by P. J. Day
“Such pedantic, weak, and nonspecific chants. No wonder your kind lost at the sword of Adonai,” declared Fisker, as two large, feathered wings sprouted from the back of his suit. With two gentle flutters, Fisker elevated toward the high ceiling of his office. “Why would humanity feel connection to such nonsense?”
Adam pulled back his hands, thrust them forward, producing a blinding, lightning rod of an ethereal sword down his forearm. It crackled with the sounds of an out-of-control electric web; static tendrils tapped Fisker’s metallic objects. “You’re just an errand boy, Uriel. You’ve never fought a god. Last chance, where is Israfel?”
“I’ve guarded Hell itself, had the fortitude to sacrifice children to ensure our continuation, absorbed the inherent villainy of the human race and sacrificed my purity and standing among my peers,” proclaimed Fisker. “You’re nothing but a fat blob past his prime.”
“Enough posturing,” Adam said.
The florid and twisting light at the tip of Adam’s fire sword shot out a pulse of energy that hit Fisker squarely in the chest, launching him through the large window that exploded into a million shards of glass. “You want more?” shouted Adam, as he stood on the edge of the pulverized frame where the window once stood.
Fisker floated, wings oscillating clumsily. He clutched his chest, which was now exposed through the burnt hole in the front of his suit. He gritted his teeth and launched himself toward Adam like a blinding torpedo of light.
Adam, who had fought Fisker’s kind before, just before Constantine’s rule, was familiar with the cherub’s limited tactics and arsenal. Despite his weight, Adam timed Fisker’s propulsion with clockwork-like precision, and lunged to the side, narrowly missing Fisker’s full-body assault. Fisker slammed and broke through his desk, tearing it in half, and striking his head on the blasted pieces of solid cherry wood, as he rolled and tumbled toward the doorway. Disoriented, Fisker gingerly stood up. He shook his head and opened his eyes, revealing Adam’s fat face smiling at eye level.
“Like I mentioned before, scrubs with wings cannot and will not be equals in the grand hierarchy,” Adam reprimanded, with confidence and guile.
Adam Cagle was right. Before the great war and the galactic shift in power, many of Adonai’s messengers were eviscerated by Jrue’s final line of defense: Gods like Lelantos, who had the ability to tap into the static laws of elemental physics and quantum mechanics. Fisker’s powers were dwarfed by Adam’s abilities of flight, multi-dimensional travel, manipulation, and extraordinary strength. Fisker knew this, which is why he invoked the Concord as a rhetorical shield.
Fisker torqued his slender body and hurled his fist at Adam’s chin. Instantly, Adam gave off a bright, gentle glow and absorbed Fisker’s punch as if it were the tap of a feather. He grabbed Fisker’s arm and twisted it, forcing him down to one knee. Adam lifted his fiery sword and pressed it up against Fisker’s throat; blue-green liquid ran down from the superficial cut the sword had created, and Fisker’s eyes bulged in terror.
“Where is Israfel?”
“Go ahead, take me out. So we can extinguish your kind for good,” Fisker capitulated.
“Where do angels go once they’re terminated?” Growled Adam.
Fisker remained silent.
“Where do they go?” yelled Adam.
“We don’t know. No one knows.”
“You want to experience the void?” Adam asked, pressing his sword a little closer toward the wrinkled skin on Fisker’s neck. “Where is Israfel?”
Fisker contorted his mouth, trying desperately to create slack between the sword and his throat. “He’s on Sunset Boulevard...”
“Where on Sunset, you scourge?”
“Why so angry, Adam?”
“Because all you had to do was tell me truth and protect both our interests—where on Sunset?”
“He’s at the site of the old Blondeau Tavern building off Gower; now the old abandoned CBS headquarters. He’s operating from the basement,” Fisker said, exasperated.
“How many Seraphs are in Los Angeles?”
“I don’t know, five, six...maybe.”
“Would there be any protecting Israfel?”
As Adam moved the sword to the other side of his throat, Fisker began hyperventilating. “I don’t know. Israfel can protect himself. He’s a Seraphim.”
Seraphims were the protectors at the side of Adonai’s throne. They were a mixture of Seraph and God-like omnipotence, a true threat to Adam’s power, the true assassins of Gods.
Adam pulled his sword away from his nemesis’ neck. Fisker slouched on the ground on all fours and dabbed his throat with two of his slender fingers. “You made me bleed.”
“How much time do we have left?”
“A few days,” Fisker said, as he magically tucked his wings back into his tattered suit. “Once Adonai knows that we weren’t able to rein in your brother, you won’t have a chance this time around.”
“You underestimate Jrue’s wrath. If war is started again, every single messenger will be eradicated. We might not be able to defeat the Seraphim, but your rule will be severely weakened, and your kind will be tortured and maimed like the pestilence you all are.”
A defeated Fisker tiredly stood up and walked toward one of his bookcases. He pressed a button, revealing a compartment filled with suits, ties, shirts, and shoes. Fisker reached for a black and neatly pressed Yves Saint Laurent suit.
“That’s a good one,” Adam suggested. “Our poll found the trim on that one exuded the most power.”
A tired and bruised Fisker flashed a half-grin.
Victorious, Adam puffed out his massive chest and confidently asked, “Got any in my size?”
Chapter Fifteen:
Blessed are the Autodidacts
Paolo Rivers’ office was on the east wing of the Dornsife Humanities Building. Sporting an academic’s beard and horn-rimmed glasses, he muttered to himself as he worked hard at creating his latest test; he’d just finished his third question, one that asked the difference between generativism and functionalism. The tip of his cheap, blue Bic pen had been chewed clean off. Paolo breathed anxiously.
“Professor Rivers?” asked Keelen’s soft voice.
The professor remained seated and looked up and squinted through his lenses. “Yes? That’s me.”
“Hi, I’m Keelen Grant, and this is Cindy.”
Paolo sat back in his chair and glanced at the box nestled in Cindy’s arms. “Umm, yes,” he said, wiping off the sweat gathered on his palms before extending his hand for a shake. “Please, have a seat.”
Keelen said, “Well, my friend Cindy says that you might know a little about this box and its contents.”
Cindy placed the box on Paolo’s desk.
Paolo leaned forward and nervously tapped his desk with his pen. “Where did you get this?”
“Raffi gave it to me,” said Cindy, with a calm smile. “Raffi Matini.”
Paolo let out a smile, one that evoked familiarity at the mention of Raffi’s name. “How’s the old Persian pawn master?”
Cindy’s eyes glistened against the office’s pale light. Keelen pursed her lips with dread.
“What’s wrong?” Paolo asked.
“Raffi passed away two nights ago,” muttered Keelen.
“Excuse me?”
“You didn’t hear it on the news?” asked Cindy.
“I’m sorry, but no. I’m busy with exams,” Paolo said, gripping a patch of his curly graying, thick hair.
Raffi was close to the professor, as Raffi had taught him everything about the Farsi language when Paolo had been researching for his thesis on the evolving language of Persian immigrants in Los Angeles.
“He was murdered,” Cindy said, tears pooling and shimmering on her lower eyelids.
“He was what?”
“He was murdered,” Keelen said.
“Why are you here with this box?” Paolo asked, terrified. “All of Raffi’s belongings should be with the police.”<
br />
“Raffi asked me to see you,” Cindy said, pulling out Paolo’s mangled business card.
Paolo stared at the card and then looked at Cindy. “He did? What are the police saying?”
“No one knows who did it,” Keelen said.
“How do I know you didn’t kill him?”
“He was my friend. I’m just as devastated as you. I’m here because Raffi entrusted me with this crate,” said Cindy.
Paolo sighed and stood up from his desk. He walked toward the office entrance and quickly peeked in both directions of the hallway before closing the door. He sat back down and opened the box and inspected its contents. He pulled out the red book and placed it in front of him. He took off his glasses and shook his head. “Honestly, I haven’t really put much work in Raffi’s project. I’d come up with a half-assed codex which I wasn’t prepared to share with anyone.” Paolo pulled the small thin center drawer of the desk and pulled out a couple of sheets of paper with his scribbled analysis, which looked as if it was written by someone’s foot.
Cindy attempted to pull on the notes.
Paolo placed his hand on the pages, preventing Cindy’s impulsive snatch. “Wait a minute.” He smiled. “You don’t even know what any of this means.”
“I can figure it out,” Cindy said confidently.
Keelen nodded. “That’s true, Mr. Rivers. Cindy is quite the researcher.”
“Really? Where did you study language?”
“The internet.”
“The internet? I don’t doubt that the internet is a powerful tool, however, you’re going to need someone with formal training to explain the alphabet contained in this book.”
Keelen excitedly turned toward Cindy and pointed her finger on the first word on the cover of the book. “Tell him what it says.”
Cindy crossed her arms and said, “Holy.”
Paolo grinned. “Very good, I must say. But Greek isn’t very hard. You have no clue what the rest says and neither do I since it’s written in some strange Koine-Greek language, which is unfamiliar even to someone who is as experienced as me.”
Paolo lifted his hand off the notes. Cindy began squinting at it, as she mouthed the letters in the codex. “Yes...yes!” she exclaimed.
Paolo stared at Cindy with skepticism. He turned toward Keelen. “Really?”
Keelen shrugged.
“Si...Fr,” Cindy stuttered, sounding out the letters.
“Nu?” asked Paolo. His eyes widened as skepticism gave way to encouragement. “Yes, you got it. You’re right...book. It says book!”
“Sifrenu,” said Cindy. “Holy Book of something. I…I need more time.”
“See what I mean,” Keelen said excitedly. “She’s like a savant at this stuff.”
“This key you made is going to help me decipher this stuff. This is like a dream come true. I always wanted to be some sort of antiquities sleuth. I wonder what crazy, magical secrets are contained in this book,” Cindy said.
Paolo chuckled. “There’s no magic in any of this. At best, it’s an old book that should probably end up in the hands of researchers. I don’t know where Raffi found it—it can be a hoax after all, I don’t know.”
“That’s what I said,” Keelen added. She turned toward Cindy. “Listen, you’re brilliant...”
“...thank you,” Cindy said, cutting Keelen off with eager gratitude.
“...you’ve proven that you have the chops to figure all this out, but we need to turn this stuff in to the police as evidence. Raffi’s murderer is still out there and the authorities need every piece of evidence out there that can help solve what happened to Raffi.”
Cindy’s face soured. “But Raffi wanted me to have this stuff.”
“I get it, which is why we’re here bothering Mr. Rivers. You can hang with the best of them, we proved it. But this is as far is it should go.”
Paolo casually grabbed a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the lenses of his glasses. “Listen, Ms. Grant? Correct?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve been working in this department for ten years now. I work with history professors, archaeology professors, and other academics that have their pulse on actual physical discoveries. In fact, I get ribbed the most around here, because I work with language and rarely do I have the opportunity to work out in the field. I thank Cindy for listening to Raffi’s advice by coming to me. If what is here turns out to have historical significance, it can make a career,” Paolo pleaded. He looked at Cindy. “I’ll work with you on this. Stop by tomorrow morning. You have more talent for this type of work than all of the students in our department. We’ll hash out as much as we can with the small time allotment we have. I have a department to run and these items should be in the hands of a team of experts. But we’ll placate our curiosities for the time being.”
Cindy stood and jumped up and down with glee. Her need for approval was voracious. “Thank you. Thank you. I’ll be here first thing tomorrow morning, I promise.”
Keelen smiled. Even though she believed Cindy’s newfound cache should be turned into the police, it was a relief seeing her friend happy. Anxious to get back to work, she said, “Great, but I really need to get going. Best you guys return it once you’re done with the analysis.”
“Of course, Ms. Grant. Sound advice. Once we’re done with some further translations tomorrow, we’ll contact the authorities,” agreed Paolo.
“Do me a favor, Mr. Rivers. Can you speak with one of your archaeologists about this rod, too?” asked Cindy, who pulled the peculiar metal piece out of the box.
Paolo grabbed it and lifted it toward the ceiling, highlighting the engravings. “I’ll do my best.” He placed it back into Cindy’s hands and walked the girls toward the door and shook Cindy’s hand before going back to his test. “It was a pleasure. If this is what Raffi wanted, I’m honored to help you. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
—oOo—
All the windows were rolled down in Cindy’s Beetle as she blasted her favorite New Age tune featuring a sitar, a banjo, and a kazoo. Cindy undulated to the awkwardly dreamy rhythm. Keelen sat silently, scrolling through the emails on her phone.
“Oh my God, I’m so excited that I’ll be working closely with Paolo. He seems so smart, huh?” Cindy gleefully said.
Keelen continued to stare at her phone. “Yeah, I don’t know.”
“What’s wrong? Come on, think about, we’ve probably stumbled onto something special. I feel it.”
“A man was murdered over the contents of that box. Your obsession blinds you.”
“Geez, Keelen, you play it too safe, you know that?” Cindy spouted. “It’s probably why you don’t have anything exciting going on.”
Keelen’s head snapped away from her phone. “What the hell is up with everyone trying to tell me how to live my life?”
Cindy tightened her grip on the wheel and didn’t respond.
“You and Matt. Great, both of you have wonderful things happening in your lives. I’m happy for both of you, I really am. But just don’t tell me how to go about my business.”
“Sorry. I just want to see you happy, you know. But you do play it too safe,” Cindy apologized. “Speaking of Matt, have you talked to him since your argument?”
“No.”
“His big fight is coming up in less than a week.”
“I know.”
“Are you gonna go?”
Keelen sat silently.
“You should go,” Cindy said.
“He’s so self-absorbed.” Keelen crossed her arms. “Can you turn that down, please? When did the Doobie Brothers collaborate with Enya? Didn’t even think that was possible.”
“Again, you play it safe. Expand your mind, girl.”
Keelen glanced over at the back seat. “You should have left that book with Professor Rivers.”
“Are you kidding me? It’s probably worth a fortune.”
“You left the rod with him?”
“Actually, I didn’t.”
> “What?”
“It’s in the box, too. I sneaked it back into the box when he wasn’t looking. Snap decision. I’m starting not to trust anyone. Not even you.”
Keelen looked into Cindy’s eyes with frustration. “I really don’t want anything to do with this stuff, it sincerely creeps me out. You’re turning into Gollum.”
“We’re here, my precioussssss,” Cindy playfully quipped, as she pulled the Beetle up in front of Logan’s building.
Keelen grabbed her purse, rolled her eyes, and stepped out of Cindy’s car. “I’ll see you later.”
“Need a ride?” Cindy asked.
“I’m good. I’ll let you ruminate with Saruman’s goodies. I’ll take the bus.”
Cindy closed her passenger door. “Keelen?” she asked through the window.
Keelen clutched her purse with both hands. “Yeah, what?”
“I love you. Thanks for all your support.”
She flashed Cindy a somewhat condescending thumbs-up and walked into the apartment building.
Keelen pressed the button in the elevator and looked up through the transparent ceiling. Cables and electric pulleys lifted the industrial-themed car. She contemplated her life in the brief moments when she was being lifted toward Logan’s floor. She definitely valued her friendship with Cindy, but there were so many ways she could communicate with her if she moved back to Canada. Phone, texting, email, Skype, various other chat clients; there were a plethora of modern methods to continue a friendship. She felt as if she were holding everyone back with her gloominess. No direction. No breaks. No purpose. Just a splash of mediocrity in everyone’s life.
Keelen knocked on Logan’s door as instructed before entering. Logan was gentlemanly enough to be mindful of Keelen, making sure she didn’t catch him in a compromising position. She turned the knob and shouted her customary greeting, “Logan, I’m turning on the lights.”
The inside of her nostrils tickled with a pleasant aroma right as she walked in through the door. The smell of nature zapped her senses. She flipped the switch and was immediately encircled with an entire flower shop’s seasonal inventory. No, make it two flower shops’ seasonal stock. Roses, tulips, carnations, sunflowers, Asiatic lilies, birds of paradise, even tall, imposing purple orchids. The arrangements surrounded her workspace, transforming the simple, sterile environment into one that could be enjoyed by man’s natural state. She dropped her purse with disbelief and stood motionless and surprised, as she scanned the scope of this gesture.
