by Josh Raymer
Through the floating lights, I see Augustus holding a bloody silver blade. Bron stands behind him, his usually expressionless face etched with concern. Augustus steps through the lights and extends his hand, which I take.
“What the hell were you thinking, Silas?” he says as he pulls me to my feet. “That angel could’ve killed you. And you flew off, so I couldn’t even help you! If Bron hadn’t picked me up and run me over here, I wouldn’t have made it in time.”
“I’m sorry,” I gasp, still struggling to breathe. Augustus doesn’t hear me.
“Damn it, son,” he says. “You can’t do stuff like that. We’re a team, remember?”
“You’re right,” I admit. “I don’t know what happened. As soon as he threatened us, I just saw red. My body was in motion before I could even think through what I was doing. I didn’t want him dead necessarily. I just wanted him gone.”
I rub my face and then clench my hands together, trying to stop the dam that’s inside me from bursting forth and drowning my two compatriots.
It’s no use, though.
“I’m tired of all this shit getting in our way!” I scream. “I didn’t ask to be part of this war. My friends are down on Earth dealing with demon attacks while I’m stuck up here getting choked out and bitch-slapped by archangels.”
Augustus extends a hand toward me, but I shrug him off, still needing to vent.
“I promised Peter I would come right back,” I say, my breathing ragged. “It’s been three months down there, and I’m still here. How the fuck am I supposed to handle that feeling of disappointment? How is it fair that the people who are fighting and dying down there are being punished for all the shit that’s happening up here?”
Augustus looks at me, his eyes sad. He doesn’t answer.
“Huh? How the fuck does that make sense?!”
I turn away from the others and scream, long and loud. The guttural noise comes from deep down inside me and rips at my throat as it bursts forth, like lava spewing from a volcano. I scream until there’s no air left in my lungs.
At that point, my legs give out, and I collapse, my legs splayed out beside me and my hands digging into the soft dirt. My whole body is shaking, and my breaths come in short, painful bursts. I close my eyes and try to regain control of my breathing, but it’s difficult. I’m so wound up from that outburst that my heart is thundering inside my chest. It feels like I’m on the verge of blacking out.
That’s when I feel a hand slip onto my shoulder. I know without looking that it’s Augustus. My eyes still closed, I sense him plop down in the dirt next to me. He doesn’t say anything for a while as I work to steady my breathing and regain my composure. When he finally speaks, his voice is soft and low.
“I was eleven years old when the Civil War started. My dad and my two brothers all went off to fight for the Union. It was just me, my sister, and my mother left at home. I had a friend named Charles, who was a few years older than me. His dad and brother left to go fight, too. He came to me late one night after my sister and mother had gone to bed. I was sitting out on the front porch, keeping watch. He told me he was planning to run off and join the Union army. He came by my house to ask me if I wanted to go with him. I wanted to say yes. I had dreamed about being out there on the front lines with my family, fighting the Confederacy.”
Augustus pauses. I open my eyes to look at him and see that his eyes are rimmed with tears. He wipes his face and continues.
“But I told Charles that I couldn’t go. That I had to stay home and provide for my sister and my mother. In my heart, though,” he says, pausing to jab at his chest with his index finger, “I knew when Charles left that night, I’d never see him again. That by choosing to sit out the conflict, this would be our last interaction.”
He stops again, and this time, the tears are falling.
“I was right,” he says in a choked whisper. “Charles came home in a box. I don’t know if I could’ve saved his life. Hell, I might’ve come home in a box right beside him. All I know is that I’ve never forgiven myself for leaving him to fight that battle alone.”
We sit for several minutes, just the two of us, watching the light cut through the rock formations that tower above us. Augustus lets the tears fall. When they’re finished, he wipes his eyes with the back of his sleeve.
I place my hand on his back. He turns to look at me, a weak smile on his face.
“It’s not your fault,” I say.
“I know,” he says, nodding. “And I know the circumstances are different, and that you and I are our own people. But my blood flows through your veins, Silas. And if there’s one thing I know for sure about you—that I knew before you ever stepped foot up here—it’s that you would’ve been filled with the same kind of regret had you left Heaven and returned home before we sorted this out. Because you have a strong internal sense of justice. It’s the reason you became a lawyer.”
“The money’s not bad either,” I say, which brings a smile to his face.
“That’s true as well,” Augustus says. “My point is: we’re built for tough times such as these. It’s part of the reason God picked us as his nephilim. Now, it took me the better part of a century to figure that out, so don’t beat yourself up if you haven’t reached the same conclusion at age twenty-five. I don’t know how long you plan to do this—probably not as long as I did—but there will come a point when you realize why you were given this responsibility.”
I nod, flashing back to the past few days. How I rescued my brother, then managed to kill the demon who took him—a task I would’ve said was impossible when Peter was first kidnapped. I believe that’s part of the reason I was chosen, but as for a larger, overarching purpose, I haven’t had that moment of clarity yet.
“What was it for you?” I ask Augustus. “The moment you found out why.”
Augustus doesn’t respond right away. He stares off into the canyon, lost in thought. I do the same, savoring a few moments to be still and center myself.
“I used to think,” he says in a quiet voice, “it was sealing up every demon pit from New York to Los Angeles after Marianne died. But now…”
He trails off, takes a deep breath, then turns to look at me.
“What?” I ask. Augustus looks down, then back up at me.
“Now I know it’s getting you ready,” he says. “For what comes next.”
With that, he slaps me on the shoulder and rises to his feet. He sticks out his hand, which I grab, and he hauls me up to my feet. I’m a little wobbly but otherwise fine. Augustus turns to Bron, who’s been sitting quietly a few yards away.
“Bron, I need some time with Silas,” he says, turning back to look at me. “With the plan we’ve got, this won’t be the last time we’ll go toe-to-toe with angels. When that time comes, I need to know you can handle yourself because I won’t always be there for the assist. You did good with Malphas, but you’re only scratching the surface of your potential. I can bring it out and show you how to quiet your mind, which might be the more important piece for you. Right now, you fight angry, and if you do that against these winged bastards, they will destroy you.”
“What are you suggesting, Augustus?” Bron asks.
A sly smile plays across the old man’s face. He looks at Bron, then back at me.
“A sparring session, somewhere nice and quiet,” he answers. “Got any place in mind that could work for something like that, Bron?”
Bron puts a giant, bronze finger to his chin.
“I know just the place,” he says after a few seconds. “I can send you there now.”
“That would be great,” Augustus says, a smile still on his face.
“What shall I do in the meantime?” Bron asks.
“We know our target is Moses,” Augustus tells him. “Find out what you can about his current location. If he’s not in the throne room, where is he?”<
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“An excellent plan,” Bron says. “Are you ready to go, Silas?”
“Are we sure this is the best use of our time?” I ask. “Normally, I’d be all for upgrading my skills, but we’re really up against the clock here.”
Augustus nods, offering up his hand as if to say, that’s a fair point.
“You’re right; we are pressed for time,” he admits. “But don’t look at this as wasting time on some frivolous side quest. Look at it as investing time to increase our chances of success. We’re literally talking about life and death here. If one of these angels punches your ticket, that’s it. Game over.”
That’s one big question answered, but not in the way I was hoping. Each conflict now comes with added pressure since failure means never seeing my friends on Earth again. Without knowing it, I almost threw everything away going after Gavreel. My chest tightens as I consider how close I came to the end.
“So, if you die in Heaven, that’s it?” I ask. “No coming back?”
“That’s right,” Augustus confirms. “A one-way ticket to the throne room. You’ll be happy, no more tears or pain. But the battle will be over for you.”
“There’ll be time for celebrating when this war is over,” I tell them both. “Let’s go get a few rounds in, old man. See what you got left in the tank.”
Augustus laughs, showing off that wide smile that reminds me of Peter.
“Shit, son, have you ever heard the saying, ‘Don’t poke the bear?’” I nod, flashing a smile of my own. “Now imagine that bear has superpowers.”
We both laugh, savoring a genuine moment of happiness.
“Bron, we’re ready,” Augustus tells our bronze friend. “If you’ll do the honors.”
Bron waves his hand, which conjures a pool of white light at our feet. Augustus looks down, likes what he sees, then spares one final glance at Bron.
“We’ll be back in about thirty minutes,” he tells the giant.
“That means nothing to me,” Bron deadpans.
“I know,” Augustus says, laughing, as the white light consumes us.
***
I have no idea where Bron has sent us, but the moment the white light fades, and I open my eyes in our new surroundings, I recognize the towering walls made of black marble that I’ve only ever seen in one place: the bastille. One peek over the nearby parapet confirms it, as I see the multi-colored, knee-high grass swaying gently in the non-existent breeze fifty feet below us.
“The bastille, huh?” I ask Augustus.
“I guess Bron figured it would be nice and quiet since the angels have already come and gone,” he answers. “Unless we find another angel in the grass.”
Knowing what we’re about to do, my mind is flooded with memories from what feels like forever ago, even though it was fewer than seventy-two hours earlier.
“You know, I saw in a vision some abilities that I hadn’t yet developed,” I tell the old man. “I got the first two: giant red fists and blue flames enveloping my whole body. But there was another one that seemed almost too good to be true.”
“What was it?” he asks.
I close my eyes and press my palms into my forehead, willing my brain to bring forth the memory. Normally, that wouldn’t be difficult. But given the onslaught of earth-shattering revelations I’ve absorbed recently, recalling one vision is like trying to pick a specific snowball out of an avalanche.
The image swims slowly to the forefront of my mind’s eye. I can see the images; they’re blurry, but there’s enough detail to make out what’s happening.
“I see my hand wrapping around Malphas’s throat,” I begin as the image continues to sharpen. “And then he turns to ash—just like that.”
I snap my fingers to add emphasis. Augustus smiles before responding.
“Just like the red fists and the blue flames, the disintegration thing is real, too. Takes a lot out of you, especially with more powerful demons, but it’s a nice arrow to have in your quiver. I suspect you’ll develop it in time, just like the others.”
“Those both came in the heat of battle,” I conclude. “Is that normal for us?”
“Oh yeah,” he replies. “When that ‘fight’ instinct kicks in, it’s extra powerful for us nephilim. Usually, it brings forth the ability we most need in that moment. Beyond the fancy stuff, I want to give you a few pointers on how to fight a new type of challenger: angels. This is a different ballgame than facing demons. You’re used to brawling with street thugs. Up here, we’re fighting black belt karate masters.”
“That’s why you said controlling your emotions was critical,” I say.
“Right,” he replies. “You crack that door at all, they’ll kick it wide open.”
Augustus steps toward me, places his hand on my chest, and then takes one step back, so he’s about three feet away. He looks me in the eyes, hands at his side.
“I want you to try and hit me,” he says. “I’m not going to let you do that. As we spar, I want you to pay very close attention to your emotions. Are you ready?”
“You want me to try and hit you?” I ask, making sure I heard him right.
“No powers,” he answers. “Just show me what you got. Let’s start there.”
I shake my head, mumble “OK,” and assume a fighting stance: balls of my feet, fists raised like I’m in a boxing match. I figure I’ll try the combo that worked against Gavreel: straight, straight, left hook, right uppercut.
I take a deep breath, steady my nerves and my mind, then strike. Augustus swipes away my straights with one arm, then the other. When I throw my hook, he ducks effortlessly under it. He then steps aside as my uppercut whistles past him and brings his left fist down in a lightning strike that stops inches from my jaw.
“Holy shit,” I mutter, feeling my face flush with embarrassment.
“You went with the combo you used against Gavreel?” Augustus asks. He sounds surprised, if not a tad disappointed. “You’ve got to mix it up a bit!”
“How did you know that?” I ask, confused. “You weren’t even there yet.”
He taps his head. “I wasn’t, but I was tuned in. You telegraphed it beforehand.”
“Is that what you did just now?” I counter. “Read my mind, try to gain an edge?”
Augustus laughs and points at me. “Oh no,” he says. “Your punches are just slow.”
“Oh, OK,” I say with a chuckle. “That makes me feel better. Thank you.”
Augustus waves this comment away as he steps forward and places a hand on my shoulder. He looks me in the eyes and points his other hand toward me.
“Fighting is like dancing,” he begins. “You have your go-to moves, but you need to use them in different combinations. You also can’t be afraid to throw some new moves in there from time to time, even if you’re not comfortable with them.”
“You’re saying my moves have gotten a bit stale?” I ask.
“Just a little,” he says, holding his thumb and index finger a smidge apart.
“The problem is that I never learned how to fight,” I explain. “I was just winging it against Malphas and his demons. Sometimes it felt like my limbs were moving of their own accord, but now it feels like I’m swimming outside of my depths. How am I supposed to mix up my moves when I don’t have any in the first place?”
Augustus is thunderstruck by this comment.
“Well shit, Silas,” he says. “Why didn’t you say so sooner? I just assumed you had gotten the programming like every other nephilim.”
“I thought I had gotten the programming!” I say. “You’re saying I haven’t?”
Rather than reply, Augustus touches his finger to my forehead. It’s as if an ice cube has been pressed against my skin. The iciness ripples out from his finger, spider-webbing its way through my entire body. My eyes close as everything goes white. What happens next isn’t
exactly clear. There’s a sound like rushing wind, but it’s inside my head, almost like I’ve got headphones turned up to full blast.
Two seconds might have passed since Augustus touched my forehead, or it might have been two hours for all I know. Everything is white and loud.
When he finally removes his finger, the roaring stops instantly, and my vision slowly swims back into focus. I see Augustus standing before me, his brow knitted in concern but his toothy smile revealing his true feelings.
“What did you just do?” I breathlessly ask him.
“Long story short: I gave you a crash course in every major fighting style the world has ever known,” he answers. “Let me show you.”
Augustus raises his right fist, aiming a punch straight for my jaw. I see the fingers curl downward and the thumb wrap around the index and middle fingers in slow motion. I don’t move, but my brain is already in motion. The feeling is similar to when the demon charged me inside Mom’s house, and I shot him: someone else is pulling my strings. I’m no longer in control of my body—it’s protecting itself.
I raise my left arm and swat away Augustus’s punch, then grab the lapels of his duster jacket. I place my right foot outside his right leg, twist my hips, and throw him to the ground like a sack of potatoes. He lands on his back and rolls, effortlessly popping up off the ground like a man one-fifth his age.
I look down at my hands, mouth agape, convinced they belong to someone else.
“What…the hell…was that?” I ask Augustus, the shock making it hard to speak.
“That was a perfectly executed judo throw,” he tells me. “You’ve never taken judo, have you?” I shake my head. “Well, you have now. In fact, I’d say you just went from beginner to expert in about ten seconds.”
