The Perry School for the Blind. It was the only home he had ever known.
Kraus moved down the darkened corridors, riding the intensifying waves of unease. He could not keep the past at bay; the memories escaped, bursting up from layers of time, as vivid as if they had occurred only moments before.
There had been others like him at the Perry School, born without sight, given up to those who cared for the less fortunate. And care they did. Oh yes, he remembered their care indeed.
Kraus approached an open door and a staircase that led down into deeper darkness. The feeling was stronger here, and he descended, drawn toward the wellspring of despair, all the while remembering.
The staff at the school for the blind treated them as lesser life forms, below even the ferocious dog kept by Mr. Albert Dentworth, the head administrator. Kraus relived the terror that would grip him every time he heard the rattling of the animal’s chained collar and its nails clicking and clacking on the hardwood floors as it drew closer. They were nothing but burdens to the world and to the personnel whose job it was to care for them, and were often told as much. For the majority of his existence he lived in Hell, and every night he prayed to be brought to Heaven.
The stairway took him to the gymnasium and into the lair of the Archons. At the moment, they were gone, off with Verchiel on his latest incursion. An intricate, mystical circle had been drawn upon the floor with what looked like dirt, and above it, from thick chains, the prisoner hung. A deep, vertical gash had been cut from the prisoner’s chest to his stomach, the wound held open with metal clamps, and Kraus wondered how it was even possible that the prisoner still lived.
As a child, his every waking moment, and before going to sleep at night—exhausted from chores that left his fingers stiff and bleeding—Kraus had prayed for God to take him away. He didn’t think himself more deserving than any of the others who lived beneath the roof of the Perry School, it was just that he’d had his fill and wanted it to stop. He couldn’t live like that any longer, and each night he begged the merciful Creator to end his life.
The first of the fallen moaned pitifully, and a strange, red-colored cloud puffed from his open chest to be trapped within the confines of the mystical circle beneath. Kraus found himself driven back by an overwhelming sense of desolation that suddenly permeated the atmosphere. He had found the source of his waking malaise, and whatever it was, it came from within the body of the fallen angel Lucifer.
Kraus heard the angel that he would later call his master, as he had those many years ago—Verchiel, whispering in his ear, telling him he had been sent by God, and that because of his fervent prayers, he had been chosen to aid the soldiers of the Lord in the most important of missions.
Kraus remembered the incredible joy, the sheer euphoria of knowing that God had heard his pleas, but at the time he had been filled with great sorrow. He knew that only he would know this happiness, and those brothers and sisters in darkness with whom he had shared the hell of the Perry School would continue to know only suffering. How could he do the work of God, knowing that others like himself still suffered?
And the angel Verchiel had offered him a solution. “You can end their suffering,” he had said. “All you need do is command me, for this will be my payment to you, for the fealty you will swear to me. All you need do is ask.”
So Kraus had begged the messenger of Heaven to release the others of the Perry School from their lives of suffering and sorrow.
And Verchiel had obliged.
The memory of that night drove Kraus to his knees. He was trembling, awash in the raw, unconstrained emotions of that moment long ago. Whatever was leaking from the body of Lucifer, it was quite proficient in dredging up the echoes of the past.
Kraus recalled the night he was reborn as a servant of the Powers, pulled from the relative warmth of the school into the heights of the cold night sky, the sound of Verchiel’s beating wings almost deafening. And he heard the cries of other heavenly creatures around him as he was carried higher and higher.
“They shall know suffering no longer,” the angel who would be his master had roared, and the sky around them rumbled as if in agreement. The flash of lightning that followed somehow permeated the darkness that was his existence. He remembered the searing white light and the roar of thunder that shook the air.
Kraus gulped for air, his body sliding down the cool concrete of the gymnasium wall. The memories were unmerciful, his senses raw.
Somehow he could feel the lightning strikes upon the school, the smell of it as it burned filling his nostrils, the cries of those trapped within filling his ears.
He had always told himself that it was for the best. The students of the Perry School had been freed from a pathetic existence; he truly believed that. But lately he had begun to see things more clearly, and was filled with horror. Since Verchiel’s gift to him, his perceptions were slowly changing, revealing the ugly reality of it all.
The air around him shimmered and quaked, and Kraus knew that his master had returned, but he did not feel joy as he would have in the past, only apprehension.
The angels appeared before him. There were fewer Powers soldiers, and those who remained mere shadows of their once glorious selves. They appeared haunted, the armor they wore hanging loosely upon their diminished frames.
And then there was Verchiel, the sight of him filling the healer with a strange mixture of sadness and fear. His once golden chest plate was tarnished almost black with the blood of his prey, and the freshly opened wounds continued to weep, saturating the bandages the healer had used to dress them.
Verchiel fell to his knees before the mystic circle. “The time is nigh,” he said, and the remaining Archons scurried about their preparations.
But for what? Kraus wondered, an overwhelming feeling of dread reaching down to the depths of his soul. He wanted to ask the angel that was his lord and master, but he feared what the answer would be.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Aaron thought it had missed him.
He had hesitated for only a moment as he struggled with the idea that he could finally put this madness to rest once and for all. But the look upon the Malakim’s face—the intensity in his dark, soulful gaze—had told him that he should leave, that perhaps a being that had lived for millions of years might have a better idea of the big picture than he did.
He honestly believed that Verchiel’s spear of fire had passed harmlessly through the air where he and his friends had been standing moments before, confident his new abilities were far superior to the fiery weapon of the Powers commander. Aaron remembered closing his wings, hugging Lehash and Gabriel tightly against him and thinking of Aerie—seeing it as clear as day in his head. They had gotten away, free and clear.
Or so he thought.
With deadly accuracy, the spear made from the fires of Heaven had found its target.
He had made it back to Aerie, unfurling his wings and releasing his friends, before falling to his knees. Aaron couldn’t seem to catch his breath, his body strangely numb, but he could hear everything they were saying. Lorelei was there, demanding to know what had happened as she knelt over him in the street. Lehash was close by, explaining the attack upon the Malakim’s lair.
Aaron guessed that Lorelei was using some kind of magick on him, for he could feel her hands upon his chest probing at where he imagined the spear had nailed him. It really didn’t hurt too badly; in fact he didn’t feel much pain at all. Maybe I’m just tired from all the running around, he thought.
Gabriel was with him, nervously panting in his ear. Aaron wanted to tell his friend that everything was going to be all right, that he was fine, but for some reason he couldn’t talk.
Everyone around him seemed to be in a panic.
Maybe I should be worried, he thought, but then dismissed it as foolish. He was fine; they would have him fixed up in no time.
They were carrying him now, bringing him to Lorelei’s house. That was good, he thought as a heavy fatigue
closed in around him. All he needed was some rest, and then he would be fine.
All he needed was rest.
“He looks dead,” Gabriel said flatly, sitting beside his master’s bed. He had been by Aaron’s side since they’d returned from their mission, scrutinizing every twitch, every movement—of which there was very little. This worried the dog, for Aaron was a very restless sleeper, and to see him lying so still was greatly disturbing.
“But he’s not,” Lorelei said, reaching down to scratch behind the dog’s ear.
Gabriel moved his head away, too distracted for the affection of others. “I know he’s not dead,” he replied, his eyes never leaving Aaron. “Believe me, I’d know. I’m a dog; I’d smell it. Death has a very strong smell.”
They both fell silent. Lorelei leaned over to check Aaron’s bandage as Gabriel watched closely. There had been very little blood, the intense heat of the spearhead cauterizing the wound almost instantly. She had put something on the injury, something that smelled very strange, very bitter. She had told him that it was an old medicine made from a root of the Tree of Knowledge, from a place called Eden. Gabriel didn’t care for its scent—it made him sneeze and his eyes water—but if it was going to help Aaron, it was fine with him.
Vilma, on the other hand, was doing much better. The contents of the vial that Raphael had given Aaron seemed to be exactly what the girl had needed. The angelic essence had calmed almost immediately, and it appeared that she was going to be all right.
Gabriel was suddenly frustrated. He loved Vilma very much and certainly did not want anything bad to happen to her. But if she got well and Aaron didn’t, how would he feel toward her then? The dog pushed the thoughts aside, returning his attentions to his master.
“When will we know if he’ll live?” Gabriel asked Lorelei as she continued to examine Aaron’s wound.
The Nephilim gently replaced the bandage and moved away. “He’s comfortable,” she said with a slight shrug of her shoulders. “I’m keeping the wound clean to prevent any infection.”
“But when will we know?” the dog barked, his demeanor far angrier than he had intended. He lowered his head, ashamed, his ears going flat against his blocky skull. “I’m sorry I barked,” he apologized. “I’m just worried.”
“It’s all right,” Lorelei said with understanding, reaching to stroke his head again. This time he didn’t pull away. “We’ve done all we can do.”
“So we have to wait?” Gabriel turned to her as she continued to pet the short, velvety fur atop his head.
Lorelei nodded. “Afraid so.”
He went back to watching Aaron, the very faint rise and fall of his chest, wishing with all his might for him to be well again.
“I’m going to go grab something to eat,” Lorelei said. “Would you like to come with me?”
“No, thank you. I think I’ll just stay here with him.” Gabriel slowly lowered his face to rest his chin upon the bed near Aaron’s frighteningly still hand. “I’m not feeling very hungry.”
The door that held back the outcome of the Morningstar’s hellish folly shook violently on its psychic hinges.
It wanted out.
The great vault door moaned as it slowly began to bulge outward. All that remained was the steel itself: the locks, bolts, and chains, all broken by the fury of the maelstrom railing behind it.
Lucifer was alone now. Taylor was gone. She had left him when the pain in his chest had become too great, as if she couldn’t bear to see what was going to happen.
No, he thought, on his knees before the psychic blockade. I can’t let it out.
He concentrated upon the battered door and saw that there were new locks, sliding bolts, and thick black chains, all strong—or stronger than what had been there before.
Hell will not be released this day, the first of the fallen angels told himself, finding the strength to climb to his feet before the obstacle that separated the world from holocaust. All the pain, misery, and sorrow that he was responsible for would stay within him, where it belonged, where it had been placed. He’d always found it strangely amusing that the punishment given unto him by God had somehow managed to become a thing of legend in the human world—an actual place of eternal damnation for those who sinned against their chosen religious faith. Gehenna, Sheol, Ti Yu, Jahannam, Hades, Hell—so many names for what was his and his alone to bear.
The force upon the other side intensified, and he was hurled backward by the savagery of its furor. His new, stronger restraints were ripped away, tossed into the darkness, ineffective against the relentless onslaught delivered against the psychic representation of God’s Word.
The Morningstar crawled to his feet, trying again to reinforce the barrier, but the sharp, biting agony in his chest drove him to his knees. He looked down and saw the wound. A bloody, twelve-inch gash had appeared there, and the sight of it filled him with trepidation. He was growing weaker, his strength draining from the vertical opening carved in his center.
The door shuddered and vibrated within its frame, and Lucifer watched in mute horror as the top right corner started to bend outward, the steel moaning and squealing its objection.
“Please, God, no,” Lucifer hissed, throwing himself at the door, pressing his body against it. The pain, guilt, and sorrow of what his jealousy caused had grown stronger through the millennia, and he had always found the strength to keep it at bay within himself, for this was his designated burden. Now he tried with all his might to will that barrier stronger, to add his mental strength to God’s original penance, but could feel the awful vibrations of an unstoppable force through the many inches of what should have been super-strong metal.
From the twisted corner he first saw it, a tendril of luminescent vapor. Lucifer knew this thing intimately. It had been a part of him for what seemed like forever, fused to his angelic essence since his fall from grace. He knew its rage, its sorrow, and its infinite cruelty, and despaired for the fate of God’s world if it were allowed to be free.
“Don’t let this happen,” he prayed, his faced pressed against the trembling metal, and he was glad that Taylor, even though a creation of his mind, was no longer there to witness his horrendous failure. “Please,” he begged as the door buckled and the metal twisted. And he had just about given up all hope of stopping the deluge of Hell from flooding the world.
When there came a voice.
“Looks like you could use a hand here,” it said, and Lucifer turned to gaze into the face of salvation.
It was a nice face—with his eyes.
Verchiel listened intently to the powerful arcane words stolen from the minds of the Malakim as they spilled from the lips of the Archon faithful. It is only a matter of time, the Powers commander thought, amused that he was actually even aware of time’s passage. He had existed since the dawn of creation and had never really given the concept much thought, until now.
The three remaining Archon magicians stood within the mystical circle beneath the suspended form of Verchiel’s prisoner, his instrument of retribution. Everything was proceeding smoothly, the pieces of his mechanism for vengeance falling ideally into place, almost as if it were meant to be. As if He knows that He must be punished for what He has allowed to transpire.
The Archons droned on, the pilfered knowledge of the Malakim helping to unravel the edict of God. Lucifer moaned in the grip of unconsciousness as the magickal obstructions holding back his punishment were methodically peeled away. The first of the fallen angels was fighting them, but Verchiel would have expected no less from one that had been the Creator’s most beloved—and greatest disappointment.
The Powers leader stepped closer to the arcane ritual, careful not to open his own wounds that had finally stopped bleeding. “Give in, Morningstar,” he urged the fallen angel. “Accept your responsibility, not only for the fall of Heaven, but now for the ruin of mankind as well.”
He strolled around the mystical circle, around his despised adversary, the one whose corruption h
ad acted as a cancer, eating away at Verchiel’s holy mission—at everything that defined his purpose in The Most Holy’s blessed scheme of things. “The pain you must have experienced these countless millennia, my brother,” Verchiel cooed. “Now you have a chance to be free of it—to let your punishment be shared by all who have sinned.”
Lucifer thrashed in his chains, droplets of perspiration raining from his abused body to be absorbed by the soil of Heaven that comprised the magickal circle below him. His mouth trembled as he strained to speak.
“What is it, brother?” Verchiel asked in a soft whisper. He leaned closer, eager to hear his prisoner voice his agony, perhaps even a plea for mercy. “Speak to me. Share with me your woes.”
The fallen angel spoke. It was but two words, and spoken so softly that the leader of the Powers was not quite sure that he had heard it correctly.
“What was that again, Lucifer Morningstar?” Verchiel asked, leaning even closer to the first of the fallen’s cracked and trembling lips.
“Thank you.”
Verchiel recoiled as if struck. Is this some kind of perverse game the criminal is playing? he wondered. Some bizarre way to show his strength? His superiority? It is all for naught if that be the case.
“You thank me for this, monster?” he raged, feeling his own wounds begin to weep again. “For the torment you now endure?” His voice trembled with fury.
Lucifer was struggling to remain conscious, his eyes slowly rolling back in his head as the lids gradually began to fall.
“Tell me!” Verchiel shrieked, reaching in to the confines of the magickal circle to grab the fallen angel by his short, curly hair and yank his head toward him.
Lucifer’s eyes snapped wide and a demented grin bloomed upon his tormented features.
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