by EJ Wallace
Gabriel shook his head adamantly. “No. God forbid. That gift would be the end of me. I am not pure enough.”
Sophie was confused. “But you're an angel, what's more pure than that?”
“I am a fallen angel, and even those that still have their wings can be corrupted,” Gabriel explained.
“Then how did you know where to find me?” Sophie asked.
Gabriel shrugged. “I didn't. I have simply waited here for a kind soul to aid me, and finally, after many years, you have come. As it was told by the oracle before you.”
Sophie looked at him in awe. “How long have you been doing this? Sitting around this diner?”
“It wasn't always a diner. It was once a music studio, and before that, an apartment complex, and before that, a log cabin, and before that-”
“Okay, okay. I get it,” Sophie said. “So a while.”
Gabriel nodded. “You certainly took your time.”
“Didn't you ever lose faith? What if the old oracle had been wrong, and I never came?” Sophie asked.
“Faith is always rewarded. Even if the old oracle had been wrong, I would have waited until she was right again,” Gabriel said.
“I don't understand,” Sophie said.
Gabriel laughed. “Nor do I. But I do know God's will. You are fated to play a role in the upcoming events, Sophie. Unfortunately, your fate is tied into our own; you will be entangled in the coming war as a herald for God.”
Sophie shook her head. “No, you've got the wrong girl. I'm not a… herald, and I'm certainly not pure. I'm just an orphan with a messed up head, okay?”
“They are proud of you,” Gabriel said.
“What?”
“Your parents. They are proud of the person you are becoming,” Gabriel said.
“Stop!” Sophie demanded. “Stop right now! This is some kind of joke, isn't it? What are you, some kind of magician? Is this how you get your kicks? You're a sicko.”
Gabriel shook his head. “You've been in the darkness for a long time, child. Do not fear the light.”
“You're crazy,” Sophie said, getting up.
“You cannot run from fate. You know that better than anyone, oracle. It is your destiny!” The angel was shouting now, and it was drawing stares from the people in the diner.
Sophie grabbed up her things hurriedly and rushed towards the door, making sure to keep her head down.
“You are to find the sleeping angel Ezekiel, to awaken him! That is your task, Sophie Delphine. Awaken and prepare him for the battle to co-”
The howling winter wind drowned out the rest of the homeless man’s ravings. Sophie was thankful for it. The cleansing cold was worth the numb ears and goosebumps she acquired while hurrying back to the hotel room. She felt uneasy, unclean. Panic began to grip her insides.
“He's crazy. Just a crazy, homeless old man,” she said to herself. That's when the vision hit her. The mystery man with blue eyes again. He was smiling next to her one moment, then clenching his stomach at the next, falling. There he lay, in a pool of crimson. There was laughing and cheering all around her, the noise so deafening it drowned out her thoughts. Then she saw a road, leading to a secluded house. There was a massive man with a matted beard soaked in blood, and the blue-eyed man in the back seat. Then a road sign came into view from the horizon. Painted in white letters, it read, “Ontario 2 mi.”
“Canada,” Sophie gasped as the vision left her. He was going to be killed in Canada, at a bar, by some big man, then buried behind an old house. Sophie quickly packed her things. She had to stop it somehow. To save him. Was that possible? She had never tried before. Every one of her visions of the future came true, though, every one, without fail. What if this had already happened? The thought froze her in her tracks. She shook it off. It didn't matter. She had to try. What else could she do?
Sophie reached into her purse. She would need more lottery ticket money to fund that kind of traveling. Dread welled inside of her. Where was the money? She had just had it at the diner. She emptied out the purse in panic. Not a single cent remained. The homeless man, she realized. He robbed her. That's why he had put on his little magic show, to distract her.
“Aurgh!” Sophie screamed. How could she have been so stupid? She had fallen hook, line, and sinker for the whole routine. She thought he was an angel, for goodness’ sake. She shook her head in shame. Now she was trapped. No, she would go down to that diner and get her money back. It would be humiliating, after she had helped him and he caused that scene, but she would swallow her pride.
When she returned to the diner, the seat the homeless man once occupied was empty. “Of course,” Sophie spat bitterly. She flagged the owner down. “Have you seen that homeless man? The one from earlier?”
The owner shook his head. “No, and frankly I don't really want to see you, either. You’re both troublemakers, as far as I'm concerned. Now get out.”
“No, please, you don't understand. I think he stole my money,” Sophie admitted. She could feel her cheeks burning.
The owner laughed. “Imagine that. Well, I hope you learned something. You're still young, so you might have a shot after all.”
“No, I need that money back. I have to have it. Please, will you just give me a few dollars? I promise I won't ever bother you again. I just need a few dollars, that's all,” Sophie begged, the desperation in her voice palpable.
The owner scoffed. “What, are you and the other guy running some kind of scam? Think I was born yesterday? Beat it, unless you want a pair of shiny new silver bracelets.”
Sophie's eyes welled up. “How can you be so cold?”
The owner turned around and walked back into the kitchen. “It's a cold world. Welcome to the north,” he muttered and disappeared out of sight.
Sophie was breathing heavily now, panic seeping into her core. Then the man sitting next to her got up, leaving remnants of food on his plate. Next to it, three ruffled dollars sat under the container of ketchup. A tip for the waiter. Sophie looked back into the kitchen and saw no one. Then she watched as the man left without even a second glance back at his table.
Quickly, Sophie stuffed the tip in her pocket and dashed for the door.
“Hey, watch it!” a grizzled man growled as she bumped into him.
“Sorry,” she said. The man's eyes were a familiar shade of blue, which reminded her how little time she had left. She didn't even go back to the apartment to pack. Within the hour, she was on a bus, Ontario bound.
***
(Jake)
“I really don't think you want to do this, Shamus. Your boy is half the size of mine.” The barn they were in was poorly lit and smelled terrible. Something told Jake it was still being used. He had never fought in a barn before. It was so far off the grid. But Shamus had been having trouble finding any willing fighters lately. Luckily, this guy hadn't heard any of the rumors circulating yet.
Shamus scoffed. He was a big man, hairy too, and twice as ugly. He had worked for a traveling carnival for most of his life. It was there he got involved with the underground bare knuckle boxing scene. He had a five-year run, a pretty good career for most. Almost became a champion, too, or so the story goes, until McClanahan busted his knee in a drunken brawl. It wasn't even a sanctioned fight. Shamus had never forgiven the McClanahans. Then Jake realized why they were so far north. This was a grudge match. Shamus had been trying to set up Jake to fight a man named Malic for weeks. Never bothered mentioning it was McClanahan's protégé, though. Must have slipped his mind, Jake thought bitterly.
“Aye, and twice the fighter,” Shamus said, jabbing a thumb into Jake's bare chest.
McClanahan arched an eyebrow. “You've lost your marbles, old timer. This boy's too scrawny to be a fighter, too lean, ain't got no belly fat to absorb blows, plus he's too pretty. Has he ever even fought before?”
Shamus nodded. “You can bet your lying behind he has. Beaten better men than your boy, that's for certain. He's the best I got.”
; “Then I feel sorry for ya,” McClanahan said. “If I'd have known that, I woulda let you borrow my daughter.” McClanahan's entourage erupted into laughter behind him. Shamus's face turned beat red. He didn't like that.
“I'll be the one laughing when my boy beats yours down in the first round,” Shamus said, shaking his sausage link of a finger in McClanahan's face.
McClanahan was still laughing, wiping the tears from his eyes. “Oh, really now? Want to wager on it?”
The fights were really all about money, but everyone involved, especially the Irishmen, pretended like it was all about pride, about sport. There was no honor here, only greed and vanity.
Shamus nodded. “Aye, I'll bet you 5,000 big ones my boy knocks yours out in the first round.”
McClanahan shook his head. “The first round? You do know who he's fightin', right? Malic has never lost a fight, let alone been KO'd.”
“Then I'd say he's due,” Shamus spat.
McClanahan scoffed. “You never were bright, Shamus, but fine. I'll take your wager. Matter of fact, if he knocks my boy out in the first round, I'll double the prize money, no risk to you.” That got the crowd’s attention. People had begun to gather around, neglecting the other fights that were still going on. The Shamus and McClanahan rivalry had been well known. The people were hoping for blood. They were so petty, Jake thought. So blood thirsty. He hated them.
“Deal!” Shamus shouted, shaking McClanahan's hand robustly.
“You just sealed your fate, bouyo,” McClanahan said, his grin revealing plaque-encrusted teeth. He put his hand to his mouth and shouted. “Malic! Come here, you daft boy. Got you sum fresh meat!” Then he leaned in. “The boy ain't none too bright, but man can he take a lickin'. Give one out, too.
The crowd of people parted as the other fighter made his way to the center. Finally, Jake got a glimpse of him. He was the biggest man Jake had ever seen. He towered over everyone around him, at least a foot taller than Jake. His arms were thick tree trunks. They had Jake beat in both reach and thickness. The boy's hairy, meaty chest rose and fell rapidly as the crowd began to chant his name.
“Ma-lic! Ma-lic! Ma-lic!” they chanted, until the barn filled with a dull roar.
McClanahan was soaking up every second of it, really rubbing it in. Shamus seemed surprisingly calm and uncharacteristically silent.
The giant Malic was grinning from ear to ear; he liked the attention, the praise. He was vain, self-centered. He did not fight for sport, but for himself. For fame, for notoriety. Jake shook his head. Was there none pure left? Perhaps the monster Ras' Guul was right. People were piteous, corrupt creatures. Maybe they did deserve what came to them. Maybe Jake did, too. He had thought long and hard about what Ras' Guul had told him. About the demon living inside of him. He felt it sometimes, gnawing at his insides, raging against its shackles. Jake longed to release it, to let go of it all. To let himself be torn apart by whatever forces battled inside of him. He was tired. Tired of running, of hiding, of fighting. A perpetual fight. One that couldn't be won. It would wage for his entire life. He had been doing it for years now, ever since that night in the police station. Only death would bring him real release. Sometimes he prayed privately that one of his opponents would get a lucky strike, a fatal blow that would end the madness. As of yet, however, none had even been able to best him. Even when he tried to let them win. It always ended the same way.
Malic was huge, though, with a solid jaw and a thick brow. He looked like a real fighter, scuffed and scarred, with scarred skin and missing teeth. He had earned his fighting abilities through hardship, through perseverance. His heart may not have been pure, but it was certainly strong. Perhaps there was hope after all. Maybe Jake would finally lose a fight. He prayed for it, for death. The gods didn't answer, though. They never did.
Jake gazed vacantly at his own blemish-free skin an Shamus wrapped his hands in gauze and tape. “I don't want to fight anymore,” Jake said.
Shamus stopped abruptly, giving Jake a wild-eyed look. “What? Stop talking crazy, boy.” He went back to wrapping Jake's hand.
“I don't want to hurt people anymore. Plus, I'm tired,” Jake said.
Shamus scowled. “Lad. Ain't no shame in hurtin' people that need it! This is about pride, boy, about strength and honor. You have to fight, boy; it's what you were born to do. It's your gift. I've seen you out there. Not a man alive can take a beating like you can. It's inhuman.”
Jake felt the heat of tears welling up in his eyes. “I want to go home,” he said.
Shamus grimaced. “This is your home, Jake. We are your family. The boys and me. We have to stick together. You don't want to let the others down, do you?”
Jake blinked. Those words... they seemed so familiar. He had heard them somewhere before? But the roar of the crowd prevented him from concentrating. He shook his head.
“That a boy,” Shamus said. “Now get in there and make me proud.” Shamus peeled off Jake's shirt and pushed him into the center of the circle the crowd had formed. There, Malic waited for him. McClanahan squared them up.
“Now, you boys know the rules. You tap out, you lose; you pass out, you lose. Otherwise, everything else is fair game. The first round is three minutes. Good luck, son.” McClanahan said, winking at Jake.
Jake gave the man a strange look. What was that supposed to mean? That's when Malic's right hook connected with Jake's jaw.
The crowd erupted into a roar as Jake crumpled. The impact of the blow sent him toppling backwards. There he laid, motionless in the dirt and stray straws of hay.
“Ha! One punch!” Malic shouted, beating his chest with a closed fist. “Who's king of the cage?”
“Malic! Malic! Ma-” The crowd suddenly went silent. “The boy's getting back up,” someone said.
Malic looked behind him. Jake was slowly rising, first to his knees, then to his feet. His eye was black and his lip was leaking, but he staggered back to the center all the same.
“Hit me,” Jake said, spitting blood at Malic's feet.
Malic just gawked at him, stupefied. “Aren't you gonna put your hands up?”
“Hit me!” Jake said again.
Malic looked at McClanahan, confused.
“You heard him! I got a lot of money riding on this. Take his head off! He's mocking you!” McClanahan shouted.
Malic didn't like that idea. He cocked back and fired another right hook. Jake caught it on the chin. This time he only staggered and did not fall. Malic's face was tomato red. He threw a jab with his left, connecting with Jake's nose. Jake only came back. Enraged now, Malic fired a flurry of blows. A left, a right, another right, each one heavier than the last.
“He's going to kill him... Stop the fight!” McClanahan said.
“No!” Shamus stepped in to stop him. “You know the rules. He has to get knocked out or give up.”
McClanahan looked as Shamus in disbelief, then scoffed. “Ok, it's your boy. I'm not the one who has to bury him.”
“Raur!” Malic howled, pounding mercilessly on Jake's face. He had thrown so many punches they were getting lighter now. His breath was shallow. He was strong, but had little endurance. “Go down!” Malic said, swinging with a wild hay-maker. It caught Jake on the temple, and he fell to his knees.
Jake could feel the malice of the crowd now. The pent up anger and bitterness. They all wanted to see it, too. They wanted to see Jake's life end, right there on the barren barn floor. Their ill will awakened the monster inside Jake. He could not hold it back any longer. The torrent of venom broke the levy, and it coursed through his veins.
With lightning speed, Jake caught a blow from Malic in his right hand and threw it aside. His eyes were glowing like hot coals. He felt the fire burning in his lungs. Malic's wild blow threw him off balance. He fired one more shot at Jake, but it was slow and sluggish, a result of fatigue.
Jake ducked the strike and countered with one of his own. It was swift, precise. There was a dull crunch as Jake's fist connected with Mal
ic's temple. The great titan toppled over as the blow echoed through the barn. He landed in a heap of straw with a thud. The crowd was deathly silent, all of them gawking at Jake, whose face was riddled with welts and bruises and looked like he had wandered into a hornet's nest.
McClanahan rushed to Malic's side, slapping his face. “He's... out cold,” he said in disbelief.
Jake did not wait for a second opinion. He walked out of the circle and began unwrapping his fists, trying to mask his disdain.
“You did it, bouyo!” Shamus cried gleefully, coming out of a wall of bodies. “You just made me a week’s pay in a day! And it's still morning!” Shamus said with a laugh, patting him on the back.
Jake shrugged. He felt numb. “What difference does it make? No matter how much I fight, there's always one more. Their bloodlust can't be sated.”
Shamus nodded. “That's why this is such a good business!” he said with another laugh. “I say a celebration is in order. Free drinks for the whole lot of you scallywags! Whaddya say?” Shamus held up his winnings, and the crowd cheered.
Jake couldn't take it anymore; these people disgusted him. It was becoming harder and harder to keep his inner beast at bay. Slowly but surely, he was losing his grip. Jake stepped out into the brisk snowbanks outside. The wind howled at his back as snowflakes pelted his bare skin, melting on his flesh. It was soothing. The cold helped abate the anger.
Jake counted the money Shamus had given him. $500, a fraction of the whopping $10,000 he had just banked. Jake didn't care, though, so long as it was enough. He had had enough of Shamus, of this whole rotten country. Everyone in the states was so full of greed and hate. He couldn't take their black intentions any longer. They were wearing on his very soul.
Jake had a plan, though. He was going to leave the country. He had wanted to for quite some time now, but it had been too risky. Ras' Guul had kept his promise. That they would always be hunting him. Over the years he’d had several close encounters with one of Ras' Guul's cult. The cult ran deep, and had infiltrated several government institutions all across the states. Not all of the members were monsters, either. Some were just worshipers, low-level humans hoping to rise through the ranks and make some powerful connections. The cult had a vast information network, and Jake's name was red flagged. So he could never use it. Not for anything important. He didn't even dare to get a bank account. On paper, it had to seem like he didn't exist at all. For a while, Jake had thought that this was his fate, that he would never be able to leave, but then he met a man who claimed he could get him across the border unseen, without going through customs. Once Jake made it into Canada, he could go to any country he wanted. All the man wanted in return was $300 cash.