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

by Sean M O'Connell

  Eventually sweep teams of Sleepless Knights began to re-emerge from the stairwells and hallways and elevators.

  Their tactical boots squeaked with unnatural loudness on colored marble floors. More often than not, they came with prisoners in tow. Miserable-looking militiamen and women wearing plastic zip-cuffs with their hands on their heads. A few cooks who looked more confused and scared than anything. Even a gaggle of prostitutes who managed to look bored even as the Monks poked suspicious rifle barrels at their faces.

  The Possessed had all been killed in the battle or fled into the city, to a fight that Scott and his companions would surely have to join soon. But he had learned the futility of trying to go it alone, and he was reassured that Bluejean and the remaining Swans hadn’t yet taken off without him. Instead, they waited and watched while the prisoners were taken outside and lined up single file, presumably to be put on buses and vans bound for Nellis where they could be processed and questioned by the Knights.

  One of the Monks fired up a computer and plugged it into some hidden recess behind the reception desk.

  “What’s that about?” Scott asked.

  “Bishop’s orders.” the Monk replied. “He wants to see if there is a list of employees, information about Valdez’s assets..”

  Assets?

  Scott shrugged it off, but before he could return to his quiet moment with Bluejean, Bishop came across the short band with two very interesting orders.

  “Genesis Group, Execute purge order.” came the crackly voice. The same that unmistakably belonged to one specific, serious, darkly-bearded Bishop.

  “and find June Olcontra Angel.”

  Old Quarter- Las Vegas, Nevada

  Aaron timed his leap perfectly.

  Almost.

  Valdez’s impossibly-fast attack didn’t fail a second time. He smashed into Serena’s chest a fraction of a second before Aaron landed on his back.

  Aaron let gravity and all the hatred and bitterness his spent body would allow propel his arm in burying the knife into the meat between Valdez‘s shoulder blades..

  Serena was thrown backward by the impact like a tossed child. Wings blanketed limply around her until momentum folded her spine around one of the rooftop garden’s many palm trees.

  A sound like falling rocks emanated as her neck and head whiplashed with sickening looseness.

  Oh God..

  Aaron had no time to fear for his former wife.

  Loose double vision swam from his collision with Valdez.

  He concentrated on narrow breaths to try and force air back into his lungs, problematic because of the sharpness in his chest that could only be a broken rib.

  The knife he had stolen from Rossborough stayed imbedded in Valdez’s back, just above the root of his right wing.

  Aaron prayed that it would be enough to keep the Demon from flying.

  Still jarred from what he had seen this man do to Father Cruz, an Angel, he tried to remind himself of the weaknesses Valdez and his ilk all shared.

  Possessed are not like Angels, they are not stronger than a normal man.

  Possessed tire easily.

  Their tempers cause them to lose focus.

  Nearby, Hunter reached vainly for the knife protruding from his back and beat his wings. Damaged tendons and bones failed where the knife protruded.

  Aaron was lucky.

  Above, and around him, he knew the Monks would be reloading yet again and trying to pick off their target. He hoped that they would reconsider opening fire while he was in such close proximity.

  Still unable to reach the knife, Valdez turned slowly to face Aaron and growled.

  “That hurts.” He spoke through his teeth, glaring for a moment before a look or recognition registered on his face.

  Hunter Valdez laughed.

  “Oh no! haha! No, no, no. This cannot be true!” Another harsh guffaw.

  Dragging himself upright, Aaron cast around the garden with his eyes for something, anything that he might be able to use as a weapon.

  There.

  Beyond the spot where the Demon stood was a small shed with some rakes and shovels leaning against it. Not much, but better than nothing.

  Valdez was still laughing incredulously, rolling his damaged shoulder back and forth, as if the hurt was something to be enjoyed.

  “So the rat made it out of the Bruja’s maze?” he taunted “chasing this bit of cheese were you?” For emphasis he kicked ash in the direction of Serena’s limp form. Still wrapped around the tree, she appeared lifeless and broken. Aaron was only sure that she still lived because of the way her Halo cast ethereal highlights onto her bloodstained hair.

  “She never talked about you, did you know that?” Valdez taunted, “In all the years she worked for me, she never once mentioned you. Until the Bruja captured you, you only existed as reported income on her tax forms.”

  Aaron let the jibe fall on deaf ears. It was important not to play into Valdez’s tactics, not let the sad but likely truth distract him. He was already weakened enough.

  More shots from the helicopters above, and still the black wings spread unmolested.

  Tufts of grass, gravel, and palm bark spit from random spots all around, not one even grazing Hunter Valdez’s tanned skin.

  Slowly, Aaron began circling away from the spot where Serena lay, in the direction of the shed and its pitiful pile of tools.

  The entirety of his vision was tinged crimson now.

  For once, he didn’t fight it.

  After years of clawing his way back to normalcy, of resisting the violence that bubbled below his skin, circumstance and impossibility had pulled him yet again into a war. A more poetic soul would attribute his toils in the red light to destiny.

  For Aaron, it was just life.

  He chanced a glance upward, half hopeful that he would see ropes snaking down from the choppers, or winged reinforcements.

  Nothing. Shit.

  Apparently unhurried, Valdez talked on.

  “You know, Dayne, for all of your friends’ high tech weaponry and special training, they sure have poor aim.” He threw his head back and laughed.

  Aaron smiled back. This line of conversation he could deal with.

  “They’re probably not even trying to hit you. Those are just warning shots so you don’t try to leave. The Monks want to see you take your beating like a man.”

  He had to shout over the thunder of the helicopters, but Aaron was sure that Valdez got the point. The baleful frown ingrained on the other man’s face was evidence enough.

  Wishing he’d bothered to at least grab a walkie-talkie, Aaron glanced yet again toward the support choppers. The impotent gunfire didn’t so much as distract Valdez, and Aaron held little hope for his own chances after seeing the billionaire best both Father Cruz and Serena hand to hand.

  Now Hunter Valdez was coming forward, stalking toward him with arrogant, slow steps.

  Without any better ideas, Aaron continued his careful arc toward the maintenance shed.

  Find a weapon. Shovel’s the best option. Gun would be better. A gun.

  Aaron didn’t make it to the shed.

  Faster than he should have been able to, Valdez flashed forward over the short stretch of white ash that had been garden minutes before. Aaron was able to sidestep, but one dark wing caught him under the throat, clothes-lining him violently onto the grit.

  Momentarily, all Aaron could see was a red-tinged disorientation of sky and hovering helicopters.

  Then Valdez was on him, blotting out the sun with his midnight feathers.

  Dayne tried to roll away. Hunter stopped him, grabbing a fistful of shirt and muttering with strange focus.

  The cotton garment fell away in a blink of freezing fire. Despite the awful sensation chasing up and down the skin of his torso, Aaron was able to use the opening, cracking a backward elbow into Valdez’s temple. Now shirtless, he scrabbled and scuffed to try and get to his feet. It wasn’t enough. A claustrophobic hood of coal-b
lack plumage filled his vision and once again Valdez was on him.

  From somewhere, the mogul-turned-Demon produced a knife. Was it the same one Aaron had left protruding from his scapula only moment before?

  No.

  This knife was short, almost triangular. The blade looked wet. Coated in something.

  Poison.

  Dayne managed to seize his attacker’s wrist before the blade could fall.

  With his other hand he gripped Valdez’s throat, but the pair of them were too slippery with ash and sweat to gain any real hold.

  Wearing a look of hideous determination, Hunter Valdez pressed against the resistance, strength for strength. One hand planted on Aaron’s chest, the other driving downward to try and prick him with the poisoned blade.

  The pair froze in a stalemate, sweating and grunting curses, each in his native tongue.

  Under normal circumstances, Aaron was sure he would have an easy time twisting the knife away and overpowering the other man.

  Before the changes, Hunter Valdez was a notorious pretty boy, with manicured hands and slender, almost graceful skeletal structure. Now, he was also regarded as the most dangerous of all the Possessed.

  Aaron’s muscles screamed in protest as he held the Demon at bay. Each second stretched into an agonizing test of will.

  A week’s worth of sleep deprivation and malnourishment were collecting their tax.

  Exhaustion robbed him of the strength and quickness needed to disarm the leaner man. It was all he could do to keep his arms extended and the corrupted blade away from his throat.

  From the spot where Valdez’s free hand pressed against his bare pectoral, steam began to rise.

  A slow, hideous burn that seemed to crawl from the inside out turned Aaron’s own nerve endings against him. Steaming perspiration became smoke, stinking of hair and flesh. Aaron gritted his teeth hard and tried not to scream.

  Already, Valdez was leering at him, veins bulging, whispering in Portuguese.

  Desperately, Aaron tried pummeling the side of his attacker’s head with his free hand. The red picture of his vision began to darken as whatever foul magic Valdez worked sizzled down through the flesh and muscle of his chest like a hot iron cattle-brand.

  With a final, exhausted heave, Aaron pulled his knees up to his chest. Planting one stolen boot on the Fallen Angel’s hip, he kicked.

  The effort proved to be too much.

  Muffled echoes that might be gunshots or shouts found their way to his ears.

  His failing vision filled again with Hunter Valdez and his nightmare plumage.

  Somewhere in the periphery, dark shapes hovered over the whole scene.

  What was left of his senses screamed in alarm and pain at the melting skin on his chest.

  Then only black.

  Babel

  The ‘final purge’ order that Scott had heard Bishop issue played out below him now.

  Riding the dirty thermals of the burnt-out Las Vegas afternoon, Scott watched the Knights of the Clergy line up their pitiful militia captives in rows.

  Mostly men, and a few hard-looking women knelt on the courtyard amid the debris of battle. An inch-deep layer of shattered glass and spent bullet casings chattered as they shifted about. At intervals, one or two would bolt, thinking their Monk captors were distracted.

  In every case the would-be escapees were run down and manhandled back to kneel with their comrades, hands on the back of the head, watery eyes searching the tower balconies and skies for help that would never come.

  Moments earlier, Bluejean had disappeared over the neighboring buildings to join the battle now surely unfolding in suburban streets and high schools.

  Scott was bound to join them eventually, but something about the way that nearby Deacons kept glancing his way and the radio silence that greeted all of his questions for Bishop gave him pause.

  With blistering efficiency, perhaps one-hundred-and-fifty Clergy ushered the remnants of Babel’s militia out into the courtyard.

  More trickled out of the tower doors and along the distant walkways leading to the bombed-out cabanas and pools.

  From Scott Fitzpatrick’s vantage, they looked like so many ants.

  Whatever the itch was that made him tentative to leave Babel and abandon his supervision of the prisoner round-up, it wasn’t strong enough to keep him from more pressing duties.

  Reaching to his throat and pressing the vibration pads of his communicator against his voice box, Scott called to someone he was sure would answer.

  “Scott Fitzpatrick Angel to Deacon. Interrogative, come back.”

  He still felt a bit theatrical using the strange jargon of the ‘Knights, but it was necessary on a day like this one, when the radios were constantly chirping.

  Almost immediately, Deacon responded. Scott had given up wondering what the real names of these men were. They didn’t much care to use them anyway.

  “Deacon, here. What is your twenty Fitz?”

  “Eastern face of Babel tower, outbound. Following Swans of Genesis group into the city.”

  “Roger that, Angel, we are currently engaged with hostiles four clicks due east of your position. We lost you when you dove.”

  Scott barrel-rolled and banked east, picking up speed. Eager to re-join the mop-up stages of the fight.

  “Yeah, uh, sorry about that. June and I went after the Bruja, err, Codename Wicked.”

  “Status?” the metallic voice questioned.

  Scott damned himself yet again for the answer he now had to give.

  “Unknown. We lost her. Nobody else called her in?”

  “Negative.”

  “What about June?” Scott asked. “Is she with you?” He had heard the curious order to find her over the comm.

  After a loaded pause. “Negative. Nobody has visual on her.”

  Damn it.

  All of Scott’s suspicion came flooding back. The young, brash Angel had somehow disappeared in the fray. No visual meant that she was somehow out of the sight. No easy feat when hundreds and hundreds of elite soldiers -spread out in every direction over four or five kilometers- all had their eyes peeled.

  Still, there were more pressing matters at hand. He would deal with June later.

  He had covered half the distance to his rendezvous point already, but Scott wanted as much information as possible. He abandoned the official speech modality.

  “Never mind June. She’ll turn up. Talk to me Deacon. What are we looking at?”

  Following Scott’s cue, the soldier slipped into a more conversational tone.

  “Enemy strategy is to spread us thin, draw us to areas of dense civilian traffic so we have to be careful with the chain guns and the Sidewinders. Also, their numerical advantage becomes more significant the larger the area of the battlefield gets.”

  “Is it working?” Scott asked, only half wanting to know the answer. It was hard enough seeing Angels haloed and the devoted Sleepless Knights martyred for this cause, but seeing civilians slaughtered took it to a whole new level.

  “Yes and no.” Deacon offered, far too casually. “They have been able to set up a few decent ambushes and score some casualties, particularly among the first wave of Angels that followed. Some civilians paid dearly for panicking also.”

  “How many innocents dead?” Scott pressed.

  “It’s impossible to say, not many. We got here as fast as we could. And there was one fatal flaw to enemy plan.”

  “What is that?”

  “The Heaters are driven by hate for sure, but they are also cowardly.”

  “But they never surrender.” Scott rebuked.

  “True, but they do scatter and run. Once the second wave of choppers hit the city, we started seeing a lot of that. By the time you get here, it’ll be a mop-up job.”

  “I’m coming up on you now actually.”

  True to what the Deacon had said, Scott winged into the space over Chaparral Medical Center to find only a few isolated pockets of fighting on the wes
tern parking lot.

  This complex had been listed on one of the many field reports as a possible Evac point in the event of a retreat.

  The massive hospital had evolved in the months since the changes to be so much more than that. It was a community center, a school, a safe place for the public guarded by police, a few National Guard, and opportunistic ’private contractors’.

  Aside from the general milling and panic below, the situation appeared well under control.

  Seeing that the threat was all but neutralized, Scott switched to the frequency that hit the entire invading force to listen for any calls for help. To his relief, what he heard was more of the same. From all over the suburbs, Green Valley, Henderson, Blackrock, and the known public hotspots like UNLV came reports of enemies fleeing and ambushes being thwarted.

  The Monks were good.

  Satisfied that his help wasn’t needed elsewhere immediately, he toggled over to his local frequency to address Deacon again.

  “Alright, like you said, this is a mop up job. But we need to pursue the Heaters that are running. It’s not safe to let them roam. They’ll only make life hard on the civilians.”

  He was close enough now to the helicopter to see Deacon shake his head.

  “Negative. They still have the numbers advantage. They’re on the run, but if we spread ourselves any thinner we’ll be looking at serious problems. Let them tuck tail and hide out for today. We’ll regroup and send out forays tomorrow to pop the pockets they form.”

  Even one more life lost to the Possessed was unacceptable, but Scott understood the value of good strategy. Winning battles mattered little if they couldn’t win the war. Reluctantly, he conceded to Deacon’s logic.

  “Alright, so we maintain this perimeter and clean up the rest of the mess?”

  “Roger that Angel Fitzpatrick. Work’s almost done.”

  “Alright, then get back on the horn and get me Bishop. My Bishop, from Salt Lake. And I want to know the status on Exodus group, all the priority targets, especially Valdez.”

  Another long pause before Deacon came back.

  “Bishop is overseeing the Purge order at present.”

  What the else is there to purge? Babel has been captured.