Aerie

CHAPTER SIX

Camael watched Aaron leave and could not help but share some of the Nephilim’s discontent.

“So, what do you really think?” Lorelei asked as they stood on the sidewalk before the shabby house. “Do you seriously believe that he’s the Chosen One?”

He turned away from the boy and his dog walking off in the distance and met her gaze. “I believe there is something special about that one,” he answered.

“I had a cat when I was eight that was pretty special, but it doesn’t mean that she was the Messiah.” Lorelei’s tone dripped sarcasm.

Camael chose to ignore her jibes and instead addressed the dwelling before them. “This is where we will be staying then?” he asked, as if in need of clarification.

“This is it,” she answered. “One of the sturdier homes, no leaks and still unchristened by local youths brave enough to come here.”

“It will do,” he said, and then was quiet. He hoped that his silence would act as a dismissal to the female half-breed. The angel did not feel like talking; there was much he needed to reflect upon, and he found her presence distracting.

“You didn’t answer my question,” the Nephilim piped up, eager to press the sensitive issue. “Do you believe he’s the One in the prophecy?”

“It matters not what I believe,” he said, his pale blue eyes locked on hers, “for it appears you and yours have already made up your minds about the boy.”

“We’ve seen a lot of so-called prophets here. Hell, I’ve seen at least two since I’ve been around. It takes more than the word of a former Powers’ commander to convince us,” she answered, arms folded across her chest. “Sorry to doubt you, but that’s just the way it is.”

He could sense that she wanted more, that she wanted him to convince her he was right. But as he stood on the desolate street, in the abandoned neighborhood that he had come to learn was the paradise he’d sought for centuries, Camael found that he just didn’t have the strength.

“I have searched for this place far longer than even I can recall,” he said, gesturing to the homes and the neighborhood around him. “If it is permitted, I would like to explore Aerie on my own.”

Lorelei nodded slightly. There was disappointment in her look, and for that he was truly sorry. “Sure, it’s permitted, knock yourself out.” She placed her hands inside the pockets of her short jacket. “The manacles and choke collar should keep you out of trouble.” She turned on her heel and crossed the street to leave him alone.

“It ain’t much,” he heard the Nephilim say as she slowly headed back in the direction they had come. “But it’s home.”

Camael wasn’t sure what he had expected of Aerie but was certain, as he strolled down the deathly silent street with its houses in sad disrepair and the offensive aroma of chemical poisoning tainting the air, that this was not even remotely what he had imagined it would be.

What did you think you would find? he silently asked, the setting sun at his back. An earthly version of a Heaven lost so long ago? Is that it? he wondered. Was that why he was feeling so out of sorts?

In the distance before him, the angel could see the golden cross atop the steeple of a church, and found himself pulled to this human place of worship. Its architecture was far more contemporary than he cared for—simple, less ornate than many of the other places of worship he had visited in his long years upon the planet of man. Slowly he climbed the weathered concrete steps of the structure, feeling the residue of prayer left by the devout. He pulled open the door, and traces of the love these often primitive creatures felt for their Creator cascaded over him in waves.

Camael stepped inside the church, letting the door slowly close behind him. The structure had been stripped of its religious trappings; nowhere was there a crucifix or relic of a saint to be found. He guessed that such religious paraphernalia had been removed when the church was abandoned, but that did not change the feeling of the place. This was a place for worship, and no matter what iconic trappings had been taken from it, it could not change its original purpose.

Crudely constructed benches were lined up before the altar at the front of the building and Camael saw that he was not alone. A man, a Nephilim, sat at the front, his gaze intent upon an image that had been painted on the cream-colored wall at the back of the altar.

Camael walked closer. The artwork was crudely rendered, but there was no mistaking what it depicted—the joining of mortal woman and angel. A child hung in the air above its mismatched parents on wings of holy light, its tiny arms spread wide, the rays of light that haloed its head spreading upward to God, as well as drenching the world below them in its divine illumination. He found himself studying the artist’s rendition of the child, searching for any similarity with his own charge, the boy Aaron Corbet. Of course there were none, and he felt foolish for looking.

The lone figure sitting before the altar turned with a start, his face contorting in wide-eyed astonishment as his gaze fell upon Camael. The angel considered speaking to the halfling, but before he could put the words together, the man leaped from his seat and fled through a nearby exit.

These citizens certainly don’t trust strangers, Camael thought as he strode to the front of the old church and sat on the bench the Nephilim had vacated. The silence was comforting, and he closed his eyes, losing himself deep within his thoughts. It was not often that he had a chance to reflect.

He thought of the war in Heaven. It had seemed so black and white at the beginning: Those who opposed the Lord of Lords would be punished, it was as simple as that. Faces appeared before his eyes, brothers of the myriad heavenly hosts; some had been with him since their inception, but it mattered not, for they had to pay the price. And then it was too much for him, the smell of their blood choking his breath, their screams for mercy deafening his ears. There seemed to be no end, his existence had become one of vengeance and misery. He had become a messenger of death and he could stand it no more. And then there was the prophecy…

Camael opened his eyes to look upon the image painted on the wall before him: the strange trinity that would herald the end of so much pain and suffering. He remembered when he had first heard the prophecy told by a human seer. He desperately wanted it to be true, for God’s forgiveness to be bestowed upon those who had fallen, by a being that was an amalgam of His most precious creations.

From that moment, Camael had looked upon these creatures—these Nephilim—as conduits of God’s mercy, and he did everything in his power to keep them safe. These times had been long and filled with violence, but also salvation. He had taken it upon himself to find the Nephilim of prophecy, to help bring about the redemption of his fallen brethren, and at last it had brought him here.

To Aerie.

The angel looked around at the sparse environment in which he sat, and was overcome with feelings of disappointment. Is this to be where the Lord’s mercy is finally realized? A human neighborhood built upon a burial ground of toxic waste. Camael was loath to admit it, but he was expecting more.

Even though lost in thought, he sensed their presence and rose from his seat to see that he was no longer alone. The Nephilim that had fled the church when he’d first arrived had returned, and brought others with him. They streamed into the place of worship, male and female of various ages—all of them the result of the joining of human and angel. They whispered and muttered among themselves as they stared at Camael.

He had no idea what they wanted of him and on reflex tried to conjure a sword of fire. But the magick that infused the manacles encircling his wrists and throat immediately kicked in. The angel shrieked in pain as daggers of ice plunged through his body. He fell to his knees, cursing his stupidity, and struggled to stay conscious as the waves of discomfort gradually abated.

The throng of Nephilim came at him then, and there was nothing he could do to stop them. They formed a circle around him, their buzzing whispers adding to the tension of the situation.

“What do you want?” he asked them. His voice sounded strained, tired.

An older woman, with eyes as green and deep as the Mediterranean, was the first to step forward, and reached a hand out to the angel warrior. He could see that there were tears in her eyes.

“We want to thank you,” she said as she lay a cool palm against the side of his face, “for saving our lives.”

He looked at her quizzically, her gentle touch soothing his pain.

“It was one of the fiercest blizzards I can remember,” she whispered, tears streaming down her aged face, “and they had come to kill me, their swords of fire sizzling and hissing as the snow fell upon them. As long as I live I’ll never forget that sound—or the sound of your voice as you ordered them away from me.”

The woman’s words gradually sank in. “I… I saved you,” Camael said, gazing into her bottomless eyes, awash in a sea of emotion.

The woman nodded, a sad smile upon her trembling lips. “Me and so many more,” she said, turning to look at the others that crowded behind her.

They all came forward then, hands touching him, the unbridled emotion of their thanks almost intoxicating. How many times had he wondered what became of them; of those half-breeds he had saved from the murderous Powers? How often had he questioned the validity of his mission?

The Nephilim survivors surged around him, the warmth of their gratitude enveloping him in a cocoon of fulfillment.

It wasn’t for naught, he thought as he welcomed each word of thanks, every loving touch. Camael, former leader of the Powers host, had at last found his peace, not only in place, but in spirit.

The prisoner curled himself tighter into a ball upon the floor of his cage, his body wracked with painful spasms brought about by the process of healing.

“It’s kind of funny,” he whispered to the mouse nestled in the crook of his neck, its gentle exhalations soothing in his ear. “Healing hurts almost as much as the injury itself.” And again his body twitched and writhed in the throes of repairing itself. He waited for the agony to pass before continuing with his story.

“Sorry about the interruption,” he said, trying to focus on something other than the sloughing of his old, dead flesh and the tenderness of the new pink skin beneath. “Where was I?”

The mouse snuffled gently.

“That’s right,” he answered. “My relationship with the Lord.” Another wave of pain swept through his body, and he gritted his teeth and bore the bulk of it before he continued. “I was pretty high on His list of favorites; the mightiest and most beloved of all the angels in Heaven. He called me His Morningstar, and He loved me as much as I loved Him—or so I believed.”

And though it was as torturous—even more so than having his burned flesh fall from his body—the prisoner remembered how beautiful it had been. “You should have seen it,” he said dreamily, his memories transporting him back to his place of creation, back to Heaven. “It was everything you could possibly dream of—and more. It was Paradise.”

He saw again the golden spires of Heaven’s celestial mansions, reaching upward into infinity, culminating in the final, seventh Heaven, the place of the highest spiritual perfection. “And that was where He sat, on His throne of light, with me often by His side.” The prisoner sighed, pain pulling his thoughts back to reality in his hanging prison.

The mouse was sleeping, but still he heard its voice, its questions about the past and his eventual downfall.

“Do you know I was by His side when He created humanity? The attention He languished on what appeared to us in the heavenly choirs as just another animal!” He remembered his anger, the uncontrollable emotion at the root of his fall so long ago. “He gave them their own paradise, a garden of incredible beauty and bounty. And He gave them something that we did not have. The Creator gave them a piece of Himself, a spark of His divinity—a soul.”

The agony of his healing mixed with the recollection of his indignation caused the prisoner to sit bolt upright within the confines of his cage. His hand moved quickly to his bare shoulder, preventing the sleeping rodent from falling. “After all this time it can still get a rise out of me,” he said, his voice less raspy, on the mend.

The mouse was in a panic, startled awake by the sudden movement. He could feel the racing beat of its tiny heart against the palm of his hand, the bars of the cage cold against the new flesh of his back.

“I was shocked and horrified, as were others of the various hosts. Why would He give such a priceless gift to a lowly animal? It was an insult to what we were.”

The prisoner cupped the fragile creature in the palm of his hand and calmed its jangled nerves with the gentle attentions of his finger.

“Jealousy,” he said, a deep sadness permeating the sound of his voice. “Every horrible act that followed was all because of jealousy.” In his mind he saw them in the Garden of Eden, man and woman, basking in the light of His glory. “What fragile things they were. And how He loved them—which just made matters all the worse.”

The mouse still trembled in his grasp, and the prisoner wondered if it was cold. He held it closer.

“As if things weren’t bad enough, it wasn’t long before He gathered us together and proclaimed that from that moment forth, we would bow to humanity, we would serve them as we served He who was the Creator of us all.”

His scalp began to tingle unpleasantly and he suspected that his hair had begun to grow back.

“Needless to say, several of us were less than thrilled with this new spin on things.” He remembered their angry faces again, their indignant fury, but none could match his own. His Lord and Creator had abandoned him, cast him aside for the love of something inferior, and he would not stand for it. “I was so blinded by jealousy and my wounded pride that I gathered an army of those who felt as I did, a third of Heaven’s angels they say, and waged war against my heavenly father, my creator, and all those who defended His edict.”

Glimpses of a battle fought countless millennia ago danced across his vision of the past. Not a day went by that he didn’t relive it. He saw the faces of the elite soldiers, so beautiful and yet so full of rage, and he knew they believed in him, that the cause he fought for was just. “And as the Creator had done with the first humans, I touched them—each and every one of the army that swore their allegiance to me—and I gave them a piece of myself, a fragment of what had once made me the most powerful angel in Heaven.” The tips of his fingers came alive with the recollection of those who had received his gift, a black mark—a symbol burned into their flesh, a sigil that spoke of their devotion to him, and to the cause.

“We presumed that the Almighty had no right to do what He did to us—but we presumed too much,” the prisoner said sadly. He was exhausted by the painful remembrances of his sordid past; he lowered his hands, and the mouse resting within them, to his lap. “What were we trying to prove? What were our intentions?” He shook his head and smiled sadly. “Were we going to force the Creator to love us best?”

The mouse looked up from the nest within his hands, its dark eyes filled with what he read to be sympathy.

“It was a ferocious battle. I can’t even tell you how long it lasted—days, weeks, years perhaps—time passed differently for me then. We fought valiantly, but in the end, it was all in vain.”

The mouse nudged at his fingers, its tiny nose a pinprick of cold, and he began to gently pet it again.

“When the battle was finally over, when my elite were dead and myself in chains, I was brought before my Lord God, and finally began to realize the horror of what I had done.”

The prisoner closed his eyes to the flood of emotions that filled them, tears streamed down the newly grown skin on his face. “I tried to apologize. I begged for His forgiveness and mercy, but He wouldn’t hear it.”

A stray tear splashed into his hand and the mouse gingerly licked at the salty fluid.

“I was banished from Heaven, cast down to Earth, and as my constant companion, I would forever experience the pain and suffering of what I had done.”

The mouse looked up at him; its triangular head bent quizzically to one side.

“You want to know about the place called Hell?” he asked the curious animal. “There is no Hell,” he said. “Hell is in here.” He touched the raw, pink skin of his chest with the tips of his fingers. “And it will forever burn inside me for what I have done.”

“She said take a left onto Gagnon and there would be a community center where we could get food,” Gabriel whined.

“That’s what she said,” Aaron replied, looking around as they walked. All he could see were homes, each more rundown and dilapidated than the next.

“And what exactly is a community center?” the dog asked pathetically. It was past his suppertime and he was beginning to panic.

Aaron stopped, glancing back in the direction from which they had just come. “This is still Gagnon isn’t it?” he asked more to himself then to his ravenous companion.

“I don’t know,” Gabriel answered, his nose pressed to the sidewalk, searching for the scent of food. “I’m so hungry I can’t even think straight, and it’s getting dark.”

They started walking again. A gentle wind blew down the street, rustling what few leaves remained in the skeletal trees.

“Well, let’s keep going and see what we run into. Maybe it’s at the far end.”

“What if it’s not?” the dog asked, a touch of panic in his guttural-sounding voice.

Aaron sighed with exasperation. “Don’t worry, Gabe. If we can’t find the community center we’ll double back to the car, and you can have some of the dog food in the trunk.

“I don’t want that food,” he said, stopping, ears flat against his blocky head. “It gives me gas.”

Aaron could not hold back his frustration. “Look, I’m just trying to tell you that you won’t starve, okay? You will be fed!”

Gabriel’s tail began to wag. “You’re a good boy.”

Aaron laughed in spite of himself and motioned for the dog to follow him. “Gabriel, you’re a pip!” he said. “C’mon, let’s find this place before I starve to death too.”

The dog thought for a moment, keeping pace alongside his master. “I don’t think anybody has ever called me a pip before. I’ve been called a good boy, a good dog, a best pally, but never a pip.”

“Well, there you go,” Aaron answered. “Something new for the resume.”

“Do you think we will ever find Stevie?” Gabriel suddenly asked, changing the topic in an instant, as he was prone to do.

Aaron felt his mood suddenly darken. “As soon as we can leave here, we’ll start looking again.”

“How long will that be?”

Aaron felt himself growing angry again and took a series of deep breaths to calm down. “I don’t know,” he said flatly. “We’ll play by their rules for a while, but there might come a time when we’ll have to take a stand.”

“I don’t like the sound of that,” Gabriel said.

“Neither do I,” Aaron answered. “Let’s just hope it doesn’t come to that.”

The two continued to walk in brooding silence, both thinking of the disturbing possibilities that waited in their future. They were near the end of the street when Gabriel stopped.

“What is it now?” Aaron snapped.

“Do you smell that?” Gabriel tilted his head back, nose twitching as it pulled something from the air.

Aaron sniffed at the air as well, at first sensing nothing, but then he too smelled it. Food—cooking food.

Gabriel was off in a flash, following the odor as if arrows had been put down on the street to lead them. “This way,” he cried excitedly.

Aaron had to quicken his pace to keep up with the hungry animal and watched as Gabriel darted suddenly to the left, moving onto the front lawn of one of the rundown homes.

“This isn’t a community center, Gabe,” he called, but the dog was in the grip of a food frenzy.

Gabriel followed the scent right up onto the porch and planted his nose at the bottom of the front door, sniffling and snuffling as if it were possible for him to pull some sustenance from beneath the door.

Aaron stood on the walkway. The smell was stronger and more delicious. He felt his own stomach begin to gurgle. “Gabriel, c’mon down! This is somebody’s house.”

The Labrador reluctantly turned his head toward Aaron. “But this house has food.”

Aaron moved closer to the front porch, feeling sorry for the famished animal. “I know there’s food here, but we can’t just invite ourselves in. Remember, we don’t know these people and they probably wouldn’t trust us anyway.”

“But you’re the Chosen One,” he said sadly. “And I’m your dog, who’s very hungry.”

If it weren’t so pathetic, Aaron probably would have laughed, but the events of the day so far had chased away any chance for humor. “Gabriel, come down here this instant or—”

“Can’t we knock and ask where the community center is?” the dog asked with a nervous wag of his muscular tail.

“I guess we could do that,” Aaron answered, climbing the three rickety wooden steps to the porch. “But if nobody answers, we have to go. Deal?”

“There’s somebody in there, Aaron. I can smell him over the food.”

Aaron rapped on the door and waited. He listened for sounds from inside and could just make out the chatter of a television. “I don’t think they want to—”

“Knock again,” the dog demanded, his tail wagging furiously.

Aaron knocked harder. “Remember what I said: If nobody comes to the door, we go.”

Gabriel suddenly bolted down the steps and around the side of the house.

“Where are you going?” Aaron demanded, starting to follow.

“There’s somebody in there. Maybe he can hear the back door better,” the Lab called excitedly, already out of sight.

Aaron reluctantly followed. He had no idea how the citizens would react if they found him skulking around somebody’s home. An image of Lehash with his golden pistols drawn suddenly came to mind. He rounded the corner of the house, careful not to stumble in the growing darkness, and found Gabriel already on the back porch trying to turn the doorknob in his mouth. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“I scratched at the door and somebody said come in,” Gabriel replied as the door popped open and the rich, succulent smell of cooking food drifted out from the kitchen. Without waiting for an answer, he pushed through the door with his snout and disappeared.

“Gabriel!” Aaron called, climbing the steps and following his dog into the tiny kitchen. It was overly warm and the smell of cooking meat enveloped him like a blanket. Sounds of a television drifted in from the room beyond. “Gabriel, you can’t just—”

“I can’t help it.” Gabriel was moving toward the stove as if hypnotized, droplets of saliva raining from his mouth to the floor, nose twitching eagerly. “Maybe he’ll invite us to stay.”

“Or he’ll call the constables and we’ll really be in a fix,” Aaron said nervously, half expecting the house’s resident to fly into the kitchen screaming.

“I told you he said to come in.”

Aaron moved toward the door that would take him out of the kitchen, the light of the television illuminating the room beyond. “Why don’t I trust you,” he hissed, his back to the animal.

“I don’t know.” Gabriel sounded hurt.

“Hello?” Aaron called softly as he wrapped his knuckles on the frame of the kitchen doorway. “I don’t mean to bother you, but we’re looking for the—”

“Come in, Aaron,” said a voice from the living room.

Aaron turned back to Gabriel and must have looked surprised.

“I told you he knew we were here,” the dog said knowingly.

Aaron walked through a short corridor and into the living room beyond, the sound of Gabriel’s toenails clicking on the hardwood floor behind him as he followed. The room was dark except for the flickering light of the television and Aaron could just about make out the older man sitting in a worn, leather recliner in front of an old-fashioned console. It was Belphegor.

Aaron cleared his throat, but the old man did not respond, apparently engrossed in the television show.

Curious, he stepped farther into the room. The sound was turned down, but it looked as though the angel was watching home movies, the scenes jumping from one moment to the next. Suddenly Aaron saw himself on the screen.

He was dressed in a black tuxedo and carrying a flower—a corsage in a clear plastic container. He had just stepped out of his car and was approaching a house that seemed vaguely familiar. What is this? His mind was in a panic.

“Aaron, what’s wrong?” Gabriel asked, obviously picking up on his panicked vibe.

Aaron could not pull his eyes from the scene unfolding before him. Where had he seen that house before? His thoughts raced as he watched himself on the television knocking on the house’s front door. It hit him just as the door began to open. It was Belvidere Place back home in Lynn. He’d been there only once before.

The door opened, and Vilma stood there in a cream-colored gown, her hair up and decorated with baby’s breath, and the smile on her face as she saw him made him want to cry. His tuxedoed version was in the process of giving her the flower he had brought, when he ripped his eyes from the screen to look at the old man placidly sitting in the oversized chair.

“What is this?” Aaron demanded.

He looked back to the screen briefly to see him and Vilma posing for pictures. Vilma seemed to be embarrassed by the whole thing, waving her family away and trying to drag him toward the car. He couldn’t get over how beautiful she looked.

“It’s how you wish things had been,” Belphegor responded, his eyes never leaving the television. “I like this part… didn’t take you for a dancer.”

Aaron gazed at the set again and saw that he and Vilma were slow dancing among a crowd. He didn’t recognize their surroundings, but it appeared to be someplace fancy. Vilma was whispering in his ear as they slowly twirled in a circle on the dance floor. Foolishly he found himself growing jealous of his television doppelgänger. He pulled his eyes away, wanting to look anywhere else but there. His eyes landed on the dark cord of the television lying upon the floor, curled like a resting snake.

“It’s not plugged in,” he said aloud, turning his full attention to Belphegor. “The television’s not plugged in.”

“This is what your life could have been if not for the power that awakened inside you.”

He didn’t want to, but Aaron found himself looking at the screen again. He saw himself in a cap and gown, a stupid-looking grin on his face, accepting his diploma from Mr. Costan.

The view suddenly turned to the auditorium audience. With a sickening feeling growing in the pit of his stomach, he watched his foster mom and dad proudly applaud his achievement. It was when he noticed Stevie sitting in the chair beside his mother, smiling as if he didn’t have a problem in the world, that he realized he’d had more than enough.

“Make it stop,” he demanded, stepping farther into the room, fists clenched. He felt the manacles around his wrists and the collar about his neck grow warmer.

Belphegor didn’t respond, smiling as he watched television. Aaron couldn’t help himself and chanced a quick glance. It was like driving past a car accident. You didn’t want to see—but you just had to look. He appeared older now, sitting in a large classroom taking notes as a professor lectured. He was in college, and a part of him longed to switch places with this version of himself.

“I’ve seen enough,” he said louder, more demanding. The restraints were burning him, but he barely noticed, for his angelic nature had been awakened by his anger and it coiled within him, eager to strike.

“Isn’t this what you wanted, Aaron?” Belphegor asked, pointing to the TV.

Aaron didn’t want to see, but it was as if he weren’t in control of his movements. He was giving Vilma a ring. They were on a beach at sunset. Gabriel, looking older but still active, was happily chasing seagulls, and Vilma was sitting on a blanket with him. There was love in her eyes-love for him-and even though the sound was off, he knew his words at that moment. Will you marry me?

The angelic nature within him screamed, hurling itself against the restraints of the magicks within the golden metal that bound him. The pain was incredible, and he began to scream, but more from anger than hurt.

Gabriel began to panic and fled into the kitchen, barking as he ran.

“Turn it off! Turn it off! Turn it off!” Aaron demanded, his voice raw and filled with emotion. “I don’t want to see this—I don’t want to see what I can’t ever have. Why are you doing this?”

He stumbled forward to block the set, catching sight of Vilma in a wedding gown as she walked down the aisle of a church. His skin was on fire, the alien symbols appearing upon his flesh, even though the magick within the restraints tried to stop it. The wings beneath the flesh of his back writhed in agitation, gradually moving to the surface, ready to unfurl.

“I have to see if it’s true,” Belphegor said calmly. “I have to see if you are indeed the One.”

Something inside Aaron broke. There was a sound in his head like the scream of high-speed train, and his wings exploded from his back, as the power of an angel suddenly flowed unimpeded from his body. As if suddenly made ancient and brittle, the manacles upon his wrists and the collar about his neck broke, crumbling as dust to the floor. A sword of fire ignited in his hand and, gazing greedily upon its destructive potential, he spun around, bringing the burning blade down upon the wooden cabinet of the television console. The window into a life he would never know exploded in flames and a shower of glass, but not before he glimpsed a very pregnant Vilma, smiling as if she somehow knew he was watching.

The transformed Aaron, his wings of glistening black spread wide, turned back to glare at Belphegor, who still sat quietly in his recliner. Gabriel tentatively peered around the doorway from the kitchen, ears flat against his square head.

“Are…are you all right, Aaron?” the dog asked.

“I’m fine, Gabriel,” Aaron growled in the voice of the Nephilim. He pointed his sword of orange flame at the fallen angel. “You wanted to know if I was the One,” he said, voice booming about the confines of the room. “Well, what do you think?”

“I think that supper’s just about ready,” Belphegor responded with a soothing smile, rising from his chair. “Would you and your friend care to join me?”

Gabriel pushed the plate of mashed potatoes, gravy, and peas farther across the dining room floor with each consecutive lap of his muscular tongue. Before he wound up halfway across the house, Aaron reached down and took the plate away.

“I’m not finished with that,” the dog said, the remains of mashed potatoes decorating the top of his nose.

“Believe me, you’re finished,” Aaron said, setting the spotless plate on the tabletop. The plate is so clean, Belphegor could put it away without washing it, he thought. No one would be the wiser.

“I would like some more,” Gabriel said with a wag of his tail.

“You’ve had enough,” Aaron responded, as he took a hearty bite of his own roast beef and gravy. Then, always the ultimate pushover, he picked up a piece of meat from his plate and fed it to his insatiable companion. “Watch the fingers!” he squealed as the animal snatched away his offering. “I still use those, thank you very much.”

Belphegor walked in from the kitchen with another steaming bowl in his hands. “Here are some fresh green beans,” he said as he placed it on the table. “I grew them myself.”

“Here?” Aaron asked, shaking his head. “No, thank you. I’m not into toxic waste.”

“I like toxic waste,” Gabriel said happily, attempting to lick the remains of potato from his nose.

“It’s perfectly safe,” Belphegor said as he pulled out a chair and sat down across from Aaron. “All the poisons have been removed. They’re quite good.”

Aaron was reaching for the beans when he realized that Belphegor did not have a plate. “Aren’t you eating?”

The angel shook his head. “No, not tonight. I actually prefer preparing meals to eating them.” The fallen angel smiled, watching as Aaron spooned a heaping portion of the rich green vegetable onto his plate.

“You are aware that we—of my kind—do not need to eat.”

“I’ve heard,” Aaron said taking a careful bite of the beans and then eagerly having more. “Except that Camael has a thing for French fries now.”

Belphegor sat back in his chair. “Does he? I would never have imagined that. Perhaps the years upon this world have indeed softened our Powers’ commander.”

“Former commander,” Aaron corrected through a mouthful of food. “Verchiel’s the commander now—and has been for quite some time.”

“Of course,” Belphegor answered, crossing his arms. “How foolish of me to forget.”

His plate nearly as clean as Gabriel’s bowl, Aaron had a drink of water from an old jelly jar, then pushed the utensils away. “That thing with the television,” he asked. “How did you do that?”

Gabriel had finally settled down and lay beside Aaron’s chair. Aaron reached down to pet his friend as he waited for an answer.

“You wouldn’t believe it if I told you.” Belphegor shook his head, arms still crossed.

“You’d be surprised at the things I believe in now,” Aaron said. Gabriel rolled onto his side to expose his belly, and Aaron obliged the animal. “Were those … images, those scenes … were they from some future or—”

“They were taken from your head and manipulated,” Belphegor answered, tapping a finger against his skull. “Things that you most desire, but will likely never achieve.”

Aaron stopped scratching Gabriel’s belly, earning a disappointed snuff, and leaned back in his chair. “I don’t like to think that way,” he said, eyes focused on his empty plate, but seeing something else—a future that could very well be like the one he’d seen on Belphegor’s television. “I like to think that there’s something more for me, after I find my brother and this whole prophecy thing gets straightened out.”

Belphegor chuckled. “Don’t worry yourself about the prophecy thing,” he said as he stood up from his chair. He started to gather the dirty bowls and plates.

“Why’s that?”

The old fallen angel used a spoon to scrape what remained of the mashed potatoes onto Aaron’s dirty plate. “Because it doesn’t concern you,” he answered.

“Don’t you think I’m the One?” Aaron asked curiously, leaning forward in his seat. “You heard what Camael said, and you saw what I did to your magick handcuffs.”

“All very impressive.” Belphegor nodded as he gave Gabriel a green bean from the plate of refuse. “I can honestly say that I’ve never seen power the likes of yours, and your control over it thus far is admirable, but I do not believe you are the One spoken of in prophecy.”

Aaron was surprised by the disappointment he felt; a day ago he would have traded the whole angelic Chosen One thing for a bag of Doritos. Now… “Are you positive?” he asked. “How do you know? Camael said…”

“Camael has been separated from his kind for a very long time,” the angel explained, pausing in his cleanup to gaze intently at Aaron. “He is desperate to belong again—perhaps too desperate—and he saw something in you that really isn’t there. I’m sorry.”

There was something in Belphegor’s attitude that suddenly annoyed Aaron. It reminded him of his childhood in foster care, before he moved to the Stanleys’ and learned what being part of a family was all about. Before that he was looked on as being less than other kids, perceived as a failure before he even had a chance to try.

“The essence inside you is extremely powerful, and I fear that if a true merger were ever to occur between the angelic nature and your fragile human psyche, you would be driven out of your mind. And we of Aerie would be forced to do something about it.”

Aaron remembered a teacher he’d had in the first grade, Mr. Laidon. The teacher had singled him out, telling the other students that he didn’t have a family and that the state needed to take care of him. At that moment he had felt like a show-and-tell project, something less than the other kids in his class. Aaron’s face flushed hot with the memory.

“Maybe I could be taught,” he began. “Camael says that if a union occurs properly—”

The old angel chuckled, a condescending laugh that Aaron had heard so many times in his life.

“Teach you to be our messiah?” Belphegor asked. “No, Aaron. The true One spoken of in our sacred writing will be coming, just not right now.”

“But the Archangel Gabriel said that I was God’s new messenger,” Aaron argued.

“Then he was wrong,” Belphegor emphatically stated, and picked up the dishes, signaling an end to the conversation.

Aaron felt empty, as if being the savior of the fallen had actually begun to mean something to him, warts and all. He was about to offer Belphegor some help when there came a frantic rapping at the front door. Gabriel immediately sprang to his feet and began to bark.

“Come in,” Belphegor called out, turning toward the front door, arms loaded with dirty dishes.

They heard the sounds of the front door open and close, followed by rapid footsteps. Scholar rushed in through the living room clutching a notebook in one hand. “Belphegor we need to speak at once…” His eyes found Aaron’s and he fell silent.

“Good evening, Scholar. Aaron and I were just having dinner. May I get you something? Some coffee, or maybe some pie?”

The silence was becoming uncomfortable when Scholar finally spoke. “I need to speak with you in private, Belphegor.” He tore his eyes from Aaron’s and raised the notebook toward the old angel.

“Come with me,” Belphegor said. “Excuse us for a moment, Aaron.”

The two left the dining room, leaving Aaron to wonder what had gotten the angel so riled.

“So you’re not the Chosen One, then?” Gabriel said, distracting him from his thoughts.

“I thought you were asleep,” Aaron said, leaning back in his chair and watching the doorway to the kitchen.

“You’d be surprised what I hear when I’m asleep.”

“He doesn’t think that it’s me. It’s no big deal. I always knew there was a chance that Camael was full of it.” He looked at his dog lying on the floor by his chair.

“What does this mean for us now?” Gabriel asked earnestly.

Aaron shrugged. “I don’t really know,” he said, for the first time in a long while considering a future that didn’t involve the angelic prophecy. “I guess it means we can get out of here and get back to finding Stevie.”

“Do you think Camael will come with us?”

Aaron didn’t get a chance to answer, for at that moment Belphegor and Scholar returned to the room. There was a strange look upon the old angel’s face and Aaron saw that he was holding Scholar’s notebook. It was open and Aaron could see parts of drawings that he recognized, sketches of the symbols that appeared on his body when he allowed his angelic essence to emerge.

“Is everything all right?” Aaron asked. As of late, fearing the worst had become as natural to him as breathing. It wasn’t the greatest way to be, but at least he was always prepared.

“Were you serious about being taught, about wanting to learn?” Belphegor questioned.

Aaron nodded, not quite sure what he was getting himself into.

Belphegor handed the notebook and its drawings back to Scholar. “We’ll begin your training immediately.”