Aerie

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Aaron had begrudgingly accepted his inhumanity, and now attempted to wear it with pride. There was very little pain as the sigils appeared on his flesh and his powerful wings burst from his shoulder blades. A spectacular sword of fire ignited in his hand, and he welcomed the rush of power that engorged every fiber of his being.

The last of the Powers’ soldiers emerged from the tear in the fabric of space, and they began their assault, dropping down from the sky, their weapons of flame seeking to end the lives of Aerie’s citizens. He wanted to help them, but he could not take his eyes from Malak—his little brother—still standing before the fissure.

What are you waiting for? Aaron wondered. The report of Lehash’s pistols echoed like thunder through the normally still air, and then Malak knelt on one knee, bowing his helmeted head before the opening. Aaron tried to see into the rip, certain that the surprises from the other side were not yet over.

A sudden chill filled the air, and Aaron felt his presence before seeing him. Verchiel emerged into Aerie as if he were its savior, and not its destroyer. Wings of the purest white spread full, he glided from the darkness of the fissure, a look of contentment on his pale, aquiline features.

Just seeing the leader of the Powers there in the citizens’ place of solace filled Aaron with a barely controlled fury. It was all he could do not to launch himself at the villain, but caution was the victor, and he waited for his enemy to make the first move.

“And so it ends,” the Powers’ leader proclaimed, his voice booming over the cries of battle. Verchiel glanced at his soldiers in the midst of violence, at the citizens fighting for their lives, and then his dark, hawklike eyes fell upon Aaron. “You couldn’t possibly have believed it would end any other way!” Verchiel roared, smiling with anticipation.

Aaron leaped from the church’s steps and landed on the sidewalk, sword of fire at the ready. “It’s not over yet,” he said to the angel, beckoning to him with an outstretched hand.

Verchiel shook his head with great amusement. “No, Nephilim,” he said, touching his long, spidery fingertips to the top of the kneeling Malak’s helmet. “Another wants the honor of ending your life.”

Malak slowly stood to face Aaron; a lance of black metal clutched in his armored hands.

“I believe he wants to eat your heart,” the angel said, lovingly brushing imaginary dust from the shoulder of the warrior’s scarlet armor. “And I do not wish to deny my pet his desire.” Verchiel brought his hand to his mouth, kissed his fingertips, and placed them on Malak’s head. “Kill him,” the angel declared.

And with his master’s blessing, Malak attacked.

Lehash had known the angels that now attacked him and the citizens of Aerie. Once they had been soldiers of Heaven, protecting the sanctity of the Creator’s desires, but now they were something altogether different. These were not beings of purity and righteousness, but shadows of their former glory, twisted by the malignant beliefs of their leader.

He fired his weapon into the screaming face of one attacker, spinning around to kill another before the first could fall to the ground. It had been quite some time since he’d delivered violence on such a level, and he found that he had developed a distaste for it. Aerie had been good for him, calming what seemed to be an eternally angry spirit. He had found a place to belong, a home to replace the one that was lost to him.

But now there was a chance, a slim possibility, that he might see Heaven again, and somebody wanted to take that from him—from all of them who called Aerie their home. Lehash was not about to surrender that chance no matter how small. That was what fueled him.

He shot his bullets of fire, hoping that each enemy falling dead from the sky would bring him closer to forgiveness—closer to Heaven. But there were so many, and the air was soon filled with the stink of burning flesh and spilled blood.

What a terrible thing, the fallen angel thought as he unleashed the full fury of his terrible weapons, and watched as both friends and foes died around him.

What a terrible price to pay for forgiveness.

“Do you remember me, Stevie?” Aaron asked the creature before him. “Do you remember who I am?”

Malak thrust his spear forward with blinding speed, and Aaron reacted barely in time to angle his body away from its razor-sharp metal tip.

“I remember,” Malak said, his voice cold and menacing as it echoed from inside the horned helmet. “I remember the pain you caused, the misery you have brought to the world.”

He spun around gracefully, the spearhead slashing across the front of Aaron’s body with an ominous whisper. The Nephilim moved too slowly and the tip of the spear passed through his shirt to cut a fine line from his left shoulder down to the right side of his stomach. He leaped back, feeling warm blood seeping from the open wound. First blood was to Malak, and Aaron doubted it would be the last of it spilled in this battle.

“I’m your brother,” he tried again, preparing himself for the next assault. “Verchiel killed our parents. He took you, changed you, turned you into something—”

Like a rampaging bull Malak charged, the spear suddenly gone, replaced by a fearsome club, its surface studded with spikes. “He made me a hunter,” he growled. “A killer of Heaven’s criminals.”

Aaron dove beneath the club’s pass, discarding his own sword of fire and lunging forward to grab his attacker’s weapon. They struggled for control of the instrument of death, but then Malak slammed his armored face into the bridge of Aaron’s nose. Aaron heard a wet snap and blood exploded from his nostrils. It felt as though his head was about shatter, but he maintained his grip on the club.

Malak violently wrenched the weapon away, watching as Aaron stumbled backward, wiping the blood from his face. There was no pause in the creature’s reaction, not the slightest hint of mercy. The armored warrior came at him again, and Aaron called upon a sword of fire to defend himself. The club had become a two-handed ax, and it descended on him with incredible force. He brought his own blade up and the collision of heavenly fire with enchanted metal rang in Aaron’s ears like the crack of doom.

Both combatants leaped back, a brief respite before continuing their skirmish. Aaron became aware of the battles going on around him. The streets of Aerie echoed with the sounds of strife, and he wondered if it would have been the same if he had listened to Belphegor and not gone to Vilma’s aid.

Feelings of guilt fueling him, Aaron took the offensive, charging at Malak, the tip of his fiery sword tracing a sparking line across the enchanted chest armor. Malak stepped back, discarding his ax and reaching for another instrument of death from his seemingly endless magickal arsenal. Aaron did not wait to see what the warrior would choose. With the aid of his flapping wings, he propelled himself forward and relentlessly rained blows upon his enemy with his own sword of fire.

“I don’t know what he’s told you!” Aaron shouted, desperate to reach some trace of his brother, even as he drove Malak back. “But it isn’t true.”

“You are a master of deceit,” Malak said, drawing his own sword of dark metal to parry Aaron’s blows. The warrior moved with inhuman speed, his movements registering as little more than a scarlet blur. “Lies flow from your mouth like blood from a mortal wound.”

“Listen to me, Stevie!” Aaron yelled, on the defensive again, barely stopping the unremitting fall of the enchanted black blade.

“Malak,” his attacker bellowed, enraged. “I am Malak!” The savagery of his attack intensified. “I kill you now in his name,” Malak growled, preparing to deliver a final deadly strike.

And as Aaron primed himself to counter this killing blow, the question of futility echoed through his frenzied thoughts. Is it possible? He caught sight of the warrior’s eyes through the slits of the horned helmet-murderer’s eyes, void of any trace of humanity—and wondered if there was even a slight chance that Stevie was still somewhere inside the monster that was Malak.

Verchiel grinned, pleased by the ferocity of his pet’s attack. Everything was proceeding as planned. He looked out over the dilapidated human neighborhood, at the battles being fought in his name. The vermin would be routed from their place of concealment, and the process of purging the last believers of the prophecy from the world of God could begin. After Aerie was wiped from existence, it would only be a matter of time before all the Creator’s offenders were destroyed. And on that day he would return to Heaven, to the accolades of the Almighty, and he would take his place at God’s side.

The Powers’ leader breathed in the stench of violence, his memories taking him back to a time when his purpose was defined for him. He remembered the war in Heaven and how even when it appeared to be over, the followers of the Morningstar defeated, the true struggle had yet to begin. They took their audacity, their insolence, and fled to the Earth, hoping to escape the Creator’s wrath. To think that they actually believed they would be forgiven, the angel mused.

“Lost in thought, Verchiel?” A voice distracted him from his reflection.

Verchiel looked toward the entrance of the church and gazed upon the living dead. “Belphegor,” the Powers’ commander hissed. “Camael told us that he had taken your life in the Garden.”

“I think he may have exaggerated the truth a bit,” the Founder of Aerie commented.

His disappointment in Camael strengthened all the more, Verchiel started up the church steps two at a time. “What is it the humans say?” he muttered, murder on his mind. “If you want a job done right…”

Belphegor did not respond. Instead he opened the door of the church and slipped inside.

Verchiel suspected a trap, but the idea that one he believed destroyed so long ago was still among the living drove him forth. He summoned his weapon of choice, and the Bringer of Sorrow came to burning life in his hand as he took hold of the cold metal of the handle and yanked the door wide, plunging himself into the place of worship with the hunger of bloodlust beating in his chest. The church was enshrouded in darkness, the only light from candles burning before a makeshift altar in the front of the building. Belphegor waited for him there.

“Come in, come in,” the old angel said as he motioned Verchiel closer. “I was hoping to have a discussion with you before things got out of hand.” He shrugged. “I guess we’re a little late.”

Verchiel began moving cautiously down the center aisle; the flames of his sword illuminating the church’s interior with its wavering light. “I have nothing to discuss with the likes of you,” he snarled as he surveyed the offensive surroundings.

Belphegor smiled as if privy to some secret knowledge. “That is where you’re wrong, Verchiel,” he corrected. “There is much to talk about.” He turned to the mural painted upon the wall. “Have you seen this?” the fallen angel asked, gesturing to the depiction of an unholy trinity.

Verchiel sneered. “I have borne witness to myriad representations of this repugnant prediction in my pursuits. I cannot begin to tell you how it disgusts me.”

Belphegor nodded. “I figured that would be your answer.”

“It is heresy to even think that the Lord God would allow—”

“He has, Verchiel,” Belphegor interrupted. “He has allowed it. The prophecy has come true—you’ve seen it with your own eyes, but you’re too damn stubborn to accept it.”

The leader of the Powers seethed, the fallen angel’s barbed words stoking the fires of his wrath. “The Creator has entrusted me with a mission that I intend to fulfill; those who sinned against Him will be held accountable for their crimes.”

Belphegor moved toward him, defiance in his ancient eyes. “And what of our greatest sinner?” the fallen asked. “How is it that the first of the fallen was allowed to sire the savior of us all? Doesn’t that tell you something, Verchiel? Doesn’t that convince you that there might be some truth in the ancient writings?”

Sounds of the violence outside drifted into the place of worship, but it was nothing compared to the deafening din inside the angel’s head. “The first of the fallen sired nothing,” Verchiel roared, startled by his own fury. “We saw to that. Any woman who lay with him was destroyed. There was no chance of his seed taking root—”

“Not only did the seed root, but it bore fruit,” Belphegor said, his voice firm with certainty.

Verchiel steeled himself, gripping his weapon all the tighter. “It cannot be,” he whispered incredulously.

Belphegor shrugged again. “Mysterious ways and all that.” He smiled and turned his gaze back to the mural. “Don’t you see, Verchiel, it must be what He wanted—and if the Morningstar can be forgiven, there’s hope for us all.”

The church walls seemed to be closing in upon Verchiel, the revelation of the Nephilim’s sire testing his limits. Did he have the might to hold on to his sacred mission? He felt it begin to slip from his grasp. How could this have happened? The question reverberated in his skull.

“Is it so outrageous to believe that we can be forgiven?” Belphegor asked him, the question like a dagger strike to his chest.

“Lies!” Verchiel shrieked, his wings unfurling as he strode down the remainder of the aisle toward the altar.

He pointed his blade toward the mural and the fire from his weapon streamed forth to scorch the painted image black. And then Belphegor’s hands were suddenly upon his shoulders, and he was hurled backward into the rough benches, reducing them to kindling.

“You must face the truth!” Belphegor shouted, the altar burning behind him. “You are going against His wishes!”

Verchiel rose from the small pile of rubble, the power of his righteous fury building inside him. He remained silent, knowing what he must do.

“But it’s not too late…,” Belphegor continued.

Verchiel’s body began to glow, his clothing burning away to reveal flesh like cold, white marble. The floor beneath him began to smolder and the wood ignited.

“You, too, could be forgiven for your sins.”

The Powers’ commander spread open his wings and the fire of his heavenly being emanated from his body in waves.

“We could all go home, Verchiel,” Belphegor pleaded, as his own flesh began to blister.

Then Belphegor burned.

As would they all.

Malak wielded two daggers, slashing and darting forward with the murderous grace of a venomous serpent. He seemed tireless in his pursuit of Aaron’s demise, and the Nephilim found his defenses beginning to wane.

He didn’t want to remember his little brother as the monster attacking him now, so he kept the memories of the child he loved at the forefront of his thoughts, drawing strength from emotion. With both hands he brandished a large broadsword of pulsing orange flame, swinging it around as opportunity presented itself. The flat of the blade connected with Malak’s wrist, knocking one of the knives from his grasp in a flash of sparks as heavenly fire met magickally fortified armor.

Aaron heard a hiss of pain and anger from beneath the crimson face mask as Malak clutched his wrist to his chest. Although the blade could not penetrate the armor, the fragile flesh beneath would certainly suffer with the powerful force of the blow.

“It doesn’t have to be like this, Stevie,” Aaron said desperately. He just couldn’t bring himself to give up.

But Aaron’s futile attempts only served to enflame Malak’s anger all the more, and the armored warrior came at him yet again. As he ducked and wove beneath the assassin’s blows, Aaron knew a part of him was holding back. He also knew that if he didn’t wise up fast, that part would get him killed. Malak was not Stevie. He had to accept that before he could bring this battle to a close.

Aaron sailed up into the air as Malak swiped at him with a short-bladed sword. He reached down and grabbed the armored warrior beneath the arms, ebony wings pounding the air to hold them aloft. Malak struggled in his clutches as the Nephilim strained to carry him higher and higher still. When the Powers’ assassin violently threw back his head, jabbing one of the horns on his helmet into the tender flesh of Aaron’s stomach, the young man lost his grip, letting Malak plummet to the street below. Aaron watched the scarlet figure fall, fighting the urge to swoop down and save him. Malak hit the ground with a sickening clatter, his limp form tumbling to a stop in the center of the street.

The Nephilim swooped down from above to land beside the motionless body. Feeling the pangs of guilt, wishing he could hate the armored warrior, he reached out with both hands to pull the fearsome metal mask from the assassin’s head. Aaron wanted to see the killer’s face again, to look into his eyes, to find his little brother still alive somewhere within. He pulled off the horned helmet and discarded it, carefully placing a hand behind his neck and lifting his head. A single stream of red trickled from Malak’s left nostril.

Malak’s eyes slowly opened and Aaron tensed. The man’s body shuddered and then coughed. “Aaron?” he said in a voice that sounded as if it came from a hundred miles away.

It was weak, but there was something in it that Aaron recognized. He pulled the young man closer, daring to believe there could be a chance, no matter how small. “I’m here,” he told him, enfolding them both in the great expanse of his wings.

“Aaron…,” Malak said again, his voice strained and full of pain.

“Hold on now, we’ll fix you,” Aaron reassured him, certain now that Stevie was still in there somewhere, fighting for his identity, fighting against the pain and misery that Verchiel had used to distort him. He could see the struggle behind the man’s deep blue eyes and Aaron held him tighter, lending him his strength. “Belphegor and Lorelei—they’ll have the answers. We’ll make it right, you’ll see. Hang on, Stevie,” he urged.

Slowly Stevie reached up to touch his brother’s face, his gauntleted fingers tracing the black sigils.

“We’ll be a family again, me and you … and Gabriel.” Aaron laughed desperately, overcome with emotion. “Can’t forget him.”

He saw it in the man’s eyes before he had a chance to react. Stevie had lost his battle. Malak closed his hand around Aaron’s throat and started to squeeze. The grip was remarkable, cutting off his air supply completely as the metal-clad fingers dug into the tender flesh of his throat.

“Aaron,” Malak said again, only this time it was more like a reptilian hiss, absent of any emotion.

The Nephilim grabbed Malak’s wrist with both hands, struggling to break his grip. But Malak held fast, giggling maniacally. Explosions of color blossomed before his eyes and Aaron knew that it wouldn’t be long before he blacked out. He spread his wings and began to beat the air, stirring up a storm of dirt and rock as he fought to be free, but it did nothing to loosen the hunter’s grip upon his neck. Malak seemed to be enjoying the struggle, as if he too knew it was only a matter of time now.

Aaron’s wings faltered and a trembling weakness spread through his arms. He gazed into the cold, dead eyes of the thing that used to be his brother and opened his mouth to scream. It was nothing more than a croak, but to the Nephilim’s ears, it was a cry of mourning, a cry of rage for what had been done to an innocent little boy.

Malak smiled as Aaron let one of his hands fall away from the monster’s wrist.

But the Nephilim wasn’t giving up yet. From the arsenal inside his head, he selected a knife, a sleek and deadly object with the sharpest of blades. The weapon sparked to life in his free hand and he saw Malak’s eyes drawn to it. The killer’s armor was impervious to weapons of Heaven, but the flesh inside the shell was not. Aaron plunged the flaming dagger into the chink at the bend of Malak’s arm where the armor separated into two pieces.

Malak screeched in pain, sounding more like a wounded animal than anything remotely human, and pulled away his arm, releasing Aaron’s throat from his death grip. Aaron scrambled back across the ground, rubbing at his bruised windpipe, greedily taking in gulps of air.

“That hurt,” Malak whined, sounding a bit like the little boy that he should have been. But Aaron now knew that wasn’t the case at all.

With his other arm, the scarlet-garbed warrior raked his hand across an area of open air in front of him, and tore a hole in space. For the first time Aaron took note of the sound that it made, and it reminded him of the ripping of heavy fabric. From his never-ending arsenal, the killer produced a loaded crossbow.

The fight was taking its toll. Wearily Aaron summoned another sword of fire, but his nemesis was faster. As his blade took form, Malak let fly a bolt. Aaron lashed out at the shaft of black metal, deflecting the projectile in a shower of sparks. With nimble fingers, Malak loaded another bolt and fired it. This time the Nephilim wasn’t fast enough and the bolt buried itself deep in the flesh of his thigh.

The pain drove him to his knee. He tried to pull it from his leg, but the shaft was greasy with his own blood. He heard the clatter of armor on the move and saw that Malak was moving toward him, holding a sword as he came in for the kill. Aaron struggled to stand, hefting his own weapon of fire

It was then that the church exploded. There was a flash from somewhere within the holy structure, and then it blew apart with a deafening roar, spewing hungry orange flames into the sky. Glass, metal, and wood rained down upon the battlefield.

“Master,” Malak cried pitifully, his attention focused entirely on the blackened, smoking hole that was Aerie’s place of worship.

Malak’s show of concern for the monster that had brought nothing but pain and misery was all Aaron needed to spur him to action. This was the moment he had both dreaded and longed for, the opportunity to finally bring the battle to a close. Time slowed and his leg screeched in protest as he threw himself toward his distracted enemy. With both hands Aaron brought the blazing sword up over his shoulder and then swung it with all the force he could muster. As he watched the blade cut through the air on course to its target, his thoughts were filled with images of the past—frozen moments of time that seemed so very long ago.

He saw the little boy he’d loved sleeping peacefully in his bed, Gabriel curled into a tight ball at his side.

The blade was closer now, and Malak began to turn, suddenly aware.

The child rocking before the television set, the image upon the screen nothing more than static.

“I’m sorry, Stevie,” Aaron whispered as the heavenly blade reached its destination, cutting through the thick muscle and bone of Malak’s neck, severing his head from his armored body.

Aaron fell to his knees before the body of his foe—his brother—and bowed his head. He felt drained of life, as if this last, violent act had sucked away his final reserves of strength.

But then he heard something move within the rubble of the church and lifted his head to gaze at the smoldering wreckage. There was a brilliant flash of light, and a warm breeze caressed his face as a figure rose up from beneath the detritus, carried into the air on wings composed of heavenly light.

“Murderer,” Verchiel pronounced, his accusation rumbling through the air.