One drop did not make an ocean, but billions upon billions created an ocean. The magnificence pushed her into an incredible epiphany, one she thought she understood as an angel. He created her to server Him, and to guide the mortals through life. He expected their faith to rise, using their belief as a weapon to conquer the dark one through Jesus’s love and sacrifice.
Daisy fell to her knees, her blond hair turned white. “Jehovah.”
“Daisy Lane, my stubborn one.”
Daisy remained silent. No words filled her mind to slip from her tongue. All she sensed around her seemed thick with love and forgiveness. Never in her existence did she stand so close to God. Her skin brailed with the love he poured over her, and she understood perfection by her name being spoken.
“Do your job, Daisy. Send the enemies to me. I will punish them beyond Hell’s understanding of punishment. They will not be blotted out, but suffer pain for all eternity, beyond any fire raging in Hell.”
Daisy remained on her knees with head bent, her armor changed into a brilliant white gold. “What of Lucifer?”
“Joan will deal with him. Do you still love Lucifer, Daisy?”
Daisy’s mouth dried, she swallowed and turned her inner eyes away from the cellar door, opened and damp, green with rot. “I do not hate him.”
“Go to earth. Help make my creations right again. I will not start the Second Coming. Lucifer will not force my hand.”
Daisy rose to her feet, head bowed as she turned away from the throne. She opened her eyes and stared at the golden tiles beneath her feet while approaching the threshold where her sandals waited to be slipped on. She stepped on the marble floor, slid on her caligae, and exited the palace main door and out to the seven column portico.
When she lifted her head and stared out, armored angels by the millions filled the field set before God’s Palace. They stared at her as she stood above them. Her white gold armor shimmering underneath Heaven’s lights, her white hair spread over her shoulders.
Daisy shivered. She took the steps down and as she did so the angels fell to their knees before her. She became confused at why they gathered and why they bowed.
The archangel Gabriel held a wide-eyed gaze upon Daisy until she reached the final pearl step. He knelt before her.
Daisy reached down and touched Gabriel’s elbow and lifted him to his feet. “Gabriel what are you doing? Why are you of all kneeling to me?”
Gabriel gazed up at Daisy, his brown eyes still wide. “You are Seraph.”
Daisy blinked her eyes, for a moment she thought she would faint from Gabriel’s words. “I’m an angel.”
Gabriel shook his head, his black hair swung over his shoulders. “No, Daisy.” He pointed. “Spread your wings.”
Daisy unfolded her wings. She expected two to swing out from her back, instead six white wings unfurled and her knees weakened. She stumbled and Gabriel caught her. “Why?”
“You will need the strength, Daisy. Joan will not be able to defeat Lucifer on her own.”
“But Jehovah said…”
“Trust me. Joan will need your help.” He studied Daisy.
Daisy nodded and swept her green eyes over the angels who began to rise to their feet. Tears welled up and spilled down her cheeks. “I’ll be back, Gabriel.”
Gabriel nodded. “Of course you will.”
Daisy walked on unsteady legs through the several million angels who stared at her in awe. She faced the massive First Gate, turned back to the crowd, raised a hand, and vanished.
3
White light consumed her. No angels sang to her once she died. No harps played amongst the white clouds as her spirit drifted upwards into golden bliss.
From the whiteness voices reached her ears, voices familiar and not so familiar. A conversation arose around her. Whispers flitted about as if they feared to wake her. Words drifted into her ears with clarity. One voice said to forgive her. Another voice, older, more powerful, and filled with love answered.
“I already have.”
Joan’s eyes fluttered open. She swallowed a deep peach flavored breath.
She found herself perched on a stool carved from white marble. She wore no clothing and before her on a white marble table sat her armor joined by her golden helmet with its white horsehair plume. The gold shone bright against an unseen light like precious artifacts on display. Her sword, decorated with pink, blue, and topaz stones gleamed. The silver blade reflecting light along with her polished archangel clasp.
Several figures bathed in white light stood outside the ivory rotunda Joan sat in, their voices mingling into a watery hum. She swept her head around and counted off twelve figures dressed in white robes obscured by a milky light.
Joan desired her armor and sword. With her blessed tools she planned to complete the job she swore to accomplish so long ago. Yet, her instincts told her the Guardians lost the battle on earth. She sensed the deep sorrow around her. She also sensed a larger problem. The discussion around her did not become disrespectful, but the voices rose with a concern she found worrisome.
She closed her eyes and waited until the voices settled. Soon they left the rotunda by ones until a solitary figure remained. His presence moved into the rotunda and stood before her. A powerful sensation draped over her like a thick comforter. Warm love covered her soul. Joan opened her eyes to stare at Jesus. He stood next to the table, close to her armor.
Joan sat up and moved from the marble bench and fell to her knees.
Jesus lifted a white silk tunic, drapping it over Joan’s naked body. “Rise, Joan.”
Joan stood before God’s son. She gazed into his brown eyes and found herself disarmed at how gentle they appeared. He reached forward and placed a hand on her shoulder and guided her to the table.
“Your job is not yet done.” He smiled at her and swept his hand over her tools of war. “Joan, be my sword and shield. Be my weapon.”
Joan gazed at the armor and the steady hand held over her gear. A hole shown through the palm, an exquisite mark He suffered in sacrifice for humanity. “What happened?”
“We are under siege by Satan. He promised not to attack for six months and to leave the mortals alone.”
“Six months?”
“Your father gave himself up as a hostage to protect the mortals. But I fear Lucifer is not good at keeping his promises. What do you think?”
“Lucifer will not keep his promise, my Lord.”
Jesus smiled. “Be my weapon, Joan.” His gentle face became stern. “Save Michael alone. My father doesn’t agree with me. But He allowed me this. Also you must keep Satan from the throne.”
Joan wanted her sword and armor. She turned to Jesus, her stomach fluttering. “What throne?”
“My Father’s throne. If Lucifer acquires the throne, Jehovah will send us all to Oblivion. This will mean no Second Coming, Joan.”
“All or nothing,” Joan said.
“All or nothing.”
Joan adjusted the silk tunic snug about her body and reached for her golden armored skirt and wrapped the precious metal around her waist. She slid on the cuirass decorated with the two cherubs and sun and buckled the side straps. She removed a white cloak from the table and draped the heavy material over her shoulders, fastening the ends with the archangel clasp. She hefted her sword from the table and held the blade before her eyes. The folded metal glinted and she drove its honed edge into its sheath and strapped on the scabbard’s belt. Next she pulled on her greaves.
Joan lifted her helmet from the table, stroked the white horsehair plume.
“Rescue your father and deal with Satan. He shall not predict the Second Coming. Maria, Daisy Lane, and Tobias will not help you. If you fail we all will go into Oblivion and my father will recreate the universe.”
Joan nodded. The Savior’s words hung like thousand pound weights over her head.
Jesus leaned forward and kissed her forehead. “I believe in you,” he said. A smile graced his face. “My little weapon
, my little archangel. Save your father and send those monsters back to Hell.”
Joan slid her helmet on, the gold gave off a warm glow, and the white horsehair plume trembled. She walked towards the rotunda’s edge. Below her sat thick white clouds. She lifted her head and faced the darkness on the kingdom’s borders. Hell’s army sat camped on Heaven’s outskirts, fires burned and gruesome voices echoed up to her. She turned back to find Jesus gone.
So the truth came out. Michael saved her before the floods swept through the earth. She wondered why God bothered to spare her life at all and not the other children born to angels.
Joan filled her lungs with sweet air. Wings spread out upon her back, large and powerful. She leaped into the whiteness beneath her.
The clouds sprinkled her face with tiny droplets. She turned herself into an angelic missile and streaked from Heaven towards earth. She became invisible, slipping pass the ghoulish Hell guards who dozed near Heaven’s edge.
Satan made a false promise to wait six months. What fool would believe him?
Joan understood her success at Michael’s rescue would insure her worthiness as an archangel. She broke through the white clouds as night fell thick around her like death’s cape. She spotted the landmasses on earth, America, Africa, Europe, all drawn in dark relief against the ocean’s luminescent glow. No lights shown below. The inhabitants survived without their usual comforts after the multiple electromagnetic blasts.
The Atlantic Ocean sat in darkness yet glowed like black silk. Huge naval ships floated without power, resembling dead whales adrift. Sailors moved about deck with lamps and flashlights.
Joan decided to search out Michael’s angelic glow. The enemy either held him on earth, or some dark netherworld beyond her natural vision. Heaven and earth demanded the siege broken. Both may begin to die a slow death, and also odd, God seemed willing to let the terrible happen.
4
Pope Alexander Lito X allowed Cardinal DeTorre to dress him in full body armor. With patience the cardinal wrapped the black material in layers around Alexander’s body until he covered all but his head. Next the cardinal draped the heavy white robes over the pontiff’s slight frame.
Alexander mouthed a prayer as DeTorre dressed him for battle. Vatican City soldiers emerged from their underground bunkers and surrounded Vatican City and the occupants who flocked to the basilica for safety.
After the EMP blast, all power shut down throughout Vatican City. Cars stopped dead in the streets, small planes and helicopters dropped from the sky like birds hit by a powerful insecticide. Tiny red and orange explosions bloomed throughout the city. The lights went out within Saint Peter’s Square, bathing them all in darkness.
Alexander sat in his study when the explosion boomed outside his window, rattling the glass. Screams lifted into the air in one terrible shriek. The lights flickered out within the study and soon glowed on again after the gas generators kicked in. Heavy footfalls came to his door and Cardinal DeTorre burst into his study with armed Vatican security guards at his side. The troubled cardinal hand signed to the pope what occurred.
After the short commotion the skies darkened as if a forest fire raged. His staff suggested he hide within the emergency bunker six stories beneath the basilica. He refused to hide. He remained determined to face the evil launched upon the earth, not abandoning those who traveled so far to find safety and closeness to God.
Alexander wondered about Joan, the Guardians, and the other armies who fought the initial battle against the Hell Force. The fresh attack surprised him, he expected a human Black Army to start a terrorist war on earth, car bombs and such. He called the world’s leaders to prepare for an attack against mortals and not the dark lord himself. He would not lose hope in the world’s effort to defeat the fresh menace.
Alexander wanted the world to see his face. He would not run from the enemy. Cardinal DeTorre continued to dress the pope to face the public waiting him. DeTorre held the pontiff’s Mitre hat in his hands. He lifted the hat towards Alexander.
Alexander seized the hat and noted the heavier weight and peered inside. A slow smile crept to his face. “Bullet proof, DeTorre?” The cardinal read the pope’s lips and nodded.
The pope placed the high hat on his head and held out both his hands. DeTorre slid a gold hilted sword into the man’s wrinkled left palm, and in the right a seven-foot tall gilded cross. The cardinal clapped his hands three times. Bishops and other cardinals flooded the room. A few rushed ahead and pulled away the heavy curtains to reveal the balcony and the crowd jammed into Saint Peter’s Square. Above, the sky rolled with gray storm clouds.
Pope Alexander Lito X gazed at DeTorre. “Cardinal, send a message to Isaiah. Tell him I’m very sorry.”
He stepped out on the balcony. The crowd cheered in a thunderous wave. He lifted his sword and the cross. DeTorre typed away on his smartphone and sent off a message.
The civil sirens blared. An engine rumbled from the skies and in the distance an An-225 broke from the dark clouds like a winged predator. Several thousand black parachutes bloomed out from behind the behemoth. The plane circled Vatican City once, adjusted its course and headed straight for the basilica.
Alexander stood firm. The crowd fell to their knees, along with the cardinals and bishops behind Alexander. All prayed. Some sang songs, others chanted, hands raised to the air.
Heavy with metal and fuel, the An-225 picked up speed. Its large blunted nose, painted black, angled towards the basilica and the man draped in white holding up the sword and cross. The large engines roared. The noise filled the air and shook the ground underneath the parishioners and soldiers.
Gunfire erupted. Tracer rounds raced up to pepper the heavy plane’s black skin. The An-225 remained locked on its course. The wings covered everyone on the ground within its black shadow. The An-225 plowed nose first into the balcony. A red mushroom cloud followed by an incredible explosion engulfed St Peter’s Square.
The fuel mixed with other explosive components aboard the plane killed the thousands who prayed, burning them all to ash. Oily black smoke rose several thousand feet into the air, an announcement to all, how not even the humble would escape the terror spreading across the earth.
5
President David Brown sat behind his desk in the Oval Office with papers scattered before him. He signed a few forms with a black pen emblazoned with the Devicorp insignia. Gas generators kept the lights on, droning out a hum he found annoying. The noxious vapors twisted his stomach, forcing David to order all windows within the White House open.
David inhaled the muggy air redolent with gas fumes. The takeover occurred fast, faster than he expected. Hundreds died defending the Capital, a six-hour gun battle erupted outside the White House between Black Army soldiers and Marines. The Black Army pushed the Marines into a retreat. Now the White House sat pock marked with bullet holes like some shitty war torn city.
Five generals dressed in black military uniforms stood before his desk. Once Satan’s confirmed arrival reached his ears the situation became horrible. Militias rose, and the United States military system broke apart like crusty bread. Several generals, still loyal to the United States, vanished into the madness while others came to him for leadership.
Most soldiers went home, taking their weapons with them to protect their families. David refused to allow the United States to fall apart. He intended to exercise his new power and regain control.
He reclined in his plush seat gazing at lights the engineers strung along the Oval Office ceiling. Not bright white the way he liked, but a piss-yellow glow. Outside on the White House brown lawn sat military trucks. Soldiers dressed in black with the numbers 66 burned into their foreheads strolled about the area.
With a steady hand, he pressed his fingers against the double-sixes burned into his forehead. The numbers started to heal, a distant pain still echoed in the brand. He stood from the desk and walked across the room towards the television chamber where Raymond Wallace once announc
ed the attack on Los Angeles. A few people managed to fix their failed electronics after the EMP blasts, but most people lived in darkness.
Reports continued to come in about the military breakdown and the looting. He maintained his own power. He hoarded both food and weapons, and the Black Army made sure no one crossed him.
David walked into the pressroom and mounted the stage. He eased behind the podium. The United States emblem no longer graced the podium’s front. In its place sat a red pentagram drawn in blood on a black background. Armed soldiers in black jumpsuits stood near the new president. Reporters sat in the press box before the stage.
The President of the United States prepared to make the most important speech of his life. At the moment the Oval Office remained under repair. Workers began ripping up the presidential seal carpet, replacing the old one with a black carpet decorated with the pentagram.
David smiled. He used the same smile years ago when Raymond Wallace chose him for vice president. A liar’s smile, even, and white, all implants.
“My fellow Americans. For the past two days a great shift occurred in our way of living. Satan arrived. I can’t find a more delicate way to say this. He placed me and others like me in charge throughout the world.”
His brown eyes flicked down at the press box. A few reporters sported the burned double six on their foreheads. “Today we will be handing out the third six required for you to exist on this planet unharmed. Don’t think of this as Satan’s number, but more like an insurance card for free food, health care, and safety.”
David turned and gazed off to his right. He nodded and Johnny Chang walked on stage along with a Black Army soldier. Johnny delivered a closed mouth smile.
“I will be the first to receive Satan’s third mark.” He canted his head forward.
Johnny clapped his hands. A soldier stepped to the rear and pulled a hot branding iron from a barbecue grill loaded with blazing coals. He handed Johnny the iron. David became use to pain. He suffered more after his wife killed his two boys and committed suicide.
Angels of War Battle of Archangels (Book 3) (Angels of War Trilogy) Page 2