Scorn of Angels

by John Patrick Kennedy

  “Michael,” Epiphenia said carefully, “what do you remember of the last little while?”

  “What do you mean?” asked Michael. “And where are you, Epiphenia? You are not in Heaven, and I do not recognize you.”

  “I am on Earth. I am Nyx’s daughter. And I am trying to stop Tribunal from destroying all Creation.”

  “Angels can’t have children.”

  Epiphenia would have screamed in frustration if there had been enough air where she was. She forced herself to calm down. “Michael, I am going to open my mind to you.”

  “Why would you do that?” asked Michael. “What do you have to share with me?”

  Epiphenia didn’t answer, just opened up her mind and let all of it spill into Michael’s, from her birth on Earth to her death in Hell, to her rebirth and all that led to this very moment.

  This can’t be true, said Michael, and Epiphenia could sense how badly the news had shaken him. To tamper with an Angel’s memory is… His voice hardened. Tribunal cannot be trying this. There is no way…

  Arcana is coming, sent Epiphenia. And if she cannot get through to God…

  Michael turned in the air, leaving the other Angels behind, and winged back to the Gates of Heaven, fear driving him faster than he had gone before.

  In his place between the worlds, Tribunal was examining the moment when he had faced down the Angels. He had used his power, yes, and had surrounded God’s mountain with it without God noticing. But when he had, something else had happened.

  He replayed the moment in his mind, feeling every nuance of the power he had used, and all the other power he was using. Something had changed…

  The Gates to Earth, Tribunal realized.

  Someone had sent a massive surge of power at the same time as his attention had been with the Angels. Something had weakened his Gate there so much that someone had come through.

  And not just anyone, either… He turned his thoughts on the path from the outer Gates to the Inner Gates. There was an Angel there, flying up with all her strength. Arcana. Fancy seeing you here.

  And more importantly, thought Tribunal. How did you get here?

  I’ll have to ask her. Tribunal rose up and with a thought transported himself to the chair at God’s right hand in Heaven. God did not notice his return, any more than he had noticed Tribunal leaving. God was completely lost in illusion and Tribunal was very happy about that.

  He rose up at once and walked down the long steps. There was plenty of time, still, before Arcana arrived.

  Arcana, her eyes shut and all her mind and energy focused on God, flew up in the warm, gentle light of His presence.

  Hell was easy to reach. One fell. Heaven was the opposite. An Angel had to strip away all worldly thoughts and care, no matter how pressing, and think of nothing but God. To do otherwise was to find oneself gently slipping backward toward the Earth. It happened many times and was always a source of much laughter and gentle chiding among the Angels.

  This time, there would be no laughter. Arcana would not—could not—allow herself to slip back. There would be no second chance. If she fell, the Gates would not open for her again. The power that blocked the Gate was too great to penetrate a second time. So even as the thoughts of what would happen if she failed attempted to rise up in her head, Arcana pushed them away, focusing only on God’s great love, the love she had for him, and her desperate desire to see him. Slowly, with great effort, she rose higher and higher. Above her, the light grew indescribably bright until it would have blinded any living mortal’s eye.

  Then she was floating in the sky, looking at the true Gates of Heaven. The Earth was a ball of blue far below her. Arcana smiled as she floated forward, and one foot touched the soil of Heaven. An enormous feeling of well-being swelled in her, driving away all the cares of the mortal world. The struggle for life and death happening on the Earth felt like nothing. This was Heaven, and there was nothing here but peace and God’s love, and the knowledge that all one’s journeys had come to an end.

  It wasn’t true for Angels, of course, but all mortals, whose souls came here, felt the same sense of joy and wonder. It was a relief and a respite from their lives on Earth. For the Angels, it was a reminder of where they truly belonged. Arcana breathed the air of Heaven for the first time in a thousand years, and it was pure and sweet and wonderful.

  Her other foot landed on the soil of Heaven, and with confident, easy strides she went through the Gate. She was home. She let the armor on her body fade and change into a long white dress, reminiscent of the ones she had seen in Italy on her travels on Earth. For the first time in a thousand years, Arcana felt a sense of peace.

  And even if it wasn’t going to last, it felt very, very good.

  But now that I’m here, I need to see God. Fast. If she could go straight to God and see him, everything would be all right again. God would listen, Tribunal would be stopped, and Creation would not be unmade.

  Arcana stepped through the Gate and nodded at the Angel who was standing there.

  Except it wasn’t an Angel. Arcana froze in horror.

  “Hello, Arcana,” said Tribunal with a smile. “Welcome home.”

  The catacombs beneath Rome were greater than the humans knew.

  The humans had dug a hundred miles of tunnels for the bones of their ancestors. The cleverly made tunnels were brick and stone and designed for the ages. But they were only the beginning. Old villas, long since buried beneath new construction, created their own mini-caves where the original frescoes, protected from the ravages of sunlight and wind, could still be seen. Tunnels dug by slaves and Christians and pagans alike, hiding from persecution at various times, added to the labyrinth. Water had also carved paths that led deep into the Earth.

  And through this maze of darkness Nyx was hunted and hunter in turns.

  She and Persephone had split up as soon as they’d come into the catacombs. They had been here before during their times in Rome, and each knew the place perfectly.

  The Descended that followed did not.

  At first, the Descended had rushed into the tunnels and into battle. Nyx, with walls to protect her flanks, and endless darkness to retreat into, dispatched three in the first moments. Persephone accounted for two more. Then they had split, running into the darkness, changing shape and size to avoid detection. The Descended shone in Nyx and Persephone’s minds like beacons. They could see exactly where each was. But thanks to Epiphenia, the Descended could only guess and chase after Nyx and Persephone.

  It was not a game of cat and mouse; it was two lethal cats fighting a pack of vicious rats.

  And so far, the cats were winning.

  Pesado stood at the front of his squad, listening.

  He was tall even for an Angel, and the catacombs forced him to bend and crouch, which made him angry. The fact that he only had seven of his original squad left made him even angrier. That two survivors from Berith’s squad had also joined him, and two from Sonneilon’s squad, did not improve his mood in the slightest, because it meant that his friends were gone—blown into dust which would never recover its form again.

  Pesado’s red armor, which normally repaired itself over time, was scored in a half-dozen places by Nyx’s attacks. She had nearly killed him before the others managed to drive her off.

  Around him, Pesado could hear water dripping and, somewhere deeper, flowing. There were rats and cats and mice and snakes and bats, and a myriad of insects moving in the tunnels. Miles away he could hear Gressil and the nine Descended that followed her—five of her own, one of Sonneilon’s and three of Verrine’s—hunting.

  Verrine had told his squad to fend for themselves and had gone off hunting alone. Cocky bastard.

  Movement, sent one of her squad. Two tunnels away. Coming fast.

  Get ready!

  They could hear footsteps rushing toward them; hear the air singing off the drawn blade the runner was carrying. They tensed, all knowing how good a fighter Nyx was and know- ing that in these
cramped quarters their numbers would hinder as much as help.

  The running came closer and closer, and around the corner of the tunnel came…

  Nothing.

  Nyx’s whip wrapped tight around Pesado’s neck from behind, cutting off any sound he could make before her sword, transformed into a short, deadly thrusting blade, punched a half-dozen holes through his armor from behind.

  It’s an…was all he managed to send before the blade found his heart and he exploded into silver dust. The other Descended swung around, away from the illusion Nyx had sent, and screamed their battle cries as Nyx cut through their numbers like a black scythe, leaving severed limbs and hacked-open heads and two more piles of silver dust before she vanished into the dark tunnels once more.

  Michael landed in time to see Arcana freeze in front of Tribunal. God’s Son was smiling at her, and Arcana was terrified.

  “Welcome back,” said Tribunal. “What took so long?”

  “The Gate was blocked,” said Arcana. “But today it opened enough for me to get through and I have returned.”

  “And how did you unblock it?”

  “I didn’t,” said Arcana. Angels could not lie, but Arcana had no intention of telling Tribunal what had happened. “I must report to God all that I have seen in my time on Earth,” she said instead. She went to walk past Tribunal, and he caught her arm.

  “You can report to me instead,” he said.

  “I cannot,” said Arcana. “Please let me go.”

  “I think not,” said Tribunal. “I think, instead, you will come with me and tell me everything that has happened.” He looked over his shoulder. “And I think that you, Michael, will go back on patrol. NOW.”

  The command in Tribunal’s voice was near-irresistible. Tribunal was part of God and spoke with the authority appropriate to that station. He was God’s Son and God’s right hand.

  But he was not God.

  “I think not,” said Michael, though he had to force the words out through ground-together teeth. “I think you should let Arcana go, and I think that you should let her go speak to God.” His face blazed with effort and with fury at what was being done to him.

  Tribunal’s left eyebrow went up. “You do, do you?” He squeezed Arcana’s arm tighter, hoping to elicit a cry of pain. Arcana’s face stayed neutral. “A pity that I’m not going to, Michael. You see, God isn’t paying attention to the Gates or anything that happens around them. And soon, God isn’t going to be paying attention to anything. Ever. And don’t even think of drawing your sword here,” added Tribunal, his words freezing Michael’s hand in place before the Angel could move it further. “Do you really think you can do anything against me now, Michael?”

  “I can try,” said Michael, his eyes like flames.

  “You will fail. Now go stand at the Gate and invite the souls in like a good little slave,” said Tribunal, dropping even more power into his voice, and this time Michael could not resist the command. “And as for you, my dear…” Tribunal waved his hand. Arcana’s dress disappeared, leaving her naked. Her long, tightly-bound hair pulled suddenly free, and her white wings spread wide as if grabbed at the ends and pulled. Her expression did not change. “You and I will go and discuss your behavior these last few years.”

  Tribunal and Arcana vanished. Michael walked forward and took Tribunal’s place at the Gates. He would be there, he knew, until Tribunal released him or God called him. And given what had just happened, Michael began to believe that Tribunal was right. God was no longer paying attention.

  Michael felt tears rolling down his face as he welcomed the souls into Heaven. And silently, fervently, he began to pray in the hopes that God would awaken and answer. O, my Father, he thought. Why hast thou deserted me?

  Far below, hanging in the sky outside the outer Gates of Heaven, Epiphenia felt her own tears starting. She folded her wings and let herself fall to the Earth

  Verrine was not tall, as Angels went, but squat and solid, as if all the iron for a twenty-foot statue of a god of athletes was squashed down into his six-foot frame. He was a hunter by nature, and a good one, even by the standards of Hell. His greatest joy was to mark a demon, give it a five-year head start, and then track it until he found it and took its head. He had hunted thousands of demons, hundreds of souls, and at least a dozen Descended—some on bets, some at the behest of Lucifer.

  Nyx and Persephone had figured out how to conceal their Angelic presence, but that was fine as far as Verrine was concerned. He hunted by scent. He knew the scents of Nyx and Persephone, both from eons in Hell, and from the battles they’d had since the Descended had come to Earth.

  He ducked and squeezed his way through the catacombs, listening and moving as silently as only an Angel could. He could sense his brethren moving through the catacombs. They were staying in groups, hoping to better defend themselves. So far it hadn’t worked. Six more of the Descended were dead now—four of the ones that had been after Nyx, two of the ones after Persephone. Only seventeen of the original fifty were left from their fights with the two.

  At least Arcana is gone, thought Verrine. That one fights as well as Nyx. The two of them together could probably kill the rest of us.

  There was a whimpering noise in the catacomb ahead. Not the sound an Angel would make, but the sound of a human, scared and alone. Verrine crept forward, his feet noiseless on the worn stones of the tunnel floor. He peered around the corner, his Descended eyes easily piercing the gloom.

  The girl was young, just into womanhood, with firm, pert breasts poking out against the thin, ripped, white muslin of the short shift that was her only clothing. Her legs were long and bare, and the shift only barely covered what was between them. Her brown hair fell in messy tangles on her shoulders, and there was a smudge of dirt on her face. She had pushed herself back against a wall in the little chamber she was in. Her brown eyes were wide with terror as she stared, unseeing, into the darkness. “Who… who’s there? Help me!”

  Verrine stepped through the opening.

  “Please…” the girl begged. “Please. Help me find my way out. Please!”

  A scream of Angelic pain ripped through the catacombs as another of the Descended was gutted and turned to dust. The girl shrieked in fright and scrabbled backward, trying to find a place to hide where there were no hiding places.

  “Oh God, oh God…” The girl moaned. “Please. I know you’re there. Please get me out. I’ll… I’ll let you do whatever you want to me. Now and when we get out. Please…” She stared desperately into the darkness. Her body trembled as she slowly parted her legs. “Please.”

  “Nice performance, Persephone,” said Verrine.

  Persephone pouted, and the innocent little girl act vanished entirely. “You had to go and ruin it, didn’t you?”

  Another scream as another Descended was turned to dust.

  “Sixteen left,” said Persephone. She flowed up to her feet, not bothering to change her form. Her sword and whip appeared in her hands. “I was really hoping I could get laid before I killed you.”

  Verrine blinked in surprise. “What?”

  “Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve had an Angel—a male Angel?” she clarified. “It’s been a long, long time. I could have really used that.”

  Verrine grinned. “Sorry to disappoint.”

  “No, you’re not,” said Persephone, pouting again. “If you were really sorry, you’d prove it by killing your brethren and joining me and Nyx. We’re going to destroy Lucifer.”

  “Not from where I’m standing.”

  “Where you’re standing,” purred Persephone, “is in your grave, unless you join us.”

  Verrine’s grin widened. “Try me.”

  In a place outside of God’s universe, Arcana hung, naked, suspended by invisible bonds that secured her to the void as tightly as any chains would secure a mortal to a wall. Her wings had been pulled off as easily as the wings of a fly, leaving bloody, gaping wounds in her back. As a loyal Angel, fighting
on the side of God, she had never known such pain.

  Tribunal ran an appreciative hand over Arcana’s body, lingering on her breasts before slipping down and around to cup the curve of her ass. She was taller than he, especially suspended off the ground. He smiled up at her expressionless face. “It must be difficult for you,” he said, “knowing that you will be turned into nothingness.”

  Arcana didn’t answer. Nothingness didn’t bother her as much as knowing this insect might win. Tribunal smiled at her. “You will have to tell me about what happened on Earth,” he said. “Eventually. There is no hurry anymore. I have just about hidden the last of Earth from God’s sight, and when that happens I will unleash the armies of Hell upon the planet, and watch as they kill all those disgusting humans that God so loves.”

  He sat down and waved a hand. A model of Creation floated in the air before him: Heaven, Hell and the mortal universe in the middle. It was so full of detail they could have almost been staring into Creation itself.

  “You see it?” Tribunal asked. “This is all of God’s Creation. And right now, he isn’t aware of most of it.” He waved his hand again and a thin mesh of darkness coated Creation. There were a few small patches in it where the light of Creation still shone through, but for the most part it was covered. “See?” said Tribunal. “These patches are all that God is actually seeing of Heaven, Earth and Hell. And when they are covered, God will be blind to the workings of the universe.” His smile grew wide and maniacal. “And when that happens, I will make all of Creation go away, and God with it.” He laughed; there was such power in it, it made her shiver. How could a God of goodness have sired this abomination? Tribunal looked away from his model. “And now, my dear, I must attend to this for a time. But don’t worry. I’ll be sure to keep you amused. I can do that, now. Because all the power that is in God is in me.”

  Arcana began screaming a moment later. Tribunal smiled and turned his attention back to finishing the black mesh covering Hell and Earth. Once that was done, it would be time. And meanwhile, the sounds of agony and despair from Arcana made a delightful accompaniment to the work.