“Yes,” Jophiel said. “The same goes for the fallen. The weapons wielded by the fallen and the blessed are sanctified in either dark or light matter, and since this matter is similar to the energy we are created of, they have the ability to harm us.”
“What about regular human weapons?”
“Those cannot harm us. They can draw blood, but the wound will heal instantly. Except in the case of a gunshot, where the bullet would need to be removed first.”
I paused to think this over. “You said God wanted to know how lethal these weapons could be to humans. Well, what damage can they cause?”
“Any type of weapon can harm humans,” Jophiel said. “If they’re wounded by a dark weapon, the dark matter infects the injury. If not taken care of quickly and properly, the dark matter takes over the person, turning them dark and even leading to possession.”
My eyes widened. “That was happening to me?”
“Yes, but Raphael took care of it. Typically, the only way to do so is to cleanse the wound with holy water and lots of it. It’s a difficult and painful process. Essentially, the dark matter must be burned out of the person.”
I glanced down at the red marks streaking my arm. “How long does it take for the dark matter to take over?”
“It depends upon the injury. Usually, it’s whenever it reaches one’s heart. That’s why the fallen never strike humans with a lethal shot. They would rather have them suffer and turn into malevolent beings they can control than strike them directly in the heart, which would kill them instantly.”
“That’s really messed up,” I said. “What happens if a light weapon injures a human?”
None of them answered.
“Does it not happen?”
“No, it happens,” Zadkiel said. “The person would be killed instantly because light energy is lethal to humans.
When I gasped, Michael said quickly, “But we make sure it doesn’t happen.”
“Yes.” Zadkiel nodded. “That’s part of the reason we don’t go around showing our true selves. The human eye cannot handle the light we radiate. When we reveal our wings, energy is released but in a harmless amount. As members of the Third Choir, our light is weaker than those of the First and Second. We can control how much light we emit, so we keep our true iridescent light at bay.”
“But sometimes, we have no choice in the matter,” Raphael said solemnly.
“Why not?”
“Because those transformed by dark matter are still humans even though they are turned. To protect the innocent, we must deal with them,” Uriel explained.
“I see. So, dark beings are humans that are infected with dark matter but are still alive, while demons are humans that were infected with dark matter but are now dead?”
“Yes,” Michael said. “And then there are also the damned, which are deceased spirits condemned to Hell.”
“I didn’t know there was such a hierarchy,” I said.
“There’s a hierarchy to everything, even Heaven and Hell,” Michael remarked.
“Interesting. I imagine the blessed can’t wield dark weapons, and the fallen can’t wield light weapons? I mean, you can’t touch them, right?”
“Correct,” Jophiel said.
“And if demons were once humans, why do they look like monsters?”
“Once a dark being is killed, two things can happen. If they are truly evil, they transform into a demon since darkness has consumed the soul,” Jophiel explained. “However, if the dark being is truly pure of heart and was forced into evil intent, their soul is freed, and they are at peace in death.”
“Oh. I didn’t realize there was so much to learn about the fallen. But it makes sense since there’s a lot to learn about the blessed too.”
“You’ll get used to it,” Zadkiel assured me.
I nodded in agreement. “And what about what happened at the Archives? When the fallen retreated, it looked like they went into the ground. Was that a portal?”
“Yes,” Jophiel said. “My fear that the fallen would escape their bonds in Hell and manipulate the materials down there came true. Not only did they use the Hellfire to forge weapons of dark matter, they also know how to use the portals, barriers, and shields.”
“Which are made from divine light?” I clarified.
Jophiel nodded.
“And divine light comes from God?”
He nodded again. “The light that comes from angels is heavenly light, whereas the light that comes from Father is divine light.”
“All right. And the fallen can also hybridize the portals, barriers, and shields?”
“Essentially, yes. I’m sure the angels of art who fell must have shown Satan how to do so. There’s a central portal somewhere in Hell that demons and other fallen angels use to travel to Earth. When these portals open, a thunderous noise follows. It’s known as the fallen claps of thunder since the fallen are the only ones who use portals.”
“Don’t angels use them?” I asked.
“No. We’re not allowed to travel to Earth unless it is sanctioned by Father,” Gabriel said.
“All right…” I tried to wrap my head around all of this. “How do the fallen summon these portals?”
“If they’re going to Hell, they must place their hand to the ground and say ‘inferos,’ which is Latin for Hell. To travel to Earth, they must place their hand on the portal and say ‘terra’ followed by the location. For example, ‘terra New York,’” Michael explained.
“That’s it? That’s far too easy! They can go anywhere then.” I was outraged.
“Exactly, which is why they’re uncontrollable,” Raphael said.
My thoughts were racing in so many directions. I blurted out another question. “You all said Satan was locked in Hell. Does that mean he can’t use any of the portals?”
“That was true, though he has apparently remedied that,” Zadkiel said.
“How?”
The angels were quiet. None of them knew the answer.
“What do we do with this thing?” I wondered, looking at the dagger.
“This is my favorite part,” Jophiel said. He went to the counter and returned with a large jar of clear liquid. Unscrewing the lid, he placed thick gloves on his hands and picked up the dagger, submerging it in the jar before quickly twisting the lid back on.
Inside, the weapon began to disintegrate slowly.
“When it’s destroyed, we’ll throw the remaining water in a fire, obliterating it completely,” he clarified.
“That’s holy water?”
“Yes.”
“Where did you get so much of it?” I asked.
“It’s quite easy, actually,” Zadkiel said. “We can make any water holy by sanctifying it.”
“The purified kind in jugs is better though. It’s more potent,” Jophiel added.
“Okay, can we all get back on track?” Michael urged.
“He’s right.” Gabriel nodded. “Our work isn’t done yet. We still need to find Chamuel.”
“Then I guess we need to make our way to Italy,” Zadkiel said. “I imagine that’s where he is.”
“Yes,” Michael confirmed. “I was in Brazil.”
“Let’s not be too hasty,” Raphael interjected. “Jordan needs rest.”
“What Jordan needs,” I said, “is to find Chamuel so that we can finally settle in one place and complete my training.”
As the others exchanged glances, Michael shrugged. “I guess he has a point.”
28
Jordan
Rome, Present Day
Licking chocolate gelato from the cone I held, I followed at a leisurely pace behind Gabriel and Michael, who were determined to track down Chamuel by strolling around the streets of Rome. I didn’t mind their method much. It gave me the chance to sightsee.
I’d never been out of the country before this grand tour with the archangels, but of everything we’d done so far, getting to see the Vatican was my favorite. It was also nice I didn’t have to wear
the backpack anymore. Since my shoulder injury, Uriel had silently accepted the position. I could tell he wasn’t too keen about it though. Every so often, he kept readjusting the bag on his shoulders.
Abruptly, our group came to a halt as Gabriel asked a passerby in Italian for any information about Chamuel. The six angels had brainstormed that since he was an angel of the home, Chamuel must be performing a related role in society, so they were asking if the locals knew of any peculiar persons working in the culinary arts or interior design.
“How do you eat that stuff?” Zadkiel eyed the gelato.
“By licking it.” I grinned.
He shook his head. “I meant, it seems unpleasant because it’s sticky and cold.”
“Exactly the opposite. It’s delicious.”
“I’ve never understood a human’s fetish for sweets,” Uriel remarked.
“That’s because you’ve never tasted them.” I slurped a drip of gelato and bit into the cone clumsily, forced to hold it in my left hand instead of my right.
When the local man departed, the angels joined Gabriel and Michael for further brainstorming since their conversation hadn’t resulted in any leads. I stayed within a good distance and admired the scene around me—the whizzing cars and motorbikes, the various restaurants, and the sounds of chatter. Across the street, an advertisement attached to the bus stop drew my attention.
I maneuvered around the two cars passing by to get a better look. Immediately, the angels became distressed, shouting my name and following after me. It took them only a second to appear at my side.
“Jordan, what are you doing?” Michael demanded.
“You said Chamuel was an angel of the home, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, what about being a chef?” I pointed to the advertisement. It promoted the opening of a new restaurant with a picture of the chef outside the building. The tall man had long, wavy blond hair pulled back in a loose bun and the most piercing blue eyes I’d ever seen, so light in hue they seemed almost white. Almost…angelic.
Jophiel was surprised. “How did you know that was Chamuel?”
“I don’t, but I’m getting used to your terrible aliases.” I pointed at the chef’s name. Cam Angel. “See what I mean? Not very creative.”
Michael grabbed a map from his back pocket and searched for the restaurant’s address. “He’s not far off either,” he said, looking up at the street sign.
Gabriel peered over his shoulder to look.
I shoved the last bite of gelato cone into my mouth and wiped my hands with a napkin. They all stared.
“What?”
No one responded. Instead, they discussed the best way to make it to the Spanish Steps since the restaurant was close by.
Fortunately, we were able to hail a taxi van that comfortably fit all of us. Unfortunately, the driver was absolutely crazy, zooming about the streets of Rome, squeezing down alleys, and not giving a care to pedestrians. When we arrived unscathed, I breathed a sigh of relief and tried to keep the gelato down as my stomach twisted in queasy knots.
“Are you okay?” Gabriel must have noticed my face turning a pale green.
I nodded. It was unsafe to speak, my stomach was so unsettled.
Michael strode down the Spanish Steps and past the metro station, map in hand. The other angels followed after him, and I lagged behind with Raphael, taking my time to trek down the famous stairs. When we regrouped at the bottom, Michael already knew where we had to go. Effortlessly, he led us through the streets, glancing at the map only once.
Eventually, we entered a square lined with restaurants. In the middle, there was a medium-sized fountain with marble figures shooting water out of their mouths. I stopped briefly to marvel at the sculpture and how above, people sat out on their balconies watching the activity below.
“Jordan,” Raphael said, “we should keep moving.”
I moved forward with him and caught up with the others, who had stopped in front of a restaurant. They perused the menu while the maître d’ stood by awaiting their decision.
“What are you doing?” I whispered.
“Pretending we’re interested in the food,” Jophiel whispered back.
“Why? Just ask to meet the chef.”
“I don’t know. They have some kind of plan.” He gestured to Michael and Gabriel.
Screw the plan. “Excuse me,” I said, stepping away from the group.
The maître d’ looked over at me. “Si?”
“Can we meet the chef? The food looks delicious. I would love to compliment him.”
“Wouldn’t you like to try some first?” the man asked, his Italian accent thick but his skepticism more so.
“Well, you see, we know him. He’s family,” I replied.
The man eyed me. “I’m sure you do. But Chef Angel cannot be disturbed by such matters.” He left us and moved on to the next customers.
Fine. I’d tried to avoid being rude, but he left me no choice. Defiantly, I strode through the outdoor dining area and into the restaurant, where I quickly found the entrance to the kitchen. Protests from outside meant I had little time, so I ran between tables and made my way through the swinging doors.
The sounds of pots and pans clanging jarred my senses as I trailed through the kitchen in search of Chamuel. The staff regarded me strangely, so when I met eyes with one woman, I asked, “Where is Chef Angel?”
She nodded to the left, not taking her hands away from chopping vegetables.
At that moment, the kitchen doors burst open, and the maître d’ arrived in pursuit. I looked to the left and noticed a chef’s cap. In a hurry, I darted over to Chamuel just as the maître d’ caught up with me.
“Chamuel,” I said as the man tugged my arm to take me back outside.
He looked up from his work. “Do I know you?” he asked in an Italian accent.
“No.” I winced at the strong grasp on my injured shoulder. “Not yet anyway.”
More tugging ensued, and the pain became unbearable.
“Gabriel sent me,” I said, no longer able to resist. “The others are waiting for you outside!” I yelled as I was dragged out of the kitchen.
The maître d’ walked me through the dining room and threw me back outside.
“Stay out!” the man barked.
I lost my balance and tumbled to the ground. Raphael rushed to my side. With his support, I limped over to the other angels, who had situated themselves on the low fountain wall.
“Thanks for the backup,” I grumbled, cradling my arm and sitting down too.
“What happened? We thought you had him,” Michael said.
“I did, but that guy was out to get me. You could have at least restrained him.”
“I didn’t think we would need to,” Michael replied.
“And it’s true—we didn’t.” Uriel gestured across the square.
Chamuel was in the outside seating area talking with the maître d’. When he looked over, the angel froze in place, taken aback by the presence of all his brothers. Slowly, he crossed the square to join us.
“You’re here. All of you,” he said in amazement. Then, he glanced at me. “I’m sorry if Umberto hurt you. He takes his job very seriously.”
“Don’t worry, I’m fine. Most of this is from Satan and his goons.”
Alarmed, Chamuel sought explanation from the others.
“There’s a lot to catch up on,” Gabriel said.
“Satan is free?” Chamuel asked.
“Yes,” Gabriel said. “If you come with us, we can explain.”
“Where are you staying?”
“By the Vatican.”
Chamuel nodded at Michael’s answer, a gesture of approval. But the look on his face conveyed his concern.
“We can’t stay here,” Uriel said. “We have to keep moving.”
“I know,” Chamuel replied.
“Well, are you coming?” Zadkiel asked.
“Yes…I’m just not entirely sure what to do.”<
br />
“Explain your dilemma,” Gabriel said.
“I think we should stay together, but I need to get some things from my apartment, and I need to take care of things here too.”
“You’re worried about the restaurant?” Michael asked.
“No, but I need to tell them I’m not coming back. If I just disappear, they’ll ask questions.”
“Will it work for the others to head back to the hotel, and for me to stay behind with you? That way, you can tie up loose ends, and they can get Jordan back to the hotel,” Gabriel suggested.
My shoulder was really hurting, and I had closed my eyes, focused on listening to the soothing sounds of the fountain. At the mention of my name, I snapped to attention. “Why do I need to go back to the hotel?”
“You aren’t looking good. Raphael should check you out.”
“Fine,” I said, standing.
After another harrowing ride, I clambered out of the taxi in front of the hotel, glad to be back on solid ground. Together, the six of us entered the lobby and piled into the small elevator. The moment the doors opened and we arrived inside the hotel room, Raphael went to work.
“Sit,” he commanded.
I took a seat at the table. Slowly, I eased my arms out of my shirt so he could examine my injuries. Raphael went to the bandage at my shoulder, and when he unraveled the gauze, concern marked his face.
“This is not healing,” he said. “You’re moving too much. We need to put a sling on it.”
“A sling? It’s hardly my fault. You should have seen how hard Umberto pulled my arm!”
Raphael stared. Umberto or no Umberto, he clearly thought I required a sling.
I sighed and lay my arm out in front of me so he could do what he needed. Once he had re-bandaged the wound, he fitted the sling across my shoulder.
“Are you comfortable?”
I frowned as I realized what the trade-off involved: greater comfort, but immobility.
“You’ll get used to it eventually,” Raphael insisted.
He then inspected my hand, face, and throat. When he was finished, I went to put my shirt back on but was struck with a dilemma.
“How exactly do I dress myself?”
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