Home …
Malak retrieved his bag from the floor and headed across the sub-basement. The bag was dripping and left a serpentine trail upon the stones. He passed a dust-covered globe of the world and cheerfully gave it a spin.
Bolted to the wall at the back of the boiler room were rows of shelves that had once held supplies for the upkeep of the church buildings, but now held items of a decidedly different nature. Malak struck a match from a box and lit the candles placed about the shelves. The hunter’s smile broadened as the flickering light illuminated his treasures, prizes from his hunts. He admired the leathery ears he had cut from the heads of a tribe of fallen hiding in the jungles of South America, and the glass jars with the eyes of those who did not recognize the heavenly authority of the Powers on Earth. The tongues he had pulled from the mouths of those fallen that had spoken ill of his lord and master, and the countless, bloodstained feathers he had plucked from the wings of those cast out of Heaven—all of this filled him with a burgeoning pride. So many hunts, he mused, recalling the death strikes to each and every one of his hapless prey.
Malak stepped closer to the shelves and pushed aside the blackened skull of a fallen angel who foolishly believed that God was by his side as he fought. He then reached into his dripping sack and removed a pair of severed hands, placing them in the space he had just cleared. In his mind he heard the screams of the angel as the appendages were taken from him only a short time ago, and he smiled, the pitiful cries of torment sweet music to his ears. He stepped back and again admired his growing collection. Feet, he suddenly thought. My collection could use a pair of feet.
Another stronger scent wafted up from the saturated bag in his hand and Malak pulled it open to peer inside. He licked his lips, feeling his stomach churn and gurgle with hunger as he gazed upon the most delectable prize still within. Carefully he withdrew the last item from the sack, the source of the soaking fluids staining its bottom—a dripping angel’s heart.
“I trust your latest undertaking was a success?” said a voice from behind him, and the hunter turned quickly to gaze lovingly upon his master.
Verchiel casually strolled toward him, hands clasped behind his back, and Malak dropped to his knees, bowing his head in reverence.
“I hope I have made you proud,” the hunter said.
“I am certain you did,” the angel said as he walked past his kneeling servant to approach the trophy shelf.
“I see that there are many more … items since last I checked,” Verchiel said, his eyes studying the hunter’s display.
“Every day I hunt,” Malak replied. “Sometimes two or three of the criminals die at my hand. I like the trophies to remind me of the glory of the moment.”
“You most certainly do,” Verchiel clucked, turning away from the shelves to look upon him. “And the scent of the Nephilim? Have you found it again?”
Malak bowed his head again, not wanting to endure the look of disappointment in his master’s eyes. Two weeks ago he had found the scent of the half-breed in the lair of the sea beast. There had been a great battle there, and the Nephilim had stained the rocks with his blood. But Malak soon lost the trail. The Nephilim and his companion were taking no chances, masking their travels with powerful magicks.
“I have not,” Malak said sadly. “But it is only a matter of time before I pick up the trail again and track him down—to the ends of the world if necessary.”
Verchiel chuckled. “I’m sure you will, faithful Malak, but do not fret.” The angel smiled down on him and the hunter was bathed in its radiance. “Losing the scent of our enemy has provided you with an opportunity to hone your special skills.” He gestured toward the shelves filled with Malak’s trophies. “Think of these as steps to prepare yourself for the final confrontation with the Nephilim.”
Malak raised his head proudly and met his master’s dark eyes. “I am ready now,” he proclaimed.
“Yes, I do believe you are.” Verchiel motioned for him to rise. “But we must have patience. Soon enough it will be the heart of Aaron Corbet that you have in your hand.” Verchiel gestured to the dripping heart the hunter still held.
The hunter raised the angel heart in a toast to his master. “This will be the Nephilim’s heart,” he said, bringing the bloody muscle to his mouth and taking an enormous bite.
Verchiel nodded knowingly. “Far sooner than you imagine.”
Mr. Arslanian’s voice had become nothing more than a buzzing drone inside Vilma’s head as she nervously glanced at the tree outside the second-story window. She flinched, for a moment expecting to see a man perched upon one of the branches watching her. I’ve got to stop this craziness, she warned herself, trying to refocus on her history teacher’s lecture. She really had no idea what the day’s topic was, although she was certain it had something to do with the Civil War—for when didn’t a class of Mr. Arslanian’s?
Vilma’s eyes burned and she was sure they were bloodshot and red, despite the drops she constantly put in them. She needed sleep so badly, just a few good hours, and then she was sure she’d be good as new. But with sleep came the dreams, and the visions of men perched in the trees outside her bedroom windows. Images from her nighttime terrors flashed through her mind: fearsome angels, clad in golden armor, destroying an ancient city; a girl, very much like herself, fleeing through the desert as the creatures of Heaven pursued her; those same winged creatures descending upon the girl, dragging her up into the sky, ripping her apart, tearing the flesh from her—
“Miss Santiago?” beckoned a voice, and her entire body convulsed, sending her history book tumbling to the floor. The other students snickered, and she felt the warm flush of embarrassment spread across her face and down her neck. Vilma quickly retrieved her book from the floor, glancing to the front of the classroom where Judy Flannagan, the guidance office aide, was standing next to her teacher.
“Mrs. Beamis would like to see you,” he said, looking annoyed.
“I’m sorry,” she stammered as she gathered up her belongings and followed Judy from the room.
“It’s okay,” he responded, watching her go. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”
That also got a bit of a laugh from the class, adding a fresh bloom to her embarrassment as she closed the door behind her.
Book bag slung over her shoulder Vilma walked the now empty halls of Kenneth Curtis High School toward the guidance offices, wondering why Mrs. Beamis would want to see her now. She thought about the scholarship applications she’d completed over the past few months. A little good news wouldn’t hurt today, she decided as she opened the door to the office and stepped into the small reception area.
Mrs. Vistorino, the office secretary, was busily working at her computer, clad in one of her usual pantsuits, this one a delicate powder blue. “Be with you in just a sec, hon.” She finished her typing before tearing her attention away from the monitor. “What can I do for you, dear?” she asked, plucking her glasses from her face and letting them dangle from a gold chain around her neck.
“Mrs. Beamis wanted to see me?” Vilma said shyly, nervous anticipation beginning to grab hold of her.
“What’s your name?” Mrs. Vistorino asked as she reached for the telephone next to her and pressed a button. Judy Flannagan came into the office behind her and gave her a polite smile before retrieving a stack of folders from Mrs. Vistorino’s desk and going to a filing cabinet in the corner.
“Vilma Santiago,” she answered, mesmerized by the simple act of the girl filing. I need sleep—badly.
“Vilma Santiago out here to see you,” Mrs. Vistorino said into the receiver. There was a slight pause, and Vilma suddenly found herself praying for some kind of mistake. “Will do,” the receptionist responded as she hung up the phone. “Go on in. Mrs. Beamis is waiting.”
Vilma walked to the door and knocked gently on the wooden frame. The counselor called out for her to enter, greeting her with a warm, friendly smile and motioning Vilma toward a chair in front of her desk
. “Come in, Vilma,” she said. “I’m sorry to pull you from class, but there’s something I’d like to discuss with you and I’m afraid it couldn’t wait.”
Vilma lowered herself into the chair, taking the book bag from her shoulder and placing it on the floor beside her. “Nothing bad I hope,” she said nervously. The office smelled of peppermint and she noticed that Mrs. Beamis had a piece of white-and-red-striped candy swishing around in her mouth as she studied an open file—hers, she imagined.
“No, nothing bad,” she said, flipping through a few pages. “We’re just a bit concerned right now.” She looked up to meet Vilma’s eyes.
Vilma’s heart began to race. “What … what are you concerned about?”
The guidance counselor closed the folder and picked up a pen from the cluttered surface of her desk. “Since you transferred into Ken Curtis you’ve been one of our finest students, Vilma. Your teachers enjoy having you in their classes, and they say you’re an excellent example for the other students. You’re bright, articulate, and friendly; if we had a thousand more like you in this school, our jobs would be much easier.”
Vilma found that she was blushing again. “Then why—”
“It’s just that when a student such as yourself begins to act out of the ordinary, teachers notice, even students,” she explained.
Vilma felt her heart sink. She had hoped she was hiding her problems well. But evidently she was only fooling herself. It was having a far more noticeable effect on her than she’d thought.
“Is there anything you want to talk about?” Mrs. Beamis asked. “A problem here at school, or maybe even at home?”
The urge to confess rose in Vilma’s throat. Maybe it would be for the best to talk about the dreams—about the bizarre things she thought she was seeing.
“We want to help you in any way we can, Vilma,” the counselor continued. “There is no problem too big, you do understand that, don’t you?”
She nodded as images of herself in a straitjacket flashed through her mind. Mrs. Beamis would think she was crazy—and what if she was? What would she do then? “I’ve been very nervous about graduation,” she lied. “About going off to college … It’s been keeping me awake at night.”
Mrs. Beamis tapped the pen tip on the cover of her folder. The woman’s gaze was intense, as if she could see right through Vilma’s ruse. “It is a very nerve-racking time of your life,” she said, continuing to stare. “I can see where it might affect you.”
Vilma laughed nervously. “It’s just that I know how much my life is going to change, and it scares me.”
“Are you sure that’s the only thing bothering you?” the counselor asked, moving forward in her chair.
Vilma slowly nodded as a creeping feeling of dread spread throughout her body. She thought of going to bed that night. She wanted to sleep so badly, but the dreams were so terrifying.
“No relationship issues?” Mrs. Beamis added. “We can talk about anything, Vilma. I can’t stress that enough.”
Vilma thought of Aaron Corbet. It had been more than a week since his last e-mail. His typed words—I miss you, love, Aaron—were like a knife blade to her chest. She had no idea where these feelings for a mysterious boy she barely knew had come from, but she found them almost as disturbing as her dreams.
“Nope.” Vilma again shook her head. “No problems with boys.”
She would have done just about anything to have Aaron back with her, for somehow she was certain that he could help with her problem. But that wasn’t to be, and sometimes when she thought she would never see him again, it felt as though a part of her were dying.
“With everything I’ve had on my mind lately I really don’t have the time for them.”
The end-of-period bell started to ring and Vilma reached for her book bag leaning against the chair. “Is that all, Mrs. Beamis?” she asked, desperate to be out from beneath the microscope. “I’ve got a quiz in chemistry and I was hoping to review my—”
The guidance counselor picked up Vilma’s file and placed it in a stack on the lefthand corner of her desk. “Yes, Vilma, I think we’re finished here,” she said with a caring smile.
Vilma returned the smile and stood. “Thanks for the talk and everything,” she said, slinging the bag over her shoulder and turning to leave.
“Remember, no problem is too big,” Mrs. Beamis called after her.
If only that were true, Vilma thought, waving good-bye to Mrs. Vistorino on her way to chemistry.
Deep down in the darkness, the power was angry.
As Aaron drifted in the void between oblivion and consciousness, he felt its indignation. He floated buoyantly within the ocean of black, the rage of the angelic charging the very atmosphere of the unconscious environment with its fearsome electricity, and then there came a tug and he was drawn upward toward awareness.
“I think he’s waking up,” he heard a familiar voice say as a wet tongue lapped his face, acting as a slimy lifeline to pull him farther from the depths of oblivion. Aaron opened his eyes and gazed up into Gabriel’s looming face.
“There he is,” the dog said happily. “You’ve been out for quite some time. I was starting to get worried.”
Aaron reached up and scratched his canine friend behind one of his floppy, yellow ears. “Sorry about that, pal. Where’s—”
“I’m here,” Camael said from someplace nearby.
Aaron sat up and the world began to spin. “Damn,” he said, touching a hand to his head. “Is everybody all right?”
“I’m hungry,” Gabriel reported.
“You’re always hungry,” Aaron answered curtly. “What did she hit us with? Lightning?”
He noticed that his wrists were bound, encircled with manacles of golden metal, strange symbols scratched into their surface and a length of thick chain between them. There was a band of the same metal around his throat as well. “What the hell are these?” he asked, looking around.
It appeared that they were in the finished basement of a residential home. The Ping-Pong table, covered in what looked to be a couple of inches of dust and crammed into the far corner of the room, was a dead giveaway.
“The restraints were made by someone well versed in angel magick,” Camael said from across the room. He was manacled as well and sitting stiffly in the center of a black beanbag chair. “The characters inscribed on them are powerful, imbuing the bonds with the capacity to render our abilities inert.”
“No wonder my angel half is so ticked off,” Aaron said, struggling to stand. “Is it common for fallen angels to keep prisoners in a rec room?” he asked. There was a mustiness in the air that hinted of dampness and decay. Dark patches of mildew grew on the cream-colored walls. There was also a strong smell of chemicals.
Gabriel plopped down in the warm patch where Aaron had been lying. The dog was famous for stealing space after it had been warmed up. He’d always hated having to get up during the night, only to return and find Gabriel curled up, pretending to be fast asleep in his spot.
“The fallen hide from their pursuers in all manner of places,” Camael said, still awkwardly perched atop his beanbag chair. “Usually locales that have been lost to the world, hidden pockets forgotten or abandoned by the human thrall.”
“Who are these guys, Camael?” he asked, walking toward carpeted steps that led up to a closed door. “They’re not Powers, right?”
The angel warrior thought for a moment and then struggled to stand. It was the first time Aaron had seen Camael show anything but supreme agility and grace.
“Need a hand?” Aaron asked, moving toward the angel.
“I do not,” Camael proclaimed, awkwardly rising to his feet. “These particular fallen could be from any number of the various clans that inhabit this world, perhaps a particular band that wishes to endear themselves to the Powers by handing us over to Verchiel,” he said with a hint of foreboding.
“That would be very bad,” Gabriel said from the floor, his snout nestled between his pa
ws.
Aaron looked to the dog, but was distracted by the sound of the door opening above. He spun to face his captors as they slowly descended the stairs.
“Step away from the stairs, half-breed,” said a low, rumbling voice with the slightest hint of a drawl. “I’d hate to put a bullet of fire in your brain before we had a chance to get acquainted and all.”
Aaron heard a woman laugh and guessed it was the one who had brought the lightning down upon them. Lorelei, he remembered. And … Lehash?
He moved back and watched as the two they had confronted in the woods stepped into the basement, and this time they had brought someone else with them. The cowboy had his golden gun drawn, and it glowed in the semigloom. Aaron thought the sight particularly strange; he would never have thought of an angel looking this way. Actually he would never have imagined any of the angels he’d seen since his life had so dramatically changed, but an angelic gunslinger was certainly something he’d never considered.
Camael and Gabriel now stood with him before the mysterious trio. The other of the three, an angel like the cowboy, stepped toward them, meeting Aaron’s gaze with an icy stare.
“Why have we been brought here?” Aaron asked, trying to stay civil.
The cowboy laughed, a toothpick moving from one side of his mouth to the other. “Tell ‘em, Scholar.”
“As designated constables, Lehash and Lorelei have taken it upon themselves to detain you so that we may determine whether you pose a threat to those citizens we have sworn to protect,” the newest addition said rather formally.
He was dressed in a pristine white shirt and dark slacks and looked as though he should have been working in an accounting firm, instead of hanging with angels. With guns, Aaron reminded himself.
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