A piece of Himself.
And, wearing the guise of Assiel, Darnell performed the task assigned to him as a healer. He drew the fire of life that humanity called the soul up from beneath the mire of sickness and out of the frail, rotting husk that could no longer sustain it.
Candace sighed as the spark left her, and then she was still, a look of contentment upon her once pained features.
Assiel held the flame in his palm, a part of him not wanting to let it go. Of all the things that the Lord of Lords had given His human creations, this was what Assiel coveted the most.
This was what had so long ago swayed him to the beliefs of Lucifer Morningstar.
He watched the fire dance above the palm of his hand, holding it there with his will. What an amazing gift He had given them.
Candace’s soul felt the pull of the source upon it and began to panic, struggling to be free of his will. Slowly he released his hold upon it, watching as the flame leapt from his palm to disappear in a flash, leaving the material world to join with the Angel of Death, and eventually the stuff of inception.
Assiel returned to his human guise, taking one more long look at the empty casing that had once held something so wonderful before leaving the room as a song about a teen angel serenaded Candace Ransley’s corpse.
Outside the room, Darnell began to casually sweep again, working his way back up the hallway.
“Hey, Darnell,” a young nursing assistant greeted as she passed him on her way to Candace’s room.
He smiled and nodded, counting the seconds until she left the room in a hurry, rushing by him to the desk to report what she had found.
After using a dustpan to pick up what he had swept, Darnell wheeled the gray barrel past the nurses’ station to the elevators. It would be quitting time soon, and he would return to his residence and to the other patients whom he had acquired in the tenement where he’d chosen to live.
Mr. Daron was quite close, and Darnell wondered if tonight might be the night.
As he waited for the elevator, he took out his cell phone and saw that there was a message. He wasn’t supposed to use his cell on the units, but curiosity got the better of him, and he punched in the code for his voice mail.
The doors to the elevator opened before him as a familiar voice spoke in his ear. It was Francis—Fraciel, to those who had known him in another time.
“Have a good night, Darnell,” the nurse called out as he stepped into the elevator and pushed the button for the lower level.
He managed a smile, but it quickly dissipated as soon as the doors slid shut.
A good night? He seriously doubted it, if Francis was to be any part of it.
• • •
The Archangel Michael lay upon the cold stone floor of the mountain monastery, pieces of his divine armor strewn, twisted and bent, about him, glistening like dew in the cold Eastern European sun.
It had come upon him so quickly, lifting him up with such force that he had not had the opportunity to react, the intensity of the interaction stripping the armor from his body. He lay there, naked in his human form, his perfectly muscled body shivering.
It took the archangel some time to recalibrate, to remember where he had been and what he had been doing. He had been contemplating his place in the world of man and had concluded that his legions were needed here. Even though there now existed a binding treaty, he suspected that the Morningstar would soon find a way to further exert his will upon the Earth.
And Michael, in service to God and Heaven, would have none of that.
He had been considering his options when the Almighty reached out to him.
It had been too long since he and the Lord God had last communicated, and he had forgotten the intensity of such interaction. One moment he had been there, in the abandoned holy sanctuary, and the next, he’d been violently torn from reality and in the Presence.
In His presence.
The memory of what he’d just endured caused his tremors to worsen, and for a moment he felt a kindred spirit with the holy men and saints of old who had lived in this monastery, imagining that this was how they must have felt when they received His blessed word.
Using the ancient stone wall for support, he slowly rose to his feet, collecting his wits as he steadied himself. The archangel wove a suit of clothing from the elements in the air to cover his bedraggled body. But it did not stop his trembling, for it was not only the experience that wreaked such havoc upon him, it was the message that had been delivered.
Michael suddenly realized he was no longer alone but surrounded by the legion of archangels that served him, who were watching him with dark, curious eyes.
It was his second in command, Satquiel, who finally had the courage to approach. “Master?”
Michael braced himself and turned to face his second.
“He has spoken, Satquiel.” The reverence in his tone was enough to drive his legion to their knees with bowed heads.
“And what did He say, my master?” Satquiel asked, eyes averted to the stone floor of the monastery chamber. “What has He asked of us?”
Michael could not speak the words. They were jagged and sharp in his throat, threatening to cut and render him speechless as they were uttered.
After a time, Satquiel raised his head to look upon his commander, eyes questioning his superior’s state.
Michael wrestled with the message, his mouth attempting to wrap around the malevolent words, afraid to set them free.
“The Lord God commands,” Michael finally began, his booming voice so loud in the enclosed room that it shook bits of loose mortar from the walls. But he continued to struggle, fighting the words that he had been charged to proclaim.
“What does He command, Michael?” Satquiel urged, his eagerness a balm, drawing the malignant words from Michael’s mouth. “Tell us.”
“That we forgive,” Michael stated at last. The words took his strength as they spilled from his mouth, and he dropped to the floor.
“Who, Michael? Who does the Almighty wish us to forgive?”
The name left his mouth like a stream of noxious bile.
“The Morningstar,” Michael stated, feeling a bit of himself begin to wither and die. “We are to forgive Lucifer Morningstar.”
• • •
Simeon remembered how he’d first come to entrap the angel.
He’d been attending the wake of one of his children sometime in the early forties. It had been late summer in the South, and the heat had been terrible.
He recalled the image of his son lying puffy in his quilted casket, one of the hundreds of children he had sired as he’d wandered the planet pretending to be a part of humanity. This one had lived close to ninety years, according to the undertaker who’d greeted Simeon at the door.
Simeon hadn’t told the dark-suited man who he actually was, for he looked no older than thirty years, thanks to the touch of that accursed Son of God. He’d chosen instead to say that he was just a friend from a very long time ago.
He had known next to nothing about this child of his, not even the mother, but sensing the death of something that had once been a part of him had drawn the forever man there.
How many times had he done something similar to this, bemoaning the fact that something that he’d had a part in creating was no more, and at the same time jealous that they’d had the opportunity to leave the world behind, to escape the confines of Earth and join with the Creator in eternity.
Something that had long been denied him.
As he’d stood above the coffin, staring into the face of the dead man, he’d felt the atmosphere in the room change, as if something of great power had been drawn to his moment of woefulness.
“Who’s there?” Simeon had demanded. He’d turned toward the back of the viewing room, where the air seemed to shimmer, and touched the rings that he wore on each hand—one giving him power over the demonic, the other the angelic. “Show yourself.”
“That’s it,” the foreve
r man had said, practically giddy as the angel of Heaven took shape, ensnared by the power of the ring. “Don’t waste your strength. Solomon was very thorough with the magick he employed.” And Simeon had held up his right hand, showing off the silver ring that adorned his finger, the one that gave him control over God’s winged messengers.
The angel had continued to struggle, attempting to disappear from view, but the magick of the ring kept him there.
“Why are you here?”
“I was drawn to your emotion,” the angel spoke haltingly, as if trying not to speak, but the words forced their way out anyway.
“My emotion?” Simeon had begun to pace amongst the chairs that had been set up for those who would come to pay their respects.
“I have never sensed anguish so vast,” the angel had said. “Sorrow so deep. It drew me to you.”
Simeon remembered smiling with little humor. “Let’s say I’ve had ample time to accrue more than my fill.”
The angel had looked at him strangely then, tilting his head in that birdlike fashion they had a tendency to do. The Heavenly creature had yet to realize what he was actually dealing with.
“And you came to me to do what exactly?” Simeon had asked. “Soothe a troubled nature with a divine touch upon my furrowed brow?”
“I certainly could bring you some peace—yes,” the angel had agreed.
Simeon had laughed, a short barking sound. “It would take far more than that to assuage my tortured feelings,” he’d said with a snarl. “In fact, I doubt that all in Heaven could quench my wrath.”
He had walked toward the angel then, weaving his way through the chairs, feeling the rage growing within him—a rage that could never be satisfied. For he had been denied the joy of Heaven, had had it painfully snatched away as he was returned to a life eternal by the touch of the holy man from Nazareth.
“I am an emissary of God; let me help you . . . ,” the angel had stammered.
But Simeon had simply raised a hand, cutting off the angel’s words. “Bleed for me,” he’d said.
The angel had tilted his head left, then right. “I don’t . . .”
“Bleed for me,” Simeon had repeated, putting the power of Solomon’s ring behind each word.
The angel had struggled, but it was all for naught. The winged messenger of God extended one of his long, muscular arms, pulling back the diaphanous sleeve of his shirt to expose the pale, marblelike flesh, his gaze begging the forever man to reconsider.
But what would have been the fun in that?
Reaching across with his other hand, the angel had begun to dig the razor-sharp nails on his fingers into the exposed arm, grimacing as he ripped bloody furrows in the bare white skin.
“Isn’t that something,” Simeon had said, placing his hand beneath the drips of blood raining down from the wounds.
“Why?” the angel had asked pathetically.
And again, Simeon had given him that humorless smile, recalling a similar question he himself had asked of the Son of God so very long ago.
“To show that I could.”
A sound from the entrance to the room had distracted them then, and Simeon had turned to see the undertaker standing there.
“I thought I heard voices in here,” the middle-aged man had said, not yet noticing that he was in the presence of the divine.
Simeon watched his face, waiting for it to sink in.
“Oh my,” the undertaker had said dreamily, his eyes fixed upon the winged being.
“Be not afraid.” The angel’s voice had sounded like the first notes of the most beautiful of songs.
“Oh no,” Simeon had said, his gaze going from the angel to the undertaker. “I think he should be afraid.” He’d strode over to the man, raised his hand, and wiped the blood of an angel on the undertaker’s cheeks.
The man had simply stood there, stunned beyond movement. “Please . . . ,” he’d managed.
Simeon looked back to the angel. “You heard the man,” he’d said. “He’s begging you.”
The angel had tensed, his wings flapping furiously as he’d tried to shrug off the spell that had hold of him.
“Do it,” Simeon had commanded. “Kill him.”
And the angel had flown across the room, pouncing upon the defenseless undertaker, tearing him apart in a show of preternatural strength.
That was the beginning of a beautiful friendship between Simeon and Satquiel.
A friendship that had continued to this day.
• • •
“To what do I owe this unexpected visit?” Simeon asked the angel Satquiel, crossing his legs as he reclined comfortably in the wingback leather chair. He held a snifter of brandy, moving his wrist in such a way that the caramel-colored liquid swirled about, coating the inside of the glass.
The angel stood before the large window that looked out onto one of the Vatican’s many gardens, this particular one devoted to roses of every imaginable color.
Simeon’s associates in the Vatican had given him this office study to think and to collect his thoughts. If only they realized how hard he was trying to destroy everything that they believed in, but for now what they didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them.
“The Lord God has spoken,” Satquiel said, arms crossed behind his back as he looked rigidly out upon the rose garden.
“Has He now?” Simeon said, taking a sip of his brandy. “And, pray tell, what did the supreme being have to say?”
Satquiel appeared to grow even more uncomfortable, his body twitching uneasily.
“Michael has received a special message from the Lord God,” Satquiel said, turning his head from the garden view. He appeared to be concentrating on a patch of deep shadow in the corner of the room, near the floor-to-ceiling bookcases.
“Go on, Satquiel,” Simeon urged as he turned the ring of Solomon on his right finger, wanting to distract the angel from the pool of darkness.
The angel turned, visibly shaken by what he was about to relate. Simeon leaned forward in his chair, ready to hear.
“Lucifer Morningstar,” Satquiel said, his voice trembling.
“Yes?”
“The Morningstar is to be forgiven his indiscretions,” Satquiel at last said, the words spilling from his mouth like vomit.
“The deuce you say,” Simeon reacted, slowly bringing his drink to his mouth and draining the remainder of its contents in one gulp.
“Rather than involve the forces of Heaven and Hell in another war that would most assuredly spill over to Earth and humanity, the Almighty has decreed that the Son of the Morning be exonerated from his crimes against Heaven.”
Simeon reclined farther into the chair, the gears inside his brain already beginning to turn, the repercussions of this decree immense.
“My, my, my,” Simeon said, the scenarios that he was imagining too numerous to count.
“Michael,” Simeon stated, capturing Satquiel’s attention.
“Yes, what about him?”
“How is the archangel taking the news?”
“The Creator has spoken. The Archangel Michael, as well as us all, will bathe in the glory that has been bestowed upon us with His holy words and prepare to carry out that which has been—”
“How is Michael doing?” Simeon asked.
Satquiel’s posture sagged. “Not well at all,” he said.
“Wouldn’t think so. Can’t even imagine God’s number one commander against the forces of evil kissing and making up with the adversary. Ouch.” Simeon paused, continuing to let the information wash over him. “Poor bastard. Must be so hard for him . . . hard for you all, really.”
“You have no idea,” Satquiel said. “But God has spoken. We have no choice . . .”
“I get it, and there’s that whole working-in-mysterious-ways thing He’s known for.”
The angel stood before him, the troubles that he’d just related appearing to have taken their physical toll upon the divine creature.
“It is for the good of us all.�
�
Simeon smiled. “Of course it is,” he said. “That’s what a loving God is all about.”
Tired of the angel, and wanting to think further about the situation, Simeon ordered Satquiel away.
Needing another brandy, he rose from his chair, approaching the bar in one of the room’s other corners to help himself.
“Did you hear?” Simeon asked as he poured.
He looked toward the patch of darkness where the angel’s attention had been drawn earlier. The black moved like liquid, and a shape, followed by three others, emerged to join him in the study.
Constantin Malatesta stood just outside the shadow, while Simeon’s three demon lackeys moved to the opposite side of the room.
“The sound was a bit distorted within the shadow,” the Keeper agent of the Vatican said. “Did he actually say that God is ready to forgive Lucifer?”
Simeon could not help himself and began to giggle. No matter how long he lived this wretched existence, the unexpected happenings of the day never ceased to amaze him.
“He did,” the forever man answered, taking a sip from his fresh glass of brandy.
“Perhaps there’s hope for us all, then,” Malatesta said, suddenly doubling over in pain as the thing that lived inside of him—the Larva—again tested the constraints of his body.
“Hope isn’t something that the infernal really care to hear about,” Simeon told him.
Beleeze, Dorian, and Robert watched in amusement as the Vatican sorcerer struggled with the diabolical entity that had possessed him since childhood. Simeon’s demonic helpers didn’t really care for the newest addition to their dysfunctional family and enjoyed his suffering whenever possible.
Malatesta slowly straightened and from the look upon his face Simeon could see that the Larva had once again regained a modicum of control.
“Personally I’ve always believed hope to be overrated,” the Vatican magick user said, his words tainted by the malevolence of the demonic parasite. “It’s so easily taken away.”
The Larva smiled behind the mask of Constantin Malatesta.
“So here’s the question,” Simeon then proposed, the wheels inside his mind spinning even faster, tossing off sparks of fire that only served to ignite more thoughts on the situation. “How do we best use this to our advantage?”
A Deafening Silence In Heaven Page 4