The Fallen 4

by Thomas E. Sniegoski

  Mallus and Tarshish were silent. They all sat at the card table. The old Malakim fiddled with a puzzle piece, and Aaron could just make out the puzzle’s picture.

  An abandoned factory. What an odd choice for a puzzle image, Aaron thought, before getting back to the point. “Well,” he prompted.

  “We didn’t kill the godlike being, per se,” Tarshish explained. “Just its human aspect.”

  “Okay,” Aaron said. “So this being, this Metatron, it’s still alive?”

  “No, the Metatron is comprised of three aspects, the divine, the human, and the angelic. All must coexist together. By killing its human aspect, we caused the Metatron to unincorporate.”

  “And the other parts went where?” Aaron asked. “Back to God?”

  “They exist in the world,” the Malakim said. “We would have to find them, control them, and then bring them back to you.”

  “And what would I do with them?” Aaron asked.

  Tarshish was silent as he picked up another puzzle piece and looked to see where it might fit in the image before him.

  “These aspects would be joined to you,” Mallus said.

  Aaron listened. “And?”

  “And you would become the Metatron,” Tarshish finished, snapping the puzzle piece into place. “The perfect fusion of God, angel, and man.”

  Aaron considered what they were saying, looking from Mallus to Tarshish. “Why do I get the sense that this wouldn’t be the greatest thing for me?”

  “Probably because it isn’t,” Tarshish replied matter-of-factly.

  “Being the Metatron is possibly one of the greatest honors that could be bestowed upon a human,” Mallus said.

  “Yeah? Then why do I hear a big ‘but’ coming?” Aaron asked.

  “But you would be the Metatron,” Tarshish said.

  “No more Aaron Corbet, no more leader of the Nephilim,” Mallus explained. “You would be the Metatron.”

  Aaron sat there, soaking it all in. He could feel his anger begin to rise as yet another responsibility was thrust upon him. After already giving up so much, the divine still wanted even more from him.

  He wanted to tell the two angelic beings to forget it, to find another host for the godlike power that they had set loose upon the world. But Aaron just wasn’t wired that way.

  The thought of everything he would lose washed over him in one huge, crashing wave. But if he didn’t agree to assume the role of Metatron, Aaron knew the darkness would eventually swallow the world. This Darkstar would win, and the Architects’ plans—whatever they might be—would draw that much closer to completion.

  Something deep inside Aaron told him that wouldn’t be good for humanity, not good at all.

  “Don’t want to rush you, kid, but—” Tarshish began.

  “What do I have to do?” Aaron asked finally, hoping this would be the last sacrifice that he would need to make.

  Because he had nothing left to give.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Satan, the Darkstar, prepared himself for the slaughter he would work.

  He forged new armor, cladding his form in the stuff of darkness. Standing before an ancient mirror, he looked at himself, and added special details to the armored segments that adorned his limbs.

  He was an impressive sight.

  “Spectacular!” he exclaimed, his joyous smile nearly splitting his face. “Do you agree, Scox?” Satan turned from his reflection to eye the imp.

  “Impressive, my liege,” his red-skinned servant said quickly, rubbing his spindly-fingered hands together. “But are you complete?” he asked.

  Satan immediately thought of the Morningstar, still loose somewhere within this body’s psyche.

  “Do you forget who you are addressing, imp?” Satan growled. He considered slaying the creature and then resurrecting his corpse, just to see if death would extinguish his flame of insolence.

  “I mean no disrespect, oh Star of Darkness,” Scox groveled, averting his eyes from the Darkstar’s glare. “It’s only that I’ve been thinking—”

  “Thinking?” Satan questioned. “How dare you question—”

  “Thinking about your situation with the Community, and why you might be meeting some resistance,” Scox interjected.

  The Darkstar decided to give the imp another chance, finding himself somewhat intrigued to hear Scox’s observation.

  “Entertain me with your thoughts,” Satan proclaimed.

  “I was thinking,” Scox began again, cautiously raising his beady eyes to his master’s. “It might be your face.” Scox quickly looked away and lowered his head.

  “My face?” Satan bellowed. He spun back to the mirror to observe his countenance. “What is wrong with this face?”

  The imp did not respond, as he cowered in fear.

  “What is wrong with this face?” the Darkstar demanded again, swooping down upon his frightened servant.

  “It is his,” Scox screeched with fear, writhing upon the floor, his eyes tightly closed.

  “His?” the Darkstar asked.

  “The Morningstar,” Scox said in a trembling voice. “You look like Lucifer Morningstar, who slew many of their kind, hoping for redemption.”

  A sword of the same shadow that formed his armor grew in Satan’s hand, and he was about to slay the miscreant, when the strangest thought occurred to him.

  What if this loathsome creature is right?

  He hovered over the demon, who recoiled from his wrath.

  “Could it be something so simple?” Satan asked, almost to himself.

  Scox opened first one eye and then the other. “It is entirely possible,” he said cautiously. “Your appearance could be what’s preventing the Community from fully accepting your omnipotence.”

  The Darkstar brought a shadow-clad hand to his face and lowered his blade.

  “What would you suggest?” He felt foolish asking for suggestions from such a lowly beast, but there it was.

  Scox stood slowly. “Seeing your face may be the problem,” he began, somewhat hesitantly.

  “Go on,” Satan urged.

  “And you are adorned in the most spectacular armor,” the imp continued carefully.

  “I grow weary of you, Scox,” Satan said as the sword manifested again in his hand.

  “A helmet,” Scox cried out. “Cover up the face with a helmet!”

  “A helmet,” Satan repeated thoughtfully, turning back to the mirror. He brought both of his hands up to his face, allowing the shadow to flow from his fingertips over his face and head.

  The darkness was made solid with a thought. Satan studied his newly helmeted countenance.

  “Is this the face of their king?” he asked his reflection, turning to fix Scox with an icy stare.

  By the sheer terror that appeared upon the lowly life-form’s face, the Darkstar knew that it was.

  * * *

  Lorelei needed to find Lucifer once and for all.

  Dusty didn’t think that they would be needing the science room globe, or even one made of dirt, for what Lorelei wanted to do, so they decided on doing what they had to in the library.

  She wanted to have the power of the Instrument again, to use it to, hopefully this time, find out where Lucifer was and rescue him if possible.

  “Are you ready?” she asked Dusty.

  Dusty was terrified at the prospect of fully connecting to the divine artifact again, but he didn’t want to let on. Lorelei and the others needed to find Lucifer and bring him home. It was that important, and he wasn’t about to let his own fear stand in their way.

  “Let’s do this,” he said, taking a deep breath.

  She’d brought her copper bowl and two doves from her work space, and began the process of making the sacrifice that would allow her to merge with Dusty’s link to the Instrument.

  She cut one bird’s throat and let its blood drain, then moved on to the other, reciting a prayer of thanks to the birds for giving up their lives to help them.

  “Get read
y,” she told Dusty as she added more spell-casting ingredients to the bowl. Finally she gently removed the mouse from her shoulder and set him down upon the table as a thick, billowing smoke began to waft up from the bowl. And then she immersed her face within the smoke and took it into her lungs.

  Seeing her act, Dusty leaned back in his chair and attempted to relax his mind.

  When he first took possession of the Instrument so long ago, it became a part of him, but never more than it had become over the last weeks. There wasn’t a moment when he couldn’t sense it there, living at the periphery of his mind, desperate to show him how badly the world needed to be destroyed.

  He guessed that it was probably disappointed that the Abomination of Desolation had failed in its task to purge the world of the disease of evil, only managing to sever the earth’s ties to God and Heaven. But who knew. The way things were going, the Instrument might eventually get its wish.

  Dusty visualized going to a closed wooden door, watching as it shook, battered from the other side by something of great strength and power, something demanding to be released.

  The Instrument never stopped trying to come out, and it was only with Lorelei’s help that he had been able to keep it restrained for this long.

  He looked at the door in his mind’s eye. There were cracks in its heavy slats as the power of the Instrument threatened to break through. It wouldn’t be long now before it destroyed the door that held it at bay and filled his head with so much that was awful out there in the world.

  But wasn’t that what he wanted right now… what Lorelei needed?

  Yes, it was, and he had to oblige.

  “Come on, then,” he said to the door as it trembled and shook.

  Dusty hadn’t been raised in any particular religion, but he said a silent prayer to any divine being that might want to give him the strength to survive, as he took the latch in his fingers—amazed at how cold it felt, even though he knew it was only a manifestation of his mind—and pulled.

  Allowing what was behind the door to come charging in.

  Lorelei hovered close to Dusty, waiting for the right moment to wrest away his control and take the Instrument’s reins.

  With a sigh he opened his mind to the Instrument, and Lorelei went to work. She used her Archon magick to assume control of the ancient power. The last time she’d attempted this, she’d been pummeled by the Instrument’s strength. She hoped that she was strong enough to discern the answers she sought from its seemingly endless flow of information.

  Just one answer was all that she needed.

  Where is Lucifer?

  Once she knew, the others could bring him back home.

  And they’d all live happily ever after. Or something like that. Lorelei knew that wasn’t likely to be the case, but she also knew the Nephilim had a better chance of surviving with him than without him.

  Lorelei felt the power flow through Dusty into her. A barrage of nightmarish imagery of a world on the verge of horrific change inundated her. She bore witness to countless thousands under assault and could do nothing but turn away, as she continued her search for Lucifer.

  One image would not leave her. A building of some kind—a church… or temple—rested atop an island of rock. The building exuded a sense of menace the likes of which she had never known, and it totally dominated her thoughts.

  Lorelei was pulled to it, as if the magicks were taking her to this place for a reason. Having learned not to ignore hunches, she allowed herself to be pulled along with the flow.

  The ancient church was made of stone, which appeared to be marble, stained a sickly olive green, as if covered in a mossy growth. Lorelei got the impression that the building had been hidden beneath the ocean waves for a very long time.

  She was inside now; the halls were as dark as the night. A violent chill passed through her as she approached the seemingly endless shadows.

  She wondered why she was here, but continued to feel the pull of the place upon her, suspecting it was somehow connected to Lucifer. Somewhere within this ancient edifice she would find him, or at least some clue as to where he was.

  Suddenly she sensed that she was no longer alone. Lorelei wanted to call out to Lucifer but feared the attention that might draw. It was as if the darkness had somehow come alive, shaping itself from the gloom, to stand before her. For a brief moment she felt as though she knew this thing of night, but she was mistaken. Then the figure reached out, wrapping a gauntleted hand about her ghostly throat.

  “I see you,” said a voice that chilled her soul, filling her with a dread from which there was no escape.

  * * *

  The spell was broken as Lorelei screamed and flailed her arms, tipping the copper bowl onto the floor.

  She trembled as if she were cold. But it wasn’t the cold of a winter’s day.

  There was nothing natural about this.

  She pulled herself together the best she could, knowing the kind of danger she was in.

  The danger she had put them all in.

  “Dusty,” Lorelei said, expecting to see the young man snap from his trance. But he didn’t.

  Dusty sat, rigid in his chair, every muscle taut, his eyes rolled back in his head as the Instrument deluged him with images.

  “Dusty,” she urged, kneeling with great difficulty and pain beside his chair. “I need you here with me now. Dusty!”

  She considered another spell to give him the strength to break the Instrument’s hold, but she wasn’t sure if she could afford to give her strength away.

  Something had seen her as she’d searched for Lucifer. Something so evil that Lorelei had felt its touch invade every level of her being. That evil had been searching for her—for the Nephilim, too—and now it knew where to find them.

  Dusty thrashed wildly, slipping out of his chair and onto the floor, where he flailed about. Lorelei grabbed hold of his head, trying to keep him from hurting himself. Then, as quickly as the seizure had started, it stopped. Dusty’s body went limp.

  Lorelei was torn. The school’s protective defenses needed to be checked, maybe strengthened, and it had to be done quickly. Dusty seemed to be safe for now. She reached up and grabbed hold of the table’s edge to pull herself to her feet.

  But, lightning-quick, Dusty’s hand shot out, gripped her wrist, and pulled her back down to the floor. She found herself practically on top of him, looking down into his face—into his milky, almost sightless eyes.

  “No more hiding,” he said, but it was not Dusty’s voice that was speaking. “I’ve found you…”

  She tried to pull herself from his clutches, but he held her fast.

  “Time to die,” said the voice from the Instrument’s visions. “Time for all of you to die.”

  A powerful shudder passed through the library. Books toppled from the shelves all around her. Lorelei tore her arm from Dusty’s grasp and managed to climb to her feet, shielding herself from falling books. Milton squeaked in panic, and Lorelei stuck out her hand so he could climb to the safety of her shoulder.

  “I think we’re in trouble, mouse,” she said.

  The floor beneath her feet bucked, and Lorelei fell, tumbling toward the yawning hole in the library floor. She managed to stop herself just as she reached its edge, and peered down into the yawning abyss.

  It was filling up.

  Filling up with darkness.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The Fear Engine fought them.

  It was just as Mallus had said. These infernal machines would do everything in their power to continue collecting the world’s growing fear.

  And now it was using that fear against Verchiel and Melissa.

  Verchiel had said that they needed to kill it. Pretty simple, Melissa thought as she followed the angel’s lead, flying into the air with her sword at the ready.

  The machine looked to have fleshy parts—areas of its large, quivering mass that were made from pale, slimy-looking skin. She’d decided that would be the place to attack, the
place that would feel the bite of her burning blade.

  Verchiel reared back with a scream, the weapon in his hand seeming to grow larger and more fearsome as he readied to strike.

  Then some invisible force reached out from the engine and hit Verchiel with enough force to send the angel flying backward, slamming him into the ground. One of Verchiel’s wings twisted and bent on impact, and Melissa was certain that it had been broken.

  Melissa changed course at once, turning around in midair to go to her teammate’s side. She landed beside the angel, who was curled into a tight ball, trembling uncontrollably.

  “Verchiel!” she shouted, attempting to turn him over. He fought her briefly, but she rolled him toward her.

  “What are you doing?” he screamed, his eyes, as black as marbles, bugging from his skull as he looked at her.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked him. “Are you all right?”

  Then she sensed the raw emotion, permeating the air around the angel, trying to leach its way into her body.

  It was fear—pure, undiluted fear.

  She had no idea what Verchiel was experiencing, but she had to wonder if this being of Heaven had ever really known the touch of fear.

  Melissa looked over to the machine. It radiated terror. If she didn’t act, it would certainly overpower them.

  Verchiel was useless, nothing more than a quivering mass upon the desert floor. For a moment she hesitated.

  But she couldn’t let the fear, the doubt, take hold of her. Fear had been Melissa’s constant companion as her powers had emerged. She and fear had become quite close, actually.

  Melissa spread her wings and pushed off from the petrified ground. Her sword flashed as she soared across the desert toward her target.

  It was as if the machine could sense her coming. She wondered if it took in its sensory information through its nasty skin, for it had no eyes or ears, but questions of its biology were quickly cast aside. Her only interest was killing it.

  Sand, melted and cooled into shards of glass, whizzed past her at frightening speeds as she edged closer, dodging and weaving in the air as Aaron had taught her. The surface of the engine’s flesh suddenly opened and pulsated, and before Melissa could react, she felt as though she had been hit by a freight train. She dropped to the desert floor in a roll.