Bethmael pointed his awesome sword of flame at them. “Let us show you how we deal with traitors and mongrels,” he said, a goading smile on his aquiline features.
“Have you heard enough of their crap yet?” Aaron asked.
Camael brought forth a blade of his own and readied himself for battle. “I believe I have.”
Aaron suddenly turned to face him, placing a sigil-covered hand upon his chest. “Let me do this,” he said forcefully. The young man’s eyes glinted wetly, like two black pearls in a sea of unbridled emotion. “I have to learn to control it, you’ve said so yourself.”
He could not argue with the boy, for it was what he had been attempting to teach Aaron all along. The angelic nature of the Nephilim was often a dangerous and tempestuous force. The human animal was not meant to wield such power, and it often drove them insane. Camael tried to recall the number of Nephilim driven mad by the power of their own angelic nature that he had been forced to put down. There were far more than he cared to remember.
“Don’t worry,” Aaron said confidently. “I’ll give a yell if I need a hand.”
The boy turned away and flexed his shoulders. Powerful wings of shiny black feathers sprouted from his back, tearing through his T-shirt. In his hand a sword of orange flame appeared and he hurled himself at the angelic opponents with a cry of abandon.
The power that resided within this boy was different than any other Camael had borne witness to; there was an intensity to it, something that hinted at the potential for greatness—or something devastatingly destructive. It was this that set him apart from the others, that made Camael believe that Aaron Corbet was indeed the one foretold of in prophecy, the one who could unite all of the fallen angels with Heaven. Perhaps even … He cut that thought off before it could go any further.
Camael watched with a cautious eye as the Nephilim touched down before the Powers warriors. “Let me show you how I deal with a coupla assholes,” he heard the boy say, goading the angels to attack.
At first the teenager had been afraid of his talents, but now Aaron was using his new abilities more and more frequently. Camael hoped that he would soon see the unification of human and angelic in the boy—and not a gradual descent into madness. He wished this not only for the sake of the boy, but for all fallen angels hiding on Earth, hungry for reunification with God and the kingdom of Heaven.
Bethmael was first to attack, bringing his blade down in a blazing arc, crackling and sparking as it cut through the air. Aaron spread wide his ebony wings and pushed off from the ground, evading the weapon as it bit into the underbrush and set it aflame.
“Fast, but not fast enough,” the Nephilim said, lashing out with his own sword of fire. The blade cut a burning gash across Bethmael’s chest and the angel cried out in shock and dismay.
Eyes riveted to the scene unfolding before him, Camael suddenly felt Gabriel’s presence by his side.
“I’m afraid,” the dog said.
“Not to worry,” Camael replied reassuringly. “Aaron will be fine.”
There was silence for a moment, but then the animal spoke again.
“Right now I’m not afraid for him, Camael,” the dog said with a slight tremble to his usually guttural voice. “I’m afraid of him.”
As he struck at his enemies and watched the surprise and fear spread across their faces, Aaron wondered again why he had ever been so afraid.
Bethmael and Kyriel stepped away from him, cautious now that he had drawn first blood. He could still hear Bethmael’s blood sizzling on the blade of his weapon. It was a wonderful sound that made the power within him yowl with delight.
This angelic essence was indeed a thing to be feared, but it was part of him now, and there was nothing he could do to change that. At first he had believed that the best way to deal with it was to suppress it, to keep the alien nature that had been awakened on his eighteenth birthday locked up inside, but that proved to be nearly impossible. The power wanted to be free to fulfill its purpose, and to be perfectly honest, Aaron knew he really wasn’t strong enough to deny it. Self-control had been something he’d fought to learn for years in foster care. But his first confrontation with Verchiel over the burning remains of the only people who had ever treated him like family quickly taught him that he would have to occasionally free these newfound powers to stay alive.
“What’s the matter? Scared?” Aaron asked the angels, a nasty grin spreading across his face. He imagined how he must look to them, and a chill of excitement ran up and down his spine. He wanted them to be afraid—he wanted them to fear him. They were agents of Verchiel, and that was all he needed to know. They didn’t seek unification and peace. Only the merciless slaughter of those they considered “beneath” themselves.
That was it. They came at him with cries that reminded him of a bird’s wail: an eagle, or a hawk perhaps. Bethmael’s fiery blade passed dangerously close.
“Verchiel shall have your head,” he heard the angel hiss. He felt the heat of heavenly flame streak by his face as he bent himself backward to avoid its destructive touch. Then he drove his foot into the angel’s stomach, kicking him away.
Kyriel, working in unison with his brother, thrust his blade of fire toward Aaron’s midsection. Aaron brought his own weapon down, swatting Kyriel’s lunge aside, and carried through slashing his sword across the warrior’s face. The angel stumbled back with a cry of surprise, a hand clutched to his now smoldering features.
“Bet that’s gonna scar,” Aaron taunted, feeling the ancient energy that he’d fought so hard to squelch course through his body. At that moment he felt as though there was nothing he couldn’t do.
“He … he cut me,” Kyriel said, gazing at the blood that covered his hand.
There wasn’t much of it, the flames of the heavenly blades cauterizing the wounds, but Aaron wondered how long it had been since the angel had last seen even a little of his own blood. The Powers’ soldier looked to his brother for support, though he too had been stung by Aaron’s blade.
“Then we shall cut him back,” Bethmael growled, spreading his wings of golden brown and springing from the ground, sword of fire ready for a taste of Nephilim blood.
Rallied by his brother, Kyriel forgot his wound and dove at Aaron.
Aaron watched them descending upon him as if in slow motion, the crackling flames of their burning swords growing louder as they drew closer. He tried to move, but found he could not. The angelic essence had grown tired of this particular battle, and was ready to bring it to an end. Aaron gave in, letting the divine power wash over him like a wave.
They were almost upon him, their angel scent filling his nostrils. There was arrogance in their stench. Even though he had held his own against their master, Verchiel, they still believed themselves superior. These angels would suffer for their conceit.
Kyriel was the first to meet his fate. His wicked blade of fire fell—its purpose to cleave Aaron in two, but the Nephilim was not there to meet the weapon’s bite. With surprising speed, he moved beneath the descent of Kyriel’s sword and thrust his own burning blade into the soldier’s ribcage, thinking to pierce the creature’s black heart.
Aaron had no time to cherish the look of sheer surprise that bled across his attacker’s face, for he had the other to deal with now. He turned just as Bethmael slashed a painful bite from his shoulder. But he ignored the wound, following through with his own swing. His blade passed through the thick tendrils of sinew, muscle, and bone and severed Bethmael’s head from his body. Aaron watched with a perverse wonder as the angel’s head spun slowly in the air before falling to the ground. The body followed, the stump where its head had once been still smoldering from the cut of his weapon.
Aaron was surprised by his feelings as he gazed down at the astonished expression, frozen upon Bethmael’s dead face. There was no revulsion, no surprise. It simply felt right.
He was suddenly distracted by a moan from behind and turned to see that Kyriel was still alive. The angel kne
lt upon the grass, clutching at his chest, a black oily smoke drifting from his wound. He was burning from within and the expression on his face was one of unbridled pain. Aaron looked upon his attacker and he felt no pity—only a cold, efficient need to see the job done.
“Aaron,” he heard Camael call from close by. He ignored his mentor and prepared to finish what he had started.
“Aaron, what are you doing?” Camael cautiously questioned as the Nephilim brought his sword of fire up, and then down upon Kyriel’s skull, ending his life and bringing the battle to a close.
He felt Camael’s hand fall roughly upon his shoulder, spinning him around to face his mentor. There was a split second when the power inside told him to lift his blade against the angel, but he managed to suppress the urge as he slowly emerged from the red haze of combat.
Camael was looking at him, eyes wide with dismay, although Aaron wasn’t altogether sure what he had done to garner such a reaction. “What’s the matter?” he asked, feeling the sigils upon his body start to fade, the wings upon his back furl beneath the flesh.
Gabriel had joined the angel and was looking up at him with an equal expression of shock. “You killed them, Aaron,” the dog said, disappointment in his tone.
“I did at that,” Aaron replied, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he remembered the remarkable feeling of letting the power inside him take control. “Bet they didn’t think I’d be able to—”
“But how are they going to help us find Stevie?” Gabriel asked, and Aaron felt the world give way beneath him. He hadn’t even thought of his brother during the fury of battle.
“What have I done?” he whispered, refusing to look at the accusatory gazes of his friends. Aaron focused his stare on the smoldering bodies of those he had vanquished, the horror of what he had done in the throes of battle, and what he had carelessly forgotten just then beginning to sink in.
And the power inside him rested, satisfied.
Sated for now.
* * *
The hot orange flames burned higher and fiercer as they fed upon the corpses of the Powers’ soldiers. Aaron could not pull his gaze from the sight as the unnatural fire consumed them, any chance of them sharing information about Stevie’s fate silenced in a moment of gratuitous violence.
“What’s wrong with me, Camael?” he asked as he watched the bones of angels burn to powder. “I didn’t even think of Stevie,” he said sadly. “It was like he didn’t even matter.”
“The power that is inside you can be a selfish thing,” the angel said coldly. “It cares only to satisfy its needs. It is a wild thing and must be tamed. There must be unity between the human and angelic, or there can be only chaos.”
A skull popped like a gunshot as it collapsed in upon itself in an explosion of fiery embers.
“I thought that when the power awakened in me … and when I talked to it that …”
“That was only the beginning of a much longer and difficult process,” Camael said as he brushed the flying ash of his brethren from the sleeve of his suit jacket. “Unification must occur or …”
The angel trailed off, and Aaron finally looked away from the burning remains of the creatures he had killed. “Or what?” he asked, not sure if he really wanted to know the answer.
Camael met his gaze with eyes as cold as an arctic breeze, and Aaron felt the hair at the nape of his neck stand on end. “Or it will make you insane, and I will be forced to destroy you.”
Aaron found he couldn’t breathe. As if he didn’t have enough to concern him; now he had to worry about losing his mind and being killed by someone he’d grown to trust. The angelic nature inside him was awake again and it cared very little for Camael’s words. It wanted to be free, to confront Camael’s threat, but Aaron struggled to keep it in check, defying its need for violence.
“Do you think I’m going insane?” he asked the angel.
Camael said nothing, averting his gaze to the stars. Aaron was about to press the question when Gabriel began to bark.
“What is it?” He looked down at his dog, whose hackles had risen ominously upon his neck.
“I think we’ve got more trouble,” the dog growled menacingly, padding past them in a crouch.
Aaron and Camael turned to see two figures standing before the tree where the Powers’ original prey had been pinned by an arrow of fire. In the mayhem of battle, they had forgotten about the fallen angel, and now it appeared as though he had some friends after all. There was a man, dressed as though he had just walked off the set of a spaghetti western: cowboy boots and hat, black denim and a long brown duster that flowed around him in a nonexistent breeze. The woman, in denim as well, but wearing a more contemporary style of dress, stood out in the darkness, for her long, flowing hair was the color of freshly fallen snow.
“Who are … ?” Aaron began as the cowboy reached out and began to pull the arrow from the fallen angel’s shoulder.
“Fallen,” Camael announced, his nose twitching as he sniffed the air. “And the girl is Nephilim.”
The angel cried out in pain as he was released, falling to his knees at the edge of the clearing.
“Looks as though they’ve come to rescue their friend,” Aaron said, and then stopped.
The fallen angel that had removed the burning arrow from the Powers’ victim had flipped back his coat, and from somewhere on his person had produced a pistol that would have been right at home in the old West, but this one seemed to be made of gold. He stepped back, aimed at the kneeling angel, and unmercifully shot him once in the forehead.
“Oh, shit,” Aaron whispered, watching as the angel slumped to the ground, dead.
“I don’t think they are his friends,” Camael voiced, the echo of the single gunshot gradually fading.
Gabriel immediately began to bark, and the two newcomers spun to face them.
“I’d quiet that animal,” said the cowboy as he turned his aim toward them. He was tall, his weathered features lined with age, long gray hair streaming out from beneath his Stetson. “Wouldn’t want to make me nervous and have my gun go off accidentally,” he said with a snarl.
“Who’s he calling an animal?” Gabriel asked, barking and lunging forward threateningly.
“Quiet, Gabriel,” Aaron said, placing the tips of his fingers reassuringly on the dog’s rump.
A sword of fire ignited beside him, and he glanced over to see that Camael was preparing himself, just in case. He felt his own inner essence exert itself, and the strange markings again seared the surface of his flesh. Reluctantly he let the power come.
“We want no trouble,” Camael’s voice boomed. He held his sword at the ready. “Allow us to go our way, and this will be the end of it.”
The two were silent. The woman casually combed the fingers of one hand through her long white hair, and Aaron realized that she probably wasn’t much older than himself.
“Were they Verchiel’s?” she asked, pointing to the still-smoldering remains behind them.
“Yes,” Aaron answered. His wings had emerged and he slowly unfurled them, giving the potential attackers a glimpse of what would be in store for them if they started any trouble.
“Imagine that.” The angel with the pistol squinted at them. “The likes of you taking down two of Verchiel’s soldiers.”
“I think we should bring them in,” said the woman coldly.
She was a Nephilim, and Aaron felt a certain kinship with her, but he didn’t care for what he was hearing. Bring us in? Like we’re criminals, or specimens, or something.
“We’re not going anywhere,” Camael warned. “This can end in one of two ways—and one is not at all in your favor.”
The angel with the pistol chuckled. “Not in our favor,” he said. “I like that.” And then he looked to the woman. “Lorelei, take ’em down.”
“Right you are, Lehash,” she said, and spread her arms, a strange guttural language spilling from her mouth.
Aaron heard the words and immediate
ly knew that things were about to turn ugly. She was casting some kind of spell, calling upon the elements. He tensed, a sword suddenly in his hand.
“Camael, we have to—”
The air roared, like the largest of jungle cats, and jagged claws of lightning dropped down from the sky upon them. There was a brilliant flash, and then everything was black.
Aaron didn’t even have a chance to finish his sentence.
CHAPTER THREE
Malak’s arrival was heralded by a tremble of the very air. It shook years of accumulated dust and dirt from the heating pipes and ducts spreading across the ceiling of the dormant boiler room in the sub-basement of the Saint Athanasius Orphanage. And then there came a tearing sound as a rip in the fabric of space appeared in the room and grew steadily larger to allow the servant of the Powers access to his place of solitude.
The fearsome figure, clad in ornate armor the color of drying blood and carrying a dripping sack, forced his body through the laceration in the flesh of reality. The armor, forged in the fires of Heaven and bestowed upon him by the chieftain of the Powers host, allowed him this fantastic mode of transportation. In an instant he could follow a scent wherever it might take him.
As his feet hit the concrete floor of his dwelling, the hovering wound behind him revealed a place of frigid, howling winds, covered with ice and snow. Gradually it healed and soon was no more.
Malak sniffed the air, searching for signs that anyone other than he had been within his den. The scent was all his and the hunter relaxed. He placed the satchel on the floor and pulled the helmet from his head, setting it down atop a stack of magazines tied with twine. His scalp tingled as it was exposed to the air, and he raised a gloved hand to his head, running metal-encased fingers through his shaggy blond hair. It’s good to be home, he thought, gazing about the dank, dark room. His eyes fell upon the familiar sites: the piles of wooden desks, stacks of moldering textbooks. There were rows of file cabinets, their once important information now meaningless, and an ancient boiler, squatting in the darkness, its system of pipes and ducts reaching overhead like the tentacles of some long-extinct primordial beast. This was his place, a respite where he could gather his strength and concentrate on the hunts to come.
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