by Josh Raymer
This explains why Augustus believes we have a chance to recover some armory weapons. If the angels are zipping around from one battlefield to the next, they’re likely not stopping to collect their dead or retrieve their weapons. Our best bet is to find the area they just left and hope our hypothesis is correct: that they don’t leave angels behind for clean-up duty, meaning we can search unnoticed.
Exactly right. That only leaves one issue, though.
Augustus is reading my thoughts again, but I don’t mind at this point. It’s quicker than talking, and I’m not worried about the angels eavesdropping on our mental conversations since they’ll be preoccupied with killing each other.
Where have they been? Heaven is a big place.
We can’t know for sure, so we have to use the process of elimination.
Augustus is right: we’re shooting in the dark here. But if my days in the courtroom have taught me anything, it’s that there are always factors that can make a random decision feel less like a shot in the dark. In this case, we have two such factors.
You’ve spent some time around the archangels. If they’re directing the righteous angels, they’ll want to steer the combat away from areas they don’t want damaged. So, put yourself in their shoes. Where would you go? If something feels right, trust that nephilim instinct.
Good point. Having the larger army, the archangels will be able to control the flow of the battle more than the traitors. They’re the wave pushing the boat.
So, where is the wave leading them?
I would rack my brain for an answer, but of the places I’ve been in Heaven so far, none of them is appropriate for massive battles. So, it’s on Augustus to venture a guess. Thankfully, it doesn’t take him long to find an answer he likes.
There’s a place that would be a perfect battlefield. If they haven’t been there yet, I’ll be shocked. It’s a little small, but it’s always abandoned, save for one person.
Where is it?
The archives. Think of it like a library, except instead of books, it contains the scrolls of God. Everything he’s ever dictated to angels or to mankind since the dawn of time.
Wouldn’t the angels have reverence for such a place?
Under normal circumstances, yes. But if they’re running the numbers like I am, they know the fallout will be marginal in that area. Worst case scenario is the scrolls all get destroyed, in which case the angels can go back to the source to replace them.
Sounds like we’re headed to the archives.
Augustus holds out his arm, I grab it, and the white light takes us. When our feet touch down, we’re standing in a dark room with a ceiling several stories high. There are a dozen rows of towering bookshelves lined up before us, each dimly lit with lanterns hanging every twenty feet or so from the face of the structure. Instead of shelves, though, there are horizontal bars stacked inside each frame, with rolls of paper hung over each of them like bedsheets laid on a drying rack.
Are those the scrolls?
That’s right. One shelf for every hundred years or so.
As we move toward the shelves, what unsettles me about this place isn’t walking between scrolls lined with the actual words of God himself, transcribed by the prophet whose ear God whispered into. No, what disturbs me here is the same thing that unsettled me at the bastille: there is no evidence of battle.
None whatsoever. There are no shelves knocked over, no scrolls torn to shreds. This room goes back a long way, easily two or three football fields long, but the rows are all a straight shot. We can both see they’re all undisturbed. There are no bodies crumpled on the floor, nor weapons glinting in the lantern light.
If the angels were here—and that seems like a big “if” given the evidence—they didn’t stay long. Sure, this room is large for the two of us, but for dozens (if not hundreds) of angels zipping around trying to kill each other, it would be a tight squeeze, like two boxers trying to circle each other inside a subway car.
“I don’t think they were here,” I say finally.
“Doesn’t look like it,” Augustus replies quietly. I can tell he’s disappointed. On paper, this was a promising lead, but the reality is coming up short.
“OK, we just need to keep going,” I say, trying to muster new confidence in our plan of attack despite this setback. “Where else do you think makes sense?”
We’re standing between two of the shelves. The light from the lantern is casting long shadows across Augustus’s face, making him look more tired than usual. The knitted brow tells me he’s deep in thought, but the eyes show his doubt.
He’s about to speak when we both snap to alert, turning to my left at a sound coming from the area where we landed upon arrival. Augustus reaches into his duster jacket and pulls out his angel blade he took from Gavreel. In between the rows steps a figure who is tall and well-built. It’s tough to make out his features at this distance, but as he steps closer, I feel a spark of recognition and surprise.
It’s Puriel.
“Do not be alarmed,” he says in that familiar baritone voice. “I mean you no harm.”
“How the hell did you find us?” Augustus asks, still tense.
Puriel points to his head. “Angelic telepathy. I needed to find you, so I tuned into your frequency, overheard your plan to come here, and followed you.”
How he found us makes sense, but he hasn’t answered the big question yet.
“You said you needed to find us,” I say back to him. “Why?”
He takes a deep breath, steadying himself, then says, “I believed you all to be cowards who lacked faith when we first met. You wanted to stop the fighting, and all I wanted to do was reenter the fray. I did not listen to you. But now…”
He trails off. Whatever he’s about to say, it clearly pains him.
“But now what?” Augustus demands.
“But now I see that you were right,” he continues. “The fighting is only going to end one way: with the complete destruction of Heaven. My brothers in arms have lost sight of that in their quest to defeat the traitors. I believe they are so incensed by their betrayal that they are not thinking logically. They do not see the damage they are causing or where this war will end because they do not want to see it.”
“They want to punish the traitors,” I add. “Everything else comes second.”
“That is correct,” Puriel affirms. “So I have come here to aid you in your quest to end this conflict before our home is reduced to rubble. I hope you will accept my help.”
I look at Augustus, and he looks at me. There’s skepticism in his expression, as I’m sure there is in mine, but we’re short on options here. So long as he doesn’t abandon us again, Puriel is our best chance to gain an advantage.
“We accept,” Augustus tells him. “We need to find armory weapons.”
“Specifically the sling of David and the spear of Joshua,” I add. “Can you help?”
“I can,” he replies with a nod. “Those weapons were being wielded by Jehoel and Adriel. I saw them both fall in the last arena of battle. I will take you there.”
He holds out his arm, the spiked gauntlet on his wrist as intimidating as ever. I place my hand above it, and Augustus does the same. With a glance at each other before the wormhole consumes us, we’re both acknowledging the same truth:
If Puriel is screwing us over, we’re dead.
Thankfully, that doesn’t appear to be the case. We land in an area that looks utterly normal to me. It’s a green hill topped by gray ruins and palm trees. There are groupings of small holes, knee-high walls, and raised mounds that look like the foundations for homes, with dusty, unpaved roads weaving between them.
“What is this place?” I ask Puriel. He looks around, then back at me.
“You might call it a training area,” he says. “We run simulated battles here.”
“Puriel is underselling it,�
�� Augustus chimes in. “This here is a perfect recreation of the plain of Megiddo. It’s the location of the Battle of Armageddon.”
“Training for the Battle of Armageddon?” I ask him. “The end of the world?”
“The army of God is always prepared, especially for that battle,” he explains. “On that day, we do not want to defeat the enemy. We want to eradicate them.”
“So they come here to practice,” Augustus says. “Or, in this case, kill one another.”
“The weapons should be around here somewhere,” Puriel says with more force. He clearly wants to get the conversation back on track. “We were in the air during the battle, so it is difficult to tell where the sling and spear might have fallen.”
“Well, let’s split up and search for them,” I tell the group.
“I would not advise that,” says a voice from behind me that makes my hair stand up on end. I’ve never heard it before, yet that voice is still familiar to me…
I turn, and there stands Raphael alone. His tattooed arms are glistening, his green eyes are blazing, and the silver dagger is still clenched in his right fist.
“Raphael,” Puriel says, his voice a choked whisper. “What are you doing here?”
“I have come to kill a traitor,” he says, pointing the dagger at Puriel. “After that, I will put an end to this insurrection perpetrated by Augustus Shaw.”
I stand my ground despite the rising panic in my chest. In that moment, needing to conjure some confidence, I picture my brother’s swaggering bravado.
What would Peter say in this situation?
“There’s only one flaw in your plan, asshole,” I tell Raphael, looking him dead in the eyes, my voice smooth and steady. “You can’t kill us if you’re dead.”
A dazzling smile spreads across Raphael’s face. It’s the kind of evil smile I’ve seen before on dozens of bad guys right before they reveal the ace up their sleeve.
But instead of saying another word, Raphael lunges at me, dagger cocked back.
Oh shit. Maybe channeling Peter wasn’t such a good idea…
Chapter 14
14. Fancy Seeing You Here
I barely have time to think—let alone react—as Raphael zooms toward me. I raise my arms in a defensive pose and brace for impact. But before the archangel slams into me, a winged blur flies across my face and intercepts him.
Puriel has tackled Raphael and is flying away from us, engaged in midair combat like I was with Gavreel. I snap my attention back to Augustus. This is it—like it or not—we’re in the endgame of our plan, which means every second counts.
“We have to find the armory weapons right now,” I tell him, my voice frantic. “If Raphael is here, we can assume the other archangels will be here soon.”
“And without those weapons…” Augustus begins.
“We’re done,” I finish.
Augustus and I nod at each other and jet off in opposite directions. In the distance, I hear the faint grunts and cries of Puriel and Raphael as they tussle and fly. My ears scan the ground in search of anything that looks out of place. The spear should be easier to find, but the sling will be a challenge. This plain is just big enough that finding two weapons scattered across its face will take either insane luck or lots of time, more than we have at the moment. Which means our lives depend on luck.
In my vision, the sling was a small, brown leather strap. That’s the color I’m looking for amidst the grays and greens. As I pass under a palm tree, I shudder to think that either weapon may be nestled among its branches. We’d need an angel to retrieve it and, well, ours is a bit too preoccupied at the moment to help us.
I quickly lift my head to scan for the dueling angels but don’t see them. I hear them, though: distant thuds, crashes, and strangled screams.
Just keep him busy a little longer, Puriel. Buy us time to find the weapons.
I fire off the telepathic plea, not knowing if Puriel will hear it but praying that he does. The knot in my stomach is growing tighter with every corner I turn that doesn’t reveal a long, wooden spear with a metal tip wedged in the ground or a simple brown sling draped over a half wall. I reach the area with the cluster of shallow rectangular holes and run between them, my head darting right and left to quickly scan each one. My search comes up empty as I pass the last pair.
I’m standing now on the slope that leads to the grassy area surrounding the dusty hilltop. I sprint forward, running the width of the slope, then run downhill a few feet and sprint back. Thankfully the grass is relatively short, barely past my ankles, so the weapons should be easy to spot. Nevertheless, I’m coming up empty, and as I reach the bottom of the slope, my chest tightens with panic.
Augustus, any luck?
His answer comes after a few agonizing seconds:
Not yet.
Damn it. If we can’t find these weapons and Raphael kills Puriel, we have two options: try to stand and fight or withdraw to Bron’s canyon and hope the rune-protected zones are strong enough to keep out archangels.
Both options are less than ideal, but the thought of running away again irks me, especially from the angel who punched me into a pocket dimension and left me for dead. I want to kick his holier-than-thou ass, even if that’s the dumbest idea I’ve had since staring down the towering, fiery demon who kidnapped my brother. Sure, I killed Malphas, but I also died doing so. That’s not an option up here.
My thoughts are interrupted when a new voice broadcasts into my brain.
The spear…and the sling…I see them. Sending…markers down to…their locations.
It’s Puriel’s voice, strained as he exerts himself against Raphael. My heart skips a beat as I scan the skies looking for him. On the opposite side of the plain, I finally spot them, looking like two great birds engaged in midair fisticuffs. Puriel pushes back from Raphael, spreads his arms, and from each hand, a ball of light shoots out like a falling star. They both glide lazily down to Earth as they home in on the locations Puriel sent them to mark. I begin to run toward where I think the marker closest to me will land. Hopefully, Augustus is close to the other one. Mine is falling slowly toward a tall palm tree at the edge of the hilltop, probably a hundred and fifty yards away. The other one is angled toward the middle of the hilltop area, gliding in the direction of a circular hole I saw that reminded me of a sinkhole.
Augustus, I’ve got the one near the tree. You take the one in the middle.
Roger that, headed there now.
I’m running as fast as my legs will carry me, so fast that it feels like I’m going to tip over. The ball of light finally settles about midway up the tree, and that’s when I see it. The sling is caught on an upturned piece of bark about ten feet in the air. I know I passed under this tree earlier. I must have missed the sling, given that the brown leather strap blends in seamlessly with the tree trunk.
Had Puriel not sent down his beacon, I never would’ve found it. The angel might have screwed us earlier by abandoning us, but he’s saving the day now.
I’m fifty feet from the tree, forty feet, thirty, picking up speed…when a body slams into the ground directly in my path. The impact craters the ground and sends gray dust shooting into the air. I skid to a stop just feet from the crater. One glance at the limbs dangling over the side tells me it’s Puriel who’s been thrown down.
He groans and makes a slight movement, which means he’s not dead. But the blood coating one side of his face and gushing down his right arm tells me he’s hurt.
I look up at the sling, only to see Raphael hovering next to it. There’s a trickle of blood streaming down from his forehead, but other than that, it appears he gave it worse than he got in his fight against Puriel. His evil smile has returned.
He reaches out and grabs the sling, sending a jolt of panic through my body. He holds it up, the long strings dangling down past his elbow.
“Look
ing for this?” he asks me, but I’m too panic-stricken to reply.
He holds his free hand up, snaps his fingers, and the sling disappears in a bright flash of flame. I can hardly breathe as Raphael wipes the dust from his hands.
“You were never worthy to wield such a weapon,” he snarls at me, floating down to the ground less than ten feet from the crater where Puriel lies motionless. “You are nothing but a filthy half-breed. A misguided attempt to make human warriors the equivalent of angels. Your kind is nothing but a long, drawn-out mistake.”
Whatever bravado I had just moments ago is gone. It evaporated just like the sling and my hope of having a fighting chance against Raphael and his brothers.
“And now, I am going to end the latest mistake God has made,” Raphael continues. “Do not tell our father, but I am going to enjoy ending the life of his precious, chosen soldier. I have long wanted to do it, and now I finally have cause.”
“Your only cause is yourself,” I say, finally finding my voice. “You and your brothers are the most pompous, smug assholes I’ve seen on Earth or in Heaven.”
“I will be sure to relay the message,” he snarls, raising the dagger to chest height. I raise my fists in response and straighten up to my full height. If I’m going to die—for real this time—I’m going out with dignity. I won’t cower from this asshole who knocked me through dimensions and called me a mistake.
“Bring it, dickhead,” I say through clenched teeth. There’s a second-long pause during which my words register with Raphael, drawing a small smirk. Then we both push off from the ground and lunge at each other, fists cocked back. I can see the whites of his dazzling green eyes when his head is violently jerked to the side, and he careens off course, slamming into the ground inches from Puriel.
I slide to a stop while my mind races to process what I’m seeing. The image registers in my brain, but the synapses aren’t firing quick enough to process the bizarre sight before me. I shake my head, forcing the mental image to focus.
That’s when the blurry edges finally take shape: a spear is lodged sideways through Raphael’s neck. He’s grasping it, his fingers coated in his own blood. There’s also blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. Raphael’s breathing is ragged and forced like he had the wind knocked out of him. His eyes are wild with fear.