Aerie

CHAPTER TWO

Johiel was annoyed with Earth the moment he arrived over a millennium ago, but as the toe of his sneaker caught beneath an unearthed root, and he fell sprawling, face first to the forest floor, the fallen angel felt his simple antipathy ripen to bitter hatred. He hit the ground hard, the air punched from his lungs in a wheezing grunt, and slid halfway down a small embankment before regaining enough of his composure to struggle to his feet. Yes, Johiel hated living upon the Earth. However, the alternative—far more permanent—was even less appealing.

He chanced a look behind him to see if they were still following. What a foolish thought. They are soldiers of the Powers; of course they’re still following. The ground beneath his feet started to level off and in the distance he could hear the sounds of cars and trucks as they traveled along the highway. I can make it to the road, he thought, his mind abuzz. Perhaps I can hitch a ride and escape.

Stumbling through the darkness of the woods, Johiel chastised himself for his rabid stupidity. If he hadn’t tried to make contact with the Powers, he would not be in this predicament. How could he have been so foolish as to think that they could be convinced to show even the slightest leniency toward their enemies, no matter what was offered? But he had grown so tired of living in fear; a constant cloud of oppression hanging over his head, never knowing which moment would be his last.

The sounds of the road were closer now and he began to think that they had grown tired of the pursuit. Perhaps they decided he just wasn’t worth the effort, he thought, both relieved and a little insulted that the Powers wouldn’t even attempt to learn the information he wanted to trade for his life. Johiel was certain that his knowledge would prove valuable to their leader, and he would have given it freely for a chance to live without fear.

The ground before him suddenly exploded in a roiling ball of fire, and Johiel was thrown backward to the cool, moist forest floor.

“Is it something we said, little fallen brother?” said a cold, cruel voice behind him.

“Or something we didn’t say, perhaps?” asked another, equally malevolent.

Johiel scrambled to his feet and turned to see two immaculately dressed and smiling angels strolling through the woods toward him. He knew he had three choices, two of which would likely end in his own excruciating demise: He could run and be cut down like a lowly animal; he could fight and perish just the same; or he could carry through with his original plan. The notion of engaging the two Powers in conversation was terrifying, but he held his ground and summoned a sword of fire to defend himself if it proved necessary.

The warriors stopped in unison, the sparking flame of Johiel’s weapon reflecting off the inky blackness of their eyes.

“I do not understand, Bethmael,” said one to the other. “The criminal put word out that he wished to speak with us, yet flees when we approach. And now he brandishes a weapon?”

Bethmael sneered. “It is the world, brother Kyriel,” he said, continuing to stare at the fallen angel. “They know they do not belong here, and the knowledge drives them mad.”

Their wings gracefully expanded from their backs, reminding Johiel of king cobras unfurling their hoods before they strike.

“I wanted to speak with a representative of the Powers,” he built up the courage to say. “Someone who has Lord Verchiel’s ear. But instead I am attacked and forced to flee for my life.”

Kyriel’s wings languidly flapped and a sword sprang to life in his hand, lighting the darkened wood like dawn. “And what could a criminal possibly have to say that might interest Lord Verchiel?”

“I have information,” Johiel began, suddenly unsure. The idea of betraying those who had once welcomed him into their fold filled him with trepidation, but not enough to hold his tongue. “The location of the place that you have desperately sought, but still cannot find.”

“You wish an exchange of some kind?” Bethmael asked.

His large hands remained free of weapons and Johiel watched him with cautious eyes. He did not trust the Powers, but this was his last chance to be free of the fear that had plagued him since the war. He would either be free, or he would be dead.

“An exchange for my life,” he explained. “I will give you the location of the secret haven, and you will grant me freedom.”

“You’re asking for immunity from our righteous wrath?” Kyriel asked, lowering his own mighty sword of fire.

“For what I give you, the life of one fallen angel is a bargain,” Johiel answered.

The two Powers looked at each other, a communication passing between their gazes. Kyriel again raised his weapon. “Our fallen brother attempts to barter for his life,” he said to Bethmael, bemused. Bethmael nodded, a humorless smile appearing on his beatific features. “Protection in exchange for information.”

They were both smiling now, and Johiel began to believe that his gambit had actually paid off. He wished his weapon away as a sign of good faith, but he could not help thinking again of those who would die so that he could live. I’ll learn to live with that, he thought. “Your word is your bond,” he said aloud to Bethmael and Kyriel. “Do we have a deal?”

They laughed, a shrill, high-pitched sound that conjured images of a bird of prey as it dropped from the sky upon its kill. Johiel should have seen this for the warning that it was.

“The Powers do not bargain with criminals,” Bethmael said as a weapon—a longbow—formed in his grasp, and in a matter of seconds he let fly a shaft of fire. It hissed as it cut through the air, as if warning its target of the excruciating pain of its bite.

The arrow of fire plunged deep into the flesh of Johiel’s shoulder, the momentum carrying him backward, pinning him to the body of an ancient oak. Frantically Johiel tried to free himself. He gripped the shaft and the night air was suddenly filled with the sickly sweet fragrance of burning flesh. He screamed pathetically as he pulled his blistered hand away. Through eyes tearing with pain, he watched the two angels stalk closer.

“It is our turn to make a bargain with you, fallen one,” Bethmael said. His bow had already been replaced with a dagger of fire that he held menacingly before Johiel. “You will tell us your secrets, and then you will be killed mercifully.”

Johiel struggled to pull his shoulder from the tree, but the pain was too great. “I… I’ll tell you nothing,” he said, voice trembling with fear and agony. The fire of the arrow was beginning to eat at the flesh of his shoulder, beginning to spread voraciously down his arm.

“I was so hoping you would say that,” Kyriel said, a knife coming to life in his grasp as well.

Johiel didn’t want to die—especially not painfully. Perhaps a taste of his secret knowledge would grant him a small respite. “I know where the fallen hide,” he proclaimed as the burning blades moved toward his flesh.

Bethmael stopped and motioned for Kyriel to halt as well. “Go on,” the angel urged. “Unburden yourself.”

“I… I can take you there … right to their doorstep,” he stammered.

“He’s bluffing,” Kyriel snapped, and again started forward with knife in hand.

“I could tell you where, … but you won’t find it without my help,” Johiel whined, writhing in pain as the heavenly fire of the arrow in his shoulder continued to feed upon his flesh. “It’s hidden with magick, … but I can show you where it is.”

“I grow tired of his games, brother,” Kyriel said, eager to inflict more pain. “We’ll cut the flesh from his traitorous bones and—”

“Silence, Kyriel,” Bethmael ordered, a look forming in his black gaze that told Johiel the Powers’ soldier had begun to understand the importance of what he knew. “What is this place of which you speak?” Bethmael asked with intense curiosity.

Johiel looked to the arrow protruding from his shoulder, and then back to Bethmael. “Remove the arrow, and I’ll share all that I know,” he said, sensing that he was suddenly worth more to them alive than dead.

“What is the name of the place of which you speak?” Bethmael asked again.

Johiel was about to tell him when a rustle of brush and the snapping of twigs distracted them all from the business at hand.

The yellow-furred dog was the first to come upon them. It stopped, cocked its head to one side, and stared with deep brown eyes showing far more intelligence than expected from the average canine. A boy was next, followed by a familiar angel. Johiel believed his name to be Camael, a great angel warrior and traitor to the Powers host.

“Told you I could find them first,” the yellow dog said to the boy.

“And now that we have?” the angel warrior inquired.

The boy’s appearance began to change, and Johiel thought he heard the Powers gasp. Sigils, angelic sigils appeared upon the boy’s flesh. It was then that Johiel realized this was much more than a mere boy.

“And now that we’ve found them,” the boy repeated, his voice dropping to a rumbling growl, “we kick their asses until they tell us what we want to know.”

“I urge caution,” Camael said quietly, placing his hand on Aaron’s shoulder. “Enter into battle without prudence, and have no one but yourself to blame for an untimely death.”

Camael eyed the scene before him. It was typical: two agents of the Powers preparing to dispatch yet another fallen angel for crimes against Heaven. How many had died by his own hands in service to the Powers and their sacred mission, before he realized that the dispensing of death was not the answer.

“All right,” Aaron said, impatience in his tone. “I’m being cautious. I haven’t attacked yet—but how long should I be cautious before I get to kick butt?”

The two Powers stepped away from their prey, spreading their wings and puffing out their broad warriors’ chests. The knives they each held changed, growing in size to something more formidable, something far more deadly.

“Do my eyes deceive me, brother Kyriel?” asked one soldier to the other. “Or is that former commander Camael I see before me?”

Camael was familiar with both Kyriel and Bethmael. They had served him well in his time as leader of the Powers host. It saddened him now to see the glint of madness in their eyes.

“But how can that be, Bethmael?” Kyriel asked mockingly. “The great Camael left the ways of violence to ascend to a higher level of being. I hear tell that he has taken up sides with a savior of sorts, a divine creature with the ability to bend the ear of God.”

“Do tell,” said Bethmael in response. “Then I am sorely mistaken, for those who stand before us now are neither higher beings nor saviors of any kind.”

Camael would have welcomed a chance to explain his change of heart, his altered philosophy clarified by the reading of an ancient prophecy that foretold the coming of a Nephilim. This spawn of angel and mortal woman would bring absolution to those that had fled Heaven after the war. But he knew, in the core of his being, that the soldiers of the Powers would not listen. They had been changed over the millennia, poisoned by their mission of murder under the leadership of Verchiel.

“So you know these two, huh?” Aaron asked, still obliging Camael’s warning of caution.

“They once served beneath me,” he answered, his gaze never leaving the angelic soldiers. He recalled that the two had been ferocious warriors, their dedication to the cause unwavering. They would be formidable opponents indeed.

Bethmael pointed his awesome sword of flame at them. “Let us show you how we deal with traitors and mongrels,” he said, a goading smile on his aquiline features.

“Have you heard enough of their crap yet?” Aaron asked.

Camael brought forth a blade of his own and readied himself for battle. “I believe I have.”

Aaron suddenly turned to face him, placing a sigil-covered hand upon his chest. “Let me do this,” he said forcefully. The young man’s eyes glinted wetly, like two black pearls in a sea of unbridled emotion. “I have to learn to control it, you’ve said so yourself.”

He could not argue with the boy, for it was what he had been attempting to teach Aaron all along. The angelic nature of the Nephilim was often a dangerous and tempestuous force. The human animal was not meant to wield such power, and it often drove them insane. Camael tried to recall the number of Nephilim driven mad by the power of their own angelic nature that he had been forced to put down. There were far more than he cared to remember.

“Don’t worry,” Aaron said confidently. “I’ll give a yell if I need a hand.”

The boy turned away and flexed his shoulders. Powerful wings of shiny black feathers sprouted from his back, tearing through his T-shirt. In his hand a sword of orange flame appeared and he hurled himself at the angelic opponents with a cry of abandon.

The power that resided within this boy was different than any other Camael had borne witness to; there was an intensity to it, something that hinted at the potential for greatness—or something devastatingly destructive. It was this that set him apart from the others, that made Camael believe that Aaron Corbet was indeed the one foretold of in prophecy, the one who could unite all of the fallen angels with Heaven. Perhaps even… He cut that thought off before it could go any further.

Camael watched with a cautious eye as the Nephilim touched down before the Powers warriors. “Let me show you how I deal with a coupla assholes,” he heard the boy say, goading the angels to attack.

At first the teenager had been afraid of his talents, but now Aaron was using his new abilities more and more frequently. Camael hoped that he would soon see the unification of human and angelic in the boy—and not a gradual descent into madness. He wished this not only for the sake of the boy, but for all fallen angels hiding on Earth, hungry for reunification with God and the kingdom of Heaven.

Bethmael was first to attack, bringing his blade down in a blazing arc, crackling and sparking as it cut through the air. Aaron spread wide his ebony wings and pushed off from the ground, evading the weapon as it bit into the underbrush and set it aflame.

“Fast, but not fast enough,” the Nephilim said, lashing out with his own sword of fire. The blade cut a burning gash across Bethmael’s chest and the angel cried out in shock and dismay.

Eyes riveted to the scene unfolding before him, Camael suddenly felt Gabriel’s presence by his side.

“I’m afraid,” the dog said.

“Not to worry,” Camael replied reassuringly. “Aaron will be fine.”

There was silence for a moment, but then the animal spoke again.

“Right now I’m not afraid for him, Camael,” the dog said with a slight tremble to his usually guttural voice. “I’m afraid of him.”

As he struck at his enemies and watched the surprise and fear spread across their faces, Aaron wondered again why he had ever been so afraid.

Bethmael and Kyriel stepped away from him, cautious now that he had drawn first blood. He could still hear Bethmael’s blood sizzling on the blade of his weapon. It was a wonderful sound that made the power within him yowl with delight.

This angelic essence was indeed a thing to be feared, but it was part of him now, and there was nothing he could do to change that. At first he had believed that the best way to deal with it was to suppress it, to keep the alien nature that had been awakened on his eighteenth birthday locked up inside, but that proved to be nearly impossible. The power wanted to be free to fulfill its purpose, and to be perfectly honest, Aaron knew he really wasn’t strong enough to deny it. Self-control had been something he’d fought to learn for years in foster care. But his first confrontation with Verchiel over the burning remains of the only people who had ever treated him like family quickly taught him that he would have to occasionally free these newfound powers to stay alive.

“What’s the matter? Scared?” Aaron asked the angels, a nasty grin spreading across his face. He imagined how he must look to them, and a chill of excitement ran up and down his spine. He wanted them to be afraid—he wanted them to fear him. They were agents of Verchiel, and that was all he needed to know. They didn’t seek unification and peace. Only the merciless slaughter of those they considered “beneath” themselves.

That was it. They came at him with cries that reminded him of a bird’s wail: an eagle, or a hawk perhaps. Bethmael’s fiery blade passed dangerously close.

“Verchiel shall have your head,” he heard the angel hiss. He felt the heat of heavenly flame streak by his face as he bent himself backward to avoid its destructive touch. Then he drove his foot into the angel’s stomach, kicking him away.

Kyriel, working in unison with his brother, thrust his blade of fire toward Aaron’s midsection. Aaron brought his own weapon down, swatting Kyriel’s lunge aside, and carried through slashing his sword across the warrior’s face. The angel stumbled back with a cry of surprise, a hand clutched to his now smoldering features.

“Bet that’s gonna scar,” Aaron taunted, feeling the ancient energy that he’d fought so hard to squelch course through his body. At that moment he felt as though there was nothing he couldn’t do.

“He … he cut me,” Kyriel said, gazing at the blood that covered his hand.

There wasn’t much of it, the flames of the heavenly blades cauterizing the wounds, but Aaron wondered how long it had been since the angel had last seen even a little of his own blood. The Powers’ soldier looked to his brother for support, though he too had been stung by Aaron’s blade.

“Then we shall cut him back,” Bethmael growled, spreading his wings of golden brown and springing from the ground, sword of fire ready for a taste of Nephilim blood.

Rallied by his brother, Kyriel forgot his wound and dove at Aaron.

Aaron watched them descending upon him as if in slow motion, the crackling flames of their burning swords growing louder as they drew closer. He tried to move, but found he could not. The angelic essence had grown tired of this particular battle, and was ready to bring it to an end. Aaron gave in, letting the divine power wash over him like a wave.

They were almost upon him, their angel scent filling his nostrils. There was arrogance in their stench. Even though he had held his own against their master, Verchiel, they still believed themselves superior. These angels would suffer for their conceit.

Kyriel was the first to meet his fate. His wicked blade of fire fell—its purpose to cleave Aaron in two, but the Nephilim was not there to meet the weapon’s bite. With surprising speed, he moved beneath the descent of Kyriel’s sword and thrust his own burning blade into the soldier’s ribcage, thinking to pierce the creature’s black heart.

Aaron had no time to cherish the look of sheer surprise that bled across his attacker’s face for he had the other to deal with now. He turned just as Bethmael slashed a painful bite from his shoulder. But he ignored the wound, following through with his own swing. His blade passed through the thick tendrils of sinew, muscle, and bone and severed Bethmael’s head from his body. Aaron watched with a perverse wonder as the angel’s head spun slowly in the air before falling to the ground. The body followed, the stump where its head had once been still smoldering from the cut of his weapon.

Aaron was surprised by his feelings as he gazed down at the astonished expression, frozen upon Bethmael’s dead face. There was no revulsion, no surprise. It simply felt right.

He was suddenly distracted by a moan from behind and turned to see that Kyriel was still alive. The angel knelt upon the grass, clutching at his chest, a black oily smoke drifting from his wound. He was burning from within and the expression on his face was one of unbridled pain. Aaron looked upon his attacker and he felt no pity—only a cold, efficient need to see the job done.

“Aaron,” he heard Camael call from close by. He ignored his mentor and prepared to finish what he had started.

“Aaron, what are you doing?” Camael cautiously questioned as the Nephilim brought his sword of fire up, and then down upon Kyriel’s skull, ending his life and bringing the battle to a close.

He felt Camael’s hand fall roughly upon his shoulder, spinning him around to face his mentor. There was a split second when the power inside told him to lift his blade against the angel, but he managed to suppress the urge as he slowly emerged from the red haze of combat.

Camael was looking at him, eyes wide with dismay, although Aaron wasn’t altogether sure what he had done to garner such a reaction. “What’s the matter?” he asked, feeling the sigils upon his body start to fade, the wings upon his back furl beneath the flesh.

Gabriel had joined the angel and was looking up at him with an equal expression of shock. “You killed them, Aaron,” the dog said, disappointment in his tone.

“I did at that,” Aaron replied, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he remembered the remarkable feeling of letting the power inside him take control. “Bet they didn’t think I’d be able to—”

“But how are they going to help us find Stevie?” Gabriel asked, and Aaron felt the world give way beneath him. He hadn’t even thought of his brother during the fury of battle.

“What have I done?” he whispered, refusing to look at the accusatory gazes of his friends. Aaron focused his stare on the smoldering bodies of those he had vanquished, the horror of what he had done in the throes of battle, and what he had carelessly forgotten just then beginning to sink in.

And the power inside him rested, satisfied.

Sated for now.

The hot orange flames burned higher and fiercer as they fed upon the corpses of the Powers’ soldiers. Aaron could not pull his gaze from the sight as the unnatural fire consumed them, any chance of them sharing information about Stevie’s fate silenced in a moment of gratuitous violence.

“What’s wrong with me, Camael?” he asked as he watched the bones of angels burn to powder. “I didn’t even think of Stevie,” he said sadly. “It was like he didn’t even matter.”

“The power that is inside you can be a selfish thing,” the angel said coldly. “It cares only to satisfy its needs. It is a wild thing and must be tamed. There must be unity between the human and angelic, or there can be only chaos.”

A skull popped like a gunshot as it collapsed in upon itself in an explosion of fiery embers.

“I thought that when the power awakened in me … and when I talked to it that…”

“That was only the beginning of a much longer and difficult process,” Camael said as he brushed the flying ash of his brethren from the sleeve of his suit jacket. “Unification must occur or…”

The angel trailed off, and Aaron finally looked away from the burning remains of the creatures he had killed. “Or what?” he asked, not sure if he really wanted to know the answer.

Camael met his gaze with eyes as cold as an arctic breeze, and Aaron felt the hair at the nape of his neck stand on end. “Or it will make you insane, and I will be forced to destroy you.”

Aaron found he couldn’t breathe. As if he didn’t have enough to concern him; now he had to worry about losing his mind and being killed by someone he’d grown to trust. The angelic nature inside him was awake again and it cared very little for Camael’s words. It wanted to be free, to confront Camael’s threat, but Aaron struggled to keep it in check, defying its need for violence.

“Do you think I’m going insane?” he asked the angel.

Camael said nothing, averting his gaze to the stars. Aaron was about to press the question when Gabriel began to bark.

“What is it?” He looked down at his dog, whose hackles had risen ominously upon his neck.

“I think we’ve got more trouble,” the dog growled menacingly, padding past them in a crouch.

Aaron and Camael turned to see two figures standing before the tree where the Powers’ original prey had been pinned by an arrow of fire. In the mayhem of battle, they had forgotten about the fallen angel, and now it appeared as though he had some friends after all. There was a man, dressed as though he had just walked off the set of a spaghetti western: cowboy boots and hat, black denim and a long brown duster that flowed around him in a nonexistent breeze. The woman, in denim as well, but wearing a more contemporary style of dress, stood out in darkness, for her long, flowing hair was the color of freshly fallen snow.

“Who are …?” Aaron began as the cowboy reached out and began to pull the arrow from the fallen angel’s shoulder.

“Fallen,” Camael announced, his nose twitching as he sniffed the air. “And the girl is Nephilim.”

The angel cried out in pain as he was released, falling to his knees at the edge of the clearing.

“Looks as though they’ve come to rescue their friend,” Aaron said, and then stopped.

The fallen angel that had removed the burning arrow from the Powers’ victim had flipped back his coat, and from somewhere on his person had produced a pistol that would have been right at home in the old West, but this one seemed to be made of gold. He stepped back, aimed at the kneeling angel, and unmercifully shot him once in the forehead.

“Oh, shit,” Aaron whispered, watching as the angel slumped to the ground, dead.

“I don’t think they are his friends,” Camael voiced, the echo of the single gunshot gradually fading.

Gabriel immediately began to bark, and the two newcomers spun to face them.

“I’d quiet that animal,” said the cowboy as he turned his aim toward them. He was tall, his weathered features lined with age, long gray hair streaming out from beneath his Stetson. “Wouldn’t want to make me nervous and have my gun go off accidentally,” he said with a snarl.

“Who’s he calling an animal?” Gabriel asked, barking and lunging forward threateningly.

“Quiet, Gabriel,” Aaron said, placing the tips of his fingers reassuringly on the dog’s rump.

A sword of fire ignited beside him, and he glanced over to see that Camael was preparing himself, just in case. He felt his own inner essence exert itself, and the strange markings again seared the surface of his flesh. Reluctantly he let the power come.

“We want no trouble,” Camael’s voice boomed. He held his sword at the ready. “Allow us to go our way, and this will be the end of it.”

The two were silent. The woman casually combed the fingers of one hand through her long white hair, and Aaron realized that she probably wasn’t much older than himself.

“Were they Verchiel’s?” she asked, pointing to the still-smoldering remains behind them.

“Yes,” Aaron answered. His wings had emerged and he slowly unfurled them, giving the potential attackers a glimpse of what would be in store for them if they started any trouble.

“Imagine that.” The angel with the pistol squinted at them. “The likes of you taking down two of Verchiel’s soldiers.”

“I think we should bring them in,” said the woman coldly.

She was a Nephilim, and Aaron felt a certain kinship with her, but he didn’t care for what he was hearing. Bring us in? Like we’re criminals, or specimens, or something.

“We’re not going anywhere,” Camael warned. “This can end in one of two ways—and one is not at all in your favor.”

The angel with the pistol chuckled. “Not in our favor,” he said. “I like that.” And then he looked to the woman. “Lorelei, take ‘em down.”

“Right you are, Lehash,” she said, and spread her arms, a strange guttural language spilling from her mouth.

Aaron heard the words and immediately knew that things were about to turn ugly. She was casting some kind of spell, calling upon the elements. He tensed, a sword suddenly in his hand.

“Camael, we have to—”

The air roared, like the largest of jungle cats, and jagged claws of lightning dropped down from the sky upon them. There was a brilliant flash, and then everything was black.

Aaron didn’t even have a chance to finish his sentence.