The Fallen 2 Read online

  Belphegor moved toward him, defiance in his ancient eyes. “And what of our greatest sinner?” the fallen asked. “How is it that the first of the fallen was allowed to sire the savior of us all? Doesn’t that tell you something, Verchiel? Doesn’t that convince you that there might be some truth in the ancient writings?”

  Sounds of the violence outside drifted into the place of worship, but it was nothing compared to the deafening din inside the angel’s head. “The first of the fallen sired nothing,” Verchiel roared, startled by his own fury. “We saw to that. Any woman who lay with him was destroyed. There was no chance of his seed taking root—”

  “Not only did the seed root, but it bore fruit,” Belphegor said, his voice firm with certainty.

  Verchiel steeled himself, gripping his weapon all the tighter. “It cannot be,” he whispered incredulously.

  Belphegor shrugged again. “Mysterious ways and all that.” He smiled and turned his gaze back to the mural. “Don’t you see, Verchiel, it must be what He wanted—and if the Morningstar can be forgiven, there’s hope for us all.”

  The church walls seemed to be closing in upon Verchiel, the revelation of the Nephilim’s sire testing his limits. Did he have the might to hold on to his sacred mission? He felt it begin to slip from his grasp. How could this have happened? The question reverberated in his skull.

  “Is it so outrageous to believe that we can be forgiven?” Belphegor asked him, the question like a dagger strike to his chest.

  “Lies!” Verchiel shrieked, his wings unfurling as he strode down the remainder of the aisle toward the altar.

  He pointed his blade toward the mural and the fire from his weapon streamed forth to scorch the painted image black. And then Belphegor’s hands were suddenly upon his shoulders, and he was hurled backward into the rough benches, reducing them to kindling.

  “You must face the truth!” Belphegor shouted, the altar burning behind him. “You are going against His wishes!”

  Verchiel rose from the small pile of rubble, the power of his righteous fury building inside him. He remained silent, knowing what he must do.

  “But it’s not too late …,” Belphegor continued.

  Verchiel’s body began to glow, his clothing burning away to reveal flesh like cold, white marble. The floor beneath him began to smolder and the wood ignited.

  “You, too, could be forgiven for your sins.”

  The Powers’ commander spread open his wings and the fire of his heavenly being emanated from his body in waves.

  “We could all go home, Verchiel,” Belphegor pleaded, as his own flesh began to blister.

  Then Belphegor burned.

  As would they all.

  Malak wielded two daggers, slashing and darting forward with the murderous grace of a venomous serpent. He seemed tireless in his pursuit of Aaron’s demise, and the Nephilim found his defenses beginning to wane.

  He didn’t want to remember his little brother as the monster attacking him now, so he kept the memories of the child he loved at the forefront of his thoughts, drawing strength from emotion. With both hands he brandished a large broadsword of pulsing orange flame, swinging it around as opportunity presented itself. The flat of the blade connected with Malak’s wrist, knocking one of the knives from his grasp in a flash of sparks as heavenly fire met magickally fortified armor.

  Aaron heard a hiss of pain and anger from beneath the crimson face mask as Malak clutched his wrist to his chest. Although the blade could not penetrate the armor, the fragile flesh beneath would certainly suffer with the powerful force of the blow.

  “It doesn’t have to be like this, Stevie,” Aaron said desperately. He just couldn’t bring himself to give up.

  But Aaron’s futile attempts only served to enflame Malak’s anger all the more, and the armored warrior came at him yet again. As he ducked and wove beneath the assassin’s blows, Aaron knew a part of him was holding back. He also knew that if he didn’t wise up fast, that part would get him killed. Malak was not Stevie. He had to accept that before he could bring this battle to a close.

  Aaron sailed up into the air as Malak swiped at him with a short-bladed sword. He reached down and grabbed the armored warrior beneath the arms, ebony wings pounding the air to hold them aloft. Malak struggled in his clutches as the Nephilim strained to carry him higher and higher still. When the Powers’ assassin violently threw back his head, jabbing one of the horns on his helmet into the tender flesh of Aaron’s stomach, the young man lost his grip, letting Malak plummet to the street below. Aaron watched the scarlet figure fall, fighting the urge to swoop down and save him. Malak hit the ground with a sickening clatter, his limp form tumbling to a stop in the center of the street.

  The Nephilim swooped down from above to land beside the motionless body. Feeling the pangs of guilt, wishing he could hate the armored warrior, he reached out with both hands to pull the fearsome metal mask from the assassin’s head. Aaron wanted to see the killer’s face again, to look into his eyes, to find his little brother still alive somewhere within. He pulled off the horned helmet and discarded it, carefully placing a hand behind his neck and lifting his head. A single stream of red trickled from Malak’s left nostril.

  Malak’s eyes slowly opened and Aaron tensed. The man’s body shuddered and then coughed. “Aaron?” he said in a voice that sounded as if it came from a hundred miles away.

  It was weak, but there was something in it that Aaron recognized. He pulled the young man closer, daring to believe there could be a chance, no matter how small. “I’m here,” he told him, enfolding them both in the great expanse of his wings.

  “Aaron …,” Malak said again, his voice strained and full of pain.

  “Hold on now, we’ll fix you,” Aaron reassured him, certain now that Stevie was still in there somewhere, fighting for his identity, fighting against the pain and misery that Verchiel had used to distort him. He could see the struggle behind the man’s deep blue eyes and Aaron held him tighter, lending him his strength. “Belphegor and Lorelei—they’ll have the answers. We’ll make it right, you’ll see. Hang on, Stevie,” he urged.

  Slowly Stevie reached up to touch his brother’s face, his gauntleted fingers tracing the black sigils.

  “We’ll be a family again, me and you … and Gabriel.” Aaron laughed desperately, overcome with emotion. “Can’t forget him.”

  He saw it in the man’s eyes before he had a chance to react. Stevie had lost his battle. Malak closed his hand around Aaron’s throat and started to squeeze. The grip was remarkable, cutting off his air supply completely as the metal-clad fingers dug into the tender flesh of his throat.

  “Aaron,” Malak said again, only this time it was more like a reptilian hiss, absent of any emotion.

  The Nephilim grabbed Malak’s wrist with both hands, struggling to break his grip. But Malak held fast, giggling maniacally. Explosions of color blossomed before his eyes and Aaron knew that it wouldn’t be long before he blacked out. He spread his wings and began to beat the air, stirring up a storm of dirt and rock as he fought to be free, but it did nothing to loosen the hunter’s grip upon his neck. Malak seemed to be enjoying the struggle, as if he too knew it was only a matter of time now.

  Aaron’s wings faltered and a trembling weakness spread through his arms. He gazed into the cold, dead eyes of the thing that used to be his brother and opened his mouth to scream. It was nothing more than a croak, but to the Nephilim’s ears, it was a cry of mourning, a cry of rage for what had been done to an innocent little boy.

  Malak smiled as Aaron let one of his hands fall away from the monster’s wrist.

  But the Nephilim wasn’t giving up yet. From the arsenal inside his head, he selected a knife, a sleek and deadly object with the sharpest of blades. The weapon sparked to life in his free hand and he saw Malak’s eyes drawn to it. The killer’s armor was impervious to weapons of Heaven, but the flesh inside the shell was not. Aaron plunged the flaming dagger into the chink at the bend of Malak’s arm
where the armor separated into two pieces.

  Malak screeched in pain, sounding more like a wounded animal than anything remotely human, and pulled away his arm, releasing Aaron’s throat from his death grip. Aaron scrambled back across the ground, rubbing at his bruised windpipe, greedily taking in gulps of air.

  “That hurt,” Malak whined, sounding a bit like the little boy that he should have been. But Aaron now knew that wasn’t the case at all.

  With his other arm, the scarlet-garbed warrior raked his hand across an area of open air in front of him, and tore a hole in space. For the first time Aaron took note of the sound that it made, and it reminded him of the ripping of heavy fabric. From his neverending arsenal, the killer produced a loaded crossbow.

  The fight was taking its toll. Wearily Aaron summoned another sword of fire, but his nemesis was faster. As his blade took form, Malak let fly a bolt. Aaron lashed out at the shaft of black metal, deflecting the projectile in a shower of sparks. With nimble fingers, Malak loaded another bolt and fired it. This time the Nephilim wasn’t fast enough and the bolt buried itself deep in the flesh of his thigh.

  The pain drove him to his knee. He tried to pull it from his leg, but the shaft was greasy with his own blood. He heard the clatter of armor on the move and saw that Malak was moving toward him, holding a sword as he came in for the kill. Aaron struggled to stand, hefting his own weapon of fire.

  It was then that the church exploded. There was a flash from somewhere within the holy structure, and then it blew apart with a deafening roar, spewing hungry orange flames into the sky. Glass, metal, and wood rained down upon the battlefield.

  “Master,” Malak cried pitifully, his attention focused entirely on the blackened, smoking hole that was Aerie’s place of worship.

  Malak’s show of concern for the monster that had brought nothing but pain and misery was all Aaron needed to spur him to action. This was the moment he had both dreaded and longed for, the opportunity to finally bring the battle to a close. Time slowed and his leg screeched in protest as he threw himself toward his distracted enemy. With both hands Aaron brought the blazing sword up over his shoulder and then swung it with all the force he could muster. As he watched the blade cut through the air on course to its target, his thoughts were filled with images of the past—frozen moments of time that seemed so very long ago.

  He saw the little boy he’d loved sleeping peacefully in his bed, Gabriel curled into a tight ball at his side.

  The blade was closer now, and Malak began to turn, suddenly aware.

  The child rocking before the television set, the image upon the screen nothing more than static.

  “I’m sorry, Stevie,” Aaron whispered as the heavenly blade reached its destination, cutting through the thick muscle and bone of Malak’s neck, severing his head from his armored body.

  Aaron fell to his knees before the body of his foe—his brother—and bowed his head. He felt drained of life, as if this last, violent act had sucked away his final reserves of strength.

  But then he heard something move within the rubble of the church and lifted his head to gaze at the smoldering wreckage. There was a brilliant flash of light, and a warm breeze caressed his face as a figure rose up from beneath the detritus, carried into the air on wings composed of heavenly light.

  “Murderer,” Verchiel pronounced, his accusation rumbling through the air.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  No matter how hard she tried, Lorelei could not keep the man from dying.

  The attack by the Powers was unrelenting, brutal, and she watched stunned as people who she had come to know as friends were slain before her eyes. Lorelei did what she could, using angelic magicks to repel the attackers, but it wasn’t enough. Citizens were still dying.

  She did not know him well, but thought his name was Mike. He too was a Nephilim, and had come to Aerie not long after she’d first arrived. He’d had the look—pale skin, close-cropped hair, an unusual amount of scar tissue around the wrists. Like her, he had been institutionalized as the angelic birthright came to life inside him, turning his day-to-day existence on its ear.

  Lorelei had seen him struck down. A Powers’ angel had come swooping down out of the sky and impaled him on the end of a flaming spear before moving on to find murder and mayhem elsewhere. There was a flash of recognition in his eyes as she approached him, a glimmer of hope that this was not the end for him despite the gaping wound in his chest. If only she had the power. Using all her strength, she dragged him from the street, away from the battle that would decide their fate. On a front lawn more dirt than grass, she knelt down beside him and took his hand in hers.

  In the past she’d tried to make small talk with Mike. Whenever she saw him out walking or at the group meetings, she always made it a point to smile and say hello. But Mike had kept to himself. She’d heard that he wasn’t adjusting well to his transformation. Right now, it didn’t really matter. Mike was dying and there was nothing she could do to save him. All she could do was be with him when he passed.

  We’re not doing very well, she thought as she gave Mike’s hand a gentle squeeze. The dying Nephilim squeezed back weakly. His wound was still smoking, as if burning somewhere deep within, and she placed her other hand over the hole in his chest hoping to smother it.

  Her father’s guns boomed somewhere in the distance, and she was certain that another Powers’ angel had met its fate, but it wasn’t enough. Most of the citizens weren’t soldiers, and the Powers had sworn their existences to wiping Aerie’s kind from the world. Lorelei could sense her fellow Nephilim dying, like tiny pieces of herself floating away on the wind.

  She returned her attention to Mike and saw that he had passed away. His eyes were wide in death, staring up into the sky toward what she hoped was a better place, a place where he could be at peace. And wasn’t that what they were all fighting for?

  She rose and moved to return to the battle. The ground was littered with the corpses of citizens and Powers alike. A Powers’ soldier, one of his wings twisted and bent, came at her from across the street. There was a dagger of flame in one hand and the look of murder in his glistening black eyes. She must have looked like an easy target.

  “Hate to disappoint you,” she said before beginning to mutter a spell of defense. She felt the charge of angelic energy building inside her. The angel was almost upon her, but she held her ground. She could smell the stink of his fury oozing from his flesh; it smelled of spice and something akin to burning rubber. It made her want to vomit.

  Lorelei was getting tired. Her body was not used to manipulating these kinds of energies for this length of time, and the magicks were slow to respond. The strain was painful as she called forth a blast of crackling energy. Bolts of energy emanated from her fingertips and met in the air to form a ball. The energy rolled across the space between them, striking the Powers’ angel in the face, stopping him in his tracks. The angel screamed pitifully as the flesh on his face turned to ash. He fell to his knees, dead before his body even touched the ground.

  Her head swam and the tips of her fingers ached as if frostbitten. She wondered if she’d be able to find the strength to defend herself again, when she felt an uncomfortable tingling in the pit of her stomach and looked past the battles to the church of Aerie. It was Belphegor she sensed, and he was in great pain. But as Lorelei started for the holy place, it exploded in a blast of orange flame and a scorching wind that picked her up and tossed her back. She struggled to her feet and wound her way across the battlefield to the smoking pile of rubble. Not even the destruction of the church could stop their battle.

  “Belphegor!” she cried, the heat of the ruins on which she walked burning through the soles of her boots.

  It was then that she felt him, a twinge of his once powerful life force calling from nearby. A hand, charred and blackened, beckoned to her from beneath a section of collapsed wall and she went to it. Using all her strength, Lorelei moved the rubble aside, managing to expose Belphegor’s upper
body. He was hurt beyond imagining, and she hadn’t the slightest idea how he was still living. His breathing was a grating rasp, and his eyes—his beautiful, soulful eyes—opened as she laid her hand upon his blackened cheek.

  “Belphegor,” she whispered, scalding tears of sadness raining down from her eyes. “What have they done to you?”

  The fallen angel closed his eyes again, as if attempting to muster the strength to speak. “I have lost my battle,” he said in a strained whisper, his voice like the rustling of dry leaves. “But the war is far from over.”

  “They’re killing us,” she said, bowing her head, feeling the grip of despair upon her.

  His charred hand brushed against the side of her head, and she raised her gaze to him. “As long as he still lives,” the Founder stressed, “there is hope.”

  She wanted to believe in the savior, in Aaron Corbet, but at the moment it all seemed so unrealistic. Instead Lorelei began to move away more of the debris. “Let’s see about getting you free—”

  “Stop,” he commanded, his voice stronger. “It is too late for me,” he said with finality.

  She didn’t want to hear that, she didn’t want to hear that he had given up. If he had managed to survive thus far, maybe there was something she could do to help him heal faster. Her thoughts raced with spells of healing. “You can’t die.” She continued to frantically try to free him. “You have to hold on … you have to hold on until the savior forgives you.”

  “That is not to be my fate,” Belphegor responded sadly, his head resting on a pillow of rubble.

  And though it pained her, something deep down inside told her that it was true.

  “My many years of tending these gardens has left my constitution weak.” He shook his head feebly from side to side. “Do not despair for me,” he told her. “For I have lived far longer than even I expected. From the moment Camael spared my life in Eden, I knew that I was living on borrowed time, and swore that when the moment finally did arrive, I would not fight, but would welcome it—for it was due me long ago.”