by Susan Ee
The angel lackey nods at the guards who then grab my arms.
When they lay the sword in front of Uriel’s footman, he says, “Kneel.”
The men kneel in front of him like prisoners awaiting execution. The angel marks their foreheads with a black smear.
“This will ensure your safety from angels. None of us shall harm you so long as you have this mark.”
“And the rest of our loyal group?” asks Tan Head, looking up at the angel.
“Bring them to us. We’ll mark the rest of you. Let it be known that we can be generous to those who serve us.”
“Let it be known that they tore apart their last set of servants,” I say to the cult members.
The men glance at me fearfully, looking worried. I wonder if they knew about the massacre that happened here.
The angels ignore me. “Continue the good work, and perhaps we’ll allow you to serve us in heaven.”
The men try to bow deeper, pressing themselves onto the ground. “It is our honor to serve the masters.”
I would make a gagging noise if I wasn’t so scared.
They shove me into the building. My sword scrapes the pavement as an angel drags it behind us.
INSIDE, THE LOBBY is crowded and roaring with noise, every inch of standing space bursting with angels. Either they’ve all come indoors or their numbers have swelled overnight.
They must be gathered for the election. That would explain the angel host we’d seen flying this way.
The crowd parts to let me through.
It must be the sound of the sword dragging behind me that catches everyone’s attention. They all stare as we pass. I feel like a witch being paraded through town. I guess I’m lucky they’re not throwing rotten tomatoes at me.
Instead of going into a room, they take me through the building and out onto the lawn where the massacre happened. They’re putting me on display for all angels to see.
There are still patches of dried blood on the terrace. Apparently, there’s no one left to clean up after them anymore. The place is a mess. Confetti and costumes litter the ground, and for some reason, the grass is churned up like an army had randomly gone through it with shovels.
Signs have sprouted up over the lawn. The last time I was here, there was only one booth, but now there are booths everywhere. They seem to be grouped in threes—red, blue, and green. I can’t read the symbols on the colored banners, but I recognize Uriel’s from when Raffe pointed it out to me. His is the red banner.
The other two banners in each booth cluster are azure blue with symbols that are curved lines and dots and misty green with dashed lines that flow both thick and thin. Even though I can’t read them, I like them better than Uriel’s, which is all angles and screaming in red.
Angels fly all over the sky and walk over the lawn that used to be a golf course. They begin gathering around the colored banners, looking like distinct teams. Many of the angels are chanting, “Uriel! Uriel! Uriel!” near the red-bannered booths like they’re at a football game.
The second largest group gathers around the misty green booths and shouts, “Michael! Michael! Michael!”
And a few others collect around the azure blue booths and begin shouting, “Raphael! Raphael! Raphael!”
Most of the angels mill around in the sky or between the booths, as if they’re still deciding. But as Raffe’s supporters keep chanting, more soldiers join them and begin shouting his name.
I’m so surprised that I stumble to a stop in the middle of the lawn. My guards have to shove me to get me to go again.
“Raphael! Raphael! Raphael!”
I hope he’s somewhere nearby, hearing his people shouting his name.
He belongs here.
That thought echoes through my mind because I still have a hard time believing it. Angels are not meant to be alone, and he’s been alone for far too long.
Does he dream about this? To have his wings again and be welcomed back into the host? To lead his soldiers and be part of his tribe again?
“Raphael! Raphael! Raphael!”
Of course he does. Isn’t that what he’s been telling me all this time? He belongs with them and not with me.
I wonder if he has his angel wings back yet. Is he just on the verge of getting everything he wants? On the verge of going back to his world?
I throw the rest of my thoughts into the vault in my head and lean as hard as I can to close the door. I don’t quite succeed. That’s been happening a lot lately.
A brawl breaks out at the cluster of booths to my right. Some take to the air. Others grapple on the ground. Angels who had been meandering on the lawn fly over to watch the fight.
Four warriors battle against a dozen while spectators cheer. No one uses his sword. This is apparently more of a contest than an angry fight.
The smaller group tosses the other angels around like rag dolls. The brawl is over in seconds.
When the last one is pinned to the ground with another warrior sitting on top of him, the winner shouts, “Raphael! First vote goes to Archangel Raphael!”
The four winning warriors jump up with their arms raised in victory and scream into the air. And I realize something. Despite Raffe’s supporters being outnumbered, they are the toughest, fiercest, most skilled fighters.
Then, almost immediately, the spectator angels congregate at another cluster of booths. Another fight is beginning there.
Within seconds, the next round is determined as someone shouts, “Michael! Second vote goes to Archangel Michael!” The crowd cheers.
It’s pure chaos, but somehow everyone seems to know the rules. I’m guessing the winning team of each fight wins a vote for their favorite candidate. The archangel with the most number of winning fights must win the election. So their election isn’t just about the number of people behind you, it’s a matter of having the best fighters behind you.
My guards shove me forward, but they’re not even looking at me. They’re watching the crazed winged warriors as they perform their version of an election.
Some of the angels have what looks like blood smeared across their faces like war paint. Others snarl as they fly past each other over broken plates and crushed champagne glasses. Those who are still wearing dinner jackets from the last party rip them off their shoulders, tearing the seams along the fabric.
They’ve stopped pretending to be civilized and are letting their inner barbarians out.
No wonder Uriel has to go to such extreme sliminess. Raffe and Michael are warriors with armies of fighters loyal to them. Uriel is just a politician and probably wouldn’t stand a chance unless he offered something like a legendary apocalypse as a treat for crazed, bloodthirsty warriors.
Being the only human in the center of all this violence makes me feel like my fate is sealed. I probably have until the end of the voting before they kill me. I wonder how long that will be.
By the time my guards shove me through the chaos and up onto the raised stage, my insides are trembling and I’m fighting to keep my legs moving. I’m surrounded by a sea of frenzied angels, and I can’t see a way out.
SO FAR, IT’S a surprisingly close election. Surprising in that Uriel has been campaigning for so long, and Raffe and Michael haven’t even been here.
“I hate to interrupt the festivities,” shouts Uriel from up in the air, “but this is something worth seeing.” He floats down to the stage at the edge of the lawn.
My guards drag me up the steps to meet him. Angels climb the steps on the other side, dragging two huge cages crammed full of thumping and screeching hellions.
Another group of angels climbs up with a third cage between them. In among the ugly hellions thrashing behind the bars is Beliel.
I haven’t seen him since Angel Island. It looks like partnering up with the hellions hasn’t worked out for him. The dried-up demon hol
ds on to the bars with his shriveled hands. He looks around, assessing the assembled host.
Uriel faces the crowd. “Before you decide which candidate to fight for, I have two pieces of crucial information you may want to consider.” He sounds as though he’s impartial to this whole affair. “First, we have found hellions skulking about far too close to the aerie,” says Uriel. “Certainly we can expect them in a hellhole like earth, but I’d like you to take a close look at these two in particular.”
Two angels step forward, each holding a spotted hellion they’ve extracted from a cage. They are considerably larger, and they fight and thrash more fiercely than the others.
“These are not one of the local breeds,” says Uriel. “Take a good look at them. These hellions emerged straight from the Pit.”
And so they did. I recognize them as the ones who followed me from Beliel’s hell. The angels fall silent.
“You may remember that we exterminated this cunning species—wiped them out from every known world to be rid of their intense ferocity and their nasty habit of organizing the others,” says Uriel. “The only place they could still exist is in the Pit.”
His eyes sweep the crowd. “We all know that nothing leaves the Pit without being let out. The hellions who infest this world have become puny and stupid. These, however, are fresh from their hellish homeland and are being led by this demon.” He points to Beliel.
Beliel is still not healed, although he has patches of pink skin beginning to grow on his face. He looks horrible, like he’s been ravaged by a designer disease. His skin is still crusty and withered, but now it’s split by fresh pink strips of new skin. His back is bleeding, as if his body is having particular trouble healing from the severed wings.
“Somewhere, gates have been opened to the Pit,” says Uriel. “Somewhere, the beast lurks and is letting out his creatures. Somewhere, the apocalypse is starting without us.” He pauses.
“As I have promised in the past—and I continue to promise today—elect me now, and by morning, you will be a legendary warrior for the apocalypse. Raphael is absent. Michael is absent. If you elect one of them as Messenger, the glory of the apocalypse might be over by the time they lead you into battle. You might already be dead by then, or worse, perhaps you’ll be saggy, out of shape, and unprepared. You never know. It could happen.”
A dutiful chuckle goes through the crowd.
“The second thing I’d like to present,” says Uriel, “is the girl.”
My guards shove me onto center stage.
“If you’ve just arrived, I thank you for traveling such a great distance to participate in the election. Many of you were not present during the fight on the beach when one of ours was slain by this Daughter of Man. But I know you’ve all heard the story by now. I’m here to tell you that it’s all true. This human girl—as puny as she seems—somehow managed to convince an angel sword to allow her to wield it.” Uriel pauses for effect. “Even more astonishingly, she used the sword to kill one of our own.”
He lets that sink in. I notice that he doesn’t say anything about my sword commanding theirs to stand down. If only they knew that the sword that dominated their weapons is called Pooky Bear.
“I captured her with utmost speed and have brought her to justice. It’s time we avenge our fallen brother.”
The crowd cheers.
“URIEL MURDERED ARCHANGEL Gabriel!” I point my finger at Uriel. “He’s making up a false apocalypse so he can become the new Messenger!”
The crowd quiets down. I don’t for a second think that they believe me. But I’m guessing that I’m entertaining enough for them to listen to, for now anyway. “At least investigate if you don’t believe me.”
Uriel chuckles. “The Pit is too good a punishment for her. She should be torn apart by hellions. How convenient that we have some.”
“I don’t even get a sham trial? What kind of justice is that?” I know this won’t get me very far, but right now, I’m too amped to keep my mouth shut.
Uriel raises his eyebrows. “That’s an idea. Shall we give her a trial?”
To my surprise, the angels take up the chant. “Trial! Trial! Trial!”
The way they’re saying it makes it sound like Romans at a stadium, demanding the death of a gladiator.
Uriel puts out his hands to quiet the crowd. “A trial it is.”
I’m suddenly not so excited about getting a trial.
My guards shove me. I stumble forward and climb down from the stage. They push me until I’m in the middle of what used to be the golf course.
I rotate around, realizing that I am at the center of a large circle of angels. The circle quickly becomes a dome as angel bodies fill in the space all around and above me.
The sun becomes blotted out by layers of bodies and wings. I’m in a living dome with no way out.
A breach opens up in the wall of bodies. Through it, the hellions get tossed my way. They flap around, trying to find a way out, but there are no gaps in the dome.
Everyone is chanting. “Trial! Trial! Trial!”
Somehow I don’t think their idea of a trial and my idea of a trial are the same.
The last hellion cage that gets poured into the domed arena is Beliel’s. As he spills onto the ground, he looks up at Uriel, snarling.
For a second, he looks angry and betrayed. Fear peeks through before he puts on his sneer again. His declaration of always being alone and unwanted seems to be proven over and over again. For an instant, I forget what a horrible being he is and I feel a flash of sympathy for him.
He walks into the center of the dome, at first stumbling and unsure, then with more confidence and even outright defiance. The angels cheer like he’s their favorite football player in a championship game. I suspect hardly any of them even know who he is. I know who he is and what happened to him, and I barely even recognize him.
The hellions are scrambling in a mad panic. They bounce from one edge of the dome to the other, frantically trying to find a gap between bodies.
“What kind of a trial is this?” I ask, suspecting the answer.
“A warrior’s trial,” says Uriel as he flies above me. “It’s more than you deserve. The rule is simple. The last one alive goes free.”
The crowd cheers again, roaring their approval.
“Try to make this entertaining,” says Uriel. “Because if it’s not, the crowd will decide whether the last one standing lives or dies.”
The angels chant, “Die! Die! Die!”
I guess that answers the question.
I have no idea if the hellions understand the rules, but they screech and try to attack the wall of warriors. The angels grab one and throw it down onto the ground where it lies dazed and shaking its head. The other angels roar at the hellions as they approach. The beasts pause in midair and back away.
“Hellions,” says Uriel. “One of you gets to live.” He puts up an index finger for emphasis. “You must kill the others.” He points to everyone else. He speaks slowly and loudly, as if speaking to a befuddled dog. “Kill!” He points to me.
The hellions all look my way.
I step back without thinking. What am I supposed to do?
I back into the hard body of an angel who is part of the living arena. He bends down and growls into my ear. I look around frantically for an escape as the hellions begin flying toward me.
Amazingly, I see my sword lying on the ground between me and the oncoming hellions. I’m sure that was no accident. They want to see the Daughter of Man slaughter hellions with an angel sword.
I race for the sword as fast as I can. I grab it off the ground, roll to manage my momentum, and begin swinging my blade even as I jump to my feet again.
I slice just as the first hellion reaches me. It screeches as blood gushes out of its belly.
Without thinking, I swing at the second one
that comes at me.
It’s so close I can smell its rotting-flesh breath. It swerves, and I miss by an inch.
I steady myself and take a solid stance. During the next couple of swings, I calm down and let the sword take over. This is easy for her. Pooky Bear has killed thousands of these things. Walk in the park.
Only the things aren’t behaving the way the sword is used to. The two from the Pit make their hyena noises, calling to the others. The others pause, listening, then they start circling me.
They hover, just out of reach of my blade. I spin around, trying to see them all, unsure of what’s happening.
In the meantime, Beliel is backing away—I can see him out of the corner of my eye. He grabs a hellion and snaps the neck as if it were a chicken.
He silently drops the body and grabs the next one nearest him. The others are all focused on me. All except the spotted hellions from the Pit. They look smarter, craftier, and they watch him with intelligent eyes.
Beliel isn’t trying to save me, I know that. He’s just killing off as many as he can while they have me as a distraction. Then, by the time they’re finished with me, he’ll only have a few to contend with.
That’s okay. I don’t need him to be my friend, so long as he’s killing off my enemies.
The spotted hellions make their hyena calls again, and the others fly to include Beliel in the circle. Then they tighten their flight pattern, corralling us.
Beliel and I are forced to back up until we’re as close to each other as we can stand. Obviously, neither of us likes it, but for now, the bigger threat to both of us is the hellions, and we have to make a choice to either stand alone or fight together.
We decide simultaneously and step back-to-back against our enemies. Together, we can now see all of the hellions coming at us.
I have to count on Beliel needing me to survive for as long as possible. We both know that if we succeed in killing off the hellions, it’ll be me against him, but for now, it’s us against them.
The hellions hesitate like none of them wants to go first. Then one dives in at us.