“How many people died?” Aaron asked. The wind blew down the deserted street kicking up dust, and he could have sworn he heard the faint cries of the mournful in the breeze.
“I’m really not sure,” the woman answered. “I know a lot of kids got sick before the state got involved in 1989. They investigated and forced the families to evacuate. They ended up purchasing more than three hundred and fifty homes and financing some of the relocation costs.”
“So it’s kind of like a ghost town,” Aaron said, still listening to the haunted cries upon the wind.
“Yeah, it is,” Lorelei answered.
“What did your friend Lehash call this place?” he asked, his nose wrinkled with displeasure. “A little piece of paradise? I’m not seeing that at all.”
Lorelei looked about, a dreamy expression on her pale, attractive features. “It may not look like much,” she said quietly, “but it’s lots better than what I left behind. I’ll take this over the nuthouse any day of the week.” She abruptly turned and continued on her way.
Her words piqued Aaron’s curiosity, and he sped up to walk beside her. “Did you say you were in a nuthouse?”
Lorelei didn’t answer right away, as if she were deciding whether or not she wanted to talk about it. “A pretty good one too—or so I’ve been told,” she finally said. “I was seventeen, on the verge of my eighteenth birthday, and everything I’d ever known turned to shit.”
Aaron could hear the pain in her voice and immediately sympathized. He understood exactly what she was talking about. “It was the … the power inside you … the whole Nephilim thing.”
She nodded. “I didn’t know it then, but I finally figured it out after one of my last hospital stays. I was on the streets and had stopped taking my medications and things started to become clearer. ’Course that’s what crazy people not taking their medicines always say.” She laughed, but it was a laugh filled with bitterness.
Aaron suddenly saw in the young woman a kindred spirit and wondered if her story would have been his if not for the whole prophecy thing.
“I was drawn to this place,” Lorelei continued. “As the drugs that I’d been pumped full of left my system I could feel the pull of Aerie—I was seeing it in my dreams, along with all kinds of other nonsense that I’m sure you’re familiar with.”
“Were there those that attempted to harm you?” Camael chimed in, making reference to the Powers. “Trying to keep you from reaching this destination?”
A lock of white hair drifted in front of her face, and she swept it away with the back of her hand. “I got really good at avoiding them.” She turned to the angel. “At first I thought they were just manifestations of my paranoid delusions, but when one tried to burn me alive inside an old tenement house I was crashing in, I realized that wasn’t the case.”
“You were lucky to have survived.”
Lorelei agreed. “I think that the power inside was helping me. Without the drugs, it was growing and helping me to find a place where I could be safe.”
They passed an enormous mound of burned and blackened wood that had been piled in the center of the street. Aaron could see that some doors and windows, railings and banisters from some of the houses had made it onto the stack. He looked from the charred pyre to her.
“We had problems with some local kids,” she explained. “Liked to use the place to party. We were afraid their little bonfires would eventually burn it down.”
“What did you do?” Aaron asked.
Lorelei extended her hands and small sparks of radiant energy danced from one fingertip to the next. “After I finally got here and realized I wasn’t crazy, that I was Nephilim, I learned that I had an affinity for angel magick. My father and I did some spells to scare the kids away. This place has a real reputation now, even worse than it had before.”
“Your father? Who … ?”
“Lehash,” she answered. “Pretty cool, huh? Not only was I not insane, but I hooked up with my dad the angel, and suddenly everything began to make a weird kind of sense.”
The words of the Archangel Gabriel echoed through Aaron’s mind—You have your father’s eyes—and Aaron wondered if the mystery of his own parentage would ever be revealed to him.
On a tiny side street they stopped in front of a house with powder blue aluminum siding, strings of Christmas lights still dangling from the gutters.
“Is that my car?” Aaron asked, moving past Lorelei toward the vehicle parked in front.
Gabriel beat him there and gave the vehicle the once over. “It’s our car, Aaron,” he said, tail wagging. “I can smell our stuff.”
“One of the citizens retrieved it from the Burger King parking lot.” Lorelei gestured toward the house. “This is where you’ll be staying.”
Aaron gave the house another look and felt his aggravation level rise. He didn’t want to stay; he wanted to continue the search for his brother. They had done nothing wrong, and Belphegor had no right to keep them here. “How long are you planning to hold us?” he asked, staring down in growing anger at the manacles fastened around his wrist. “If I’m ever going to find my brother—”
“You’ll stay as long as the Founder says you’ll stay,” Lorelei interrupted, crossing her arms in defiance. “As far as we’re concerned, you’re the ones responsible for all the killings. And, until we know otherwise, you’re not going anywhere.”
“That’s crap and you know it,” he growled, the angelic presence perking up within him. It would never miss an opportunity for conflict and he had to steel himself against the urge to let it free. He had no desire to feel the effects of the manacles’ magicks again.
“If my father had his way,” she interjected, “you’d still be locked in that basement, Chosen One or otherwise.” Lorelei took a step closer, fists clenched by her side. “What makes you think you’re so damn special anyway?” she demanded.
“I didn’t ask for this!” Aaron pushed past the woman, heading in the opposite direction.
“Where are you going?”
He stopped, but didn’t turn around. “I need to take a walk. Besides, Gabriel is hungry and I wouldn’t mind a bite to eat myself. Is there anyplace around here where we can get some food?”
Lorelei didn’t answer right away, as if she were considering not letting him go. Aaron decided that would be a very bad idea on her part, for his angelic nature was already coiled and ready to strike. Looking for trouble.
“You’re heading in the right direction,” she finally said. “Take a left onto Gagnon. You’ll see the community center at the end of the street. Should be able to get a sandwich or something there.”
“Thanks,” he said, starting to walk again. Gabriel followed close at his side, but Camael remained with Lorelei. “I’ll see you guys later.”
“Yeah,” Lorelei called after him. “You will, and as soon as you get used to the idea, things’ll be a little easier for you.”
CHAPTER SIX
Camael watched Aaron leave and could not help but share some of the Nephilim’s discontent.
“So, what do you really think?” Lorelei asked as they stood on the sidewalk before the shabby house. “Do you seriously believe that he’s the Chosen One?”
He turned away from the boy and his dog walking off in the distance and met her gaze. “I believe there is something special about that one,” he answered.
“I had a cat when I was eight that was pretty special, but it doesn’t mean that she was the Messiah.” Lorelei’s tone dripped sarcasm.
Camael chose to ignore her jibes and instead addressed the dwelling before them. “This is where we will be staying then?” he asked, as if in need of clarification.
“This is it,” she answered. “One of the sturdier homes, no leaks and still unchristened by local youths brave enough to come here.”
“It will do,” he said, and then was quiet. He hoped that his silence would act as a dismissal to the female half-breed. The angel did not feel like talking; there was much
he needed to reflect upon, and he found her presence distracting.
“You didn’t answer my question,” the Nephilim piped up, eager to press the sensitive issue. “Do you believe he’s the One in the prophecy?”
“It matters not what I believe,” he said, his pale blue eyes locked on hers, “for it appears you and yours have already made up your minds about the boy.”
“We’ve seen a lot of so-called prophets here. Hell, I’ve seen at least two since I’ve been around. It takes more than the word of a former Powers’ commander to convince us,” she answered, arms folded across her chest. “Sorry to doubt you, but that’s just the way it is.”
He could sense that she wanted more, that she wanted him to convince her he was right. But as he stood on the desolate street, in the abandoned neighborhood that he had come to learn was the paradise he’d sought for centuries, Camael found that he just didn’t have the strength.
“I have searched for this place far longer than even I can recall,” he said, gesturing to the homes and the neighborhood around him. “If it is permitted, I would like to explore Aerie on my own.”
Lorelei nodded slightly. There was disappointment in her look, and for that he was truly sorry. “Sure, it’s permitted, knock yourself out.” She placed her hands inside the pockets of her short jacket. “The manacles and choke collar should keep you out of trouble.” She turned on her heel and crossed the street to leave him alone.
“It ain’t much,” he heard the Nephilim say as she slowly headed back in the direction they had come. “But it’s home.”
Camael wasn’t sure what he had expected of Aerie but was certain, as he strolled down the deathly silent street with its houses in sad disrepair and the offensive aroma of chemical poisoning tainting the air, that this was not even remotely what he had imagined it would be.
What did you think you would find? he silently asked, the setting sun at his back. An earthly version of a Heaven lost so long ago? Is that it? he wondered. Was that why he was feeling so out of sorts?
In the distance before him, the angel could see the golden cross atop the steeple of a church, and found himself pulled to this human place of worship. Its architecture was far more contemporary than he cared for—simple, less ornate than many of the other places of worship he had visited in his long years upon the planet of man. Slowly he climbed the weathered concrete steps of the structure, feeling the residue of prayer left by the devout. He pulled open the door, and traces of the love these often primitive creatures felt for their Creator cascaded over him in waves.
Camael stepped inside the church, letting the door slowly close behind him. The structure had been stripped of its religious trappings; nowhere was there a crucifix or relic of a saint to be found. He guessed that such religious paraphernalia had been removed when the church was abandoned, but that did not change the feeling of the place. This was a place for worship, and no matter what iconic trappings had been taken from it, it could not change its original purpose.
Crudely constructed benches were lined up before the altar at the front of the building and Camael saw that he was not alone. A man, a Nephilim, sat at the front, his gaze intent upon an image that had been painted on the cream-colored wall at the back of the altar.
Camael walked closer. The artwork was crudely rendered, but there was no mistaking what it depicted—the joining of mortal woman and angel. A child hung in the air above its mismatched parents on wings of holy light, its tiny arms spread wide, the rays of light that haloed its head spreading upward to God, as well as drenching the world below them in its divine illumination. He found himself studying the artist’s rendition of the child, searching for any similarity with his own charge, the boy Aaron Corbet. Of course there were none, and he felt foolish for looking.
The lone figure sitting before the altar turned with a start, his face contorting in wide-eyed astonishment as his gaze fell upon Camael. The angel considered speaking to the halfling, but before he could put the words together, the man leaped from his seat and fled through a nearby exit.
These citizens certainly don’t trust strangers, Camael thought as he strode to the front of the old church and sat on the bench the Nephilim had vacated. The silence was comforting, and he closed his eyes, losing himself deep within his thoughts. It was not often that he had a chance to reflect.
He thought of the war in Heaven. It had seemed so black and white at the beginning: Those who opposed the Lord of Lords would be punished, it was as simple as that. Faces appeared before his eyes, brothers of the myriad heavenly hosts; some had been with him since their inception, but it mattered not, for they had to pay the price. And then it was too much for him, the smell of their blood choking his breath, their screams for mercy deafening his ears. There seemed to be no end, his existence had become one of vengeance and misery. He had become a messenger of death and he could stand it no more. And then there was the prophecy….
Camael opened his eyes to look upon the image painted on the wall before him: the strange trinity that would herald the end of so much pain and suffering. He remembered when he had first heard the prophecy told by a human seer. He desperately wanted it to be true, for God’s forgiveness to be bestowed upon those who had fallen, by a being that was an amalgam of His most precious creations.
From that moment, Camael had looked upon these creatures—these Nephilim—as conduits of God’s mercy, and he did everything in his power to keep them safe. These times had been long and filled with violence, but also salvation. He had taken it upon himself to find the Nephilim of prophecy, to help bring about the redemption of his fallen brethren, and at last it had brought him here.
To Aerie.
The angel looked around at the sparse environment in which he sat, and was overcome with feelings of disappointment. Is this to be where the Lord’s mercy is finally realized? A human neighborhood built upon a burial ground of toxic waste. Camael was loath to admit it, but he was expecting more.
Even though lost in thought, he sensed their presence and rose from his seat to see that he was no longer alone. The Nephilim that had fled the church when he’d first arrived had returned, and brought others with him. They streamed into the place of worship, male and female of various ages—all of them the result of the joining of human and angel. They whispered and muttered among themselves as they stared at Camael.
He had no idea what they wanted of him and on reflex tried to conjure a sword of fire. But the magick that infused the manacles encircling his wrists and throat immediately kicked in. The angel shrieked in pain as daggers of ice plunged through his body. He fell to his knees, cursing his stupidity, and struggled to stay conscious as the waves of discomfort gradually abated.
The throng of Nephilim came at him then, and there was nothing he could do to stop them. They formed a circle around him, their buzzing whispers adding to the tension of the situation.
“What do you want?” he asked them. His voice sounded strained, tired.
An older woman, with eyes as green and deep as the Mediterranean, was the first to step forward, and reached a hand out to the angel warrior. He could see that there were tears in her eyes.
“We want to thank you,” she said as she lay a cool palm against the side of his face, “for saving our lives.”
He looked at her quizzically, her gentle touch soothing his pain.
“It was one of the fiercest blizzards I can remember,” she whispered, tears streaming down her aged face, “and they had come to kill me, their swords of fire sizzling and hissing as the snow fell upon them. As long as I live I’ll never forget that sound—or the sound of your voice as you ordered them away from me.”
The woman’s words gradually sank in. “I … I saved you,” Camael said, gazing into her bottomless eyes, awash in a sea of emotion.
The woman nodded, a sad smile upon her trembling lips. “Me and so many more,” she said, turning to look at the others that crowded behind her.
They all came forward then, hands touching
him, the unbridled emotion of their thanks almost intoxicating. How many times had he wondered what became of them; of those half-breeds he had saved from the murderous Powers? How often had he questioned the validity of his mission?
The Nephilim survivors surged around him, the warmth of their gratitude enveloping him in a cocoon of fulfillment.
It wasn’t for naught, he thought as he welcomed each word of thanks, every loving touch. Camael, former leader of the Powers host, had at last found his peace, not only in place, but in spirit.
The prisoner curled himself tighter into a ball upon the floor of his cage, his body wracked with painful spasms brought about by the process of healing.
“It’s kind of funny,” he whispered to the mouse nestled in the crook of his neck, its gentle exhalations soothing in his ear. “Healing hurts almost as much as the injury itself.” And again his body twitched and writhed in the throes of repairing itself. He waited for the agony to pass before continuing with his story.
“Sorry about the interruption,” he said, trying to focus on something other than the sloughing of his old, dead flesh and the tenderness of the new pink skin beneath. “Where was I?”
The mouse snuffled gently.
“That’s right,” he answered. “My relationship with the Lord.” Another wave of pain swept through his body, and he gritted his teeth and bore the bulk of it before he continued. “I was pretty high on His list of favorites; the mightiest and most beloved of all the angels in Heaven. He called me His Morningstar, and He loved me as much as I loved Him—or so I believed.”
And though it was as torturous—even more so than having his burned flesh fall from his body—the prisoner remembered how beautiful it had been. “You should have seen it,” he said dreamily, his memories transporting him back to his place of creation, back to Heaven. “It was everything you could possibly dream of—and more. It was Paradise.”
He saw again the golden spires of Heaven’s celestial mansions, reaching upward into infinity, culminating in the final, seventh Heaven, the place of the highest spiritual perfection. “And that was where He sat, on His throne of light, with me often by His side.” The prisoner sighed, pain pulling his thoughts back to reality in his hanging prison.
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