by Josh Raymer
I assume he’s going to tell us what that final step is, but he pauses instead. Augustus and I look at each other, both wondering if he’s pausing for dramatic effect.
“Well, lay it on us,” Augustus says. “No use being shy now.”
“The final step is…it’s oh, Augustus,” Bron sighs. “It is a test of strength to ensure that whoever activates Lightfall is worthy to cast the angels out of Heaven. But it’s awful. This was the only part of God’s design that I disagreed with him about, but in the end, he decided this approach would be best.”
Bron looks genuinely distraught over this final part of the plan. I hate to push him because I know Lightfall is tearing him up, despite his acquiescence to our plan. So, instead of barking at him to tell us, I place my hand on his arm and look him in the eyes. He looks at me, his bright eyes sparkling in the late-afternoon sun.
“Whatever it is, we’ll deal with it together,” I tell him. “However awful it is, you don’t have to figure it out or face it alone. We’ve got your back.”
Bron looks from me to Augustus, who nods in agreement.
“Very well,” he says as I withdraw my hand. “Once the traps are primed and ready, the final step is killing Michael with his own weapon.”
Dammit, I just had to go and open my mouth, didn’t I?
***
When I was in high school, Tony Marini used to ride his skateboard through the parking lot as I was walking into school. Without fail, he’d skate up beside me and knock my hat off my head or yank my backpack off my shoulders.
I tolerated the abuse for a while. Even back then, Tony was still a muscular guy with whom I wanted to avoid a fight at all costs. But one day during my sophomore year, Tony caught me in a “take-no-shit” kind of mood. The night before, I’d had a terrible nightmare about my dad, who’d only been gone a few years at that point. As I walked through the parking lot, all I wanted was to be left alone.
I heard Tony skating up behind me and knew what was coming next. I was in the midst of a big crowd, and while I didn’t want to embarrass Tony necessarily, it wouldn’t bother me to show him up in front of our classmates.
Right as Tony was about to pass me, I turned to face him and stuck out my foot. The front wheel of his skateboard caught on my foot, causing the board to tip down and throw Tony forward. He hit the ground hard, rolled, and skidded to a stop. He had a huge scrape on his chin and a rip in his jeans. Within seconds, he was on his feet and running at me with a look of wild rage in his eyes.
But I was ready for him. In a move straight out of the movies, I kicked his skateboard up into my hands, reared back, and clobbered him across the chest as he came near me. A loud oomph! escaped his mouth as he doubled over in pain.
The crowd around us let out a collective cry, like spectators at a boxing match after a big punch lands. I dropped the board next to Tony, who was on one knee, and bent down so he could hear me over the roar of the crowd and his own ragged breathing.
“Next time you want to fuck with me, Tony…don’t.”
With that, I walked through the crowd and into school. I never got disciplined for the incident—the administrators didn’t care for Tony much—and Tony never bothered me again. Well, at least until a few nights ago at my birthday party.
Now, I’m facing the same situation: take down the bully with his own weapon. Only this time, we’re talking about an archangel, not some wannabe guido, and there will be massive, earth-shattering consequences if we succeed.
And that’s a big “if.” Augustus might be able to handle his own against Michael, Gabriel, and Raphael, but at this point, I feel like the proverbial bug going up against the windshield of an eighteen-wheeler. Even if we can get close enough to Michael to take him down, the idea of seizing his weapon and killing him with it sounds impossible. I’d have a better chance of tricking people into thinking I was Bron at this point. And yet, I said the same thing about Malphas, didn’t I?
Of course, he ended up killing me, but that’s beside the point.
I stare at Bron’s scroll, willing my brain to accept what seems like a suicide mission. I don’t know what any of those scrawled symbols or bizarre shapes mean, but at this moment, it feels as if they’re taunting me. Like if I tilt my head a certain way or throw on some 3-D glasses, I’ll see the message loud and clear: If you think you can kill an archangel when one just punched you into another dimension, you’re off your rocker.
That might be true, but if this is the way forward, we’ve got to go for it, no matter how insane it might sound. Because really, when you stop to think about this whole situation, it’s insane from top to bottom. So, why not up the ante and try to disarm an archangel, kill him, and then expel all his buddies to Earth?
It’s Augustus who breaks the silence that’s hanging in the air.
“Easy enough,” he says with a laugh. “Let’s start with the hard part of the plan, shall we? Bron, you said you don’t know the location of the three zones, but you know someone who does. Who does Heaven’s favorite trio need to visit?”
“Assuming it’s the three of us you’re speaking of, Augustus, we need to visit one of the very first people God called to do his work on Earth,” he says. “Someone who, during their forty years wandering in the wilderness, was busy with far more than bringing the Ten Commandments down from Mount Sinai.”
I feel it again—that weightless, floating sensation I get when I’m brushing up against characters or events from the Bible that I read about as a kid.
“Moses,” I say in disbelief. “We need to go see Moses?”
A small smile spreads across Bron’s face as he nods at me. Beside him, Augustus sighs. Is it possible this bothers him more than the “killing Michael” part?
“Do you think he’ll actually give up the goods, Bron?” Augustus asks. “Every time I’ve asked him about his work as a nephilim, he’s been scant on the details.”
If my stomach was doing backflips before, it’s doing triple backflips now.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I say, holding out my hands to halt the conversation. “Are you telling me that Moses, the guy who led the Israelites out of Egypt, parted the Red Sea, and spent forty years in the desert, was also working as a nephilim?”
“Indeed,” Bron replies in an excited tone. “One of the first, actually. Before the Great Flood, nephilim were a blight upon the Earth. The angels that fell with Lucifer slept with human women, producing offspring that were half-angel and half-human. They were giants who ruled over the Earth with unimaginable strength but also unrelenting cruelty. It’s true that God sent the Flood to wipe out the wickedness he saw in humanity, but he also needed to wipe out the nephilim.”
“Since then,” Augustus says, picking up Bron’s story, “God has been working to redeem the nephilim by making us warriors, not conquerors or tyrants. He instills us with angelic grace and a sense of purpose, but in classic God fashion, lets us decide what happens from there. So far, I’d say it’s worked out alright.”
To hear that I’m not only part of a reclamation project, but one that includes some of the biggest characters in Biblical lore, is so overwhelming that I can’t form a thought, let alone a response. I suspected my lineage had something to do with being chosen, along with the fact that nobody would’ve fought to get my brother back quite like I did. But with this information, a whole slew of new questions is racing through my mind.
Now more than ever, I’m wondering what God saw in me to think I’d stack up with someone like Moses. And why pick me, knowing I wouldn’t be called into action until my twenty-fifth birthday? Why not choose someone who would have impacted the world years before I got dragged into the middle of this conflict?
It just doesn’t make sense. Then again, neither did the way God chose to handle Malphas. It feels like I’m staring at this world through a keyhole, trying to make sense of what I’m seeing from an incredibly limite
d perspective.
I know I could release the reins and go with the flow—that it would make things easier if my brain weren’t constantly tied in knots trying to figure all this out—but that’s just not in my nature. I have a deeply ingrained need to be in charge, to know how things are going to turn out, that I haven’t been able to release, even as this God-shaped destiny has dramatically unfolded since Peter was kidnapped.
Not having all the answers and choosing to move forward is the true definition of faith.
That voice doesn’t belong to Bron or Augustus. It’s the voice I heard when I was free-falling in the void with Lilith. The same one that told me to find out what happened to my dad. Since I’ve gotten here, it’s been encouraging me and nudging me in the right direction. I really do want to trust it. After all, what if it’s the voice of God himself, and now that I’m in Heaven, he’s guiding me directly?
I can’t let myself make that leap, though. Not yet. Not after the last time I trusted a voice from on high—it came from an angel who tried to kill me.
I’ll decide what to make of this voice and its direction at another time. Right now, we need a plan to find Moses and see if he’ll tell us where the zones are on Earth. Until we do that, we can’t move forward with Lightfall, and I can’t go home.
“I’ll process that staggering truth after we activate Lightfall and celebrate with a few beers,” I tell the group with a laugh. “Where can we find Moses?”
“He’ll be in the throne room,” Bron says matter-of-factly.
“You and I won’t be able to enter, Silas,” Augustus tells me. “Our sin nature is still intact. Yours because you’re still in the game, and mine because, well…because I gave up the right to go back. So, as you see me, I’m still sinful. Thankfully, Bron can go in and talk with Moses. See if he’ll tell us where they are.”
“You’re sure Moses knows where they are?” I ask Bron.
He nods. “Moses is the one who set them up. While his people were wandering in the wilderness, God had Moses on the move, setting this plan into motion. God didn’t want a repeat of Lucifer’s fall when the angels were scattered everywhere. If there was going to be chaos, God wanted it to be controlled chaos.”
“So you know Moses set them up, but he never told you where?” I ask.
“I never asked,” Bron replies. “Honestly, I’ve long tried to distance myself from this plan. To pretend it didn’t exist. As I think about it now, that could explain why God didn’t choose me to set up these zones on Earth. He knew I wasn’t in favor of this plan, so he chose Moses instead. He spared me from playing any role in it.”
“Until now,” I say with a tinge of sadness. “I’m sorry, Bron. I know this must be tough for you. I hope you know that we don’t take your help for granted.”
He nods again, staring intently at his scrolls.
“Thank you, Silas Ford. I appreciate your gratitude.”
With that, Bron grabs the scroll and rolls it up. He walks back into his house and returns a moment later, having returned it to its proper place. He gives us a look that I’ve come to associate with him: expressionless, but not in a “nobody is home” type of way. It’s a look that says, “Well, let’s see what happens next.”
“Shall we go?” Augustus asks, gesturing for Bron to lead the way.
“We shall,” he answers, striding forward. “To the throne room, gentlemen.”
We haven’t gone more than a few steps when a blinding white light erupts in front of us. I stumble backward and blink rapidly as I try to regain my sight. All I can see is a jagged white streak like a bolt of lightning. After a few seconds of blinking and rubbing my eyes, my vision returns enough to see what’s going on.
Standing before us is an angel. He’s surrounded by a faint white afterglow, the kind that lingers when you turn off a bright light in a dark room. He’s muscular and square-jawed, with long, sinewy brown arms bulging out from under a silver breastplate that’s trimmed with gold. He wears black pants, along with spiked wrist gauntlets and silver plates covering his shins, just like Puriel wore. His hair is longer than Puriel’s but still cut tight against his head, and his eyes are a deep green.
What holds my attention, however, is the angel blade clutched in his hand.
“Gavreel, is that you? What are you doing here?”
His response comes quickly: “By order of the archangels, I have come here to halt your plans. If you resist me, you will die a swift death.”
Oh…hell…no.
I’m not sure the exact trigger, but all at once, my mind goes blank, and my vision tunnels in on Gavreel. Before I can formulate a thought, I lunge forward and sprint full speed toward the angel. Augustus and Bron are yelling, but I can’t hear them. All I can see is this angel and the dumbfounded expression on his face. Clearly, he didn’t expect the greenhorn nephilim to charge at him in a rage.
The blade is still at his side when I slam into him like a linebacker tackling a running back. I wrap my arms around his torso, drive my feet forward, and kick off from the ground. We’re airborne now, soaring toward the nearest cliff wall at a dizzying speed. In Gavreel’s eyes, I can see the question he didn’t get to ask:
What the hell are you thinking, nephilim?
I have no idea, Gavreel. But I’ll let you know when I figure it out.
Chapter 11
11. I Know Kung-Fu
For a moment, all is calm. The wind whistles past us, along with the rush of colors found in Bron’s canyon: oranges and reds streaked with browns and yellows.
Gavreel, his body taut, moves beneath me. I can feel his right arm rising, presumably to plunge his blade into my back. He’s also trying to take control of our flight path. I hold tight and keep us pointing toward the cliff wall, but it’s like trying to control a surfboard that’s caught in a riptide.
I grit my teeth, lower my head, and place both palms on his chest. Right as we’re about to collide with the wall, I shove away from Gavreel, propelling him into the rock face and me into an ungraceful sort of backflip. I release a small cleansing flame right before I hit the ground, but it only softens the blow. I land on all fours with my knees taking the brunt of the impact.
I’m going to feel that one in the morning…
I look up, expecting to see a Gavreel-sized splatter on the wall. Instead, I spot Gavreel crouched on the cliff face like Spider-Man perched on the side of a skyscraper. He’s smiling and shaking his head. He’s either amused that I tried to splatter him like a bug on a windshield, or he’s laughing at the thought of killing me for the attempt. As I pull myself up, he springs from his crouched position, kicking off the wall like a swimmer kicking off the side of the pool.
His arm is cocked back, knife gleaming in the sun, while his eyes blaze with fury and purpose. I raise my hand and blast him off course with a cleansing flame, the force of which sends him skidding to my right. He tucks his head and does a front flip, sliding across the dirt a few yards before his feet catch under him.
In one impossibly fast motion, he springs to his feet and flies toward me, blade raised. Again, I block him with a cleansing flame. It’s the only defense I have right now; when I fought Malphas, it was always hand-to-hand. I have no idea how to disarm an assailant. My instincts have taken over and are the only thing keeping me alive at this point. With every swing or jab, I blast his blade hand away.
Gavreel grows increasingly frustrated. Veins bulge across his neck and forehead. He grits his teeth, which are bared in the classic expression of boiling rage. As he pulls back his arm once more to strike, time slows down. From the center of my chest, I draw a surge of angelic energy and channel it into this new cleansing flame.
Right as Gavreel lunges forward, I release the blast. It looks as if Gavreel has been smacked by an invisible hand. He’s thrown sideways as the blade is ripped from his hand and goes spinning off ten feet away. He lands on his b
ack, rolls over, and is back on his feet in an instant. He screams at me, spittle flying from his mouth.
“You coward! Fight me like a man.”
“Come get some, flyboy!” I yell in response.
Before I can determine where in the hell that response came from, Gavreel lets out a primal scream and dashes toward me. He’s every bit as fast as Malphas but shorter, so I don’t have to jump to punch him in the face.
His punches are tight, crisp, and come in rapid succession. I bob and weave, moving my head side to side just quick enough to dodge his initial flurry. I return a combo of my own: straight, straight, left hook, right uppercut. The first three miss, but the uppercut catches him under the chin as he ducks to avoid my left hook.
“How’s that taste, son?!” I scream at him as he stumbles backward, his head craned back. When he brings it forward, his eyes are glowing a soft but intense shade of blue. His jaw is clenched, and his expression now reads as pure annoyance.
“Enough games,” he says in a low, calm voice. “You die now.”
He flies at me much faster this time. It’s so fast, in fact, that all I can see is a blur streaking toward me. I don’t even see the punches as they land: one to the gut, two rib shots, a straight that snaps my head back, followed by an uppercut that sends me airborne. My head bounces off the ground as I land flat on my back. Whatever air would’ve been forced out by the impact was driven out by the punches.
Gavreel’s attack was so ferocious and quick my brain hasn’t even registered the pain he inflicted yet. Through watery eyes, I stare up into the sun that’s obscured by a towering silhouette. Gavreel’s look is one of pure disgust.
“Good riddance, you filthy half-breed,” he spits at me. With that, he raises his leg to stomp on my face. As he begins to bring his leg down, I close my eyes. There’s enough time before impact for a single thought to register in my brain.
This is really going to hurt.
But it doesn’t. After a couple of seconds, I open my eyes to see a silver blade pointing through Gavreel’s neck. He’s gasping, his hands scratching at the blade that’s brought an end to his life. As the blade is yanked back, his body is consumed by a brilliant white light, just like when Gregori was killed. Once the flash subsides, all that remains are a million twinkling points of light drifting up into the sky.
