Aerie

CHAPTER EIGHT

Belphegor walked among his crops and in the primitive language of the bug, kindly asked them to leave his vegetables. Purging his gardens of toxic residue was like placing neon signs in front of all his plants, welcoming the various insects. But he hadn’t forgotten them. There was an area of garden he had grown especially for the primitive life forms, and he invited them to partake of that particular bounty. The insects did as he asked, some flying into the air in a buzzing cloud, while others tumbled to the rich earth, heading for a more appropriate place to dine. The bugs did not care where they ate, as long as they were allowed to feed.

The angel thanked the simple creatures and turned his attention to a pitcher of iced tea that was waiting for him atop a rusted patio table in the center of the yard. He strolled casually through the grass, his bare feet enjoying the sensation of the new, healthy plant life. Removing the poisons from the backyards of Ravenschild brought him great pleasure, although those same toxins were beginning to wear upon his own body. The angel poured himself a glass from the pitcher of brown liquid and gazed out over his own little piece of paradise as he drank. This yard, of all the yards in Aerie, was one of his favorites. He had made it his own and it was good again. If only it was as simple for those who had fallen from God’s grace.

And then came that odd feeling of excitement he’d experienced since first viewing the manifestation of Aaron Corbet’s angelic self. Is it possible? Could he dare to believe that after all this time, after so many false hopes, the prophecy might actually come true?

Belphegor sipped his bitter brew, enjoying the sensation of the cold fluid as it traveled down his throat. He would not allow himself to be tricked; there was too much—too many—relying upon him, to be caught up in a wave of religious fervor. But he had to admit, there was something about this Nephilim, something wild, untamed, that inspired both excitement and fear.

The teaching had been going reasonably well. The boy was eager to learn, but his angelic nature was rough, rebellious, and if they were not careful, a deadly force could be unleashed upon them—upon the world. But that was a worry for another time. The air in a far corner of the yard began to shimmer, a dark patch forming at the center of the distress. There was sound, very much like the inhalation of breath, and the darkness blossomed to reveal its identity. Wings that seemed to be made from swaths of solid night unfurled, the shape of the boy nestled between them. He looked exhausted, yet exhilarated, a cocky smile on his young face.

“That took longer than I expected,” Belphegor said, feigning disinterest as he reached for the pitcher of iced tea and refilled his glass. “Was there a problem?”

Aaron suppressed his angelic nature, the sigils fading, the wings shrinking to nothing upon his back. In his hand he held a rolled newspaper and whacked it against the palm of his other hand as he walked toward the old angel. “No problems,” he said, tossing the paper onto the patio table where it unrolled to reveal the Chinese typesetting. It was The People’s Daily. “I didn’t have any Chinese money to buy one, so I had to wait until somebody threw this away.”

The boy smiled, exuding a newfound confidence. He was learning fast, but there was still much to do—and so many ways in which things could go wrong.

“How was the travel?” Belphegor asked before taking another sip of tea. He had taught the youth a method of angelic travel requiring only the wings on his back and an idea of where he wanted to go.

“It was amazing,” Aaron said. There was another glass on the table and he reached for it. “I did exactly what you said.” He poured a full glass, almost spilling it in his excitement. “I pictured Beijing in my head, from those travel books and magazines, and I told myself that was where I wanted to be.”

Belphegor nodded, secretly impressed. There had been many a Nephilim that couldn’t even begin to grasp the concept, never mind actually do it.

“It was pretty cool,” Aaron continued. “I saw it in my head, wrapped myself in my wings, and when I opened them up again, I was there.” He gulped down his iced tea.

“And did anyone notice your arrival?”

Aaron tapped the remainder of the ice cubes in his glass into his open mouth and began to crunch noisily. “Nope,” he said between crunches. “I didn’t want anybody to see me—so they didn’t.”

Belphegor turned away and strolled back toward his plants and vegetables, leaving Aaron alone by the table. Absently he began to harvest some ripened cucumbers. The boy was advancing far more quickly than any Nephilim he had ever encountered. But the next phase of training was crucial, and the most dangerous. Despite his affinity, Belphegor wasn’t sure if Aaron was ready.

“So what now?” he heard Aaron ask behind him.

Belphegor stopped and turned, cucumbers momentarily forgotten. “We’re done for the day,” he said dismissively.

“But it’s still early,” the Nephilim said, genuine eagerness in his voice. “Isn’t there something more you can show me before—”

“The next phase of development is the investigation of your inner self,” the angel interrupted.

“Okay,” Aaron responded easily. “Let’s do it.”

“Do you think you’re ready for a trip inside here?” Belphegor tapped Aaron’s chest. “It’s going to be a lot harder than a jaunt to Beijing.”

Aaron’s expression became more serious, as if the angel’s cautioning words had stirred something—some shaded information hidden in the back of Aaron’s mind, about to be dragged out into the light.

“If you think you’re ready, prepared to find out who you are … what you are,” Belphegor said cryptically, holding the boy in an unwavering gaze, “then, we’ll begin. But I’m not entirely sure you’ll be happy with what you learn.”

Verchiel gazed upon the unconscious female who had been laid on the floor before him. “Can you sense it as I can?” he asked the prisoner in the hanging cage across the room. “Like a newly emerging hatchling, fighting against the shell of its humanity. It wants so desperately to be free of its confines, to blossom and transform its fragile human vessel into the horror it is destined to be.”

The leader of the Powers shifted his weight uncomfortably in the high-backed wooden chair. Though finally healing, the burns that he had received in his first confrontation with the Nephilim still caused him a great deal of discomfort. “It sickens me,” Verchiel spat, his eyes riveted to the girl at his feet. “I should kill the wretched thing now.”

“But you won’t,” wheezed the prisoner, still weak. “You took the trouble to bring her here, I gather she’s going to play a part in whatever new trick you have up your sleeve. Maybe bait, to lure the Nephilim into a trap?”

Verchiel turned his attention from the girl to the prisoner. “Are you learning to think like me?” he asked with a humorless smile. “Or am I starting to think like you?”

The prisoner raised himself to a sitting position. “I’m not sure that even in my darkest days I could muster such disregard for innocent life.”

“Innocent life?” the leader of the Powers asked as he studied the creature before him. “So simple—so defenseless—one can almost see why the Creator was so taken with them.”

The female moaned softly in the grip of oblivion.

“But looks can be deceiving, can they not?” He nudged the girl with his foot. “There is a monster inside you just waiting to come out, isn’t there, girl?”

The captive gripped the bars of his cage, hands pink with a fresh layer of skin. “A little bit of the pot calling the kettle black, don’t you think, Verchiel?” he asked. “After all you’ve done of late, do you really believe she deserves the title of monster?”

Verchiel tilted his head in thought as he studied the girl lying before him. “I am not without a certain measure of pity for the misfortune of her birth. She cannot help what she is, but it does not change the fact that the likes of her kind should not exist.”

“And who exactly provided you with this information?” the captive asked. “ ‘Cause it looks as though I might have missed the announcement.”

“It was never intended for our kind to lay with animals,” Verchiel growled, the concept flooding him with feelings of revulsion. “The proof is in these monstrosities—animals with the power of the divine. I cannot imagine it was ever a part of the Creator’s plan.”

“And you being so close to God and all, you’ve taken it upon yourself to clear up the problem.”

“As impudent as ever,” Verchiel said, sliding from the chair to kneel beside the unconscious girl. “One would think that after all this time you would have learned some modicum of respect for the One you so horribly wronged.”

“This has nothing to do with Him, Verchiel,” the prisoner stressed, “and everything to do with your twisted perception of right and wrong.”

Verchiel stifled the urge to lash out at his captive, focusing instead on the task at hand. “Right and wrong,” he hissed, as he pushed up the girl’s shirt to reveal the dark, delicate skin of her young stomach. “What is coming to fruition inside this poor creature is wrong.”

The fingers of Verchiel’s hand began to glow, and he lightly touched her stomach, burning her flesh in five places. Even within the hold of unconsciousness the female cried out, writhing in agony as her flesh sizzled and wisps of oily smoke curled up from the burns.

“I know what I do is right,” he said. “There is a bond between the Nephilim and this female, a bond that will only be made stronger with the realization that they are of the same kind.”

Verchiel could sense the essence of angel coiled inside the young woman, still not fully awake. The pain would draw it closer, forcing it to blossom sooner. He again reached down and touched her stomach, leaving his fingertips upon the fragile flesh just a bit longer. The fluids within the skin sputtered, crackled, and popped with his hellish caress.

The girl was moaning and crying now, still not fully awake, but the power inside her was growing stronger, calling out to others of its ilk for help.

“That’s it,” Verchiel cooed, inhaling the acrid aroma of burning skin. “Summon the great hero to your side so that I may destroy him and the dreams he inspires.”

It was like the dreams… No, nightmares, he had been having before the change.

But Aaron was not asleep.

Belphegor had done this. He had taken Aaron into his home, telling him he had to learn the origins of the angelic essence that had become a part of him. He had made him drink a mug of some awful-tasting concoction from a boiling pot on the stove. It tasted like garbage and smelled even worse, but the old fallen angel had said that it would help Aaron to travel inside himself, to experience the genesis of the power that wanted so desperately to reshape him.

Aaron had choked down the foul liquid and sat upon the living-room floor, while Belphegor took his place in the recliner and began to read The People’s Daily. At first Aaron was concerned that nothing was happening, but the old fallen angel had looked over the top of the paper and told him to wait for the poison to take effect.

Poison?

Yes, Belphegor had indeed given him poison—the impending death of his human aspect would allow his angelic nature to assume control, Belphegor explained before going back to the news of China.

A stabbing pain had begun in the pit of his stomach. An unnatural warmth radiated from the center of the intense agony and spread through his extremities, numbing them. Aaron found that he could no longer sit up and fell to his side on the cold wooden floor.

He was finding it hard to stay conscious, but could still hear Belphegor encouraging him to hold on, warning him not to succumb fully to the poison coursing through his body. Aaron had to find the source of his essence’s power; then wrest control away from the strengthening angelic might, and use it to complete the unification of the dual natures that existed within him.

What if I’m not strong enough? Aaron had asked. And the old angel had looked at him grimly and said that without the anchor of his humanity, the angelic essence within him would surely run amok and destroy them all.

At first there was only darkness and the burning warmth of the poison, but then he saw it there, writhing in the black sea of his gradual demise. When Aaron had last seen it, the power had taken the shapes of various creatures of creation. Now it had matured into a beautiful winged creature, humanoid in shape, with skin the color of the sun and eyes as cool and dark as the night. They were family in a strange kind of way, he thought, and it drew him close, wrapping him in its embrace, flowing over and into him as if liquid, and when he opened his eyes, he was somewhere else entirely.

The pain of the poison was gone and Aaron found himself standing in a vast field of tall grass the color of gold. A warm gentle breeze smelling of rich spice caressed the waving plains. Far off in the distance he could just about make out the shape of a vast city, but there were sounds nearby that pulled his attention away from the metropolis. He turned and walked toward a hill, the sound of a voice carried on the wind drawing him closer.

He reached the top of the rise and peered down into a clearing, where an army had been gathered. They were angels, hundreds of angels garbed in armor polished to gleaming, and they stood unmoving, enraptured as they listened to one of their own. Clearly their leader, he paced before them, words of inspiration spilling from his mouth, and Aaron could see why they would have pledged their allegiance. There was something about him, a charisma that was impossible to deny.

As beautiful as the morning stars, he heard a voice whisper at the back of his mind, and he could not disagree.

And then the leader, the Morningstar, walked among his troops laying his hand upon each and every one of them, and as he touched them, bestowing upon them a special gift, weapons of fire sprang to life in their grasp, and they were ready to fight.

Ready for war.

Aaron experienced a sudden wave of vertigo, as if the world around him were being yanked away to be replaced by another time, another place, and he struggled to remain standing. He was on a battlefield now, surrounded by the unbridled carnage that was war. Soldiers he had watched rallied by the Morningstar were battling an army of equal savagery. He saw Camael and Verchiel fighting side by side against the Morningstar’s army. The screams of the dying and the maimed filled the air as blazing swords hacked away limbs and snuffed out life, and angels fell helplessly from the sky, their wings consumed by flames of heavenly fire.

It was horrible; one of the most awesome yet disturbing sights he had ever seen. He wanted to turn away, to pull his eyes from the scenes of brutality, the broken and burning bodies of angels, the golden grass trampled, the ground stained with the dark blood of the heavenly. But it was everywhere; no matter where he looked, there was death.

Aaron’s eyes were suddenly drawn to the Morningstar, his sword of fire hacking a swath through the opposing forces. His army was vanquished, but still he fought on, flaxen wings spread wide, slashing his way toward a tower made of glass, crystal maybe, that seemed to go up into the sky forever. The angel was screaming and there were tears on his face. Aaron could feel his sadness, for the sorrow that permeated the atmosphere of this place was so strong as to be nearly palpable.

The Morningstar screamed up at the crystalline tower, shaking his armored fist and demanding that He who sits on high come down to face him. And with wings beating air ripe with the smells of bloodshed, he began to ascend. The skies grew dark, thick with roiling clouds of gunmetal gray, and thunder rumbled ominously, causing the very environment to tremble. But the Morningstar continued to rise, flying steadily upward, sword of fire brandished in his grip, unhindered by the threat of storm.

Aaron could feel it before it actually happened, as if the air itself had become charged with electricity. He wanted to warn the beautiful soldier, but it was too late. A bolt of lightning resembling a long, gnarled finger, reached down from the gray, endless clouds and touched the warrior of Heaven. There was a flash of blinding light, and the Morningstar tumbled, burning, from the sky.

Stay down, Aaron whispered as he watched the figure twitch and then force himself to rise.

The Morningstar swayed upon legs charred black, and another blade of fire appeared in his hand. Again he looked up at the glass tower and raised his sword in defiance. “How?” he shrieked pitifully through a mouth now nothing more than a blackened hole. “How can you love them more than us?”

With wings still afire, he leaped back into the air, but his ascent was slower than before. The heavens growled with menace, as if displeased by his defiance, and birdlike shrieks filled the world. Aaron watched as the soldiers of the opposing army attacked the Morningstar, grabbing at his injured form, pulling him back to the ground, where they pitilessly set upon him with their weapons of fire.

He could feel the Morningstar’s pain, every jab, every stab of the soldiers’ searing blades, as if the attacks were being perpetrated upon him. Aaron fell to the ground, his eyes transfixed upon the violence before him, the blood of vanquished angels seeping through the knees of his pants.

Numbness had invaded his body, and he fought to stay conscious—to stay alive. But the darkness had him again in its grasp, and it pulled him below to a place where he could die in peace, the very same place that the angelic essence had resided before it had come awake on his eighteenth birthday. This was where he would slip from life, allowing the angelic power total mastery of his fragile human shell.

For a brief moment Aaron was convinced that this was the right thing for him to do. In this deep place of shadow there was no worry, no irritating mysteries of angelic powers, there was only comforting peace. Escape from the responsibilities heaped upon him by ancient prophecy.

“Aaron! He’s hurting me!”

Aaron’s tranquility was suddenly shattered by a cry for help, a desperate plea that echoed in the darkness. He tried to ignore it, but there was something about the voice that stirred within him a desire to live.

“Where are you, Aaron? He’ll keep hurting me unless you come.”

“Vilma,” Aaron whispered within the constricting cocoon of shadow, and opened his eyes to a vision of the girl he believed he loved in the clutches of Verchiel. It was but a flash of sight, but it was enough to stir him from the comforting embrace of his impending death.

“Please! Aaron!”

The angelic essence fought to keep him submerged in the depths of oblivion, but Vilma needed him, Stevie and the fallen needed him, and he felt ashamed that he had even considered giving in. The closer he got to awareness, the more he felt the painful effects the poison had wrought upon his body, and he was reminded of, and inspired by, the Morningstar, burned black by the finger of God, but still he fought on.

Aaron came awake on his knees, now in the kitchen of Belphegor’s home, his body wracked with bone-snapping convulsions. He pitched forward and vomited up the poison. Slowly he raised his head, wiping the remains of the revolting fluid that dribbled down his chin, to see Belphegor leaning forward on a wooden chair, offering him a white paper napkin.

“What did you see?” the angel asked, a gleam of excitement in his ancient eyes.

“Vilma.” Aaron struggled to stand.

“Who?”

“I have to go to her,” Aaron said, the familiar feeling of dread he’d been carrying since his life so dramatically changed replacing the nausea in his stomach.

“He has her. Verchiel has her.”