by David Reed
• Liquor tolerance. Cass can hold his liquor. ’Nuff said.
• Memory alteration. Like I said. Far as lore I’ve seen goes, angels are the only critters that can muck around with a man’s memory. ’Course, I’ve got hundreds of lore books I’ve never even opened, especially since I inherited the Campbell family hunting library a few months back. One thing did strike me, however—if an angel was really this gung-ho about line-item vetoing my memories, you’d think they woulda blacked out my memories of angels screwing with people’s memories, too. You know, so I wouldn’t even suspect ’em. Huh.
One important thing to remember about angels—their power isn’t baked in, it’s . . . how do I explain this? An angel in a vacuum is no more powerful than a human. Their, uh, potency . . . comes when they’re backed up by the full power of heaven. See, angels act as . . . sorta like channels for heavenly power. An angel is like a fire hose. If the spigot’s turned off and no water’s flowing, they can’t get anything done. But once the valve’s opened and water’s flowing . . . ya understand? And heaven, in this analogy, is the great big water tower in the sky, full of energy. That power comes from souls—human souls, which they harness like little nuclear reactors to light up heaven and wage their eternal war with hell. Wait. I thought the metaphor was about water, not electricity. Whatever. The more souls are in heaven, the more powerful they are. That’s what makes their apocalyptic plans so damn shortsighted—how are they supposed to replenish their power source if they kill off all of us low dwellers? Idjits.
On that topic . . . for two thousand years they left us to our own devices. Then the rumblings of the Apocalypse started and they came back to earth to help push things along. They wanted the Apocalypse, so they could have a final battle with Lucifer and take earth for themselves. One of ’em in particular was pushing for the prize fight—Michael.
Michael’s an archangel, the top tier, the most powerful. There were four archangels—Michael, Lucifer, Raphael, and Gabriel. Now, Michael and Lucifer are locked up together in a cage in hell, Gabriel’s dead, and Raphael . . . he’s (I guess it’s she, now—switched vessels) she’s locked in a civil war for control of heaven. Heavy stuff.
Archangels are way more powerful than rank-and-file angels, and are assigned special duties, like protecting prophets of the Lord from harm. Far as I can tell, the powers of an archangel are on par with that of God—near limitless. That’s not to say that they’re invincible. Gabriel was killed by Lucifer, so that don’t really count, but they are mortal beings. Just, you know, mortals that have been alive for eons and who channel the energy of God Himself.
There are also other tiers of angels, like the cherubs—that’s what Cupid is. They’re assigned to fulfill divine will by arranging love connections on earth. Keep that in mind the next time you see a looker across the bar—you might be getting played by a cherub. John and Mary Winchester were, according to Cupid, an arranged couple. All part of the heavenly plan, fulfilling their destiny, yada yada yada. Two sides of the same coin—the hunter family and the Michael Sword, combining to form two brothers who could fulfill their bullcrap prophecy. Light and dark, yin and yang, Dean and Sam. If I’ve learned one thing from my dealings with angels, it’s that there’s no such thing as destiny. Just choices that you can have thrust on you, or make for yourself.
Know this—if you do choose to defy an angel, get ready for the fight of your life. Keep these things in mind, they might just save you from getting your head shoved up your ass:
• Permission. This is their Achilles’ heel. Unlike demons, angels need permission to take control of a host. It seems like a small thing, but it makes all the difference in the world. They can’t jump from meatsuit to meatsuit willy-nilly, and their list of potential vessels isn’t limitless. There’s a bloodline of angel vessels, descended from who knows where, and if those vessels say no, the angels are stuck floating around like a fart in the wind. Certain angels require more powerful vessels, like the archangels. Not just any human is built tough enough to contain Lucifer or Michael, and that’s where Sam and Dean fit into the plan. They were supposed to be the hosts for Lucifer (Sam) and Michael (Dean) for their final battle, the one that’d take out half the earth. But they didn’t count on Dean and Sam showing some backbone and saying no. That may be their fatal flaw—angels rely on humans to go along with their plans, but humans have that which angels lack . . . free will.
• Angelic blades. A weapon that all angels carry, an angelic blade is shorter than a sword, but longer than a dagger. They’re effective against almost anything, including angels themselves. It’ll take a direct blow to be fatal, but it can be done. Dean killed Zachariah with one. The problem is that they’re not easy to come by. Black market occult arms dealers are out there, but none of them stock angel blades. Unless you happen upon a dead angel, you’re not likely to ever encounter one of their blades, except if you find yourself at the pointy end of one.
• Enochian. Normal black magic doesn’t affect angels, so you have to dig a little deeper. Turns out you just have to be speaking the right language. Enochian is the native spoken and written language of angels, and has its own symbology and phonetics that can be used in a whole mess of spells, like:
• Banishment sigil. Learned this one from Castiel. It’s a little tricky, since it has to be written in blood, but that’s magic for you. Once you’ve scratched out the basic form of the symbol, you place your bloody hand right in the center to complete the banishment ritual. Any angel (this works on all of them, from cherubs to archangels) in the area will be blasted to the next time zone. (Or dimensional realm, I don’t know. They’re not in the room any more, and that’s good enough for me.) Interesting to note—this works with both human and angelic blood. Probably works with demon blood, too. Might be worth experimenting, seeing which kind is most effective.
• Warding inscription. Couldn’t replicate this one myself, for obvious reasons, but Castiel gave Sam and Dean an Enochian warding inscription—he carved it right into their ribs. Unless you’ve got a high pain tolerance and a really small chisel, I’d move on to the next one.
• Torment chant. A line of Enochian that’ll wrack an angel’s insides with pain. Useful for a hot second, but it won’t last. And believe me, you use this on one, they’re gonna be pissed, and you’ll probably be worse off than if you just tried to run. If you did that, maybe they’d at least take pity on how pathetic you are. Still, the chant is short and it could help in a pinch. The Enochian:
Pizin Noco Iad.
A word to the wise, though—Enochian ain’t pronounced like Latin. Get yourself a beginner’s guide from an occult shop. Each letter is pronounced as a single syllable, so it takes longer to say than you’d think.
• Angel exorcism. Guess I lied, this one’s actually Latin. Close enough. This invocation will pull the angel from their vessel (temporarily) and send them back to heaven. Again, the spell isn’t even trying to kill ’em, so they’ll just come back more pissed than ever. But if you’re about to get your ass smote (smited? smitten?) then it’s better than nothing. The Latin:
Omnipotentis Dei potestatem invoco . . .
omnipotentis Dei potestatem invoco . . .
omnipotentis Dei potestatem invoco . . .
Domine in caelo.
• Summoning. I’ve only got half the puzzle pieces on this one. Angels can be summoned by prayer (“Dear Cass, who art in heaven, could ya shag ass down here for a minute and help a fella out? No? That’s what I thought.”), but that very rarely works. Apparently they got more important things to do in heaven, besides listening to humans gripe about our problems. If you want an audience with an angel, you gotta have something they want, otherwise prepare to wait a long time on bended knee. There is another way, but it’s complicated. An Enochian sigil is required, along with a bowl of herbs, which you then gotta light on fire. I don’t know the shape of the sigil, I don’t know the herbs. What I do know is the Enochian phrase that you’ve gotta say right as you’
re lighting the whole thing up:
Nirdo Noco Abramg Nazpsad.
And just like that, you’ve got an inbound angel. I assume you gotta name the angel you want a visit from someplace in the Enochian sigil, otherwise you’ll get the whole heavenly host on your ass, which doesn’t sound like a party I want to go to. Those guys could make an orgy somber.
• Location ritual. Say you tried the summoning ritual and it didn’t work. Your next best bet: tracking down the angel and going to them. Here’s how. Take a clay bowl, inscribed with this sigil:
1. In the bowl, place two chunks of consecrated bread (or Communion wafers), the wing bones of a bird (don’t matter what type, as long as it flies), and the following herbs:
Marjoram
Coriander
Cumin
Mustard Seed
Rosemary
2. Or, if you’re lazy, just use Mrs. Dash seasoning, it’s got all of those in it. I’m totally serious. Check the label.
3. Anyway, take all those, add a bit of holy oil (available at fine purveyors of occult items worldwide) and light that sucker up. As it burns, say the following:
Zamran Ils Soba Vpaah Zixlai Grosb.
4. Finally, drop a map into the flame. It’ll burn away everywhere the angel ain’t. Don’t be surprised if the whole thing disappears—unless you’ve got your hands on a map of heaven, the location ritual will only work if the angel’s on the terrestrial plane.
That’s it for the Enochian. I’m sure there’s a whole lot more, but I’m new to angel lore. Learning as I go. Far as other angel weaknesses go:
• The Colt. Only archangels are invulnerable to the Colt’s bullets, so that means the rank-and-file are fair game. ’Course, you’ll have to find the Colt first. . . .
• Holy oil. Maybe I shoulda listed this first, since it’s the only real weapon a regular schmuck has against an angel. Holy oil, when lit on fire, can be used to contain an angel like a devil’s trap. If they cross a line of burning holy oil, the angel burns. Dead. Gone, forever, not just sent back to heaven. They also can’t zap away, and their powers are limited within the circle. You can also make yourself a holy oil Molotov cocktail by taking a glass bottle, filling it halfway with the oil, then stuffing it with an oil-soaked rag. Light the rag on fire and throw, but be warned—if you miss, you’re as good as dead.
What am I leaving out? My eyes feel like they’re gonna fall out if I don’t get sleep soon, but my mind won’t ease off the gas. So much I’ve gotta get written down. I could go on with angel stories forever, especially if you count all the ones about Gabriel, who for the longest time we thought was a trickster named Loki—wait. Trickster. Messy workmanship, godlike power, sketchy motivation . . .
I need to go back to the junkyard.
Anansesem
DIDN’T FIND WHAT I WAS looking for in the junkyard. I was hoping—well, kind of hoping, anyway—that I’d find candy wrappers. See, Gabriel has a sweet tooth, and leaving candy wrappers behind was always his trademark. The guy ate more Reese’s Pieces than E.T. Not that this could actually be Gabriel, since he’s dead—Lucifer shanked him like a . . . thing you shank. Though it wouldn’t be the first time that a piece was put back on the chess board after it was knocked off—God (or whoever’s up there pulling strings) has been known to bring back people He’s taken a shine to. Like Cass, twice, or Sam and Dean, a bazillion times.
Either way, there’s no sign of Gabriel by the Chevelle, but that doesn’t mean one of his ilk isn’t involved here. By that, I mean tricksters, the wiliest bastards ever to walk the planet. Like I said, their power borders on godlike, and they’re petty, vindictive, sometimes arbitrary with their victims—they’re creatures whose sole motivation seems to be teaching people stupid lessons.
You know what? Speaking of stupid lessons, I think this’d be a good time for a little mental exercise. A “what would you do?” activity, to see if you’ve learned anything yet. Because Lord knows, I didn’t make the right calls when I was in this situation.
Years back, must have been the late eighties, I was on a solo hunt in the backwoods of Arkansas. It was hotter than Hades, and muggy, too—not my ideal vacation spot. I was looking into the deaths of five elderly women from a nursing home outside Calico Rock, all of whom died in fires. Separate, self-contained fires, all within the walls of the nursing home. Now, fires by themselves aren’t mysterious, but in each case, the fire marshal’s report stated that the fire’s source was on the women’s clothing. No accelerants were found at the scenes, but the fires burned rapidly and uncontrollably, until they suddenly stopped. As if all the air had been sucked out of the room. Always after the woman had been totally consumed by the flames. Starting to sound like my kind of work, right?
My investigation was by the book—interviewed witnesses, nobody saw anything. Interviewed family, learned that the women knew each other, mostly from their bridge games at the home. Calico Rock isn’t a big town, and they’d all lived nearby their entire lives, so they were bound to have run into each other over the years, but everyone remembered them as nice ladies who largely kept to themselves. Gossiped a bit, but who doesn’t?
My working theory: ever heard of spontaneous human combustion? Each woman had been immolated entirely without burning down the rest of the building. No heat sources were nearby. Nobody saw anything out of the ordinary—just a sudden fire that went out just as suddenly. Nothing else seemed to fit. The question became: why? Who (or what) was behind it?
The only person to say anything out of turn about the charbroiled women was an old widower who lived in their nursing home. He had skin the color of burned toast, and a smile that made him seem less than trustworthy, but any source was better than none. He told me that the old women argued over their bridge game constantly. That, at the end of the day, they couldn’t stand each other, but had no one else to talk to. Said they’d been friends so long they knew exactly what was most annoying and infuriating about each other. An interesting wrinkle, but not solid enough to base any conclusions on. I looked through their few possessions—they weren’t dabbling in black magic, they hadn’t made any demon deals, they weren’t suicidal arsonists.
I spent a week in town, poring over every scrap of intel, over and over again. Thinking I must have missed something. That’s when I found something—names.
Jeremy Prious
Alberta Prious
Maybelle Prious
The same names appeared in the wills of two of the deceased women. A connection that nobody had mentioned. When I asked after the names, the families of both women dismissed the connection. A woman named Georgiana Prious had been a housekeeper in Calico Rock, and those were her children (now grown). Georgiana had worked for both families, and it was out of gratitude for her hard work that money from each estate was set aside to make sure her children got an education—only those children were thirty-six, thirty-three, and twenty-eight, so the story didn’t hold up. “My mother hasn’t updated her will since my father passed,” one girl told me. “That must be why the Prious kids are still listed.” Bullshit. Something was up, and I was going to get right to the bottom of it.
I went through the newspaper microfiche at the public library, searching for any mention of Georgiana Prious. As a housekeeper in the fifties, she didn’t come up much. The part I haven’t mentioned yet—Calico Rock was something like 97 percent white, and the Prious family was African-American. I try to keep my head above any of that sort of racial nonsense, but it seemed like it could be a factor in whatever had happened.
After hours of fruitless, mind-numbing searching, I found the one and only mention of Georgiana Prious in the public record—her obituary. March 19, 1964. Died in a fire. There was a connection here, but not enough information in the article to let me piece it together.
Looked into the other three women’s wills—none of them had any reference to the Prious family, but I didn’t stop there. I went back to their next of kin and asked about Georgiana, and all of them knew who she
was. She’d only worked for one of them, but another had heard about Georgiana’s tragic death, and the last one—a Mrs. Baldwin—well, it was her house that Georgiana died in. While, according to the police, Prious was robbing the Baldwins. The fire was electrical—an accident—and Georgiana was trapped inside the basement to burn while the fire department tried to put out the blaze.
It was time to talk to Jeremy, Alberta, and Maybelle Prious.
Getting the three of them into one room was a trickier proposition than I imagined it would be—they all hated each other, and hadn’t spoken in almost ten years. The only way I could convince them to meet was by dangling the carrot of a payout from the estates of the fried-to-a-crisp women. When they heard the amount they were entitled to, they reluctantly agreed to join me at the local watering hole for a drink and a quick chat.
What followed was the most uncomfortable first drink I’ve ever had, followed by a few so-so drinks, then a revelatory fifth through eighth drink. The Prious kids were beyond damaged by what had happened to their mother. She was the woman who took care of them, the only person they had in the world (their father had been killed in an automobile accident when the kids were young), and she died tragically, only to be afterwards accused of a crime they knew she didn’t commit. Their mother wasn’t a thief, she couldn’t have been one—she had three kids to support, she wouldn’t risk being arrested or losing her housekeeping jobs.
It was more than that, though. The kids believed that Georgiana was the victim of a cover-up—that the police knew that she wasn’t robbing the house, but was an invited guest. For what reason, none of them could even venture a guess. All they knew was that all of the women who had died—they had all been close friends at the time of Georgiana’s death, and they all had conspired to keep the circumstances of her passing secret.