A Deafening Silence In Heaven

  Michael could see that the beings looked sick; their bodies, which seemed as much plant as flesh, appeared affected by something.

  “Where is the Tree?” Michael asked them, craning his neck to see through the thick jungle before them.

  “Through there,” Jon said, pointing with a finger entwined with blossoming vines.

  Michael pushed past the strange pair and, summoning a sword of flame, began to cut a swath to their destination. He heard the pair cry out as he hacked into the wall of thick roots that blocked his way. The archangel and his soldiers turned toward them.

  “Do we cause you pain?” he asked.

  Izzy nodded. “Yeah, you do,” she said. “Give us a second to collect ourselves, and then we’ll—”

  “We’re sorry,” the angel said, but not really meaning it. Michael’s only concern was reaching the Tree and the threat buried beneath. He and his soldiers had not the time to be worrying about the health of Eden’s wardens. He and the other archangels continued to cut their way through the thick wall of vegetation, ignoring the cries of the Gardeners behind them.

  The closer they got to the Tree, the denser the plant life became, and that just annoyed Michael all the more. He called upon the divine fires that burned within him, allowing his body to radiate the heat of a star as he continued to hack his way through the wall of vegetation. The other archangels followed his lead, and soon they pushed through to an open grove, where their eyes fell upon their prize.

  And something totally unexpected.

  There was the tree, in all its glory, but there was also a man—a human, under attack from what could only be the Shaitan. The foul creatures moved through the dirt around the tree like sharks in water and were dragging the human into their filthy environment.

  Michael had no idea who the human was, or why he was there, but his enemy was before him, so any other mystery would have to wait.

  He turned toward his warriors. “For the glory of Heaven and the Lord God, kill them,” he ordered. “Leave nothing of their kind alive.”

  There was nothing an archangel wanted to hear more than an order to perform an act of violence in the name of their Creator. It was an excuse to tap into areas often suppressed for great lengths of time.

  But when allowed to run free, it was a sight to behold.

  Michael watched as his archangels swarmed the grove, their powerful wings lifting them up in mighty leaps as they descended upon their prey. Swords, knives, and spears of flame fell upon the creatures in the dirt. It should have been a one-sided bloodbath, but the Shaitan fought furiously, using their dirt habitat to hide themselves and surprise their attackers.

  From the corner of his eye, Michael caught movement and turned to find the human standing there, his clothing in tatters. Michael took his eyes from the battle briefly to fully gaze upon the man.

  Yes, indeed, he was human, but there was something more to him.

  He would have expected sheer terror from the man, but his incredibly calm demeanor left the Archangel Michael with a nagging question.

  “Who are you, and what are you doing here?”

  The human smiled, nervously playing with a piece of jewelry—a ring—upon one of his fingers.

  “Me?” the human said. “You can call me master.”

  And for some reason, that sounded perfectly acceptable to the leader of the archangels.

  • • •

  The look of an angel being commanded by one who wore the ring of Solomon never got old. It was a look of complete surprise quickly followed by total obedience.

  It was a wonderful thing.

  Simeon looked out over the grove, at the archangel soldiers in combat with the creatures that dwelled in the dirt below the Tree of Knowledge.

  “What are they?” he asked, captivated by the monsters’ intensity, by their savagery.

  Michael told him of the Shaitan and how they’d come to be. He told him that they shouldn’t exist at all, but an angel of the highest order had taken it upon himself to allow them to live, hiding them away in the Garden—beneath the dirt at the base of the Tree.

  Simeon found that most fascinating and began to see how the creatures—the Shaitan—might actually fit into his plans.

  “I would like you to get their attention,” Simeon commanded Michael.

  The angel looked at him with questioning eyes.

  “Go ahead,” Simeon urged, waving him on. “Get them to stop.”

  Michael spread his wings to their impressive span, flying toward the battleground.

  “Hold!” the angel bellowed, his voice like the blaring of a horn.

  The archangels responded at once, looking toward their commander. The creatures, sensing that something was happening, retreated deeper beneath the soil of Eden.

  Michael hovered above the Tree, directing his soldiers to the edge of the grove where Simeon stood.

  “Hello,” Simeon said as he turned his ring on his finger. The angels were confused, looking to their commander for an explanation.

  “Excuse me,” Simeon called out. “I’d like you all to look over here.”

  The angels did what was asked of them.

  “Excellent,” Simeon said. “What a lovely bunch you are. Would you all come toward me, please, away from the tree? Thank you so much.”

  The angels did what was asked, Michael swooping down from above to land amongst them.

  Simeon pushed past the collected group, walking across the dirt, where he stopped and stamped his foot upon the ground. “It’s all right,” he called out. “They’re under my control now.”

  It took a moment, but then the black earth began to churn, and the strange beings began to surface.

  “Excellent,” Simeon said, watching as they crawled up from the ground, eyeing him with suspicion. “Do you see?” he asked them. “Do you see what I have done?”

  One of the creatures rose to his full height, the markings upon his body shifting and moving in an almost hypnotic rhythm.

  “Are you the leader?” Simeon asked the creature.

  It looked at him with eyes like polished black stones, eyes that told the forever man nothing.

  “Let’s say that you are,” Simeon said. “Can you understand me?”

  The creature continued to stare.

  “I believe you can.” Simeon looked around at the Shaitan that had emerged from below the dirt. There were far more of them than he had originally imagined. The gears inside his head began to turn all the faster, and he found his smile growing wide enough to split his face.

  “The Lord God has wronged you,” he said, “by decreeing that you and yours are not fit to exist.” He looked at them as well as at the legion of archangels that stood awaiting his further commands. “I, too, bear a grudge against Him,” Simeon proclaimed with a nod. “And would love to see Him cut down and His Golden City razed.”

  The Shaitan looked at one another, a silent language passing between them. Simeon could tell that they were excited by his words, for the black patterns upon their fish-belly white flesh had begun to shift and change and flow over their musculature.

  “Will you join me?” he asked them. He directed their attention to the gathered archangels. “Will you join us in striking a blow to Heaven and God?”

  There was a sudden noise from behind them, and almost as one, they all turned toward the sound. Two figures had emerged from the thicket of the Garden, strange beings that appeared to be made of an odd mixture of flesh and plant life.

  Will the wonders of this place never cease? Simeon wondered.

  “You there!” one of the pair cried. “What are you doing?”

  They moved stiffly as if suffering some ailment.

  “Michael, what’s going on?” the female of the pair asked the leader of the archangels.

  Simeon chuckled. “Yes, Michael. What is going on?”

  Michael flexed his wings as he strode toward them.

  “I . . . ,” the archangel stammered.

  The Shaitan
seemed afraid of the pair, threatening to dive back down under the earth.

  “No worries,” Simeon assured them, raising his hands. He then walked over to where Michael stood with the newcomers to their gathering.

  “And who might you two be?” Simeon asked them.

  “We might be asking you the same thing,” the black woman said with attitude.

  “We’re the Gardeners of Eden,” the male said. “And what you’re doing here—with them . . .” He pointed to the Shaitan. “It’s extremely dangerous.”

  “I’m well aware of what I’m doing, thank you,” Simeon said. “Aren’t I, Michael?”

  The archangel leader nodded. “You are.”

  The pair exchanged a troubled gaze.

  “What did you do to him?” the female asked.

  Simeon could see that she’d lowered her hands to her side, her fingers starting to tremble. The ground began to shift and move, raising the pair up on a wave of soil.

  Simeon stepped back and away. “I’ve taken control of the situation,” he said to them. “Michael.” He turned to the archangel. “I’d like you to kill them.”

  The Gardeners reacted at once, erecting a wall of vegetation and dirt to protect themselves from the angel, who lunged at them.

  Simeon looked to the other angels, and motioned for them to go to their leader’s assistance. “If you wouldn’t mind.”

  They flew in a swarm, their swords crackling with fire.

  The Gardeners were moving deeper into the Garden. They’d almost made it when Michael dropped upon them, his sword of fire cutting them down. The other archangels joined him, hacking at the strange beings, who struggled to stay alive for far longer than Simeon would have imagined.

  But eventually they were quiet, their bodies hacked to pieces.

  “You might want to burn them,” Simeon called out.

  And the angels summoned their divine fire, torching the remains of the Gardeners.

  Satisfied that they had been dealt with, Simeon turned back to the Shaitan, who still stood in the grove, watching with curious eyes.

  “So,” Simeon said to them. “Raise your hands if you want to attack Heaven.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  The sounds of gunfire drew Assiel back to the conscious world, away from Remy Chandler and the three friends who were attempting to keep him alive.

  He hated to leave them alone in the strange place created by the Seraphim and their conjoined minds, but he knew they were in danger from the waking world.

  The angel healer returned to consciousness, still sitting upon the bed with the others. He checked them carefully, a hand hovering over their still bodies, feeling the pulses of their life forces tickling his palm.

  The muffled gun blasts in quick succession startled him, and he looked toward the doorway. He could hear voices from below, followed by more gunshots.

  Before getting off of the bed, Assiel looked down at Remy’s still form, making note of the paleness of his flesh. He let his hand hover over the Seraphim and did not like what he felt. Remy’s life force was continuing to wane, despite the efforts of his friends. He looked again at the unconscious forms of Ashley, Linda, and the dog, Marlowe, and considered waking them—dragging them from Remy’s psyche.

  Is there even a chance that they might keep the Seraphim alive? he wondered. There is always a chance, he answered his own question.

  Assiel climbed off the bed and walked across the room to where he’d left his bag.

  The commotion in the rooms below seemed to be getting louder.

  He reached into his bag and pulled out twin daggers he’d had made to rigid specifications, earthly craftsmanship attempting to duplicate weapons he’d possessed in Heaven. The man who had made the blades had come close, but he was only human, and they proved to be yet another reminder of how much Assiel had lost during the Great War.

  There was more gunfire from down below and Assiel left the room, a knife in each hand.

  No, they were not blades forged in the divine fires of Heaven, but they would serve the purpose they were intended for.

  • • •

  Ashley immediately felt the angel’s loss.

  Hands pressed to the trunk of the tree that represented Remy’s soul, she quickly looked around for signs of a disturbance.

  “Did you feel that?” she asked Marlowe.

  The Lab lay at the base of the tree, his hip pressed to the flaking bark. He looked at her with dark, soulful eyes and wagged his tail.

  “Something feels different,” she said.

  She guessed that it had do with something back in the real world, but there wasn’t any way for her to check it out. Instead, she returned her focus to the tree, and what she and Marlowe were doing to keep it from completely crumbling away. They seemed to be doing an adequate job, for there were fewer new areas of slough and the draining sap seemed to have slowed.

  She couldn’t help but be worried, though, reaching out to Assiel with her mind but getting nothing in response. The angel had been silent for quite some time, and she couldn’t help but think about what might be going on back home, in Remy’s bedroom.

  “I don’t know what we should be doing,” she said.

  Marlowe was looking up at her attentively.

  “Something doesn’t feel right out there,” she said, gazing out over the playground, and the Common beyond.

  Marlowe made a soft, sad whining sound.

  “I know Remy needs us, but . . .” She ran her hands over the tree bark, breaking away the loose pieces and letting them fall to the ground. “But are we really even helping him?”

  The dog whined pathetically.

  “Who’s to say that we’re doing anything,” she said, feeling herself growing more anxious, beginning to doubt.

  Ashley looked toward the hole. It looked as though it had gotten bigger. There still wasn’t any sign from Linda.

  “Part of me wants to try to go back,” she said. “Maybe back there we might actually be doing something.” The darkness of the hole pulled at her, drawing her emotions to the surface. “But that would mean leaving Linda here alone.”

  Marlowe’s tale wagged, thumping upon the ground.

  “What if she came back and we were gone?” she asked herself, and Marlowe. “No, we have to stay,” she said firmly. “We have to stay and do what we came for.”

  She pressed the palms of her hands more firmly to the dry bark, willing her strength into the tree. “We have to keep it alive.”

  Marlowe was looking at her again expectantly.

  “We have to keep Remy alive.”

  • • •

  Mulvehill imagined that Remy would be pretty pissed about the couch.

  They’d retreated from the kitchen into the living room as the Bone Masters’ numbers increased. Bullets and poisoned teeth were flying at that point, and he and Squire had flipped over the couch to use as cover.

  “We should probably keep a list,” Mulvehill said, ejecting the clip from a World War II–era Colt .45 and slipping in another.

  “A list?” Squire questioned, springing up over the back of the couch to spray the kitchen with automatic gunfire from a MAC-10 machine pistol.

  “Yeah, of all the shit we’ve taken . . .”

  It was his turn now, and he sprang up from behind the grayish blue couch and eyed the doorway. There were far more of the pale-skinned assassins than he would have thought. Mulvehill fired. He missed twice but managed to get a head and two gut shots before dropping back down for cover.

  “. . . broken, or shit, just generally abused.”

  Squire was getting ready to pop up again. “So, this list.” He considered. “Would it be our responsibility to replace the items on it?”

  The goblin jumped up, aimed, and let out a scream as a Bone Master lunged over the furniture, a curved dagger of yellowed bone in its hand.

  “Son of a bitch!” Squire screamed. He squeezed off multiple blasts from the machine pistol, but they missed, chewing up
the hardwood floor and a lamp table in the corner of the living room.

  “Watch the kitchen!” Mulvehill yelled as he threw himself on top of the assassin, trying to pin its flailing body to the floor.

  The Bone Master was smaller, younger, but no less dangerous than its brethren. It shrieked as it tried to climb to its feet, slashing the air with the dagger. Mulvehill landed atop its scrawny arm, pinning it to the floor.

  “They’re making a move!” Squire shouted, spraying the kitchen area with bullets.

  “Busy now!” Mulvehill grunted as the struggling killer tried to free its arm, clawing at Mulvehill’s face with jagged fingernails. Mulvehill shook his head violently, trying to avoid the hand, applying as much weight as he could upon the killer’s arm, waiting for the satisfying—

  Crack!

  The assassin cried out with a mixture of rage and pain. It thrashed wildly, trying to retrieve its weapon with the other hand, but Mulvehill did not give him the chance. Rolling atop the assassin, he pressed the muzzle of the gun into the killer’s stomach and fired two shots where its heart should have been. And he must have been right, for the pale-skinned killer went suddenly still.

  He stared into the face of the demon. How many does this make today?

  “Help?” Squire squawked, firing his machine pistol until it was empty.

  Mulvehill tore his eyes from the cooling corpse and popped up over the couch. The doorway was crammed with targets, and he began to fire. The bodies were piling up, and he and Squire were using them as cover, many shots striking those who were already dead.

  His clip nearly empty, he ducked back down and reached into his pocket for another.

  “I’m almost out,” Squire said, snapping his own clip into the stalk of the machine pistol. “This is it.”

  “What else do we have?” Mulvehill asked, chambering a round and rising up to fire in one fluid movement.

  Squire fumbled through the duffel. “Let’s just hope what we’ve got left for bullets will outnumber the assassins,” he said. “Going to do some quick recon and be right back.”

  The goblin crawled across the floor to a nearby patch of shadow, disappearing within as if he’d just waded into a small pond. It gave Mulvehill the creeps, which in and of itself was pretty damn funny. Five years ago, he would have been screaming his fool head off and running to the psych unit at Mass General.