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

by Sean M O'Connell

  “Together! Group together!”

  It was their only hope against these odds, watch one another’s backs and fight in cooperation. He rushed through the wind to meet a small knot of Angels that were the major focus of the attacking force. The twin sisters followed him, snagging the wings and necks of Possessed with their taut-stretched chain as they went, casting the broken downward to be set-upon by the crowd at the foot of the statue. The able-bodied men and women down below would be ready with makeshift weapons and even a few guns to dispatch the wounded Demons that were once their neighbors.

  Seeing trouble for one of his own -a boy named Alessio who had been here since the beginning of the conflict- Cruz veered off course to help.

  Almost in that instant the priest saw it.

  The telltale glow cast a crown of light onto Alessio’s face that made his grim expression simultaneously beautiful and terrifying. It hovered around the dark, sweat-streaked curls like a poisonous gift, gorgeous and damning.

  A Halo.

  In the moment, Alessio noticed it too.

  Perhaps he felt some warmth on his brow or noticed the way the light changed, emanating stronger from his own crown than the far-off sun. As he fought, his eyes searched the sky and found Raphael Cruz. With a resigned smile, he nodded a goodbye to the priest and turned away. Reckless, but effective in separating himself from the pack and drawing more of the Fallen to follow. They too noticed it, the ring of light that meant Alessio’s death. Cruz’s heart broke to watch his friend go, wreathed in the glow of a halo, given by God as a warning, or maybe as an invitation.

  The halo appeared above all of the Angels meant to die, and though there was no science to its prediction, he and his companions had learned that whether it took minutes or days, once the halo appeared, there was no changing the destiny of its bearer.

  Alessio -winging away in a ball of feathers and fury- might fight on for days before they finally overwhelmed his kamikaze efforts, or he might already be drawing his last breaths.

  There was no way to know.

  In the days between battles, all of the Angels gathered at the Cristo agreed that once any of them were haloed, they would go. Each would head out to sea and take as many of the attackers with them as possible.

  The Possessed knew what the strange rings of light meant. Upon seeing one they would swarm, hoping to score a killing blow. Cruz had even seen them grasp at the glowing ring of one dead Angel, trying to claim the ethereal circle as a trophy. The offending hand and arm had melted grotesquely. Ever since then, the Demons avoided contact with the haloes themselves, attacking from beneath and behind rather than risk being burned by energy from Heaven itself.

  So Alessio was gone, another of their heroic number culled by the ever-stronger onslaught of demons.

  Another martyr who Father Cruz was sure would soon receive a deserved welcome into his Father’s Kingdom. Perhaps his own halo would come soon, but for now he would fight on.

  Raphael turned away from the comet-like beauty of Alessio’s final battle to rejoin the fray.

  Most of his remaining friends had found their way back to the nucleus of conflict, where they whirled and swooped with terrible, violent grace. White flashes in a thickening boil of enemy malice.

  Just as Father Cruz clawed his way through the airborne crowd to join his fellows, he heard the distinctive sound of helicopter rotors. Once commonplace in the skies above Rio; choppers had been mostly grounded for months. It was too dangerous to fly unescorted, and even more dangerous to make an unplanned landing in one of the city’s un-policed streets. Yet here came the sound like the long-forgotten songs of his youth.

  Friends and enemies alike slowed their dance of death long enough to crane their necks and squint into the dying light. He saw them, in stark relief to the orange reflection of sunset on the water.

  A whole fleet of choppers came on, roaring toward them on a trajectory that could only be meant to end at the Cristo itself.

  One of the Fallen took advantage of the confused moment and hit Cruz from behind with something hard and heavy. The blow sent a bolt of lightning down his right side and suddenly he found it impossible to control flight. Straining to look over his shoulder, he noticed the wing on that side skewed at an impossible angle, pointing almost straight down as the priest tried to maintain balance.

  Broken.

  Father Cruz started to fall, aiming his out-of-control spin for the outstretched hand of the statue. His attacker followed, striking again and again at the weakened flesh. Cruz turned himself over

  in order to absorb some of the blows. A flawed strategy, he realized, as the iron club of his attacker cracked into his eye socket. The struggling pair tumbled in haphazard embrace through the air until they finally crashed against the open palm of Jesus.

  Soapstone cracked and crumbled earthward, jarred loose by the sudden halt to their descent. Cruz’s momentum carried him across the smooth surface and over the opposite edge.

  Blood-slick palms found uncertain purchase on the sculpted thumbnail of the Redeemer and he dangled there for a few tense breaths, trying to re-establish a firm grip and pull himself to safety. He could see the woman who had attacked him shaking off the cobwebs of impact. Drawing herself up to her feet.

  Her wings were a mottled charcoal color, and she stretched them tentatively, as if to test their soundness.

  Without a word, she stalked across the shattered surface toward him.

  Raphael’s broken bones knitted themselves together even as he clung to the edge, but too slowly. If she broke his grip -as she was sure to do- he would fall. While the drop might not kill him, it would certainly leave him grievously wounded, and out of commission for too long to be of any use in the coming days’ conflict.

  He redoubled his efforts to pull back up onto firm footing, digging his fingertips into minute cracks on the sculpture and pulling with all of his might. To no avail.

  Crusted bird droppings came away under his hands and he had to scrabble yet again just to keep from falling. Precious seconds ticked by as the priest fought a losing battle to gain purchase and save himself.

  The woman grinned her too-wide grin and came toward him with purpose. Fierce winds whipped her hair into a wriggling corona and made her blouse cling to her body.

  wind?

  Two sharp cracks fought their way through the drone of rising engine noise and his would-be killer stopped mid-stride. Dark holes opened where there should be none above her left eye and in the middle of her neck, just below the chin.

  She slumped where she was, first to her knees and then facedown onto the stone.

  Dead.

  Next, two angels landed hard in front of him, on their feet, perfectly balanced, as if jumping down from a great height.

  The first, tall and red haired -with wide streaks of blue in his feathers- paced quickly to the body of their enemy. Stepping lightly over the place where her scarlet blood had begun to pool in the channel between the statue’s first and second finger, he bent down to check for a pulse that was sure to be absent.

  The other turned and toed the precipice on either side of Father Cruz’s slippery hands. He grabbed the priest by one wrist and hauled him bodily up to safety. The puzzled look in his eyes gave way to an understanding, apologetic nod of the head after a look at Cruz’s mangled wing.

  “Obrigado. Thank you my friend.” was all Cruz could think to say as the other man -handsome, almost sculpted- reached with both hands to pull the long bone of his broken appendage into place, aiding in the already accelerated healing process. He winced in sympathy at the popping noises that came from the injury, but said nothing.

  Silently, the Angel pointed downward, toward the encampment at the feet of their Redeemer. Where the last of his outnumbered angels were being reinforced, bolstered by scores more of their own who dove from the helicopters and swooped vengefully into the fray.

  Aboard the choppers, serious-looking men dressed in all black systematically chose and execu
ted targets. Their aim was apparently flawless. Father Cruz kept count as each muzzle-report brought blood and ruined bodies, all gleaned from the horde of Possessed that had only moments ago had appeared irreversibly destined to murder all of those under Father Cruz’s protection. Even now the tide was turning as pair after pair of dark-plumed wings fell from the Brazilian sky.

  His two new friends flashed perfect, fierce smiles at him and then stepped off of the edge, wings tucked close and arms spread in the most perfect of swan dives toward the battle. They looked like twin sculptures themselves, artfully proportioned visions of muscular grace. They came and went like carefully designed machines of God’s vengeance, Almost too perfect.

  Even for Angels.

  Father Raphael Cruz followed them over the precipice just as his bones and tissues ratcheted themselves back into place with little crunching sounds. The shepherd again ready to protect his flock.

  The megalith statue of Christ looked on in somber silence.

  Decrypted Archival File 0229-308

  KC Marcus Rossborough Monk Zion Province USA

  Entry 1: Specialist Clergy KC Aaron Dayne Monk (designate Redskin) MIA. Suspected enemy capture

  Entry 2: Distress communication attempt w/ Redskin - Failure.

  Entry 3: Call-sign Wicked whereabouts unknown. Suspected escape

  Salt Lake City, Utah

  “They got Aaron!”

  Serena Dayne was apparently intent on telling Bishop her bad news now.

  Now.

  The other SK officers in the room -and even more so their National Guard counterparts- tried to conceal their reaction to her entrance.

  Bishop, through a low ranking clerk, had informed her that she would have to wait twenty minutes or so until he finished with a strategy debriefing.

  Serena refused to wait.

  The door lying flat on the floor in front of her evidenced as much, its shattered hinges dangled like loose teeth. She flowed into the room, eyes locked on Bishop. Behind her followed another woman, short and dark. Bishop thought he recognized her as one of the Angels. Of course she would have to be, in order to make it past the many layers of security between the room where they stood and the gate.

  This Angel moved differently than the others.

  Serena Dayne glided along with lazy grace, even when her wings weren’t evident. This other one stalked like a jaguar.

  Both of them were striking, and neither looked at all happy.

  Evidence of the terrible battle at West High was etched all over their bodies. Bishop knew that the fight had recently ended in an apparent enemy retreat.

  Serena’s clothes were blackened by ash, their original color now forever lost to the stains of smoke and disaster. The other one - what was her name? - June.. June’s shoes and topshirt were gone, and her tight pants feathered into tatters below the knee. Caked-on darkness of what could only be blood covered her hands and arms all the way past the elbows. Across her stomach a jagged raw line moved as it tried to heal itself. For some reason, the wound kept re-opening.

  Strange.

  Her black hair had been robbed of its usual shine by the same smoke that stained Serena, and soot lines marked the paths that rivulets of her sweat had taken from forehead to chin.

  “Did you hear me?” Serena persisted.

  Every gaze in the room swung his way. Even his trusted Deacons and the single man holding the rare rank of Priest. Bishop had no choice but to deal with the Angels now.

  “Yes Ms. Dayne, I heard you. I already knew Redskin had been captured. We’ve been in constant radio contact with the teams who were helping you at West. Your ex-husband is among three who were captured and carried off, airborne. Monks are currently regrouping and preparing search and rescue response.”

  “How many are you sending?” Serena wasn’t satisfied

  “Ms. Dayne, the attack was much more organized than we expected. The bump in enemy numbers would indicate that at least a portion of the attack force came from out of town, out of state even. Most likely Las Vegas or Reno. Locally, we suffered greater losses today than we have in all the months since the transformations combined. Ninety-one Monks have been found in the rubble so far. Civilian casualties at least five times that, and we think a hundred Angels or more were Haloed. The attack was concentrated on all of you as I’m sure you are well aware.” He pointed his pen at their ruined clothes and skin.

  “In light of all this, the search and rescue operation is not receiving Sacramental Priority.”

  Now June spoke up.

  “Spare us the church-speak. We weren’t all raised by nuns.” she snapped “What does that mean, ‘no Sacramental Priority?”

  She didn’t move like an Angel, and certainly didn’t talk like one. Bishop’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. He wondered if there was a way to fake Angelic manifestation.

  “It means that we unfortunately have more important things to take care of in the here and now. But I assure you that we will do our best to find him and the others once we have the manpower.”

  Another voice, deep and calm, called from just outside the door.

  “By then it will probably be too late.”

  Light from the hallway was temporarily obscured as Scott Fitzpatrick filled the door frame.

  “Aaron and the others have to be found now. Before that woman has a chance to work on them. Lougee did some research on her, and if even half of the stories are true, we can’t afford to let her get any one of them alone.” he avoided looking at Serena as he said this, knowing her regret still burned. “She breaks people, Bishop. She has been doing it for a long time. Even before she was really Possessed.”

  “Angel Fitzpatrick, I am afraid that your opinion on this matter is heavily skewed due to your relationship with the Monk in question. Your personal connection is making you irrational.” Bishop hated trying to talk to civilians like soldiers. The Angels that he and his men worked with were uncannily fast, strong, and brave, but they didn’t necessarily fit into the highly structured system of the Sleepless Knights.

  Scott Fitzpatrick frowned at him, but didn’t take the bait.

  “Irrational or not, we need to find him. Aaron is our friend.”

  “Yes, I know. He’s also a soldier, and a damned good one. In fact he would understand the course of action we are forced to take better than any of you.” Bishop’s eyes were dark, as always, and they glinted hard at the trio of Angels.

  “I don’t want to lose Aaron Dayne any more than you do. But a lot of people died today. We lost a clinic, a food bank, a base, and more Angels than I care to even think about if the incoming intelligence is correct. We have some serious messes to clean up. I need to shuffle Monks, munitions, and Angels. Word coming down from the Archbishops is that most of California is a total loss and that we might have to send support to Simi Valley and Coronado just to get the remaining Knights and Angels out of there.” Bishop was entering one of his monotonous tirades, loaded with blank-faced exasperation. “If our enemy attacked us again right now with even half of the force we saw today, we’d be in real trouble.” He pointed to the ceiling. “Fitzpatrick, you and your own handful of Monks are probably the only reason this roof hasn’t fallen in on our heads.” He swept a hand around the room to encompass the officers seated there.

  “Every one of these people lost somebody under their command today. Still, you don’t hear them making ridiculous demands. Your help is invaluable to us, but I am asking that you try to respect the chain of command and trust in strategic process.” His tone indicated that he hated having to ask anything at all. “I give you my word that we will send our best after Redskin as soon as we can afford to do so.”

  Serena was about to open her mouth in protest, but Scott rumbled on first.

  “That’s what you are not understanding. You can’t afford not to go after them. This woman will torture and interrogate them all, and she will break them. I don’t know how long it will take, but everyone cracks eventually.” He still wouldn’t
look at Serena. “Aaron has been trained to resist conventional torture techniques. Unfortunately, the stuff this… this witch does is something else altogether. Aaron has been consulted and filled in on literally all of the plans and movements for the Western Battalion of the Knights of the Clergy. He knows way too much for you to just let him be interrogated.” Aaron’s increased role had been Bishop’s call, and everyone in the room knew it.

  “Besides” Scott continued. “I am going no matter what you say. And I’m taking as many with me as will follow.”

  Serena nodded her approval. June picked at the blood dried under her fingernails and raised her eyebrows in a manner that suggested she seconded the motion.

  “You can’t do that.”

  “Of course we can.” June spat back. “And we are damn well going to. So either nut-up and give us Monks and transport or stop wasting our time talking.”

  Bishop’s lip curled disdainfully at the young Angel, breaking his mask of stoic professionalism. She had pushed him too far.

  He spat into the corner. His ‘tell’ in the poker game of life.

  Serena stepped forward before he could say anything.

  “Bishop, listen. Scott is right. Aaron is a huge part of your operation here. Your men respect him, the Angels listen to him. You yourself went to bat to get him pushed into Clergy status even though he was an emergency enlistment for the ‘Knights. If this woman and Valdez get into his head they might get the keys to pushing us past the point of survival.” She tried to keep her tone measured, to be the voice of reason. “We are already severely outnumbered, and Salt Lake is the last place in the West where we have any sort of advantage. We can’t afford to lose that. Refugees are coming in every day. They have been for months! If we can’t protect them, nobody can. And if Aaron betrays that kind of information, he will be useless to you even if they don’t kill him, because could never forgive himself.”

  Behind the beard, Bishop’s expression softened just slightly. His jaw clenched once.