Angels Falling

by Harriet Carlton

  “Why have we never come into contact with the Cherubim before?”

  “Because I told them to stay here. Cherubim are hyper focused on orders. They are useless on a battlefield, but the best guards I have ever seen. Heaven forbade they go against orders,” said Michael, his double set of green wings working in tandem.

  Imorean beat his own wings, smiling as they made a soft noise against the night air. “So, they just stay here? In Rome?”

  “More specifically than just Rome,” replied Michael, a small smile creeping across his face. “They are at an important crux point for many people. A place of pilgrimage.”

  “The Vatican? You stationed them at the Vatican, didn’t you?”

  Michael nodded and tucked his wings up tight. Imorean drifted into Michael’s slipstream and looked up past his wings at the massive, floodlit dome of the Saint Peter Basilica. A strange sense of apprehension flooded him. Michael seemed wary of the Cherubim. Imorean couldn’t resist darting another glance at him. What exactly were they going into?

  Chapter 54

  Imorean landed next to Michael in the center of Saint Peter’s Square. Buildings and structures of white stone lined the plaza. Nothing moved. The great, elliptical courtyard, normally filled with people, was deserted. Silence. He and Michael were alone, save for the great statues atop the façade which formed the borders of the plaza. They were the only living things here. Where were the Cherubim? He glanced up at Michael. A strange tension settled over the square. Nothing moved. Michael’s eyes stayed locked forward. Imorean took a deep breath. He felt as though they were being watched. He swallowed, trying to slow the beat of his heart. They were alone. He couldn’t sense any other life. There was just stone. Nothing moved. Then he flinched as the sound of stone grating on stone echoed across the plaza.

  “Relax,” hissed Michael. Even mentally, his words were a hushed whisper.

  “Where are they?” asked Imorean.

  “During the day, they make up an elite fragment of the police. At night, they are this. Now, I implore you, relax. Do not let them know you are afraid.”

  Imorean pushed down his nerves. If Michael could feel them, how many others could? Could the Cherubim also feel his nerves? Stone grated again on stone. Aggressive and loud. Imorean could have sworn he saw movement on the façade.

  “Draw!”

  Imorean gripped his sword and drew. He flared his wings, flattening his back against Michael’s. He could feel Michael’s green wings twitching against his own. He glanced over his shoulder, following Michael’s line of sight. His jaw dropped. One of the statues at the head of the courtyard moved, shuddering as though shedding a skin. A uniform rumble that Imorean could feel in his chest erupted all over the plaza. He gritted his teeth and tightened his grip on his sword. One by one, the statues shivered and juddered. From each of them, an angel stepped. Imorean felt a sudden coldness in his blood. These were not like any angel he had ever seen. Each of them had a double set of gray wings and stony features. Utter emotionlessness. There was a coldness to them. Anger seemed to dome over the plaza.

  “Michael, I think we’re outnumbered. What do we do?” The words were barely out of Imorean’s mouth when a new voice split the square.

  “Commander. Why have you come?” asked a thundering voice from the head of the courtyard.

  Imorean gritted his teeth, fighting the urge to cover his ears, as the voice crashed against the air. He forced himself to look back toward the basilica. A shadowed figure stepped into the orange light, illuminated from below. Imorean swallowed. He looked at least as tall and powerful as Michael. There was a resounding thud as one hundred and thirty-nine Cherubim stepped forward as a single unit.

  “Kerubiel,” said Michael, shifting his weight. “I am here to refresh your orders.”

  Imorean nearly flinched. Michael spoke in a voice little above a whisper, yet it bounced off the courtyard buildings and echoed back to them at such volume that it set Imorean’s ears ringing again. He beat back a wave of nerves. The odds were not exactly stacked in their favor. He strained his eyes, trying to make out Kerubiel. Dark hair and dark eyes were all he could see from this distance. There was a presence about him. Something powerful. The same aura that so often wavered off Michael.

  “Our orders, as laid down by you, are to stand guard, Michael.”

  “And I am here to amend those orders. I need entrance to the Vatican.”

  Kerubiel barked a laugh. “You act as though we do not know your purpose. To steal.”

  One hundred and thirty-nine voices laughed as one. Imorean coughed. The sound seemed to press on his chest. He jumped as Michael walked forward.

  “I will only steal if you do not allow me to adjust your orders.”

  “You wish to take from the Vatican? My Vatican?”

  “Yes.”

  Imorean glanced up as Michael’s voice dropped a few octaves. There was a glow behind his eyes. Imorean swallowed and looked over his shoulder as there was another thunderous, uniform step.

  “A criminal idea, Seraph.” Imorean looked back to see Kerubiel grinning down at them. “And you know my feelings on criminals. My answer is no. It has always been no. And now we will make you leave. Do not return.”

  “Get ready to move, Imorean.”

  Imorean half-flared his wings and adjusted his grip on his sword. He groaned aloud as Kerubiel shouted.

  “Cherubim!”

  Imorean stumbled sideways as Michael shoved him hard. Thunder crashed overhead. Imorean looked up and froze. Black storm clouds appeared out of nowhere. Large, heavy raindrops poured down from the clouds. The air hissed next to Imorean’s ear. He leaped forward and spun around. A Cherub had just missed him, their sword lodged in the brick-laid ground. Training screamed at him to mount a counterattack, but … Hesitation. Imorean’s grip on his sword loosened. These were angels. Other angels. Could he really attack them? They were on the same side. Then the Cherub roared at him, its sword coming free, and raised its weapon for a new attack. Reflex kicked in and Imorean pulled his sword up in a block. He bared his teeth, sensing a second presence behind him. Another Cherub. He dropped his block and ducked to the ground, allowing the two Cherubim to clash with each other. He opened his wings and leaped into the air. The air was his only escape. Fight or flight. Flight. He was in the air. The sky was above. Pressure. Imorean cried out as a hand wrapped around his ankle. The world blurred around him. Breath was driven from his chest as he was thrown down against the brick-covered courtyard. His sword bounced out of his hand, slithering away across the wet stone. A flash of movement. Instinct. Imorean rolled as another sword stabbed into the brick. He and Michael were outnumbered one hundred and forty to two.

  The air around him screamed and pulsed. Green flashed static around the plaza. Imorean yelped and flattened himself against the stone. Bolts of emerald lightning jabbed haphazardly into the ground. A few crashed into the façade. The Cherubim swarmed, rushing like bees back to a hive, protecting their charge. Thunder crashed as the lightning dissolved. Wings folded as Imorean launched to his feet. A lull in the movement. Now was the time to move. Where was his sword? Lost in the chaos. The Cherubim were moving again, back to the center of the plaza. There! A new Cherub stood on his sword’s handle. Imorean shouted and leaped sideways again as a sword sliced through his shirt sleeve. Blood rushed the wound just below his shoulder. His right arm felt numb. His fingers twitched and shook. His left hand clamped around the wound on instinct. He could feel blood welling up between his fingers. He didn’t dare take back to the air. The Cherubim were too close around him. There wasn’t room or time to make an escape. He needed space. White descended over his eyes. He could see orange. Vague outlines and orange. His eyes closed. Something white hot set his blood alight. Scalding. The skin beneath his watch burned. He knew what was about to happen. It would grant him the space he needed. Maybe the time he needed as well. This was necessary. Imorean bared his teeth and flung his hands out. His wings raised. The feathers vibr
ated. White. There was nothing but white. Energy clawed at his chest. He couldn’t breathe. His veins were on fire. White and burning. Through a haze, he could just make out white flames burning without fuel, burning in a circle around him. The orange figures of the Cherubim retreated. Imorean could feel their confusion. He lifted his eyes. Across the plaza, he could see a green aura. Something burning and glowing brighter. Michael. And movement. Imorean spun. He made out something beyond the white haze, beyond Michael. Aggression. Imorean lunged forward. Michael trusted him. Trusted him to watch his back. A Cherub rose out of the darkness behind Michael, sword held high. Heat leaped to Imorean’s hands as he reached out and surged across the open ground. He looked away. Eyes burning, hands burning, he held his ground. Power flowed through him. Over the roar of flames, he heard a howl – a howl that didn’t sound like Michael.

  A presence broke through the blaze and Imorean spun. He was getting tired. Unsteady. A new Cherub towered over him, sword raised. Instinct again. Defend himself. Survive. Imorean flexed his left hand, and his sword smacked into his palm, the leather-wrapped hilt heavy against his skin. Heat seared against Imorean’s fingers. He paid it no mind and raised his sword into a defense position. Tiredness snatched at him. He couldn’t give up now. From the corner of his eye, he could see tongues of white flame licking up and down the metal blade. The attacking Cherub scrambled backward, through the ring of fire, and rejoined the others.

  Imorean walked backward. He could feel Michael somewhere behind him. Then Michael was there. Physical contact. White feathers brushed green. There was a new tension in the air. A bubble threatening to burst.

  “Almost time to go. Split up. Be sure to shake them off your tail.”

  Imorean closed his eyes. Stay on the astral plane or leave it? Stay or go? Briefly, he thought of the weakness he always felt when he left the astral plane. He couldn’t afford that now. Not now. Stay. He had to stay. Even as he thought of staying, it felt like the hardest thing in the world to do. Exhaustion wrapped her fingers around him. He was tired. So, so tired. Energy swirled away. He looked up. The Cherubim watched them, waiting for them to make a move.

  Michael’s voice snapped him back to his astral senses. “Get a grip on yourself. Exhaustion is not a luxury you can afford right now. In the skies. Go!”

  Imorean shook himself. White wings snapped down and he was in the air, sword held tightly in his hand. Air. He was in the air. Flying. He could feel movement. Surges of auras. He could feel them in the air behind him. He split off from Michael. Southeast. He swung southeast. Buildings and streetlights flashed by beneath him, nothing more than blurs of color and light. Rain poured down overhead. Then blackness. He dove, rolling before he hit the surface of the canal. A splash away to his right told him he had evaded at least one of the Cherubim. The weight of living existence rushed down from above and Imorean flared his wings, shying sideways. Orange flashed in his peripherals. He swung his sword. A scream. Imorean plunged forward again as the presence flared wide and faded. His wings flared as moving air was suddenly stifled. A shadow on the water. Under a bridge and out again. He shifted his wings, angling upward. He swung in a hairpin turn, doubling back and ascending to street level. He folded his wings tight, narrowly missing a few branches of a tree-lined road. A string of car alarms sounded behind him. Imorean shifted his wings again and ascended, aiming for the rain clouds overhead. He would lose them in there. Cold clouds closed around him and he slowed. There were no more presences. Had they retreated? Astral eyes looked around. There was no color here. Only gray. Nothing orange moved.

  Exhaustion snapped at Imorean again. Insistent this time. He took a shaky breath. Air. Why did he feel like he hadn’t breathed in the last hour? The world faded back to full color. The orange lights of Rome looked up, dim through the clouds. He was alone. Blackness threatened the corners of his vision and Imorean swayed in his hover. His arm continued to bleed. The skin beneath his watch burned. He ran a hand over the area. It was hot to touch. He coughed, noticing with a jolt how wet his clothes were. His sword glistened. The lights from below illuminated the metal. It was wet with more than rain. Reality rushed back in. He felt sick. He had attacked another angel. Another angel. He hadn’t even thought about it. Everything had been reflex. There had been no thought. Thunder rumbled. He closed his eyes. Hot, sick guilt swept his stomach. Other angels were not who he was supposed to be fighting. Water streamed through his hair, dripping off his chin. Below, car alarms still shrieked into the night. He thought, inexplicably, of Roxy. What would she think? How would she have reacted if she had been with him tonight? Deep emerald slid into a hover beside him.

  “You did what you needed to do. Fights between angels seldom come away with no injuries. I am sure I injured some of them in the lightning strike. Do not dwell on it.”

  “I didn’t even think about it, Michael. Everything was just instinct.”

  “That is the astral plane, Imorean. Instinct prevails over thought. You have to be a master on the plane to be able to use deep thought.”

  Imorean looked up at Michael. “I don’t want to do that again. Not ever.”

  “Unfortunately, you may have to. Injuries and death are part of what we do. Come on. We will go back to the hotel, regroup and press onward with our next plan.”

  Imorean nodded and let Michael lead the way up out of the rain clouds and into a world above them. He looked around. The stars were visible here. He swallowed. He had not used his sword much in real combat. And now he had used it against another angel. Another hot pang of guilt gripped his stomach. This was not something he could shake off. If his instinct had led him to injure another angel, what else was he capable of?

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  Imorean stood next to the window as the sun rose, softening Rome with rosy, morning colors. Tall buildings lined the sky. Exhausted though he was, sleep refused to find him. His arm still throbbed from where a Cherub had caught him with a sword. Bandaged now, but painful. Another scar for his collection.

  “Let it go, Imorean,” said Michael, stepping out of the bathroom, wrapped in a fluffy, white robe.

  “I feel like a bad person, Michael,” replied Imorean, turning and folding his arms.

  “There is a second dressing robe in the bathroom if you want one. As for your guilt, you must not let yourself feel guilty.”

  “Oh, thanks. Why didn’t I think about that before? Just don’t feel like I’ve done something awful. Genius, really. You should patent that idea.”

  “Frayneson,” snapped Michael. “Remember to whom you are speaking.”

  “Sorry.” Imorean tucked his hands into his pockets. “I’m just a little strung out.”

  “I assure you, I could not tell.”

  Imorean sighed, hearing the strain in Michael’s tone. The last thing he wanted right now was for Michael to be annoyed with him. It was just an added stress that he didn’t feel prepared to deal with. He shoved down his own guilt and irritation.

  “What’s the next step?”

  “Here?” asked Michael, scrolling through his phone, sounding distracted.

  “No, for having tea with the queen. Of course, here.”

  Michael frowned at him and lowered his phone. “Ask a stupid question, I suppose. The next step is to get inside the Vatican. After your performance in the Piazza, you are not exactly an incognito unit anymore and I believe the Cherubim may now recognize you as one of the Archangels. That said, your presence is still masked by mine, meaning you are still undetectable. We will make a push on them tonight.”

  “They’ll be expecting it, though?”Imorean turned and glanced at the curtains. Beyond them, the sun continued its steady rise. “Michael, the Cherubim outnumber us. You think we can carry this mission through?”

  “Provided they do not find out where we are located between now and then, yes.”

  Imorean sighed and sat on the edge of his bed. He ran his hands over his face and shook his head. He glanced up when Michael spoke again.

&nbs
p; “Pack your belongings. We will not be coming back here after today.”

  “I will. Give me a minute.”

  Michael sat down on the edge of his bed. “Tell me something, Imorean.”

  “What’s up?” asked Imorean, rubbing his eyes and meeting Michael’s gaze. There was something in his tone. Something that sounded horribly like plotting.

  “Finding your family and Mr. Toddy Davis is your top priority, correct?”

  Imorean’s blood ran cold. “Yeah. It is. And it always will be. I’m happy to do stuff like this because I’m looking to get added to your specialist team. Why?”

  “No real reason,” replied Michael, shrugging.

  Imorean narrowed his eyes. He could sense some sort of dishonesty in the room, but couldn’t pinpoint it. Foreboding set in his chest. Michael never just asked questions. There was always some ulterior motive. Always.

  He looked up as Michael spoke again. “You should get some rest. Sleep some of the day. I will make a plan. I should have something together by this afternoon. We both need to be at optimal functioning today. It is the only way we will succeed.”

  “Fair enough,” replied Imorean. He stood and closed the curtains. “Won’t the Cherubim be looking for us?”

  “I have no doubt that they will be. Precisely why I would like for us to keep a low profile today. We will be harder to detect.”

  “I will. I just want to grab a shower. Again,” Imorean replied. He walked across the room, grabbed the second dressing robe and stepped inside the bathroom. He covered his eyes with one hand. Sleep was the last thing he wanted. Would another nightmare assault him? Would he assign a name and a face to the Cherub he had attacked? Would a new monster rear its head? Imorean snorted. It wasn’t humor – perhaps exasperation would be a better word for what he felt. He glanced at himself in the mirror. His eyes looked darker than usual. Maybe it was tiredness. He shook his head. This whole situation felt impossible. Rob the Vatican. Trap Vortigern back in hell. Do battle with members of their own army along the way. Find his family. Imorean closed his eyes and leaned his forehead on the mirror. Tomorrows stretched on before him, unpredictable and hazy. What else would come?