Aerie

CHAPTER SEVEN

Camael sat on the forest green, metal bench in the tiny playground, his angel eyes detecting the resonance of things long past—ghosts of children and families who had once played here. It had been seven days since he and Aaron first arrived in Aerie, and the former leader of the Powers was having to deal with ghosts of his own. He thought of those he had destroyed during the conflict in Heaven, and those slain after the war when he was performing his duty as commander of the Powers host—obliterating those who were an offense to the Creator. Since finding Aerie, he’d been thinking of them more and more, their faces and death cries haunting his every moment.

Should I be allowed to stay here? he wondered. For if he had found this place before his change of heart, before the realization that the killing had to stop, he would have razed it, burned it to ash in a rain of heavenly fire—and God have mercy upon those he found living within its confines.

A crow cried overhead as it circled a gnarled and diseased tree growing to the side of the play area. Its caws voiced its uneasiness with the area, despite the fact that it was tired and wanted to rest. The animals knew that the Ravenschild development was poisoned, Camael realized; they could taste its taint on the air rising up from the earth. The place had the stink of man’s folly, and the blackbird, knowing it did not belong here, flew on in search of another place to rest its tired wings.

Do I belong? Camael deliberated. He had searched for Aerie for many hundreds of years, but had he actually earned a place here? The faces of those who fell before him were slowly pushed aside, replaced by those he had saved. He could still hear their plaintive words of thanks and feel their touches of gratitude. Despite the violence he had wrought in the ancient past, he had still managed to do some good, and he would need to hold on to that as a drowning man would latch on to debris adrift in storm-wracked seas.

And what about the Creator? His mind frothed with questions for which he did not have answers. Does He look upon me with disdain, or pity? When the time comes, will I be permitted to go home?

The sound of claws upon the tar path interrupted the angel’s musings, and he turned to see Gabriel trotting toward him.

“Camael, have you seen Aaron?” the dog asked, stopping before the bench.

The angel shook his head. “Not since this morning. I believe he is still with Belphegor.”

“It figures,” Gabriel responded morosely.

“Is there a problem?” Camael asked, curious in spite of himself.

The dog hopped up onto the bench and sat beside him. “He’s never around anymore. I see him early in the morning when he takes me out and gets my breakfast, but then he’s gone all day and he’s too tired to play when he gets back.”

Camael slid over on the bench, away from the dog. He and Gabriel had developed a grudging respect for each other, but he still did not like to be too close to the animal. “I believe that Belphegor is attempting to train Aaron in the use of his angelic abilities.”

“And that’s something else I don’t understand,” said the dog indignantly. “First they think Aaron is a lost cause and now they can’t seem to get enough of him. Besides, I thought you were training Aaron.”

“It would seem that Belphegor and the others have at last seen in Aaron what I found several weeks ago,” Camael explained. “What that something is I cannot tell you, but it was enough to gain their trust and free us from those damnable restraints.” The angel unconsciously rubbed at his wrists where the magickal manacles had recently been removed.

They were silent for a moment, two unlikely comrades pondering a similar mystery.

“I miss him, Camael,” Gabriel said as he gazed into the playground. “I feel as if I’m losing him.”

“If Aaron is indeed the One foretold of in prophecy, you are losing him to something far larger than your simple emotional needs. He will be the one that brings about our redemption—Heaven will open its arms to us again and welcome us home,” Camael said.

Gabriel turned his head to look at the angel. His animal eyes seemed darker somehow, intense with worry. “I don’t care about redemption,” the Labrador said with a tremble in his voice. “He was mine first; Aaron belongs to me.”

The primitive bond between humans and their domesticated animals was something that Camael had always struggled to understand. How had Aaron defined it for him during one of their seemingly endless drives? Unconditional love, he believed was how the boy had phrased it. The master was the animal’s whole world, and it would love its master no matter what. That was the strength of the bond. The angel found the level of loyalty quite amazing.

“Aaron does not belong to you alone, Gabriel,” Camael explained. “There are those around us now who have waited for his arrival for thousands of years. Would you deny them his touch?”

The dog bowed his head, golden brown ears pressed flat against his skull. “No,” Gabriel growled, “but who will take care of me if something happens to him?”

Camael had no idea how to respond. It was a variation of a question he had been wondering himself. If Aaron was indeed the Chosen, what fate would the fallen meet if Verchiel should succeed in his mad plans to see the Nephilim destroyed?

The two sat quietly on the bench, the weight of their questions heavy upon their thoughts, the answers as elusive as the future.

Lorelei stepped out the back door of the house she shared with Lehash, a steaming cup of coffee in one hand, searching for her father. She thought the constable had come outside, but he was nowhere to be seen. Since the strangers’ arrival, Lehash had become distant, uncommunicative, immersed in his work of keeping the citizens of Aerie safe, and she was becoming concerned.

Over the sound of the gas-powered generator that provided their electricity, she heard the reports of his guns, like small claps of thunder, rolling up from somewhere beyond the thick brush that surrounded the backyard. She started toward the sound, dipping her head beneath young saplings, careful not to spill the coffee as she maneuvered through the woods. Stepping into a man-made clearing, probably meant for development in years past, Lorelei stared at her father’s back as he fired at targets set up along the far side of the wide open space. The weapons discharged with a booming report, and several targets disintegrated in plumes of heavenly fire.

“Good shootin’, Tex,” she joked, letting him know that he was no longer alone.

Lehash slowly turned and regarded her with dark and somber eyes, smoking pistols of gold in each hand. It was a look common to the head constable of Aerie, a look that she herself was often accused of wearing. The angel Lehash took everything quite seriously.

“Practicing?” she asked, moving closer and holding out the steaming mug of coffee.

He pointed a pistol over his shoulder and fired. Lorelei jumped as an old teddy bear tied to a tree exploded in a cloud of burning stuffing.

“Well, it does make perfect,” he said, the slightest hint of a Texas twang in his voice. It never ceased to amuse her how he insisted on hanging on to the mannerisms and style of the old West. He’d explained that it had been his favorite time period during his countless years on Earth, and she guessed it was better than if he’d fallen in love with the Bronze age.

The golden pistols shimmered and disappeared into the ether with a flash of flame, and Lehash took the mug from her.

“And here I thought you were already perfect,” she said, placing her hands inside the front pockets of her jeans. “Guess you really do learn something new every day.”

He sipped at the coffee carefully, ignoring her good-natured barb. Something was bothering him, and now was as good a time as any to find out what.

“What’s the matter, Lehash?” she asked. “Something’s got your dander up even more than usual.”

The angel looked up into the early morning, powder blue sky, as if searching for something. “Belphegor’s been talking ‘bout how he thinks trouble’s coming.” He took another swig of coffee and glanced back to her. “I believe it’s already here.”

She was confused at first, but then realized the meaning of his words. “You can’t blame Aaron and Camael anymore. The deaths of other fallen have continued around the world since they’ve been here. And besides, reports that have trickled in say that the killer wears armor—blood-red armor.” Lorelei felt a chill creep down her spine and shivered.

“And our troubles are just beginning,” Lehash said, finishing the last of his drink. “Kind of like the early tremors I felt that morning in San Francisco in 1906—and we know how that one turned out.”

Lorelei sighed, her father often used historical catastrophes to make his points; the Hindenburg and Titanic disasters were quite popular with him, as were the Boxer Rebellion and World War II.

“Did you ever stop to think that their coming might be the beginning of something good?” she asked. “Y’know there’s talk among the citizens that…” Lorelei stopped, suddenly not sure if she should continue.

“Talk about what?” he asked, his voice a low rumble, its tone already telling her that he wasn’t going to care for what she had to say.

“That Aaron … that he might really be the One.”

Lehash scowled and handed her back the empty mug. The golden pistols formed in his hands again, and he turned away to resume his target practice.

“What’s the matter?” she asked. “What could possibly be wrong if that were true?”

Lehash did not answer her in words. Instead he began to fire his weapons repeatedly, with barely a moment between each of the thunderous blasts. The remaining targets disintegrated, as did the trees and branches that they had been positioned upon.

Then, as quickly as he had begun to fire, he stopped, whirling around to face her. “You haven’t seen what I’ve seen, Lore. I’ve been living for a very long time now, and the thought of some messiah suddenly making everything all better…” He shook his head.

Lorelei moved toward him, words of disbelief spilling from her lips. “Are you saying you don’t believe in the prophecy?” she asked incredulously. “The whole reason that Aerie even exists, and you don’t believe in it?”

He lowered the smoldering weapons, and held her in his steely gaze. “Aerie and its people are about the only things I do believe in these days.”

Lorelei was speechless. She had only learned of the prophecy on her arrival in Ravenschild, but the promise of something other than the harsh world that she’d grown up in had given her the strength to continue.

“I fought during the Great War, Lorelei,” he tried to explain. “And not on the winning side. I can’t believe that God—even one merciful and just—could ever begin to forgive us for the wrong we’ve done.”

She didn’t want to hear this; she didn’t want the hope that she kept protected deep inside her to be diminished in any way.

“The prophecy says—”

“Fairy stories,” he retorted. The guns had again disappeared, and he grasped her shoulders in a powerful grip. “What you’ve got to realize—what we’ve all got to realize—is the only thing we have to look forward to is a world of hurt, and not all the prophecies and teenage messiahs in the world are gonna keep it away.”

“But what if you’re wrong?” she asked, pulling away. “What if Aaron is the harbinger of better times?”

Lehash scowled. “If you believe that, then I have some serious doubts as to whether you really are my daughter.”

The words of a powerful angelic spell that would have caused the ground to split beneath the fallen angel and swallow him whole, danced at the edge of her mind. It was ready to spill from her lips, but Lorelei stopped herself, instead turning her back upon her parent and starting back to the house. As she made her way through the brush, a part of her wished for him to call after her, to apologize in a fatherly way for the harshness of his words, but the more realistic half got exactly what it expected.

He had begun his target practice again, the blasts of gunfire like the explosive precursor to an approaching storm.

Vilma Santiago felt her eyes grow increasingly heavy, the words of text in her literature book starting to blur. She refused to look at the clock, deluding herself into thinking that if she didn’t know the time, her body wouldn’t crave sleep as badly. She thought about taking another of the pills she had bought at the drugstore to keep herself awake, but she’d already had three, and the directions said no more than two were recommended.

She closed her literature book and slid it into the bag leaning against the side of her desk. Maybe if I can get ahead on my physics assignments, Vilma thought, pulling out the overly large book and placing it on the desk before her.

Vilma would do anything to stay awake, anything to avoid the dreams. Disturbing visions from her recurring nightmares flashed before her eyes, a staccato slideshow of images that seemed more like memories than the fantastic creations of a sleeping mind. She felt herself begin to slip into the fugue state that always preceded sleep, and spastically jumped from her chair. Pacing about her bedroom, she slapped at her cheeks, hoping that the sharp stabs of pain would give her a second wind. Or would this be my third? she wondered groggily.

“C’mon, Vilma,” she said aloud. “Stay awake.” From the corner of her eye she saw her bed and for a split second could have sworn that it was calling to her. “No,” she said. “No bed, you know what it means when you go to bed.” She continued to pace, swinging her arms and taking deep breaths.

As she walked around her room, Vilma saw that a pink envelope had fallen from her book bag when she’d removed her physics text. It was a birthday card from Tina, who wasn’t going to be in school the next day and hadn’t wanted to miss her friend’s big day. Vilma was going to be eighteen years old, but if it hadn’t been for Tina, she wouldn’t have even remembered. She retrieved the envelope and opened it. It was a typical Tina card. “I know what would make your birthday happy!” read the caption over a picture of a man wearing only unzipped blue jeans, his abs and pecs spectacularly oiled.

“You think so?” Vilma asked the card as she studied the handsome figure. She immediately thought of Aaron. It had been two weeks since his last e-mail and she was beginning to fear that she’d never hear from him again, that maybe he had found a new life somewhere, and no longer wanted reminders of the past he had left behind.

Vilma pushed the horrible thought from her head as she tossed the card into the plastic barrel beside her desk. He probably just hasn’t had a chance to get to a computer. In fact she wouldn’t be surprised if there was a message from him now. She had checked her e-mail just a few hours ago, but something told her that maybe Aaron had been in touch since then.

Vilma returned to her desk and turned on the computer. As she waited for the system to boot up, her thoughts stayed on the boy who had captured her heart. She wondered how he would react if she told him about her awful dreams and her fear of sleep—and would she even share the information with him in the first place? The answer to that was a simple one: of course she would. The way she felt about Aaron Corbet, she would have told him anything. It was as if they shared some strange kind of bond.

Maneuvering her mouse she clicked on the icon to connect to the Internet. Maybe he sent me an electronic greeting card, she thought happily and then realized that he probably didn’t even know that tomorrow was her birthday. From the living room downstairs, the old grandfather clock began to chime, and as she waited for her connection, Vilma found herself counting the tolls of the bell.

Bong! Bong! Bong! Bong! Bong! Bong! Bong! Bong! Bong! Bong! Bong!

The clock tolled midnight, and she saw that there were no messages from Aaron or anybody else. Vilma was overcome with disappointment and the realization that she was now a year older. She stared at the computer screen, wishing a message to appear, but it didn’t happen. “Happy Birthday to me,” she said sadly.

She prepared to disconnect from the Internet and her bleary eyes traveled to the right corner of the screen where it showed the time. The clock read 11:59 p.m. and she offhandedly wondered if the clock downstairs was fast, or her computer’s clock slow. Then, just as the disconnect message came up, the clock on her screen changed to 12:00 a.m. — and every one of her senses inexplicably came alive at once.

Vilma tossed her head violently back and the chair tipped over, spilling her onto the floor. The assault came upon her in waves. The sounds in her ears were deafening, a cacophony of noise through which she could just hear the panicked beat of her own heart and the swishing of blood through her veins.

What’s happening to me? Vilma thought as she struggled to her feet, her hands pressed tightly against the bludgeoning invasion of sound. Is this some kind of bizarre reaction to my lack of sleep, or the drugs I’ve taken? she frantically wondered. Smells were suddenly overpowering—cleaning products from the kitchen, wood stain from the basement, bags of garbage in the barrels outside. She gasped for breath. The light of the room was blinding, and she lashed out at the lamp on her desk, knocking it to the floor.

I’ve got to get help! Vilma panicked. She needed a hospital… She would wake her aunt and uncle…

Her hand was on the doorknob when she heard a voice from somewhere in the room behind her. “The seed of a seraph stirs to waking as the clock tolls twelve,” it said in a language that she had never heard before and should not have been able to understand—but did. “This new day is the day of your birth, I’d wager.”

The hairs at the back of Vilma’s neck bristled. She didn’t want to turn around, didn’t want to acknowledge this latest bit of insanity, but she could not help herself. As she slowly began to turn, a strange odor suddenly permeated the air. It smelled of rich spice and something rotten. It smelled of decay.

Vilma saw that there was a man inside her bedroom. He was dressed in dark clothes and wore a long raincoat despite the fact that it had not rained in weeks. His hair was long and combed back upon his head. His skin was deathly pale and seemed to glow in the limited light, and his eyes, if he had any, were lost within dark shadows that sat upon his face. Vilma had seen this mysterious figment of her madness before, perched in the tree outside her window: watching, waiting.

“You’re not real.”

“Think what you will,” he answered in the ancient tongue as he started toward her. “It is no concern of mine. My charge was to wait and watch for you to blossom—and that is exactly what you have started to do.”

She closed her eyes and wished the figure away, but still he moved toward her. A scream about to explode from her lips froze in her lungs, and Vilma watched in stunned silence as speckled wings of black and white gradually unfurled from the figure’s back.

“Come along, little Nephilim,” said the man who could only have been an angel. “My master has plans for you.”

He took her in his arms and the world around her began to spin. And as she fell into unconsciousness, Vilma Santiago wondered if she was being taken to meet with God.