Reckoning

CHAPTER SEVEN

Aaron stifled a cry of discomfort as Lorelei dabbed some salve on the wounds he sustained during his altercation with Vilma. It smelled absolutely horrible and stung even worse. But she had already chastised him once about being a baby, embarrassing him in front of Lehash, so he gritted his teeth and endured the pain.

“Are you almost done back there?” he asked.

“Just about,” she said as he felt her attach a dampened bandage to his shoulder. “That oughta take care of that.” She gently pressed the bandage against his burned skin. It felt cool—almost soothing—but then the throbbing was back.

“Until she loses it again,” Lehash added, pulling one of his foul-smelling cheroots from his duster pocket.

“That’s not the least bit funny.” Aaron glared at the angel.

“It wasn’t meant to be, boy,” the gunslinger said, lifting his index finger to the tip of the thin cigar in his mouth.

“Don’t you dare light that filthy thing in here,” Scholar bellowed from across the room. “The books will stink of it for months.” The angel was sitting at a small wooden desk, his back to them, as he continued to peruse the books he had gathered, hoping to find a solution to Vilma’s problem.

“And you wonder why I don’t visit,” Lehash grumbled, taking the cigar from his mouth and returning it to his pocket.

The mood was depressingly grim. Neither Lorelei nor Lehash held out much hope for Vilma, but Aaron wasn’t about to give up that easily. If anyone in Aerie could help her, it was Scholar.

The fallen angel threw up his hands in exasperation and rose from his seat. “I’ve found nothing,” he said, beginning to pace. “There’s plenty about Nephilim, but nothing on how to control them once they’re out of balance.”

Lehash leaned back against a bookcase and crossed his arms. “And you know why that is?” he asked. “Because there isn’t any way, and that’s one of the reasons why the Powers started killing Nephilim. The angelic essence is sometimes too much for the human aspect to deal with; it’s too strong and it takes control—makes ‘em crazy, dangerous.”

“She’s not crazy or dangerous,” Aaron grumbled, slipping on a fresh shirt.

“Right now she ain’t, and that’s only because we got her knocked out with one of Lorelei’s special potions, and wearing a pair’a them magickal bracelets. Hell, we even got that dog of yours over there trying to keep her from getting her feathers ruffled.”

Aaron’s thoughts raced. He didn’t like where this was going. There had to be something they could do to help her. “What about the ritual I went through with Belphegor?” he asked. “Wasn’t that to help my two natures unify properly? Why couldn’t we do that with—”

Scholar shook his head. “She’d never survive it. The angelic nature is already stronger than her human half. It would eat her alive and we’d have the same problem we started with: pure angelic power running amok.”

“And we can’t have that, Aaron,” Lehash said grimly. “It may not be what you want, but somethin’s got to be done before she gets outta hand again.”

Aaron shook his head. They’d already given up on her. “I’m not hearing this,” he said, turning to face them all. Lorelei wouldn’t make eye contact, arranging her bottles and vials of healing remedies in a pink, plastic makeup case. “I refuse to believe that there’s nothing we can do for Vilma, short of putting her down like some sick animal.”

They said nothing, refusing to provide him with even the slightest glimmer of hope.

“Lorelei,” Aaron said, watching as she visibly flinched, “with your angel magick, there’s nothing you can do that might help?”

She shook her head, finally meeting his gaze. “You’re talking about binding a divine essence. I haven’t the training or the knowledge to—”

Aaron suddenly clapped his hands and whirled toward Scholar. “The knowledge,” he repeated moving toward the angel. “Lorelei doesn’t have the knowledge, but maybe somebody else does.” He stopped short before the scholarly angel. “Who would have more knowledge than Lorelei? How did she learn what she knows? Who taught the magick user?”

Scholar shrugged his shoulders and tugged at his ear nervously. “Belphegor taught her quite a bit, and then there are books and scrolls. But Vilma’s problem, like I already told you, isn’t addressed in—”

“Who taught Belphegor?” Aaron persisted. “Who wrote the books and the scrolls?” He gestured to them for help. “C’mon guys, give me something—anything.”

“Most of what we have comes from the Archons,” Scholar said slowly.

“But what’s left of them hooked up with Verchiel and his Powers,” Lehash said stepping away from the bookcase.

Aaron felt his anger flare and struggled to prevent his wings from bursting forth and the sigils from rising upon his flesh. “Damn it,” he swore beneath his breath, feeling his own ray of hope beginning to dim.

“Who taught the Archons?” Lorelei said softly and they all looked at her, although Scholar and Lehash remained strangely silent.

“Well?” Aaron prodded. “The lady asked a question. Who taught the Archons?”

Scholar turned back to his books. “It’s too much of a long shot,” he said, stacking the texts. “I wouldn’t want you to get your hopes up.”

“Too late,” Aaron said walking to Scholar and gripping his arm. “Who are they?”

“You’re clutching at straws here, boy,” Lehash echoed. “We don’t have the time to be wastin’ on—”

Aaron whirled to glare at the gunslinger, this time letting the sigils of warriors that died serving the will of Lucifer appear on his flesh. “I don’t want to hear that,” he growled, and watched as Lehash backed down, averting his eyes.

“Who taught the Archons?” he asked Scholar firmly, and there would be no debate.

“They’re called the Malakim,” Scholar replied, an air of reverence in his tone. “And if you can’t get a meeting with the Lord God Almighty, then they’re the next best thing.

Do we truly understand what we are doing? Archon Oraios wondered as he lifted the lid of the golden chest containing the paraphernalia of their mystical art. Or have we been blinded by the obsession of the one that commands us—drawn into the web of his madness, no longer able to escape?

“Where is the dirt?” Archon Jao screeched, crouching within the circle of containment beneath Lucifer’s hanging body. The angel frantically checked and rechecked the metal clamps affixed to the first of the fallen’s chest to keep his incision pulled wide and taut. The bleeding had stopped sometime ago, and now the hint of a pulsing, red glow could be seen leaking from the splayed chest cavity. “I must have the dirt,” Jao demanded.

Archon Oraios continued to search. The bag of sacred earth was crucial to their preparations. It was soil from the fields of Heaven, a powerful component of angelic sorceries, used to fortify and maintain the strength of more dangerous magicks. A small, frightened part of him hoped to never find it, forcing them to abandon this dangerous and blasphemous ritual.

But alas, there it was—in a place he had already checked twice. Is a higher mystical force attempting to intervene, to prevent them from making a horrible mistake? he pondered.

“Did you find it?” Archon Domiel prodded, tension filling his voice.

With the death of their brother Jaldabaoth at the hands of the Malakim Raphael, their numbers were fewer, and all were feeling the strain.

Only one more Malakim remained, one final shard of forbidden information, and then they would do the unthinkable: reverse the Word of God. And a plague of despair, the likes of which the world had never known, would wash over the land.

“Here,” Oraios said, pulling from the chest the purse, made from the skin of an animal that had thrived in the garden before the death of the Eden.

“Quickly now,” Jao insisted, his outstretched hand beckoning for the precious, magickal component.

Oraios handed the pouch to his brother and watched as Jao carefully spilled a portion of the rich, black contents into his open palm. The scent of Heaven wafted through the stale air of the abandoned school, and Oraios found himself transported back to Paradise by the memories stored within the fragrant aroma of the blessed earth.

He’d always believed that he would return there someday, to again witness the towering crystal spires reaching up into forever, the endless fields of golden grass, whispering softly, caressed by the gentle winds, and to bask again in the radiance of His glory.

But then Oraios returned to reality and gazed upon the form of the Morningstar, suspended with chains above a mystic circle drawn in his lifeblood and fortified with the dirt of providence. The Archon felt his dreams sadly slip away, resigning himself to his fate.

“It is only a matter of time now,” he mused aloud, watching as his brothers continued their preparations, the images of Heaven in his mind already starting to fade.

“I don’t think you understand what I’m trying to say,” Scholar said to the savior of Aerie, dipping his tea bag again and again in the steaming cup of water just poured from the electric teapot. “Malakim are mysteries even to us.”

“So they’re a mystery, fine. I’m cool with that,” Aaron said, a twinkle of optimism in his eyes. “All I need to know is if they can help Vilma.”

Scholar sipped his drink without removing the bag. A good, strong brew was required for this conversation. “Yes, I would imagine. If there are any beings of an angelic nature out there that might have the knowledge to solve Ms. Santiago’s problem, it would be they, but—”

“No ‘buts,’ ” Aaron said with a quick shake of his head. “This is the closest we’ve come to a solution and I’m not about to lose it.”

“But it isn’t close enough,” Lehash said. Aerie’s constable had helped himself to a cup of coffee and a seat, leaning the chair back on two legs against the wall. Ignoring Scholar’s looks of disapproval, he continued. “The Malakim have become legends to us—like Merlin or Paul Bunyan and his blue ox to the humans.”

Aaron closed his eyes and took in a deep breath. “So are they real or are they made up?”

The gunslinger slurped the remainder of his coffee and brought the front legs of his chair down upon the floor with a thud. “There might be some truth in all the tall tales, but it’s been jumbled together over the years, and it’s hard to tell fact from fiction.”

Lorelei spoke up from a workstation tabletop where she sat cross-legged, reading through an ancient text where the Malakim were briefly mentioned. “It says here that they were the arch mages of angelic magick and keepers of forbidden knowledge.” She flipped her snow-white hair back over her shoulder and out of her face. “Knowledge known only to God.”

“What we do know for certain,” Scholar continued, “is that the Malakim were created to be extensions of God, the receptacles of all His wisdom and knowledge—forbidden or otherwise.”

“It’s that knowledge thing I’m interested in,” Aaron said. “Where can we find these Malakim?” he asked. “Do you know—”

“The Malakim supposedly came to Earth after the war in Heaven,” Scholar interrupted. “To study and record the changes caused by the fallen.”

“How can they be contacted?” Aaron asked, his patience clearly wearing thin.

Scholar set his mug down, immediately craving another cup. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you, Aaron. The Malakim have hidden themselves away. There hasn’t been any contact between our kind and them for thousands upon thousands of years.”

“I can’t believe this,” the Nephilim said, sitting down on the bare floor and running his fingers through his hair. His voice was heavy with disappointment. “Have you ever actually seen one?” he finally asked, looking up at Scholar.

“No, but—”

“Have any of you seen one?” Aaron prodded climbing to his feet.

“Well, it might have been a Malakim,” Lehash began, rubbing his stubble-covered chin. “But I can’t say for sure.”

Scholar quickly turned and walked to farthest end of the room. Aaron wanted proof of the existence of the Malakim, and proof he would have. It was kept in a glass case along with all the other treasures of Aerie. He carefully opened the lid and removed the ornate cylinder from its resting place upon a red velvet pillow.

They were all staring as he returned, still startled by his abrupt departure. He held the canister up for Aaron to see.

“You want to know how we are sure the Malakim exist?” he asked, heading for the workstation where Lorelei sat. She hopped down as he approached. “Belphegor gave this to me for safe-keeping,” Scholar said, slowly unscrewing the end piece from the tube.

“I can probably figure out where he got it,” Lehash said, watching with the others.

Scholar gingerly tipped the canister, allowing the rolled scroll to fall out into his waiting hand. “It was given to the Founder when he established the first safe haven for our kind.” Slowly he began to unroll the scroll, revealing the angelic script upon the golden parchment.

“It’s a spell,” Lorelei said, bending over to examine the writing.

“Yes, it is,” Scholar said. “The first spell of concealment ever to be placed upon our sanctuary. The Malakim who visited approved of what Belphegor was doing and gave us his blessing, which meant God’s blessing.”

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Lehash said, pushing closer for a look. “A real live Malakim gave that to Belphegor.” The gunslinger smirked. “Always wondered if we had God on our side; didn’t know we had the paperwork to prove it.”

Aaron came closer, moving past Lehash’s bulk to stand next to Scholar. He gazed down upon the scroll, a strange look in his eyes. “A Malakim wrote this?” he asked, his index finger tracing the shape of the heavenly alphabet in the air above the scroll.

“Yes,” Scholar answered.

“Then that means he touched it,” the boy said dreamily, his thoughts seemingly someplace else altogether.

“Of course he touched it,” Scholar responded testily. “How else could he have written it?” He lifted his hand, allowing the scroll to roll shut.

“I have an idea,” Aaron said, turning to leave. “It’s probably a long shot, but it can’t hurt to try.”

“Where you going, kid?” Lehash asked, following close behind.

“To see Gabriel.”