But it was already too late.
The darkness that had been Lucifer’s solace was now filled with the laughter of his foe.
* * *
Satan’s eyes snapped open.
Since the Abomination of Desolation had severed the earth’s ties to Heaven, humanity had been gradually succumbing to the encroaching darkness. Their efforts to halt the onslaught of shadow that would eventually befall them were pitiful.
But there had been a wrinkle.
The Nephilim.
Satan did not fear the half-breeds, but he knew that they were striking out against his denizens of night, inspiring fear in those who should have been swearing their allegiance to him.
“You smile, oh lord,” said one of the Sisters who stood before him.
“What did you see, oh Darkstar? “questioned the second.
“Was the path to the Community’s fealty made clear?” the third Sister wanted to know.
Satan rose and fanned his wings.
“It was,” he told them. “The Morningstar has provided me with a gift to entice those who have yet to admit that I am their lord and master.”
He descended the marble steps from his throne to the court below, the Sisters fleeing from his path.
“Lucifer had attempted to hide them from me,” the Darkstar growled. “These children of the fallen, these Nephilim.”
“Horrible things,” commented one of the Umbra Sisters.
“Thorns in the sides of so many of your blessed Community,” said another.
“If only someone could exterminate them, remove this winged obstacle.”
Satan smiled. “If only,” he said, and began to laugh, a vision of the slaughter to come traipsing through the fetid fields of his mind.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The despair was so heavy in the air that Aaron could almost taste it.
He parted his wings, to find himself in the center of a deserted street. Instinctively he knew that he had arrived in the city of Detroit.
“Is this right?” he asked Mallus, who stepped from the embrace of Aaron’s wings.
Mallus looked around. Cars burned in the road, with bodies strewn beside them. “Yes, this is where we’re supposed to be,” he confirmed.
“Something isn’t right here,” Aaron observed, unnerved by the boarded-up storefronts. “Where is everybody?”
“It wasn’t like this section of town was bustling to begin with,” Mallus said, strolling past abandoned buildings unhindered by foot traffic. “But evil has a tendency to lock on to despair, and it made this part of the city its home.”
It was then that Aaron heard the first evidence of life. A scream of absolute terror carried on the night winds. He stopped, eyes scanning the area in search of the source.
Mallus’s hand took hold of his arm, urging him on.
“We’ve no time for—”
Aaron yanked away his arm, feeling the sigils of his birthright rising to the surface of his flesh. “There’s always time,” he protested, his wings splaying as he prepared to take flight.
Mallus looked as though he would argue, but then resigned himself to Aaron’s decision.
“That’s where we’re going,” he said, pointing to a rundown building, its windows shuttered with random pieces of wood. A peeling sign hanging from a metal post read, BLESSED ANGEL NURSING HOME.
“Of course it is,” Aaron replied, springing into the air, senses attuned to any further activity.
There were more screams, and he immediately found the source on the next street over. A tenement was burning. Flames and thick black smoke billowed out from broken windows. At first Aaron thought it would be a simple rescue mission, but then he caught sight of the street below.
People streamed from the burning building, believing they were running to safety, but there were things waiting for them—short, armored creatures with reptilian faces.
Goblins.
Some held burning torches in their clawed hands, and Aaron knew the goblins must have set the building ablaze. They leaped, snatched up their prey, and dragged them, screaming and struggling, into the shadows.
Soaring overhead for another look, Aaron could see a kind of swirling passage in the darkness behind the goblins. The building’s inhabitants were being forced through the portal to a fate he would rather not consider.
Aaron brought forth an awesome sword of fire. The light from his weapon alerted the beasts below, and their bulbous eyes glistened as he swooped down amongst them.
“Angel!” one of the goblins barked in the tongue of its species as it yanked a short sword from a leather scabbard at its side.
Aaron landed on the street between the burning tenement and the goblins. The foul creatures rushed at him, murder in their monstrous gazes, but he was ready. The pulse of the divine throbbed in his veins. The goblins screeched their battle cries, attempting to scare him with their ferocity, but Aaron felt no fear.
This wasn’t the time for fear; it was a time of battle.
Aaron counted nine goblins in the initial attack, all wearing filthy, blood-caked armor and wielding a variety of swords, knives, spears, and axes. Aaron propelled himself into the fray with his own battle cry, and collided with the first of the attackers, knocking them backward to the street. He swung his blade, the sword hissing eagerly as if knowing it would soon bite deep into the flesh of its enemy.
The goblins were ferocious in their attack, but they were nothing before a soldier of Heaven. Aaron did not stop moving. He pushed through the opposing force, his sword hacking through the goblin armor as if it were made of paper. The ground became slick with goblin blood as the creatures dropped, piling up around him as he fought.
And then above the moans of dying monsters, Aaron heard something that did not belong, something that momentarily distracted him. He scanned the area and caught sight of a goblin soldier carrying a car seat by its handle. The goblin crept close to the shadows of the abandoned buildings as the creature made its way toward the passage.
A goblin knife bit into Aaron’s shoulder.
He cried out as his attacker laughed. Furious, Aaron pulled the knife from his shoulder and leaped into the air, fashioning his sword into a spear. While the goblins gazed up at him, Aaron threw the spear amongst them with all his might. The weapon detonated upon impact with the ground, and an explosion of divine fire cascaded outward, consuming the goblin horde and leaving only ashen bodies in its wake.
Aaron allowed himself a moment’s pleasure, then saw that the goblin with the baby was still hurrying for the shadowy passage. Aaron arced his body downward, flying mere inches above the filthy street. Goblins tried to catch him, but he was moving too fast and scattered them like bowling pins.
The goblin with the baby saw Aaron’s approach, the creature’s bulbous eyes growing even larger as it realized that it was the angel’s objective. Aaron beat the air with his wings, increasing his speed, but the goblin charged ahead.
Aaron extended his hands as he drew near, watching as the goblin wrapped its arms around the car seat while the baby wailed in fear; and then the goblin jumped into the yawning blackness.
The goblin shape disappeared within the magickal passage, but Aaron would not give up—could not give up. He landed and reached into the darkness. It was cold in the void, and the feeling went out of Aaron’s arm, but he managed to grab hold of the metal collar of the goblin’s chest plate. Using all of his strength and the powerful flapping of his wings, he dragged the goblin, still clutching the car seat, from the abyss.
His arm painfully numb, Aaron released the struggling goblin’s collar and sent the beast and the car seat tumbling to the ground. He quickly scooped up the shrieking infant, still strapped tightly into the seat. Other than being scared, the child didn’t appear to be injured.
“That’s all right, little guy,” Aaron said softly. “We’ll see what we can do about finding your mom and—”
The goblin leaped upon his back.
“You will no
t deny the Darkstar his feast!” the goblin wailed, pulling a dagger from a small scabbard on its side.
Aaron reacted instinctively, flexing his wings and tossing his attacker away. Then he gently set the car seat down and turned to the creature.
“His feast?” Aaron asked, stalking over to the goblin, which was pulling itself to its feet, still clutching a dagger. “You were going to feed that poor little kid to somebody?” He pointed toward the car seat, catching a glimpse of a woman using the distraction to snatch up her crying baby and race away.
The goblin lunged, but Aaron captured its wrist, halting the progress of the knife mere inches from his chest.
“Not just anybody,” the goblin grunted with all his might. “The Darkstar.”
Aaron savagely bent the goblin’s wrist to one side, snapping it like a pencil. The goblin wailed in pain as its knife clattered to the street.
“The Darkstar?” he asked the goblin, squeezing the creature’s snapped bones. “What’s so special about this Darkstar?”
The goblin looked up with something akin to euphoria in his protruding eyes. “He is the lord of us all,” it said in a reverent whisper. “He will lead us from hiding to claim this world as our own.”
“Lord of who?” Aaron asked, putting more pressure on the goblin’s wrist. “The goblins?”
“Do you have feathers in your ears as well, angel?” the goblin screeched. “He is the leader of us all—of us all!”
Slowly the full meaning of what the goblin was saying unfolded for Aaron.
They had a leader. Not just the goblins, but all of the creatures that the Nephilim had been fighting.
And now Aaron knew its name.
* * *
The door to the nursing home was open, and Mallus stepped into the lobby. The electricity was out. Emergency lights only faintly illuminated the gloom.
There wasn’t anyone at the reception desk, and the thick layer of dust on the counter made him wonder when was the last time there had been.
Pulling up the sleeve of his coat, he looked at the squiggling horizontal sigil that had been tattooed on his wrist. It was rippling like the surface of the ocean caressed by the wind. He was in the right place.
Mallus found the stairwell in the dim glow of the emergency lights. He climbed the steps, paying close attention to the sensation in his wrist. The closer he got, the more severe the tingling became.
By the time he reached the second level, it felt as though the sigil were ready to tear itself from his flesh. He stood on the landing, peering through the small window in the door at the second-floor hallway. This floor seemed deserted as well, but the sigil told him otherwise. Mallus opened the door.
“Tarshish,” he called out. “Tarshish, it’s me.”
He waited for a response, but there was only silence. Starting down the corridor, Mallus passed empty room after empty room, and began to wonder if the sigil on his wrist, which aided in finding the Malakim, had somehow been tampered with.
An old woman wearing a heavy pink bathrobe and slippers shuffled around a corner at the end of the hallway and came toward him. She had a wig upon her head like a hat, tilted jauntily to one side, wisps of white sneaking out from beneath the artificial brown.
“Hello,” Mallus said in his most soothing voice. “I was wondering if you can help me find my friend. His name is Tarshish.”
Bolts of pure magickal force crackled from the old woman’s arthritic fingers, catching Mallus square in the chest and tossing him violently to the floor. His shirt was shredded, and his skin smoldered where the magick had touched him. He scrambled to his feet.
The woman continued her approach. Her robe was now burning with a supernatural fire, and her hands that had discharged the magickal blasts were burned and blackened. She came at him with arms outstretched, attempting to pull him into her fiery embrace. But Mallus drove a kick into her belly and sent her sprawling to the floor, where she exploded into ashes.
There was more scuffling and moaning. Other nursing home residents, their bodies alive with magickal energies, emerged from rooms he’d thought were empty. They came at him in a wave, launching magickal fire from their hands, mouths, and eyes. It was at times such as this that Mallus really did miss the protection of his wings.
He leaped behind the nurses’ station, magick exploding all around him as he reached into his coat and withdrew the Gleaning Blade. He hadn’t wanted to use the weapon, preferring to keep it safe in case it might provide them with new knowledge, but right now he could think of no better use. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, counted to three, and then sprang up onto the counter, slashing at the closest attacker.
The old man reared back with a grunt, his throat slit from ear to ear, leaking not blood but supernatural energies. Energies that ignited not only the man but at least five others near him as the power was unleashed.
Mallus leaped from the counter, dodging bolts of destructive power that tore up chunks of the ancient linoleum. He lashed out with the blade, cutting and stabbing.
The energy built, then exploded, picking up the fallen angel and tossing him down the length of the corridor like a rag doll. He bounced off the wall and landed in a smoldering heap upon the floor.
Mallus lay there for what seemed like hours, his body seared by supernatural energies. Finally he was able to push himself up from the ground. The hallway was silent and blackened with ruin. Not a soul moved.
Someone coughed, and Mallus was immediately on alert. He faced the open door in front of him, squinting into what appeared to have been the nursing home’s activity room. It was filled with tables littered with magazines and half-finished puzzles. A big-screen TV sat in the corner, with several vinyl-covered recliners in front of it. All were occupied by elders, their dull eyes fixed to the empty screen as if they were watching the most riveting program imaginable. He heard the cough again.
Mallus carefully entered the room, searching the gloom for signs of life.
“I shoulda figured it was you,” said a voice from behind him. It sounded as though its owner had gargled with broken glass.
Mallus spun, mystical blade at the ready.
A wheelchair-bound figured sat in front of a card table. The man held a puzzle piece in his hand and was searching for its proper place.
The fallen angel cautiously stepped closer. “Tarshish?” he asked, not sure what form the Malakim might be wearing.
“That’s right,” the old man said, snapping the puzzle piece into place.
Mallus could now see the picture on the puzzle. It was a desert scene, pyramids rising up from the sand under a setting orange sun.
The old man looked up from the unfinished puzzle. Mallus could feel the ancient being’s eyes upon him, scrutinizing the markings that he had put upon Mallus’s flesh a very long time ago.
“Who touched up your ink?” the old man asked, looking back to his puzzle and picking up another piece. “Looks like crap.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Verchiel recognized where he was by the smell in the air, and the feel of the sand beneath his feet.
This was where the village had been, where he had heard a supposed prophet speak lies—revealed as the truth—about the Nephilim and their Chosen One, who would forgive the fallen angels, allowing them to return to Heaven.
This was the accursed village that Verchiel had wiped from the face of the earth.
“Where are we?” Melissa asked, hand upon her brow, shielding her eyes from the ferocity of the setting sun as she gazed about her desert surroundings.
“A cursed place,” Verchiel replied, remembering not only what he had done here but his recent memory of the old prophet.
“You know this place?” the girl asked.
Verchiel ignored her question, scanning the desert for a sign of where they were supposed to be. In the distance he saw what appeared to be an encampment, and started toward it.
“Is that some sort of archeological dig or something?” Melissa asked, runn
ing to keep up with Verchiel’s powerful strides.
“It appears that way,” he said, keeping his eyes on the encampment, searching for signs of life. He saw none.
They came up over the dune to a view of the camp—tents of varying sizes and purpose on one side, trucks and Jeeps on the other. It appeared from the buildup of sand upon the vehicles that they had not moved in quite some time.
“Hey, Verchiel. Over here,” Melissa said, walking over to where a more solid structure had been erected.
He followed the girl, searching the area with a scrutinizing eye in the hopes of discovering what had happened to the camp’s inhabitants. He learned nothing other than that they were not there.
Verchiel considered that maybe the site had been abandoned, but then why would they have left so much behind? Inside a food tent, tables were still set for supper.
“Take a look at this,” Melissa said, holding open a heavy tarp so Verchiel might follow her inside.
Verchiel passed through the opening. An excavation site lay before him. The hole was large, with ladders leaning against the inside walls down into what seemed to be an open passage. The former leader of the Powers remembered how the village had looked before he’d called his wrath upon it.
“Should we go down?” Melissa asked.
Verchiel didn’t bother to answer, grabbing onto a ladder and heading down into the passage.
“Guess that’s a yes,” the girl said as she followed.
The excavated corridor had been shored up with wooden planking, and flickering lights hung from the ceiling. A generator droned somewhere ahead of them.
Verchiel found the first of the camp’s inhabitants sticking up out of the dirt floor.
“Is that a boot?” Melissa asked, stepping around the angel for a closer look.
Verchiel could only stare.
She tried to pick the boot up, and was surprised as it came away to reveal a dirty foot.
“Oh, that’s not right,” Melissa said, backing quickly away.
“No, it’s not,” Verchiel agreed.