The Fallen

by Thomas E. Sniegoski

  Aaron left his family to go to his dog’s side. “Are you all right?” he asked.

  Gabriel struggled to his feet and shook his body vigorously, shedding the effects of his injury like water. “I’m fine, Aaron,” the dog said, fixing his gaze on Verchiel. “And I won’t let him hurt you.”

  Aaron stood and patted his dog’s head. “That’s all right, this is over now.”

  Gabriel gazed up at his master, a quizzical expression on his canine features.

  Aaron addressed Verchiel. “No matter what you think…I’m no threat to you or your mission.”

  Verchiel tilted his head to one side as he listened.

  From the corner of his eye Aaron could see that more of the angelic soldiers had moved into the room to encircle him and his family. He didn’t react. He didn’t want to show any signs of aggression.

  “Whatever you’ve heard—or sensed—about me is a lie. I want nothing to do with Nephilims—or the crazy prophecy that comes with it. I already told Camael, I renounce it. Whatever it is, it’s not going to be part of my life,” Aaron said firmly. “Please, leave my family and me alone.”

  Verchiel smiled and Aaron was reminded that he was in the presence of something all together inhuman.

  “Camael believes you are the One,” Verchiel said smugly, moving his head from one side to the other.

  “He’s wrong,” Aaron responded emphatically. “I want nothing more than to have a normal life.”

  “He believes you to be the one whose coming was foretold in an ancient prophecy, that you are going to reunite the fallen angels with God.”

  Aaron shook his head vigorously, remembering the old man with the cataract-covered eye from his dream. “I don’t know anything about that and I don’t care to know.”

  “Criminals,” Verchiel spat. “Those who fought alongside the Morningstar against the Father during the Great War and fled to this pathetic ball of mud, those who disobeyed His sacred commands—those are the ones of whom the ancient writings speak. If this prophecy were to come to fruition, they would be forgiven.”

  Aaron said nothing. He glanced at his parents who were huddled with Stevie, Verchiel’s soldiers surrounding them with their flaming weapons. They appeared to be in shock. He wanted to tell them how sorry he was for bringing this down upon them. He hoped there would be time for that later.

  Verchiel shook his head. “Imagine the Almighty looking favorably upon the by-product of angel and animal. It is an insult to His glory.”

  “I swear you have nothing to fear from me,” Aaron said. “Please, leave us alone.”

  Verchiel laughed, or at least Aaron believed it was a laugh. It sounded more like the caw of some great, predatory bird.

  “Fear you, Nephilim?” Verchiel said with what seemed to be amusement. “We do not fear you or anything like you.” An orange flame sparked in the palm of his hand and began to grow. “The Powers’ mission is to erase anything that would displease our Lord of Lords. This has been our purpose since Creation, and we have performed it well these many millennia.”

  Verchiel now held an enormous sword of fire, and Aaron heard Lori gasp. “It’s a nightmare,” she said softly, “some kind of bad dream.”

  If only that were true, he thought sadly.

  Verchiel watched the weapon blaze in his grasp, his eyes of solid black glistening. “And when our mission is finally complete, He shall give us this world—and all who live upon it will know that I sit by His side and my word is law.” The Powers’ leader admired his weapon. “But there is still much to be done.”

  Verchiel pointed the blade at Aaron. “You must die, and so must everything that has been tainted by your touch.” He motioned toward Gabriel and then across the room at Aaron’s parents and Stevie.

  “Listen to what I’m saying,” Aaron pleaded, stepping forward. Two of Verchiel’s soldiers grabbed him, driving him roughly to his knees. “Please,” he begged as he struggled against his captors.

  Verchiel still pointed his sword toward Tom, Lori, and Stevie who had again begun to flail in his mother’s arms, moaning and crying at the angel’s attentions.

  “Beg all you like, Nephilim. It will do you no good. You shall be destroyed.” He paused, suddenly interested in the cries of the child. “All except the young one,” the angel said thoughtfully.

  “I think I’ll keep him.”

  Verchiel garnered a certain measure of perverse satisfaction as he watched the Nephilim squirm. This was the savior? The one who was supposed to bring about a peace between Heaven and Earth the likes of which had not been seen since Genesis? It was laughable—yet, there was something about him.

  “Bring me the child,” he ordered with a wave of his hand.

  If there was ever to be peace, it would not be until the enemies of the one true God were turned to ash drifting in the wind. This belief, of his own devising, was the only one he could ever come to imagine.

  “Leave him alone!” the one called Aaron shouted, struggling mightily against his captors.

  The accursed dog moved defiantly toward him, the skin of its snout pulled back in a ferocious snarl. The blood of angels stained its muzzle.

  “Shall we see who has the worse bite?” Verchiel asked, and brought his sword to bear on the dog.

  “No!” the Nephilim cried. “Come, Gabriel. Please, come to me.”

  Hesitantly the dog returned to his master’s side, growling and snarling at the angels who held him. “Good boy,” Verchiel heard him say. “It’s okay, everything is okay.”

  Verchiel decided that it was time to show the boy how wrong he was. He motioned toward Uriel, still nursing his wound from the Nephilim’s tainted animal.

  “The child,” he ordered Uriel. “Bring it here.”

  The angel tore the squalling youth from its mother’s arms while Sammael and Tufiel restrained the parents. The cacophony of screams and wails put Verchiel’s nerves on edge, but he restrained himself. After all, they were only animals.

  Uriel brought the writhing child before Verchiel, holding him by the hair for closer examination. “This one,” the wounded angel noted, “seems full of spirit.”

  Yes, Verchiel thought, staring into the child’s unfocused gaze. He shall serve us well. He brought the burning sword up beneath the child’s eyes and moved the blade back and forth. Its eyes followed the fire attentively.

  “A hound perhaps,” he said aloud. “You have the eyes of a tracker.”

  It was then that the Nephilim began to carry on, and Uriel stepped back with the child in his arms.

  “Calm yourself, Nephilim,” Verchiel said in his most soothing tone. “I told you, I wish the little one no harm.”

  There is a great power growing within this one, Verchiel observed, studying the Nephilim. He could feel it radiating dangerously from the young man’s body.

  “The parents, on the other hand,” he said slowly as he pointed his blade at the husband and wife. “I have little use for them. And since they have been infected by your presence…”

  Sammael and Tufiel stepped quickly away from the two as the flame from Verchiel’s blade roared to life—and hungrily engulfed the pair in its voracious fire.

  Aaron’s parents screamed for mere seconds—but it seemed to him an eternity. Their blackened skeletons, burned clean of hair, skin, and muscle, collapsed to the ground in a clumsy embrace.

  Verchiel looked to him, seemingly savoring his expression of complete despair. “Now,” he said, a hint of a smile on his pale, bloodless lips. “Shall we continue?”

  Gabriel tossed his head back and began to howl, and Aaron was certain he had never heard anything quite so sad.

  His parents were dead—burned alive before his eyes.

  He jarringly recalled the day—his birthday, in fact—when he had stood and stared at his sleeping foster mom in this very room, and thought of her now no longer in his life. His heart raced and he could barely catch his breath.

  The pungent aroma of overcooked meat hung sickly in t
he air, and he did all that he could to keep from vomiting.

  Verchiel was saying something, but he wasn’t listening. The smoke alarm was blaring from the ceiling above him and he barely heard it. The image of the two people he loved most in the world being consumed by fire kept replaying before his mind’s eye as their skeletal remains still smoldered before him.

  Disturbingly, Aaron wondered if the fire used by the murderous angels was the same as what he cooked with, or what burned on the head of a match. Maybe it was a special fire, given to those with special identification by high-ranking officials at the pearly gates. Aaron smiled, more like a grimace of sharp and sudden pain. If I’m so special, maybe I can wield this fire as well.

  He caught movement from the corner of his eye and pulled his gaze from what was left of Lori and Tom Stanley.

  Stevie was being taken from the house. The angel—what had he been called? he asked himself. Uriel? Uriel was taking his little brother out through the broken front door. But to where? Where were they taking his little brother? He didn’t have on any socks or shoes. Aaron thought about trying to follow, but was distracted by the latest nightmare unfolding in the middle of the living room.

  They had Gabriel.

  Four angels pinned the dog in place while Verchiel stood before them. He still held the sword in his hand—the one he had used to kill Aaron’s parents, to burn them to bones.

  Gabriel was struggling, foaming at the mouth and snapping his jaws trying to take a chunk out of the creatures that held him. Aaron wanted to cheer his dog on, but found that he just didn’t have the strength.

  He looked back to his parents. Even the bones were almost gone now and he wondered if his bones would burn as fast. Something called to him. He could hear it echoing far off in the distance, but didn’t pay it any attention. He was busy, watching the fire finish the gruesome task it had started.

  Again he was called, louder, sharper and Aaron realized that the sound wasn’t coming from inside the room, but from somewhere inside his head. He turned to see Verchiel raise the sword above Gabriel. It seemed to be happening in slow motion.

  How come everything horrible seems to happen in slow motion? he wondered with building dread.

  Again Aaron heard the sound of his name, this time far more forceful. It partially shook him from his stupor, and he came to realize how angry he was. How enraged. They’d killed his parents, taken his little brother. He couldn’t let Gabriel die too. But what could he do? It was just too much for him to bear.

  Two angels still held him in their grasp. He was on his knees, his arms pinned behind his back. He felt their hands roughly grab his head. They wanted him to watch, to see Verchiel’s blade end his best friend’s life.

  The voice from inside his mind continued to urge him from his complacency, not in words, but in feeling—raw emotion. He knew what it was that called to him. When he had last encountered it, it had resembled the strangest of serpents, and it had held open its arms to him and he had accepted it.

  Now it was older, more mature—stronger.

  And as much as he hated to admit it, it was part of him.

  A surge of strength coursed through his body and Aaron struggled to his feet, throwing off his captors with extraordinary power.

  Verchiel stopped his blade’s descent and glared. “You only delay the inevitable,” he said, advancing toward Aaron. “But if you are so eager, then you may die before the animal.”

  And they closed in around him. Each of them summoned some weapon of fire, and Aaron braced himself for their attack. He was prepared to go down fighting.

  The windows of the living room exploded inward, showering the room with broken glass as two more entered the fray.

  The Powers seemed to be as startled as he. Gabriel broke from those who held him and ran, panting nervously, to Aaron’s side. The angel called Camael slowly straightened to his full, imposing height before the shattered window, a burning sword of flame in his hand. And beside him, his skin singed a scarlet red and his hand holding what appeared to be an old Louisville Slugger with multiple six-inch nails pounded into it—turning it into a kind of primitive mace—was the Grigori, Zeke.

  “Camael here’s been telling me some interesting things about you, Aaron,” Zeke said with a cagey wink, breaking the palpable silence. He raised the bat as if to swing at a pitch.

  “Told ya you were special.”

  chapter eleven

  It was the sound of a thousand fingernails dragged down the length of a blackboard—only earsplittingly louder. The Powers shrieked their shrill cry of battle and surged toward Aaron’s would-be rescuers, weapons afire. For the moment, they had forgotten him. On his hands and knees Aaron crawled to the mound that still glowed red, the mound that used to be his parents. Gabriel, silently and sadly, moved with him. Within the pile of ash, Aaron could see Lori and Tom’s skulls still burning, their hollow black gazes accusatory.

  “I’m so sorry,” he whispered, and reached a shaking hand toward the pyre of ash and bone. He quickly pulled it away as his own flesh was singed by the intensity of the heat.

  “It’s not your fault,” Gabriel said consolingly. He tried to lick away the hurt from his master’s hand.

  The intensity of the screams turned him from his parents’ remains to the battle being waged in the living room. Aaron was amazed by its ferocity.

  Zeke buried the nails adorning his baseball bat into the side of an attacker’s head. The angel fell to its knees, twitching and bleeding as Zeke yanked the bat free with a grunt and hit him again before he could recover. Then, satisfied with the death he’d wrought, the fallen angel turned his savage attention to another.

  Camael’s movements were a hypnotizing blur. He moved among the Powers, hacking and slashing, his fiery blade passing through their flesh with pernicious ease. It was like watching the beauty of a complex dance, but with deadly results. Aaron could see that he was battling his way toward Verchiel, who simply stood, weapon in hand, waiting patiently as his soldiers fought and died around him.

  The grisly scene of violence stirred the presence within Aaron. He could feel it roiling around inside him, so much stronger than before, like having the serpentine bodies of multiple eels beneath his flesh. It was excited by the battle—the sights, sounds, and smells.

  And then he saw—no, felt—Verchiel staring at him from across the living room. The angel’s nostrils flared, as if smelling something in the air. He snarled and began to move toward Aaron.

  “It wants to come out, Aaron,” Gabriel said by his side. He sniffed him up and down. “It’s inside you and wants to get out.”

  Aaron couldn’t take his eyes from the angel stalking methodically across the room.

  Gabriel suddenly licked his face and, startled, Aaron glared at the dog.

  “What’s inside of you is inside of me,” Gabriel explained. “I can sense your struggle, but you can’t keep it locked up.”

  Verchiel was almost upon them.

  Slowly Aaron got to his feet, eyes locked on the ominous form of the angel moving inexorably closer. Maybe I should just let him finish me, Aaron thought. It was an option he should have considered before his parents were turned to ash. Perhaps if he had offered his life, sacrificed himself, the Powers’ leader would have spared them.

  “Gotta set it free before it’s too late,” he heard Gabriel say from his side, an edge of panic in his voice.

  Verchiel stopped before Aaron. “It all comes to an end when you are dead,” he growled. He raised his weapon and as Aaron stared into his lifeless black eyes, he knew that even if he had offered himself up, his family’s gruesome fate would not have changed.

  He could feel the heat of Verchiel’s sword upon his face as it came at him. A Louisville Slugger blocked its descent. The fire of the blade flared wildly as it cut through the wooden bat, shaking Aaron from his paralysis.

  “Get the hell outta here, kid,” Zeke yelled as he brought the still-smoking half of the bat up and smashed it as hard
as he could into Verchiel’s snarling face.

  Verchiel was stunned by the fallen angel’s blow, but only for an instant. A line of shiny black blood dribbled from his aquiline nose to stain his lips and perfect teeth.

  Aaron and Gabriel threw themselves at Verchiel, the intensity of their anger fooling them into thinking that they could help their friend. But Verchiel’s wings lashed out from his back again, and the sudden torrent of air threw them back.

  Verchiel grabbed Zeke by the back of his scrawny neck and hefted him off the ground with inhuman strength. “It wasn’t enough that I took your wings and the lives of your filthy children? Now you want me to end your life as well?”

  “Don’t!” Aaron shrieked.

  Zeke struggled, the piece of broken bat falling from his hand as he writhed. “You have to live, Aaron,” he croaked, his voice strained with pain.

  “So be it,” Verchiel snapped as he ran his blade of fire through Zeke’s back in a sizzling explosion of boiling blood and steam.

  Zeke screamed, his head tossed back in a moan of agony and sorrow.

  Aaron lunged at Verchiel and grabbed his arm in a powerful grip. “You son of a bitch,” he screamed. “You killed him! You killed my parents, you vicious son of a…”

  “Unhand me, filth,” Verchiel said, lashing out with a vicious slap that sent Aaron hurtling across the room.

  He landed atop the recliner in the corner of the living room, tipping it over and tumbling to the floor. He fought to remain conscious.

  Through eyes blurred with tears, Aaron saw Zeke’s twitching body slide off of Verchiel’s blade and fall to his knees. A cry like the wail of eagles filled the air, and Camael charged across the room swinging his sword with abandon as he cut his way toward Verchiel. The look upon his face was wild—untamed.

  Gabriel was suddenly at Aaron’s side, pulling at his clothes. “Get up,” he said between tugs. “You have to set it free. If you don’t, you’re going to die. We’re all going to die.”

  Aaron got to his feet and stumbled toward Zeke as Camael and Verchiel battled savagely, their blades blazing hotter, whiter as they clashed. He got to his knees beside the old Grigori and took his hand in his.