Angels Falling

by Harriet Carlton

  Chapter 55

  Imorean glared as the bridge rattled overhead. He and Michael stood by the Tiber River again, hiding under one of the many bridges spanning it. Rome was washed with red. The sun was setting. Night was coming. Imorean looked up. How long had this bridge been here? Hundreds of years, no doubt. A car rushed by overhead. He folded his arms and reviewed his and Michael’s plan in his mind.

  Step one, they would split up. Michael would cause a storm close enough to the Vatican to lure the Cherubim out, but far enough that they would give some distance between themselves and the Vatican.

  Step two, Imorean would slip in behind the Cherubim and make his way toward the Vatican archives, hopefully to reunite with Michael. Imorean gave a tiny shake of his head. The archives were comprised of no less than fifty square miles of text. How exactly Michael was expecting to wade through it all was a mystery. If they ever got down to the archives themselves, which was extremely unlikely.

  Step three, profit?

  Imorean spooked as a police siren sounded in the distance, thoughts of the Cherubim leaping to the forefront of his mind.

  “Relax. You are agitated,” said Michael, leaning against the canal walls.

  “I wonder why,” replied Imorean.

  “Would you please stop going for my throat, Imorean?” sighed Michael. “I am sick to death of your temper.”

  “Welcome to my world. You’re always doing it to me.”

  A small smile tugged at the side of Michael’s mouth. “Touché. Ready?”

  Imorean swallowed and shook his head. “No. I’m stressed, Michael. I can’t calm down and I know my emotions are going to rat me out. I’m like a walking beacon.”

  “It is a stressful situation. Do you have questions?”

  “Would they kill me if they caught me?” Imorean cursed his voice as it trembled.

  Michael paused and Imorean looked away as he felt pressure against the side of his head. “No. Injure you, perhaps, but I am hoping that neither of us get caught at all.”

  Imorean nodded. That wasn’t much consolation. “Where do we meet?”

  “I will contact you to set up a meeting spot in the archives. After we get the map, we will do our best to make a hasty retreat.”

  Imorean stood upright as Michael shifted his weight. “Time to go?”

  Michael nodded. “I believe so. You remember where the private archives are?”

  “Slightly northwest of the Basilica. I know.”

  “Good. You will be fine. I will meet you down there as soon as I can, if I can.”

  “I’m just glad you’ve kept me informed with your plan this time.”

  “It was easier than trying to disguise it as something it was not.”

  Imorean shifted from foot to foot, not really sure what to say. He and Michael had never parted on a mission like this before. He had never parted with anyone on a mission like this. It had always been through force of circumstance.

  “Remember, if things go wrong, we transition to our backup plan. Hold them for as long as you can. Any distraction and time you can afford me is better than none,” said Michael. “Stay safe.”

  Imorean smiled as Michael reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder. There was something reassuring in the familiar grip. “You too, Michael.”

  He pulled away, mounting the steps that would take him up from the canal walkway and onto street level. He steeled himself. He felt Michael’s presence fade slightly. He took a breath and looked up. The clouds started to darken. By nighttime, they would be rain clouds. Imorean shielded his own wings. It wouldn’t do for any of the Cherubim to see him yet. He glanced over his shoulder. Michael was on street level now as well, striking off across the bridge away from the Vatican. Imorean turned back around. Saint Peter’s Basilica was visible over the roofs of other buildings. It dwarfed them. Imorean smiled. He had never expected to see Rome. Sure, it had been on his bucket list, but he had never expected to make it a reality. He swallowed. What was he doing? Thinking about travelling? He had a task to do. He couldn’t not be focused. Oh … Imorean paused and shook himself. That had sounded too much like Michael for comfort.

  He drew to a halt outside a small shopfront and looked up at the Basilica. It looked even bigger than it had before. Then his phone vibrated. Imorean frowned and scrambled in his pocket. Somehow, it had chosen to connect to the internet. A few notifications poured in. Picture chats, social media notifications. And a text. A text from Roxy. A grin broke across his face and he kissed his phone screen. This was all the encouragement he needed. He unlocked it and scrambled to her message.

  ‘Hope you’re doing good. Gabriel’s been tense since last night. Figured I should check in and see how you are.’

  Imorean leaned against the building wall and sighed, his fingers flashing over the screen as he typed a reply. ‘Doing good! Great to hear from you! Totally not about to go rob the Vatican for a map. Might get arrested. Not sure yet.’

  Fingers paused. Should he really say that? Should he really come across as being incredibly happy when Roxy was probably still angry with him for leaving in the first place? He backspaced and sent only the first two words of his message. Perhaps that was more appropriate. Imorean’s heart sunk as he watched the text send. Was Roxy still angry? He reread her message. It hadn’t seemed warm. Maybe his cooler reply was warranted. He tucked his phone back into his backpack, his hand brushing against his AL Pack. His sword lay hidden inside the Pack. He swallowed. Focus. He had to focus on the task at hand. Now wasn’t the time to think about his friends and how he missed them. Much as he wanted to. He turned his eyes on the Vatican. Cloud cover rolled in, gray and dismal. Imorean’s steps faltered. How would this mission go if they were all here with him? Would he be enjoying himself? Would he feel more like himself? The lights below the Vatican clicked on, illuminating it for nighttime, and Imorean walked onward. He had a mission to focus on.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  A tiny spit of rain landed on Imorean’s nose. It was almost time to move. He took a small breath, shuddering as he exhaled. Close now. Michael had said after the first rumble of thunder, it would be time to move in. Imorean stilled in the shadows as two figures in uniforms passed the end of his alleyway. Unless he wanted to take off and possibly expose himself, he had nowhere he could slip away to. He could just make out the ethereal, gray wings behind them. Two Cherubim.

  “Keep going, keep going,” whispered Imorean. He breathed as they dropped out of sight around the end of the alley. He wondered if they were returning to Saint Peter’s Plaza, to take their places inside the statues. Was one of them the one he had injured the night before? Imorean shook his head. He couldn’t think about that. He had to compartmentalize. He laughed as he took a step forward. He really had been around Michael too long now. He was even starting to think like him. He frowned. Was it that he had been around Michael too long and was starting to imitate him or was it Michael’s input in him starting to manifest? At this rate, it could be either. God, he needed to get back around his friends. Contact with human beings would help him. It always did.

  The Basilica building loomed directly behind him and Imorean glanced up at it over his shoulder. He wished he could have found the time to go inside. No doubt he and Michael would have been thrown out, though. Imorean moved to step out of the darkness and extended his senses, feeling for anything supernatural. There was an overwhelming surge of powers and energies, but none of them were overly nearby. Somewhere in the heaving mass of presences, he detected something green. Michael. Imorean swallowed. It was nice to feel that he was still close. He walked onward. Darkness settled over the city now. Rain gathered in the clouds overhead. He could feel it. In the distance, a soft roll of thunder rumbled. He felt a sudden tension in the air. Nearby. He tilted his head. There was a soft kind of grayness about the unease. Not as overwhelming or despairing as Vortigern’s shade of gray. It had to be the Cherubim. Imorean set off. He was already close to the private archives. Get inside. A few more
spots of rain landed on his head. It was coming down harder now. Rome and Vatican City were coming alive with the yellow lights of nighttime. Imorean broke into a power walk as he slipped between two buildings, allowing the covering around his wings to drop. He would need to be able to fly now. He pulled his AL Pack from his backpack and buckled on his sword. Hopefully it would be dark enough now that no one would notice him. His feathers shivered slightly as he took to the night air. He beat his wings a little harder. The thermals were weak tonight. At least he didn’t have far to go. He swept up over a few rooftops, a repurposed square courtyard, and alighted softly on one of the large buildings that formed the boundaries of the courtyard.

  A few cars moved in the nearly empty parking lot below. Rain was pounding now. There was no way any of them had been able to see him. Another boom of thunder. Much louder and more aggressive this time. Tension boiled up. Imorean nodded to himself and held still as he sensed movement. The Cherubim were taking off. All the yellow streetlights snapped off. Darkness descended. An angry thunder roar rolled through the night. Imorean laughed. Power cut. Perfect. He stood up and looked around, his eyes adjusting to the darkness. How should he get down to the archives? There was no doubt in his mind that the script they needed would be far below ground. The doors would be locked by this time, as well as the windows. Imorean swallowed and looked up.

  “There’s got to be something sacrilegious about this.”

  White wings beat a few times and pulled into a hover. Brown eyes lingered on the windows. He drew his sword and grimaced. Then pulled his wings up tight and lunged forward. Glass shattered as his sword pierced it. Imorean braced his feet against the window frame and twisted. The glass buckled and fell inward, shattering against the marble floor. He groaned as a wave of guilt crashed over him. He slipped inside the hole he had made in the glass. He had just defaced the Vatican. If the Cherubim weren’t out for his blood yet, they would be now. He wished there was a way for him to replace the glass. The room he had broken into was painfully beautiful. Renaissance scenes were painted onto the walls. Carvings complete with gold inlay decorated the ceiling. A grand display of books and what seemed like an altar took up the center of the room. Gold touched the corners and spiraled up archways, reaching the roof. Imorean couldn’t help but take a moment to appreciate it, in spite of his guilt. Rain was driving inside now. He snapped back to his senses. God, how much history was he destroying? How much of this beautiful art would be damaged by what he had just done? He swooped to the floor, landing a short distance away from the fallen glass.

  He focused on a thought and shoved it toward Michael. “Inside.”

  The lights clicked back on and the rain outside began to ease. Imorean paused. The rain was relenting, the Cherubim would fall back. Urgency returned to the front of his mind. He had to get downstairs, into the archives. He turned. Up in the top corner of the room, black and beady, trained on him, was a camera lens. Then he heard the whine. It was the same whine that had penetrated the hall at Upper Morvine when he had stolen Michael’s sword. A silent alarm. Imorean bolted for the nearest door. Get out of this room. Get to the archives. Get as far away from here as possible. That was most important. Four doors in the room. Two at each end of the chamber. He chose one and threw his weight against it. It didn’t budge. Locked.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” hissed Imorean. He pressed against it again. Rain lashed down outside, harder than ever. He sprinted to the opposite end of the room, slipping on the shattered glass, and slammed against the other door. Locked again. There was only one way out and … He stopped. He closed his eyes for a moment. He should have felt it earlier. He should have been more aware. If he could have kicked himself in that moment, he would have. A presence. Something supernatural. Powerful. Slowly, he turned. Standing in the broken window frame, drenched by rain, was Kerubiel. Behind him, a few more shadowy outlines stirred. Imorean swallowed and fell back from the door, forcing a grin to his face. A tidal wave of fury crashed over him.

  “Must have got lost on my way to the bathroom. I’ll just …” he faltered as Kerubiel drew his sword. It was massive, curved and, Imorean knew, razor sharp. “I’ll just get going.”

  He threw his weight against the door. Locked. Imorean cried out. He could feel the Cherubim coming closer. He rammed the door again. A tiny click. The door swung open. Imorean bolted through, slamming it. A cry of rage erupted from the other side. No less than five thuds sounded behind the closed door. Imorean swore. This room was long and narrow. High windows flanked only one side. He panted and slammed his back against the door. He didn’t want to deface anything more than he had to. He had a mission to carry out. But here … He was a sitting duck. Fire exits? Weren’t buildings supposed to have those? But he couldn’t just leave. Fear rose in his chest as the door crashed a few times, juddering. He stood still, trembling. Cherubim were thundering down on him. Heart racing, hands shaking, he looked around for any way to get out of the corridor. How long would the door hold? No way out.

  Imorean closed his eyes and reached out to Michael. “Plan B. I’ll buy you time.”

  He lunged away from the door, sprinting down the long hallway. Kerubiel materialized between him and the exit. Imorean skidded to a halt, feet slipping on the marble floor. He spun, just in time to see the door he had come through burst open. He drew his sword. Fight if he had to.

  “I would not,” growled Kerubiel.

  Imorean gritted his teeth. Kerubiel’s voice, while quieter than it had been in the plaza, was thunderous inside the room. A wild fury rose in Imorean’s chest. He was cornered, trapped. He lunged at Kerubiel, sword hissing through the air. Kerubiel’s weapon flashed up, blocking. The Cherub’s eyes flooded gray. He swung fast. Faster than nature should allow. Imorean leaped backward, Kerubiel’s sword just catching the sleeve of his jacket and tearing the fabric. He hissed and clamped his free hand to his arm. He took a deep breath and pushed. Astral plane. Now. Fight fire with fire. It didn’t matter what happened. He needed to buy time for Michael. The mission. The mission took priority. Imorean’s breath shuddered in his chest as he stepped backward, ducking under Kerubiel’s counterattack. He reared up, sword raised for a sideways swipe. Kerubiel deflected it. Movement behind him. Imorean snarled and started to turn. A new presence he needed to counter. A boot landed in his back. He slipped and fell to one knee, knocked off balance on the slick marble. In his peripherals, he saw Kerubiel move, a tiny, black canister in his hands. Kerubiel’s hand rose as Imorean pushed up. Fire lanced through his eyes. Imorean howled and dropped his sword, clamping both hands against his eyes. He gasped. The heat was spreading, down his face, into his nose and mouth. God, he could barely breathe. His eyes were boiling! They had to be bleeding! He heaved a few desperate breaths. Air cloyed in his throat. Nothing entered his lungs. Panic shattered him. Blind and choking! A second kick knocked him fully to the floor. Imorean pushed back to his knees. His whole body burned hot. Something in his mind shifted. He launched back to his feet. The skin under his watch burned. The searing pain was leaving him. His vision was flashing white. Someone wrapped their arms around his midriff, tackling him. Imorean collapsed, pressed against the floor. A knee slammed into his back, pinning him down. A hand pushed his head hard to the stone floor. It was cold. Imorean grappled to find his sense of reason. He was in the Vatican. There was too much to be damaged. Fire pulsed in his veins. It pleaded with him. Raw power begged to be set free. He drew a shuddering gasp. Water and darkness flashed before his eyes. No! He shook himself. He couldn’t, he mustn’t let loose here. There was too much damage he could do. Internally, he reared up and quashed down his emotions.

  Threatening fire in Imorean’s veins died. Pain rushed back in. It felt as though his chest was being torn open as he coughed and choked. He opened his eyes as his hands were pulled behind his back. His vision was unclear, blurred. His eyes, still burning, were starting to swell shut. Kerubiel stood over him, sword in one hand, a small, black, pepper-spray canister held
loosely at his other side. Imorean blinked hard as Kerubiel nodded. His breath hitched as he heard metal click closed around his wrists. White wings flopped against the marble floor. Kerubiel stood. Imorean looked away, closing his eyes.

  The Cherub’s gaze showed only disgust. “Take him to the station. I will be along soon. I have a window to repair.”

  Chapter 56

  Imorean wrapped his wings a little tighter around his shoulders. There was no need to shield them anymore. He and some of the Cherubim were the only ones in the police station. Granted, they were separated from him by a glass and cinder block barrier, but they were angels, nonetheless. They knew what he was. Imorean adjusted his weight on the narrow bench in his holding cell. He had told Michael something like this would happen, but was he listened to? God, no. That would be inconceivable. He sighed, coughing as he did so. A plastic bench bolted to the concrete floor was the only thing in the cell aside from himself. He had slept on and off for the last few hours. It was only within the last two that he had been able to see properly again. His eyes still burned. Under his wings, he checked his watch. At least his hands had been released. Four in the morning. No one had spoken to him.

  The door clicked open and Imorean sat bolt upright, groaning and trying to cover his eyes against the bright lights. They were still sensitive. Kerubiel stepped inside. An aura of raw fury followed him. The door closed and Imorean swallowed.

  “Who are you?” asked Kerubiel, folding his gray wings.

  Imorean considered for a moment. He could try to lie and take the risk of landing in even more trouble. But how could things get worse than this? Didn’t most angels know who he was by now anyway? Or had he misinterpreted that? He could tell the truth and –