by Josh Raymer
“You agree that it’s worth trying, though?” I ask him. Bron nods assuredly.
“Given our other options, I do believe this endeavor to be worth our time. I will accompany you to meet with the archangels and assist you however I can. But I must warn you that these angels do not hold me in the highest regard. I hope my presence won’t be a hindrance to your cause.”
Bron looks downright sheepish as he says this. I’m confused by why anyone in Heaven would have problems with Bron. Aside from the awkward introduction, he’s been pleasant and helpful since we arrived outside his home. A little odd, sure, but somehow I expected that when Augustus told me we were meeting a heavenly being who’s obsessed with measurements and building things.
“Power-hungry bastards,” Augustus says in such a low tone it’s practically a growl. “They’re jealous of anyone else God chooses to entrust with power. Insufferable is what they are.”
Bron doesn’t respond. His sad nod tells me that Augustus is correct.
“Thank you for agreeing to help us, Bron,” I tell him. “I think we can get the archangels to see reason, and despite your misgivings, I think you’ll be crucial in helping us do that. That might sound naive, but technically I was born yesterday. Well, maybe ‘reborn’ is a better word.”
“Except you haven’t been reborn on Earth yet, and time is irrelevant in Heaven,” Bron retorts. His look of confusion makes me smile. “So I’m not sure what you mean, Silas Ford.”
“It’s a saying from back home,” I tell him. “You know what, never mind. Shall we get going?”
“I’m as ready as I’ll ever be, I suppose,” Augustus says. “As long as we all understand what happens if things go sideways with the archangels. We have to pursue one of the other plans.”
“Agreed,” I say. “We can’t afford to waste any more time.”
With our contingency plan in place, Bron claps his hands and gestures us back down the path that brought us to his house. The red canyon walls slip below the horizon as we walk single file down the descending stone walkway. I’m dreading another trip on Heaven’s dark and disorienting expressway.
Of all the ways God could have chosen for Heaven’s denizens to get around, he picked the equivalent of riding Space Mountain while drunk off your ass. Maybe it takes time to get used to the feeling. Or maybe this form of travel affects me differently because I’m still human.
Hell, maybe everyone up here is a bit touched, and they all really enjoy it.
Bron gestures at the dark tunnel stretched out before us.
“Next stop is the bastille, gentlemen. Silas, I’m going to wager a guess and say you had trouble with your initial attempt at using this portal to traverse Heaven. The experience was likely overwhelming.”
“You could say that,” I respond. “One minute Augustus and I are trekking along just fine, if you don’t count my episode with the time trees, and the next minute it feels like I’m standing at the edge of a skyscraper on a windy day. Not exactly a great first impression, Bron.”
“Heaven’s a trip, kid,” Augustus interjects with a chuckle. “Just wait until you see what else God and Bron cooked up. The best is yet to come, as they say.”
“I’m sorry your first experience was unpleasant,” Bron says. “I never thought humans would traverse the areas of Heaven you have thus far seen. My designs did not take into account the shock their bodies would endure when facing systems built for residents of Heaven. Therefore, to make your journey out to the bastille more comfortable, I can temporarily suspend your consciousness if you wish. You’ll awaken safe and sound once we’ve reached our destination.”
“A little cat nap while we cross the void, eh?”
“That’s one way of putting it.”
I look at Augustus, who nods, and I shrug my shoulders at Bron. “Let’s do it,” I tell him. “Knock me out. I have zero interest in reliving that feeling.”
Bron steps forward and places a bronze finger to my forehead. His glowing skin is surprisingly warm to the touch, and I feel his other arm slip around me as the world fades to black.
Chapter 4
4. The Passion of Puriel
I know I’m asleep. That much I remember. I can’t see anything, and my body is weightless, which makes it even more disorienting when I hear a familiar voice somewhere below me. The voice is smooth and steady, yet also touched with exhaustion. That voice is a staple of late nights at Tully’s Tavern. Its owner calls it a “weapon of mass seduction.” The ladies can’t resist it, he says.
When the picture snaps into focus, my brother is standing there before me.
Colin is here, too. So is Forrest, who stands a few feet away, his back against a cinderblock wall. The fiery speck at the end of Grace’s cigarette casts a weak light across her face. Their expressions are hard to read due to the shadows cutting across this room. I’m viewing this scene from above, and the edges are fuzzy, but from what I can tell, my friends appear to be in some kind of bunker.
Peter’s shoulders are slumped, and I realize there’s a trickle of blood running down the side of his head. Nonetheless, my heart swells with joy at the sight of him. Seeing him here with the others tells me he made it away from the lumberyard in one piece. I have no idea if what I’m seeing is real, if it’s already happened, if it’s happening now, or if I’m dreaming this whole thing.
The details all seem too vivid for this to be a dream, though.
“How many dead?”
The voice responsible for this question is small and quiet. Afraid, I’d say. This shocks me only because it belongs to Forrest. Even in our darkest moments, he never sounded that low.
“Best we can tell—twenty. Maybe twenty-five.”
It’s Colin this time. His normally powerful voice sounds distant. I’m reminded of the doctors who broke the news to us that Mom was dead. I hear the same kind of detachment coming from Colin and realize with horror he’s talking about the aftermath of the battle in Sherwood. I know a handful of slayers died in the lumberyard fighting against Malphas and his hordes. If what I’m seeing is real, however, then the death toll has spiked tremendously since my death. Something must have gone horribly wrong in town. Or, worse yet, the battle is raging on, and the deaths are mounting.
I have to get back there as soon as I can. My friends need me. My town needs me. People are dying, and I’m stuck up here where I don’t belong, trying to stop a war that doesn’t involve me.
“We’re outnumbered and pinned down,” Grace says, her cigarette dancing in her mouth. “Until Silas gets back, I don’t know how much good we can do out there. We can play hero if we want. I’ll load up and ride off into the sunset guns blazing if that’s how we want to play this. God knows I will. But I’d like to think we can come up with a plan that doesn’t involve getting ourselves killed.”
“Whatever we’re gonna do, let’s shake a fucking leg here.” Peter is antsy. The way his voice rises at the end is a dead giveaway. “We don’t have a lot of time to make up our minds.”
Whatever deadline is pushing the group toward swift action, I don’t find out. I’m sucked upward away from the group as Colin opens his mouth to speak. If I could gasp with shock at the sudden departure, I would. But I’m just a balloon released from a child’s grip, floating skyward to a slowly-awakening mind that expected rest during this reprieve but instead found new questions.
Hang in there, guys. I’ll be back soon.
Don’t go getting yourselves killed in the meantime.
***
The first thing I notice about the bastille is its sheer size. I’ve seen bigger buildings on Earth, yet I’ve never stood before one that so deftly combined grandeur and opulence. The entire structure appears to be made of gleaming black marble. A flat wall that stretches as far as the eye can see is interrupted by rounded turrets topped with parapets. It’s easy to envision angels standing guard at each o
f the crenellations, shield and sword in hand. Those parapets are empty right now, though. Silence surrounds this edifice on all sides. I find this fact unnerving.
I certainly don’t miss the sounds of battle. I’ve heard enough screams, explosions, and gunfire to last ten lifetimes. But if we’ve strayed into an active war zone, where the hell is everyone? Bron made it seem like we’d arrive to find the bastille in ruins.
Augustus is already treading hastily up the path that runs alongside the bastille. Bron has wandered off into the grass and is making a beeline toward the outer wall. As I stop for a moment and watch him go, I’m once again reminded of Heaven’s strange beauty. The grass here is not simply green. It’s burnt orange, goldenrod, crimson, periwinkle, and a dozen other colors I can’t name. The blades are thick and knee-high on Bron, who towers above me. They’re easily up to my waist. I haven’t felt the first gust of wind here, but this grass is constantly swaying as if tickled by a slight breeze. This effect is hypnotic, much like the time trees.
Bron reaches the outer wall and runs his hand over the smooth black marble. His eyes are closed, and he mumbles to himself. He nods his head and then speaks before falling silent. With his ear cocked toward the wall, he appears to be listening. He repeats this process of nodding his head, speaking, and listening. As crazy as it sounds, I think he’s having a conversation with the bastille, which would be insane until you consider that he’s a giant bronze man, and this is Heaven.
I turn my attention to Augustus and find him squatted down on the path about a hundred feet away. He’s turning over something silver and pointed in his hands. A weapon, perhaps? It’s hard to tell from this distance. I step onto the path—which consists of alternating rows of gold and marble blocks—and begin walking toward Augustus when Bron calls out to us.
“They’ve been here,” he tells us. “The battle has since moved elsewhere, but they were most certainly here not too long ago. I can hear the cries of battle and feel their residual energy in the walls of this structure. As we suspected, the fighting was ferocious.”
Augustus wears a puzzled expression as I glance his way. I suspect he’s struck by the same question that came to me upon hearing Bron’s declaration. I speak up since he’s still far away.
“If the battle came here, why is there no damage? This place looks virtually untouched.”
“It happened in the skies,” Bron answers solemnly. “Their feet never touched the ground. Which tells me it’s possible the archangels are thinking of the damage their conflict is causing.”
“It tells me the conflict here was over quickly,” Augustus asserts. “No damage plus no bodies. It’s almost like the fight wasn’t meant to play out here. Like the bastille was just a pit stop.”
“The next closest realm is the armory, right?” I ask them both.
They nod. Bron says, “If you are correct, Augustus, and the angels were headed for the armory post haste, then I believe this conflict is about to become bloodier. The armory’s weapons were built to be brutally efficient. ‘All kills, no frills’ is how many of the angels describe them.”
Augustus, who is now standing next to me, holds up the weapon that I saw him turning over in his hand. It’s a short, silver sword with a cone-shaped blade. He tosses it to me, and I snag it in my right hand. The blade is lightweight and well-balanced. It’s also emanating a nearly imperceptible hum as I grip the handle and hold it in front of me. The vibration travels up my arm and rattles my chest. The sensation acts like a straight shot of adrenaline. I feel powerful and ready to strike.
Why does everything up here have to exert its influence over me?
“It’s hard to ignore, isn’t it?” Augustus inquires. “An angel’s weapon is only drawn when he intends to kill. The rush you feel is only half of what angels experience. These swords light a fire in their chest that can only be quelled when the mission is complete, and the blade has tasted blood.”
“That certainly doesn’t help our current situation much,” I observe. “If these swords are whipping the angels into a bloodthirsty rage, the battle is bound to be vicious.”
Bron approaches me and extends his hand for the sword, which I hand to him.
“These blades are standard issue for all angels. Whoever holds one must be three feet from their intended target to be within striking distance. Difficult to manage with aerial combat.”
“Also difficult when your intended target is a fellow angel.” Augustus is staring up over the walls of the bastille. His expression conveys a sense of dismay. “Traitors or not, these angels are killing their brothers. Their friends. Their fellow soldiers. I made it sound like they were mindless drones earlier, but they’re not. They have feelings. I know this is tearing them up.”
“It might also explain why they wanted different weapons, ones that could wipe out a greater number with less effort,” I theorize. “They wouldn’t have to get up close and personal.”
What a morbid thought—seeking a less personal way to kill your former allies.
Bron stares at the blade while Augustus continues to gaze into the distance. They’re both lost in thought. I’m about to bring their attention back to the here and now when a bizarre noise erupts behind us. We all spin around in unison and search the area surrounding the bastille for its source. We see nothing except for an endless field of waist-high rainbow grass swaying in a non-existent breeze.
Several seconds pass before we hear it again. It’s a wailing cry like that of a wounded animal. I’ve never heard anything quite like it. I step forward to begin searching the grass when Augustus teleports from beside us and is deposited about a hundred yards away in the field. He moves swiftly for a man his age, bending down and grabbing something from the ground. From this distance, it’s hard to tell exactly what he’s draping over his shoulder. My gut tells me it’s a body.
We don’t have to wonder long. Augustus zaps back to our side and dumps the body from his shoulder the second his feet touch the ground. This man is square-jawed and handsome. His brown hair is medium length and sticks close to his head. His bulging biceps and strapping chest are draped in a white robe that’s covered with a golden breastplate. Chainmail armor covers his arms, and spiked gauntlets shroud his hands. My limited vocabulary concerning armor does not contain a word for his leg protection, but to me, it looks like he’s wearing metal shin guards.
His appearance is less disconcerting than his behavior, however. This man—who I know right away is an angel—writhes on the ground in apparent agony. I can’t tell the color of his eyes because they’re rolled back in his head. I can only stare at him while Augustus says something to Bron, who quickly kneels beside the angel and touches a finger to his forehead. Unlike it did for me, this action does not result in the angel losing consciousness. Instead, his body quiets, and he lies there for a moment drawing deep breaths. It’s almost like his body is rebooting.
“Who is he?” I ask.
“Puriel,” Bron answers. “He examines the souls of those who are brought to Heaven.”
“Do we know what side he’s on?”
“The right side,” Augustus says simply.
Puriel’s eyes open slowly, like a man pulled gently from a dream. He looks first at Bron, then at Augustus, and finally at me. When his eyes find me, he furrows his brow, and his jaw clenches.
I instinctively pull away and clench my fists. But instead of escalating the situation, Puriel pushes himself into a seated position and grips his head between his hands. For the moment, I relax. Whatever Bron did to him, I’m not sure the effect has worn off yet. He looks slightly dazed.
“How are you feeling, Puriel?” Bron asks him.
“Confused. Sore,” he answers in a baritone voice. “I am not sure why I am here.”
“Neither are we,” Augustus tells him. “We found you in that field over there. You were bellowing like a wounded animal and appeared to be in a lot o
f pain. That’s why Bron zapped you. Do you remember what you were doing here? Were you part of the battle?”
“I think so. My recollections are hazy, though. I believe we were fighting the rebellious brethren in the skies above the bastille. I remember flashes of color and sound. Then I got hit from behind. It was not a blade, nor any other form of angelic weaponry that laid me low. It was something else.”
“Oh dear,” Bron says quietly.
My blood runs cold at these words. Bron looks dismayed. Whatever he’s about to say, I know in my gut it won’t bode well for our efforts to quell this destructive conflict.
“When the blast hit you from behind, what did it feel like?” Bron asks Puriel.
Puriel stares at the ground. He shakes his head as he tries to remember the attack. Several seconds pass, and I’m beginning to wonder if he simply can’t answer the question.
He finally does. “Like I was hit by a wall of fire,” he replies.
“And in your head,” Bron tells him quietly, “you heard the sound of rushing water.”
Puriel is dumbstruck. “How could you possibly know that?”
“Oh hell,” Augustus grumbles, and my stomach drops again. “Tell me we’re not dealing with what I think we’re dealing with, Bron. Tell me we’re not already to that point.”
Bron lifts his gaze from Puriel’s face and nods solemnly at Augustus, who sighs deeply and rubs his face with his hand. I’m reminded of the discussions Colin would have with various members of his team when he was dealing with bad news he didn’t want to share with me. I didn’t like being left in the dark then, and I like it even less now, when time is of the utmost importance.
Of all the things Augustus could have passed on to his grandson…
“What are we dealing with, guys?” I ask the pair.
“It’s the staff of Moses,” Augustus says reluctantly. “Puriel was attacked by an angel wielding the staff that Moses used to part the Red Sea.”
“Which means…oh shit,” I say as the horrifying realization dawns on me.
