The Fallen 4

by Thomas E. Sniegoski

  She let the heavy volume fall with a thud, which sent Milton scurrying to the other end of the table with an indignant squeak. Using the corner of the table for support, Lorelei bent to pick up her cane.

  “Let me try to guide you again,” Dusty offered, his voice soft.

  “You can’t,” she answered briskly, not even wanting to look at him, lest she be enticed by his offer.

  Tapping into the power of the Instrument had devastating side effects. Dusty was still relatively raw when it came to these kinds of powerful magicks, and she didn’t want to risk permanently hurting him. What he had done for Aaron and the others by locating the Fear Engines had been more than enough.

  And what she had asked of him after that had totally pushed the boundaries of their friendship, as well as his well-being.

  “I’m willing to try again,” he said.

  She could hear the trepidation in his voice, but also his seriousness. He was willing to do this for her—for them.

  Milton crawled onto Dusty’s hand, his tiny tongue flicking out to lick the salt from his skin.

  “I really think the visions are getting easier to control,” Dusty continued, lifting the mouse so the two of them were nose to nose. “I think the Instrument is getting used to me.”

  Lorelei didn’t respond. Instead she continued to leaf through the ancient text before her. The smell of old, musty pages wafted up from the book. She’d always loved that smell, and remembered how Lucifer Morningstar did too.

  She missed Lucifer terribly, and wanted him back. She needed him. They needed him.

  Lorelei looked up to stare at Dusty. He was pale, his skin almost waxy. In spite of herself she wondered if she could lend him some of her strength if they again attempted to reconnect with Lucifer.

  “We can’t,” she said quickly, trying to push away the thoughts. “I’m sure we can find another way.”

  “It isn’t like we’ve got a ton of time,” Dusty said. “You’ve seen how it is out there, what we’re up against. If Lucifer is as powerful as you say he is, we really need him right now.”

  Every word he spoke was true. Lucifer was one of the strongest of all the angels, and not having him to help the Nephilim during these sinister times was an extreme detriment.

  “I’m just afraid of what this is going to do to you,” Lorelei finally admitted.

  Dusty chuckled. “Don’t worry about me,” he said. “These visions are going to kill me eventually anyway. I might as well get the most out of them while I can.”

  She slowly closed the old tome. She hated herself for what she and Dusty were about to do, but she also knew how much they needed Lucifer back.

  “We’re going to have to go deep,” Lorelei warned Dusty. “Even deeper than last time if we’re going to make some sort of contact.”

  Dusty grew paler as she talked, and she was about to dismiss the whole thing, when he spoke up.

  “Let’s just do it,” he said, setting Milton back on the table. “We can’t let Aaron and the gang have all the fun.”

  “No, we can’t,” she agreed, Dusty’s willingness making her throw all caution to the wind.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The wall of sand suddenly came alive and pulled Melissa inside.

  Her curiosity had been piqued by the mural on the chamber’s wall, and her guard had been down.

  Now Melissa was being drawn deeper and deeper beneath the shifting sand. It took everything she had to keep the desert from forcing itself into her mouth and nose, from crawling inside her and claiming her as it had the others from the archeological dig. As she fought to free herself of the sand’s hold, Melissa saw the fates of those who had lost the struggle floating past her in this sea of sand.

  Am I strong enough? Melissa asked herself. A memory suddenly flashed in her mind. She saw herself not too long after she had first arrived at Saint Athanasius. She hadn’t been adjusting well to her angelic powers and had told Aaron that she didn’t think she was going to make it through the transition. She’d told him that he had wasted his time finding her and bringing her there.

  Melissa remembered the concern on his face as Aaron had asked what made her believe such a thing. Melissa had told him of watching her mother murdered by the Powers, and how the only thing she’d been able to do was run. She hadn’t even lifted a finger to help her mother; she had been too afraid.

  “I’m not strong enough,” she had told Aaron then.

  Writhing in the hold of the living sands, the corpses of those who had given in to its course touch floating past her, she recalled the intensity of that fear.

  The fear had been stronger than she was.

  Or so she had believed.

  Aaron had looked at her, with his dark and piercing eyes, and had said simply, “I don’t believe you.”

  She had argued, telling him how weak and cowardly she was. He had listened and nodded.

  And when she had finished her rant, he had looked at her and said with all seriousness, “Melissa wasn’t strong enough.”

  She had been startled by his statement, not really expecting him to agree with her. But then he had said the most startling thing.

  “Melissa wasn’t strong enough, but you are not Melissa anymore.”

  She had looked at him as if he were crazy, but her gaze had begged him for some sort of additional explanation.

  “The old Melissa died with her mother, so the new Melissa could live.”

  Melissa had wanted to tell Aaron so many things in that moment, like that he was mistaken, that she was still the same awful person who had let her own mother be taken by vengeful angels.

  But before she’d been able to get the words out, Aaron had reached out to her with a hand that had started to glow. For a second she’d thought he might burn her.

  And maybe in a way he had.

  Aaron had touched her with his angelic power, and the thing inside her—the Nephilim—had come fully awake. She remembered crying out, and a feeling like she was on fire from the inside.

  It was her fear that had burned away.

  Still beneath the sand, her oxygen waned. Melissa tapped into the power at her core, calling it to the surface.

  She felt her wings emerge and her body begin to glow with divine fire.

  Once again it was the fear that died.

  Because she was now, as she’d been then, strong enough.

  * * *

  The prophet had returned to gloat.

  As the cobra of sand struck, sending Verchiel to the ground and into darkness, the fallen angel heard the ancient one’s voice.

  “It is happening as I saw.”

  Disoriented, Verchiel spun, awash in a sea of shadow. He called forth a blade of flame, illuminating the space so he might find and dispose of his enemy. But the sword barely touched the inky gloom, showing him only the back of an old man as he worked upon his mural.

  “What is this?” Verchiel demanded. “Where am I?”

  The prophet touched up some details in his portentous art, before he turned to address the angel.

  “A frozen moment,” the prophet said. “When Heaven showed me a glimpse of what was yet to come.” He went back to his painting, recording the images that were inside his head.

  “I killed you,” Verchiel growled, stepping closer. “I brought the fires of Heaven down upon your head, and destroyed the city that tried to protect you.”

  “Yes,” the prophet agreed. “You did, but not yet.”

  “Not… yet?” Verchiel repeated, still confused.

  “A frozen moment,” the prophet said. “A frozen moment in time.”

  “A frozen moment in your time,” Verchiel said as he finally began to understand.

  The prophet smiled and nodded as he continued to paint. “You’ve got it,” he said.

  “But I wasn’t here for this,” Verchiel started. “How… ?”

  “Because I’ve brought you,” the old man said. “To show you.” He reached out, grabbed hold of Verchiel’s wrist, a
nd dragged him and his burning blade toward the wall to illuminate his artwork.

  In the light of his sword, Verchiel squinted. “What are you showing me?” He leaned closer.

  “That you have a part still to play,” the prophet explained, “but it has yet to be determined.”

  “I see something,” Verchiel said, trying to decipher the images upon the wall.

  “A choice,” the prophet spoke. “You have a choice to make.”

  Verchiel tried desperately to see—to understand—his place in the picture. But the prophet’s grip held the light steady so that Verchiel couldn’t illuminate his part of the story.

  “I cannot see it,” Verchiel said. “Let me bring the fire closer so that I…”

  The flame of his sword began to die.

  “A choice not yet made,” the prophet said as the light dwindled. “But one that will soon be expressed.”

  Verchiel’s sword disappeared with a hiss. He tried to call forth another, but the darkness bore down upon him, attempting to crush him.

  The darkness had become sand, which surged around him, trying to scour the flesh from his form and crush the life from his body under its oppressive weight. Verchiel fought back, but it was as if he were an insect frozen in amber.

  Blocking out the pain, the angel closed his eyes and called upon the fire that seethed at the core of his being. But before he could bring it forward, there was a terrific flash. The sand that held him in its stony grip was suddenly pulverized, and Verchiel’s body was tossed backward on a shock wave of incredible force.

  Verchiel was momentarily dazed, then lifted his head to see that he was still within the excavated chamber, but its dirt and sand ceiling had now been blown away to reveal the twinkling nighttime sky.

  “How?” Verchiel rose to his feet as his wings sprang forth.

  And then he witnessed the most surprising of sights, for he would have figured her for dead.

  The Nephilim Melissa stood across the way in a crater of her own. The sand beneath her feet had turned to an opaque glass, which still steamed in the cool desert air. Here was the force that had set him free. She had her back to Verchiel, facing something that rose up from the sand, unearthed by that release of her preternatural fury.

  Verchiel joined Melissa for a closer look at what she had uncovered. At first glance it appeared to be some sort of machine, pulsing as if alive, but closer inspection revealed that its mass was covered in a sickly, gray flesh.

  They had found their Fear Engine.

  “What do we do?” Melissa asked, not taking her eyes from the loathsome sight.

  “Isn’t it obvious, girl?” Verchiel asked as he stretched his wings and leaped into the air, a sword appearing in his hand. “We kill it.”

  * * *

  Cameron remembered the squeaking sound Ryan’s sneakers had made on the church’s hardwood floor behind him. He remembered slowly turning to see what the unpleasant kid was doing, just as the hammer connected with the side of his head.

  He hadn’t even had a chance to recover before the kid had hit him again, knocking him out cold.

  But now Cameron was coming around. His head pounded so badly that he was afraid to open his eyes, positive that the top of his skull had been ripped away and someone had shoved knives into his exposed brain.

  Always the glutton for punishment, Cameron opened his eyes anyway. He couldn’t comprehend what he saw. Everything was upside down.

  In a panic Cameron tried to move, but found that his hands and feet were bound. Remembering that he wasn’t alone, he turned his head despite the nearly blinding pain, to find Vilma hanging upside down beside him from an inverted wooden cross. She appeared to be unconscious.

  “The poop head’s awake,” Ryan’s unmistakable voice said.

  Cameron turned his head toward the sound, still trying to make sense of things.

  The church parishioners stood in the pews as if waiting for the ritual of mass to begin. Jinny and Ryan had the best seats in the house, in the front row.

  Suddenly a face appeared before Cameron. It was the old priest. Donnally leaned in close to examine him.

  “As a matter of fact he is,” Donnally said, smiling cheerily before moving on to peer at Vilma. “Let’s see if we can wake your little lady friend too so that we can get started.”

  Cameron watched the old man gently tap Vilma’s cheek. She let out a moan, her face twisting in pain as she moved her head. Cameron guessed that her head probably felt as good as his did.

  “There she is,” the old priest said, throwing his hands into the air with delight. The parishioners in the pews laughed politely, some clapping softly as the priest strode to the pulpit. Gripping the sides of the lectern, the elderly man readied to address his flock.

  “It is a special day, brothers and sisters,” he began.

  While his captor was otherwise occupied, Cameron strained against his bonds, and found that his wrists had been wrapped with strips of heavy electrical tape.

  Glancing over to Vilma, Cameron saw that she had a weird What the hell is going on expression upon her face.

  He knew exactly how she felt.

  “Our god has seen fit to bless two of our youngest with exceptional luck this day,” Donnally announced, pausing as Jinny and Ryan stood up from their pew to turn toward the congregation. Everyone applauded while the two children soaked up the adoration.

  “They were sent out to the streets to bring us back supplies so that we could continue our worship, and they have returned with the greatest gifts we could imagine… sacrifices to the power that has kept us safe during these dark, changing times.”

  Cameron felt his blood run cold, as Donnally left the lectern and approached them.

  “You two have been delivered to us, to continue to keep us safe,” he declared, arms spread before them. “Know that your sacrifice will not be in vain, and that you died so that others could live.”

  Cameron’s eyes followed the priest as he walked back across the altar, toward something in the far corner covered with a white sheet of silk. Cameron strained his neck to watch the old man, whose hands were clasped before him. The priest bowed and muttered beneath his breath before the covered object.

  Was this the holy object that they prayed to? The god that they were willing to sacrifice innocent lives to?

  Finished with his prayers, the old man reached for the white cloth with both hands.

  “Behold our god,” he proclaimed at the top of his lungs.

  “Behold our god!” the parishioners repeated as Donnally tore away the covering.

  Cameron didn’t really know what he was looking at. At first he thought it was some kind of boxy machine, but then he saw that parts of it seemed to be made of pale, wet skin. The form expanded and contracted, as if breathing, as it squatted in the shadow of the altar.

  “Vilma, do you see this?” Cameron whispered. He quickly glanced over to see that she too was craning her neck to catch a peek.

  “I see it,” she answered. “Is that what I think it is?”

  “If you’re thinking ‘Fear Engine,’ I’d say you’re probably right,” he commented.

  Donnally turned from the throbbing mechanism, hate filling his eyes.

  “Silence!” he screamed, his words echoing through the hall. “Show some respect to the holy god that you’re about to give up your lives to.”

  And with those words Cameron heard movement in the church. The wooden pews squeaked as the parishioners left their seats. They had formed a line and were approaching the steps to the altar, all carrying knives.

  “Come forth, brothers and sisters,” Father Donnally urged. He, too, produced a knife from within the folds of his robes. “Partake of the sacrifice, and we shall all reap the benefit of our god’s thanks.”

  Cameron looked to Vilma.

  “I think I’ve seen enough,” he said to her.

  “More than enough,” she agreed.

  That was all he needed to hear. Cameron summoned the powe
r of the Nephilim. His mighty wings exploded from his back, flexing against his bonds and the inverted cross to which he was tied. The wood groaned and snapped into pieces, and Cameron fell to the floor.

  Vilma did the same, her own wings making short work of her restraints.

  “You’re good?” Cameron asked, ripping the tape from his wrists and ankles.

  “Good,” Vilma said, doing the same. “But we might want to move quickly,” she said, eyeing the crowd that had frozen at the sight of what they had revealed themselves to be.

  “Oh, these are special sacrifices, indeed!” the priest cheered as the hideous device pulsed and writhed behind him. “Praise be!” He rushed at Cameron, knife poised to strike.

  “Praise be!” the parishioners echoed, brandishing their daggers, eager to sacrifice the Nephilim to their terrible god.

  * * *

  Gabriel leaped away as the fist composed of the compacted bodies of birds, rabbits, rats, and raccoons shattered the concrete floor before him.

  “Protect the machine!” the animal voices all said in unison.

  The monster was on the move again, its misshapen head covered in multiple sets of different-size eyes searching for Gabriel.

  Gabriel circled the horrible creature, wanting to get to the Fear Engine but knowing he couldn’t until he dealt with this monstrosity.

  The terror struck at him again, wielding the sledgehammer-like force of its fist and nearly making contact. A piece of concrete flew up from the floor and hit Gabriel’s face, and he yelped.

  Gabriel’s sudden cry of pain brought forth a weird high-pitched sound that must have been a twisted kind of laughter.

  Gabriel wasn’t in the least bit amused.

  “Protect the machine,” the monster repeated.

  “Yes,” Gabriel said, crouching, waiting for the monster’s next strike. “I’ve heard all about that.”

  The monster rushed at him on thick legs composed of cats, dogs, and raccoons. It groped for him, and Gabriel attempted to dart beneath its arm, but he wasn’t fast enough. The creature’s hand wrapped around his back leg.

  The monster made that obscene amused sound again, as Gabriel was yanked up into the air. The Labrador angled his body toward the disgusting hand that held him and bit down upon one of its thick fingers with all his might.