The Fallen 3

  But there were times such as this that he wished he couldn’t.

  Kraus could see that the boy’s life was slipping away. Kirk’s flesh grew paler by the second as the blood from his wounds saturated the bandages. No matter what he did, Kraus could not stop the bleeding. They’d told him a troll spear had pierced the boy’s side, and he had to wonder if the metal of the blade was in some way enchanted, preventing his skills—and even some of his own medicinal magicks—from working upon the injury.

  Kirk was dying.

  “I’m not going to give up on you,” the healer said, quickly moving away from the table and toward the back of the room, where he kept some of his stronger medicines.

  He had once cared for the wounds of the Powers, full-blooded angels of Heaven, and some of the medicines that he had in his possession had been concocted for their supernatural constitutions. They were far too strong for humans, and even Nephilim, but if there was the slightest chance …

  He studied the jars upon the shelves, remembering their purpose, before grabbing hold of a particular glass container. The doctor returned to the youth, hearing with disturbing acuity his shallow breaths but also seeing that he was no longer alone with the boy.

  Gabriel stood there, below the table.

  “I think I can save him,” Kraus told the dog.

  Gabriel whined sadly as if to say it was too late.

  “The medicine contained within the jar is a supercoagulant,” he explained to the animal. “It’s able to stop the bleeding of the most severe of wounds.”

  Kraus leaned in close as he twisted the lid from the jar.

  “Hang on, Kirk,” he said. “I think I have something here that will fix you up.”

  Kraus dipped his fingers into the noxious-smelling ooze and was about to bring it toward the open puncture wound in the boy’s stomach when Kirk stopped him.

  The grip on his wrist was weak, but Kraus understood its intentions.

  Kirk himself knew there would be no saving him from his injuries, that he had fought it long enough and was ready to rest.

  “Are you sure?” Kraus asked, already knowing the answer.

  Gabriel stood on his hind legs, his front paws resting on the table’s edge, and brought his face close to the boy’s, licking his cheek.

  Kraus sensed a change in the energy of the room; a certain calmness radiated outward from the young Nephilim as he accepted his fate.

  “I’m … scared,” Kirk said, his voice sounding as if it were coming from the far end of a very long tunnel.

  “Don’t be,” Kraus said. “Nothing is going to hurt you anymore.”

  Gabriel brought his snout down the boy’s arm and burrowed his nose beneath so that Kirk’s hand rested upon his blocky head. Kirk feebly began to pet the dog, the act seeming to take away his fear.

  And Kirk let go. All of his pain, all of his fear, gone in an instant.

  “I tried,” Kraus murmured, reaching out to grasp the boy’s other hand in his, but he knew that sometimes it wasn’t enough.

  That sometimes surrender was the only answer.

  THE ARDÉCHE DEPARTMENT OF SOUTHERN FRANCE THE CHAUVET-PONT-D’ARC CAVE 1312 FEET UNDERGROUND

  There were monsters in the earth.

  Geburah and his brothers could feel them all around, slumbering in the cold, wet depths, waiting for their time to rise.

  “Why have you brought us here?” the Powers angel Huzia asked, a look of absolute revulsion upon his perfectly chiseled features.

  A thing of beauty amongst the ugliness of the subterranean chamber, Geburah thought of his brother.

  It was indeed a nasty place, not fit for any life molded by the hands of God. But he had not brought them here for anything to do with beauty.

  It was an unpleasant task before them … unpleasant, but necessary to their goals.

  “We should be out searching for the instrument,” Anfial added, fluttering his mighty wings before drawing them tight upon his back.

  Geburah understood their impatience, but there was a method to his madness, a reason he had brought them deep within the bowels of the earth.

  “The instrument hides itself from us,” Geburah said, placing his hand upon the cool wet stone of the underground chamber. “It does not wish to be found.”

  “All the more reason why we should be searching for it,” Huzia snapped.

  Geburah could feel the presence within the walls and beneath their feet. The things there were stirring, roused by the presence of the Divine.

  “The Corpse Riders have sworn that they will find it,” Geburah said. The words felt dirty upon his tongue, but the alliance with the repellent creatures had proven itself a necessity.

  “Corpse Riders,” Tandal roared, heavenly fire sparking from the tips of his long fingers. “I cannot believe that we do not choke upon their loathsome name. Messengers of Heaven allied with such foul things—it appears that we have fallen far lower than the creatures we once hunted.”

  Geburah sympathized with his brother’s distaste, but things were different now. With Verchiel gone, a new dynamic had been introduced to the planet. A new dynamic to which they must adapt, or risk failing in their mission.

  “War creates strange bedfellows,” Geburah stated with finality, turning to fix his men in an authoritative stare. He understood their unrest, but he was still their superior, and they would follow him without reproach.

  “Though the instrument can mask its location, it cannot alter the purpose for which it was created.”

  His brothers were now paying less attention to their vile surroundings and more to him.

  “It was fashioned by the Lord God to bring about the end of this world,” Anfial informed. “An instrument to summon Wormwood, the Abomination of Desolation, to perform its final task.”

  Geburah nodded ever so slightly and began to pace slowly in front of his soldiers.

  “A powerful tool, with a certain degree of sentience,” the Powers’ leader explained.

  The angels listened, curiosity twinkling in the depths of their predator eyes.

  “The instrument is reactionary,” Geburah went on. “Responding to the world in which it lives.”

  He paused to see if they would catch on to what he was planning, but they showed no spark of recognition.

  “We must show the instrument a world ripe for destruction,” he told them.

  The Powers angels looked at one another, still not quite registering what it was that Geburah proposed.

  “Whoever possesses the instrument holds sway over its destructive potential,” Suria said. “It is he who must sound the call to summon the Angel of Destruction.”

  Geburah smiled, pleased that at least one of his soldiers seemed to be following the right train of thought.

  “Yes,” he said. “And what have we learned about the latest guardian of the instrument?”

  “A human male,” said Tandal.

  Geburah nodded. “A lowly human male who had this great responsibility thrust upon him only weeks ago. A lowly human male without the centuries of fortitude needed to fight the will of the instrument.”

  Shebniel smiled cruelly, beginning to understand. “The instrument must know what we already know,” the sadistic angel said.

  “That it is too late for this world,” Suria added.

  Geburah concentrated briefly, summoning a mighty blade of divine flame. The gases within the air of the cavern ignited as the sword grew to life, filling the chamber with roiling fire.

  The angels reveled in the divine inferno, the intensity of the heat having no effect upon them, but having an effect upon the subterranean environment, and the life-forms that slumbered there.

  The walls began to crack; the stone floor beneath their feet started to bubble and roil as what lay hidden below began to awaken.

  “We must show the instrument a world rife with evil,” Geburah said as he spun the sword around in his hand until the blade was pointing down toward the ground. “And in order for that evi
l to flourish”—the Powers’ leader knelt and plunged the divine blade of fire into the floor of the cavern—“we must awaken it.”

  The chamber of fire shuddered and shook, the ceiling above the angels’ heads crumbling, as things not seen upon the earth for countless millennia emerged.

  From the floor, something ancient, powerful, and larger than all the rest pushed itself up from the depths.

  Something reptilian was roused from its slumber by the prodding of a heavenly blade.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Jeremy’s mother attempted to reposition the pillows at her back. She was having quite a bit of difficulty, but Jeremy did nothing, choosing instead to watch her struggle.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Vilma asked, moving closer to the bed. “Why aren’t you helping her?”

  Vilma reached down and slid her hands beneath the woman’s spindly arms. “Here, let me help you,” she said as she assisted the frail woman to a sitting position. Then she slid two pillows behind her back and allowed her to recline.

  “How’s that?” Vilma asked with a smile.

  Jeremy’s mother returned the expression, her moist eyes twinkling.

  “Oh, you’re pretty,” the old lady observed. “Wings of snow white is what you have … beautiful wings.”

  Vilma stepped back, startled by the woman’s observation.

  “How does she …?” Vilma began.

  “She’s always seen things,” Jeremy said. “It’s just that sometimes they’re actually there, while others …” He shook his head and then shrugged.

  “Can she see yours?” Vilma asked.

  The old woman was looking at him now, smiling a toothless grin.

  “I’d imagine,” he answered.

  Jeremy looked his mother in the eye. “Isn’t that right, Mom? You can see my wings, right?”

  “Oh, yes,” she said happily. “Yours are pretty too, dear, no need to be jealous.”

  She looked down at her withered hands resting atop her blanket and gasped.

  “Rings,” she said, holding up her empty hands. “So many rings.”

  “What’s wrong with your mother, Jeremy?” Vilma asked.

  “What isn’t wrong with her?” he replied. “She was diagnosed as schizophrenic when I was a kid, and that’s just the tip of the iceberg.”

  “I’m sorry,” Vilma said. The old woman was still admiring her many invisible pieces of jewelry, muttering to herself about how they would need to be cleaned if she was to be presentable for the ceremony.

  “No bother,” he said. “It’s just how she is.”

  His mother stopped looking at her imaginary accessories and let her hands drop to her lap. A strange look came over her face.

  “Have you come to take me home, baby?” she asked. “Mummy’s all better now. We can start again, nice and fresh, just the two of us.”

  Jeremy laughed, but there was no humor in it.

  “Sorry,” he said, glancing at Vilma before looking away. “That’s what she always used to say when I visited as a lad. She always said that she was better, and that things would be different.” He stared at the woman, his anger and hurt almost palpable. “But they never were.”

  The woman’s mood seemed to change suddenly, a near feral sneer appearing upon her gaunt features. “You put me here,” she accused. “You put me here, and you can take me out.”

  Jeremy slowly shook his head as he stared at her. “No, Mum, you put yourself here.”

  She looked around the room as if suddenly hearing something, and her expression changed from one of anger to one of fear.

  “There isn’t much time,” she said nervously. “They’re waking up and coming into the light. What chance do we have?”

  Vilma reached down to lay her hand over the woman’s. “It’s going to be all right,” she said in an attempt to comfort her.

  Jeremy’s mother stared into her eyes momentarily.

  “Oh, no, dear, you’re wrong,” she said. “It’ll never be all right again.”

  “Can you imagine what I went through?” Jeremy said.

  Vilma glanced from the woman to him.

  “When this …” He pointed to his chest, moving his finger in a circular motion. “When this thing inside me came awake?”

  Vilma said nothing, choosing instead to listen.

  “I thought I was losing it,” he said, his voice tight and filled with emotion. “I thought I was becoming like her.”

  His mother laughed as if he’d just told the funniest joke in the world.

  “But then your boyfriend showed up and proved me wrong,” Jeremy said, glaring at his mother. “And now I don’t know which is worse.” He brought a trembling hand up to rub his face. “To be completely insane, or to have something inside you so powerful that it threatens to eat you alive.”

  Vilma left the woman and moved to stand beside Jeremy.

  “And that’s why you came with us,” she said quietly. “We’re helping you to learn to control your angelic heritage.”

  “Some days,” he said. “Some days it feels like it’s going to explode out of me, and there isn’t anything I can do to stop it.”

  Aaron had always sensed that the angelic essence inside of Jeremy was one of the wilder they’d encountered, and would require special guidance. They’d thought he was doing better, but she now realized that they had been wrong.

  Vilma reached out and took hold of Jeremy’s elbow.

  “We’re not giving up on you,” she said.

  Jeremy looked at her. “Does your boyfriend feel the same way?” he asked. “Or is he just waiting until he has an excuse to put me out of my misery—and his, too?”

  Occasionally, when a young Nephilim’s power ran out of control, when the angelic influence overwhelmed the human conscience, and the Nephilim became a danger, it had been necessary to kill the Nephilim. It was always a last resort, and none of them ever talked about such things.

  Although they all knew it happened.

  “You know we wouldn’t do that unless …”

  “Unless I was out of control,” Jeremy said. “Like how I was in the mines today … like when I cut the ear from a dead troll’s head.”

  “We’ll help you,” Vilma stressed, giving his arm a gentle squeeze. “But you’re going to have to let us.”

  He’d closed his eyes and was standing perfectly still.

  “I so want to believe you.”

  “What do you have to lose?” Vilma asked.

  Jeremy’s mother tossed back her covers, exposing her skeletal frame.

  “What does it matter?” his mother asked, throwing her bare feet over the side of the bed. “Once the darkness falls, there won’t be anyplace for the likes of us.”

  Jeremy acted then, intercepting the woman before she could stand.

  “Now that’s enough of that,” he told her, gently maneuvering her back into bed.

  His mother was becoming agitated.

  “It doesn’t matter what you do … what we do.… It’ll all end the same!” she cried.

  Vilma looked toward the small glass window in the door for signs of a nurse or an orderly, certain they were going to be discovered. “We should probably leave now.”

  Jeremy reached down and took hold of his mother’s ankles, picking her legs up, swinging them back onto the bed. Then he pulled the blankets up and covered her.

  “I want you to stay in bed,” he instructed her firmly.

  She reached up to cup his cheek in her hand. “You’re really a good boy, at heart,” she told him. “It’s too bad that doesn’t matter … that we’re all going to Hell.”

  And with that, she squirmed down beneath the covers, pulling the blanket tightly under her chin.

  Jeremy seemed shaken by his mother’s message as he went to stand beside Vilma.

  “Are you all right?” she asked him.

  He stared at his mother, who looked back from the bed, her wide eyes twinkling with madness.

  “Couldn’t be better,” Jer
emy said as his wings emerged, then closed about him.

  Vilma summoned her own wings, giving Jeremy’s mother one final glance before she, too, took leave.

  “See, beautiful wings of snow white,” the woman whispered as her hand sneaked out from beneath the blankets to wave good-bye.

  With the angels gone, Jeremy’s mother slipped from her bed and padded across the cold floor.

  She stopped for a moment where her son and the girl had just been standing and stuck out her tongue. She smacked her lips, tasting the magick of their departure which lingered in the air, and then, as it faded from her mouth, she turned her attention to the door to the room.

  She’d sensed the arrival of the new patient, a girl, as soon as she’d entered the building, like somebody eagerly tickling her, only from the inside.

  The woman tiptoed up to the door and peered cautiously through the small window at the darkened hall outside her room. It was empty except for a small table and chair, where an orderly usually sat, listening for sounds of nighttime distress from behind the closed doors that lined each side of the hall. The fluorescent light in the ceiling flickered like a strobe light, casting everything in dancing shadows.

  Dancing shadows, she mused. The world will soon be engulfed in dancing shadows.

  Jeremy’s mother waited, sensing that it wouldn’t be long now. And she was right.

  She heard the girl’s cries like a distant memory. They were so familiar, they could have been her own. But they grew louder as they came closer to her room.

  Ducking to the other side of the doorway, she could see down the opposite end of the corridor. There was a flurry of activity, doctors and nurses surrounded a wheelchair that was being pushed by one of the larger orderlies. In that chair sat a young lady. The one that she’d sensed. A young lady who moaned and cried as she clutched her pregnant belly.

  “I don’t know what’s happening,” the girl wailed as she was wheeled down the hall. The staff ignored her as they talked amongst themselves, studying clipboards of information.

  “I’m only sixteen. I’ve never … how can I be having a baby?”

  Jeremy’s mother crouched under the window as they passed her room, only standing again when they’d gone by.