The Fallen 2 Page 17

  “And mentally?” Aaron asked, struggling to contain his guilt. It was exactly what he had feared, one of the reasons he had left Lynn to begin with. Verchiel had used someone else to get at him.

  Lorelei looked at the sleeping girl on the couch. “Remember, the whole process of becoming a Nephilim does quite the job on your head, and some of us are stronger than others.”

  Aaron nodded, knowing full well the painful truth of Lorelei’s words.

  “We’ll just have to wait and see,” she said, taking the leftover medical supplies back to the kitchen.

  Aaron found himself staring at Vilma’s face. He could see her eyes moving beneath her lids. Dreaming, he thought as he watched her, and hopefully only the good kind.

  “Did Camael come back yet?” Gabriel asked as he stood up and stretched, lowering his front body down to the ground while sticking his butt up into the air.

  Aaron hesitated, not a good thing when dealing with a dog like Gabriel.

  “He hasn’t come back yet, Aaron?” the dog asked, showing concern as he completed his stretch. “We should go look for him.”

  Aaron squatted down, taking the yellow dog’s head in his hands and rubbing behind his floppy ears.

  “What’s wrong?” the Labrador asked. “I can sense that something isn’t right.”

  “Camael did come back, Gabe, and—”

  “Then where is he?” the dog interrupted.

  “Gabriel, please,” Aaron said exasperated. “Let me finish.”

  Gabriel sat; his blocky head cocked quizzically to the side.

  “Camael did come back,” Aaron continued. “But he was hurt.”

  “Like I was hurt before you made me better?” the dog asked.

  Aaron nodded, reaching down to stroke his friend’s thick neck. “Yeah, like that, only I couldn’t fix him.”

  Gabriel stared at his master, his chocolate brown eyes filled with a special intensity. “What are we going to do?”

  He thought of how to explain this to the animal. Sometimes communicating with Gabriel was like talking to a little kid, and other times like an old soul with knowledge beyond his years. “Do you remember Zeke?” he asked, referring to the fallen angel who had first tried to tell him he was a Nephilim. Zeke had been mortally wounded during their first battle with Verchiel and his Powers.

  “I liked Zeke,” Gabriel said with a wag of his tail. “But you did something to him and he went away. Where did Zeke go again, Aaron?”

  “I sent Zeke home,” he explained. “I sent him back to Heaven.”

  “Just like the other Gabriel,” his best friend said, referring to the archangel they had encountered in Maine a few weeks ago, whom Aaron had also released from his confines upon the Earth.

  “Exactly,” Aaron answered, petting the dog.

  “Did you have to send Camael home, Aaron?” Gabriel asked, his guttural voice coming out as a cautious whisper.

  Aaron nodded, continuing to scratch his four-legged friend behind his soft ears. “Yes, I did,” Aaron said. “It was the only thing I could do for him.” Of all the breeds of dogs that he had encountered while working at the veterinary clinic, it never ceased to amaze him how expressive the face of a Labrador retriever could be. He could tell that the dog was taking his news quite hard. “He told me to tell you good-bye—and that he’d miss you.”

  Gabriel slowly lowered himself to the floor, avoiding his master’s watchful gaze. He placed his long face between his two front paws and sighed heavily.

  Aaron reached out to stroke his head. “You okay, Gabe?” he asked tenderly, sharing the dog’s sadness.

  “I didn’t get a chance to say good-bye to him,” Gabriel said softly, his ears lowered in a mournful show of feelings.

  Aaron lay down beside the big, yellow dog and put his arm around him. “I said good-bye for the both of us,” he said, hugging the Lab tightly. And they lay there for a little while longer, both of them remembering a friend now gone from their lives.

  The leader of the Powers host flew in the predawn sky, circling high above the Saint Athanasius Church and Orphanage. He could feel it in the atmosphere around him—change was imminent, and he reveled in it as the cool caress of the morning breeze soothed his healing flesh. He would be the harbinger of a new and glorious age.

  Verchiel took his body earthward, gliding down toward the towering church steeple, where he clung to its side like some great predator of the air. He gazed down from his perch at the open space of the schoolyard below. It is time, he thought, time to call his army, to gather his troops for the impending war. Verchiel tilted back his head and let loose a wail that drifted on the winds, calling forth those that had sworn their allegiance to him and his holy mission. The cry moved through the air, beyond the confines of Saint Athanasius, to affect those still held tightly in the embrace of sleep.

  A child of three awakened, screaming so long and hard that he ruptured a blood vessel in his throat, vomiting blood onto his Scooby Doo sheets. On the way to the emergency room, all he could tell his parents was that the bird men were coming and would kill everyone.

  A middle-aged computer software specialist, recently separated from his wife, awoke from a disturbing dream, in his cold, one-bedroom apartment, determined that today would be the day he took his life.

  A mother squirrel ensconced in her treetop nest of leaves, woke from a fitful rest and senselessly began to consume her young.

  Verchiel ceased his ululating lament, watching with eager eyes as his army began to gather, their wings pounding the air. They circled above him like carrion birds waiting for the coming of death, then one by one began their descent. Some found purchase upon the weatherworn pieces of playground equipment, others roosted on the eaves of the administration building, and the remainder stood uncomfortably on the ground, hands clasped behind their backs.

  Verchiel was both saddened and enraged by how their numbers had dwindled; victims of the Nephilim and those that believed in the validity of the prophecy. They will not have died in vain, he swore, spreading his wings, dropping from the steeple to land on the rusted swingset, scattering his warriors in a flurry of beating wings. All eyes were upon him as he raised himself to his full height, balanced on the horizontal metal pole. Today victory would belong to him. He raised his arm, and in his outstretched hand formed a magnificent sword of fire, the Bringer of Sorrow.

  “Look upon this sword,” the leader of the Powers proclaimed, “for it shall be your beacon.” He felt their adoration, their belief in him and his mission. “Its mighty light will shine before us, illuminating the darkness to rout out evil. And it will be smited,” he roared, holding out the sword to each of them.

  Their own weapons of war took shape in the hands of those gathered before him, and they returned the gesture, reestablishing a camaraderie that was first forged during the Great War in Heaven. A buzz like the crackle of an electrical current moved through the gathering, and he saw that Malak had arrived, bloodred armor polished and glistening in the light. What a spectacular sight, Verchiel thought. No finer weapon had he ever created.

  Malak walked among the angels, an air of confidence surrounding him like a fog. Their eyes were upon him, filled with a mixture of awe and disdain. Some of the angels did not approve of the power that had been bestowed upon the human animal, but they dared not speak their disfavor to Verchiel. They did not understand human emotions, and were not able to see the psychological advantage he now held over his accursed enemy. But when Malak rendered helpless the one called Aaron Corbet, and the Nephilim’s life was brought to an end, they would have no choice but to concede to the hunter’s superiority.

  “The smell of our enemy calls out to me,” Malak declared, his voice cruel, echoing through the cold metal of his helmet.

  “Then let us answer that call,” Verchiel ordered from his roost.

  With those words Malak spun around, an imposing sword of black metal in his grasp. As if delivering a deathblow to an opponent, he sliced through the a
ir, creating a doorway to another place, the place where their final battle would be fought.

  “Onward,” the Powers’ leader exclaimed. “It is the beginning of the end.”

  The angels of the Powers’ host cried out as one, their mighty wings taking them aloft, through the tear in reality.

  And as Verchiel watched them depart, he remembered something he had once read in the monkeys’ holy book, written by one called Isaiah, he believed. “They shall have no pity on the fruit of the womb; their eye shall not spare children.

  Verchiel smiled. He couldn’t have voiced it better himself.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Gabriel was feeling sad.

  No matter how hard he tried, with pleasant thoughts of delicious things to eat, chasing after balls, and long naps in warm patches of sunshine, the dog could not shake the unhappy state of mind. How he wished the human idea that animals didn’t experience emotion was not just a myth.

  As he trotted beside Aaron down the center of an Aerie street, Gabriel thought of the long and difficult night they had just passed. Neither had slept much as they watched over Vilma and shared the pain of Camael’s passing. The dog gazed up at his friend, studying the young man’s face in the early morning light. His expression was intense, determined, but Gabriel could sense the pain that hovered just beneath the surface.

  Their lives had suddenly become so hard. Gabriel thought longingly of days—Could it have only been just weeks ago?—spent going for long walks, licking cookie crumbs from Stevie’s face, cuddling with the Stanleys as they rubbed his belly.

  The sound of a door slamming roused the Lab from his reflection, and he turned his blocky head to see another of Aerie’s citizens leaving his home to join the crowd already on their way to the gathering.

  Gabriel felt his hackles begin to rise. Verchiel was coming and he would probably be bringing Stevie along with him. He was no longer the little boy Gabriel so fondly remembered, but something that filled him with fear. Images of his battle with the armored monster at the school gym flooded his thoughts. It hadn’t taken more than a moment for him to realize who he was facing; the scent of the boy—of Stevie—was there in the form of the one called Malak, but the smell was wrong. It had been changed, made foul. Last night Gabriel had struggled with a way in which to express to his master what his senses perceived, but Aaron already knew that Stevie had become Malak. Although Gabriel couldn’t understand exactly what had happened to Stevie, he shared Aaron’s deep shock at the little boy’s transformation.

  A sudden, nagging question formed in the Lab’s mind and he stopped walking, waiting for Aaron to notice that he was no longer at his side. Finally Aaron turned.

  “What’s up?” the boy asked him.

  Gabriel shook his head sadly, his golden brown ears flopping around his long face. “Stevie’s been poisoned. It’s like this place,” he said. “It was nice before, but something bad has happened to it. Do you understand what I’m trying to say?”

  Aaron walked back and laid a gentle hand on the dog’s head. “I get it,” he said.

  Citizens passed on their way to the meeting place, but the two friends paid them no mind.

  Gabriel licked Aaron’s hand, then looked nervously into his eyes. “It’s Stevie, but it’s not. His smell is all wrong.”

  Aaron nodded quickly. “I understand,” he said, a troubled expression on his face as he turned to join the others heading toward the church at the end of the street. “C’mon, we better get going.”

  Gabriel followed at his side, struggling with the dark question he did not want to ask. But it was one he knew that Aaron had to confront. “What will you do if he tries to kill you again, Aaron?” Gabriel asked gently.

  Aaron did not answer, choosing to remain silent, but the expression upon his master’s face told Gabriel everything he needed to know, and it just made the dog all the sadder.

  Lehash stood nervously in Aerie’s old church, where he had never stood before, attempting to communicate with a higher being he had not wanted to speak with for many a millennium.

  He studied the crude picture of the savior painted on the altar wall. The child did not look like Aaron Corbet, with its bald head and bulging white eyes, but there was no doubt in the angel’s mind of the boy’s true identity. He had witnessed Aaron’s power with his own eyes, and had been forever changed by it.

  Lehash turned the Stetson nervously in his hands. “I … I don’t know what to say,” he stammered, his voice like sandpaper rubbing on wood. “I never imagined the day that I would speak to You again—never mind want to speak to You.”

  The fallen angel didn’t care for what he heard in his voice: It sounded weak, scared, but at the moment, that was exactly what he was. “I never imagined You to have so much mercy,” he said to the silence of the church. “To pardon what we did.”

  Lehash chuckled, looking about the room, then at the hat in his hands. “I used to feel sorry for the others—that they actually believed that You were going to forgive us. So many times I wanted to grab them by the shoulders and give ’em a good shake. Don’t you remember what we did? I wanted to scream at them. But I kept my mouth shut.”

  Lehash slowly dropped to his knees and focused his gaze on the painting above the altar. “But I was wrong,” he said, his voice filled with a sudden strength. “All these years here and I still don’t know anything more than when I decided to join up with the Morningstar.”

  The fallen angel bowed his head and summoned forth wings that had not unfurled since his fall from Heaven. It was painful at first and he gritted his teeth as the atrophied appendages gradually emerged.

  “What I’m trying to say is that I’m sorry for what I did in the past and what I’m going to do—and if I should die in battle today, I hope You can find it in Your heart to forgive me.”

  He had summoned forth his guns of gold and crossed them over his chest, spreading his wings as wide as he could. “But if not, I understand, ’cause for what I intend to do to Verchiel and his lapdogs, I wouldn’t let me back into Heaven either.”

  The church door opened behind him and he quickly stood, wishing away the wings that had not touched the sky since his descent. “I said I didn’t want to be disturbed,” he barked, before realizing that it was Belphegor striding down the center aisle toward him. “Oh, sorry,” Lehash said quickly as he reached for his hat that had dropped to the floor.

  “Quite all right,” Belphegor said, looking at the altar painting. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

  The constable thought for a moment. He had no idea if the Creator had been listening, but for the first time in longer than he could remember, he felt a certain sense of hope. “Y’know, I think I might have,” he finally answered as he slipped the black Stetson down upon his head.

  “That’s good,” Belphegor replied, and said no more.

  And the two of them walked together toward the exit, and the gathering that awaited them beyond it.

  * * *

  Lorelei studied her reflection in the cracked, full-length mirror hanging on the back of her closet door. The vertical break in the reflective surface split the image of her, the two sides slightly out of sync with each other. She’d always thought about replacing it, but never seemed to have the time. She found the duality of the reflection depicted there strangely accurate, for since the emergence of her other half, the Nephilim side, struggle had been a constant in her life.

  Lorelei ran a brush through her long, snow-white hair and wondered why she was bothering. Have to look good for the slaughter, I guess, she thought sardonically. Since arriving in Aerie she had known this day would come, the day that the Powers would try to kill them all. She shuddered, racked by a sudden chill of unease. She had seen what Verchiel and his kind were capable of, and the thought of facing them in battle filled her with dread.

  She tossed her brush onto the bed and looked upon her trembling hands. Lorelei was afraid of what was to come. Part of her—some primitive, selfish pa
rt—wanted to run, to hide, but that side cared nothing for the future, for destiny. All that it concerned itself with was its continued survival. Taking some deep breaths, she attempted to calm the scared, animal side—the human nature—a single thought running through her head. I am Nephilim and I have a destiny to fulfill.

  Lorelei grabbed her jacket from the bed and slipped it on, flipping out the snow-white hair from beneath her collar. “So what do you think?” she asked her cracked reflection as she adjusted the coat’s fit. “Do you think he’s really the One?” She had no idea, and doubted that the image looking back at her was any more knowledgeable. What she did know was that Aaron was something very special, and that was exactly what Aerie needed to survive this day. She only hoped that she would be strong enough to help him.

  Leaving her bedroom, on the way to the gathering, she stopped in the living room to check on her patient. Lorelei sat on the couch next to the still-sleeping Vilma, and carefully checked beneath the bandage on her stomach. She was pleased; Verchiel had hurt the girl badly, but it looked like she was going to be all right, although she still had to survive the process of becoming a Nephilim.

  Gently Lorelei placed her hand against the girl’s perspiring brow, and Vilma’s large, dark eyes suddenly opened. Her gaze darted about the room, then focused on Lorelei.

  “I’m safe?” she asked groggily.

  “Yes, you are,” Lorelei answered in a soothing voice. “No one will hurt you anymore.” She hoped that she was telling the truth, remembering the battle still to come.

  A smile spread across the young woman’s face. “He saved me,” she said, obviously talking of Aaron, and Lorelei took strength from the moment.

  “I think he’s going to save us all,” she told Vilma, suddenly confident that they would live to see tomorrow.