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

by Sean M O'Connell

  “Exodus group is still operating. Currently engaged with target Prince. No official report.”

  Scott was not in the mood to be patient, still covered in the slime and grit of battle.

  “What the hell does that mean? No official report?” he snapped.

  “It means the verdict is still out. I already told you, Wicked is missing, but they’ve isolated Prince. Doesn’t sound good so far…”

  “Where?!”

  “The rooftop gardens, somewhere in old Vegas. Far side of the tower. It’s a long way off Fitz.”

  Scott had already turned around, pumping his massive wings furiously in the hot air. The historic quarter of the city had been reinvented yet again years back. Each of the old casinos retrofitted the upper floors to create rooftop parks. The network of trees and gardens was large, but not so much so that finding the Monks’ primary target would be impossible. Especially if there was still a fight on.

  “I’m going!”

  “Negative! We need you here..”

  “Bullshit! It’s a mop up job, you said so yourself.”

  “We have to close the perimeter, work back to the tower…”

  “Then do it.” Scott said. “I’m going!”

  He thought he heard a resigned ‘Roger that’ before he ripped the ear-piece out and crunched it between thumb and forefinger. Then, knowing he wouldn’t be able to hear the response, he pressed the throat-mic to his neck once again

  “And somebody find the Swans. Get them to wherever Prince is. NOW!”

  Finished, he tore the communicator off and flung it into the dirty streets blurring below.

  Scott Fitzpatrick pushed his wings harder than he ever had before. The massive alabaster feathers beat and pulled the desert air with impossible efficiency and speed. Even the chatter of gunfire, more sporadic now, was drowned out by the wind howling past his ears.

  Within moments he found himself closing in on Babel, thinking only of the unfolding struggle somewhere a few miles beyond it, in Vegas’ old quarter. He prayed silently that Father Cruz and Serena could hang on long enough for him to reach them. Prayed harder that Bluejean and the Swans would get there too.

  The cratered outdoor complexes passed beneath him. Then the ornate sculpture garden, now riddled with the mess of broken bodies and wings. Most of the dead wore dark wings, or none at all, but there were too many blazing white feathers among the ruin.

  Dead Angels.

  He could see the main courtyard now, where the prisoners had been gathered.

  Dear Lord.

  For a moment, the nightmare below and before him chased all other thoughts away, even those of joining the fight with Valdez.

  The Monks that he’d seen rounding up prisoners were nowhere to be found.

  Their helicopters and heavy personnel carriers had undoubtedly been called back into the city ranges, to finish the invasion.

  The job here at Babel was already done.

  Final Purge Order.

  Scott nearly retched at the thought of what must have unfolded here probably only moments after he’d turned to follow the Swans.

  The remaining militia, who he’d last seen as neat rows of dejected prisoners kneeling in the trash of Babel’s ruin, now lay haphazard in death.

  Desert wind brought with it the metallic scent of blood, gallons and gallons of it.

  It painted the courtyard floor and stained the skin and hair of those wide-eyed corpses.

  Once, Aaron had described the awful redness burned into his consciousness by war.

  Now Scott understood.

  Even from the spot where he hovered above, Scott could see their wounds, great rents torn by mounted machine guns and neat holes from small-arms fire.

  Purged.

  Executed.

  After nearly a year of shared experiences, hard-won camaraderie in the heat and the snow and the dust and the blood, Scott Fitzpatrick felt every last ounce of belief and trust in the Sleepless Knights melt away under the unforgiving Nevada sun.

  Murdered.

  They called themselves Monks, Deacons, Priests?

  There must be a thousand… Unarmed… Murdered.

  He finally tore his eyes away, looking over his shoulder and scanning the nearby parking structures and roads for any of the telltale black uniforms or vehicles, fearful that they were spying on his revelation. Fearful of what he would do if he did see them.

  A familiar voice came from just over his shoulder.

  “This is why I never trusted them.” June said quietly. The clothing on the right side of her body was riddled with bullet holes and covered in dried blood, flesh underneath already healed and new.

  “All the pious bullshit is a façade. These are men. Not Angels. Power corrupts, Scott. I am not your enemy, but it looks like we might have a new one.” She pointed at the bloody tangle of bodies.

  Scott was surprised to see her, though he doubted it would register on his face over the horror of the tableau below them.

  “Where have you been?” he asked, his own voice hushed like hers, trying not to disturb the dead strewn far below. “The ‘Knights have been looking everywhere for you.”

  “Well I’m damned glad they didn’t find me.” she bit back.

  Scott heaved a heavy sigh and nodded.

  “I went after the Bruja after she killed the big Hawaiian. After you hit her.”

  “You saw her spit in my face?”

  “Yeah, I saw that. And I saw how she freaked out when you hit her in the belly. Strange don’t you think?”

  Again Scott nodded his pale head.

  “What was that about do you think? Where did she go?”

  “I chased her back toward Babel, lost her again in the fight. The extraction teams say they never saw her. They said the entire resort was clear.”

  He gestured to the mass grave.

  “Looks like it was.”

  She curled her lip disdainfully.

  “Trigger happy bastards.” June looked hard into his face. “What do we do now?”

  Torn between urges to scream and cry, Scott did neither, choosing instead to act.

  Moving again, he pointed his flight in the direction he’d been heading, to find what was left of Exodus Group and help kill Hunter Valdez. They would find answers later. His friends still needed help.

  “We go find Valdez and finish this.” he offered.

  Once more he looked down at the tableau the Monks had created. “Then we find Aaron and Serena and we go home. Bluejean too.”

  June nodded and followed, her ever-wild hair whipping at her shoulders as she looked back.

  Moisture streaked Scott’s cheeks. The massive Angel was unsure whether it was drawn forth by his passage through the dry wind, or by what he’d just seen.

  Old Quarter- Las Vegas, Nevada

  The incessant thundering of rotors had grown tiresome.

  Since morning, the Boy Scouts in their black suits had pestered him and his allies from the vantage of whirring black gunships.

  Hunter Valdez had stomached enough.

  It took an incredible amount of energy for him to keep the bullets of the Monks from finding him. What he was about to do would take even more, but the Bruja had prepared him well.

  Greasy blackened bits of Aaron Dayne clung to Hunter’s left hand. The soldier had surprised him. Somehow Serena’s ex-husband survived the Bruja’s torture for over a week and managed to escape, though that was likely the result of Angelic help.

  It took more courage than most men had to leap from a moving helicopter into a fight. Especially into one where there was no hope of winning. In the end though, it hadn’t even required the use of a weapon to best the man.

  For a moment, Valdez stood over Aaron’s limp form. A perfect black handprint marked the right pectoral where he’d called up the fever to pour from his own flesh.

  Branded.

  The smell of burnt human meat was unpleasant, and he sniffed at his own hand, wondering how long he would have to scru
b to get the odor out from under his fingernails.

  True to the American ideal, Aaron Dayne had fought him to the end. Hunter would have burnt straight through his bones and pulled out his lungs had the boy not managed to buck him off with the last bit of life left

  Better to save the energy.

  The formerly formidable soldier lay there, still and pathetic. Drained empty by the Bruja’s days of torment and Valdez’s own assault.

  Hunter pocketed his poisoned knife and directed his ire at the helicopters and their incessantly pesky toy soldiers. Most of them had lowered their guns, instead gesturing and arguing. One or two readied ropes to rappel down to the roof.

  Valdez smiled at them, beckoning for them to come down, the way Aaron Dayne had done. None of them did, staid by the wisdom of their peers or their own cowardice.

  Whispering to the ether, he listened for the hollow voices that came back.

  Summoning true Daemons was the last of the Bruja’s lessons, and it drained him now.

  Feathers molted from his wings as he traded away life force for favors from the Other Side.

  There was no need to loose a haunt on all of the soldiers.

  Only the pilots.

  The rooftop garden vibrated with unnatural energy as he traced more shapes in the air with his hands. Another twisted word finished the spell, sapping him drastically.

  His wings almost folded away to a restful state, but he kept them where they were, straining against rising exhaustion. He needed to eat.

  Aboard the choppers, each pilot took his hands off the toggles and reached for a sidearm, unnoticed by their distracted crewmates.

  Wearing grins that didn’t belong to them, each pilot Monk pressed a muzzle to his own chin or temple and fired.

  Inside of Valdez’s head, peals of laughter echoed from four different directions as the sickly spirits he’d called for the duty rejoiced at their mayhem. Swallowing back sulfuric vomit, he commanded them back home to Hell.

  More panicked noises echoed from the choppers as they lurched out of control. One of the Blackhawks pitched sideways into the roof, its rotors tearing huge chunks from the sod and decorative stonework. The other three choppers spun away from the hotel and auto rotated down to crash landings in the street.

  Satisfied, and now able to relax some of the nega that he’d been spitting to confuse the Monks’ gunfire, Hunter smiled.

  Despite the knife still protruding from his back, he was in good spirits.

  Babel’s doctors could sew him up, though he would likely have to limp his way back to the tower, as the imbedded blade hindered his flight.

  Just one more thing.

  Serena Dayne, his secretary-turned-Angel, lay bent and motionless against the tree that he had crushed her into. The shimmering halo that portended her death simultaneously pleased him and burned his eyes.

  Valdez crossed the stretch of ravaged grass separating them and peered down at her.

  In repose, she lay calm and childlike. The eerie glow over her forehead removed all contrast and shadow from her face, adding to the porcelain-smooth appearance of her skin.

  With a sense of genuine delight that he hadn’t felt in months, Valdez marveled at the twist of fate. For months and months he’d been searching out this woman, simply because it irked him that she’d managed to flee from right under his nose in those first days. After all the obsessing, she’d come right to his doorstep, sought him out.

  Better, she’d brought her friends with her, even dusted off the relic that was Rafael Cruz.

  Now they were dead, Cruz, her ex-husband, her Monks. Everyone who stood in his way.

  Brown had been lost, but the bodyguard really wasn’t much good since the changes. So many had caught up with his ruthlessness. He’d grown sullen, ineffective. If someone else hadn’t killed him, Valdez would likely have to do so himself.

  Looking back at his grand obelisk, he could see that the helicopters no longer buzzed nearby the balconies.

  All of them had gone into the city to chase the Fallen.

  The Bruja’s plan had worked.

  She was likely enjoying the victory already, gorging herself in the kitchens, corrupting his foodstuffs with her foul fingers.

  She would have to be dealt with soon as well.

  Thinking of the food brought his focus back to the task at hand. To the business he must finish before returning to bask in the satisfaction of defeating the Angels and their so-called Knights.

  He leaned down close to Serena’s unresponsive ear and cooed, “Just the two of us now Ms. Dayne.”

  His perfect white teeth slid slowly into view as wind-chapped lips pulled back in the most sinister of smiles. Once again he removed the knife from his waistband, tapped its tip thoughtfully against his other palm.

  Almost imperceptibly, the halo brightened, as if the living light could sense that the end was near.

  Valdez’s smile only spread wider.

  In his dream, Aaron Dayne was stuck.

  Red mud like quicksand sucked his legs and arms and cloyed at his back so he couldn’t move. Above him were red clouds and red trees.

  He was angry, furious, wrathful.

  A deep burning spread outward across his shoulders and up his neck, originating at the right side of his chest.

  The dream was full of noise, the crack crack crack of gunfire and shuddering booms of explosives. Red noise.

  “Get up Aaron.” A voice told him. An Angel voice. Perfect white amid the crimson scenery.

  Aaron had never seen this Angel before.

  He was tall and broad-shouldered, with dark curly hair. Old eyes in a young, angular face.

  He wore a halo, but not like the Angels Aaron knew. On him it looked like a crown, not a curse.

  Aaron reached for him out of the thick red mud, but the Angel was too far away.

  “Get up.” he commanded. The words rumbled like thunder. Like the voice of God.

  “Help me.” Aaron said, angry that the Angel hadn’t already done so.

  “Am I dead?” he asked, suddenly realizing that it was a very real possibility.

  “You are not dead.” the Angel answered. Behind his head, red clouds began to thin and break, revealing a smoke-smudged sky.

  “Get up.”

  Again Aaron tried to sit up, this time inching a bit further out of the blood-colored goop. More noises, closer now. A high pitched whine like straining engines, another rattling explosion.

  The Angel turned and began walking away, revealing stubs of scarred flesh where his wings should be. The sight caused the crawling pain on Aaron’s chest to flair. Where the Angel tread, red soil peeled back to reveal burnt out grass and ash.

  “Wait!” Aaron called after him. “Help me!”

  The Angel kept walking, his halo cutting swaths through the red clouds.

  “Hurry Aaron.” he demanded. “She needs you.”

  The mud sucking at him was drying now, turning less red and more ashy.

  “Rise Aaron!” the Angel boomed at him one last time, a command like crashing ocean waves.

  Aaron Dayne gasped and clutched at his chest. Immediate regret stung him, as flowers of pain bloomed along every nerve pathway in his body. His hands came away bloody, the smell of his own burnt meat filled his sinuses.

  Red clouds and mud were gone, replaced by ash and ugly hot sky.

  Where am I?

  The instant of disorientation gave way to stark, dreadful memory.

  Rooftop. Serena. Prince Valdez.

  The Monks and Deacons were gone. No turbines beat the air nearby. No hovering helicopters offered hope of rescue. Rossborough and the others were nowhere to be seen.

  Probably dead or they wouldn’t have abandoned him.

  Aaron jerked himself into a seated position. The massive burn on his chest sent spasms down to his fingertips.

  As his vision cleared, he took in the scene.

  Not red now, after the dream. The light was harsh and angry, casting the details of h
is predicament in exquisite detail. Valdez was there, stalking toward the spot where Serena still lay. The sniper’s knife nestled in the flesh between his huge black wings.

  Those wings looked even blacker in the cast light of Serena’s halo.

  Still shining. Still Alive.

  One of the Blackhawks had crashed down onto the roof, its blades sheared off. Monks still hung in their harnesses, dead or unconscious.

  Movement in the far periphery drew Aaron’s eye. Out over the distance, he could make out the silhouettes of choppers and winged combatants. Battles carried out once again in the city streets and parking lots, like the days just after the Changes.

  Some of those far-off shapes were Angels. Their white wings were harder to make out against the daylight than their dark-plumed enemies. Aaron blinked to make sure.

  Yes, Angels.

  A long way off.

  Too far to help.

  At least some of them were still alive.

  Valdez was already leaning in close to Serena.

  Aaron rolled and pushed himself to his feet, trying to ignore the shaking of his trauma-weakened legs. Another memory came back in the instant. The shed, with its array of tools. His only options as weapons.

  He kept his eyes on Valdez and cautiously circled the final few yards to the little shack, staying low and moving as quickly and quietly as he could. Valdez turned his head in the direction of the oncoming Angels.

  Aaron could see the deep frown that creased his face.

  Careful not to let any of the tools on the rack rattle or fall, Aaron gripped a shovel. An old-fashioned spade with a wooden handle. Ordinary, but heavy enough to do damage if swung hard. He wasn’t sure that his weakened body had enough left in it.

  Surprise him. Too weak to go one on one.

  Aaron squared his shoulders to Valdez’s back and tensed.

  One chance.

  He waited until Hunter turned his face fully away, back to Serena, not wanting to chance his movement being caught in the Demon’s peripheral vision.

  Wish I had a gun.

  Slowly, or perhaps it was only slow because moments like this one always played out half-speed in Aaron’s perception, Hunter Valdez raised his arm. In his fist he clutched the same short knife he’d tried to stab Aaron with. The blade still glinted wetly. Serena’s Halo redoubled its glow, casting a long shadow of her former boss, even in the mid-afternoon sun.