Reckoning

CHAPTER TWELVE

Aaron thought it had missed him.

He had hesitated for only a moment as he struggled with the idea that he could finally put this madness to rest once and for all. But the look upon the Malakim’s face—the intensity in his dark, soulful gaze—had told him that he should leave, that perhaps a being that had lived for millions of years might have a better idea of the big picture than he did.

He honestly believed that Verchiel’s spear of fire had passed harmlessly through the air where he and his friends had been standing moments before, confident his new abilities were far superior to the fiery weapon of the Powers commander. Aaron remembered closing his wings, hugging Lehash and Gabriel tightly against him and thinking of Aerie—seeing it as clear as day in his head. They had gotten away, free and clear.

Or so he thought.

With deadly accuracy, the spear made from the fires of Heaven had found its target.

He had made it back to Aerie, unfurling his wings and releasing his friends, before falling to his knees. Aaron couldn’t seem to catch his breath, his body strangely numb, but he could hear everything they were saying. Lorelei was there, demanding to know what had happened as she knelt over him in the street. Lehash was close by, explaining the attack upon the Malakim’s lair.

Aaron guessed that Lorelei was using some kind of magick on him, for he could feel her hands upon his chest probing at where he imagined the spear had nailed him. It really didn’t hurt too badly; in fact he didn’t feel much pain at all. Maybe I’m just tired from all the running around, he thought.

Gabriel was with him, nervously panting in his ear. Aaron wanted to tell his friend that everything was going to be all right, that he was fine, but for some reason he couldn’t talk.

Everyone around him seemed to be in a panic.

Maybe I should be worried, he thought, but then dismissed it as foolish. He was fine; they would have him fixed up in no time.

They were carrying him now, bringing him to Lorelei’s house. That was good, he thought as a heavy fatigue closed in around him. All he needed was some rest, and then he would be fine.

All he needed was rest.

“He looks dead,” Gabriel said flatly, sitting beside his master’s bed. He had been by Aaron’s side since they’d returned from their mission, scrutinizing every twitch, every movement—of which there was very little. This worried the dog, for Aaron was a very restless sleeper, and to see him lying so still was greatly disturbing.

“But he’s not,” Lorelei said, reaching down to scratch behind the dog’s ear.

Gabriel moved his head away, too distracted for the affection of others. “I know he’s not dead,” he replied, his eyes never leaving Aaron. “Believe me, I’d know. I’m a dog; I’d smell it. Death has a very strong smell.”

They both fell silent. Lorelei leaned over to check Aaron’s bandage as Gabriel watched closely. There had been very little blood, the intense heat of the spearhead cauterizing the wound almost instantly. She had put something on the injury, something that smelled very strange, very bitter. She had told him that it was an old medicine made from a root of the Tree of Knowledge, from a place called Eden. Gabriel didn’t care for its scent—it made him sneeze and his eyes water—but if it was going to help Aaron, it was fine with him.

Vilma, on the other hand, was doing much better. The contents of the vial that Raphael had given Aaron seemed to be exactly what the girl had needed. The angelic essence had calmed almost immediately, and it appeared that she was going to be all right.

Gabriel was suddenly frustrated. He loved Vilma very much and certainly did not want anything bad to happen to her. But if she got well and Aaron didn’t, how would he feel toward her then? The dog pushed the thoughts aside, returning his attentions to his master.

“When will we know if he’ll live?” Gabriel asked Lorelei as she continued to examine Aaron’s wound.

The Nephilim gently replaced the bandage and moved away. “He’s comfortable,” she said with a slight shrug of her shoulders. “I’m keeping the wound clean to prevent any infection.”

“But when will we know?” the dog barked, his demeanor far angrier than he had intended. He lowered his head, ashamed, his ears going flat against his blocky skull. “I’m sorry I barked,” he apologized. “I’m just worried.”

“It’s all right,” Lorelei said with understanding, reaching to stroke his head again. This time he didn’t pull away. “We’ve done all we can do.”

“So we have to wait?” Gabriel turned to her as she continued to pet the short, velvety fur atop his head.

Lorelei nodded. “Afraid so.”

He went back to watching Aaron, the very faint rise and fall of his chest, wishing with all his might for him to be well again.

“I’m going to go grab something to eat,” Lorelei said. “Would you like to come with me?”

“No, thank you. I think I’ll just stay here with him.” Gabriel slowly lowered his face to rest his chin upon the bed near Aaron’s frighteningly still hand. “I’m not feeling very hungry.”

The door that held back the outcome of the Morningstar’s hellish folly shook violently on its psychic hinges.

It wanted out.

The great vault door moaned as it slowly began to bulge outward. All that remained was the steel itself: the locks, bolts, and chains, all broken by the fury of the maelstrom railing behind it.

Lucifer was alone now. Taylor was gone. She had left him when the pain in his chest had become too great, as if she couldn’t bear to see what was going to happen.

No, he thought, on his knees before the psychic blockade. I can’t let it out.

He concentrated upon the battered door and saw that there were new locks, sliding bolts, and thick black chains, all strong—or stronger than what had been there before.

Hell will not be released this day, the first of the fallen angels told himself, finding the strength to climb to his feet before the obstacle that separated the world from holocaust. All the pain, misery, and sorrow that he was responsible for would stay within him, where it belonged, where it had been placed. He’d always found it strangely amusing that the punishment given unto him by God had somehow managed to become a thing of legend in the human world—an actual place of eternal damnation for those who sinned against their chosen religious faith. Gehenna, Sheol, Ti Yu, Jahannam, Hades, Hell—so many names for what was his and his alone to bear.

The force upon the other side intensified, and he was hurled backward by the savagery of its furor. His new, stronger restraints were ripped away, tossed into the darkness, ineffective against the relentless onslaught delivered against the psychic representation of God’s Word.

The Morningstar crawled to his feet, trying again to reinforce the barrier, but the sharp, biting agony in his chest drove him to his knees. He looked down and saw the wound. A bloody, twelve-inch gash had appeared there, and the sight of it filled him with trepidation. He was growing weaker, his strength draining from the vertical opening carved in his center.

The door shuddered and vibrated within its frame, and Lucifer watched in mute horror as the top right corner started to bend outward, the steel moaning and squealing its objection.

“Please, God, no,” Lucifer hissed, throwing himself at the door, pressing his body against it. The pain, guilt, and sorrow of what his jealousy caused had grown stronger through the millennia, and he had always found the strength to keep it at bay within himself, for this was his designated burden. Now he tried with all his might to will that barrier stronger, to add his mental strength to God’s original penance, but could feel the awful vibrations of an unstoppable force through the many inches of what should have been super-strong metal.

From the twisted corner he first saw it, a tendril of luminescent vapor. Lucifer knew this thing intimately. It had been a part of him for what seemed like forever, fused to his angelic essence since his fall from grace. He knew its rage, its sorrow, and its infinite cruelty, and despaired for the fate of God’s world if it were allowed to be free.

“Don’t let this happen,” he prayed, his faced pressed against the trembling metal, and he was glad that Taylor, even though a creation of his mind, was no longer there to witness his horrendous failure. “Please,” he begged as the door buckled and the metal twisted. And he had just about given up all hope of stopping the deluge of Hell from flooding the world.

When there came a voice.

“Looks like you could use a hand here,” it said, and Lucifer turned to gaze into the face of salvation.

It was a nice face—with his eyes.

Verchiel listened intently to the powerful arcane words stolen from the minds of the Malakim as they spilled from the lips of the Archon faithful. It is only a matter of time, the Powers commander thought, amused that he was actually even aware of time’s passage. He had existed since the dawn of creation and had never really given the concept much thought, until now.

The three remaining Archon magicians stood within the mystical circle beneath the suspended form of Verchiel’s prisoner, his instrument of retribution. Everything was proceeding smoothly, the pieces of his mechanism for vengeance falling ideally into place, almost as if it were meant to be. As if He knows that He must be punished for what He has allowed to transpire.

The Archons droned on, the pilfered knowledge of the Malakim helping to unravel the edict of God. Lucifer moaned in the grip of unconsciousness as the magickal obstructions holding back his punishment were methodically peeled away. The first of the fallen angels was fighting them, but Verchiel would have expected no less from one that had been the Creator’s most beloved—and greatest disappointment.

The Powers leader stepped closer to the arcane ritual, careful not to open his own wounds that had finally stopped bleeding. “Give in, Morningstar,” he urged the fallen angel. “Accept your responsibility, not only for the fall of Heaven, but now for the ruin of mankind as well.”

He strolled around the mystical circle, around his despised adversary, the one whose corruption had acted as a cancer, eating away at Verchiel’s holy mission—at everything that defined his purpose in The Most Holy’s blessed scheme of things. “The pain you must have experienced these countless millennia, my brother,” Verchiel cooed. “Now you have a chance to be free of it—to let your punishment be shared by all who have sinned.”

Lucifer thrashed in his chains, droplets of perspiration raining from his abused body to be absorbed by the soil of Heaven that comprised the magickal circle below him. His mouth trembled as he strained to speak.

“What is it, brother?” Verchiel asked in a soft whisper. He leaned closer, eager to hear his prisoner voice his agony, perhaps even a plea for mercy. “Speak to me. Share with me your woes.”

The fallen angel spoke. It was but two words, and spoken so softly that the leader of the Powers was not quite sure that he had heard it correctly.

“What was that again, Lucifer Morningstar?” Verchiel asked, leaning even closer to the first of the fallen’s cracked and trembling lips.

“Thank you.”

Verchiel recoiled as if struck. Is this some kind of perverse game the criminal is playing? he wondered. Some bizarre way to show his strength? His superiority? It is all for naught if that be the case.

“You thank me for this, monster?” he raged, feeling his own wounds begin to weep again. “For the torment you now endure?” His voice trembled with fury.

Lucifer was struggling to remain conscious, his eyes slowly rolling back in his head as the lids gradually began to fall.

“Tell me!” Verchiel shrieked, reaching in to the confines of the magickal circle to grab the fallen angel by his short, curly hair and yank his head toward him.

Lucifer’s eyes snapped wide and a demented grin bloomed upon his tormented features.

“Tell me,” Verchiel hissed again.

“If not for this … for you,” the Morningstar whispered, “I would never have met my son.”

The mouse’s stomach ached from hunger. It had not foraged for food since its friend had been brought here to this room. It couldn’t, not while the man was being tormented so.

In the shadows the mouse cowered, afraid to move. There was something in the air here, something unnatural that made its tiny heart flutter like a moth attempting to escape the spider’s web. Every one of its primitive instincts screamed for it to run, that here was certain death. But it remained—afraid to abandon the one who had befriended it. Loyal to a fault.

They were hurting its friend again. The mouse did not want to watch, but could not tear its eyes away. It yearned to do something, anything to help the one who had shown it such friendship, but its tiny mind could not even begin to fathom what that something might be. It did not have the size or ferocity to frighten the larger, more powerful creatures, or the strength in its jaws to gnaw upon the thick metal chains. So it cowered in the shadows, watching and afraid.

Too small to matter.

Aaron wasn’t sure what he expected of the fallen angel that was his father. He was Lucifer, after all, and all kinds of crazy stuff had passed through his mind: red skin, pencil-thin mustache, goatee, cloven hooves, horns, pointed tail, pitchfork. He was curious but never expected the answers to be imminent.

He knew that he was unconscious, in some dark, inner place, alone, or so he had believed. He had wandered through the shadows for quite sometime, descending deeper and deeper into the inner world of darkness, until he heard the cries for help.

“Please, God, no.”

Instinctively Aaron moved toward the sound of the plaintive voice, cutting through the ocean of black.

“Don’t allow this to happen.”

In the distance he saw a man standing before an enormous metal door, pressing himself against its surface, as if trying to keep it from opening.

“Please,” the stranger begged as something pounded and railed upon the other side.

Aaron felt compelled to help the man and tentatively approached. But as the man turned to face him, a smile that could only be described as euphoric spread across his handsome yet strained features. And in that moment Aaron knew this stranger’s identity.

This was Lucifer Morningstar, the first of the fallen.

His father.

“I’m not sure how long he can hold out,” Aaron muttered, opening his eyes and gazing up at the cracked and stained ceiling of the bedroom where he had been staying since coming to Aerie.

“You’re awake,” Gabriel said over and over again, licking his face, head, ears, and hands with abandon. “You’re awake. You’re awake. You’re awake.”

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been unconscious. Gabriel’s affection could not be used as an accurate gauge. There were days Aaron had gone out to get something from his car and been met with the same kind of exuberant greetings, as if he had not seen the Lab in months.

Aaron pulled the dog’s face away from his, scratching him behind the ears. “Hey, fella,” he said. “Nice to see you, too. How long was I out?”

“About two days,” answered a voice as the bedroom door opened and Lorelei walked in carrying a tray loaded with medical supplies. She placed the tray atop the dresser and retrieved a bottle of antiseptic, bandages, some cotton balls, and a roll of tape.

“I thought it was at least a week,” Gabriel said as he lay down beside his master, rump pressed tightly against Aaron’s side.

“It really is true what they say about animals having no concept of time,” Lorelei said, sitting on the bed and carefully peeling the bandage from his bare chest.

“He has a tendency to exaggerate,” Aaron said. “Will I live?”

“It was touch and go there for a while,” she said honestly, examining the wound. “But it seems that you’ve healed up pretty well.” She dabbed at the still-tender puncture in his chest with a cotton ball soaked in antiseptic. “Lehash told us what you did, hanging around a bit too long after the shit hit the fan. Very stupid, Aaron Corbet. If you’re not careful, they’ll revoke your savior’s license.” She placed a new bandage over the wound and taped it down.

“How’s Vilma?” he asked, throwing off the thin sheet that covered him, starting to rise from the bed.

“Hey,” the female Nephilim protested. “She’s resting comfortably, which is exactly what you should be doing.” She halfheartedly tried to push him back, but had little success.

Aaron felt a bit weak and dizzy, and placed his hand against the wall to steady himself. “There’s no time for that,” he said, waiting for the room to settle. “I’m not sure how much longer he can hold out.” He moved to his duffel bag to dig out a new shirt.

“You said that before.” Gabriel was still lying on the bed. “Who are you talking about?”

Aaron slipped a red T-shirt over his head and gently pulled it down over his chest, so as not to disturb the bandage. “While I was out, I went someplace,” he said, putting on his socks and sneakers. “Inside here,” his hands fluttered around the sides of his head before beginning to tie his sneakers. “And I met my father—I met Lucifer.”

“You met the Morningstar?” Lorelei asked in shock.

Gabriel bounded from the bed to join Aaron by the door. “Was he nice?” he asked, tail wagging.

“I met him, and now I know what Verchiel is up to,” Aaron said, leaving the bedroom. “And it’s pretty horrible.”

“Are you up for this, Aaron?” Lorelei asked as she followed him to the front door. “You almost died, and here you are running off again.”

He stopped and stared at her, not really sure what to say.

“There’s an awful lot riding on you and—”

“And none of it will matter if Verchiel has his way,” Aaron interrupted.

Lorelei looked as though she might protest, but clearly thought better of it. “Promise me you’ll be careful,” she said instead.

“I’ll be careful.”

The woman nodded. “Good. You’re the first savior I’ve ever had for a friend, and I’d hate to have to find another.”