The Fallen 2 Page 15

  Then, as if Heaven had decided to answer his prayers, an angel fell from above, its body engulfed in flames. It landed atop Verchiel, knocking him to the ground. Aaron looked up to see Camael hovering above him, his suit tattered and torn, his exposed skin spattered with the blood of the vanquished. “Save the girl!” he ordered, before turning to defend himself against another wave of Powers’ soldiers.

  Vilma’s captor had driven her to the floor, a fiery blade beginning to take form dangerously close to the delicate flesh of her throat. There was murder in the angel’s face, and Aaron knew there was a chance that he would not reach her in time. But the image of a weapon took form in his mind—and a spear made from the heavenly fire that lived inside him became a thing of reality. Solid in his hand, he let the weapon fly and watched with great satisfaction as the razor-sharp tip plunged into the neck of the Powers’ angel, knocking him away from the struggling girl and pinning his thrashing body to the bleachers.

  Aaron was on the move again. “Vilma!” he shouted. The girl was in shock, stumbling about as she gazed around at the nightmarish visions unfolding before her. He called her name again, and she turned to look in his direction with fear-filled eyes.

  He stopped before her and held out his hands. “It’s me,” he said in his most soothing voice. She stared at him, an expression of surprise gradually creeping across her features. He was pretty sure that at the moment he didn’t look like the boy she’d said good-bye to in the hallway of Kenneth Curtis High School a few weeks ago, but now was not the time for explanations, all he cared about was keeping her alive. “It’s Aaron,” he continued, slowly reaching for her.

  Vilma blinked, then turned and made a run for the door. Aaron dove for her, his powerful wings allowing him to glide the short distance and take her into his arms. “Please,” he said, holding her tightly. “Listen to me.”

  She fought, punching, screaming, and kicking. She turned in his embrace and began to pound his chest with her fists. “No! No! No!”

  “Vilma, it’s really me,” Aaron said in her native Portuguese. “I’ve come to help you.”

  For an instant she stopped fighting, looking into his eyes as if searching for lies in his words.

  “Please, Vilma,” he said again. “You have to trust me.”

  She sagged in his arms, the fight draining out of her. “I want to wake up,” she said in a voice groggy with shock. “Just let me wake—”

  There was an explosion from the center of the gymnasium, and Verchiel emerged from the conflagration, face twisted in madness as smoldering body parts of soldiers once in his service rained down around him.

  “Aaron,” Camael cried from above as he pitched another victim of his flaming swordplay at the Powers’ commander. “Take the girl and leave!”

  Gabriel charged across the gym. “Yeah, let’s get out of here.”

  The yellow fur of the dog’s face was spattered with blood, and Aaron wondered what it had taken to keep the armored Malak down. He gazed upward looking for Camael. The number of Powers’ soldiers had diminished to five and still the warrior that he had learned to call friend fought on. “Camael!” he cried, Vilma slumped in his arms, his dog at his side. He gestured wildly for the angel to join them.

  “Leave me!” the former leader of the Powers shouted as he swung his sword in a blazing arc, dispatching two more attackers.

  “Nephilim!” Verchiel screamed as he strode across the bodies of his soldiers.

  If they were going to leave together, it had to be now. Aaron again gazed up at his mentor. “Camael, please.”

  “Get out of here now,” Camael commanded. “Too much depends upon your survival. Go. Now!” Then he spread his wings and hurled himself at Verchiel.

  Aaron wanted to stay, but as he looked at the trembling girl in his arms, the realization of Camael’s words slowly sank in. The citizens of Aerie were depending on him, and if he was indeed the Chosen One, he owed it to them to make their prophecy a reality. As much as it pained him, he knew that Camael was right. He had to leave.

  “Aaron, we should go,” Gabriel said from his side, his warm body tightly pressed against his leg.

  “I think you’re right,” Aaron answered. He took one last look at Verchiel and Camael locked in deadly combat, then spread his ebony wings wide to enfold them all.

  “Nephilim!” Verchiel screamed as Aaron pictured Aerie in his mind. “You will not escape me!” And they were gone.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Swords of fire came together with a deafening sound that reminded Camael of the birth cries of Creation. Slivers of heavenly flame leaped from the blades, burning shrapnel that eerily illuminated their twisted faces as he and Verchiel clashed.

  Camael gazed sorrowfully at the scarred features of the creature before him, a once beatific being that had served the will of God, but had somewhere lost his way. He too bore scars, but his were deep inside, still-bleeding wounds of sacrifice for his chosen mission—for a path traveled alone. But this was not the time for philosophical musings, and Camael quickly returned his attention to the task at hand, the total annihilation of his foe.

  “Surrender, Camael, and I shall see that you are treated fairly,” Verchiel snarled over their locked blades. “It is the least I can do for one I once called friend.”

  Camael thrust his opponent away and propelled himself backward with the aid of his golden wings. “Friend, Verchiel?” he asked, landing in a crouch five feet away. “If this is how you treat your friends, I shudder to think of what you do to your enemies.”

  Thick black smoke from the burning bodies of Powers’ soldiers billowed about the room, triggering the fire alarms and sprinkler systems.

  “Humor?” Verchiel asked above the tolling bell as he took to the air with a powerful flap of his wings. “You have been amongst the monkeys too long,” he observed coldly. “In matters of God and Heaven, there is no place for humor.”

  Camael propelled himself toward his adversary. “Aaron has often said that I lack a sense of humor,” he said, pressing his attack. “I do so like to prove him wrong.”

  Verchiel parried a thrust from Camael’s sword and carried through with a furious strike of his own, cutting a burning gash through Camael’s shoulder.

  “Listen to you,” he said. “Proving yourself to the animals? You disgust me.”

  Driven by anger and pain, Camael attacked, a snarl of ferocity upon his lips, the swordplay driving Verchiel back through the rising smoke.

  “Do you not remember what it was like?” Verchiel asked, his movements a blur as he blocked Camael’s relentless rain of blows. “Side by side, meting out the word of God. Nothing could oppose us. We were Order incarnate, and Chaos bent to our every whim.”

  Camael leaned back as a swipe of Verchiel’s sword narrowly missed his throat. “Until we became what we professed to fight.” He stopped his attack, hoping that Verchiel would hear his words. “Bringers of destruction and fear. Chaos incarnate.”

  Verchiel’s eyes widened in disbelief. “Are you so blinded by your insane beliefs that you cannot see what I’m trying to achieve?”

  A whip took shape in his hand, and he lashed out with its tail of flame. The burning cord wrapped itself tightly around Camael’s neck and instantly began to sear its way through his flesh. The pain was all-consuming as Camael felt himself pulled toward his enemy with a mighty yank.

  “It was that accursed prophecy that brought pandemonium to the world,” Verchiel said as he fought to pull Camael closer. “This belief in the Nephilim’s redemptive powers has created bedlam; I only seek to stem the flow of madness.”

  The stench of his own burning sickened Camael. His wings frantically beat the air to maintain his distance from his adversary as he brought his sword up and severed the whip’s embrace. “Why can you not face the reality of the prophecy?” he rasped. “The harder you try to stop it, the more it seems to fight to become true.”

  Camael dove backward, down into the densest smoke. He could no lon
ger hear the clang of the fire alarm, but the water raining down from the sprinklers felt comforting upon his wounded throat. He touched down upon the wooden floor and willed himself to heal faster. There was so little time. The human authorities were certainly on their way; the battle would need to be brought promptly to a close, for Verchiel would think nothing of ending innocent lives in the pursuit of his goals.

  Searching the wafting smoke above him for signs of his adversary, Camael thought of Aaron, of Aerie, of all he had saved from Verchiel’s murderous throngs. Has it been enough? The unspeakable acts he had once perpetrated in the name of God as leader of the Powers filled him with self-loathing, and he wondered if he could ever forgive himself. Will killing Verchiel and allowing the prophecy to be fulfilled finally be enough? He stepped over bodies of angels burned black by his ferocity, continuing to scan the smoke-choked room for signs of movement.

  “Have I told you my plan for this world, Camael?” asked Verchiel from somewhere nearby.

  Camael tensed, sword ready. He tried to attune his senses to the environment, but the fire alarm and the fall of the sprinkler’s artificial rain interfered with their acuity.

  “I see a world of obedience.” Verchiel’s voice seemed to be shifting positions within the smoke. “A world where my word is law.”

  Camael’s eyes scanned the billowing smoke. “Don’t you mean God’s word?”

  The smoke to his right suddenly parted to reveal the formidable sight of his former second in command, a spear of orange fire in his grasp. “You heard me right the first time,” Verchiel said, and let the weapon fly.

  Camael reared back and brought his sword of fire to bear. He blocked the spear with the burning blade, but as it disintegrated in a flash of light, he felt another presence behind him. Still moving, he tossed his sword from right hand to left, spinning around to confront this new assailant.

  Camael’s blade struck armor the color of a blood-soaked battlefield and shattered. Magick, he thought, momentarily taken aback. He was about to formulate another weapon when he was struck from behind. A sword entered his body through his back; the white-hot blade exiting just below his ribcage in a geyser of steaming blood before being brutally pulled back.

  Camael turned, a ferocious roar born of pain and rage escaping his lips. How could I have been so reckless as to forget the hunter? he thought, bringing his new sword of flame up to bite back at the coward who had struck from behind. Verchiel blocked his swipe with the sword he had pulled from the angel’s back.

  “Do you know what I think, Camael?” Verchiel asked in a voice that dripped with madness.

  Camael gasped as another blade, this one made of iron, was plunged into his back, and he felt himself grow suddenly weaker, the magicks infused within the knife sapping away his strength. He heard the armored warrior breathe heavily behind him, as if aroused by this craven act of savagery.

  “I believe that the Creator has lost His mind,” Verchiel said in a conspiratorial whisper. “Driven mad by the infectious disease of this virulent prophecy.”

  He stepped closer as Camael fell to his knees. The bleeding angel tried to stand, to carry on with the fight, but the metal blade had made that impossible.

  “It has touched His mind in such a way that He actually believes what is happening here is right. How else can you explain it?” the demented angel asked. “God has become infected, as you were infected, and so many other pathetic beings that we so mercifully dispatched over the centuries.”

  Camael could taste his own blood and suspected that his time was at an end. He had always known that it would come to this; that his final battle would be against the one that had so twisted the will of God. “Will you attempt to mercifully dispatch the Creator as well?” he asked, disturbed by how weak his voice sounded.

  The Powers’ leader seemed horrified by this query. “You speak blasphemy,” he proclaimed. “When my job is done, I will return to Heaven and see to the affairs of both Heaven and Earth until our Lord and Master is well enough to see to the ministrations of the universe on His own.”

  Camael could not hold back his laughter, although it wracked his body with painful spasms. “Do you hear yourself?” he asked through bloody coughs that flecked his bearded chin with gore. “You presume to know the grand schemes of He who created all things—He who created us.” He averted his gaze, no longer able to look upon the foul creature before him. “If Lucifer could hear you now, he would embrace you as a like-minded brother,” Camael added with a disgusted shake of his head.

  “How dare you speak his name to me,” Verchiel raged, falling down upon his own knees and grabbing Camael’s face. “Everything I do, I do for the glory of His name. When this is done, and things have returned to the way they once were, I shall sit by His side, and all shall know that my actions were just.”

  Camael stared into Verchiel’s dark eyes, falling into the depths of their insanity. “Things will never be as they were,” he whispered, shaking Verchiel’s hand from his face. “And they will call you monster.”

  Verchiel jumped to his feet, his scarred features twisted in fury. “Then monster I shall be,” he shrieked as he raised his flaming sword and brought it down toward Camael’s head.

  Camael had been saving his strength, a small pocket of might that he hoped would enable him to return to Aerie. He reached behind himself, finding the knife that still protruded from his flesh. His hand closed around the hilt and he yanked the offending object from his back, bringing it around and up to meet the sword’s deadly arc. Verchiel’s weapon shattered on contact with the mystical metal, and the Powers’ commander cried out, stumbling back as burning shrapnel showered his exposed flesh.

  Camael unfurled his wings, thrusting them outward, hurling the scarlet-armored warrior away from him. His body screamed in protest, blood filling his mouth, but he did not let it deter him.

  “You cannot hope to escape me, traitor!” Verchiel screamed, the mottled flesh of his face decorated with fresh burns. “You’re already dead!”

  Camael enfolded himself in the comforting embrace of his wings and willed himself away from the school, with Verchiel’s furious words echoing through the recesses of his mind.

  “Not quite yet,” said the warrior on his way to the place hidden from him for so long, the place he now called home.

  Verchiel stood in the gymnasium at Kenneth Curtis High School surrounded by the burning bodies of his soldiers. “We’re close,” he said to his fallen comrades, now nothing more than smoking heaps of ash.

  Malak had retrieved his helmet and stood by his master’s side, his face bruised and spattered with blood. The alarm bell continued to toll and the sprinklers rained down upon them. The wails of fire trucks could be heard from outside, and Malak howled softly in response to the sirens’ cries. Verchiel turned to him and the warrior abruptly stopped.

  “You’ve failed me,” Verchiel told him, and the warrior cowered in the shadow of his disappointment.

  “There is something in him, this Nephilim, that was not there in the others that I have hunted,” Malak said in an attempt to explain his failure. He shook his head slowly, as if attempting to understand the perception himself. “A fire burns inside this one—a will to live.” Malak looked up into the eyes of his master. “A purpose.”

  “Do you have it?” Verchiel asked, ignoring the ramblings of his servant. “Do you have the scent of our enemies?”

  Malak nodded, a simpleton’s grin of accomplishment spreading across his face. “They cannot hide from me anymore,” he said, eyes twinkling mischievously. “Like blood in the white, white snow; I can follow them.”

  “Excellent,” Verchiel hissed. He would remember this day, this very point in time when his plan fell neatly into place.

  Through the billowing smoke, he saw shapes moving into the room, firefighters, their bodies covered in heavy, protective layers of clothing. In their hands they carried the tools of their trade: high-powered flashlights, axes, and thick hoses. Verchiel f
elt Malak bristle beside him.

  “There’s somebody in here,” he heard one of the firefighters say, his voice muffled by the oxygen mask that covered his face.

  A powerful flashlight illuminated the angel and his servant. Verchiel did not hide himself, instead he unfurled his wings and held his arms out so they might gaze upon his magnificence. Through the thick smoke and the clear masks that covered their faces, he could see their eyes bulge with fear and wonder, and reveled in their awe of him.

  Malak growled and from the air plucked a fearsome sword, still encrusted with the blood of a previous kill. He started toward the humans, but Verchiel reached out, grabbing hold of his armored shoulder.

  “Leave them be,” he proclaimed for all to hear.

  Two of the firemen had fallen to their knees in supplication, while another fled in sheer panic. Verchiel could hear their prayers.

  “Let them look upon me and know that a time is approaching when the sight of my kind will be as common, and as welcome, as the sunrise.” Verchiel’s voice boomed above the sound of the fire alarm. “There are snakes living amongst you,” he proclaimed as he closed his wings about himself and his servant. “And there shall come a time of cleansing.”

  And as Verchiel willed himself away, he left the firefighters with a final pronouncement.

  “That time is now.”

  Aaron did as he was taught. He saw Aerie in his head; the high, chain-link fence that ran around its perimeter, the run-down homes, the weeds pushing up through the cracks in the sidewalks. In the beginning there was complete and utter darkness, and then a sense of movement. It was like traveling through a long, dark tunnel. He opened his wings, pushing back the stygian black that enveloped them and saw that they had successfully arrived. He had rescued Vilma—but at what price?

  He looked around. They were standing in front of Belphegor’s home, and nearly every citizen was waiting. The old fallen angel was sitting in a beach chair at the sidewalk’s edge, a sweating glass of iced tea in his hand. Lehash, looking none too pleased, and Lorelei stood on either side of the multicolored chair. It was quiet in Aerie, quiet as the grave.