“What’s the matter, Lehash?” she asked. “Something’s got your dander up even more than usual.”
The angel looked up into the early morning, powder blue sky, as if searching for something. “Belphegor’s been talking ’bout how he thinks trouble’s coming.” He took another swig of coffee and glanced back to her. “I believe it’s already here.”
She was confused at first, but then realized the meaning of his words. “You can’t blame Aaron and Camael anymore. The deaths of other fallen have continued around the world since they’ve been here. And besides, reports that have trickled in say that the killer wears armor—blood-red armor.” Lorelei felt a chill creep down her spine and shivered.
“And our troubles are just beginning,” Lehash said, finishing the last of his drink. “Kind of like the early tremors I felt that morning in San Francisco in 1906—and we know how that one turned out.”
Lorelei sighed. Her father often used historical catastrophes to make his points; the Hindenburg and Titanic disasters were quite popular with him, as were the Boxer Rebellion and World War II.
“Did you ever stop to think that their coming might be the beginning of something good?” she asked. “Y’know there’s talk among the citizens that …” Lorelei stopped, suddenly not sure if she should continue.
“Talk about what?” he asked, his voice a low rumble, its tone already telling her that he wasn’t going to care for what she had to say.
“That Aaron … that he might really be the One.” Lehash scowled and handed her back the empty mug. The golden pistols formed in his hands again, and he turned away to resume his target practice.
“What’s the matter?” she asked. “What could possibly be wrong if that were true?”
Lehash did not answer her in words. Instead he began to fire his weapons repeatedly, with barely a moment between each of the thunderous blasts. The remaining targets disintegrated, as did the trees and branches that they had been positioned upon.
Then, as quickly as he had begun to fire, he stopped, whirling around to face her. “You haven’t seen what I’ve seen, Lore. I’ve been living for a very long time now, and the thought of some messiah suddenly making everything all better …” He shook his head.
Lorelei moved toward him, words of disbelief spilling from her lips. “Are you saying you don’t believe in the prophecy?” she asked incredulously. “The whole reason that Aerie even exists, and you don’t believe in it?”
He lowered the smoldering weapons, and held her in his steely gaze. “Aerie and its people are about the only things I do believe in these days.”
Lorelei was speechless. She had only learned of the prophecy on her arrival in Ravenschild, but the promise of something other than the harsh world that she’d grown up in had given her the strength to continue.
“I fought during the Great War, Lorelei,” he tried to explain. “And not on the winning side. I can’t believe that God—even one merciful and just—could ever begin to forgive us for the wrong we’ve done.”
She didn’t want to hear this; she didn’t want the hope that she kept protected deep inside her to be diminished in any way.
“The prophecy says—”
“Fairy stories,” he retorted. The guns had again disappeared, and he grasped her shoulders in a powerful grip. “What you’ve got to realize—what we’ve all got to realize—is the only thing we have to look forward to is a world of hurt, and not all the prophecies and teenage messiahs in the world are gonna keep it away.”
“But what if you’re wrong?” she asked, pulling away. “What if Aaron is the harbinger of better times?”
Lehash scowled. “If you believe that, then I have some serious doubts as to whether you really are my daughter.”
The words of a powerful angelic spell that would have caused the ground to split beneath the fallen angel and swallow him whole danced at the edge of her mind. It was ready to spill from her lips, but Lorelei stopped herself, instead turning her back upon her parent and starting back to the house. As she made her way through the brush, a part of her wished for him to call after her, to apologize in a fatherly way for the harshness of his words, but the more realistic half got exactly what it expected.
He had begun his target practice again, the blasts of gunfire like the explosive precursor to an approaching storm.
Vilma Santiago felt her eyes grow increasingly heavy, the words in her literature book starting to blur. She refused to look at the clock, deluding herself into thinking that if she didn’t know the time, her body wouldn’t crave sleep as badly. She thought about taking another of the pills she had bought at the drugstore to keep herself awake, but she’d already had three, and the directions said no more than two were recommended.
She closed her literature book and slid it into the bag leaning against the side of her desk. Maybe if I can get ahead on my physics assignments, Vilma thought, pulling out the overly large book and placing it on the desk before her.
Vilma would do anything to stay awake, anything to avoid the dreams. Disturbing visions from her recurring nightmares flashed before her eyes, a staccato slideshow of images that seemed more like memories than the fantastic creations of a sleeping mind. She felt herself begin to slip into the fugue state that always preceded sleep, and spastically jumped from her chair. Pacing about her bedroom, she slapped at her cheeks, hoping that the sharp stabs of pain would give her a second wind. Or would this be my third? she wondered groggily.
“C’mon, Vilma,” she said aloud. “Stay awake.” From the corner of her eye she saw her bed and for a split second could have sworn that it was calling to her. “No,” she said. “No bed, you know what it means when you go to bed.” She continued to pace, swinging her arms and taking deep breaths.
As she walked around her room, Vilma saw that a pink envelope had fallen from her book bag when she’d removed her physics text. It was a birthday card from Tina, who wasn’t going to be in school the next day and hadn’t wanted to miss her friend’s big day. Vilma was going to be eighteen years old, but if it hadn’t been for Tina, she wouldn’t have even remembered. She retrieved the envelope and opened it. It was a typical Tina card. “I know what would make your birthday happy!” read the caption over a picture of a man wearing only unzipped blue jeans, his abs and pecs spectacularly oiled.
“You think so?” Vilma asked the card as she studied the handsome figure. She immediately thought of Aaron. It had been two weeks since his last e-mail and she was beginning to fear that she’d never hear from him again, that maybe he had found a new life somewhere, and no longer wanted reminders of the past he had left behind.
Vilma pushed the horrible thought from her head as she tossed the card into the plastic barrel beside her desk. He probably just hasn’t had a chance to get to a computer. In fact she wouldn’t be surprised if there was a message from him now. She had checked her e-mail just a few hours ago, but something told her that maybe Aaron had been in touch since then.
Vilma returned to her desk and turned on the computer. As she waited for the system to boot up, her thoughts stayed on the boy who had captured her heart. She wondered how he would react if she told him about her awful dreams and her fear of sleep—and would she even share the information with him in the first place? The answer to that was a simple one: of course she would. The way she felt about Aaron Corbet, she would have told him anything. It was as if they shared some strange kind of bond.
Maneuvering her mouse she clicked on the icon to connect to the Internet. Maybe he sent me an electronic greeting card, she thought happily and then realized that he probably didn’t even know that tomorrow was her birthday. From the living room downstairs, the old grandfather clock began to chime, and as she waited for her connection, Vilma found herself counting the tolls of the bell.
Bong! Bong! Bong! Bong! Bong! Bong! Bong! Bong! Bong! Bong! Bong!
The clock tolled midnight, and she saw that there were no messages from Aaron or anybody else. Vilma was overcome with disap
pointment and the realization that she was now a year older. She stared at the computer screen, wishing a message to appear, but it didn’t happen. “Happy Birthday to me,” she said sadly.
She prepared to disconnect from the Internet and her bleary eyes traveled to the right corner of the screen where it showed the time. The clock read 11:59 P.M. and she offhandedly wondered if the clock downstairs was fast, or her computer’s clock slow. Then, just as the disconnect message came up, the clock on her screen changed to 12:00 A.M.—and every one of her senses inexplicably came alive at once.
Vilma tossed her head violently back and the chair tipped over, spilling her onto the floor. The assault came upon her in waves. The sounds in her ears were deafening, a cacophony of noise through which she could just hear the panicked beat of her own heart and the swishing of blood through her veins.
What’s happening to me? Vilma thought as she struggled to her feet, her hands pressed tightly against the bludgeoning invasion of sound. Is this some kind of bizarre reaction to my lack of sleep, or the drugs I’ve taken? she frantically wondered. Smells were suddenly overpowering—cleaning products from the kitchen, wood stain from the basement, bags of garbage in the barrels outside. She gasped for breath. The light of the room was blinding, and she lashed out at the lamp on her desk, knocking it to the floor.
I’ve got to get help! Vilma panicked. She needed a hospital…. She would wake her aunt and uncle….
Her hand was on the doorknob when she heard a voice from somewhere in the room behind her. “The seed of a seraph stirs to waking as the clock tolls twelve,” it said in a language that she had never heard before and should not have been able to understand—but did. “This new day is the day of your birth, I’d wager.”
The hairs at the back of Vilma’s neck bristled. She didn’t want to turn around, didn’t want to acknowledge this latest bit of insanity, but she could not help herself. As she slowly began to turn, a strange odor suddenly permeated the air. It smelled of rich spice and something rotten. It smelled of decay.
Vilma saw that there was a man inside her bedroom. He was dressed in dark clothes and wore a long raincoat despite the fact that it had not rained in weeks. His hair was long and combed back upon his head. His skin was deathly pale and seemed to glow in the limited light, and his eyes, if he had any, were lost within dark shadows that sat upon his face. Vilma had seen this mysterious figment of her madness before, perched in the tree outside her window: watching, waiting.
“You’re not real.”
“Think what you will,” he answered in the ancient tongue as he started toward her. “It is no concern of mine. My charge was to wait and watch for you to blossom—and that is exactly what you have started to do.”
She closed her eyes and wished the figure away, but still he moved toward her. A scream about to explode from her lips froze in her lungs, and Vilma watched in stunned silence as speckled wings of black and white gradually unfurled from the figure’s back.
“Come along, little Nephilim,” said the man who could only have been an angel. “My master has plans for you.”
He took her in his arms and the world around her began to spin. And as she fell into unconsciousness, Vilma Santiago wondered if she was being taken to meet with God.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Belphegor walked among his crops and in the primitive language of the bug, kindly asked them to leave his vegetables. Purging his gardens of toxic residue was like placing neon signs in front of all his plants, welcoming the various insects. But he hadn’t forgotten them. There was an area of garden he had grown especially for the primitive life forms, and he invited them to partake of that particular bounty. The insects did as he asked, some flying into the air in a buzzing cloud, while others tumbled to the rich earth, heading for a more appropriate place to dine. The bugs did not care where they ate, as long as they were allowed to feed.
The angel thanked the simple creatures and turned his attention to a pitcher of iced tea that was waiting for him atop a rusted patio table in the center of the yard. He strolled casually through the grass, his bare feet enjoying the sensation of the new, healthy plant life. Removing the poisons from the backyards of Ravenschild brought him great pleasure, although those same toxins were beginning to wear upon his own body. The angel poured himself a glass from the pitcher of brown liquid and gazed out over his own little piece of paradise as he drank. This yard, of all the yards in Aerie, was one of his favorites. He had made it his own and it was good again. If only it was as simple for those who had fallen from God’s grace.
And then came that odd feeling of excitement he’d experienced since first viewing the manifestation of Aaron Corbet’s angelic self. Is it possible? Could he dare to believe that after all this time, after so many false hopes, the prophecy might actually come true?
Belphegor sipped his bitter brew, enjoying the sensation of the cold fluid as it traveled down his throat. He would not allow himself to be tricked; there was too much—too many—relying upon him, to be caught up in a wave of religious fervor. But he had to admit, there was something about this Nephilim, something wild, untamed, that inspired both excitement and fear.
The teaching had been going reasonably well. The boy was eager to learn, but his angelic nature was rough, rebellious, and if they were not careful, a deadly force could be unleashed upon them—upon the world. But that was a worry for another time.
The air in a far corner of the yard began to shimmer, a dark patch forming at the center of the distress. There was sound, very much like the inhalation of breath, and the darkness blossomed to reveal its identity. Wings that seemed to be made from swaths of solid night unfurled, the shape of the boy nestled between them. He looked exhausted, yet exhilarated, a cocky smile on his young face.
“That took longer than I expected,” Belphegor said, feigning disinterest as he reached for the pitcher of iced tea and refilled his glass. “Was there a problem?”
Aaron suppressed his angelic nature, the sigils fading, the wings shrinking to nothing upon his back. In his hand he held a rolled newspaper and whacked it against the palm of his other hand as he walked toward the old angel. “No problems,” he said, tossing the paper onto the patio table where it unrolled to reveal the Chinese typesetting. It was The People’s Daily. “I didn’t have any Chinese money to buy one, so I had to wait until somebody threw this away.”
The boy smiled, exuding a newfound confidence. He was learning fast, but there was still much to do—and so many ways in which things could go wrong.
“How was the travel?” Belphegor asked before taking another sip of tea. He had taught the youth a method of angelic travel requiring only the wings on his back and an idea of where he wanted to go.
“It was amazing,” Aaron said. There was another glass on the table and he reached for it. “I did exactly what you said.” He poured a full glass, almost spilling it in his excitement. “I pictured Beijing in my head, from those travel books and magazines, and I told myself that was where I wanted to be.”
Belphegor nodded, secretly impressed. There had been many a Nephilim that couldn’t even begin to grasp the concept, never mind actually do it.
“It was pretty cool,” Aaron continued. “I saw it in my head, wrapped myself in my wings, and when I opened them up again, I was there.” He gulped down his iced tea.
“And did anyone notice your arrival?”
Aaron tapped the remainder of the ice cubes in his glass into his open mouth and began to crunch noisily. “Nope,” he said between crunches. “I didn’t want anybody to see me—so they didn’t.”
Belphegor turned away and strolled back toward his plants and vegetables, leaving Aaron alone by the table. Absently he began to harvest some ripened cucumbers. The boy was advancing far more quickly than any Nephilim he had ever encountered. But the next phase of training was crucial, and the most dangerous. Despite his affinity, Belphegor wasn’t sure if Aaron was ready.
“So what now?” he heard Aaron ask behind
him.
Belphegor stopped and turned, cucumbers momentarily forgotten. “We’re done for the day,” he said dismissively.
“But it’s still early,” the Nephilim said, genuine eagerness in his voice. “Isn’t there something more you can show me before—”
“The next phase of development is the investigation of your inner self,” the angel interrupted.
“Okay,” Aaron responded easily. “Let’s do it.”
“Do you think you’re ready for a trip inside here?” Belphegor tapped Aaron’s chest. “It’s going to be a lot harder than a jaunt to Beijing.”
Aaron’s expression became more serious, as if the angel’s cautioning words had stirred something—some shaded information hidden in the back of Aaron’s mind, about to be dragged out into the light.
“If you think you’re ready, prepared to find out who you are … what you are,” Belphegor said cryptically, holding the boy in an unwavering gaze, “then we’ll begin. But I’m not entirely sure you’ll be happy with what you learn.”
Verchiel gazed upon the unconscious female who had been laid on the floor before him. “Can you sense it as I can?” he asked the prisoner in the hanging cage across the room. “Like a newly emerging hatchling, fighting against the shell of its humanity. It wants so desperately to be free of its confines, to blossom and transform its fragile human vessel into the horror it is destined to be.”
The leader of the Powers shifted his weight uncomfortably in the high-backed wooden chair. Though finally healing, the burns that he had received in his first confrontation with the Nephilim still caused him a great deal of discomfort. “It sickens me,” Verchiel spat, his eyes riveted to the girl at his feet. “I should kill the wretched thing now.”
“But you won’t,” wheezed the prisoner, still weak. “You took the trouble to bring her here, I gather she’s going to play a part in whatever new trick you have up your sleeve. Maybe bait, to lure the Nephilim into a trap?”
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