Fall of the Angels

by Josh Raymer

  Switching us over to their channel now. I’ll make the introduction, then let Augustus make our case.

  The next voice I hear is unfamiliar. It’s low, strong, and slow.

  Bronze Man, why have you come here? State your purpose and do so quickly.

  Michael, Gabriel, Raphael—my companions and I humbly request an audience with the three of you to discuss an urgent matter. I am here with Augustus Shaw and Silas Ford, two of God’s chosen nephilim.

  Although we’re standing ten feet away, the archangels still haven’t turned around. The two in front pay us no mind, their full focus still on the battle before them. The one closest to us cocks his head to glance at us over his shoulder, revealing a strong, square jaw and dark eyes narrowed with suspicion. Or perhaps it’s curiosity. I can’t get a good read from this distance.

  I hold my breath as the nearest angel considers this request. The only sound I hear in this auditory void is my heart beating frantically against my ribs.

  I clear my mind so as not to cloud the airwaves or influence the angel’s decision.

  We will grant this request, but only because of the esteem afforded you by your position.

  My companions and I are extremely grateful.

  The knot in my stomach loosens. One hurdle down. One big one to go.

  Bron motions us forward as the archangels finally turn to face us. The nearest one that spoke to us has sharp features with a nose that appears broken. His hair is chestnut brown and styled high and tight. Three scars give his face a battle-worn look: one on his chin, a horizontal one across the bridge of his crooked nose, and the longest one running from his temple to his cheek. Those dark eyes examine the three of us as we approach, pausing to give me longer consideration.

  My name is Michael. These are my brothers, Gabriel and Raphael.

  Michael motions to his right at Gabriel and to his left at Raphael. Gabriel is the biggest of the three, barrel-chested with biceps as big as my head. His blonde hair is shoulder length and smooth, and though he eyes us with trepidation, his face is friendlier than Michael’s scarred visage.

  Raphael is bald, dark-skinned, and has striking green eyes. Tattoos that resemble ancient runes cover his upper arms. A gleaming silver dagger is clenched in his right hand.

  A sly smile flits across Raphael’s face that I read as: Get a load of these guys. This should be good.

  Bron steps forward and gestures at Augustus.

  I believe you all know Augustus. He will be speaking on behalf of our group.

  Augustus nods his thanks to Bron and steps forward to address the angels, who shift their attention to him. Michael’s gaze, however, keeps darting over to look me up and down.

  It’s an unsettling feeling, but I try to focus on Augustus.

  Thank you again for your time. I will be brief—the war between these angelic factions is going to destroy Heaven. The traitors who support Gregori and Malphas will stop at nothing to reach the throne room and free Asaroth. The fallout will only increase with the armory weapons now in play. I urge you to call for a ceasefire and negotiate terms with the traitors. I believe they know they will lose and would rather die than give up. I’m hoping they will lay down their arms if shown mercy. But if you continue to push them, they will set fire to Heaven just to watch it burn.

  Michael is unmoved. He lets out a snort and turns to smile at Raphael. When he looks back at us, I can see in his eyes he almost pities us. Poor, pitiful humans, he must think. Thinking they know better than God’s biggest, baddest angels how to protect our home. That is adorable.

  His response is somehow more insufferable than my impression.

  This is why you came here, nephilim? To tell the most trusted angels of God, the greatest warriors in all the universe, how to manage a war against traitorous scum? Such arrogance is laughable, even for you.

  Again, Augustus takes a cutting insult in stride. He nods and holds his hands up.

  I know it seems like I’m stepping out of line, but this conflict is unprecedented. Lucifer’s plan was to sacrifice his followers to spite God. They were nothing but pawns to him. These angels have no leader but rather a single objective to rally around—to free Asaroth. They’re totally unpredictable, which makes them dangerous.

  Raphael pushes past Michael to confront Augustus. My neck muscles tighten as my hands clench into fists. I have to restrain myself from rushing forward to step between them.

  Augustus doesn’t move, looking at Raphael like a piece of art he’s trying to understand.

  We are well aware of the traitors and their intentions. The question is, why you felt compelled to journey here and tell us that which we already know? What was your plan, nephilim, if we said “no” to your request?

  Panic reaches up and grips my throat. If the angels know about Lightfall, which I assume they do, the three of us could be in deep shit if these three learn we’re considering it. We came here peacefully, but things could get ugly if Augustus doesn’t choose his words carefully.

  From the side, I catch only half of Augustus’s playful smile.

  I was going to activate Lightfall and send your arrogant ass packing.

  Oh, shit.

  Raphael’s fist rises in slow motion. The fire in his eyes says Augustus is toast if I don’t step in and do something. Sparing a quick glance at Bron, I see him rooted in place, his frozen expression a mix of shock and fear. I dart forward to insert myself between Augustus and Raphael before the angel’s blow can land. I may be a bug about to meet a windshield, but the old man has already saved my life twice. Besides, if anyone is going to stop this angelic civil war, it’s him.

  Stop!

  I grab Augustus by the shoulder and launch myself into the path of Raphael’s descending fist. Augustus tries to throw me to the side to spare me the blow, but my forward momentum carries me directly into the path of the angel’s punch. His knuckles slam into my right temple but I don’t feel the pain right away. Probably because of the adrenaline. All I see is a pop of white stars.

  Half a second later, I’m yanked backward away from the group by an invisible hook. Augustus’s mouth tears open in a scream as he lunges after me, but it’s too late. The golden light of a wormhole opens and swallows me whole. The world fades to black once again as the pain of Raphael’s blow shoots like lightning across my skull. In my head, I hear a final cry from Augustus.

  What have you done?

  I have no idea, Augustus, but I’ll probably regret it in the morning.

  Chapter 7

  7. Short, Pale, and Mysterious

  The ground underneath me is uneven and warm against my back.

  That’s the first thing I notice as my eyes slowly open to reveal a blazing sun above me. As my vision comes back into focus, I realize I’m actually staring at two suns that are sliding past each other in opposite directions. Their movement is slow but noticeable.

  I place my palms flat against the ground and feel sand between my fingers, coarse and warm from the presence of the dual suns overhead. I lie there for a while and assess my situation. I remember stepping in front of Raphael to spare Augustus a punch I thought at the time might kill him. I try to move my jaw, but it’s stiff and radiates sharp pain up my face with every movement.

  My actions were noble but dumb. While he might be an old man, Augustus has probably taken his fair share of punches. Before this week, I’d only taken a couple of shots across the jaw in my entire life, the worst being from Tony Marini at Tully’s Tavern on my twenty-fifth birthday.

  Now I’m taking cheap shots from freaking archangels.

  Both Tony and Raphael’s punches hurt, but only one of them knocked me through an interdimensional wormhole into a part of Heaven I’ve never seen before.

  I fight through the grogginess to muster what little reasoning ability I have left in my aching brain. If Raphael didn’t intend to ki
ll Augustus, he at least wanted to take him off the board by isolating him in a remote part of Heaven. Wherever I am, I’m guessing my friends are far away.

  I attempt to reach out to Bron and Augustus through our shared telepathy, but all I get is a buzzing in my head like the static of the radio. The sound is torturous to my already throbbing head, so I turn off the telepathy for now. Raphael’s punch must’ve taken my angel radio offline.

  I’ve been sucker-punched to the outskirts of Heaven with no way to contact my friends. I came up with some dicey plans to stop Malphas, but this one might be my worst yet.

  Not that much planning went into taking that punch for Augustus. It was purely reactionary. My instincts told me to spare a family member from pain, and my body obliged. My jaw wishes I’d stayed out of the conflict, but I’d say it’s accustomed to the abuse by now.

  If I just lie here and take a nap, maybe my face will feel better when I wake up…

  ***

  I’m inside an old pickup truck driving fast down a two-lane road as trees zoom by on either side. Colin is to my left, and Peter sits at my right. They’re both stoic, looking through the windshield without saying a word. I turn around and see Grace and Forrest sitting in the bed, their gazes fixed on the flora that’s become a green and brown blur at the speed we’re moving. There’s no air blowing through the vents, which explains why both windows are rolled all the way down. Wind howls in and fills the cabin with chilly evening air.

  I stare at Peter as the silence stretches on. His usual baby-faced stubble has grown into a poor imitation of a beard. Dark circles lay beneath both his eyes. I can see his stress etched into the lines of his face. My brother looks worn down. I wonder when he last got a full night’s sleep.

  When he opens his mouth to speak, I lean in with anticipation.

  “Six weeks,” he says. His voice is flat and hoarse. “He’s been gone six weeks.”

  “I know,” comes Colin’s reply.

  My heartbeat quickens. Who are they talking about?

  “Do you think something happened?” Peter asks.

  Colin stares ahead without blinking. He waits a moment to answer.

  “No,” he says. “We’d know. We’d feel it.”

  “Would we? I’d like to believe that, but I don’t…I just don’t know.”

  “We’d know, Peter. Trust me.”

  Peter sighs and rubs his eyes. His gaze finds the floor and remains there.

  “I really miss him,” he whispers.

  “Me too, kid. But he’ll come back. We have to believe that.”

  “I do believe it. He told me he would. But I’m worried. Six weeks…”

  Oh, God. It can’t be true.

  “He’ll be back. Silas always keeps his promises.”

  I’m yanked up from the truck, soaring high into the air, my scream lost to winds.

  ***

  Six weeks. I’ve been gone from Earth for six weeks.

  I roll that fact around in my mind, but it seems so foreign, so absolutely ludicrous. I’d sooner believe that Peter was giving up drinking than accept that I’ve been here that long. Bron did say that time is meaningless in Heaven, but I assumed that only applied to beings like him. With my humanity still intact, I’ve been perceiving time in a linear fashion ever since I arrived. It feels like half a day since Gregori greeted me outside the gates, maybe twenty-four hours at the most.

  But, my brain chimes in, your perception of time has little bearing on its passing.

  I know this is true despite my desire to ignore such a fact. When you factor in relativity—a concept I only understand because of the movie Interstellar—and the fact that I’m in another dimension with its own rules for the passage of time, I can’t deny the validity of my vision.

  If I’m taking these visions at face value, I have to accept that what Peter said was true.

  As this realization washes over me, the tears begin to flow down the side of my face. I recall the exhaustion in Peter’s expression, how worn down and scared he sounded. Colin’s voice, usually brimming with love and reassurance, was filled with doubt and anxiety. My chest tightens as the vision replays in my mind. I’ve let down the two people in the world I love the most, right when they need me more than ever. I know it’s not my fault that Malphas killed me and brought his wrath down upon Sherwood, but I can’t help but feel guilty. Not only is my family dealing with the fallout of the attack, they’re trying to cope with my prolonged absence. In the few seconds I sat between them, I could feel the despair they shared. My being gone is killing them.

  I lie in the sand and sob until my ribs hurt, and as the tears flow, the guilt and dread I feel ebbs out of me like water circling the drain. In its place is anger over the injustice of my situation. I never asked to be part of this angelic war, yet Augustus gave me no choice. Rather than pursuing the ruthless course of action, I opted for the diplomatic, decent resolution to Heaven’s war.

  Where did that bit of selflessness get me?

  On my back in the middle of a literal God-forsaken desert, separated from my only allies with our communication cut off and no knowledge of how to get back to familiar territory.

  But, my mind chimes in again, every minute you lie here and sulk could be costing you days on Earth.

  Damn it, brain. Can’t you leave me alone and let me be pissed?

  Not when your family is depending on you. Now get your ass up and get moving.

  I oblige, though my body aches and my legs wobble as I pull myself upright. A vast, flat desert stretches out in every direction. Unlike the deserts on Earth, there are no dunes here. As I observe the landscape for a moment, I realize why—there’s no wind in this place. The air is still and warm, and the silence is so absolute that all I hear are my ragged inhales and exhales. I scan the horizon looking for some kind of feature to orient myself, but there’s nothing here.

  As despair floods my chest, I spot something—or someone—silhouetted against the harsh sunlight moving toward me. What appears to be a head bobs up and down as this mysterious figure slowly approaches. A large cloak covers their entire frame, but from what I can gather at this distance, this stranger is about my height, maybe a little shorter. For the first time since arriving in Heaven, I clench my fists and try to summon a cleansing flame.

  The power that usually radiates out from the middle of my chest doesn’t start flowing right away. Like a clogged drain, the power is stuck behind something that resists my summoning.

  “Come on,” I whisper as my panic rises. “Fire for me, baby. You can do it.”

  The stranger is now within a hundred yards. Their deliberate pace hasn’t changed. I have less than a minute to fire up my cleansing flame before I’m no longer standing here alone.

  If this stranger means me harm, and I have no weapons to fight them with, I’m screwed.

  “Fire, fire, fire,” I tell my latent powers. “Come on, do this for me.”

  Fifty yards. Forty. Thirty.

  God, if you give a crap about me, I’d really appreciate some help here.

  A spark ignites in my chest, and my power starts flowing again. Whatever was clogging it up dissolved the moment I petitioned God for help. All the hairs on my neck are standing up.

  God answered my calls for help indirectly during our battle with Malphas. An image of Bill transferring his power to me flashes through my mind. This is the first time I’ve asked God for help and received a direct answer so quickly. Either my proximity to his throne room has sped up God’s response—unlikely since, you know, it’s God—or he sees how dire my situation has become.

  Whatever the reason, I’m thankful for the assist as the stranger is now just ten feet away. I don’t say a word as they stop five feet from me and lift their head to look at me. The stranger is half a foot shorter than me, and the shadow inside their hood obscures their face. My heart pounds as t
he silence between us stretches out for a few tension-filled moments.

  Remembering my new time burden, I decide to break the silence.

  “With how quickly you found me, it’s almost like you were expecting me.”

  Two pale hands emerge from the arms of the cloak and pull back the hood. The face that was obscured by shadows is undoubtedly human…but not entirely so. This stranger is a stunningly beautiful woman whose skin is so pale it’s almost translucent. Her eyes are light, steely blue, and her mouth curves up into a sly smile. Looking at her, I’m reminded of Lamia, except not as sinister. Malphas’s first lieutenant always reminded me of a coiled snake waiting to strike.

  This woman lacks that edge, but there’s still something off about her visage that I can’t place. It could be her coy smile, the piercing eyes, or the jet-black hair against her fair skin.

  “I wasn’t far away when the wormhole dumped you here,” she says in a voice that’s an octave lower than I expected. “Plus, you laid in the sand and cried for quite a while.”

  My face grows hot with embarrassment at this comment.

  “How did you know I was crying?” I ask, upset with her eavesdropping on a private moment.

  She motions with one hand at the desert around us.

  “With no wind and no hills, sound travels far here in the outskirts. Especially sobbing.”

  Whoever this woman is, she’s goading me into a reaction with her comments about my outburst. I keep my expression neutral, not wanting to give her the satisfaction.

  “The outskirts, huh?” I ask. “Does that mean we’re at the edge of Heaven?”

  My hope is to change the subject, and she plays along, flashing me another quick smile.

  “We’re past the edge of Heaven, darling,” she replies coolly. “The Outer Realm marks the boundary, but from what I’ve gathered, the angels decimated that area during their little skirmish. We’re in a cozy pocket dimension that is Heaven-adjacent where God likes to store his trash.”

  This is not good…if she’s telling the truth, I’m not even in Heaven anymore!