by L. A. Banks
Until they’d begun growling, she hadn’t even seen them. It was as though the strays had appeared out of nowhere. To die of a fall into the river from one’s own free will, a planned suicide, versus being savaged to death in the street by pits, wasn’t something she even had to think about.
The strong, fast animals would overtake her in seconds.
A passing trolley crossing the wide boulevard was her salvation. Remembering how to hop a trolley from her youth, Celeste zigzagged through light traffic and jumped on the back of it, knowing the dogs would follow—knowing Philly drivers from the hood could give a shit about a stray mutt.
The screech of a car, a thud, and a conclusive yelp all happened behind her. Curses confirmed that one dog was down, the other had fled. If the driver’s car had been damaged, the surviving dog risked getting shot. Life in the city was what it was, sometimes brutal but oddly consistent.
She jumped off the trolley as it slowed to a stop for the light on the other side of the Girard Avenue Bridge at Thirty-third Street. All she had to do now was run a few blocks through the park over to Oxford Street and she’d be in North Philly, where she could hide until she figured out what to do.
Trees grew up and around a strange white building. One thick branch exited what should have been an intact roof. Azrael stopped for a moment and stared at it. Many hundreds of humans had once worked there. The dilapidated factory was a full block long and several stories high. Windows were missing, broken out of the frames to make the structure resemble a ragged smile. He’d been walking for what felt like a long time, trying to sense anything remotely close to the energy pattern of the Remnant he’d been assigned to protect. He had to find her. He could sense that evil had launched another attack on her tonight, and her will and faith were crumbling.
Azrael closed his eyes and allowed his head to drop back, taking in the environment. So much pain . . . so much anger . . . despair and fear. Still there were glimmers of love . . . flickers of compassion, higher frequencies making a stand against the Ultimate Darkness. That meant there was still hope, still time.
Trying to get his bearings, he inhaled deeply and read the broken letters on the building he faced: pyramid electric supply.
Slowly but surely, impressions from the environment entered his awareness. He could begin to feel the lives that had passed through this building and had walked down this street, just as he could slowly begin to feel the woman he sought. Her pain stood out from the other dim pulses of life force around him. She was close, he could feel her, but her inner light was so dim now that it had almost gone out. She’d nearly tried to kill herself. A barb of pain entered his chest and made him briefly cover his heart with his hand. Time wasn’t on his side; she was on a path of self-destruction.
Azrael glanced around, noting that he’d been walking along the street labeled Glenwood Avenue, and then it had become Oxford Street or had merged into it, but which way did he need to search now?
The massive vacant building he’d passed along the way also had no roof. It took up the length of one named street to the next. Just as with all the other empty businesses and factories he’d passed, spirits rose from this one, disoriented and moaning, and incapable of giving him any directions. Livelihoods and lives had been lost there. The pain of economic blight that filled in behind those losses was too intense to ignore.
A crooked sign hung on the corner of the building with the broken word eastern. The rest of what it said was unreadable and missing. A large vehicle stopped on the corner and picked up a tired-looking woman. He wondered what this area and all the lives it contained would have been like had darkness not fallen upon the land.
“Go to the Light,” he murmured, and in his mind envisioned a long, crystal cylinder of swirling white light. “Go into the peace that surpasses all understanding,” he urged, then began walking as one by one spirits fled the abandoned structures, gravitating to the divine portal he’d opened for them.
But a long echo of spirit wails stopped him in his tracks. He turned to watch in horror as gnarled, shadowy claws reached up and snatched at the rising souls. Darkness gripped them, trying to keep them lost and anchored inside the abandoned factory. The building was clearly infested. The open, dank structure was a perfect demon roost. But these innocent souls had to be freed.
Hurdling the wire fence in two hard pulls to flip himself over the top of it, Azrael entered the building through a broken window, shoulder lowered. Instantly the darkness released the screaming souls and began to converge on him. Stray dogs stood and growled, their eyes suddenly gleaming red. Bats that scuttled along the hanging metal ceiling pipes turned away from their feast of mosquitoes to look at him, eyes glowing as shadows loomed and gathered in the corners, all perched for an attack. Drug addicts that had been in the far corners slowly lumbered forward, eyes now blacked out and vacant.
Quickly glancing around for a weapon, Azrael picked up a pipe and said a silent prayer. He would not stand by while the darkness tried to claim souls that belonged to the Light.
As his grip tightened and his gaze narrowed, everything that had been in the shadows rushed him all at once. In a double-handed swing he fought off the first feral creature that lunged. It exploded on contact with what had been a lead pipe but which now glowed with white-hot angel energy. Something savaged him from behind, and in a deft spin, he gored it, then turned again to respond to the aerial attack of demon-infected bats.
Releasing a battle cry, he grabbed at a shadow creature to his left while his right hand speared a creature that leaped out of the shadows with dripping fangs. His voice sent a shock wave into the cloud of bats, blowing them out of the opened roof to rain down as singed confetti.
Then just as suddenly as the attack began, the empty building became eerily quiet. Everything that had rushed him receded into the shadows like a black tide. Azrael ran to a bank of windows to see if the cylindrical light portal he’d opened was taking up lost souls without attacks from the darkness. He watched them rise, relaxing as no evidence of demon interference seemed present.
Sadness filled him as he wondered how many places on earth had innocent spirits trapped by the darkness, keeping them aimlessly wandering and haunting locations that had been familiar to them while they were alive. But he couldn’t dwell on that now.
Azrael climbed through the window and walked to the fence, again flipping himself over the six-foot wire enclosure to land on the curb. He had to get back to his mission to find the girl. The archangels were tasked to deal with larger global issues; guardian angels were tasked to protect individuals. He was a warrior, tasked to fight demons once he found the human who would lead the Remnant.
“You’re not supposed to get involved in fighting every human battle along the way, brother. You’ll wear yourself out before you’ve even found her.”
Azrael quickly spun to meet the voice. “Gavreel...” Instant joy filled him as he clasped his fellow warrior in a warm embrace. “What tribe am I to search for my chosen? I can sense that she is near, but was thrust into this abomination of condition without enough—”
“Peace,” Gavreel said in a low rumble, but shook his head, stepping back from Azrael. He held Azrael out from him with strong, wide palms, his silky jet-black hair lifting from his broad shoulders on the breeze as he stared at Azrael with intense, dark eyes. “You’ve only been in the flesh here for a few hours and you’re already about to alert the darkness of where they can find and injure you. Be wise, my brother. But I cannot shorten your learning curve, for to do that would be to rob you of some of your lessons. We are here to learn as much as we are to protect. The more we learn, the greater our effectiveness. We must know the pain of mortals to understand and have compassion for those we serve.”
“I am aware of our mission and the rules of engagement. My apologies, old friend.”
“As I said, peace. Then if you know the rules, you are aware that you must learn the language and customs of the tribe your Remnant hails from on your own
, as each of us is here to search within the tribe of human manifestation we most identify with.”
Duly chastised, Azrael’s shoulders slumped and Gavreel smiled.
“Take heart, old friend. Should demons attack again, I am there at your side in battle as I have been for millennia. Beside death is always peace, when there is order in the cosmos.”
“But how will we—”
Gavreel laughed and began walking away. “You sound like a mortal—many questions and short on faith, O dealer of death. Your powers will strengthen as you adjust to this hostile environment. I didn’t intervene earlier because, even though I knew you had the strength to defeat the enemy, you needed to know that you did. It was good to see you rush in, not even knowing if you could prevail. But you did so on behalf of those souls that touched your heart. For every act of kindness, your strength in this realm will increase. You’re not alone. They sent many of us down here and I’ll know where to find you, just as you’ll know where to find me. You will hear me and I will hear you, in time.”
“Our wings...”
“Are not necessary here and would ruin the human disguise,” Gavreel said quietly. “I was told that what is created in the spirit cannot be taken away in the flesh...They are still there, I suppose, in our auras. This density is deceiving. See yourself as whole in your mind. Do not dwell on the loss. We have much work to do and grieving will steal your peace.”
“You do not sound sure . . . and I do not fully remember all that I was told.” Azrael released a breath of frustration. “The adjustment period is...”
“More difficult than imagined.” Gavreel nodded. “But it will ebb. Connect to human centers of learning, and once you connect to your Remnant, your disorientation should ebb . . . I am told. I have not located mine yet.”
Azrael nodded and then jogged forward to catch up to Gavreel, stopping his retreat. “It is strange. I remember ancient history, like the names of the fallen—the names of our enemies, yet I do not know the very basics of this plane.”
“Short-term memory loss,” Gavreel said flatly. “Happens when they configure us for a human body.” He shrugged with a half smile. “But remembering who can cause you great pain and injury is not a bad thing to have instant recall about, true?”
“Truth,” Azrael said, clasping Gavreel’s hand in a warrior handshake. “Then, have you encountered Asmodeus?”
“No, and pray that you do not meet up with that archdemon while on your mission, brother. He is fully consumed by the temporal world . . . the name he has chosen in this culture is Nathaniel, the literal translation meaning ‘gift of God’—arrogant! Be on guard. His watchers are many, and Forcas, our fallen brother who rules the province of invisibility for the demons now, has joined his legion and is always lurking in the shadows. Asmodeus is also guarded by Lahash, the one who interferes with Divine will; as well as Pharzuph, a principality of lust; plus Malpas, who appears as a crow; and Appollyon of destruction. Six strong fallen and their legions will be set against you. Remain ever alert.”
“That is good to know. You are a trusted friend.”
Gavreel nodded. “As are you. I only arrived here a human week prior to your manifestation. Thus, I am still learning as well. Seek Bath Kol, our brother of prophecy, to maintain your peace. I have offered you as much as I am allowed tonight. I cannot even tell you where to begin your search for him. Trapped here on earth as a Sentinel, he is in constant motion for good reason. Every passing day he grows weaker to the temptation of an ultimate fall . . . always test him when you encounter him, brother. He may not be himself by the time you reach him. His choice is unknowable until you face him, and every encounter with him requires shrewd discernment on your part. That is the risk; but our Sentinel brothers are very wise about this world, indeed.” Gavreel seemed sad as he started walking again.
“Indeed,” Azrael said, following him. The thought of being trapped on earth as a Sentinel for all of eternity because he’d violated Divine Law sent a shiver through him. Sentinels had been on earth twenty-six thousand years, since the last battle against the darkness, and because they fell victim to the temptations of the planet, namely lying with human females and siring children, they were now banished from ever returning home.
The two angels shared a meaningful look filled with understanding.
“Don’t get trapped here, my brother,” Gavreel said in a quiet tone. “You know the rules. Get to your target, complete your mission, and get out. The longer you’re in this human body, the harder it will be to stay focused, and the easier it will be to slip and fall.”
“Thank you, brother. Godspeed on your mission as well.”
“De nada; it is nothing, but you’re welcome.” Gavreel stopped and turned, holding Azrael’s gaze. “Haven’t you wondered yet why the Angel of Death was sent here in this location, along with me, the Angel of Peace? Why here, in this place called Philadelphia of the United States, and not the highly contested for Holy Land that the humans call the Middle East? Would that not seem to be a more logical place for death and peace to manifest side by side?”
Azrael rubbed the nape of his neck. The questions left him mute but lit a torch to the edges of his mind.
“You look hungry, thirsty, and weary, sí?”
“Sí? Wait . . . that is Spanish. Just like the words de nada.”
Gavreel nodded with a smile. “Yes—sí? Comprende? Understand? The human-world languages will start to adhere to your human mind. The first one to come in like a baby’s teeth is the one your chosen speaks. Patience, brother. It is the very basis of peace.”
Azrael nodded. “Yes. You, above all, would know how to maintain one’s peace. I stand humbled in your wise presence. Thank you for your counsel. And it is true that I am feeling the effects of being in this uncomfortable human form. No flight . . . no instant anything. Every little detail of movement bound by the physical.”
Gavreel laughed. “Ah, yes, gravity and what the mortals aptly call physics. These are the laws of manifest matter. You will get used to it. Go have a cool drink of wine for a few human resources called dollars at the human watering hole they call a bar. I see you have already adopted their clothing, although you could use a longer pair of pants and a bigger pair of shoes.” Gavreel’s smile widened. “I take it you have resources?”
“Yes,” Azrael admitted slowly. “I will use the human dollars to make the raiment adjustments soon.”
“Clothes,” Gavreel said, underscoring the new word for Azrael. He then pointed to his feet. “Shoes . . . this variety of foot apparel is called sneakers, sometimes referred to by the maker’s name as well. Pick up the human slang quickly so you do not stand out. Camouflage and blend in. That will help both you and your chosen survive demon incursion.”
Azrael heard Gavreel’s warning but was still thoroughly fascinated by the name he’d seen beneath the maker’s mark inside his shoe when he’d put it on. “Ni . . . ke—is then the maker this would be named for . . . what I would ask for when I required a new pair? How is this pronounced?”
“Nike—pronounced Ny-Keee,” Gavreel said, laughing. “By the way, your entire foot should comfortably fit into them, not hang out the back as though it were a slipper or sandal. Think back on the original owner’s way of wearing them, and you must find your size, albeit difficult.”
“Clothes . . . and shoes. Sneakers.” Again Azrael nodded, thinking back on how the boys’ pants lapped over the cloth strings in their shoes and how their sneakers fit over their entire foot. Gavreel was right; even their coat sleeves reached the full length of their arms. The boys were much smaller than he in length, breadth, and height. He would make the adjustment as soon as he could, now that he had resources—dollars. “I will amend my choices.”
“Good. You will also need to rest, though not as much as the mortals, and eat clean food and drink plenty of clean water, or you’ll be sick as a dog. Do not ask me how I know this. Everything that smells good and appeals to the human eye or palate is not nec
essarily good for this body temple we briefly inhabit. There is a bar not far down that street, but go easy on the wine without food. In fact, you may want to avoid the wine altogether and just have some water there until you can eat.” Gavreel pointed out the direction, then turned and left Azrael to sort it out for himself.
Azrael stared after his brother Light warrior, watching him walk away into nothingness, knowing that his brother had asked him several questions laden with clues—trying to help answer his confusion without violating the rules by giving him all the answers. All warriors were to experience the human conditions of fear, confusion, learning, pain, hunger, emotion—all to become stronger and more compassionate for their charges and what the humans they were to guard had faced. He supposed even the loss of his wings was a part of the lesson. But to help him, his friend was teaching him in riddles, in the old form of the parable. Gavreel had also pointed out a haven; it was in his peaceful, intense eyes that simply said, Trust me.
Chapter 3
Celeste veered off Oxford to head down Jefferson Street, avoiding entire abandoned blocks of looming darkness. At this hour and in her condition, no one would suspect that she’d have money on her. That was her best defense to avoid a mugging—by looking like a crackhead. Everyone with an ounce of sense knew that pipers at this time of night who were trolling the streets were trying to hustle up more cash. Worse case, some hard up asshole might ask her if she wanted to make some money. But it wasn’t as if they’d go to the trouble of grabbing her.
Still, roving bands of young males were as unpredictable as the feral pits. The last thing she wanted to be was the potential victim of a gang-bang initiation. That meant she couldn’t go down the street as far as the towering projects where young guys gathered or over as far as Daniel Boone School, where the basketball courts and rec center would draw teens slinging dope all night.
A block-long, redbrick beacon stood out against the night. The bar’s sign was missing and impenetrable steel grates were pulled down over all the windows, but the front door was open and the blare of R&B told her it was an old-head joint.