And he certainly had al-Rahman; his body and his soul.
Lucifer, prince of all the evil in the world, watched the conspirators shaking hands and smiled before emitting a violent snarl from his throat.
Then silence.
Outside, the sky was growing dark and sandy, the wind kicking up dirt and dust before the coming rain. Standing in the shadows of the musty suite, Lucifer embraced the darkness of the night as the storm clouds gathered near. But he didn’t stand alone. Behind him, invisible behind the thick veil that hid them from the mortal world, a cluster of other fallen angels waited for his command, rage upon their faces, cold stones of death within their sullen eyes, all of them dark and loathsome warriors in the battle to destroy. They seemed to sway together in agitated and filthy swarms; chanting, hissing, seeking strength from one another in their desire to kill, a stinking mass of the wretchedness, their faces dead and callow from their desire to destroy. Having sold their souls for nothing, having followed Lucifer into the depths of darkness, they had but one desire now: to share their pain and misery; to bring death; to steal any love, hope or happiness from the world’s dying embers.
Balaam stood at Lucifer’s side. At one time, Balaam had been one of Lucifer’s most trusted lieutenants, a member of his inner circle, one of the most evil and powerful. But over the past few moments of eternity, Balaam had fallen from Lucifer’s grace. Too many botched ideas and operations. Too many good things gone awry.
After his fall, Balaam was desperate to climb back up the ladder, willing to do anything in order to get closer to Lucifer who he hated with every fiber of his damned soul. It was ironic that he wanted to please the one he hated, but Balaam didn’t care. Power and ambition drove him like an overheated furnace ready to explode.
Glancing in Lucifer’s direction, but careful not to catch his dreadful eye, Balaam noticed the spider web of creases that ran from the corners of his mouth. Lucifer’s masculine face was angry and unpredictable, his eyes pale and piercing and incredibly intense, questioning and suspicious behind a dark stare. His long fingers were elegant, though in the penumbra they looked bony and weak.
If there were one word to describe Lucifer it was cold. Cold skin, cold hands, cold smile, cold heart. Like an exquisite ice sculpture, yes, there was some beauty there, but there was nothing in his presence that invited an embrace. He was a bitter winter morning, ice chips running through his veins. There was no warmth or good within him. Like a dead and dried out insect, he had a hard and brittle shell. But inside he was empty, hollowed out with hate.
Over the years, Lucifer had taken on several names, some respectful, some offensive, some old and some new. In the ancient times, long before the creation of the mortal world, they had called him the Son of the Morning, but he hated that name now. The connotation was insulting. So he had taken on other names; Lucifer, Satan, Dragon, the Fallen, Rahab, the Deceiver, the Father of Lies. Sometimes he was called Master Mahan, but only in whispers, and always in the dark, when the angels weren’t watching and the wind wouldn’t carry the name.
But whatever they called him, one thing was clear: Lucifer was miserable. Balaam knew that. All his fellow demons knew it, too. Lucifer was powerful. He could work miracles to deceive or appear as an angel to the mortals; he could cite Scripture to make mortals unholy, believing they were on the right course while he soothed, manipulated, cursed and controlled. He could stir secret combinations, murder and sinister works in the dark. But he could never be happy. He was beyond any of that now. He was a dismal wretch, dark, ugly and perfectly miserable.
The only purpose that he had now was to destroy the mortals and their freedom, and then drag them down to hell.
Behind him, the dark angels continued chanting. It excited them to see the great plan of destruction take shape, the possibility of destruction pouring fuel upon their fire.
Lucifer felt the heat of their breath, the rage of their despair. He felt their power. It was his power. Without them he was nothing! And they had come so far!
A few more steps, a few more victories, and he could claim this world.
Lucifer snarled at his accomplishments, then looked upon the mortals once again.
It would take a few years. What they were planning wouldn’t be quickly put in place. But he was patient. He had learned that lesson. It took time to destroy an entire world.
Thinking of what was coming, he felt the thrill of death run down his spine. His plan would kill a hundred million mortals. And not just any mortals, but the very worst kind, the filthy ones who lived in the land of freedom, stretching their sickening light of liberty across his world.
But he could kill them. Their country and their freedom. He could kill it all. That’s what it all came down to. That’s what the fight was all about. Simmering in the memory, the hated words slipped again into his mind. And there was a great battle in heaven, Michael and his angels fought with the dragon, and the dragon fought and his angels: And they prevailed not, neither was their place found any more in heaven. And that great dragon was cast out, that old serpent, who is called the devil and Satan, who seduceth the whole world; and he was cast unto the earth, and his angels were thrown down with him.
He remembered it very well; the defeat, the humiliation, every tear and battle scar. The war had taken place long before the mortals were even placed upon the Earth, but even now, the things that they were fighting for remained the same. Liberty. Individual rights. The worth of a soul. Their ability to determine their own path.
“And that great dragon was cast out[.]”
Yes, they had cast him out. They defeated him! Humiliated him! But now, after eons of waiting, he had a chance to fight again, a chance to destroy everything that the Enemy had built, to destroy His kingdom and His glory, the freedom of His children, the liberty that a million souls had died for. He could destroy it all.
And that was something that was worth waiting a few more years to do.
* * *
Balaam watched Lucifer quietly, then bowed and approached him in a quiver of fear. He hated Lucifer. They all did. But Lucifer was all Balaam had now and he worshiped him with every fiber of his damned soul.
“Master,” he begged in a whisper.
Lucifer glared at him and snarled.
“Master,” Balaam repeated while bowing so low his head and shoulders were parallel to the floor.
Lucifer waited a long moment, keeping his servant bowed. “What do you bother me with, servant Balaam?”
“Master, if I could . . . .”
“Say it, slave!”
“Master, I was thinking . . . sometimes I wonder . . . .”
The Dark One turned toward Balaam and pulled his hair to lift his head. “You interrupt my rejoicing, servant Balaam? It will be much better for you if you have something meaningful to say.”
Balaam quivered but did not turn away. What he had to say was important, and Lucifer would see that once he had a chance to explain. “Deceiver, there are some children. They are young now . . . .”
The brief moment of jubilation over what the mortals had agreed to do immediately fled from Lucifer’s damned soul. “Children! What are you talking about?” he demanded in a terrifying voice.
“There are young ones,” Balaam started. “Young, but strong. I think . . . I believe the Enemy has saved them to be born into this day. They seem to be the best, so capable, Master Mayhem, able to bring failure to our world. But if we can find them . . . identify them, we could destroy them before they grow stronger.”
Lucifer stared at his servant as if he were going to snap him in two. Then he suddenly stopped and took a step back.
Could it be that Balaam was right?
Lucifer stood there, his eyes fading, as if he were looking upon another world, his vacant stare dark and empty as his face tightened up with rage. He stared into the distance for a long moment, searching the corners of the earth.
In his mind, he saw them; the good and faithful of the world. So many of
them were coming. It made his skin crawl. He hated them. His stomach rolled, a magma of anger that was impossible to control.
The young ones. The great ones. Full of faith and destiny. Some of them were already here. Willing to fight and pay the price for freedom.
How dare they fight against him? How dare they intrude, with the final battle almost here?
How long had he been waiting?! How long had he been scratching and clawing for this day?! Too long! Far too long!
The end was growing near, the final crisis at long last here. But the outcome hung in the balance and nothing was assured. No one knew how it would end.
But this much he did know, for he had learned it in hard lessons fought since his downfall.
The final result wouldn’t be decided by the presidents or within the mighty kingdoms or the great capitals of the world.
It was the ordinary people that had the power to save the world.
Much as he hated to admit it, that was the bitter truth.
He knew it. His servants knew it.
The question was, did the mortals know it, too?
FOUR
Major Neil S. Brighton stared through the large plate glass window of his home office on Chevy Chase, Maryland. The old plantation house, a classic two-story brick Victorian with lots of polished wood and white paint, was large and quiet and smelled of pine. The house was almost 125 years old, but exceptionally well-maintained; and from where he stood, the major could look south and see most of the downtown Washington, D.C., skyline. The house sat atop one of the highest hills inside the Beltway, and from his second-story window it offered an exceptional view. The National Mall and national monuments were a little more than seven miles away. The George Washington Memorial, a pointed pillar of white bathed by enormous floodlights tracking skyward, jutted up to the east of the George Washington bridge. Even from this distance, he could see the glow of the lights that surrounded the National Mall. He jogged there daily; four miles, every afternoon come rain, sleet or shine. His secretary always cleared his schedule between 4 p.m. and 5 p.m. It was the only time he ever had to be by himself, which made it the most productive hour of his day. And as a former college boxer, he considered it a big deal to stay in shape. When asked how many pushups he could do, the answer was always the same: “At least one more than you.”
And though he couldn’t see it from his second-story window, he knew the White House was less than a mile to the north of the National Mall. He envisioned the security fences around the White House lawn, the covert bunkers for Secret Service personnel and the hidden surface-to-air missiles on the government buildings next door.
The major was very familiar with the White House. He worked there daily. Which was bad news and good news. Bad because it was a competitive, cunning, cutthroat environment, one that wore him down unlike anything he’d ever done before. Good because it certainly was exciting, the brutal hours aside. “I work at the White House,” he sometimes found himself thinking. “How freakin’ cool is that!” The adrenaline kept him going. At least it did for now.
Before stepping out of his office, he checked his wall safe, armed the security system, pulled the tab to synch up the secure telephone to the next code of the day, flipped off the overhead light, then walked from the room. His wife had turned on the nightlight in the hallway so he wouldn’t have to stumble to bed, and he started unbuttoning the buttons on his Air Force jacket, stiff with rows of ribbons, as he walked down the hall. When was the last time Sara and I went to bed at the same time, he wondered? Too long. And it made him sad. In the old days—the old days being when he had been blissfully happy flying combat jets, before he had been indentified with the “audacity, initiative, and tenacity to make an excellent general officer,” as his performance report had read—they would frequently lie alongside each other and talk well into the night. But now he was so busy with his new assignment with the national security staff that he hardly had time to think, let alone lie next to her and talk in bed. Truth was, nothing had prepared him for the demands of his job. Flying combat was a piece of cake compared to the political combat that took place inside the White House.
After undressing in the dark, he slipped into bed, exhausted. Sara didn’t wake as she rolled onto her side. He laid his head on the pillow, but sleep didn’t come. He tried to close his eyes but something compelled him to stare at the shadows that flirted through darkness.
The night was quiet, the moon hovering above the western horizon. Then a sudden wind blew, whistling with unexpected violence through the trees. Brighton listened carefully, something catching his attention in the sound of the wind. The windows rattled with each new gust, the fall leaves ripped from their dry branches to beat against the house. The wind picked up in intensity, seemingly coming out of nowhere, fierce and without direction. But it was a stormless wind, for moonlight continued shining through the venetian blinds, showing the skies were clear. He rolled to his side, watching the shadows of the blowing branches a few feet beyond his window then sat up on the side of the bed.
Like the wind, Brighton was agitated. He had been agitated all day. He’d been agitated for a week. Something was coming. He could feel it deep in his bones. Something moving, something watching, something that was bringing evil change.
He shook his head to clear it, but the feeling didn’t go away.
He glanced at Sara, who remained asleep, her blond hair tossed about, the streetlight on her face. He watched her sleep a moment, her breathing heavy and slow, then she seemed to wince and pulled back, as if in her dreams she felt it, too. Neil reached out to touch her, placing his palm on her cheek and she leaned into his touch. But she didn’t fully wake and soon was in deep sleep again.
Neil felt tight; a sprinter ready to explode from the starting blocks. He shook his head again, but the fear only settled deeper into his chest. The blackness seemed to consume him. He’d felt nothing like this before. He glanced at his wife, then, angry at the frustration, he pushed himself up from the bed.
He walked down the hall, pausing at the top of the stairs. He placed his hands on the rail, feeling the beautifully carved oak. He listened for a moment to the grandfather clock ticking at the bottom of the winding stairs, then took a deep breath, fighting the anxiety. He stood a long moment, alone, in the dark.
Then he thought of his sons, who mere children still. A feeling of fear sank into him and he turned suddenly for their room.
He opened their door just enough to let a crack of light cut into the hall from the nightlight by their junior beds, getting a whiff of baby oil and sippy cups half filled with milk; the musky smell of little boys he knew so well. He looked across the toys and picture books scattered across the floor, toward the wooden beds.
Ammon, eleven minutes older than his brother, lay sprawled across his small mattress, his hair, like his mother’s, a blond tousle on his head. Luke, dark haired and lean, opened his eyes to look at him without really seeing, then lay back and went instantly back to sleep.
Having been driven from his bed by a dark power that seemed to move across the land, Neil looked at his children and wondered for the thousandth time, “Who are you, really? Where did you come from? What are you doing here?”
Although they were still so young, his sons were better than he was. He knew that already. They were more clever, more . . . he didn’t know, but there was something about them that he couldn’t deny. Something strong. Something . . . focused. It was as if they understood things he didn’t, things they knew but couldn’t tell.
Yes, they were stronger than he was.
But he was afraid for them now.
In a flash of foreboding, he imagined their future, so dangerous and unsure. The world was tipping; he could feel it, ready to roll onto its side. It wouldn’t come at once, it would take a few more years, but things were going to change. A feeling of fear and uncertainty exploded in his chest. He wanted to take a step toward them but the sinking feeling almost dropped him to his knees.
/> “My sons,” he whispered. “What is your world going to be like? What challenges, what heartaches, are you going to see?”
* * *
Balaam heard the father’s words of doubt, recognizing the agonized expression on his face. He had seen it a million times before. Indeed, he was the one who had planted the fear within the mortal’s soul. Now that he had planted it, all he had to do was make it grow.
He jumped into his lies, well-practiced from thousands of years of having been repeated. “There is no hope for them!” he whispered into the father’s ear. “The world is too uncertain! They have nothing to look forward to, but doubt and fear. There is no good now, only worry, and that will only grow with the years.”
The father paused, sensing the blackness of the lies that had been planted in his mind. He seemed to look around, then fell silent in the dark.
“They are not strong enough. You think that they are special, but there is nothing great or extraordinary about them. They are common! Merely common! What chance do they really have?”
Brighton grasped the doorknob, his fist tight around the metal. His sons seemed to grow restless in their sleep, both of them turning onto their sides.
Balaam pressed his cunning lies, sharing the darkness of his world. “Your country is growing weak now. What you’re seeing is the beginning of its great decline. Chaos will follow! The world will come apart! Most of the world already hates you, and there is much more hate to come. Your economy will continue to crumble! The best days are behind you. Nothing but unrest and bitterness lies ahead.”
Brighton gripped the doorknob tighter, feeling the anxiety well up in his chest.
“Your sons have no future!” Balaam almost cried now, his voice filled with bitterness and hate.
Wrath & Righteousnes Episodes 01 to 05 Page 4
