by Nic Widhalm
Hunter stared at Bath blankly. “You lost me.”
“Fine, we’ll do it the hard way.” Bath closed his eyes and the two bodyguards quickly exited the room. Hunter looked questionably at Karen, but her gaze was fixed on Bath. Opening his mouth, the petite man began to sing.
It was unlike anything Hunter had ever heard.
It began as a single note that poured from Bath’s mouth like thick smoke, bathing the room in a soft glow. The lights dimmed, but Hunter only noticed out of the corner of his eye; he couldn’t pull his eyes away from Bath as the sound rang through the room, pure and unwavering. Then, so seamless that Hunter couldn’t pinpoint when it began, the note split into two interweaving harmonies that played about, whimsically at first, then stronger and faster as the song progressed. Bells pealed in the distance, and Hunter felt the deep, urgent rumbling of a timpani shake his bones. The room began to fade, disappearing into a bright glow that pulsed all around him, and for a moment Hunter was worried he was succumbing to one of his visions. But no dream of Hunter’s had ever looked like this.
It was as though he stared at the sun, but the light didn’t burn his eyes. A part of him knew it was impossible, that the blinding view should have burned out his cornea, sent rivers of tears streaming down his cheeks. But all Hunter felt in that moment, transfixed by the light, the pounding, aching beat of some ancestral song coursing through his body, was rapture. This was revelation. Not the psalms his mother had dutifully recited from the family bible on holidays; not the angry, righteous tones of the preacher on Channel Three. This was faith made flesh.
Mist rose, obscuring the blinding light, and figures emerged, bobbing in some kind of complicated dance. Twisting and turning to Bath’s song. But as the image cleared, Hunter saw the truth was far more gruesome—the dim figures did seem to leap and swirl around each other, but it was swords that filled their hands and spears that glinted in the brilliant, smoky light.
It was like and unlike any battle Hunter had ever seen. At times the graceful flow of point and counterpoint, parry and repost, felt overwhelmingly familiar, like a movie he’d watched so often he could act out all the parts. Other times it looked alien, bizarre, the figures twisting and contorting in unnatural movement, their voices punctuated by cries of agony. And through it all, loud then unexpectedly soft, wove the crisp, sure harmonies of Bath’s song.
The destructive dance circled Hunter, gliding within centimeters of his wide eyes, but he never felt true danger. Indistinct bodies moved around him, close enough to touch but still obscured by the bright mist. Then abruptly his perspective widened, soaring out past his body and beyond, until he saw the entire battle. The mist made it impossible to discern anything as distinct as a horizon, but Hunter had a feeling it wouldn’t have mattered anyway. Hundreds, thousands, maybe millions were capering through the choreographed fight. The vignette of war was endless.
In the center of the battle, removed by a gap of several feet, stood two figures. The fighting revolved around them, and as Hunter focused on the pair his vision suddenly narrowed and drew him closer.
They were a strange kind of man, oddly proportioned, with arms too long and slender necks that didn’t seem capable of supporting the weight of their heads. They glistened, naked in the brilliant light, smooth as polished glass without ripples of muscle or fat. Their faces, which were beautiful in an alien kind of way, possessed an unnatural symmetry that Hunter found both intoxicating and frightening. Beautiful, absolutely, but lacking the small imperfections that differentiated one person from another. Their eyes, however…perfectly human. They were fixed on each other with a tight, narrow gaze that Hunter recognized instantly. Hate.
In that moment Hunter was filled with a revelation that made two things very clear. The first, that these two were great leaders. And the second, that their abhorrence for one another was so intense it had defined their existence for years beyond measure. Hunter knew this, just as he knew that what he was witnessing was an event both past, present, and future.
As he watched the pair, who were either frozen in time or just refusing to move, the harmonies playing in the background suddenly took off, changing to a fast, pounding allegro. The two figures lurched into action, rushing at one another and shouting short, angry phrases. It was gibberish, an incomprehensible string of phonemes, and yet…it sounded familiar.
It was the language of his dreams.
Hunter couldn’t make out much. At times the string of syllables seemed on the verge of clarifying, then, maddeningly, they would slip through his fingers as if he was trying to catch rain. The words “Adonai,” and “Elohim,” kept repeating, the two figures flinging the words as if they were weapons, but the meaning remained unclear.
Then, quick as a summer storm, the scene evaporated, and Hunter was slammed back into his chair, once again with Bath and Karen. The elegant little man was watching Hunter oddly, like a stray dog he didn’t know whether to feed or kick. Karen’s face was turned away, her body shaking with silent sobs.
“How did you do that?” Bath softly asked.
Hunter blinked, twisting in his chair to scan the room. “What just happened?”
“Answer me!” Bath’s smile was gone, his eyes flashing. “How did you do that?”
“That…that stuff was real, wasn’t it?”
The little man’s eyes narrowed, and he looked as though he would say more, then he shook his head and his postured relaxed. He sat back into his chair. “Some of it,” he said.
“Those guys, the ones who hate each other…?”
“Yes.” The word hissed from Bath’s lips.
Reaching up, Hunter wiped cold sweat from his brow. This entire gathering, what he had first thought was some kind of shake-down, was beginning to make a frightening kind of sense. The angels. The Apkallu. He had felt a resonance when Bath said the words…and an even deeper connection seeing those two figures. “It’s really true,” he whispered. “It’s not a game.”
Bath’s face twisted in puzzlement, then he threw back his head and laughed. “Dear, dear, boy. You had me going for a moment.”
“What?”
“The talking. Tell me, how did you bring that across? A Domination? Or…a Cherubim?” Bath said the last word with a flinty undertone.
“I…look, you’re going to have to slow down a sec. Those guys, the ones fighting like they were out for each other’s balls?” Hunter looked expectantly at Bath, but the small man just watched him. After a moment of silence, once it was clear Bath wasn’t going to answer, Hunter turned to Karen. She had finished weeping, and appeared cool and composed as ever.
“Seraphim,” she said. “Commanders. What you saw is a glimpse of the early years, when there were so many of us we outshone the stars.”
“That’s enough for now,” Bath spoke from his leather couch. “You still haven’t answered my question. What are you? Which order?”
Hunter shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine. The only things I remember are snapshots of this…” he grimaced. “War. Jesus, I can’t believe I’m saying that.”
But if Karen was going to reply she was cut off as Bath stood and roughly grabbed her arm. Pulling her hastily to her feet, he yanked open the door and shoved her through.
“Hey!” Hunter yelled, but Bath just gave him a quick, calculating look then followed Karen out the door. The entrance closed behind him with a click, and the lights went out. Hunter rubbed his eyes, trying to adjust, but the darkness was absolute. He was blind.
Standing, he tried to find the door and barked his knee painfully against a chair. He put his hands in front of him, trying to avoid the furniture, but after almost tripping and cracking his head on one of the side tables he decided to wait. Let Bath make the first move.
You’ve got to be kidding, he thought. They kidnap me, bring me to a mansion in the back-ass of nowhere, tell me I’m an angel, then leave me in the middle of a goddamn power outage?
He was still feeling sorry for himself, when he fel
t a subtle change in the blackness. The air grew thicker, and a faint whiff of air passed Hunter’s ear. It smelled slightly of onions. Acting on instinct, Hunter dropped his weight to his left foot and swung his arm in a tight, fast arc. A sharp crack sounded as the ridge of his hand met cartilage. The assailant made a choking, mewling cry and his body thumped heavily to the ground.
Hunter wondered momentarily if he’d just broken the windpipe of some poor waiter who’d been stuck in the room with him, but before he could investigate, a heavy weight smashed into his shoulders, driving him to the ground. His breath exploded in a rush, but instead of collapsing to the floor he used the fall to tumble to the side and out of the attacker’s path. Hunter flung out his foot as he rolled to his left, and felt it connect with the victims shin in what he hoped was a bone-breaking snap. Springing to his feet, still trying to catch his breath, Hunter staggered back in the direction he thought was the door. He wasn’t worried about smacking his knees anymore.
With his hands held before him, Hunter almost laughed in delight when he felt the familiar touch of a doorknob. But his victory was short lived as his legs were pulled out beneath him, and he crashed to the ground, smacking his nose on the floor.
The world exploded in pain.
Waves of hot agony roared across his face as he rolled onto his back, trying to draw up his knees and ward off the blows that were thundering down on him. There had to be at least four attackers now, staggering their kicks like the quick raps of a snare drum. Hunter’s mouth filled with the warm, copper taste of blood as a boot ripped his lip, and he gasped when he tried to put weight on his ankle.
For the second time that day he sought the visions he had spent the last two years trying to avoid. As blows rained down Hunter curled tighter, trying with the last of his strength to remember what it was like to dream. Instead of fighting the darkness he embraced it, let it in, tried to forget the tickle of the carpet against his face and the hammer of fists and boots. It was the hardest thing he’d ever done, ignoring the attackers, refusing to fight. Every time he began to clear his mind another blow would drive the wind from him or bring fresh waves of pain from his screaming ankle.
Ignore it, he told himself. It’s just pain, you’ll survive. Remember what it felt like to see the sky turn red, to feel the weight of steel in your hand, the screams of the dying in the air.
Hunter opened his eyes and the darkness was gone. In its place was a sickly red haze.
He smiled.
Roaring to his feet, his ankle and nose a distant memory, Hunter scattered the attackers like fallen leaves across the red-skinned room. The darkness had pulled back against the sudden red light, and Hunter could make out the shapes of four large men. Two had been flung far enough that it would take precious seconds for them to make it back to Hunter. The other two, he saw with pleasure, were closer.
He raced to the one on his left in two easy strides, grabbing the struggling man and knocking him unconscious with a blow to the temple. He heard the second man’s shoes rub against the table behind him, and Hunter turned before he had a chance to attack. Grabbing the outstretched attacker’s hand, he crushed it in his fist. The man screamed, cradling his mangled fingers to his chest, and Hunter drove his foot into the man’s solar-plexus, throwing him against the opposite wall. The third and fourth were just as easy.
As he stood over the body of the fourth man, inhaling lightly, it took Hunter a moment before he realized the lights were back on. The room was still bathed in the red tint of Hunter’s vision, but the color was brighter now—the hue of fresh blood.
Hunter blinked in the sudden brightness, and felt his strength ebb away. The red sky faded to sharp white light, and Hunter’s ankle suddenly folded, collapsing beneath him.
“Well, that answered a few questions,” Bath said, entering the room. He was followed closely by Karen and a striking man with dark-brown hair.
Another of them. Then, with a grimace…us.
“Let me introduce a colleague of mine,” Bath’s voice drew closer, until he stood above Hunter. “Tarshish, this is Hunter. Hunter, Tarshish.”
“Pleased to meet you,” the stranger said. Hunter grunted distractedly. His ankle felt like it was in a steel-vice.
“Here,” the man knelt down. “Let me help.”
“Don’t…bother…” Hunter forced through grit teeth. “I heal…quickly.”
Tarshish sighed. “Grunts. Nobody wants to sit around for an hour while you moan and groan. So why don’t we, ah, fix this now?” He gripped Hunter’s arm tightly and closed his eyes.
Hunter had given up expecting anything ordinary from these—angels—creatures, but wasn’t prepared for the nonchalance of Tarshish’s power. There was no tingle, no pain; Hunter didn’t notice anything other than the slow realization that his ankle no longer hurt. Reaching up, he felt his nose—whole, and in perfect order.
Tarshish opened his eyes. “Better?”
“Uh…yeah. Much. Thank you.”
Tarshish nodded, and helped Hunter to his feet. “You’ll want something to eat. I’d recommend sooner rather than later if you, ah, don’t want to pass out in next ten minutes.” Tarshish grinned at Hunter’s puzzled expression. “Your body did the actual work, I just supplied the direction. Only downside is that you’ve used up every resource at your considerable, ah, disposal. Without the proper sustenance your body will decide to get those resources somewhere else, namely—”
“Yeah, I see where you’re going,” Hunter said. “Thanks. Really.” Tarshish nodded, and, with a veiled look from Bath, exited the room.
“He’s one of the best I’ve seen,” Bath said conversationally, sinking back in the couch. “Any other Doc, you would have passed out the moment he touched you.” Bath reached inside his slim jacket and pulled out a phone. Pressing a button he said, “Dinner,” and a second later the door opened and the two bodyguards returned, wheeling a steel cart piled high with fruits and meats.
“Help yourself,” Bath said.
Hunter eyed the food. “How do I know it’s safe?”
“If I wanted you dead I’d kill you myself”
“As opposed to sending someone else to do the job?” Hunter looked pointedly at the unconscious attackers scattered around the room.
Bath’s eyes crinkled in amusement. “You think I sent them to kill you?”
“You have a better explanation?”
“Of course. A test.”
Hunter was skeptical, but his body was already growing heavy with fatigue and he was struggling to keep his eyes open. Another minute and he wouldn’t have the luxury of trading barbs with Bath. Hunter rose and piled a plate with great, dripping slabs of roast beef and a handful of sliced apples. The bodyguards watched, expressions blank, then removed the cart once Hunter’s plate was full. The heavy woman let the boy wheel the cart, staying behind to gather the bodies of the four attackers and drag them out, one at a time.
“Where is she taking them?” Hunter asked around greasy mouthfuls of beef.
“Back to their families,” Karen said, speaking for the first time since returning to the room.
“Families?”
‘They’ve failed,” said Bath. “Their services are no longer required. You on the other hand…” he paused and regarded Hunter. “Your services are something else entirely.”
“Hey, a plate of food isn’t going to make up for sending four people to kill me.”
“I know it’s brutal,” said Karen. “But we’ve been watching you, Hunter. The news reports and the bodies left at the—”
“Bodies?”
“The news reports,” Karen continued, “strongly suggest you belong to the order of Powers. That little demonstration just confirmed what we already suspected.”
Hunter put down his plate, sated for the moment. “So, you tried to kill me to test some theory of yours?”
“We don’t take chances,” Bath said quietly. “If we do, people die. Our people. We can’t afford that kind of setback.”
Hunter sighed. “Fine, I know you want me to ask. What’s a ‘Power?’”
“Not what. Who.”
“The Powers are the sixth order of angels,” Karen said. “Second choir. Agents of martial strength, made to serve as soldiers and protectors of the celestial chorus. Your strength, your ability to heal, your penchant for killing—they all stem from your order.”
“Killing.” Hunter nodded. “You throw that word around like you’re talking about mowing the lawn. I ended someone’s life last night.”
“Yes,” Bath leaned forward, eyes blazing. “And you’ll do it again. And again, and again if it’s needed. It’s what you are, Hunter. How God designed you.”
“I don’t know any ‘God.’”
“You think I give a damn what you know? I care about what you can do.” Bath leaned back, closing his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again he was fully composed. “Hunter, you have no idea what a marvelous creature you are. These vestigial pulls of ‘conscience,’” he threw the word with disgust. “Are leftovers of a human heritage that isn’t even yours.”
Hunter was about to spit back an angry retort, but stopped. Was Bath that far off the mark? The years of torment, the constant rejection from those he hoped would be friends or lovers…the visions. Hunter had always wondered if he was broken, if there was a genetic answer for why he felt so alone in the world.
Karen touched Hunter’s hand. “It gets easier with time.”
“Maybe,” Bath said, giving Karen a sharp look. She removed her hand. “All of this has been orchestrated to answer questions,” he continued. “But the biggest question still remains.”
Hunter knew what he was going to ask. “That battle you showed me. You want to know which side I was on. Before…uh…”
“Before you were incarnated,” Karen supplied helpfully.
“Yeah. That.”
“That’s the question, isn’t it?” said Bath. “The answer will determine a great many things, not least of which is whether you will become my welcome guest or find yourself at the end of my blade.” Bath’s familiar grin reappeared.