To Light Us, To Guard Us (The Angel War Book 1)

by Sean M O'Connell

  He’d simply picked one of the hundreds of balconies on the south face of the obelisk and jimmied his way into the plush suite. From there, he once again headed upward, moving cautiously from floor to floor. He passed through museum-quality collections of art, dioramas of jewels, darkened sex halls. Everything conceivable to the human imagination and then some. Every conceivable decadence seemed to have a place in Babel.

  Twice he came across what appeared to be security forces. They were thick-necked and serious looking. Holdovers from the hotel’s original staff. They moved quietly and efficiently, sweeping with assault rifles through the corridors. One pair passed below him as he watched and listened from the top of an indoor palm tree. The next pair wasn’t so fortunate. Peni left the both of them shuddering and broken, but not before a single gunshot rang out.

  In the darkness and calm of these upper levels the sound was deafening.

  His plan to infiltrate the tower quietly, alone, had failed.

  What exactly had happened was still somewhat of a blur. The blur replayed and rewrote itself over and over again in recurring nightmares.

  Vague remembrance of rushing feet and shouting voices flitted round his brain in the solace. There had been pain, and stark, bitter cold.

  The only consistent picture in his mind was of the woman.

  The witch.

  The same one he’d seen on his first excursion into Babel. She had been there, glaring hard at him and muttering dark words. Her voodoo or spells or whatever they were made Peni’s head swim and somehow struck him with a profound, ugly grief.

  The darkness emanating from her engulfed him eventually, and he awoke in utter blackness.

  Without any way of knowing how long he’d been out, he could only guess that it must have been a long time.

  The way his voice echoed against far off walls told him that his cell was a cavernous room. Heavy, cool air gave him the feeling that he was deep underground. Buried already.

  His captors had chained him. Heavy hooks bit into the new flesh of his wings. Tungsten-magnesium alloy created to be virtually indestructible. Each single link was capable of bearing loads in excess of ten-thousand pounds.

  Peni had no way of knowing this, and so he strained against the bonds. Hooks had fallen away, taking bloody gobs of feather and skin, but the chains, doubled and re-doubled over his broad shoulders and around his hips, always held fast. Eventually he relaxed his wings, and they slid back out of sight as they always did when he wasn’t using them. The shackles on his wrists and ankles sliced into his skin, but the wounds closed almost as fast as they opened. He was covered in his own dried blood.

  The Bruja visited him every day. Or at least he thought it was every day.

  At first he had struggled and raged against her burns.

  Eventually the futility of the struggle became apparent and he had tried retreating into his own head, meditating on the peace of his days at home and the saturated emerald green of the islands. But she wouldn’t afford him even that luxury.

  Her black magic infiltrated him, tore at his soul and stirred up disturbing images.

  Over and over she made him see the death of his nephews, which of course he hadn’t actually witnessed. In the waking nightmare created by the Bruja, Peni saw the boys trapped in a burning car, their skin melting into the vinyl seats and dash. Their bloody fingers traced smears onto the glass of the windows as they screamed for help, calling him by name. In the horrible dream, their mother, who had died with them, stood beside the car smiling at him with the Witch’s smile as her own hair and clothes burned.

  The dream, like those of his sleep, repeated itself over and over.

  Time stretched interminably.

  All the while, the Bruja set him on fire, cut pieces out of him, traced occult symbols on him to match her own. The markings wouldn’t stay, would not even scar, but she continued to carve them.

  More than once she brought venomous snakes and spiders to aid in her torture. Perhaps she conjured them out of nowhere, Peni wasn’t sure. His agony became a haze of burning stench and blood.

  No food or water was provided him, but he still felt strong. The breakdown and exhaustion of deprivation were not allowed him. He could only sit and wait.

  For what?

  The Bruja never spoke. There was no interrogation about his transformation or his association with Deacon and the outfit of soldiers.

  She asked nothing of him except his suffering.

  Peni wondered how long it would continue. In his head, he kept a tally, but it was hard to say exactly how long it had been going on.

  The Bruja was keeping track. They had captured the huge brown-skinned angel over six months ago, and still she had not been able to break him.

  There were no questions to ask.

  Her aim was to disconnect him from the hope, or faith, or force of will that allowed him to endure.

  Some divine strength sustained him.

  The Bruja’s task was to find a way to interrupt that strength.

  She stood side by side with her boss, who regarded the Angel with contempt.

  “How long are you going to continue?” Valdez asked her.

  “Patience is a virtue.” She chimed back with her childish voice.

  Hunter Valdez was not a virtuous man.

  “I will torture him until he breaks or he dies.” she clarified.

  “What have you learned from him?”

  The witch’s eyes were disconcerting, even to him.

  “So much…” her voice trailed off before she followed with any details.

  “But what has he told you?”

  “He hasn’t told me anything Hunter.”

  Nobody else addressed him by his first name. They were all too afraid, and that was exactly how he liked it. But not this bitch. Not the Bruja. Biting back his frustration, he growled another question.

  “Nothing? Why not!? You have had him down here for long enough.”

  She sighed and assumed a patronizing tone, like an adult telling a young child where babies come from. Apparently her admiration had evaporated.

  “Because I haven’t asked him anything yet. I doubt he knows much as it is. What makes him valuable is what I learn from his endurance. He teaches me how much these Angels can take. Don’t you feel like we should know the limits of our enemies?” she prodded.

  “What limits?!” he wailed back at her “We already know they are nearly in-fucking-vincible! The men in black. The Monks, they are just men. But the angels, they can hardly be killed!”

  Valdez was dangerously close to working himself into another tantrum. The last time he had done so, seventeen had died, including Adam Kreutzer, Babel’s defacto militia chief.

  The Bruja ignored his fouling mood.

  “Indeed, I’ve been at the Hawaiian now for over six months. I’ve burnt him, branded him, poisoned him. I’ve called down the Daemons and the Wormwords to destroy his mind. Nothing works. Heat, cold, starvation; totally impervious! He is a rock.” There was a twisted admiration in her voice. “But they can be killed quite easily if you know what you are doing. They regenerate quickly only when allowed to. But there must be something to regenerate from.” she explained “Blow off the head and the brain can’t re-grow to hang in the air. Tear out the heart and the body dies before the tissues can rebuild. Their strength comes from the soul, just as yours and mine, but they still need their bodies.”

  The enormous Angel hung limply in his chains, silent and brooding. To Valdez, the captor didn’t appear to be weak or sick. He hung in still repose.

  As though he waited.

  “I want you to find out how they do it Witch. I want to know how I can do the same thing. I’m growing tired of eating twenty meals a day in order to prevent myself from falling apart.”

  Indeed, the biggest challenge Valdez had faced since gathering his host of followers was assuaging their hunger. His militia needed to eat constantly in order to offset the metabolic breakdown associated with their col
lective metamorphosis. Some were not as gifted as he, and required less. A rare few appeared to be almost his equal, in a physical sense at least, and they were irascible. The Bruja shamed them all, indiscriminately consuming rations by the pound and gallon. She was particularly hungry after her sessions with Peni.

  “Your scientists and nutritionists will find your fountain of youth for you Hunter.” she dismissed. “I am trying to pull the heaven out of this angel.”

  Then she went to work. .

  Sandy, Utah

  “What does he look like?” Aaron Dayne pointed at a tall man who strode nervously through the park.

  “ummmm… Ostrich..”

  “Ha!, okay.. What about her?”

  “ummm, rabbit.”

  “And her husband?”

  “Rabbit!”

  “what about the kids?”

  “rabbit, rabbit, aannnnddd… cow?”

  “Cow? But he’s just a baby!”

  “Not he Dad, she. ‘Cause the blanket is pink.” Came the exasperated reply.

  Aaron laughed at his own clear stupidity for missing such an obvious clue. He and Danny were seated across from one another at a picnic table under the shade trees at Granite Park on a Sunday. The afternoon was unseasonably warm and sunny, with pillow-stuffing clouds dotting the sky. The broad stretch of grass and playground were the same as they had been even in Aaron’s youth, the only difference being the size and property value of the surrounding houses, both of which were now exorbitant.

  Today was the first time father and son had been together for what now? Four weeks? Five? Collie had insisted that Aaron “take some time off and be a father to your child.” She was worried that Danny was becoming more withdrawn, timid.

  Aaron couldn’t see it. The boy had just finished explaining how every person looked just like an animal counterpart. The most common of which at the park today were apparently rabbits and large birds.

  They really do look like rabbits.

  “So how come the baby looks like a cow?’ Aaron pressed, delighted by the analysis of his son’s advanced analytical mind.

  “Big brown eyes.” Danny shrugged, and shoved another canned pear into his mouth, all at once.

  “Of course.. sorry bud.” It really did make sense, in a six-year-old logic kind of way. “Small bites, please.” The reprimand didn’t sound genuine, even to himself.

  Danny chewed his pear loudly, wiping away what the label on the can told them was heavy syrup. Xerxes, ever attentive to the cleanup needs of Danny’s meals, hovered nearby, waiting for the inevitable bits to be snuck under the table. Pig sat next to Aaron and rested his head against his master’s thigh, making contented little snuffling sounds.

  The autumn weather couldn’t have been better. For the first time in a very long time, a day was passing without real strife or trouble.

  Aaron was happy for a day out with what was left of his family.

  Almost fully relaxed.

  The one-hundred or so families crowding the park were grateful for the chance as well, having been notified the day before that a special escort would be provided at this park and three others around the Valley. The East side of the valley at least.

  Occasionally, young parents or fussy old grandmothers would glance worriedly at the sky, but they were all willing to risk it for what was likely the first purely fun day out in a very long time. Aaron watched his boy eat and soaked in the simplicity of the sounds around them. Crying babies, happily screaming kids, even the little yapping Jack Russell that had gotten into it with Pig and Xerxes.

  Normal sounds.

  Of course this day at the park was not quite normal. At least not totally.

  All along the park’s fence line, grim-looking Monks clad in all black wandered in pairs.

  They mostly kept their backs turned to the happy scene.

  At intervals, vaguely birdlike shadows would sweep across the green lawn, drawing nervous glances from parents and legal guardians, and much pointing, giggling and/or crying from the assorted ages of children. Aaron himself did not look up. He knew that the shadows were friendly ones, and that the Monks would do their jobs effectively.

  “So how is school?” he asked his miniaturized self. Aaron was just happy that schools were back in session, heavily guarded by Monks and regular enlisted.

  Another shrug.

  “s’okay I guess. We are studying subtractions. I don’t like it. And John Calloway keeps being a teacher’s pet.” The words “subtraction” and “Calloway” both carried a certain sourness with them as they left Danny’s lips.

  “That’s alright pal, I was never much good at math either, and I turned out okay right?”

  Even as the words left his mouth, Aaron wondered whether it was a good question to ask.

  What if Danny doesn’t think I turned out okay?

  Aaron didn’t much care what most adults thought of him, but little Danny’s opinion was pretty damned important. He had grudgingly worshiped his own father growing up.

  Now his mind mulled the possibilities of how Danny saw him.

  Was he scary? Embarrassing? A deadbeat, trained-killer dad?

  Deadbeat dad? No, I’m the superhero dad right?

  “Dad, can I see your gun!?”

  The boy had adopted an unhealthy obsession with guns ever since he’d seen Aaron cleaning his sidearm after a particularly long and violent ‘excursion’ with the KC.

  “Daniel! No! I told you, not until you’re older.” Then, softening his tone a bit. “Besides, I didn’t even bring it with me.”

  The boy slumped back down on his bench and shoved another oversized juicy bite into his maw. Talking around the fruit with exaggerated glumness.

  “Fine.”

  “Daniel, smaller bites!” The order came from over Aaron’s shoulder. Way over. The golden-honey voice had a hard time sounding stern, even before the angelic transformation.

  Now, punishments -at least of this nature- were completely unconvincing.

  Serena Dayne settled down gently next to their table, wagging a finger at her son with mock severity as she did. Immediately the dogs abandoned food and master to rub against her hands and the backs of her legs, scattering the birds that had followed her down. Tongues flapped wetly in happy canine smiles.

  “Told you so.” Aaron reprimanded his son. “Now you got us both in trouble.”

  Serena’s dazzling feathers folded and disappeared behind her, allowing her golden hair to shine by itself. She shoved away Xerxes attention good-naturedly and sat down opposite Aaron, next to their son. She smelled of cinnamon and vanilla. Accustomed now to being impressed by her perfect symmetry, Aaron looked away, reading out of habit the expressions of those surrounding. Predictably, they all appeared awestruck.

  “Hey lady” he poked.

  Usually he addressed her more formally. This greeting was a bit too familiar maybe, a relic from before Danny was born.

  Aaron didn’t care. He was in a good mood.

  She lifted an eyebrow at his hello, and offered a sort of sideways smile. Polite at least. Her elegant hands were attacking Danny’s face and hair in a fruitless effort to correct the boy’s perpetually unkempt appearance. He protested loudly.

  “Mom!”

  “Hold still! You got ketchup on your new shirt.” The shirt, a gift from Uncle Fizz, as Danny liked to call Scott, was red anyway.

  Aaron was amused by the fuss. His own crooked smile gave him away and Serena turned on him.

  “You know it might be a good idea to show your son some proper manners.” The jab was light, but Aaron read her tone well enough that he’d better step lightly. Only two days ago -while planning this little outing- he and Serena had really gotten into it. She had let him know exactly how she felt about him committing so much of his time to the fight way back when Bishop had first asked them for help, and her stance on the issue had not wavered.

  Not a bit.

  As always, he had yelled too much, and she had adopted the mothering t
one that only infuriated him more.

  “You are his father Aaron.” she had said. Slowly. As if explaining a new concept. Before her changes, she might have yelled too. Now she almost cooed at him, infinitely patient, as if the wings came with a whole package of virtues. They probably did.

  “Serena, we have been over this, and I don’t spend any more time away from him than you do. He understands, this work is important.”

  Again, as if to a slow child

  “He does not understand. He is seven years old. What could he possibly understand about this situation? And my participation in this was determined for me when I woke up and discovered that I could FLY.”

  He hated the way she emphasized the most important word in each sentence. Why not just cut all the others out and get her point across using only those key words?

  “You, Aaron Dayne, chose to involve yourself.”

  She sounds like my mom. He had told her as much.

  “Serena, you sound like my mother. And I had no more choice in this than you did. I am a soldier. I know more about urban warfare- and that is exactly what this is­- than almost everybody in this whole damn mess!” Do you want me to just sit around and wait? Let the problem come literally to our doorstep? I am doing what I know how to do, and I’m doing what is best for my son by protecting him before he has to see firsthand!”

  His shouting had drawn a disapproving look from Collie as she shut the hallway door so their argument wouldn’t wake Danny.

  Even the dogs looked at him queerly, unfairly biased in favor of his blonde Angel ex. But he hadn’t stopped there.

  “And it’s not just Danny. I have friends here. They killed Allie! My best friend joined up, and my wife..”

  “ex-wife.” She corrected with carefully measured tone. Not wanting to snap too hard at him and rub it in. His Freudian slip had killed the argument at least. He had left after that, embarrassed by her careful treatment.

  In the end Serena was right.

  If he wanted Danny to know him, as he had known his own father, he would need to make a better effort. The time together served him as well. There had been a lot of killing and a lot of dying, starting that day in the hospital and snowballing to a body count that even a combat veteran like Aaron deemed unacceptable. Sitting in the park with his boy and his dogs -and even Serena- helped keep him back from the edge, threw a curtain over the red light in himself.