When Ash Rains Down (Kingdom Come #1)

by Cecelia Earl

  "Uh huh. Well, what do you want me to do about it?"

  He steps toward me, looking down so we are nose-to-nose. Suddenly, he towers over me. I don't remember him being quite so tremendous, so tall. Once again, I'm reminded of Cole, his power, his size, but miss Cole's warmth, his lightheartedness. All I sense now is control and a cool feeling of calculated, regimented authority.

  "You're my responsibility. Every human has an angel, and I'm yours."

  "Well, lucky me," I say, and flip around. "I'd rather not have a guardian angel that hates me, thank you very much."

  He grabs my arm, whipping me back around. "If Lucifer and his army of demons go after the weakest of souls with a vengeance, what do you think he'd do to get yours and your brother's?"

  "My brother's?"

  "If he can get Warrior Angels and Guardian Angels who are filled with Heaven's Glory, filled with that power and protection, how easily do you think he can get a couple of untrained, ignorant Hybrids?"

  I stare at him. I will never let anyone hurt my brother. Not. Ever. Again.

  "He's after you and your brother, Julia. You have something no other human, nor angel nor demon has. You are very valuable, filled with power Lucifer would love to siphon and feed to his army. You asked about your enemies. Well, he's your number one enemy."

  I put my hands on my hips and open my mouth to question or complain or argue, but he stops my words with a jab to my chest. "You need to prepare, to fight for Heaven. That's what I'm here to train you to do."

  He struts off, leaving me to absorb his words.

  This time, I don't follow.

  He can go to Hell for all I care.

  -26-

  The wind picks up, and the temperature drops from a breath of warm air to a chilly, whistling current so strong it whips through me. I wrap my arms around my body for protection and push through, over to a tree. If I knew how to work these wings, I'd push them back out and wrap them around myself like a blanket. A glance over my shoulder, however, tells me they've stayed hidden. If they were ever really there in the first place. Regardless, the dull, throbbing ache in my shoulder blades has returned.

  The oak's bark is rough as I slide my back down until I'm sitting, hugging my knees to my chest. I turn my head and rest my cheek on bent knees. Nicholas is no longer visible through the trees. Though I'm shivering, the forest takes on a warm, golden hue as the sun rises higher in the sky. At least, I assume it's the sun. I assume I'm somewhere in a normal world. Who knows at this point? I don't know what's real and what's not.

  It's calmer down near the forest's dirty floor; my hair isn't flipping around and the wind has stopped singing. Ignoring the rolling waves of air above, I let the tears fall as exhaustion washes over me. I've been away from Mom and Noah so long now. I'm not working, not raising money for our future. I never called the contractor. He'll never get started. When Mom and Noah wake up—maybe they already have—they'll have no place to go home to.

  I'm failing them.

  After a few more moments of feeling sorry for myself and letting the fear rise up and choke me, I swallow. Suddenly, the air I breathe in is cold and hurts my lungs. The wind from above swoops down and nips at my cheeks and the tips of my ears. Then, as suddenly as it began, the wind everywhere stills. Without it, the warm air returns, balmy and summer-like. The air is as jumbled and chaotic as my thoughts and emotions.

  I relax my arms and stare up through the leaves at what little blue sky I see peeking down at me. I wouldn't be failing Noah and Mom if Nicholas hadn't brought me here. He didn't need to uproot me during the most urgent time in my life.

  Not that I believe him. This.

  Do I?

  It seems so real, and Dad's words, his stories, flash through my memory and match so closely with what I've seen, with what Nicholas is telling me.

  Is it possible I hallucinated everything? That Nicholas fabricated this like some virtual reality? He made the trees whisper to try to make me lose focus when he was training me. What was the last thing he'd said before the smoke infiltrated the cage? That I have enemies? No sooner had he said that, than they showed up. How convenient.

  This is crazy!

  He's trying to freak me out.

  But why? What reason does he have?

  I don't understand the connection between Cole and Nicholas. I don't understand anything. With Cole, I want him to wrap me in his arms and hold me. Just his nearness makes me feel lighter and freer. With Nicholas, I feel like I'm constantly in danger, and somehow I'm uncertain whether I'm frightened by him or frightened that he may not be near enough to keep me safe. Where Cole's arms seem warm and inviting, Nicholas' are most certainly made of impenetrable steel, a barrier between him and the world.

  Maybe I made a mistake letting him get so far away in this strange place.

  Pain at my throat makes me grasp for the stone in my necklace. It's shimmering, flashing. I can't tell if its light is truly burning me or is just so bright my human eyes can't handle its brilliance. Fear blazes up, and I feel the need to protect myself. Where is that blasted sword? I jump up and clench my fists, brushing dirt and leaves from my back and lap. I want that thing in my hand, just in case. I want to examine it, compare its blaze with the glorious light in the stone from my necklace.

  Two such opposite objects. And yet their absurd likeness connects them to each other, to me, to my family. As soon as I find that sword, I'm going to march back to Nicholas and make him take me home. Put the sword to his throat if I have to. Like I did with that knife and the robber. Once Nicholas understands I have no interest in helping, he'll have to. I have a choice here.

  And my choice is still no.

  I race through, circling back, weaving through trees, around their trunks, but no sword. Maybe Nicholas grabbed it before taking off. Who knows? I've seen spears materialize out of thin air. Maybe even the sword was an optical illusion. Maybe all of my warped thoughts are put in my mind via some power Nicholas has to control me. This is why my ability to focus is so important, now more than ever.

  I take off toward the hut, through trees and beams of light. It seems to be taking longer than it should. Isn't this the right way? Wait, maybe that curved trunk looks familiar. When I stop and stay silent, I hear birds and insects. I think I remember that low-hanging branch. I race on.

  No, wait. I slow and look over my shoulder. Over that way is a tree with a knot I remember. I run that way for a while. Sweat starts to drip down the side of my face, and still, no hut. The sounds of wailing and hissing grow louder. Did I run the opposite way? Am I running straight into battle? If it's imaginary, how do I hear it so clearly? Nicholas is long gone, too far to create a virtual reality. My heart races as I stand in the center of the trees, unsure which way to go. Maybe I'm still hallucinating. I need water, lots of water.

  When's the last time I drank anything, ate, slept?

  All around me, the trees grow closer together. The birch and oak tree branches reach for one another, closing me off from sunlight. The brush below grows thicker and trips me. My knees and palms take the brunt of my fall as I'm thrust into cool shadows. A deep-seated anger scalds my veins. I've had enough. Rising, I clench my teeth until my jaw aches. I think of the look of annoyance in Nicholas' eyes and I wish he didn't exist. I think about taking my spear to his throat and this time thrusting it through. What would his angel blood look like, I wonder? I think about Cole and wish he'd gotten to me sooner. If he had, this never would have happened. He's just a pretty boy with too much money, as far as I'm concerned. If I had even a fraction of his money, my family wouldn't have any problems. When I get back, I'll do whatever it takes to get into his bank account. Why work myself to exhaustion, when he has more than enough?

  Wait. I shake my head. These thoughts are not right. I'm not this mean.

  Hissing fills my ears. Screeching and snickering follow.

  Someone. Help me.

  Cold air twists around me like a tornado enveloping me. The stench is overwhel
ming. I cover my nose, my mouth. I'm too scared to close my eyes.

  “Little angel. You poor, poor thing. Imagine all you could have, all you could be! A little money and your dreams will all come true. Why do you praise someone who will not give you what you want?”

  I whip around. "Who's there?" I turn, frantically surveying the trees and the space around me. Are my eyes playing tricks on me, or is that really black smoke hovering over me? "What's going on?" Laughter ensues, a deep, dark choking sound. The smoke begins to lower, to flow and dance around me, tempting and teasing.

  “Do not serve Heaven, when you can have everything and more here on Earth!”

  "I do want... I want so much more." I picture Noah in a lavish home, a grand piano's keys at his fingertips. I imagine Mom's five-star restaurant, her nails, hair, and clothing model-esque. I see myself a lawyer, bringing justice—and raking in money, so much money.

  “Yes, angel dear. This is what you can have!”

  The daydream grows as cold as the air forcing goose bumps to rise on my arms. In my imagination, we are all stone-gray and alone. Nobody is next to Noah on the piano bench hugging him and telling him how loved he is. Mom is working with and serving strangers. There's no smile on her lips. I go home to my empty penthouse, nobody to hug me. Nobody to talk to.

  "No!" I shout. The smoke comes closer and begins to take on a shape. Floating before me looms the shadow of a man, a man with claws and horns. I don't breathe for fear he will lash out at me, suffocate me. Ugly and horrifying, somehow he still looks familiar.

  His horrible laughter crawls through the air. I see his eyes through the smoke—black, bottomless pits. His mouth is lined with pointy teeth, and his tongue is forked like a snake's. Suddenly, that mouth opens wide, grows larger and closer, and it snaps at my head. I drop to a crouch, and pray in a hoarse whisper, "Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name..." I can't get the words out fast enough.

  "Stand, Julia."

  I can't ignore the order. I rise, and a spear materializes in my hand. Beside me is the golden-haired man, adorned in pure white and brilliant gold. The shadow and smoke is in front of me, but the features are hazy. I grasp the spear and spread my feet apart. The weapon sends a surge of strength up my arm. Another source of strength is the stone on my chest. A wave of power flushes through me. My knees bend slightly, and I feel focused and ready in my stance.

  For a moment, I don't know what to do, but then an impulse to fight bursts through me. Instinct takes over, and I thrust my spear up and forward at the shadow. The air around me shudders and a wail pierces the air. The shadow dissipates into smoke that spreads through the air until it is no more. If it was already damned, then where else was it to go? I don't have time to contemplate as more shadows take form, some in a circle around me, some hidden behind trees, others snaking around trunks. The golden-haired man whispers something, and his hand takes my shoulder. Suddenly, I can see everything around me so much clearer. For a moment, this hinders me, scares me so much I want to close in on myself. But only for that moment. Beyond that, I zero in on all the details.

  I'm surrounded by monsters, and every mouth is grinning wildly at me, like they want to devour me. The air around me is sucked up, like in a vacuum, and I'm cold, so very cold.

  Welcome to Hell, little angel.

  -27-

  "Fight!" yells the golden-haired man.

  A swarm of warriors, some with halos, some with wings, materializes and charges at the monsters. It's a beautiful, horrific sight. In the moment I take staring, I've gone from the front line to the center of the mob in three seconds flat. I'm like the rock in the middle of a fast-moving river. When a green-headed monster with fangs and a black tongue swoops down from the treetops, nearly landing on my head, any fear that may have sprung up vanishes. Fury like steel surges through me and I stick him through the throat with my spear.

  An acrid, watery discharge the color of blood sprays everywhere. Its bitterness chokes me and leaves its stench at the back of my throat. I can't stop spitting except to breathe to keep from vomiting. Before I can grasp what I'd just done, another monster lunges at me. This one is crimson-colored, with violet eyes, and ears that are pointy and large. Its mouth is wide and toothless. Out of nowhere, tentacles materialize. They dance and reach toward me, their touch like snakes slithering across my body.

  I pull the spear back, and it's slippery and heavy. I adjust my hands, but it doesn't feel right. I think, pray, whimper, "Sword!" instead of a helpless spear, and miraculously a silver-tipped blade with a blazing, peridot handle materializes in my hand. My sword, the one I'd left behind. With no time to admire it, I slice the demon's arms off, one-by-one, and a menacing scream pierces my ears each time until finally, with one final swoop, I behead it. A fountain of thick green sprays from its neck. I race away, toward where the golden-haired man fights a gray mound, the demon's only feature a slit for a mouth.

  He pierces it somewhere near its center, and it disappears except for a poof of black sand that drifts toward the ground, like ash popping out of a campfire. "Follow me," he shouts amidst the yelling and inhuman growls. Darting looks around, I follow, sword ready. Both women and men wear halos and shine with a glorious light radiating around them. No demons follow, but I hurry after the man, regardless.

  Once we are far enough away that the sounds of battle become mere echoes off the trunks of trees, I ask, "Who are all those people?" I look him straight in his golden eyes. "Who are you?"

  "Michael." And as he says it, great white wings unfold behind him, sounding like heavy canvas flapping in the wind. He juts his chin over his shoulder. "They're Warrior Angels and the saints who choose to fight Lucifer's demons with us."

  I can't help but shiver. The devil. I look back at this man—this angel, Michael. Could he be the Archangel, Michael?

  "Nicholas hopes to be in charge of a squadron of saints one day. It's one of the reasons he's—"

  "Angry?"

  "There's a lot you probably don't know yet. Give him time," he implores, dropping his gaze to mine, lowering his sword so that its tip touches the ground. "You fought well. Thank you. I know it's not what you wanted to do, but I hope you'll choose to continue helping us. The devil's demons grow in number and power, and you proved yourself to be an asset to my army. With some training, you will be very strong, even stronger than you were today."

  "I…" I shake my head. "I don't think so." None of this seems real, but when I'm standing here with Michael, he has this presence. He's not massive, and yet he's larger than life. Like he's 3D in an already 3D world. 3D cubed or something. Maybe it's because he looks like he's outlined in fire. I look at the ground, finding the churned earth at my feet comforting, yet crumbling inside, not wanting to see the disappointment—the disapproval—in his eyes. When I raise my face, I see only love and understanding in his.

  "Your family," he says. "Remember, your family will be in danger soon, more so than they are now. Their souls need life as much as they need pumping hearts and breath to their lungs." He turns to walk. "Souls live on when hearts and lungs do not. We want to protect as many humans as we can from Lucifer's snares."

  I follow him and we don't speak again.

  I stand outside the hut, arms folded across my chest, admiring the peeling birch trunks that shine golden in the reflected afternoon sunlight. There's a peace inside me that's completely incomprehensible considering I fought off monsters earlier, and that demon blood is still splattered on my skin and clothes.

  Sudden sharp voices from inside the hut disturb the quiet, like a rock thrown into a still, glassy pond and shattering the perfect pictures reflected there. I step closer, growing impatient, sick of waiting for Nicholas to take me home. I helped fight. I gave my answer. I'm done here.

  "You have a few days," I hear Michael tell Nicholas. I peer in and see him hand Nicholas something—a bracelet? A stone set in the band shines a brilliant green. "Use this."

  Nicholas takes the leather-strung stone
and pulls it over his hand until the radiant gem rests on his wrist. Sunlight shines through the spaces between the curved twigs that form the igloo-shaped hut and glint off the stone. I squint to see it better, but a loud roaring motor shatters the stillness of the forest. I turn and see a motorcycle carrying Cole speeding through the trees. He's a blur, smearing the golden-white with a smudge of blackness. He skids to a stop. His eyes find me immediately. "Quick," he shouts. "Hop on."

  "How did you find—? How did you know?"

  Never mind. I race to him. He's wearing a gray hooded sweatshirt, dark jeans, and black shoes. His eyes shine blue in the pale light, like they're the only things real and everything else is a dream. For a moment, we're caught in a wordless embrace, though neither of us touches the other. His presence is wrapping me in a warm hug. Our eyes say it all: relief, gratitude, wonder, and some other emotion that makes my heart race and my blood catch fire. Then he stretches out his hand.

  I look down at mine holding the sword and debate bringing it with me. When I drop it, my hand feels eerily empty. I shake the feeling loose and instead grab hold of Cole's hand. He hoists me up behind him. The leather seat is hot as I climb to straddle it. He passes me a helmet and we are already racing off while I try to buckle the strap beneath my chin. I lean into him, wrapping my arms around his middle, not knowing whether to laugh, sigh, or cry. I do none. I lean my cheek against his back and watch the scenery breeze by, leaving Nicholas, Michael, angels, and demons in the dust.

  -28-

  The white-gold sun of the gated-in forest burns down to a pale yellow and then a burnt orange as the miles pass under the two wheels of Cole's Harley Davidson. While the eerily familiar trees and open fields blur by, I replay the most recent days of my life. I hit pause more than a few times when I remember Cole with Nicholas, fighting in the alley next to Mom's diner. What was it Cole had said—family problems?