Angels to Ashes

by Drew Foote

  They fought for land. They fought for power. They fought for revenge and for justice, for wealth and for glory. Brother fought brother, dashing their kin into the hungry, bloody mud. They fought to protect what was theirs and to take what belonged to their neighbor. They fought because they were created to fight.

  Walter felt the undeniable force of a cudgel cleave his skull. He was a tribal warrior battling a neighboring tribe for hunting rights.

  Walter felt the cold kiss of iron open his entrails to the night air, spilling his life onto the ground. He was a legionnaire fighting to subjugate the barbarians.

  Walter felt his body explode from an air strike. He was a mujahedeen fighting to expel the invaders.

  He died, again and again. He perished, whimpering in a trench, choking on poisonous gas. The hooves of a warhorse crushed the life from him. He tried to flee, but his commanding officer shot him in the back. Machine-gun fire riddled his torn body. He burned alive in a bunker kissed by a flamethrower. Walter embodied every soldier who ever died, every soldier who ever killed.

  Walter pulled the trigger. He felt the recoil of the rifle kick in his arms like a wild horse as it spat fire. He felt the bullets he shot tear through his own body, his life snuffed.

  Walter dropped the bomb. It fell from the sky like a Fallen Angel, the power of the atom given lead wings and insatiable hunger. He watched it touch his city, leaving behind a legacy of burned shadows.

  Walter’s hand held the opposite end of the spear that impaled his own heart. He could feel the ebb of his dying pulse in his hands as his life poured onto the thirsty ash. He stared into his own eyes as oblivion claimed him.

  He knew pain and fear — but it was more than that. More than anything, he felt the inevitability of war. It was an unstoppable force with unholy momentum, screaming through the ages with horrible velocity. He felt the irresistible tidal pull of human greed and ambition, the depths of their capacity for violence.

  Did God make them this way? Tiny toy soldiers arrayed in lines, marching and dying ceaselessly against the opposing army?

  He now floated above the grisly battlefield of the eons, looking down upon millennia of desolation. The shattered bodies of countless millions piled high into the pitiless sky. Dreams and aspirations stripped away, their lives amounted to nothing more than another corpse added atop the charnel heap. Scaled vultures picked at the flesh, the only participant that truly profited.

  Walter screamed wordlessly, a noise to drown out the buzzing of the flies and the writhing of the maggots. He screamed because he knew that peace was an illusion, and war was the only truth. He screamed because he knew that all was ashes; all was lost.

  He screamed because he knew the divine powers that supposedly watched over humanity were just as insane as man.

  The Angels and Demons were there too, bleeding and howling through the ages. Though they waged war on a cosmic scale, their reasons were no different. Brothers with different ideologies, they tore and maimed. They fought over the putrid scraps of a decaying universe, jockeying for power in the oldest of blood feuds.

  They would build their strength until the end of the world, until the hour of apocalypse.

  And then what?

  ~

  Walter curled into a small ball on the floor, weeping uncontrollably. Paimon looked on with concern. In time, the human’s sobs slowed and his breathing became more regular. He slept, though fitfully.

  Paimon knelt beside him. The Demon touched his arm gently. “There, there,” he whispered. “I think that’s enough for today.”

  Paimon rose, retrieved a patched blanket from nearby, and placed it atop Walter’s sleeping form. The kaleidoscopic hues of the quilt lay protectively over the human.

  He stared at Walter for a time. Paimon thought there was something uncommon about this one. There was a shadow behind his eyes, an echo in his dreams. It felt as though there was something Walter was repressing, something he dare not let surface. That was not unusual, in and of itself, for a damned soul, but the Master of the Tower felt uneasy.

  Paimon had caught glimpses in the darkness, hints of the impossible.

  “Yes,” Paimon murmured to himself. “Together, we shall get to the bottom of this.”

  It was too soon now, though. Paimon turned and left, rapt in thought.

  Chapter 8

  The Angel and the Demon

  “I’m telling you Arcturus, it was bedlam!” I exclaimed.

  My heart was still pounding with adrenaline. I was in my New Orleans office, the doors locked and the windows barred, and I had barricaded every bit of available furniture behind them. It wouldn’t do any good, of course, but it made me feel slightly better.

  “Uh huh,” Arcturus began slowly. His rotund girth was perched atop an antique globe. “So what you’re telling me is that an Angelic hit squad came looking for you, and the Bloody-Fucking-Wind came out of nowhere to save you?”

  He looked at me with drooping, red eyes.

  “Yes, precisely!”

  Why was that so hard to believe? My power had obviously grown to a level that Heaven feared. They were trying to eliminate me before I could threaten their wicked plans.

  “I see. So why, exactly, would Heaven, or the Directorate of War, give a shit about you? You’re a nobody.” He beat his tiny wings once for emphasis.

  The gall of that fat little Imp!

  “A nobody that signs your paycheck! What does that make you?” I responded venomously. I flopped unceremoniously into my chair and looked into the dancing fire. Scenes of the battle flashed in my mind, memories of jackal heads howling with laughter.

  Arcturus sighed. “I try not to think about that,” he murmured sadly. He took flight, ungainly and preposterous, knocking the globe over. He alighted on the mantle above the fireplace.

  “Let’s just say all this did happen, for argument’s sake. What does it mean?” he continued.

  I shook my head, bewildered. “I’m not sure. It means that the 5th Choir is after me, and that the Directorate of War is trying to protect me?”

  I had to admit; now that the words were coming out of my mouth, they sounded absurd. I began to understand Arcturus’ skepticism.

  Arcturus nodded, the grotesque wattle of his chin bulging. “Okay, now … what could you have possibly done that might have triggered this?”

  I wracked my mind. Other than the general duties of my job, I hadn’t really done much of anything, lately. That was rather depressing, in and of itself, but it didn’t seem to be anything that could arouse such dangerous attention. I was at a loss.

  “Maybe Heaven is becoming frightened of my burgeoning strength?”

  Arcturus replied with a retching noise. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure that’s not it. See ya — I’ve got stuff to do.” The Imp flipped me the ubiquitous bird, and proceeded to flap away toward his office.

  He paused at the doorway, his head cocked. His wings beat in place. “Do you hear that?” he asked, puzzled.

  I listened. I heard nothing. “No. You’re the one imagining things.”

  “I don’t think so …”

  I listened again, and this time I did hear something. Impossibly faint, but growing louder. For some inexplicable reason, it reminded me of my old mentor, Agares. One day, centuries ago, he went berserk with no warning. One moment he was fine, and the next he was howling and ripping the souls from terrified moneylenders.

  Why was he coming to mind now?

  It sounded like … singing? Like a choir?

  “Shit!” I exclaimed, throwing myself to the edge of the room.

  The roof of the office exploded as something plunged through it with meteoric force. Its impact sent a celestial shockwave screaming through the air, knocking Arcturus forcefully against a wall. Debris and floating particles filled the room, but I saw a nimbus of glowing Angelic radiance through the cloud of dust.

  Oh, Hell. Not this again.

  As the dust settled, the shape resolved into what I feared the most; a
God damned Avenging Angel. It was a she, and she was a horrifying figure: tall, fierce, and clad in an absurd amount of shining plate armor. She might have been lovely if she wasn’t obviously meaner than a junkyard dog, and with a matching sense of humor.

  The divine warrior straightened and looked at me. Her halo and wings sizzled with painful light.

  I pressed myself back against the wall, arms grasping blindly for anything not nailed down. My hand closed around an empty whiskey bottle atop a bookshelf. I wasn’t going down without a fight.

  “Greetings,” she began solemnly. “My name is Kalyndriel, and —”

  I hurled the empty bottle at her.

  It shattered across her ivory face, sending shards of glass flying. She didn’t even flinch. She took a deep, irritated breath, and began again.

  “As I said, my name is Kalyndriel, and —”

  I screamed a shrill, piercing yell. “Makariel!” I shrieked. “Help!” I edged away from her toward the corner. I grabbed a lamp and brandished it menacingly.

  When she heard Makariel’s name, the Angel tensed. A glowing lance appeared in her hands: his was a name not uttered lightly. She looked around the room warily, braced for an attack. I heard Arcturus groaning, crumpled against the wall.

  As I looked at her, I realized with dread who she was: the Lance of Justice. She was a vicious and ill-tempered brute, even by Avenging Angel standards, and she made the Powers that came for me earlier look like a house-warming party. She was the Angel that had dealt with Agares when he went rogue, and she had put him down with all the effort of swatting a fly.

  It had been horrifying. She was an Angelic wrecking ball.

  It soon became evident to both of us that Makariel was not coming. The Angel relaxed, and her lance disappeared. I continued to eye her warily.

  “My name is Kalyndriel,” she began once more, and then she paused. She glared at me expectantly, waiting to see if I was going to have another outburst.

  I rolled my eyes. Passive aggression was still aggression.

  “And I would like to talk to you,” she finished triumphantly.

  “Yeah, I’ll bet.”

  That was what Cadmiel had said too, and look how that had worked out. I had to admit, though; from what I had heard about this one, she was usually about as subtle as a stampeding rhinoceros. If she really wanted to do me harm, I doubt she’d bother with niceties or deceit. She would likely just take my head and be done with it.

  “I speak the truth,” the Angel said earnestly, sounding slightly insulted. “I mean you no harm, Demon.” She raised her hands and took a step back.

  I gestured toward the destroyed ceiling. “That’s quite the entrance for someone trying to be non-threatening,” I observed.

  A look of vexation flashed briefly across her flawless features. She nodded. “Yes, quite right. My apologies. I didn’t realize you were indoors.”

  “Civilized individuals are generally indoors a large percentage of the time.”

  She nodded again. The glow of her halo grew in intensity. The shattered beams and debris from the ceiling began to float toward the gaping hole. The broken pieces patched the wound and reknit themselves cleanly. It was nearly good as new.

  “Neat trick,” I acknowledged grudgingly. I warily set down my lamp. “Now, if you’re not going to murder me, what do you want? You’re the second Angel today to come knocking, and the last one ended up in tiny pieces.”

  Kalyndriel’s halo flashed with anger, and her lance materialized once more.

  “Not by me, though!” I added quickly. I held up my hands in surrender.

  A look of genuine surprise was evident on the Angel’s face. She allowed her weapon to disappear once more, and she gazed at me in puzzlement. “What? Another Angel has spoken to you already?”

  “Yes, a charming fellow by the name of Cadmiel. I assume you know him.” I watched her closely.

  “Cadmiel? What did he want?”

  “The same thing as you, I imagine. He even brought an entire host. They ran into Makariel, though, and that ended rather badly …”

  I sensed she actually did not know anything about the situation with Cadmiel. What was going on here?

  At the second mention of Makariel’s name, she went still once more. I realized it was not fear or trepidation she felt, but something else, something I couldn’t identify. Suspicion? The Angel was silent.

  Kalyndriel considered my words, the faintest lines of worry creasing her features. She appeared to be about to speak, and then seemed to think better of it. Her mouth clamped shut. After a further long moment of silence, she finally met my gaze.

  “I know not what Cadmiel’s business was, but I apologize on his behalf if you felt threatened. I will see to it, personally, in time,” she said. “However, there is still a matter I would like to discuss with you, should you be willing.”

  I shrugged. Might as well. I heard a moan and saw Arcturus finally raise himself from the floor, shaking his head. He rubbed his face, and then saw the Avenging Angel standing in the middle of the office. His bulbous eyes grew wide with surprise.

  “See! I told you so,” I smiled triumphantly, pointing at Kalyndriel.

  The Imp fainted and collapsed once more. I huffed, disappointed. He probably wouldn’t even remember it.

  The Angel looked at the fallen Imp, sighed quietly, and addressed me once more. “You are Barnabas, correct?”

  I nodded uneasily.

  “A soul belonging to you, purchased approximately seven years ago, is of great interest to me. A soul originally belonging to a man named Walter Grey. Do you remember him?”

  I thought back, trying to remember. Walter Grey … hmmm yes, he was a professor, wasn’t he? Some sad sack trying to get tenure at an Ivy League school?

  “Yes, I believe so,” I replied. “What about him? He certainly didn’t strike me as anything special.”

  “Perhaps not at the time, but I believe that he may have witnessed something of great importance. It is vitally urgent that I speak to him.”

  “So, go and speak to him.”

  She shook her head sadly, platinum hair dancing. “He’s dead. And in Hell.”

  “Oh. Well. I guess that’s that, then?” I said, satisfied.

  She looked at me evenly. “Not if you bring his soul out of Hell to speak with me. That’s within your power,” she answered. Her bright attention felt frighteningly sharp.

  I stared at her for a moment, and then burst into laughter. I struggled to rein in my mirth when I noticed that she was decidedly unamused. Her luminous wings were tense and stretched, and her gaze was drilling an unwelcome hole in my head.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, trying to calm myself. Another undignified titter escaped. “I meant no disrespect, of course. It’s just that … we don’t exactly do that. Bring souls out of Hell, that is. It’s a bit of a one-way process.”

  She frowned. “It’s of the utmost importance that I speak with him, and I certainly can’t go to Hell myself.”

  That was absolutely true, of course. An Angel in Hell would bring every Demon from every circle running to get a piece of her. She would never make it out of the inferno alive.

  “Well,” I shrugged. “There is absolutely no way I could get him out of Hell without getting branded as a traitor, and that’s assuming I even wanted to. I haven’t even heard a compelling reason.”

  Kalyndriel stared at me, considering her next words. I noticed that Arcturus had regained consciousness and was being very, very still. He hoped to avoid her attention.

  She eventually spoke, her voice heavy. “It’s best I spare you the details, considering I know few myself. I assure you, however, that it is a grave matter that affects both Heaven and Hell. Walter Grey is the only lead that I have. I am not your enemy in this matter.”

  It was just like an Angel to claim the holy high ground with nothing in the way of facts. It was always the zealots causing all the problems. I was certainly not going to jeopardize my standing in He
ll for some obsessive Angel’s hunch.

  I did, however, need to get her out of there with a minimal amount of my bloodshed. It would not pay to antagonize her.

  I hummed. “Well, how about this? Next time I get down to Hell, I’ll have a talk with him myself and let you know what he says?” I felt it was a rather clever compromise to get rid of her; I could decide if I actually wanted to do it later.

  She considered my offer carefully, weighing me with her shining regard. The pause was long and fraught with peril. “I fear any delay may be costly, but I see no other alternative. You will do this, and do this soon?”

  I nodded and gave her a wholesome, trustworthy smile. I realized I might actually have to follow through if I didn’t want to end up spitted on the lunatic’s spear. “On my honor as a Demon,” I declared chivalrously. “So, what should I ask him?”

  She gave a small, derisive laugh. “Yes, your honor as a Demon, how comforting. Ask him what he saw the night he died.”

  She was awfully condescending for someone I was doing a favor, but I didn’t care to point that out. I just wanted this horrid meeting to be finished. “Very well, Angel Kalyndriel. I will ask him those very words.” I bowed elegantly.

  “Remember,” she whispered softly. “That’s Avenging Angel Kalyndriel.” The threat was clear; subtlety was obviously not her thing.

  I swallowed nervously.

  “But I do appreciate your cooperation and assistance, though,” she continued with satisfaction. She reached a hand back to one of her luminescent wings, and she retrieved a plume of shimmering plasma. She placed it carefully on the edge of my desk. Its incandescent glow slowly dissipated, leaving it looking like nothing more than an innocuous white feather.

  She smiled, and it would have been a much more pleasant smile if she wasn’t such a terrifying bitch. “When you need to speak with me again, hold the feather and say my name,” she said, spreading her wings. “And Barnabas … I am in your debt.”