by Nic Widhalm
The office park snapped back into focus, and Jackie’s thoughts scattered, fleeing like frightened geese. Valdis gripped her arm, knuckles white. “Stop,” the priest said gently, pulling her back. Looking around the detective saw she had walked twenty feet from the protective cover of the parked cars, her feet leading her straight toward the bus stop.
“Run through your multiplication tables. It helps.” Jackie heard Valdis’ voice from a distance, and knew if she stopped focusing on his words for even a moment she would begin walking back toward the bus stop. Heeding his advice, she started multiplying, and sighed as the alien music faded into the background.
“Thanks,” Jackie breathed. Nodding, Valdis’ eyes slid past Jackie’s shoulder and up. He smiled. Jackie turned, following his gaze, but saw nothing. “What?”
The priest just shook his head, grinning mischievously. “The calvary is coming.”
Hunter strained against the constricting vines, but despite the red sky, the screams of battle and the crash of swords, he couldn’t summon the strength to snap the thick weeds. In the back of his head he heard Hash’s disappointed voice: “You think this is daycare, Friskin? You think I’m here to wipe your nose and change your shitty diaper? Get your ass off the floor and show me you’re more than a mis-timed cum stain!”
Hunter rallied, muscles bulging, eyes straining until he felt they would pop. But still, the vines, coupled with the strong, sure grip of the second man holding his arms to the pavement, wouldn’t give. Struggling, strength waning, Hunter watched helplessly as the sky faded to a dusky pink.
Hold your paradox! Hunter screamed mentally, picturing the white room, attempting to paint it black with all the earthly, mortal parts of himself that held back his angelic core. Hash said this was the only way to get rid of the human part—the side of himself that denied his celestial heritage. The weak side. Hunter smothered his anger, he let the sky fade, removed the “crutches” that Hash had spent the last month beating out of his pupil.
None of it worked.
He was done. Beat. Relaxing against the vines, arms falling still at his side, Hunter stopped fighting. Exhaustion and fatigue rolled through his trembling muscles. How far had he walked in the last hour. Twenty miles? A hundred? This strip mall wasn’t anywhere near the Elohim fortress…how could he fight against that kind of power? Even with his gifts, he was only one man.
Hunter watched as other black-clad figures emerged, striding toward their victim with calm, certain strides. In the back stood a petite man, a sardonic grin splayed across his face. Hunter recognized him immediately, and felt his hopes die. If Bath had come in person there was no chance of Hunter escaping. The Cherubim would never allow it—not after losing him once before. He’d lost.
Not yet, a small voice whispered.
The night filled with a sudden brilliant, white-hot light, and tears burst in Hunter’s eyes. He snapped his lids shut against the burning white, but even that wasn’t enough to block out the light. Despite the pain, he began to laugh long, horse cries. He felt hot tears flood down his cheeks, but he wasn’t afraid. Strength rushed to his limbs, banishing the fatigue that had threatened to overcome him. It streamed from all around him, energy pulled from the earth, the surrounding Apkallu, the sky itself.
The light was salvation, it was home, and suddenly Hunter knew—he was safe.
With a wet tear the vines ripped apart, and Hunter sprang to his feet, eyes flicking open. Without thought the white room formed, and Hunter felt the dark, mossy flood of humanity poor from his soul, painting the space a hungry black. Power surged through his muscles, his legs itching to run, to jump, to connect with something. Hunter clenched his fingers, reveling in the drama. He felt like an action hero, ripped straight from the silver screen and set here, in the middle of a parking lot to kick ass and take names. Nothing could beat him—not like this. Not jet planes, tanks, a nuclear explosion….even a Cherubim.
Fuck you, James Bond. You’ve got nothing on me.
The sky appeared to open, and Hunter’s vision expanded into three-hundred sixty degrees. He saw everything. Examining the battlefield, he noted the chaos; the ground torn to rubble, dark-green plant debris dotting the parking lot, groups of black-clad figures scattered like corn-seed, shaking their heads in confusion. Hunter focused on the closest two, the Apkallu who had attacked him just a moment ago. They were struggling to get off the ground. They looked shaky, blinking their eyes over and over. Hunter sized them up: first the Virtue, then the Power.
Kicking aside the last strands of vine, Hunter sprang forward with the speed of a finely tuned Ferrari, seizing the startled, frightened Virtue under his arm. His muscles tightening, Hunter bore down until he heard a sweet crack, then let the limp body fall to the earth. Only after did he notice the struggling Virtue had managed to encase Hunter in a light, pale-blue frost. The icy shell had crept half-way up his leg, formed from the small bits of leftover snow. Hunter shrugged, paying it little mind, and started toward the Adonai Power. The tinkle of cracking ice followed him.
The Power met Hunter’s eyes, looked around at the scattered black-clad figures, and ran.
Before he could send the thought to his legs, Hunter had already given chase. In a heartbeat he cornered the terrified Adonai, and began reining down blows. The terrified Power, hemmed-in by the office park, threw up his arms and tried to ward off Hunter’s fists. He almost succeeded in turning one of Hunter’s punches against him, seeking to twist him off balance, but Hunter saw the move coming from what literally felt miles away; it was telecasted across the smaller Power’s face in large, obvious signs. It was so easy Hunter felt almost disappointed.
Then, without warning, the ground exploded around him, throwing Hunter backwards. He crashed against a single, deserted truck.
Head ringing, flashes of light darting about, Hunter shook his head and tried to get his bearings. The car had folded around him like a steel cocoon, blocking his senses, and for a terrifying moment Hunter thought he wouldn’t be able to escape. The air was heavy, stuffy and recycled, and in his panic Hunter’s paradox started to slip; the strength in his arms, the clarity of vision, of purpose, fading. Then, with a titanic surge from his trapped arms, the car warped, twisted, and with tearing shriek burst apart.
Hunter roared as he was released into the night, adrenaline surging through his veins. Throwing back his head, he screamed at the night, “Is that it? Is that it?”
The night didn’t answer.
Wild eyed, breath coming in deep, ragged gulps, Hunter lowered his eyes. In the distance stood the Adonai Power. He’d been joined by a small woman and two other men dressed in black. The former ran her hands through the broken ground like a dog rooting for truffles. Around her rose clumps of earth, forming together into a tightly packed ball of concrete and ice.
That’s probably not good, Hunter thought, studying the kneeling woman and her companions. Four against one weren’t great odds, but the way he was feeling at the moment, strength coursing through his arms and legs, vision clear, maybe he could—
Hunter leapt to the side as the car exploded, shards of hot metal slicing his arms. It’d been so fast; he’d barely seen the ball of concrete leave the Virtue’s hand. Where he’d stood a moment before was now a smoking ruin of twisted metal and pooling gasoline. That kind of power…
Hunter scrambled to his feet, barely blocking a bone-shattering kick from one of the Virtue’s companions as the Adonai swarmed him. From behind a straight-hand chopped at his neck, and Hunter turned, trying to grab his attacker’s arm. As he pivoted, another kick caught him in the stomach, knocking the breath from the large Power in an explosive “whoosh!”
He bent with the kick, trying to keep himself on his feet, and recovered quickly enough to shoot out his left foot and sweep the legs from one of the assailants. One of the three men—Are they all Powers? Could one be a Domination?—fell next to him, and Hunter’s fingers shot forward in a straight thrust. He smiled, feeling the warm jelly of the
man’s right eye pop and ooze around his digit.
The world suddenly darkened and something crawled over Hunter’s eyes, wrapping around his throat. His lungs cried out and he yanked at the thick, mossy substance pulling against his windpipe. Another strand of moss knocked Hunter’s scrambling hand aside, and snared him to the ground. His free arm followed, leaving him trapped like a bull at slaughter.
Hunter strained, urging his tired muscles to fight through the vines, to do what they always did—to free him. He struggled. He writhed. He filled every last bit of the white room with black. He cried out for the sky to turn red, for the sounds of battle to awaken in the night, for an ounce of that otherworldly strength to return. But the vines didn’t move, and the world turned black as the last of Hunter’s air gave out.
“Get up!” Jackie screamed as the four black-clad Adonai swarmed Friskin, forcing him to the ground. Beside her, Bath watched with revulsion.
“Stop bleating. He’s Apkallu, you foolish child—he’ll be fine.”
Child? Jackie thought, more confused than insulted. He couldn’t be more than five years older than me.
Across the parking lot, Hunter brought one of the attackers down with a move Jackie couldn’t quite see, and she heard a gasp as an elderly lady exited one of the buildings and caught sight of the brawl. Her eyes widened and she jammed her hand into her large purse, rummaging wildly. Then her eyes suddenly glazed over and she resumed walking toward her car. Jackie looked over, watching Bath’s lips move in small, calculated patterns. She thought she heard a snippet of melody. The elderly lady reached her car, unlocked the door and started the engine—oblivious to the battle raging a few feet away.
Turning back to Hunter, Jackie’s eyes widened in shock as long, thick chains of weedy vines exploded beneath the parking lot, splintering the asphalt into large chunks and wrapping around Friskin’s neck. The large man clawed desperately at the stringy vine, his fingers shredding off small bits of green plant matter.
“You’re going to kill him!” Jackie cried.
“Hardly,” said Bath. “The boy needs to be restrained. Did you think he was going to jump in the van and willingly follow us to the chapterhouse?”
“You promised to help. You said you could save him.”
Bath shook his head, ignoring Jackie’s cries. She began to stand—if that little freak wasn’t going to help Friskin, she would—but a light hand fell on her shoulder, restraining her. She turned and saw Valdis watching her with a calm, reassured gaze. His eyes flicked up and Jackie followed: on the roof of the closest building were five silhouettes, the early moonlight surrounding them in foggy halos.
“Oh, fuck,” Jackie said. “The ‘calvary?’” Valdis nodded, his face oddly calm. “What did you do?” Jackie hissed, but the priest only placed a slim finger to his nose and shook his head, smiling. Jackie frowned, watching the “calvary” leap from the building and land on the torn asphalt of the parking lot.
The roof was forty feet up but the five strangers landed in silent, perfect formation with a single man in front and the rest fanned behind. The leader was an older black man, short and squat, and even in the darkening night Jackie could make out bulging muscles beneath the man’s sweater.
Wasting no time, the older man pointed first in one direction then another, and Jackie watched as the two lines swept out to intercept the black-clad Adonai. The strangers moved in fluid, practiced ease, responding to one another without words. The detective had seen these kind of precise military drills before in soldiers and expatriates. Whoever they were, this wasn’t their first time fighting as a unit.
Hunter had quit struggling against the vines, his face turning a frightening purple. At his side, his hand flopped uselessly. The remaining woman and her two other companions surrounded the large Power, the female Adonai’s face frozen in concentration while the two men held down Friskin’s massive shoulders.
As the two waves of attackers joined the scene, each focusing on one side of Friskin, the night exploded with light and sound. One of the men holding Hunter—a sandy-haired, middle-aged fellow in the same fantastic, GQ-model shape Jackie associated with all Apkallu—leapt at two of the incoming strangers, smashing into them with arms stretched wide and baring them to the ground. There was a sizzle of blue-white light from under the sandy-haired Adonai, and Jackie’s nose wrinkled as the sudden stench of burning flesh filled the air.
The Adonai holding Friskin’s arm moved away from Hunter, and circled cautiously around the second wave of strangers. The Adonai sneered, then fainted to the stranger on the left and at the last moment pivoted, smashing against the attacker on his right. The three disappeared in a tangle of arms and legs and Jackie lost sight as they rolled to the other side of the ruined car.
“Who do we root for?” She asked in a low whisper.
“Hunter,” Valdis answered, face grim.
The remaining Virtue, her concentration broken and the vines falling from Hunter in limp strands, flung her hand toward the older, muscled leader, and the ground exploded beneath him. But in a move to fast for Jackie to follow, the older man leapt to the side, and while the Virtue was concentrating on the spot where he had stood a half-second ago, the squat, muscled man brought his elbow down on her head. There was a thick, wet crack, and the Adonai fell to the ground.
Before the muscled man could take another step, though, a sudden storm of dirt, trash, and twisted bits of metal filled the air. Through the tornado of debris Jackie could barely make-out the older man’s squinting eyes. Even though the wind roared about him, and pieces of gravel and glass tore at his exposed flesh, the older man’s lips were pulled back at the edges. He was grinning. Suddenly his hand snapped forward, the whirlwind ceased, and he was holding a slim, black-clad woman by the throat. Jackie recognized the woman—Karen. The one who’d approached Friskin when he first began to suspect what was happening. The same stunning woman Jackie had met in the bar several months ago, who’d taken Friskin and disappeared before her eyes. She felt a moment of guilty pleasure as the squat man—he must have been Elohim—slammed his hand into Karen’s perfect face.
Won’t be so damn pretty anymore. Jackie grinned at the thought, but the feeling faded as she watched the older Elohim pound his fist over and over into Karen’s struggling form. She wasn’t Karen’s biggest fan—she didn’t think she would ever be able to trust the Adonai after their meeting in the bar—but Jackie wouldn’t wish that beating on her worst enemy.
On the other side of Friskin, the sandy-haired Adonai had rolled off the two Elohim, a bloody rip running down his black shirt. As the two other men rose—one in a dark-green windbreaker, the other sporting a black cap and modern, clear glasses—the sandy-haired Adonai suddenly swept his leg out, knocking the man in the windbreaker back to the ground. Jackie watched as the Adonai leapt on the fallen man, raining blow after thundering blow against the Elohim’s head. The man in glasses scrambled backwards and clapped his hands together. A deep, brassy rumble shook the parking lot.
The combatants raised their heads, the battle stilling for a moment, then turned their attention to the ground as the parking lot began to shake. A sharp, dry crack echoed through the cold night as a fissure erupted, racing across the parking lot and ending at the feet of the two struggling Apkallu.
Valdis sprang quickly to his feet. “Now,” he said.
“Now what?” asked Jackie.
Valdis nodded behind her, and Jackie turned just in time to see Bath sprinting toward the battle.
“Now we steal an angel.”
Hunter’s eyes opened on a scene from Dante’s Inferno. As the bitter, acrid air filled his lungs—lungs which Hunter had feared would never fill again—he heard the screams and cries of battle filling the air. They were familiar sounds, old friends he had heard his entire life, but for once they weren’t far off and distant. There was no red tint to the sky, no clash of metal on metal. This was the cry of the real, the here-and-now, the grunting, hacking, shrieking screams of men and
women fighting for survival.
On Hunter’s left were two women struggling to hold back a black-clad man. Though most of the struggle was hidden from view by the wrecked car, it looked like the man was winning. To his right, another black-robed man was astride a figure in a green jacket, pounding his fists into a wet puddle of flesh that had once been the figure’s head. Next to him, a short man in glasses—whom Hunter recognized from the Elohim fortress—brought his hands together with a sharp clap, and the ground rumbled in reply. Hunter jumped to his feet, registering only mild surprise that he was no longer restrained, and watched as a deep fissure raced across the ruined parking lot, intersecting a series of cars that sank into its depths with an explosion of burst tires, and met the Apkallu struggling on his right. Before he could think to intervene, all three—the man in glasses, the black-clad, sandy-haired stranger, and the one missing a head—disappeared in the fissure.
Hunter rushed to the side of the deep crack, looking for survivors, but all he saw was black. He thought he heard a faint cry from the dark depths, but it cut off before he could be certain. Hunter blinked, turning back to the chaos behind him. Everywhere he looked were figures fighting, clawing, screaming. He struggled to make sense of his surroundings, ignoring his protesting muscles. Who’s side was he on? Did he help the Elohim who, Hunter hoped, had come to save him? Or—suspecting as he did, that Mika’il wouldn’t let him live out the year—turn coat and join the Adonai?