The Fallen 2 Page 12

  Verchiel turned his attention from the girl to the prisoner. “Are you learning to think like me?” he asked with a humorless smile. “Or am I starting to think like you?”

  The prisoner raised himself to a sitting position. “I’m not sure that even in my darkest days I could muster such disregard for innocent life.”

  “Innocent life?” the leader of the Powers asked as he studied the creature before him. “So simple—so defenseless—one can almost see why the Creator was so taken with them.”

  The female moaned softly in the grip of oblivion.

  “But looks can be deceiving, can they not?” He nudged the girl with his foot. “There is a monster inside you just waiting to come out, isn’t there, girl?”

  The captive gripped the bars of his cage, hands pink with a fresh layer of skin. “A little bit of the pot calling the kettle black, don’t you think, Verchiel?” he asked. “After all you’ve done of late, do you really believe she deserves the title of monster?”

  Verchiel tilted his head in thought as he studied the girl lying before him. “I am not without a certain measure of pity for the misfortune of her birth. She cannot help what she is, but it does not change the fact that the likes of her kind should not exist.”

  “And who exactly provided you with this information?” the captive asked. “’Cause it looks as though I might have missed the announcement.”

  “It was never intended for our kind to lay with animals,” Verchiel growled, the concept flooding him with feelings of revulsion. “The proof is in these monstrosities—animals with the power of the divine. I cannot imagine it was ever a part of the Creator’s plan.”

  “And you being so close to God and all, you’ve taken it upon yourself to clear up the problem.”

  “As impudent as ever,” Verchiel said, sliding from the chair to kneel beside the unconscious girl. “One would think that after all this time you would have learned some modicum of respect for the One you so horribly wronged.”

  “This has nothing to do with Him, Verchiel,” the prisoner stressed, “and everything to do with your twisted perception of right and wrong.”

  Verchiel stifled the urge to lash out at his captive, focusing instead on the task at hand. “Right and wrong,” he hissed, as he pushed up the girl’s shirt to reveal the dark, delicate skin of her young stomach. “What is coming to fruition inside this poor creature is wrong.”

  The fingers of Verchiel’s hand began to glow, and he lightly touched her stomach, burning her flesh in five places. Even within the hold of unconsciousness the female cried out, writhing in agony as her flesh sizzled and wisps of oily smoke curled up from the burns.

  “I know what I do is right,” he said. “There is a bond between the Nephilim and this female, a bond that will only be made stronger with the realization that they are of the same kind.”

  Verchiel could sense the essence of angel coiled inside the young woman, still not fully awake. The pain would draw it closer, forcing it to blossom sooner. He again reached down and touched her stomach, leaving his fingertips upon the fragile flesh just a bit longer. The fluids within the skin sputtered, crackled, and popped with his hellish caress.

  The girl was moaning and crying now, still not fully awake, but the power inside her was growing stronger, calling out to others of its ilk for help.

  “That’s it,” Verchiel cooed, inhaling the acrid aroma of burning skin. “Summon the great hero to your side so that I may destroy him and the dreams he inspires.”

  It was like the dreams…. No, nightmares, he had been having before the change.

  But Aaron was not asleep.

  Belphegor had done this. He had taken Aaron into his home, telling him he had to learn the origins of the angelic essence that had become a part of him. He had made him drink a mug of some awful-tasting concoction from a boiling pot on the stove. It tasted like garbage and smelled even worse, but the old fallen angel had said that it would help Aaron to travel inside himself, to experience the genesis of the power that wanted so desperately to reshape him.

  Aaron had choked down the foul liquid and sat upon the living-room floor, while Belphegor took his place in the recliner and began to read The People’s Daily. At first Aaron was concerned that nothing was happening, but the old fallen angel had looked over the top of the paper and told him to wait for the poison to take effect.

  Poison?

  Yes, Belphegor had indeed given him poison—the impending death of his human aspect would allow his angelic nature to assume control, Belphegor explained before going back to the news of China.

  A stabbing pain had begun in the pit of his stomach. An unnatural warmth radiated from the center of the intense agony and spread through his extremities, numbing them. Aaron found that he could no longer sit up and fell to his side on the cold wooden floor.

  He was finding it hard to stay conscious, but could still hear Belphegor encouraging him to hold on, warning him not to succumb fully to the poison coursing through his body. Aaron had to find the source of his essence’s power; then wrest control away from the strengthening angelic might, and use it to complete the unification of the dual natures that existed within him.

  What if I’m not strong enough? Aaron had asked. And the old angel had looked at him grimly and said that without the anchor of his humanity, the angelic essence within him would surely run amok and destroy them all.

  At first there was only darkness and the burning warmth of the poison, but then he saw it there, writhing in the black sea of his gradual demise. When Aaron had last seen it, the power had taken the shapes of various creatures of creation. Now it had matured into a beautiful winged creature, humanoid in shape, with skin the color of the sun and eyes as cool and dark as the night. They were family in a strange kind of way, he thought, and it drew him close, wrapping him in its embrace, flowing over and into him as if liquid, and when he opened his eyes, he was somewhere else entirely.

  The pain of the poison was gone and Aaron found himself standing in a vast field of tall grass the color of gold. A warm gentle breeze smelling of rich spice caressed the waving plains. Far off in the distance he could just about make out the shape of a vast city, but there were sounds nearby that pulled his attention away from the metropolis. He turned and walked toward a hill, the sound of a voice carried on the wind drawing him closer.

  He reached the top of the rise and peered down into a clearing, where an army had been gathered. They were angels, hundreds of angels garbed in armor polished to gleaming, and they stood unmoving, enraptured as they listened to one of their own. Clearly their leader, he paced before them, words of inspiration spilling from his mouth, and Aaron could see why they would have pledged their allegiance. There was something about him, a charisma that was impossible to deny.

  As beautiful as the morning stars, he heard a voice whisper at the back of his mind, and he could not disagree.

  And then the leader, the Morningstar, walked among his troops laying his hand upon each and every one of them, and as he touched them, bestowing upon them a special gift, weapons of fire sprang to life in their grasp, and they were ready to fight.

  Ready for war.

  Aaron experienced a sudden wave of vertigo, as if the world around him were being yanked away to be replaced by another time, another place, and he struggled to remain standing. He was on a battlefield now, surrounded by the unbridled carnage that was war. Soldiers he had watched rallied by the Morningstar were battling an army of equal savagery. He saw Camael and Verchiel fighting side by side against the Morningstar’s army. The screams of the dying and the maimed filled the air as blazing swords hacked away limbs and snuffed out life, and angels fell helplessly from the sky, their wings consumed by flames of heavenly fire.

  It was horrible; one of the most awesome yet disturbing sights he had ever seen. He wanted to turn away, to pull his eyes from the scenes of brutality, the broken and burning bodies of angels, the golden grass trampled, the ground stained with the dark blood of th
e heavenly. But it was everywhere; no matter where he looked, there was death.

  Aaron’s eyes were suddenly drawn to the Morningstar, his sword of fire hacking a swath through the opposing forces. His army was vanquished, but still he fought on, flaxen wings spread wide, slashing his way toward a tower made of glass, crystal maybe, that seemed to go up into the sky forever. The angel was screaming and there were tears on his face. Aaron could feel his sadness, for the sorrow that permeated the atmosphere of this place was so strong as to be nearly palpable.

  The Morningstar screamed up at the crystalline tower, shaking his armored fist and demanding that He who sits on high come down to face him. And with wings beating air ripe with the smells of bloodshed, he began to ascend. The skies grew dark, thick with roiling clouds of gunmetal gray, and thunder rumbled ominously, causing the very environment to tremble. But the Morningstar continued to rise, flying steadily upward, sword of fire brandished in his grip, unhindered by the threat of storm.

  Aaron could feel it before it actually happened, as if the air itself had become charged with electricity. He wanted to warn the beautiful soldier, but it was too late. A bolt of lightning resembling a long, gnarled finger reached down from the gray, endless clouds and touched the warrior of Heaven. There was a flash of blinding light, and the Morningstar tumbled, burning, from the sky.

  Stay down, Aaron whispered as he watched the figure twitch and then force himself to rise.

  The Morningstar swayed upon legs charred black, and another blade of fire appeared in his hand. Again he looked up at the glass tower and raised his sword in defiance. “How?” he shrieked pitifully through a mouth now nothing more than a blackened hole. “How can you love them more than us?”

  With wings still afire, he leaped back into the air, but his ascent was slower than before. The heavens growled with menace, as if displeased by his defiance, and birdlike shrieks filled the world. Aaron watched as the soldiers of the opposing army attacked the Morningstar, grabbing at his injured form, pulling him back to the ground, where they pitilessly set upon him with their weapons of fire.

  He could feel the Morningstar’s pain, every jab, every stab of the soldiers’ searing blades, as if the attacks were being perpetrated upon him. Aaron fell to the ground, his eyes transfixed upon the violence before him, the blood of vanquished angels seeping through the knees of his pants.

  Numbness had invaded his body, and he fought to stay conscious—to stay alive. But the darkness had him again in its grasp, and it pulled him below to a place where he could die in peace, the very same place that the angelic essence had resided before it had come awake on his eighteenth birthday. This was where he would slip from life, allowing the angelic power total mastery of his fragile human shell.

  For a brief moment Aaron was convinced that this was the right thing for him to do. In this deep place of shadow there was no worry, no irritating mysteries of angelic powers, there was only comforting peace. Escape from the responsibilities heaped upon him by ancient prophecy.

  “Aaron! He’s hurting me!”

  Aaron’s tranquility was suddenly shattered by a cry for help, a desperate plea that echoed in the darkness. He tried to ignore it, but there was something about the voice that stirred within him a desire to live.

  “Where are you, Aaron? He’ll keep hurting me unless you come.”

  “Vilma,” Aaron whispered within the constricting cocoon of shadow, and opened his eyes to a vision of the girl he believed he loved in the clutches of Verchiel. It was but a flash of sight, but it was enough to stir him from the comforting embrace of his impending death.

  “Please! Aaron!”

  The angelic essence fought to keep him submerged in the depths of oblivion, but Vilma needed him, Stevie and the fallen needed him, and he felt ashamed that he had even considered giving in. The closer he got to awareness, the more he felt the painful effects the poison had wrought upon his body, and he was reminded of, and inspired by, the Morningstar, burned black by the finger of God, but still he fought on.

  Aaron came awake on his knees, now in the kitchen of Belphegor’s home, his body wracked with bone-snapping convulsions. He pitched forward and vomited up the poison. Slowly he raised his head, wiping the remains of the revolting fluid that dribbled down his chin, to see Belphegor leaning forward on a wooden chair, offering him a white paper napkin.

  “What did you see?” the angel asked, a gleam of excitement in his ancient eyes.

  “Vilma.” Aaron struggled to stand.

  “Who?”

  “I have to go to her,” Aaron said, the familiar feeling of dread he’d been carrying since his life so dramatically changed replacing the nausea in his stomach.

  “He has her. Verchiel has her.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Vilma?” Belphegor asked, confused. “Who, may I ask, is Vilma?”

  Aaron swayed upon legs that seemed to be made of rubber, grabbing hold of the kitchen doorframe to steady himself. “She’s my girl …” He paused, rethinking his answer. “She’s somebody from my old life, someone very important to me—and Verchiel has her.” Images of the screaming girl flashed across his vision. He could hear her calling out to him.

  “He is attempting to get to you through your friends,” Belphegor commented matter-of-factly. “Typical behavior for one such as he.”

  Aaron didn’t understand. Somehow Vilma had reached out and touched his mind.

  But how?

  “What did you see when you went inside, Aaron?” Belphegor questioned. “You must tell me everything—”

  Aaron raised a hand to interrupt him. “She was inside my head.” He stared hard at Belphegor. “How is that possible, unless … ?”

  Belphegor slowly nodded, sensing that Aaron already suspected the answer. “Unless she is as you are,” he finished.

  It hit Aaron like a physical blow and he fell back against the doorframe, sliding to the floor as his knees gave out. “I can’t believe it,” he muttered in amazement. He remembered every moment, however brief, he had shared with her. There was no doubt of the attraction, but evidently the reason went far beyond raging hormones. They were of the same kind.

  Nephilim.

  “Just when I think I’ve seen it all,” he said with an exasperated shake of his head.

  Belphegor left the table and moved to Aaron’s side. He seemed impatient, anxious. “Never mind your friend,” he said. “What did you see, Aaron?”

  “I don’t have time for this,” Aaron said, climbing to his feet. “She needs me.”

  Belphegor reached out and grabbed hold of his arm in a powerful grip. “I need to know what you saw,” he stressed. “The people of Aerie need to know what you saw.”

  Aaron shook off the old angel’s grasp. “I saw an angel—and he was one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen,” he said, not without a little embarrassment, especially as he caught the look on Belphegor’s face. “It’s not sexual or anything,” he explained. “It was just the way he carried himself. I could feel the devotion of his army in the air. I could feel how much they loved him.”

  “You … you saw the Morningstar?” Belphegor stammered, as if he were afraid of something.

  Aaron nodded, a bit taken aback by the old angel’s reaction. “And there was a battle,” he said, the violent, disturbing imagery forever burned into his psyche. “It was horrible,” he added. “And incredibly sad.”

  Belphegor stared off into space, thoughtfully stroking his chin.

  “What does it mean, Belphegor?” Aaron asked cautiously. “What does all of this have to do with me?”

  The old fallen slowly refocused his gaze on Aaron. “The pain and the sadness, the death and the violence—I believe that is the power from which you were born.”

  Aaron shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

  “But you will,” Belphegor said with authority. “We shall go to Scholar, and together we’ll delve deeper into the mystery of your origin—”

  “No,” Aaron
said emphatically. “You don’t understand. Vilma is in trouble and I have to go to her.” Aaron moved past the old angel, his resolve lending new strength to his legs. “I can’t afford to waste any more time.”

  He had pulled open the kitchen door and was ready to step outside when Belphegor again grabbed him.

  “We’re close, Aaron,” he said.

  There was a tension in his voice that hadn’t been there before, a veiled excitement hinting that the angel knew more than he was letting on. It almost drew Aaron back, but then he remembered Vilma’s face—her beautiful face, twisted in pain and fear—and he knew he had no choice.

  He shrugged Belphegor’s hand away and started down the stairs. “I’m sorry, but I have to go,” he said over his shoulder. “I’ll come back just as soon as—”

  Lehash stood in the street just outside the yard. A long, thin cigar dangled at the corner of his mouth, the smoke trailing from its tip forming a misty halo around his head. “Is there a problem, boy?” he asked in a grave voice, the cigar bobbing up and down like a conductor’s baton as he spoke.

  Aaron shook his head, fully feeling the menace that radiated from the Aerie constable. “Not yet,” he answered, trying to keep the fear from his voice.

  Belphegor came up behind him. “It’s all right, Lehash,” he said reassuringly. “Come back inside, Aaron. We’ll talk.”

  “I’m going,” Aaron said defiantly, and began to push past them.

  Lehash came forward, and Aaron saw the shimmer of fire in his hands that signaled the arrival of his golden weapons. “I’d listen to the boss if I was you,” he said with a threatening hiss, blocking Aaron’s path.

  “It could be a trap, Aaron,” Belphegor cautioned behind him. “Verchiel could be using your friend to strike, not only at you, but at us, at Aerie. I’m sorry, but we can’t let you go, there’s far too much at stake.”

  Lehash brandished his guns menacingly. “You heard ’im,” he said, motioning for Aaron to return to the house. “Get back in there before things get serious.”