The Fallen 4

by Thomas E. Sniegoski

  He soaked in his conquest. The property that had once belonged to their divine nemeses had been reduced to nothing more than rubble and ash.

  This was what he would do to all who opposed him, to all who would try to keep him from making this world his own, from making this world his Heaven.

  His attention was caught by something near the skeletal remains of a greenhouse. He could not say if it was a scent or something more, but he was drawn to the broad patch of open ground. He knelt. The glove of shadow receded from his hands so that he might touch the dirt with bare fingertips.

  He sank his fingers into the cool earth, and was filled with joy that everything was progressing as it was supposed to. There, buried beneath the ground, was a new treasure for his kingdom.

  Satan turned to address his minions.

  “There are bodies buried here,” he announced. “The bodies of our enemies who fell in battle against our forces of darkness.”

  He turned his gaze back to the flat piece of land. Someone had left mementos to remember those who had been slain.

  How touching.

  “I want these bodies exhumed,” the Darkstar told his followers.

  The monsters immediately went to work, the trolls digging with their shovel-like hands, while the others used any makeshift tool that they could find to move the dirt away from the prizes their leader sought.

  If this was to be his kingdom, then the Darkstar would need special beings to serve him. Messengers for his most holy word.

  Satan watched as the shroud-covered bodies were unearthed from their final resting places.

  The Darkstar needed angels of his own.

  And now he would have them.

  EPILOGUE

  Verchiel had no idea where he was.

  He’d heard the psychic cry of the Nephilim magick user, and had started back to the school.

  But he had ended up here… wherever that was.

  He was in a place of total darkness, and his divine fire did little to illuminate the thick shadow of his foreign surroundings.

  The angel’s mind raced. Can this be some sort of trap generated by the Fear Engine?

  He began to make his way through the stygian gloom, in search of answers.

  Or at least something that he could fight.

  There wasn’t a noise to be heard or a scent to be smelled in this place.

  A shudder—could it be fear?—raced down his spine as he recalled the nothingness after his defeat at the hands of the Nephilim Redeemer.

  Was he somehow back in that oblivion?

  Verchiel continued to move forward, his every sense on full alert.

  The sudden sound of voices in the oppressive silence was deafening.

  “What if he does not find us?” one of them questioned.

  “Then it was not meant to be,” answered another.

  “The darkness is long and deep,” said a third. “Give him time, and he will find us.”

  Verchiel moved eagerly in the direction of the conversation.

  “This one, he knows the darkness?”

  “Yes, he knows it.”

  “And the darkness knows him.”

  The voices cackled with laughter.

  Verchiel had had enough. He willed his body to glow with the power of his inner fire. “Show yourselves!” he commanded.

  And the shadows parted, like curtains on a stage, to reveal three hunched and hooded figures.

  “You have found us,” croaked one.

  “As I knew he would,” declared another.

  “What a beautiful sight to behold,” exclaimed the third, extending a clawed hand, but stopping short of the circle of light. “The masters have chosen wisely with this one.”

  Verchiel bore down upon them, his body still throwing off its awesome radiance.

  The three retreated into the shadows.

  “Who are you? Who are these masters of which you speak?” Verchiel demanded.

  “We? We are nobody,” said one.

  “Humble servants of a greater power,” said another.

  “A power that wishes to change the world,” said the third as the others nodded their hooded visages in agreement.

  Verchiel stepped closer to the odd women. “This power—” he began.

  “Your light,” interrupted one of them. “Dim your glow, for it blinds those who spend most of their days in shadow.”

  “Light so bright is not known by eyes such as these.”

  “It is no wonder that our masters have sought you out.”

  Verchiel pulled back upon his glow, and watched as the three old crones ambled closer.

  “Much better,” said one as they all wrung their clawed hands in anticipation.

  “You speak of your masters,” Verchiel repeated. “Who are they, and why have they brought me here?”

  “They designed this world,” said one.

  “They manipulate the events that will shape the future,” said another.

  “They are the Architects,” revealed the third. “And they wish for you to serve their cause.”

  * * *

  Vilma stood in the tiny side yard of her aunt and uncle’s home on Belvidere Place in Lynn, Massachusetts, watching the sun disappear from the sky, and the night emerge. She had been here with Aaron for a few days.

  There was barely any daylight now.

  She thought of all that the Nephilim had been through, and wondered if they’d had any real effect at all. The night was still on the march. She guessed that it wouldn’t be long before it was dark all the time.

  Her angelic nature stirred, and she realized that she was no longer alone in the yard. Standing on the step leading into the house, her seven-year-old cousin Nicole was watching her.

  “Hey, you,” Vilma said. “Watcha doin’?”

  “Better come inside,” the child said, eyes wide and serious. “Before the monsters come and take you.”

  This was the kind of world that her aunt and uncle and cousins were forced to inhabit. A world that she, and others like her, had tried to make better.

  They had failed.

  “No monsters will take me,” Vilma said, shaking her head. “Or you, if they know what’s good for them.”

  She wanted Nicole to believe that she was safe, but Vilma had seen some of the other houses on the dead-end court, and they were boarded up, some nothing more than burned-out shells. Her aunt had said that things had come when it was fully dark, things that had taken away some of the neighbors, and set fire to their homes.

  “You’ll punch them?” Nicole asked.

  “I’ll do worse than that,” Vilma said, feeling a sudden overwhelming urge to hug Nicole tightly and never let her go.

  The child smiled, and Vilma hoped that the little girl felt safe in her presence.

  “Why don’t you go inside,” Vilma suggested. “I’ll be just a minute. I want to check on something.”

  Vilma turned to the back of the tiny yard as the screen door slammed behind Nicole. Vilma wanted to see how her scarecrows were holding up. Two armored bodies hung from fence posts, flies buzzing around their horrible faces. When she’d first arrived with Aaron, Vilma had found these things very much alive and sniffing around the house, looking for a way to get in. She hadn’t been in any mood to deal with their filthy likes, so she’d killed them.

  The way the trolls were mounted on the fence, it looked as though they were just hanging out in the yard. It was enough to convince any lesser beastie that this house belonged to the trolls, and to stay away.

  Vilma walked the perimeter to make sure that the house was still secure. Most of the windows had been boarded up, and things still looked pretty sturdy. She arrived back at the screen door and tried to turn the knob, but it was locked.

  “Good girl,” she muttered to herself before knocking.

  She had drilled this—and many other precautions—into the minds of her cousins.

  The door opened quickly.

  “Hurry up inside,” Aunt Edna commanded
. “It’s nearly dark enough for trouble to come around.”

  Vilma did as she was told, and the older woman closed the door behind her, making sure that all the locks were in place.

  Edna turned, and the two women said nothing as they looked at one another, but Vilma could see a discomfort in her aunt’s eyes. Edna was like a mother to her, and Vilma’s heart ached at the thought that the woman might now be afraid of her.

  “Everything all right outside?” Edna asked.

  “Yeah,” Vilma said. “Everything’s fine.”

  After killing the trolls when she’d first arrived, Vilma had then gathered Aaron in her arms, only to find her aunt standing in the doorway.

  Vilma had still been wearing her Nephilim appearance, wings and sword of fire in hand. She had actually considered sending the wings and weapon away, to try to convince the woman that it had all been a trick of the darkness.

  But she just hadn’t had the strength of mind to do it. Instead Vilma had hoped that she had been right to come to this place, and that her family would keep her safe.

  She had been right.

  Edna had set up the guest room for the injured Aaron and had helped to clean and bandage his horrible wound. It wasn’t till things had settled—as much as that was even possible these days—that Aunt Edna had asked for some kind of explanation.

  Considering what she’d had to say, Aunt Edna and Uncle Frank had taken the news quite well. But they were very religious, and saw what was happening in the world as God’s way of demonstrating that He wasn’t the least bit happy by human behavior.

  The concept of the Nephilim didn’t seem all that far-fetched to them, especially given that trolls now prowled their backyard.

  Vilma hadn’t gone into detail but had explained that she and Aaron and their friends were trying to protect humanity from the darkness. Her aunt and uncle had seemed to accept all this, but then Edna had asked Vilma to show Frank her angelic guise.

  That had been the first time Vilma had seen this look of apprehension in her aunt’s eyes.

  “Are you…” Vilma hesitated now. “Are you afraid of me?”

  Aunt Edna didn’t answer, going to the sink and washing her hands. She turned off the water, took a hand towel from the front of the stove, and started to dry her hands. It was if she hadn’t heard the question.

  “Aunt Edna?” Vilma asked again.

  The woman went to the freezer and removed a bag of coffee.

  “I’m going to make a pot,” she said. “Want some?”

  Vilma felt her heart begin to crumble. Was the question so hard to answer? The longer it took for her aunt to reply, the more obvious the answer was.

  Edna placed the bag of coffee on the counter and turned to face her niece.

  “What do you want me to say?” she asked. “That you terrify us? You don’t. But the idea of what you represent, of what that means in regard to God, and what’s happening in the world—that scares us quite a bit,” she admitted.

  Aunt Edna silently cried as she began to make the coffee.

  Vilma didn’t know how to respond.

  “I’m trying to make the world right again,” Vilma started to explain. “This is why I’m here—why God put us here. Aaron and I—”

  “Aaron is very sick,” her aunt interrupted, scooping coffee from the bag. “I’m not even sure if he’s going to—”

  “He’ll be all right,” Vilma said, mustering her confidence. “He just needs to rest and heal.”

  “I changed his bandage not too long ago,” Edna said, filling the carafe with water and then carefully pouring it into the machine. “The wound is infected.”

  “We’ll just keep it clean and hope for the best,” Vilma said.

  “And what if things don’t work out?” Edna asked as she flipped the switch on the coffeemaker. “What if he dies?”

  Vilma had never let her mind go there. When it started to, she quickly pushed the bad thoughts away and focused on some other responsibility.

  “He won’t.”

  “But what if he does? What about your plans then?” Edna asked.

  Vilma did not want to think about a world without Aaron, but she had to consider it.

  “We’ll go on without him,” Vilma said, realizing that there was no choice. “We were put here to save the world, and with or without Aaron, the Nephilim will get the job done.”

  The coffee machine hissed and gurgled as it brewed.

  Aunt Edna looked across the kitchen to the boarded-up window over the sink. “I keep thinking that maybe this is just a horrible nightmare, and that I’ll be waking up soon.” She looked to Vilma. “Do you ever think like that?”

  “I used to,” Vilma said. “But then I came to terms with the fact that I had changed, and that the whole world had changed too.”

  “I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to it,” Aunt Edna said, going to the drying rack by the sink and taking a mug from it. “Or if I want to, really.”

  She paused, pouring herself a steaming cup of coffee and blowing on the scalding fluid before taking a sip.

  “Do you think you can change the world?” Aunt Edna asked as she sat down at the kitchen table. “Do you and your angel friends, your Nephilim, really think you’re strong enough to do that?”

  Vilma came to the table and sat next to her aunt. “We may be down,” she said, taking her aunt’s hand in hers, “but we’re far from out.”

  Her aunt squeezed back lovingly. “I could never be afraid of someone who I love so much,” Edna said.

  Later that night the family spent some time together, playing a game of Clue by lantern light. The electricity had gone out again. It seemed to be happening more frequently, and lasting longer each time. Vilma knew that there was going to be a time in the very near future when the power, like the sun, would be out for good.

  Even as they played their game, enjoying each other’s company, Vilma listened to the night outside for any signs of danger. But it seemed the scarecrows were doing their job.

  After Uncle Frank solved the crime, Vilma’s cousins wanted a second game, but Edna proclaimed that it was time for sleep. Vilma helped Nicole and Michael get ready for bed, tucked them in, and went over the plans in case something should get into the house during the night.

  They knew to go down to the cellar and hide until it was safe.

  With the house quiet Vilma went to sit with Aaron. She had set up an air mattress in the guest room, on the floor beside where Aaron lay.

  Sitting by his side, she watched him breathe. His skin was still deathly pale, and her aunt had been right about the wound. It looked an angry red and was seeping a thick green-tinged fluid. Vilma again considered bringing him to a hospital, but she didn’t want to risk exposure.

  And besides, what doctors would know how to care for an injured Nephilim?

  No, she decided. For now Aaron was fine here, with her and her family. They would take care of him, and if there came a time when they couldn’t anymore…

  She would cross that bridge when she came to it.

  Vilma wrapped her fingers around his hand and gave it a loving squeeze.

  “Hey,” she said to him. “How are you doing?”

  She waited a moment for a response. Every night she talked to him, hoping for some sort of reaction, but she had yet to get one.

  “Things here are as good as can be expected,” she said, running her thumb along the knuckles of his limp hand. “It’s still pretty bad out there, and it seems to be getting worse. No pressure, but I sure hope that you’re planning on waking up soon. I’d hate to be facing off against this business without you.”

  Those last words hit her hard, and she felt a lump form in her throat and her eyes fill with tears. What if he doesn’t get better? What if—Heaven forbid—Aaron were to die? What would that mean for her, the Nephilim… the world?

  Not only did it scare her to think that she might be forced to lead what remained of the Nephilim against the rising tide of evil, but just t
he idea of being without Aaron shattered her heart into a million jagged pieces.

  Vilma leaned forward and brought her lips down to his. Maybe it will be like Sleeping Beauty, she thought, kissing him tenderly, but there was no magick, other than the love that she felt for him.

  That had to count for something.

  She sat back on the bed beside him, watching him sleep and wondering where he might be. Vilma started to dose off, and was considering calling it a night, when she heard something.

  The noise came from somewhere outside the room. She listened, craning her head, waiting to hear it again. It was a strange whirring sound, like moving parts of a machine.

  Leaving the edge of Aaron’s bed, she wondered if one of her cousins was up, playing with one of their toys. It wouldn’t be the first time. She peered out into the hall, eyes adjusting to the dark.

  She almost screamed as a tall figure darted into Michael’s room.

  Vilma physically reacted, her Nephilim nature roused by the potential for danger. She sprinted down the hallway, a weapon emerging in her hand.

  She flung open the door, the light of her sword illuminating the darkness. Instead of one figure in Michael’s room, there were three. And they surrounded the boy, who remained blissfully asleep.

  The intruders turned their stares to Vilma as she entered. She was startled by their strange appearance. They wore long trench coats, and their short hair was slicked back. Covering their eyes were odd circular goggles.

  Vilma cried out Michael’s name to try to wake him, but he remained fast asleep as she rushed with her sword of fire.

  One of the three drew a weapon from inside his coat, and Vilma aimed her blade for the weapon holder’s wrist, but the mysterious figure seemed to disappear. Her blade passed through the air and bit into the wooden floor.

  Her target was suddenly on her other side. Before she could follow through with her weapon, Vilma was struck in the chest by what appeared to be a blue bolt of lightning. It pushed her violently back into her cousin’s dresser.

  Vilma slumped to the floor, head bobbing as she slipped in and out of consciousness. She painfully fought to lift her head. One of the figures loomed over Michael’s bed, shining a strange, pulsing light into his face.