“How do you explain what happened at the gym?” He asked, flat out.
“What is there to explain?”
“How did they find us?”
June pulled at her own hair, Serena noted, looking just as hurt as she was angry. Truly taken aback.
“Wha..? How the hell should I know?! You think I ratted you out? You think I ratted you out?!”
Scott wasn’t finished.
“How come you weren’t affected? By the spell or the chanting or whatever that was? I couldn’t even breathe. I couldn’t move. None of us could. But you were immune to it?”
“I… I guess.”
“How?”
“I don’t know… maybe..”
“It seems convenient to me. That you were the only one of fourteen to be unaffected.”
“Thirteen.” June corrected.
“What?”
“Thirteen of us at that point. Leggatt was already dead.” She didn’t use the term ‘haloed’ He was dead. “And I would have saved him if I could have, you self-righteous prick!” Her eyes burned hotly behind the ever-present cover of her bangs. “But once the halo shows up, the book’s already written. We all know that.”
Scott’s error had allowed her to gain momentum.
“I can’t explain to you why that mumbo jumbo didn’t affect me the same way it affected all of you. But you should be damn thankful that it didn’t. Or you’d have joined either Leggatt or Aaron by now. You have no right or reason to question my commitment!”
She pointed up at him. The crown of her head barely even reaching his chest.
“I didn’t choose this. It chose me. There is nothing convenient about it, but I’m going to see it through.” She clapped her mismatched wingtips in front of his face. An Angelic insult. “With or without your approval.” She turned to go, pushing through the crowd of stunned Monks and Deacons. Nobody tried to stop her.
Still, Scott had one more question.
“How come you didn’t kill them then?”
She stopped and looked back at him.
“Who? The three amigos?”
He nodded slightly. June just sighed and shook her head, her eyes finally fully softening from anger to sadness.
“I don’t know Scott. I guess I should have. But don’t you ever get sick of the killing? Even them?” With that she disappeared. Not waiting for his answer.
Silence descended on the room. The recorded message from the President had stopped, and now he smiled at all of them from his place on the projector screen in frozen encouragement.
Still seated, Serena searched Scott’s face, trying to read him. He looked back at her and then quickly looked away.
It was wrong of him to keep such suspicions to himself, especially from her.
Serena was shocked.
The large man had always been so careful and meticulous. Perhaps the pressure of everyday battle was becoming too much even for Scott Fitzpatrick. She reached a reassuring hand out to grip his massive forearm. Without looking at her, he pulled away and followed June out of the room. Serena hoped he was going to apologize.
That small hope died when he looked back. She could see that his eyes were still cold and angry. Unconvinced by June’s arguments.
He stopped in the doorway, filling it, and turned back to the rest of the Angels.
“The answer is, No. I don’t get sick of killing them. Not ever. And neither should any of you.”
Nellis Air Force Base, Nevada
In the early Nevada morning, the huge hangar bay at Nellis Air Force Base was full, not of aircraft, but of soldiers. Most of them, Rafael Cruz had come to learn, had been hand selected and meticulously trained by shadowy government officials and Generals whose command and missions were classified.
They called themselves the Knights of the Clergy. Cruz preferred the more informal nickname “Sleepless Knights” because it didn’t presume holiness for an organization that was not above subverting the very Angels they swore their loyalty to.
He was much less familiar with these strange warriors than most of his angelic counterparts. The notion made him uncomfortable.
Black-suited and somber faced. They bore no adornments save the rank that served also as their name.
Monk: Perhaps a thousand of them. Four letters cloned over and over again on the chests of capable men. Loyal and lethal, they moved with a muscular grace through the spaces in the crowd. The pungent smell of their sweat rose into the stifling air, ominous.
Deacon: Fewer, but still many. The priest guessed one for every twenty or so Monks. They leaned in close to the Monks to whisper orders or make requests. Leaders, the kind that would be the first into battle and the last out. Father Cruz paid special attention to the movements of these men. Outwardly, they conveyed unshakeable confidence and relaxed intelligence. He prayed that what lie within them was at least a match.
Bishops stood around the edges of the great room. Observing and scrutinizing. Counting, calculating, and relaying orders to the Deacons. Their faces shifted in puzzling masks of eagerness and regret.
Interspersed through the crowd were slick-eyed men wearing the name Priest on their tags. Ghosts of an already ghostly system. Their stories were told in the way they stood alone, apart even from those who shared their rare rank. Monks and Deacons gave them wide berth. The Bishops who were required to speak with them turned away wearing distasteful expressions.
Every last one of them looked dangerous, prepared, and hungry.
Their comrades in the hangar -and in this war- appeared out of place next to the perfectly packaged soldiers.
Though the battles already waged and the battles to come depended mostly on them, the Angels didn’t quite fit in with the regimented ‘Knights. Most wore simple uniforms, tactical pants and tank tops or sports bras that would not rip away when they spread their wings.
Very few carried guns.
Perhaps because most were only months before civilians, and had never handled them. More likely, the priest thought to himself, they felt wrong depending on clunky manmade creations when God Himself had equipped them for their fight against the Devil’s own.
The stoic soldiers moved around their angelic counterparts almost reverently. Father Cruz found the near-worship a touch unsettling.
A dais at the head of the large room held empty chairs and a small podium equipped with a built-in microphone. On the wall behind, a large white screen waited to hold projected schematics and maps of their upcoming assault.
The chairs would be occupied by the highest ranking of the Sleepless Knights, the men that Bishop had introduced him to only hours ago. Titles gleaned from the ecclesiastical hierarchy that mimicked his superiors in Rome. Cardinale, Archbishop, and of course, the commander-in-chief of this bizarre outfit, the Pope.
Bishop, the same one that had organized his kidnapping from Brazil, hovered nearby, still suspicious.
A general stirring in the hangar space caused heads to turn. All of them at once.
The bland murmur of conversation died and once again the steaming air was still. Seven men mounted the stairs to the dais. More accurately -Father Cruz could somehow tell- six men and one Angel.
For some reason this Angel wore a hood that threw shadows over all but the tip of his nose and chin.
Raphael had previously met each of the men. Three Archbishops, who carried themselves and spoke in a way that conveyed a constant turmoil of deep and important thoughts. Perpetually furrowed brows under crew cuts.
Two men with Italian accents named -or ranked as it were- Cardinale. This pair were certainly the most elderly in the room, and they spoke very little.
They carried no weapons, and neither did the man they flanked.
The Pope himself.
Not the Holy Father of the Roman Catholic Church- who Rafael Cruz had known since his twenties- but the silver-haired General commanding the Knights of the Clergy that Father Cruz had met earlier in the day. His dark uniform was like all of the rest, though he
somehow wore it better. Only the thread of his nameplate made him stand out. Golden strands spelled out P-O-P-E against the flat black, and somehow it fit.
Pope stood ramrod straight, scrutinizing the gathered forces with an unreadable expression. His irises were unnaturally pale and piercing. Sun-leathered skin stretched over high cheekbones and a sharp jaw line. He was handsome, Father Cruz noted, in the way American cowboys are thought to be handsome. Physically, he was unremarkable, especially in the company of Angels and the battle-hardened Monks. No bulging veins on his biceps or forearms. No cauliflower ears or bull neck or wings waiting to materialize. Still, he moved with an intimidating fluidity incongruous with his frosted hair and frown lines. Pope’s winter gaze flowed over the gathered soldiers and Angels. Back and forth.
Back and forth…
The Archbishops spoke first, each one taking his turn in outlining some part of the day’s attack strategy. It was all review, and the Monks let their normally attentive gazes shift to the floor or the ceiling. Even Father Cruz, the last minute addition to this force, had been briefed the previous day.
Men like these didn’t need to be told things twice.
Next, one of the Cardinales. His Milanese accent out of place against the backdrop of red, white, and blue on the projection screen.
He was brief, and he spoke only of strategy, re-emphasizing the weaknesses in the defenses, and the innate flaws of their winged foes, particularly their tendency to abandon any plan or tactic if taunted and enraged enough. The Angels and Monks knew all of this well.
Before he finished, he thanked the Priests of the audience for gathering the intelligence that they had. Nobody slapped the Sleepless Knight spies on the back, or even looked at them.
These Priests were regarded as pariah. Neither in nor out. They worked undercover, alone, infiltrated the enemy, experimented with dangerous tactics.
The black sheep of the army in black.
Rafael Cruz thought it appropriate that they shared the same rank in this army as he did in his career before the changes. Priests, he thought, were a misunderstood lot in any phase of life.
After the Cardinale had taken a seat, Pope stood up. Stepping to the waiting podium, he addressed the crowded soldiers.
“Fellow Knights. Before we begin, I would like us all to offer up our weaknesses, our sins, and faults to the Lord. So that he may cleanse and redeem us as we go to do His work.”
All around, Monks crossed themselves, or folded their arms. Some knelt and prostrated themselves, forehead to floor, in the Islamic tradition. Still others pulled scrolls or teffillin from under their black shirts and bowed their heads. Father Cruz was so taken aback by the scene of interfaith mingling that he almost forgot to make his own sign of the cross as Pope began to pray. The American Angels, more accustomed to such behavior from their soldiering counterparts, either followed suit or simply waited patiently as the moments stretched and Pope’s voice echoed off of fuselage and concrete walls.
The Brazilian priest was able to follow the prayers Pope recited in Latin, English, and Spanish. The throaty foreign tones of Hebrew and Arabic he could recognize, but not comprehend. There were two other languages as well, short snippets of something that he guessed was Chinese, and a singsong language that may have been Gaelic. Through his heightened sensory perception, Cruz basked in the quiet shuffle of relaxed breathing and contemplative heartbeats. This quiet rhythm was joined by the organic rustle of feathers on the wings of the few Angels that were assigned to patrol and had landed near the hangar doors just to see Pope and join in the prayer. Shadows flitting over the tarmac outside told Cruz that not all of the Angels were at ease enough to take even such a short break.
…”Amen” Pope finished.
“AMEN.” More than a thousand voices answered back.
Pope appraised the room again, waiting perhaps two breaths before launching into his speech. He stood proudly against the backdrop of a blank projection screen, his own loyal men and the Angel who had accompanied him, but not yet spoken.
He was Patton, Kennedy, Obama, and McCain Jr. The way his shoulders squared and the tilt of his chin made Father Cruz cringe.
“Angels and Knights.” Pope began again. “We are called together here from all over the country, and indeed the world, to fight for nothing less than the salvation of the human race.”
Dios Mi. Too much.
“Every soldier, in every war, in all of history has gone into battle believing, or at least hoping, that God was on his side. But never before has a battle been waged by a force hand-picked by Our Creator.”
Pope paused, letting the words sink in.
“All of you gathered here today are exactly that. God’s own Army. Our battles have been won and lost in the name of true righteousness. It is with profound regret that I must remind you that even this absolute truth has not been enough to stem the rising tide of Satan’s manifest forces. The Adversary and those chosen to wage this war for him greatly outnumber us. Possessed of the Devil’s own fury, and the madness of demons, they leave us no choice but to snuff out their lost and damaged souls for the greater good!”
Damned souls
“Our enemies are cunning, unforgiving, ruthless, and above all, evil.” Pope emphasized his last word; Evil. “It is therefore our duty to pour out God’s wrath upon them and send them to their final judgment,” His voice rose now, trembling with emotion. “We fight today for God’s Kingdom on Earth! I ask only that you fight together, Angels and Knights, so that the blessings God has bestowed upon each of us can be made fruitful. We must not fail! We must not falter! If Babel and its ruler are allowed to stand and gather, to grow and encroach, then all is lost. Already too many innocent lives have been sacrificed.” Pope was vibrating now, thrumming with oratory energy. Father Cruz felt his heartbeat quicken despite himself.
“Already too many Haloes have appeared and claimed the friends and loved ones chosen by God to protect us all from the Possessed! Too many brave Knights have given wholly of themselves for the cause that we all know to be true, right, and just!” Cruz glanced to his left and right, watching the gathered mass of soldiers starting to shake and rattle with building energy. The Pope’s speech was having its desired effect.
“We have been called today to turn the tide in a war that has been waged since time immemorial! Angels and Demons shed one another’s blood in Heaven, before we men started recording our own histories. They battled in the Holy Crusades, in every revolution this world has witnessed! You have all seen record of their presence at Ticonderoga, Manassas, Stalingrad, Normandy, and even the Moment of Divine Treaty when the Enola Gay and her cargo flew over Japan. They were there in Korea, Vietnam, Bosnia, Iraq, Argentina!” another heavy pause breathed “We the Sleepless Knights were there as well. Cleaning up, concealing, and waiting for the time when the world was ready. When we were ready.” Father Cruz didn’t know much of this alternate history he should believe. How much he could believe.
His crescendo had dialed back down. Pope quickly mopped sweat from his brow.
“The wait is over. The world knows. And that same world is depending on us. Make no mistake. This is about survival.”
Speaking to the Clergy now.
“Knights, if we do not do our part, if we allow the Angels given to us by God to be overthrown and annihilated, we have no hope for survival ourselves. Armies will continue to grow, and the Demons will come for all of us in time.”
Now Pope spoke specifically to the Angels.
“If you who have been blessed with wings and unbreakable bodies do not stand with us, and allow us to use the knowledge and strategic advantage that the Sleepless Knights have gained as Keepers of the Angels for those many centuries of war, you also will fail. Because the armies of virtue that you represent are simply too small in this broken and damned world.”
He leaned over the podium now, letting the pressed cuffs of his uniform sleeves creep up his forearms and break the illusion of implacability.
&nb
sp; “I implore every man and woman, Angel or not, in this room today… Stick with the plan. Fight with passion! And no matter what, do not lose heart. God is on our side. In Him we will find glory and deliverance. We will not fail.” Another pause for effect, “Have faith, and we cannot fail!”
His speech was finished, Men and Angels alike relaxed, having risen with his words. Turning to the last man on the dais, the Angel who had not spoken, Pope snapped the bizarre three-stage salute of the Sleepless Knights. Eyes. Throat. Heart. After that, he walked past his waiting chair, down the three short stairs of the raised platform, and out of the hangar. The other officers followed suit, reversing their earlier procession.
The Angel remained, watching his comrades go. For many long breaths the entire hangar waited to see what would happen next. When he finally stood and removed his cowl, a shocked murmur went up from the gathered Knights. Their whispers mingled and muddled one another, but from a nearby conversation Father Cruz was able to glean that one particular word was bouncing about the space from mouth to ear and back. Not just Angel.
Archangel.
Curiosity got the best of him, and he leaned close to Bishop to ask what the fuss was over. He was surprised to see that the man’s eyes misted with emotion.
“This Angel has not been seen in a very long time Father. Only the Priests are supposed to know exactly where he is found.” He whispered.
The Archangel was tall, with curly hair and broad shoulders. Something about him was different, setting him apart from the other Angels even.
There was a sharpness to his lines and features. A sort of contrast against the background. Like green-screened images in old fashioned movies. He didn’t fit where he stood. Another defining characteristic caught the priest‘s attention.
A halo. Silvery and blinding. The Archangel stood in a pool of his own light.
“I don’t understand.” the Cruz murmured back, though answers were already creeping into his head as he questioned with words. “You say he hasn’t been seen for a very long time? But we Angels have only been around for some few months.”
To Light Us, To Guard Us (The Angel War Book 1) Page 49