He remembered how they battled within the storm he himself had conjured, weapons of heavenly fire searing the very air. It was to be a killing blow; his sword of fire poised to sever the blasphemer’s head from his body. And then, inexplicably, lightning struck at Verchiel, and he fell from the sky in flames. The burns on his body had yet to heal, the pain a constant reminder of the Nephilim, and how much was at stake. “With his death,” Verchiel continued, “they will be shown that the prophecy is a lie, that there will be no forgiveness from the Creator.”
The prisoner leaned his head of shaggy black hair against the iron bars of his prison as the mouse crawled freely in his lap. “Why does the idea of the prophecy threaten you so?” he asked. “After all this time, is absolution such a terrible thing?”
Verchiel felt his anger blaze. His mighty wings unfurled from his back, stirring the dust and stagnant air of the room. “It is an affront to God! Those who fought against the Lord of Lords should be punished for their crimes, not forgiven.”
The prisoner closed his eyes. “But think of it, Verchiel: to have the past cleared away. Personally I think it would be pretty sweet.” He opened his eyes and smiled a beatific smile that again reminded Verchiel of how it had been in Heaven—and how much had been lost to them all. “Who knows,” the prisoner added, “it might even clear up that complexion of yours.”
It was a notion that had crossed Verchiel’s mind as well—that his lack of healing was a sign that the Creator was not pleased with his actions—but to have it suggested by one so vilified, so foul, was enough to test his sanity. The leader of the Powers surged toward the cage, grabbing the bars of iron.
“If I have incurred the wrath of my heavenly sire, it is for what I failed to do, rather than what I have done.” Verchiel felt the power of his angelic glory course through his body, down his arms, and into his hands. “I did not succeed in killing the Nephilim, but I have every intention of correcting that oversight.”
The metal of the cage began to glow a fiery orange with the heat of heavenly fire, and the prisoner moved to its center. His robes and the soles of his sandals began to smolder. “I deserve this,” he said, a steely resolve in his dark eyes. “But he doesn’t.” He held the mouse out toward Verchiel and moved to the bars that now glowed a yellowish white. He thrust his arm between the barriers, his sleeve immediately bursting into flame, and let the mouse fall to the floor where it scurried off to hide among the shadows.
“How touching,” Verchiel said, continuing to feed his unearthly energies into the metal bars of the prison. “It fills me with hope to see one as wicked as you showing such concern for one of the Father’s lowliest creatures.”
“It’s called compassion, Verchiel,” the prisoner said though gritted teeth, his simple clothing ablaze. “A divine trait, and one that you are severely lacking.”
“How dare you,” Verchiel growled, shaking the bars of the cage that now burned with a white-hot radiance. “I am, if nothing else, a spark of all that is the Creator; an extension of His divinity upon the world.”
The prisoner fell, his body burning, his blackening skin sending wisps of oily smoke into the air as he writhed upon the blistering hot floor of the cage. “But what if it’s true, Verchiel?” he asked in an impossibly calm voice. “What if … it’s all part of His plan?”
“Blasphemy!” the angel bellowed, his anger making the bars burn all the brighter—all the hotter. “Do you seriously think that the Creator can forgive those who tried to usurp His reign?”
“I’ve heard tell,” the prisoner whispered through lips blistered and oozing, “that He does work in mysterious ways.”
Verchiel was enjoying his captive’s suffering. “And what if it is true, Morningstar? What if the prophecy is some grand scheme of amnesty composed by God? Do you actually believe that you would be forgiven?”
The prisoner had curled into a tight ball, the flesh of his body aflame, but still he answered. “If I were to believe in the prophecy … then it would be up to the Nephilim … wouldn’t it?”
“Yes,” Verchiel answered. “Yes, it would. And it will never be allowed to happen.”
The prisoner lifted his head, any semblance of discernable features burned away. “Is that why I’m here?” he croaked in a dry whisper. “Is that why you’ve captured me … locked me away … so that I will never be given that chance?”
Verchiel sent a final burst of energy through the metal of the cage. The prisoner thrashed like a fish pulled from a stream and tossed cruelly upon the land. Then he grew very still, the intensity of his injuries sending him into the embrace of unconsciousness.
The Powers’ leader released the bars and stepped back. He knew that his captive would live, it would take far more than he could conjure to destroy something so powerful, but the injuries would cause him to suffer, and that was acceptable for now.
Verchiel turned from the cage and walked toward the door. There was still much to be done; he had no more time to concern himself with prisoners of war.
“As does the Lord,” he said to himself, “I too work in mysterious ways.”
The power of Heaven, tainted by the poison of arrogance and insanity, flowed through his injured body, bringing with it the most debilitating pain—but also sweet oblivion.
The prisoner drifted in a cold sea of darkness and dreamed.
In his dreams he saw a boy, and somehow he knew that this was the Nephilim of prophecy. There was nothing special about the way he looked, or the way he carried himself, but the Powers captive knew that this was the One—this was Aaron Corbet. The boy was moving purposefully through a thicket of woods; and he wasn’t alone. Deep within the womb of unconsciousness the prisoner smiled as he saw an angel walking at the boy’s side.
Camael, he thought, remembering how he had long ago called the warrior “friend.” But that was before the jealousy, before the war, before the fall.
And then he saw the dog; it had gone ahead into the woods, but now returned to tell its master what it had found. It was a beautiful animal, its fur the color of the purest sunshine. It loved its master, he could tell by the way it moved around the boy, the way it cocked its head as it communicated, the way its tail wagged.
It would be easy to like this boy, the prisoner guessed as the sharp pain of his injuries began to intrude upon his insensate state. He pulled himself deeper into the healing embrace of the void. How could I not like someone who has caused Verchiel such distress? the prisoner wondered. And besides, Aaron Corbet had a dog.
I’ve always been a sucker for dogs.
CHAPTER TWO
Johiel was annoyed with Earth the moment he arrived over a millenium ago, but as the toe of his sneaker caught beneath an unearthed root, and he fell sprawling, face first, to the forest floor, the fallen angel felt his simple antipathy ripen to bitter hatred. He hit the ground hard, the air punched from his lungs in a wheezing grunt, and slid halfway down a small embankment before regaining enough of his composure to struggle to his feet. Yes, Johiel hated living upon the Earth. However, the alternative—far more permanent—was even less appealing.
He chanced a look behind him to see if they were still following. What a foolish thought. They are soldiers of the Powers; of course they’re still following. The ground beneath his feet started to level off and in the distance he could hear the sounds of cars and trucks as they traveled along the highway. I can make it to the road, he thought, his mind abuzz. Perhaps I can hitch a ride and escape.
Stumbling through the darkness of the woods, Johiel chastised himself for his rabid stupidity. If he hadn’t tried to make contact with the Powers, he would not be in this predicament. How could he have been so foolish as to think that they could be convinced to show even the slightest leniency toward their enemies, no matter what was offered? But he had grown so tired of living in fear; a constant cloud of oppression hanging over his head, never knowing which moment would be his last.
The sounds of the road were closer now and he began
to think that they had grown tired of the pursuit. Perhaps they decided he just wasn’t worth the effort, he thought, both relieved and a little insulted that the Powers wouldn’t even attempt to learn the information he wanted to trade for his life. Johiel was certain that his knowledge would prove valuable to their leader, and he would have given it freely for a chance to live without fear.
The ground before him suddenly exploded in a roiling ball of fire, and Johiel was thrown backward to the cool, moist forest floor.
“Is it something we said, little fallen brother?” said a cold, cruel voice behind him.
“Or something we didn’t say, perhaps?” asked another, equally malevolent.
Johiel scrambled to his feet and turned to see two immaculately dressed and smiling angels strolling through the woods toward him. He knew he had three choices, two of which would likely end in his own excruciating demise: He could run and be cut down like a lowly animal; he could fight and perish just the same; or he could carry through with his original plan. The notion of engaging the two Powers in conversation was terrifying, but he held his ground and summoned a sword of fire to defend himself if it proved necessary.
The warriors stopped in unison, the sparking flame of Johiel’s weapon reflecting off the inky blackness of their eyes.
“I do not understand, Bethmael,” said one to the other. “The criminal put word out that he wished to speak with us, yet flees when we approach. And now he brandishes a weapon?”
Bethmael sneered. “It is the world, brother Kyriel,” he said, continuing to stare at the fallen angel. “They know they do not belong here, and the knowledge drives them mad.”
Their wings gracefully expanded from their backs, reminding Johiel of king cobras unfurling their hoods before they strike.
“I wanted to speak with a representative of the Powers,” he built up the courage to say. “Someone who has Lord Verchiel’s ear. But instead I am attacked and forced to flee for my life.”
Kyriel’s wings languidly flapped and a sword sprang to life in his hand, lighting the darkened wood like dawn. “And what could a criminal possibly have to say that might interest Lord Verchiel?”
“I have information,” Johiel began, suddenly unsure. The idea of betraying those who had once welcomed him into their fold filled him with trepidation, but not enough to hold his tongue. “The location of the place that you have desperately sought, but still cannot find.”
“You wish an exchange of some kind?” Bethmael asked.
His large hands remained free of weapons and Johiel watched him with cautious eyes. He did not trust the Powers, but this was his last chance to be free of the fear that had plagued him since the war. He would either be free, or he would be dead.
“An exchange for my life,” he explained. “I will give you the location of the secret haven, and you will grant me freedom.”
“You’re asking for immunity from our righteous wrath?” Kyriel asked, lowering his own mighty sword of fire.
“For what I give you, the life of one fallen angel is a bargain,” Johiel answered.
The two Powers looked at each other, a communication passing between their gazes. Kyriel again raised his weapon. “Our fallen brother attempts to barter for his life,” he said to Bethmael, bemused. Bethmael nodded, a humorless smile appearing on his beatific features. “Protection in exchange for information.”
They were both smiling now, and Johiel began to believe that his gambit had actually paid off. He wished his weapon away as a sign of good faith, but he could not help thinking again of those who would die so that he could live. I’ll learn to live with that, he thought. “Your word is your bond,” he said aloud to Bethmael and Kyriel. “Do we have a deal?”
They laughed, a shrill, high-pitched sound that conjured images of a bird of prey as it dropped from the sky upon its kill. Johiel should have seen this for the warning that it was.
“The Powers do not bargain with criminals,” Bethmael said as a weapon—a longbow—formed in his grasp, and in a matter of seconds he let fly a shaft of fire. It hissed as it cut through the air, as if warning its target of the excruciating pain of its bite.
The arrow of fire plunged deep into the flesh of Johiel’s shoulder, the momentum carrying him backward, pinning him to the body of an ancient oak. Frantically Johiel tried to free himself. He gripped the shaft and the night air was suddenly filled with the sickly sweet fragrance of burning flesh. He screamed pathetically as he pulled his blistered hand away. Through eyes tearing with pain, he watched the two angels stalk closer.
“It is our turn to make a bargain with you, fallen one,” Bethmael said. His bow had already been replaced with a dagger of fire that he held menacingly before Johiel. “You will tell us your secrets, and then you will be killed mercifully.”
Johiel struggled to pull his shoulder from the tree, but the pain was too great. “I … I’ll tell you nothing,” he said, voice trembling with fear and agony. The fire of the arrow was beginning to eat at the flesh of his shoulder, beginning to spread voraciously down his arm.
“I was so hoping you would say that,” Kyriel said, a knife coming to life in his grasp as well.
Johiel didn’t want to die—especially not painfully. Perhaps a taste of his secret knowledge would grant him a small respite. “I know where the fallen hide,” he proclaimed as the burning blades moved toward his flesh.
Bethmael stopped and motioned for Kyriel to halt as well. “Go on,” the angel urged. “Unburden yourself.”
“I … I can take you there … right to their doorstep,” he stammered.
“He’s bluffing,” Kyriel snapped, and again started forward with knife in hand.
“I could tell you where …, but you won’t find it without my help,” Johiel whined, writhing in pain as the heavenly fire of the arrow in his shoulder continued to feed upon his flesh. “It’s hidden with magick …, but I can show you where it is.”
“I grow tired of his games, brother,” Kyriel said, eager to inflict more pain. “We’ll cut the flesh from his traitorous bones and—”
“Silence, Kyriel,” Bethmael ordered, a look forming in his black gaze that told Johiel the Powers’ soldier had begun to understand the importance of what he knew. “What is this place of which you speak?” Bethmael asked with intense curiosity.
Johiel looked to the arrow protruding from his shoulder, and then back to Bethmael. “Remove the arrow, and I’ll share all that I know,” he said, sensing that he was suddenly worth more to them alive than dead.
“What is the name of the place of which you speak?” Bethmael asked again.
Johiel was about to tell him when a rustle of brush and the snapping of twigs distracted them all from the business at hand.
The yellow-furred dog was the first to come upon them. It stopped, cocked its head to one side, and stared with deep brown eyes showing far more intelligence than expected from the average canine. A boy was next, followed by a familiar angel. Johiel believed his name to be Camael, a great angel warrior and traitor to the Powers host.
“Told you I could find them first,” the yellow dog said to the boy.
“And now that we have?” the angel warrior inquired.
The boy’s appearance began to change, and Johiel thought he heard the Powers gasp. Sigils, angelic sigils appeared upon the boy’s flesh. It was then that Johiel realized this was much more than a mere boy.
“And now that we’ve found them,” the boy repeated, his voice dropping to a rumbling growl, “we kick their asses until they tell us what we want to know.”
“I urge caution,” Camael said quietly, placing his hand on Aaron’s shoulder. “Enter into battle without prudence, and have no one but yourself to blame for an untimely death.”
Camael eyed the scene before him. It was typical: two agents of the Powers preparing to dispatch yet another fallen angel for crimes against Heaven. How many had died by his own hands in service to the Powers and their sacred mission, before he realized that the dispen
sing of death was not the answer.
“All right,” Aaron said, impatience in his tone. “I’m being cautious. I haven’t attacked yet—but how long should I be cautious before I get to kick butt?”
The two Powers stepped away from their prey, spreading their wings and puffing out their broad warriors’ chests. The knives they each held changed, growing in size to something more formidable, something far more deadly.
“Do my eyes deceive me, brother Kyriel?” asked one soldier to the other. “Or is that former commander Camael I see before me?”
Camael was familiar with both Kyriel and Bethmael. They had served him well in his time as leader of the Powers host. It saddened him now to see the glint of madness in their eyes.
“But how can that be, Bethmael?” Kyriel asked mockingly. “The great Camael left the ways of violence to ascend to a higher level of being. I hear tell that he has taken up sides with a savior of sorts, a divine creature with the ability to bend the ear of God.”
“Do tell,” said Bethmael in response. “Then I am sorely mistaken, for those who stand before us now are neither higher beings nor saviors of any kind.”
Camael would have welcomed a chance to explain his change of heart, his altered philosophy clarified by the reading of an ancient prophecy that foretold the coming of a Nephilim. This spawn of angel and mortal woman would bring absolution to those that had fled Heaven after the war. But he knew, in the core of his being, that the soldiers of the Powers would not listen. They had been changed over the millennia, poisoned by their mission of murder under the leadership of Verchiel.
“So you know these two, huh?” Aaron asked, still obliging Camael’s warning of caution.
“They once served beneath me,” he answered, his gaze never leaving the angelic soldiers. He recalled that the two had been ferocious warriors, their dedication to the cause unwavering. They would be formidable opponents indeed.
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