Aerie

CHAPTER TWELVE

There was so much blood.

Aaron cradled the body of the angel warrior in his arms, feeling Camael’s life force ebbing away. He was reminded of that horrible day he had knelt in the middle of the street holding a dying Gabriel. He had never wanted to feel that way again, but here it was, as painful as the last time.

“I can do something,” he said to his friend in an attempt to rally some confidence not only for Camael, but also for himself. Aaron reached deep within, searching for that spark of the divine that would allow him to save his mentor as he had his pet.

Camael took Aaron’s hand in his. “Do not waste your strength on a lost cause, boy,” he said, his grip firm, but weakening.

Aaron held the angel to him, gazing in mute horror at the stab wounds in his friend’s back. One was a blackened hole characteristic of a heavenly weapon’s bite, but the other showed no sign of cauterization and bled profusely. “We’ll stop the bleeding and you’ll be all right,” he told his friend, pressing his hand firmly against the wound.

Camael shuddered, and a fresh geyser of dark blood sprayed from the wound. The blood was warm, its smell pungent. “It will not stop.” He struggled to sit up. “The enchanted metal and Verchiel’s sword,” he strained, “I fear it was a most lethal combination.”

“Lie still, we can—”

Camael still held Aaron’s hand and rallied his strength to squeeze it all the harder. “I did not return to have you save my pathetic life,” the angel said, the intensity of his stare grabbing Aaron’s attention and holding it firm. “I never considered that the prophecy would apply to me … that I could be forgiven.”

“Stop talking like that,” Aaron said, dismissing the fatalistic words of his mentor.

Many of the citizens who had gathered in front of Belphegor’s home now stood in a tight circle around Aaron and Camael, watching the drama unfold. One of the men stripped off his T-shirt and offered it to Aaron to use as a compress against the angel’s bleeding wound.

“I’ve saved many lives in my time on this world,” Camael reflected. “But I don’t believe it will ever balance the scales against the lives I took as leader of the Powers.”

“How can you be sure, Camael?” Aaron asked in an attempt to keep his friend with him, to keep him focused. He gestured at the circle around them. “Most of them wouldn’t be here. I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you.”

Camael looked at him with eyes that had grown tired, eyes that had seen so much. “Deep down I knew that it was wrong, but still I kept on with the killing, for I believed that it was what He wanted of me. How sad that it took the writings of a human seer to force me to come to my senses.” He laughed and dark blood spilled from his mouth to stain his silver goatee. “Imagine that,” he said with a weary smile. “It took a lowly human to show me the error of my ways.”

Aaron chuckled sadly. “Yeah, imagine that.”

The angel warrior’s body was suddenly wracked with spasms of coughing that threatened to shake away what little life there still was in his dying frame. Time, as it always seemed to be, was running out.

“Is he going to die?” one of the citizens, a girl probably only a few years older than Aaron, asked. There were tears in her eyes, and in the eyes of all present. He could not bring himself to answer, even though the inevitable seemed obvious.

“That is the burning question of the day,”

Camael answered, looking at Aaron. “Will I die here on the street of the place I sought so long to find?” He pulled Aaron closer as he asked the question, the source of the strength that had allowed him to return to Aerie. “Or might I actually be forgiven?” the angel asked wistfully. “Only you have the answer.”

Aaron could sense that his friend’s time was short. “Shall we find out?” he asked Camael, reaching down into the center of his being to find the gift of redemption. It was there, waiting for him as he imagined it would be. He called forth the heavenly essence, drawing upon it, feeling its might rise up and flow down his arm into one of his hands. The facility to redeem danced upon his fingertips, and Aaron looked compassionately to the angel that had shown him the road to his destiny. He wrestled with feelings of intense emotion: sadness, for he would not be seeing his friend again, and great happiness, for Camael would be going home.

Camael began to pray, his weary eyes tightly closed. “Have mercy upon me, O God. With the multitude of Your tender mercies, blot out my offenses.”

Aaron brought his hand closer, the power contained within glowing like a small sun.

“Cleanse me from my sins. For I acknowledge my offenses, and they are ever before me.”

Aaron felt the energy of his special gift swell and begin to flow from him. This was it. “You are forgiven,” Aaron declared as his hand eerily slipped beneath the flesh of the angel’s breast.

Camael gasped, his body arching as Aaron let go of the force collecting in his fingertips, releasing the power of redemption inside him. The angel’s flesh began to fume. The skin grew brittle and fractured as the human shell that he had been wearing since his personal fall from grace began to flake away. Camael writhed upon the ground, like a snake sloughing off its skin, as the glory of what he once had been was revealed.

There came a jubilant cry of release, followed by a dazzling flash of brilliance, and Aaron instinctively turned away, the flash of the angel’s rebirth blinding to the earthly eye. Aaron listened to the gasps and cries of awe from those that had gathered around them, and he turned his gaze back to the latest recipient of his heavenly gift.

Awesome, was all Aaron could think of as he watched the beautiful, fearsome creature floating on wings seemingly made from feathers of gossamer and sunlight. Camael’s hair moved about his head like a halo of fire. His flesh was nearly translucent and he was adorned in armor that could easily have been forged from the rays of the sun. The angel noticed him then, and Aaron finally understood the enormity of his responsibility. As he gazed at the magnificent entity before him, he knew it was his right and his alone. He was the One, and this was his burden and his joy.

“It must have been something,” Aaron said to the transformed Camael, thinking of a time in Heaven before the strife … and wondering how it would be now when his friend returned.

“Maybe it will be something again,” Camael said in a voice like the surge of ocean waves upon a beach, and turned his attention to the open sky above.

Aaron prepared himself for the being’s ascension, but the angel seemed to hesitate, as if something was preventing him from moving on. “What’s wrong, Camael?” he asked him.

“I… I do not wish to leave you with the burden of this responsibility,” Camael said, longingly returning his gaze to the sky above him.

“I’ll be fine,” Aaron reassured him. “This is how it’s supposed to be.”

The two again exchanged looks, and Aaron could see that the angel was torn.

“Go, Camael,” he said in a powerful voice that he hoped brimmed with authority. “Your job is done; it’s time for you to go home.”

With those words, Camael spread wide his wings and began his ascent to a world beyond this one. His wings of light and fire stirred the air, filling it with the gentle sounds of the wind. Aaron could not help but think that it sounded like the voices of small children singing.

“Say good-bye to Gabriel,” the angel said. “I do believe I’ll miss him.”

“He has that effect,” Aaron replied, and watched the glimmer of a smile cross the angel’s blissful features.

Then Camael turned his full attention to the yawning space above him, raised his arms to the sky, and in a flash of light that seemed to warm Aaron to the depths of his soul, the angel that was his friend was gone.

Aaron stumbled back, the beauty of Camael’s ascent still dancing before his eyes. He was on his own now, but he knew what needed to be done.

The Nephilim turned to face Belphegor and Lehash and was astonished to see that the citizens were kneeling on the street behind them, heads bowed in reverence. “What’s all this?” he asked.

“They know the truth now,” Belphegor said, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Son of bitch,” Lehash growled as he pulled the worn Stetson from his head. “You are the One.”

Aaron walked toward Lorelei’s house, wondering about Vilma’s condition and how Gabriel would take the news of Camael’s passing. At first meeting, the angel and the dog hadn’t really gotten along, but recently, a strange, begrudging friendship seemed to have developed between the two.

He chanced a casual glance over his shoulder to see if he was still being followed, and sure enough, a sizeable number of Aerie’s population trailed a respectful distance behind. Lehash, in the lead, politely tipped his hat. Aaron knew they were there because they believed he was something special—something many of them had been waiting for most of their lives—but the adoration made him uncomfortable. He wished they would admire him from their own homes.

He headed up the walk and climbed the few steps to the front door. As he pulled open the screen, he noted that the crowd had stopped at the street, watching him from a distance.

“I’ll be right here if you need anything,” the constable confirmed, taking up a guardian’s stance at the beginning of the walk.

Aaron waved and stepped into the small hallway inside Lorelei’s house. To the right was the living room. Vilma was lying on the overstuffed couch. She was asleep, her limp hand resting on Gabriel’s side as he sat near her on the floor, resting his chin on the edge of the sofa. Lorelei sat at the edge of the rickety coffee table, applying tape to a bandage on Vilma’s exposed stomach.

“Hey,” Aaron said as he came into the room. “How’s she doing?”

Gabriel lifted his head from the couch to look at Aaron. “Hello,” the dog said.

Lorelei finished her ministrations and gently pulled Vilma’s shirt down to cover the dressing. “The burns were pretty bad,” she said, packing up her supplies. “Looks like Verchiel had a good time with her,” she added, jaw tightly clenched. “I’ve cleaned and dressed them using some special oils to help her heal faster. Physically, I’d say she’s going to be fine.”

“And mentally?” Aaron asked, struggling to contain his guilt. It was exactly what he had feared, one of the reasons he had left Lynn to begin with. Verchiel had used someone else to get at him.

Lorelei looked at the sleeping girl on the couch. “Remember, the whole process of becoming a Nephilim does quite the job on your head, and some of us are stronger than others.”

Aaron nodded, knowing full well the painful truth of Lorelei’s words.

“We’ll just have to wait and see,” she said, taking the leftover medical supplies back to the kitchen.

Aaron found himself staring at Vilma’s face. He could see her eyes moving beneath her lids. Dreaming, he thought as he watched her, and hopefully only the good kind.

“Did Camael come back yet?” Gabriel asked as he stood up and stretched, lowering his front body down to the ground while sticking his butt up into the air.

Aaron hesitated, not a good thing when dealing with a dog like Gabriel.

“He hasn’t come back yet, Aaron?” the dog asked, showing concern as he completed his stretch. “We should go look for him.”

Aaron squatted down, taking the yellow dog’s head in his hands and rubbing behind his floppy ears.

“What’s wrong?” the Labrador asked. “I can sense that something isn’t right.”

“Camael did come back, Gabe, and—”

“Then where is he?” the dog interrupted.

“Gabriel, please,” Aaron said exasperated. “Let me finish.”

Gabriel sat; his blocky head cocked quizzically to the side.

“Camael did come back,” Aaron continued. “But he was hurt.”

“Like I was hurt before you made me better?” the dog asked.

Aaron nodded, reaching down to stroke his friend’s thick neck. “Yeah, like that, only I couldn’t fix him.”

Gabriel stared at his master, his chocolate brown eyes filled with a special intensity. “What are we going to do?”

He thought of how to explain this to the animal. Sometimes communicating with Gabriel was like talking to a little kid, and other times like an old soul with knowledge beyond his years. “Do you remember Zeke?” he asked, referring to the fallen angel who had first tried to tell him he was a Nephilim. Zeke had been mortally wounded during their first battle with Verchiel and his Powers.

“I liked Zeke,” Gabriel said with a wag of his tail. “But you did something to him and he went away. Where did Zeke go again, Aaron?”

“I sent Zeke home,” he explained. “I sent him back to Heaven.”

“Just like the other Gabriel,” his best friend said, referring to the archangel they had encountered in Maine a few weeks ago, whom Aaron had also released from his confines upon the Earth.

“Exactly,” Aaron answered, petting the dog.

“Did you have to send Camael home, Aaron?” Gabriel asked, his guttural voice coming out as a cautious whisper.

Aaron nodded, continuing to scratch his four-legged friend behind his soft ears. “Yes, I did,” Aaron said. “It was the only thing I could do for him.” Of all the breeds of dogs that he had encountered while working at the veterinary clinic, it never ceased to amaze him how expressive the face of a Labrador retriever could be. He could tell that the dog was taking his news quite hard. “He told me to tell you good-bye—and that he’d miss you.”

Gabriel slowly lowered himself to the floor, avoiding his master’s watchful gaze. He placed his long face between his two front paws and sighed heavily.

Aaron reached out to stroke his head. “You okay, Gabe?” he asked tenderly, sharing the dog’s sadness.

“I didn’t get a chance to say good-bye to him,” Gabriel said softly, his ears lowered in a mournful show of feelings.

Aaron lay down beside the big, yellow dog and put his arm around him. “I said good-bye for the both of us,” he said, hugging the Lab tightly. And they lay there for a little while longer, both of them remembering a friend now gone from their lives.

The leader of the Powers host flew in the predawn sky, circling high above the Saint Athanasius Church and Orphanage. He could feel it in the atmosphere around him—change was imminent, and he reveled in it as the cool caress of the morning breeze soothed his healing flesh. He would be the harbinger of a new and glorious age.

Verchiel took his body earthward, gliding down toward the towering church steeple, where he clung to its side like some great predator of the air. He gazed down from his perch at the open space of the schoolyard below. It is time, he thought, time to call his army, to gather his troops for the impending war. Verchiel tilted back his head and let loose a wail that drifted on the winds, calling forth those that had sworn their allegiance to him and his holy mission. The cry moved through the air, beyond the confines of Saint Athanasius, to affect those still held tightly in the embrace of sleep.

A child of three awakened, screaming so long and hard that he ruptured a blood vessel in his throat, vomiting blood onto his Scooby Doo sheets. On the way to the emergency room, all he could tell his parents was that the bird men were coming and would kill everyone.

A middle-aged computer software specialist, recently separated from his wife, awoke from a disturbing dream, in his cold, one-bedroom apartment, determined that today would be the day he took his life.

A mother squirrel ensconced in her treetop nest of leaves, woke from a fitful rest and senselessly began to consume her young.

Verchiel ceased his ululating lament, watching with eager eyes as his army began to gather, their wings pounding the air. They circled above him like carrion birds waiting for the coming of death, then one by one began their descent. Some found purchase upon the weatherworn pieces of playground equipment, others roosted on the eaves of the administration building, and the remainder stood uncomfortably on the ground, hands clasped behind their backs.

Verchiel was both saddened and enraged by how their numbers had dwindled; victims of the Nephilim and those that believed in the validity of the prophecy. They will not have died in vain, he swore, spreading his wings, dropping from the steeple to land on the rusted swingset, scattering his warriors in a flurry of beating wings. All eyes were upon him as he raised himself to his full height, balanced on the horizontal metal pole. Today victory would belong to him. He raised his arm, and in his outstretched hand formed a magnificent sword of fire, the Bringer of Sorrow.

“Look upon this sword,” the leader of the Powers proclaimed, “for it shall be your beacon.” He felt their adoration, their belief in him and his mission. “Its mighty light will shine before us, illuminating the darkness to rout out evil. And it will be smited,” he roared, holding out the sword to each of them.

Their own weapons of war took shape in the hands of those gathered before him, and they returned the gesture, reestablishing a camaraderie that was first forged during the Great War in Heaven. A buzz like the crackle of an electrical current moved through the gathering, and he saw that Malak had arrived, bloodred armor polished and glistening in the light. What a spectacular sight, Verchiel thought. No finer weapon had he ever created.

Malak walked among the angels, an air of confidence surrounding him like a fog. Their eyes were upon him, filled with a mixture of awe and disdain. Some of the angels did not approve of the power that had been bestowed upon the human animal, but they dared not speak their disfavor to Verchiel. They did not understand human emotions, and were not able to see the psychological advantage he now held over his accursed enemy. But when Malak rendered helpless the one called Aaron Corbet, and the Nephilim’s life was brought to an end, they would have no choice but to concede to the hunter’s superiority.

“The smell of our enemy calls out to me,” Malak declared, his voice cruel, echoing through the cold metal of his helmet.

“Then let us answer that call,” Verchiel ordered from his roost.

With those words Malak spun around, an imposing sword of black metal in his grasp. As if delivering a deathblow to an opponent, he sliced through the air, creating a doorway to another place, the place where their final battle would be fought.

“Onward,” the Powers’ leader exclaimed. “It is the beginning of the end.”

The angels of the Powers’ host cried out as one, their mighty wings taking them aloft, through the tear in reality.

And as Verchiel watched them depart, he remembered something he had once read in the monkeys’ holy book, written by one called Isaiah, he believed. “They shall have no pity on the fruit of the womb; their eye shall not spare children.

Verchiel smiled. He couldn’t have voiced it better himself.