angels—poured from Vilma’s mouth. She extended her arms toward the helpless Lab and heavenly fire began to dance at her fingertips.
Aaron pushed his wings from his back and leaped the final few feet to his best friend. The flame cascaded off his back, over his wings of glistening black, and he cried out as he pulled Gabriel into his protective embrace.
“You’re going to run now,” he whispered into the dog’s ear through gritted teeth as the fire lapped at his back.
Gabriel seemed to gather his wits about him, and he sprinted from his master’s arms to safety behind a nearby tree.
Aaron whirled around, the stench of burning flesh and feathers choking the air. He sprang from the ground, propelling himself toward Vilma, his shoulder connecting with her midsection. He didn’t want to hurt her, but she had to be stopped. The power inside her, if left unchecked, would threaten not only Aerie, but the human world outside as well.
He drove her backward into the front of the house. The force of their strike shattering the window above their heads.
“Listen to me, Vilma,” he said, trying to pin her flailing arms against the house. “Listen to the sound of my voice.”
She cried out a shrill, birdlike shriek as she thrashed from side to side.
“You’re stronger than this,” he continued, trying to keep his voice calm, even though the burns on his back throbbed with his every movement. “You have to force it down where it belongs. It’s not stronger than you; it just wants you to think it is.”
She stopped struggling, her body growing slack, and Aaron mistakenly loosened his hold upon her. Still firmly in the grip of the angelic power, Vilma drove her knee up into his groin and he fell to the ground gasping for air.
She continued to rant and rave in the tongue of angels as she slowly beat the air with her wings, preparing for her first flight. One word stuck out from all the rest.
“Escape!”
But that was something Aaron couldn’t allow. Through the haze of pain, he tried to straighten his body enough to grab at her—to keep her on the ground—but his fingers only brushed the hem of her jeans as she took to the air. And then a yellow blur moved past him, latching onto Vilma’s leg with a furious grip. Gabriel growled as Vilma kicked at him, but he held firm, giving Aaron enough time to gather his wits and take to the air.
He managed to grab hold of the girl, but she beat her wings furiously and still they climbed higher. Gabriel released his hold on her, falling harmlessly to the ground, where he stood staring up at them, locked in a struggle above the rooftop.
Fire again shot from her outstretched hands, knocking Aaron away with its scouring blast. She was flying away from him now, frantically trying to flee, and he realized there was only one thing he could do to stop her. He summoned a sword of fire, watching as its deadly shape took form in his grasp. Then he poured on the speed cutting through the air, like a hungry shark zeroing in upon its hapless prey. This is the only way, he repeated in his mind as he flew above her and lashed out with his weapon, cutting into one of her beautiful new wings.
Her scream was piercing as she floundered in the air attempting to stay aloft, but the pain was too great, the injury too extensive, and Vilma began to fall from the sky. Aaron wished his sword away and dived to catch her flailing body. “Let me help,” he pleaded.
But the essence roared its ire, flames exploding from her hands and driving him away. Helplessly, he followed h
er path of descent, watching as she landed on the street below, scattering a crowd of citizens who had gathered to watch the battle.
He crouched beside her and took her into his arms. She was alive but seemed to be in the grip of nightmare, moaning and thrashing in his embrace. It was only a matter of time before she regained consciousness and he didn’t know what to do.
“You might want to step away from her,” he heard Lehash say from somewhere close by, and turned to see the angel aiming one of his golden weapons, hammer already cocked. “It’s probably the most merciful thing to do.”
Aaron pulled her closer, shielding her from harm. “You want to kill her?” he cried incredulously. “Are you out of your mind? Is that how you solve problems here, by putting bullets in them?”
Lehash lowered his weapon with a heavy sigh and stepped closer. “You know that’s not what I’m about, boy,” he said quietly. “The merger’s just not happening right with her. She’s a danger to herself—to us and the world.” The gunslinger angel gripped Aaron’s shoulder and squeezed. “Puttin’ her down might just be the best thing for her.”
“I can’t let you do that,” the boy said, looking from Lehash to Vilma. “I have to try and help her.”
The gun in Lehash’s hand disappeared in a flash of light, but Aaron knew it could be back in an instant. “And what if you can’t? What if this is one that can’t be saved?”
Aaron didn’t answer the fallen angel. Instead he pulled the girl even closer, whispering softly in her ear that everything was going to be all right, and wishing with all his might for it to be true.
Deep within the realm of unconsciousness, Lucifer fled into a place of his own creation to escape the agonies of torture.
He lay upon the bed beside her, knowing full well that she was but a figment from his past, a creation of his pain-addled mind. But he could not help but feel a spike of joy having Taylor beside him again.