Reckoning f-4 Read online

  “What?” she asked, looking into his eyes. “Is there something wrong?”

  Where to begin? Lucifer pondered. He considered wishing it all away, to return to the darkness of oblivion, to the bleak reality of his situation, but he couldn’t bring himself to do so.

  “No,” he finally said, feeling somewhat guilty for the lie, even though she was only a creation of his mind. “Everything’s fine. Why don’t you go back to sleep?”

  Taylor sat up in bed, the strap of her nightgown sliding off her shoulder to expose the curves of her delicate flesh. “You’re not a very good liar, you know that?” she said with a knowing smile. “Maybe if we talk about it, you’ll feel better, come up with something that you didn’t think of before.”

  He found it strangely amusing that he tried to lie to an invention of his own imagination, as if it wouldn’t already be aware of the danger he was in.

  Lucifer rolled away and climbed from the bed. “There’s really nothing to talk about.” His environment suddenly changed, like a scene-shift in a motion picture, the quiet darkness of the bedroom blurring into a park on a beautiful summer’s day.

  “Try me,” Taylor said, her hand firmly clasped in his.

  Her silk nightgown had been replaced with a simple sundress, sandals, and a floppy, wide-brimmed hat. It was the outfit she had been wearing when they’d first met so long ago. A dog, a golden retriever that he already knew was named Brandy, bounded toward them, a stick in its mouth, eager for a game of fetch.

  It was an absolutely beautiful day, just as he remembered. The sky was bluer than he had ever seen it, wispy clouds like spider’s silk stretching across the broad turquoise expanse. It was a day unlike any other he had spent upon the world of his banishment—the day when he first considered that he could be something more than the first of the fallen, the monster that had brought about a war in Paradise.

  How foolish he had been.

  Taylor took the stick from the dog and threw it. “Do you think he’ll actually do it?” she asked, watching the dog bound across the green, green grass in pursuit of its prize.

  She was speaking about Verchiel and the angel’s intention to use Lucifer as an instrument of death to strike at the heart of the Creator—by destroying His world. He would have liked to believe that nothing that sprang from the loins of God could do such evil, but he had looked into the eyes of the Powers commander and saw something angry and twisted—something familiar—and he knew the answer.

  “Yes, I think he will,” Lucifer said.

  Brandy returned happily with the stick, and he noticed that the sky had grown suddenly darker, as if there were a storm brewing. This had not been part of their original day and Lucifer grew wary.

  “And do you think he’ll succeed?” the woman asked, squatting down to pat the dog, running her nails through its long, golden brown fur and rubbing its ears.

  The sky had turned the color of night and thunder rumbled ominously in the distance. “In order for Verchiel to destroy the world of man, he must somehow undo the Word of God,” Lucifer replied as the darkness closed in around them. “And I doubt that even one as tenacious as he can concoct a way in which to do that.”

  The rain began to fall in drenching torrents, and he took her by the hand and pulled her to her feet, and they ran for cover. Brandy had already deserted them, fleeing into the permanent midnight that had consumed all evidence of the park.

  He put his arm around Taylor, holding her close to him, fearing that he might lose her in the storm. She was soaked, and he felt her tremble as they stumbled through the dreamscape in search of shelter.

  A cave was suddenly before them, like the open maw of the great whale ready to swallow Jonah, and as they approached, a feeling of unease swept over him and he recoiled.

  “What’s the matter?” Taylor asked, pushing her wet hair away from her face. “Do you know this place?” And he knew full well that she knew he did.

  “It’s not a place I care to visit,” he said, staring into the Cimmerian space beyond the cave’s entrance.

  Taylor tugged at his hand, pulling him toward the cave. “We should go inside,” she suggested. “Just for a little while, to get out of the rain.”

  Every instinct screamed for him to run, but he allowed himself to be pulled along, and the darkness enveloped them in an embrace that chilled him to his very core.

  Torches came to life as they walked deeper into the cave. There were crude drawings upon the walls depicting God’s creation of the universe, of the beings that He would call His angels. He saw himself sitting at the Creator’s right hand as the Earth formed beneath them.

  “That really pissed you off, didn’t it?” Taylor asked. The passage in which they walked angled steeply downward.

  “Yes, it did,” Lucifer admitted, eyeing the interpretation of Eden and its first human residents. He still felt the fury as if for the first time. “I was jealous of them. I thought that He was pushing us aside for the humans—that He loved them more than us.”

  They continued their descent, the passage opening wider, the paintings now dwarfing them with their size.

  “Did you have to start a war?” She gave his hand a loving squeeze. “Couldn’t you have just had a nice talk? Told Him how you were feeling?”

  The pictures showed Lucifer gathering his army and giving them a gift of his inner strength.

  “I was angry.”

  “No kidding,” Taylor said, pointing out a particularly fearsome depiction of himself, flaming sword in hand as he led his troops into battle against the forces of Heaven.

  The wall art that followed was of things that he didn’t care to see. Paintings of his army’s defeat, of the deaths of those that had sworn him allegiance, the survivors fleeing Heaven to hide upon the earth.

  “I bet seeing it drawn out like this makes you feel pretty stupid,” Taylor said with a sigh.

  “You don’t know the half of it,” Lucifer answered. “But somehow you learn to live with and accept the mistakes that you made.”

  They had reached the end of the passage, the final drawing before them an image of himself, broken, beaten, skin blackened and charred, as the hand of God came down from the heavens to deliver His verdict upon him.

  “And His punishment?” she asked, unconsciously rubbing her own chest at the point where God had touched him—where all the pain and sorrow that he had caused was placed. “Have you accepted that?”

  Lucifer slowly nodded, his eyes riveted to the artistic representation of his fate. “It is what I deserved,” he said, reaching out to place the palm of his hand upon the cool stone wall that marked the end of their journey.

  And as his hand came in contact with the wall, a shudder went through the painted rock. Large cracks appeared, splitting the stone. Lucifer was quick to act, gripping Taylor by the arm and pulling her from the path of harm as the stone wall before them fell away to reveal something hidden behind it.

  They stared in awe as the dust began to settle, and they looked upon an enormous door of metal. It reminded him of a bank vault, only far larger, its surface crisscrossed with thick chains and fortified with multiple locks of every imaginable size.

  Instinctively he knew what he was looking at—what they were looking at—and was in awe of it. Here was the psychic representation of God’s Word, the curse that kept the accumulated pain and sorrow of the War in Heaven locked away inside of him.

  “And Verchiel would have to get through that to achieve his plans?” Taylor asked, pointing to the enormous door.

  Lucifer was about to respond, to reassure her that nothing short of God Himself could access the obstacle that kept his hellish penance at bay, when he felt a tremor pass through the tunnel, and the great door rattled in its frame of ancient rock. They both watched in growing horror as a padlock connecting two links of a mighty chain sprang open, clattering to floor.

  “That’s exactly what he would have to do,” Lucifer said, an icy claw of dread closing upon his heart as anothe
r of the locks fell away.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Aaron stifled a cry of discomfort as Lorelei dabbed some salve on the wounds he sustained during his altercation with Vilma. It smelled absolutely horrible and stung even worse. But she had already chastised him once about being a baby, embarrassing him in front of Lehash, so he gritted his teeth and endured the pain.

  “Are you almost done back there?” he asked.

  “Just about,” she said as he felt her attach a dampened bandage to his shoulder. “That oughta take care of that.” She gently pressed the bandage against his burned skin. It felt cool—almost soothing—but then the throbbing was back.

  “Until she loses it again,” Lehash added, pulling one of his foul-smelling cheroots from his duster pocket.

  “That’s not the least bit funny.” Aaron glared at the angel.

  “It wasn’t meant to be, boy,” the gunslinger said, lifting his index finger to the tip of the thin cigar in his mouth.

  “Don’t you dare light that filthy thing in here,” Scholar bellowed from across the room. “The books will stink of it for months.” The angel was sitting at a small wooden desk, his back to them, as he continued to peruse the books he had gathered, hoping to find a solution to Vilma’s problem.

  “And you wonder why I don’t visit,” Lehash grumbled, taking the cigar from his mouth and returning it to his pocket.

  The mood was depressingly grim. Neither Lorelei nor Lehash held out much hope for Vilma, but Aaron wasn’t about to give up that easily. If anyone in Aerie could help her, it was Scholar.

  The fallen angel threw up his hands in exasperation and rose from his seat. “I’ve found nothing,” he said, beginning to pace. “There’s plenty about Nephilim, but nothing on how to control them once they’re out of balance.”

  Lehash leaned back against a bookcase and crossed his arms. “And you know why that is?” he asked. “Because there isn’t any way, and that’s one of the reasons why the Powers started killing Nephilim. The angelic essence is sometimes too much for the human aspect to deal with; it’s too strong and it takes control—makes ‘em crazy, dangerous.”

  “She’s not crazy or dangerous,” Aaron grumbled, slipping on a fresh shirt.

  “Right now she ain’t, and that’s only because we got her knocked out with one of Lorelei’s special potions, and wearing a pair’a them magickal bracelets. Hell, we even got that dog of yours over there trying to keep her from getting her feathers ruffled.”

  Aaron’s thoughts raced. He didn’t like where this was going. There had to be something they could do to help her. “What about the ritual I went through with Belphegor?” he asked. “Wasn’t that to help my two natures unify properly? Why couldn’t we do that with—”

  Scholar shook his head. “She’d never survive it. The angelic nature is already stronger than her human half. It would eat her alive and we’d have the same problem we started with: pure angelic power running amok.”

  “And we can’t have that, Aaron,” Lehash said grimly. “It may not be what you want, but somethin’s got to be done before she gets outta hand again.”

  Aaron shook his head. They’d already given up on her. “I’m not hearing this,” he said, turning to face them all. Lorelei wouldn’t make eye contact, arranging her bottles and vials of healing remedies in a pink, plastic makeup case. “I refuse to believe that there’s nothing we can do for Vilma, short of putting her down like some sick animal.”

  They said nothing, refusing to provide him with even the slightest glimmer of hope.

  “Lorelei,” Aaron said, watching as she visibly flinched, “with your angel magick, there’s nothing you can do that might help?”

  She shook her head, finally meeting his gaze. “You’re talking about binding a divine essence. I haven’t the training or the knowledge to—”

  Aaron suddenly clapped his hands and whirled toward Scholar. “The knowledge,” he repeated moving toward the angel. “Lorelei doesn’t have the knowledge, but maybe somebody else does.” He stopped short before the scholarly angel. “Who would have more knowledge than Lorelei? How did she learn what she knows? Who taught the magick user?”

  Scholar shrugged his shoulders and tugged at his ear nervously. “Belphegor taught her quite a bit, and then there are books and scrolls. But Vilma’s problem, like I already told you, isn’t addressed in—”

  “Who taught Belphegor?” Aaron persisted. “Who wrote the books and the scrolls?” He gestured to them for help. “C’mon guys, give me something—anything.”

  “Most of what we have comes from the Archons,” Scholar said slowly.

  “But what’s left of them hooked up with Verchiel and his Powers,” Lehash said stepping away from the bookcase.

  Aaron felt his anger flare and struggled to prevent his wings from bursting forth and the sigils from rising upon his flesh. “Damn it,” he swore beneath his breath, feeling his own ray of hope beginning to dim.

  “Who taught the Archons?” Lorelei said softly and they all looked at her, although Scholar and Lehash remained strangely silent.

  “Well?” Aaron prodded. “The lady asked a question. Who taught the Archons?”

  Scholar turned back to his books. “It’s too much of a long shot,” he said, stacking the texts. “I wouldn’t want you to get your hopes up.”

  “Too late,” Aaron said walking to Scholar and gripping his arm. “Who are they?”

  “You’re clutching at straws here, boy,” Lehash echoed. “We don’t have the time to be wastin’ on—”

  Aaron whirled to glare at the gunslinger, this time letting the sigils of warriors that died serving the will of Lucifer appear on his flesh. “I don’t want to hear that,” he growled, and watched as Lehash backed down, averting his eyes.

  “Who taught the Archons?” he asked Scholar firmly, and there would be no debate.

  “They’re called the Malakim,” Scholar replied, an air of reverence in his tone. “And if you can’t get a meeting with the Lord God Almighty, then they’re the next best thing.

  Do we truly understand what we are doing? Archon Oraios wondered as he lifted the lid of the golden chest containing the paraphernalia of their mystical art. Or have we been blinded by the obsession of the one that commands us—drawn into the web of his madness, no longer able to escape?

  “Where is the dirt?” Archon Jao screeched, crouching within the circle of containment beneath Lucifer’s hanging body. The angel frantically checked and rechecked the metal clamps affixed to the first of the fallen’s chest to keep his incision pulled wide and taut. The bleeding had stopped sometime ago, and now the hint of a pulsing, red glow could be seen leaking from the splayed chest cavity. “I must have the dirt,” Jao demanded.

  Archon Oraios continued to search. The bag of sacred earth was crucial to their preparations. It was soil from the fields of Heaven, a powerful component of angelic sorceries, used to fortify and maintain the strength of more dangerous magicks. A small, frightened part of him hoped to never find it, forcing them to abandon this dangerous and blasphemous ritual.

  But alas, there it was—in a place he had already checked twice. Is a higher mystical force attempting to intervene, to prevent them from making a horrible mistake? he pondered.

  “Did you find it?” Archon Domiel prodded, tension filling his voice.

  With the death of their brother Jaldabaoth at the hands of the Malakim Raphael, their numbers were fewer, and all were feeling the strain.

  Only one more Malakim remained, one final shard of forbidden information, and then they would do the unthinkable: reverse the Word of God. And a plague of despair, the likes of which the world had never known, would wash over the land.

  “Here,” Oraios said, pulling from the chest the purse, made from the skin of an animal that had thrived in the garden before the death of the Eden.

  “Quickly now,” Jao insisted, his outstretched hand beckoning for the precious, magickal component.

  Oraios handed the pouch to his
brother and watched as Jao carefully spilled a portion of the rich, black contents into his open palm. The scent of Heaven wafted through the stale air of the abandoned school, and Oraios found himself transported back to Paradise by the memories stored within the fragrant aroma of the blessed earth.

  He’d always believed that he would return there someday, to again witness the towering crystal spires reaching up into forever, the endless fields of golden grass, whispering softly, caressed by the gentle winds, and to bask again in the radiance of His glory.

  But then Oraios returned to reality and gazed upon the form of the Morningstar, suspended with chains above a mystic circle drawn in his lifeblood and fortified with the dirt of providence. The Archon felt his dreams sadly slip away, resigning himself to his fate.

  “It is only a matter of time now,” he mused aloud, watching as his brothers continued their preparations, the images of Heaven in his mind already starting to fade.

  “I don’t think you understand what I’m trying to say,” Scholar said to the savior of Aerie, dipping his tea bag again and again in the steaming cup of water just poured from the electric teapot. “Malakim are mysteries even to us.”

  “So they’re a mystery, fine. I’m cool with that,” Aaron said, a twinkle of optimism in his eyes. “All I need to know is if they can help Vilma.”

  Scholar sipped his drink without removing the bag. A good, strong brew was required for this conversation. “Yes, I would imagine. If there are any beings of an angelic nature out there that might have the knowledge to solve Ms. Santiago’s problem, it would be they, but—”

  “No ‘buts,’ ” Aaron said with a quick shake of his head. “This is the closest we’ve come to a solution and I’m not about to lose it.”

  “But it isn’t close enough,” Lehash said. Aerie’s constable had helped himself to a cup of coffee and a seat, leaning the chair back on two legs against the wall. Ignoring Scholar’s looks of disapproval, he continued. “The Malakim have become legends to us—like Merlin or Paul Bunyan and his blue ox to the humans.”