Transgression

by Brandy C. Ange

  The beast turned, with a snarl, but then changed his tune when he saw who had spoken to him. “Many have fallen, and the gates are crowded. There was a terrorist attack at the Nephilim’s safe house,” he laughed, a deep growling sound.

  “Where was this? Which safe house? Were any Nephilim killed?” Shael asked frantically. If the council had taken Achaia they certainly would have placed her in one of their institutions.

  “Moscow,” The demon answered. “But I don’t know of any angel blood at the gates.”

  Shael pushed through the crowd trying to get to the center to hear first-hand, from the demons who had been present.

  “Women and children!” The demon was shrieking with glee. It was a tiny little bat-like creature with a thick seventh circle accent. “The Nephilim were trying to save them, but there were more bombs, and then more!”

  “The Nephilim?” Shael piped in, as if he had just arrived and this were new news. The demons went quiet, realizing who was in their midst. Shael had become like royalty to them, Lucifer’s right hand man. “What did they look like?”

  The demon’s smile vanished. “The angels?” Shael nodded impatiently. “Did they perish in the explosions?”

  “Angel blood was spilled, I smelt it.” The demons winced as if the smell was something awful. “Two of them ran in and tried to stop a bomb from detonating. They were blown up! I heard it go off!”

  The crowd of demons cheered at this.

  “What did they look like!” Shael was losing his temper. The demon looked taken aback.

  “I don’t know, the one guy was tall, and big. He had blond hair…”

  “What about the other one?” Shael tried not to relax yet.

  “I don’t know, she had red hair.”

  Shael’s knees went out, and he collapsed onto them. The demons around him, backed away, staring cautiously. Shaking, Shael stood back on his feet, and somehow pushed through all the demon’s blocking him from his room. Once inside he shut the door, and fell to his knees again, shaking uncontrollably.

  “Don’t let it be true.”

  Bale looked out of the window through which Achaia had disappeared. Smoke was rising in billows from the streets, and cries of terror were still rising in wisps on the wind. He felt each one in his chest. Rage filled his heart. The wailing filled his ears, with the sirens that had started flooding in. He turned his attention back to those remaining in the room. Emile had gone unconscious. Yellaina and Amelia were hunched over him, whispering.

  “Come,” Bale said gathering their attention, “we will take him to his bed. He’ll be more comfortable there. I’ll have a healer come in and look at him.” Bale stooped, and put one of Emile’s arms around his shoulders while Amelia grasped the other. They carried him that way back to his room, and laid him in the bed. Amelia covered him with blankets and turned to look at Bale.

  “What else can I do?” she asked.

  Bale looked down at Emile’s pale face. “When he wakes, he’ll be needing comfort more than anything. Whatever will bring him that, and warm his soul. What are his favorite things?”

  “Well he really loves jazz music?” Amelia offered. “And… hot chocolate?”

  “That’s a good start,” he said, reassuring her that she was heading in the right direction. “Can you go into the library and see if we have any jazz albums?” Bale asked, looking to Yellaina who had followed them in.

  Yellaina nodded. “I think I saw some when we were cleaning.”

  “I’ll go fetch the healer, and have some hot chocolate sent from the kitchens,” Bale said with a small bow. “I also need to inform the council that the Cohen girl has escaped.”

  Yellaina stopped in the doorway, where she’d been heading for the library.

  “She’ll come back,” Amelia said calmly.

  “What makes you think that?” Bale asked, failing to keep the contempt out of his voice.

  “We know her,” Yellaina said not bothering with trying to hide her disdain.

  Bale nodded curtly, and turned back to Amelia. “You need only remain at his side,” he said as he exited the room passing Yellaina, and receiving a glare as he did. He admired her loyalty to her friend, even if it was misplaced. Amelia was wiser, less emotional. He liked that she displayed a rationale behind her decisions and actions, and didn’t just react. That was something he could respect… Bale shook his head clear of these sorts of thoughts, and focused on the task at hand.

  As he walked the halls to the healer’s quarters, he focused on his breathing, trying to calm himself. He knew what he needed to do. But he would see Emile taken care of first. Emile was, after all, under his protection.

  Olivier was pulling a man out from under a collapsed column when the bomb exploded. He heard it as if from a distance, coming from across the street; in the building that Achaia had just gone into. “No,” he whispered to himself, perching the man against the wall, and leaving him to catch his breath and assess the damage.

  Olivier was across the street before the man could have blinked and noticed he was gone. “Achaia?” He called. The building looked to have been some kind of restaurant or café. There were busted up tables, and a counter. It looked like most of the people that had been there, had cleared out after the first explosion. There was, it seemed, only property damage. “Achaia?” Olivier called again.

  He knew he had heard something happen here, but there was no fire, no fresh floating ash…

  Then he heard whimpering.

  “No, no, no, no, no.”

  Olivier rounded the counter.

  Behind it, her red hair frosted with dust and ash, Achaia lay on the floor slumped over someone. “Please wake up. Don’t be gone. Please.” She was sobbing. Her body convulsing as she laid atop the body of a man.

  Olivier came to kneel next to her. Her long curly hair was concealing the man’s face. But Olivier knew those clothes. He felt as if his heart had fallen into his stomach and the air was wretched from his lungs. Olivier’s knees hit the ground, hard. “No.” He fell over Achaia, pulling her off of him. “Noland?” Olivier said, seeing, for himself, his face. “Achaia?” Olivier asked looking to her to explain what had happened.

  Achaia’s face was streaked black with grime and tears. Her eyes were bright with red and green. Olivier thought to himself unimportantly that he had always thought her eyes were blue…

  “I saw the bomb. It was going to go off.” She looked down at Noland. She tugged at his arm, pulling him over, to lay face up. “I dove for it.” She said looking down at his face, “but he pushed me off, and covered it himself.” She hesitated on the last part as she looked down to Noland’s torso. His jacket and shirt had been burned away, and were still smoking; but his skin was clear and golden brown. “What?” She whispered, touching his stomach. She drew back her hand as if she’d touched a hot stove.

  Olivier looked at her, hope on both of their faces. “Noland,” Olivier said, looking to Noland’s face.

  “Noland.” Achaia leaned across his chest, cupping his face in her hands. “Noland please wake up,” she begged. Olivier had never heard her sound so scared, or determined.

  Olivier knelt forward and began praying. It was a prayer his mother had taught him as a child, in Greek. It was a prayer that was meant to plead for wholeness and restoration, for redemption. Every Nephilim child learned it, for it was the prayer their parents had prayed to come up out of Hell, and to have the opportunity to pay their penance. They called it the Metanoia.

  As they sat there, Achaia had stopped crying and gone stone still, her head laid on Noland’s chest. Olivier kept mumbling his prayer quietly to himself, laying his hand over Noland’s forehead.

  “I can hear his heart beating.” Achaia said numbly. “Why won’t he wake?”

  Then, Noland abruptly took in a deep breath, causing Achaia to jump back as Olivier snapped his hand away. Olivier stared in amazement as Noland sat up on his elbows and looked around him.

  “You’re alright?” he ask
ed Achaia, unable to see Olivier, who was kneeling behind him.

  “How did you know you could absorb the bomb?” Achaia asked. Olivier leaned around to the side, to see the side of Noland’s face.

  Noland was looking at Achaia in a way that Olivier had never seen him look at anyone before. “I didn’t,” he answered.

  With a small squeak-like sound Achaia fell forward and tucked herself into Noland’s chest. Noland sat up completely and wrapped his arms around her. Olivier felt a little awkward. He debated sneaking out, before Noland realized he was there.

  “I thought you were gone.” Achaia was crying again.

  “I did too.” Noland said putting his mouth to the top of Achaia’s head.

  Olivier cleared his throat. Noland turned. “Olivier!”

  “Welcome back buddy.” Olivier smiled. “I think we should get you to the infirmary and let the healer take a look at you.”

  Noland smiled, and let Achaia go. She stood, and helped Olivier get Noland to his feet. Olivier was amazed that Noland seemed mostly unharmed, perhaps a little sore, but he could walk on his own.

  Out of the smoke and ash, and past the small fires on the streets, the three of them walked around the arriving ambulances back up to the front steps of the safe house.

  The healer was every bit as good at her job, as the cook was at her’s. She had just finished tending to Emile when Noland, Achaia, and Olivier came hobbling up the stairs.

  “What’s all this?” she asked, taking in the sight of them. “You,” She said pointing at Olivier, “ice bath,” she pointed to one of the small rooms off of the infirmary that Noland suspected were private baths. “You,” she pointed at Achaia, who startled. Noland smiled to himself. The healer was a tiny Russian Nephilim woman who, though little, was intimidating with her Russian accent and ability to be assertive. “Go in that room and take off those filthy clothes and burn them. They have death and filth all over them, I will be in to take a look at you in a minute. But this one,” the healer took a closer look at Noland, coming over and placing her hands on his face, and looking into his eyes. “We nearly lost you, didn’t we?” She swallowed hard, looking into his face. Lowering her voice she whispered, “we don’t need you taking after your parents.” She gave him a stern look, and then began appraising his torso, where his clothes had been blown up.

  “I’m okay, just a little sore, please go tend to the others first.”

  “You lay on a bomb, and tell me to check your friends first?” The woman gave an eerie laugh. “That is what makes you a great leader.” She patted him on the shoulder, and then pushed him down forcefully into a chair. “Now sit, and shut up.”

  Noland sat in silence, as she hummed to herself over him, bandaging his wounds with oils, and rubbing something cold over his stomach and chest.

  “You need to rest.” She ordered, shooing him away to his room. “For several days, yes.”

  “Da, da.” Noland responded in Russian, and left, looking over his shoulder as the woman entered the room Achaia had gone into.

  Achaia stood awkwardly in the middle of a small bathroom. There was a corner fireplace, in which she had thrown her clothes, a wooden chair, and a bathtub. Above the bath were several shelves each holding jars filled with what looked like dried flowers, and salt.

  The angry-Russian-healer-lady came into the bathroom without knocking. Achaia frantically moved to cover herself.

  “I am a healer, I have seen all of everybody. You have nothing special. Please, sit.”

  Trying not to feel offended, Achaia plopped down onto the wooden chair.

  “You have many cuts and burns.” She made a low whistle when she took in the gash on Achaia’s leg. “This will need stitches.”

  Achaia nodded, she felt pretty much numb all over. Whether it was adrenaline, or shock, she wasn’t sure.

  The healer started mixing a concoction of things in the tub, and started running the water. Steam rose up from the surface, and Achaia could smell the dried herbs that had been added. Her head felt light, and fuzzy. “What is your name?” Achaia asked, as the woman prepared a needle for the stitching.

  “Inessa,” she said shortly. “Now sit still.”

  Achaia didn’t even flinch as Inessa stitched up the gash in her leg, and wrapped gauze around it. “You will need fresh, when you get out. And the rest of these will have to be wrapped.” She said gesturing at Achaia’s entire self. As Achaia stepped hesitantly into the hot tub, her cuts stung. She lowered herself in tentatively.

  “You stay in till water gets cold.” Inessa said and shut the door behind her as she left.

  When her bath had run cold, Achaia stood from the tub, and dried off with a crisp white towel, feeling for the first time like she was in a doctor’s office. “Inessa!” Achaia called out her cracked door. “Inessa, I need clothes!” Achaia heard laughter in the room next to hers. Olivier cracked his door.

  “Looks like we’re locked in the same boat. Did she burn yours too?” he chuckled.

  “Yeah, ‘too much death’,” Achaia laughed, mimicking Inessa’s accent.

  “Ah, here she comes,” Olivier said cheerfully, “little ray of sunshine.”

  Inessa had just walked in the door with a stern almost angry look on her face; which Achaia suspected was her face at rest. “Here,” she threw a robe at Achaia, and one at Olivier through the cracks in their doors.

  Once dressed, Achaia and Olivier left together. Out in the hall Achaia grinned, “You know for a healer she has an incurable case of RBF?”

  “What’s RBF?” Olivier asked, looking over at her, as they turned down the hall their rooms were on.

  “Well, um…” Achaia started.

  “I’m just kidding,” Olivier said nudging Achaia with his elbow.

  They had reached Olivier’s door. Achaia caught his arm, as he opened it to go inside. Olivier turned to face her. “Hey,” she started. Olivier looked down at her cocking an eyebrow, a smile still painted on his face. Achaia had grown to love his smile. Olivier smiled so often, and could always joke and make lighter of situations which would otherwise destroy her. “Thanks for coming after me.” Achaia wasn’t great at being sentimental. “I’m sorry if my jumping seemed reckless or selfish, but I couldn’t do nothing. I’ve done nothing my entire life, and it hasn’t worked out so well. I don’t want to do that anymore. But I wasn’t trying to be reck—”

  “Shh,” Olivier wrapped one of his arms around Achaia’s shoulders and pulled her into a hug. “You’re my best friend, of course I came after you.”

  Achaia pulled back, shocked. “I’m your what?”

  “You’re my best friend.” Olivier repeated, looking as if he felt a little unsure or awkward saying it a second time. “Is that? I’m sorry…”

  “No!” Achaia said squeezing him back tightly. “You’re my best friend too, I’ve just never had one before.”

  Olivier hugged her tighter, and rubbed her back, “well, I’m not going anywhere.”

  Achaia smiled, and tried not to admit there were tears welling up in her eyes.

  “Besides, no one else gets my comic jokes or movie references.”

  Achaia laughed as they separated, and nodded before continuing on to her own room.

  “And hey!” Olivier called after her, coming back out into the hall.

  “Yeah?” Achaia turned.

  “Noland came after you, too.”

  Achaia sucked in a breath that felt like a punch in the chest, as the image of Noland’s body laid across the bomb flashed in her head. “Yeah, yeah he did.” She nodded.

  “You have more friends than you think, Frenchy.” Olivier winked at her, then shut his door.

  Achaia struggled to steady her breathing again. The mental image of Noland’s motionless body took her breath away and made her head shake involuntarily, as if that would loosen the image from her mind. She flinched all over, but opening her eyes, couldn’t get rid of that sight. As she entered her room and closed the door she leaned heavily again
st it, and rubbed her eyes. Then she slid down her door and cried.

  17

  Rescue Mission

  “You don’t always need a plan.

  Sometimes you just need to breathe,

  Trust, let go, and see what happens.”

  -Mandy Hale

  The gates had been crowded. Shael had watched with his stomach mangled in horror as all the humans at the gates were sorted and dragged to the circle of Hell where they would spend their eternity. He had only been able to stand a moment, before the sight made him sick. When he didn’t see any sign of Achaia or any other Nephilim he retreated back to his room. Shael didn’t know what happened to Nephilim when they died. He knew Nathaniel and his wife had been killed, but no one seemed to have seen or heard anything of them since. He also wasn’t sure if Achaia would be treated as a Nephilim or as a human in death…

  He hoped she would be judged as a human. She was a good person, though, without faith, Shael wasn’t sure that would be enough. Now more than ever, he regretted his decision to keep her in the dark. In his mind, he had always had more time. He had always believed without question that she would have a long life, and time to choose. Shael tried to take comfort in the fact that she wasn’t in the crowd at the gate. If she had been killed, she was in Heaven, with her mother.

  Shael thought for a moment about what their reunion would look like, and smiled. Anna would be able to run her hands through her daughter’s curly red hair, which looked just like her own. Achaia would be able to see where she got her eyes, and her complexion. Would Anna see Shael in Achaia’s nose? In the determined set of Achaia’s jaw? Shael swallowed hard, and felt a lump in his throat. As long as Achaia wasn’t here, he could forgive himself eventually. As long as Achaia never had to step foot in Hell.