by Ramy Vance
Even though we were literally running for our lives, that last thought filled me with a pang of jealousy. How many groupies did he grope? Oh groan, Kat. You really need to work on your phrasing.
No time to think about that now. We needed to get upstairs and away. Enoch burst out of the room, clutching his chest. Whatever Aldie did took him by surprise, and the one thing I was starting to figure out about Enoch was that he was only uber-powerful when he was prepared. Catch him off guard and he was as fragile as any human.
As Enoch moved, he fumbled with one hand as he put something in his ear. What was it? Another magical device that gave him … what? ESP? Telekinetic powers? Spidey-senses?
I glanced back as we started up the stairs and saw that Enoch was mumbling something. A neon-blue light emanated from whatever was in his ear as he spoke. “Hold on,” I thought. “that’s not a magical item—that’s an earpiece for his ph—”
It’s times like this I need to think faster. The door at the top of the stairs burst open, and the biggest friggin’ angel I’d ever seen opened the door.
Oh joy.
↔
Throughout the ages, human mythology has told stories about vast receptacles of knowledge. The Library of Alexandria, the Temple of Apollo and others … all places that housed unfathomable wisdom. And in every instance, there was always an accompanying legend that saw to its destruction. The Library of Alexandria burned down. Apollo abandoned and ravaged by time.
So when the internet was being developed, the human in me went, “Oh yes, finally myth becomes reality.” The demon in me said, “Whatever … the humans are going to muck this one up, too.”
I always thought my inner demon was right. After all, the internet seemed to be used exclusively for porn, memes and musing over stupid things, like: Who would win in a fight—a crocodile or a shark?
What was the appeal?
But seeing Aldie face off against that massive, hulking angel, I suddenly wished the internet had asked: Who would win in a fight—a dark elf or an angel?
The angel growled, his huge frame literally bulking up as he tensed his muscles. Normally angels are beautiful, even the ones created for war. But this guy had patches of hair missing from burns that never healed, and his left eye was glossed over—a dead, useless sphere that only remained by the grace of the muscles holding it there.
Not that being blind in one eye stopped him from seeing us. Without any of the preamble typical of a villain’s henchman, he slammed his fist down toward us.
Aldie, faster than I’d thought, pushed me to one side as he pivoted to the other. He was fast, graceful … unbelievably fluid. He even managed to quip, “What? No foreplay?” as he did so. I immediately saw Aldie’s tactic: he was trying to get behind the angel.
But fighting an angel isn’t just dodging fists and feet. They fought dirty. They used their wings.
The angel spread his wings, creating shutters that extended to the two sides of the hall. There was no getting behind him from the sides, but as big as angel wings were, they still only had two feet. I dove in between his legs and kicked the back of his knee.
I don’t care how big you are—kick there and you’re going down. The angel went down to one knee like he was proposing to Aldie, who promptly responded by putting a hand on his shoulder and a foot on his chest. He was looking to flip over him.
And just as he was about to do it, the angel shot up both of his wings, catching Aldie’s chin and sending him flying back toward Enoch.
“Run,” Aldie said as he got to his feet. “I’ll take care of these two scoundrels.” The dark elf stood in the classic gentleman boxer’s pose from the 1800s. Pretty, but not a very effective fighting stance.
Aldie knew he didn’t have a chance against one of them, let alone two. And ever the showman, if he was going down he’d make it a grand exit, even if there wasn’t anyone to see it.
Aldie was screwed. But I wasn’t. I was behind the angel, and the only thing that stood between me and the exit was my own sense of right and wrong.
I tried to will my feet to move. To get out of here. To leave Aldie to the fate before him. The GoneGods knew he deserved it, after the way he left me. But seeing that elf standing there, ready to sacrifice all for a cause that he’d only heard about just hours earlier, and knowing what he did for the Others … Sure, there were lots of parlor tricks going on and he was misleading them, but his heart was in the right place. I couldn’t leave him.
But what could I do against these two, even if I was behind them? Well, the only thing one can do in such a situation. I fought the fire of their hate with a fire of my own.
A real one.
↔
The outer feathers of an angel’s wings are made of some celestial, impossibly hard material not dissimilar from Teflon (if Teflon were as light as, well … a feather, and capable of repelling a missile). Those super-powerful things were impervious to fire, acid, ice and oil. Which means throwing one of those otherwise devastating substances at an angel is useless. But what few people know is that’s just what the outer feathers can do.
The inner layers are made of the exact same feathers as geese, making an angel-feather duvet just an expensive gimmick. It also means that angel wings are highly flammable. “Aldie—Light-Bringer, throw it to me,” I yelled.
I don’t know if the dark elf knew what my plan was, but he threw me his lighter without hesitation. Despite the giant angel between us, it was a perfect throw. Then Aldie did something I didn’t expect. He charged at the angel seeking to … what? Wrestle with him?
Dark elves are strong, but they’re nothing compared to an angel bred for battle. So if Aldie was to win against this creature, he needed to use his agility. But he didn’t do that at all.
The angel got down on all fours and met Aldie’s charge full on. The two struck each other with such tremendous force that I felt the shockwaves. The two powerful beings were locked in a wrestling match to the death. Aldie held his own, but I could see his muscles straining. It was only a matter of time before the angel overpowered him.
He would lose. And despite that, he wore a smile. So did Enoch, who stood by the door, watching. But despite Enoch’s grin, he clutched his chest, standing perfectly still like one trying to conserve his energy.
Why did he need to? He was about to have the Soul Jar, and he had Aldie trapped. And with all those magical items at his disposal, he could hunt me down at his leisure … if I was still a concern to him. I suspected I was enough of a pain that he’d probably be cutting his We were meant to be losses on the marrying Kat front.
I looked at Light-Bringer in my hand, its weight immense for what I needed from it now. I struck its archaic flint, praying to gods who would not listen that the old thing struck true.
Nothing.
I struck again.
Nothing.
But on the third attempt, the orange flame of non-magical fire sprouted to life. I jumped on the angel’s back and wiggled my hands in between the angel’s wings, down into the inner layers where I found some nice, normal, non-magical feathers that caught fire without protest.
Immediately, black smoke came billowing out of the angel’s back.
The angel didn’t seem to notice. I knew he was locked in a test of strength against Aldie, but angels are acutely aware of their bodies. He knew he was on fire … and he didn’t care.
So I punched him square in his left temple. That should get his attention. Nothing. If the angel felt it, he made no sign of it. The billowing smoke grew. More and more of the angel’s feathers were catching fire.
“Oche.” Enoch coughed at the effort of saying the angel’s name. “Oche … please.”
In his embrace with Aldie, I heard the angel utter between strained breaths, “I almost have him.”
“Oche, please. They are of little concern. Take care of yourself before something happens to your wings that cannot be repaired.”
“But Enoch,” Oche said.
“I can b
ear much,” Enoch rasped. “But I cannot bear real harm coming to a beautiful angel such as you. Please.”
Oche stopped fighting Aldie and, standing erect, slammed his back against the wall, patting out the fire.
Aldie didn’t need to be told twice. Panting from his fight, he ran past the angel, and taking my hand, we made our way to the exit.
↔
On the other side of the door, I saw we had made our way backstage. “We need to find Deirdre and Egya.”
“Egya?”
“The hyena.”
“Ahh yes, the shapeshifter who can’t shift back.”
“And then we need to regroup and find those two. They have the Soul Jar and—”
Aldie produced a tiny, unassuming jar that hung from an equally innocuous chain. “Is this it?”
I grabbed it out of his hand. “How did you—?”
“During my fight with that horrific angel. He had it on him and, well, a good pickpocket knows he must get close.”
“But how did you know I would stop him?”
“Because a good pickpocket also knows when to trust their partner in crime.” He squeezed my hand as he said the word partner.
A squeeze that sent familiar desire coursing through me.
I shook my head. Thoughts of him … of us … would have to wait.
“We have the jar,” I said, pulling my hand away so I could think straight, if nothing else. “They’ll be after us now. We need to get out of here. We need to find a way to Paradise Lot.”
Part V
Intermission:
Metatron has learned from the Fates that today is the day the gods will leave. And so he prepares, laying out everything he needs. It has been so long since he was human that he can’t quite remember what it takes to kill one. Fire, slitting the throat. Hanging.
Such methods take time. Seems the human body is loath to shake off its mortal coil, and he needs his death to be instant.
The methods he has before him would take far too long. By his estimation, he has exactly three minutes to die.
That is, once he becomes human again.
Three minutes. One hundred and eighty seconds. An eternity.
He truly wishes he had a bomb or a gun. Such instruments of destruction would grant him the instant death he needs.
But alas, such instruments of destruction are forbidden in Heaven. And that is exactly where he needs to die. In Heaven, and in the moments before the gods leave.
So Metatron decides to hedge his bets by using several tools at once. Placing a rope around his neck, he pulls it taut, allowing himself to hang. In his present form, he feels nothing. He is just hanging from a rope.
But as soon as he becomes human again, as soon as his divinity leaves him … Well then, the rope will cut off his oxygen, and that is how humans die. Lack of oxygen.
“Seems like a design flaw,” he muses.
Next, he lifts the blade to his neck. He plans to plunge it deep into his—what did the angel Penemue call it?—aortic vein. Once his heart resumes beating, it will pump out the red blood that will start to flow in his body again.
That should speed up the process.
But it still might not be fast enough, so Metatron plans to also plunge the blade into his belly and cut out his guts in the fashion performed by so many Japanese warriors. He understands this method to be final and brutal. And fast.
That’s what he needs: fast.
Death should be easier than this, but also, after being an immortal angel for all this time, he has lost touch with what it means to be alive.
Or human.
Metatron hangs in the ready, taking a moment to look out the window of his chamber. He knows that the all-consuming darkness will come from the east, the direction his window faces.
Then, looking at his former study, he smiles as he observes the chest of celestial treasures. He is, after all, its guardian. Within that simple box countless artifacts reside, many given to him by the gods as thanks for his numerous deeds. It is said there is no treasure more valuable that what that chest contains, and Metatron wonders if his soul will be able to pick up the chest so that he may take it with him.
Chuckling to himself, he remembers an old human adage: You can’t take it with you. He suspects those words are true.
Still, he’ll try. No point in leaving behind an immortal lifetime of accomplishments.
As his mind contemplates such things, the fated words he was waiting for—the ones that have played in his head over and over again—finally ring out: “Thank you for believing in us, but it is not enough. We’re leaving. Good luck.”
When will it come?
As if in answer to his question, a mighty horn sounds.
In an instant, Metatron becomes human again.
The archangel Metatron has reverted back to the mortal once known as Enoch.
↔
Metatron, or rather Enoch, had forgotten what being human is like. For one thing, human bodies are frail, weak. Soft.
For another, the pain these bodies are capable of feeling is incredible. More design flaws.
As soon as his body regains its mortality, the rope bites into his neck, pulling taut and cutting off the oxygen that he forgot how desperately the human body needs.
Instead of stabbing himself in the neck and then carving out his guts, Enoch drops his dagger to the ground as both his hands grab at the rope.
He is trying to get free. He wants to be loose, to breathe again.
No, that’s not right. The thought finds its way through the hurricane of panic his mind suffers from. He doesn’t want to be free. He doesn’t want to breathe again. He wants to die.
Death is the only way the human soul will leave its body. And the human soul is the only creation that can follow the gods.
He sees the rolling darkness through his window. It approaches far too quickly. He doubts that death will come soon enough for him to follow. Not without a dagger hastening his demise.
They will be gone, and so will he. But his departure will be the finality of nothing.
He’d laugh at the cruelty of it all, if only the rope would let him.
The world begins to blink out as his eyes close, giving into what is soon to come. Death. Nothing. No more.
But death does not come. Instead, he feels powerful arms lift him up as a talon snaps the rope.
He is placed on the ground and a soft, familiar voice asks, “Metatron, what are you doing? What is happening?”
An angel, but one who had no idea of the gods’ plans. She—or is it a he?—must have come here after the gods’ message, seeking Metatron’s wisdom.
The angel’s face is blurred, and he cannot quite make out who it is … But despite his weakened condition, he can feel the angel’s panic.
Still by his side, the angel is no longer looking at him, her attention on the window. “By the power of Heaven, what is that darkness? It is consuming everything.”
“The end,” Enoch tries to say. His voice comes out harsh. Broken. “The end,” he rasps again. “It has come to consume us. We must leave or die.”
Without hesitation, the angel picks up Enoch’s frail, mortal body. “Wait,” he rasps, his hand reaching out to his artifacts.
But he is too weak to say or do more. Instead, merciful unconsciousness takes him. As he drifts away, he has two thoughts that are ironically at odds.
The first is a prayer that he will never wake.
The second is a hope. He hopes he does wake … so that he may dedicate his life to finding a way back to his God.
Regrouping the Breakout Groups
We made our way to the upper levels. Enoch and his giant minion, Oche, wouldn’t be far behind. As we ran, I kept expecting a huge, talon-filled hand to grab me. Getting out of the basement was high on my priority list.
Until, that was, we actually did find the closest exit and managed to get to the main floor. The massive conference hall was empty.
“Where is everyone?” Aldie ask
ed. “What time is it?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “But we’ve been below for hours. It’s the middle of the night. You can’t expect any of your groupies to still be hanging around and—”
A bell rang, and the conference doors opened. Others of all walks of life spilled out into the hall. “What the—?”
“Breakout groups,” Aldie said. “We run hard for three days. No breaks. No sleep. Just a relentless drilling down on the problems of mortality.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said as a swarm of Others ran toward Aldie.
↔
Aldie was immediately overrun by adoring fans who didn’t seem to notice that his clothes were stained with green blood. Nor the slash marks on his shirt where Enoch had stabbed him. I guess we see what we need to see, and right now, as they wrestled with their own issues of mortality, the last thing they needed to see was their hero dying.
Just like they didn’t need to know about the tricks he used with the fireballs.
What they wanted was hope. And Aldie, for all that he’d just gone through, delivered that in spades. At first I thought there was no hope for us to get through the crowd. They were all around. But Aldie was a pro. He simply raised his hand and said in a commanding but soft voice, “Fellow Others, hear me now.”
Immediately the crowd went silent. Aldie reverted to his normal voice. “Clear a path so that I may lead you to the next, unscheduled event.”
The Others standing in front of him stepped aside, giving Aldie and me space to move through.
I couldn’t help but stare at Aldie with admiration. He was better than the Pied Piper. “In life—in mortal life—we must always be ready to accept the deviations presented to us. We must always be ready to follow new paths, new directions. That is why I am changing tonight’s activities. Follow me.”
