The Fallen

CHAPTER ELEVEN

It was the sound of a thousand fingernails dragged down the length of a blackboard—only earsplittingly louder. The Powers shrieked their shrill cry of battle and surged toward Aaron’s would-be rescuers, weapons afire. For the moment, they had forgotten him. On his hands and knees Aaron crawled to the mound that still glowed red, the mound that used to be his parents. Gabriel, silently and sadly, moved with him. Within the pile of ash, Aaron could see Lori and Tom’s skulls still burning, their hollow black gazes accusatory.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, and reached a shaking hand toward the pyre of ash and bone. He quickly pulled it away as his own flesh was singed by the intensity of the heat.

“It’s not your fault,” Gabriel said consolingly. He tried to lick away the hurt from his master’s hand.

The intensity of the screams turned him from his parents’ remains to the battle being waged in the living room. Aaron was amazed by its ferocity.

Zeke buried the nails adorning his baseball bat into the side of an attacker’s head. The angel fell to its knees, twitching and bleeding as Zeke yanked the bat free with a grunt and hit him again before he could recover. Then, satisfied with the death he’d wrought, the fallen angel turned his savage attention to another.

Camael’s movements were a hypnotizing blur. He moved among the Powers, hacking and slashing, his fiery blade passing through their flesh with pernicious ease. It was like watching the beauty of a complex dance, but with deadly results. Aaron could see that he was battling his way toward Verchiel, who simply stood, weapon in hand, waiting patiently as his soldiers fought and died around him.

The grisly scene of violence stirred the presence within Aaron. He could feel it roiling around inside him, so much stronger than before, like having the serpentine bodies of multiple eels beneath his flesh. It was excited by the battle—the sights, sounds, and smells.

And then he saw—no, felt—Verchiel staring at him from across the living room. The angel’s nostrils flared, as if smelling something in the air. He snarled and began to move toward Aaron.

“It wants to come out, Aaron,” Gabriel said by his side. He sniffed him up and down. “It’s inside you and wants to get out.”

Aaron couldn’t take his eyes from the angel stalking methodically across the room.

Gabriel suddenly licked his face and, startled, Aaron glared at the dog.

“What’s inside of you is inside of me,” Gabriel explained. “I can sense your struggle, but you can’t keep it locked up.”

Verchiel was almost upon them.

Slowly Aaron got to his feet, eyes locked on the ominous form of the angel moving inexorably closer. Maybe I should just let him finish me, Aaron thought. It was an option he should have considered before his parents were turned to ash. Perhaps if he had offered his life, sacrificed himself, the Powers’ leader would have spared them.

“Gotta set it free before it’s too late,” he heard Gabriel say from his side, an edge of panic in his voice.

Verchiel stopped before Aaron. “It all comes to an end when you are dead,” he growled. He raised his weapon and as Aaron stared into his lifeless black eyes, he knew that even if he had offered himself up, his family’s gruesome fate would not have changed.

He could feel the heat of Verchiel’s sword upon his face as it came at him. A Louisville Slugger blocked its descent. The fire of the blade flared wildly as it cut through the wooden bat, shaking Aaron from his paralysis.

“Get the hell outta here, kid,” Zeke yelled as he brought the still-smoking half of the bat up and smashed it as hard as he could into Verchiel’s snarling face.

Verchiel was stunned by the fallen angel’s blow, but only for an instant. A line of shiny black blood dribbled from his aquiline nose to stain his lips and perfect teeth.

Aaron and Gabriel threw themselves at Verchiel, the intensity of their anger fooling them into thinking that they could help their friend. But Verchiel’s wings lashed out from his back again, and the sudden torrent of air threw them back.

Verchiel grabbed Zeke by the back of his scrawny neck and hefted him off the ground with inhuman strength. “It wasn’t enough that I took your wings and the lives of your filthy children? Now you want me to end your life as well?”

“Don’t!” Aaron shrieked.

Zeke struggled, the piece of broken bat falling from his hand as he writhed. “You have to live, Aaron,” he croaked, his voice strained with pain.

“So be it,” Verchiel snapped as he ran his blade of fire through Zeke’s back in a sizzling explosion of boiling blood and steam.

Zeke screamed, his head tossed back in a moan of agony and sorrow.

Aaron lunged at Verchiel and grabbed his arm in a powerful grip. “You son of a bitch,” he screamed. “You killed him! You killed my parents, you vicious son of a…”

“Unhand me, filth,” Verchiel said, lashing out with a vicious slap that sent Aaron hurtling across the room.

He landed atop the recliner in the corner of the living room, tipping it over and tumbling to the floor. He fought to remain conscious.

Through eyes blurred with tears, Aaron saw Zeke’s twitching body slide off of Verchiel’s blade and fall to his knees. A cry like the wail of eagles filled the air, and Camael charged across the room swinging his sword with abandon as he cut his way toward Verchiel. The look upon his face was wild—untamed.

Gabriel was suddenly at Aaron’s side, pulling at his clothes. “Get up,” he said between tugs. “You have to set it free. If you don’t, you’re going to die. We’re all going to die.”

Aaron got to his feet and stumbled toward Zeke as Camael and Verchiel battled savagely, their blades blazing hotter, whiter as they clashed. He got to his knees beside the old Grigori and took his hand in his.

“You’ll be all right,” Aaron told him, his eyes locked on the smoldering black hole in the center of the fallen angel’s chest. “I’ll…I’ll help you. Hang on and…”

Zeke squeezed his hand and Aaron pulled his gaze from the wound to look into his old eyes.

“Don’t worry about me, kid,” Zeke said in a whisper. “Nothing you can do except…”

“Except what?” Aaron asked, moving closer to the angel’s mouth. “What can I do? Tell me.”

An explosion sounded from overhead and Aaron instinctively threw his body over Zeke’s to protect him. As he gazed up through a cloud of plaster dust and falling debris he saw that Camael and Verchiel had taken their fight outside—up through the ceiling, through the roof—to battle in the sky. He could hear their shrill cries echoing through the stormy night.

“You have to make it true, Aaron,” Zeke said, pulling the boy’s attention back from the yawning hole above them. “For the sake of all who have fallen…”

Zeke’s grip upon his hand was intense, and Aaron was overcome with an enormous sadness. He could feel it inside him again, the power churning about at the center of his being. But he didn’t want to set it free, for he knew to release it would mean that all he was and all he ever dreamed of becoming would be forever changed.

“You gotta make it happen,” the old-timer pleaded.

The presence flipped and rolled inside Aaron, fighting against the restraints that he’d imposed upon it. And he knew that, no matter how hard he tried to deny it, he could not avoid his destiny any longer.

Slowly, gradually, he let his guard down, and the power surged forward just as it had the day he saved Gabriel. An energy coursed through him, a supernatural force that seemed to charge every cell of his body with throbbing vigor.

Aaron opened his eyes and looked down upon his friend—and the fallen angel was smiling.

“It’s true,” the Grigori whispered. “It’s all true.”

Aaron felt as if he too were on fire, burning from within. The presence radiated from his body in snaking arcs and he was unsure if mere flesh would be able to contain its power—and still it continued to grow.

His skin felt as though it were melting away. He tore at his clothing, ripping away his shirt to gaze at his naked flesh that was most assuredly afire. Strange black marks were bleeding across his exposed skin from deep within him. With a mixture of fascination and horror, he watched them appear all over his body. They looked like tribal markings, tattoos worn by some fearsome, primitive warrior hundreds and thousands of years ago.

“What’s…what’s happening to me?” he fearfully asked.

Gabriel lay down on the floor nearby and stared, eyes filled with awe. “Let it happen, Aaron,” he said consolingly. “Everything is going to be just fine.”

There was sharp, excruciating pain in Aaron’s upper back. “Oh God,” he said breathlessly as the agony continued to intensify. Red spots of impending unconsciousness bloomed before his eyes.

He reached over his shoulders, clawing wildly at his back. His fingers touched two tender spots on either side of his shoulder blades: two large, bulblike growths that pulsed with every frantic beat of his heart. The pressure within them was growing. Gotta let it out! He raked his nails across the fleshy protuberances, and his hands were suddenly wet as the skin of the growths split and tore open with a sound very much like the ripping of fabric.

Aaron screamed long and hard in a mélange of pain and relief as feathered appendages emerged from his back, languidly unfurling to their full and glorious span.

Breathless, he looked over his shoulder in utter amazement.

Wings.

The wings were of solid black, like those of a crow, and glistened wetly. Muscles that he’d never felt before clenched powerfully and relaxed, and the wings began to flap, stirring the air. He glanced down at the strange markings that covered the flesh of his body, and an eerie calm seemed to pass over him then, a sense that he had finally achieved a serenity he had strived for most of his life.

For the first time, Aaron Corbet felt whole—he was complete.

Gabriel sat watching and waiting. He could barely contain his enthusiasm, his tail furiously sweeping the floor. “Are you all right?” the dog asked.

“I’ve never felt better,” Aaron replied, and gazed up through the hole in the ceiling. He could see the shapes of the Powers as they darted and weaved like bats through the night sky in aerial combat with Camael.

The sudden urge to join the fray was intoxicating.

He held out his hand. Images of weapons scrolled through his mind until he saw the one that struck his fancy.

Aaron thought of that weapon and that weapon alone. He thought hard and felt the fire spark in the palm of his hand. The weapon was growing, the fire taking the shape of a mighty battle sword. He held the burning blade aloft, imagining the damage it could do to his enemies.

Again he gazed at the sky above and flexed his newly born appendages.

“Be careful, Aaron,” Gabriel said, getting to his feet. “I’ll stay with Zeke. He shouldn’t be alone.”

“Knock ‘em dead, kid,” Zeke said, and gave him the thumbs up.

And Aaron leaped into the air, the virginal wings lifting him from the ground with ease.

As if it were something he was born to do.

The doubt was gone, driven away by the faith of one who had fallen.

No matter how he tried, Camael could not wipe the memory of Ezekiel’s face from his mind. In the open sky above Aaron’s home, swords of fire locked in combat, he fruitlessly attempted to push the recollection aside and pressed the attack.

Camael bellowed to the storm-filled night sky and came at Verchiel with his blade of heavenly fire. The Powers’ leader dove beneath the swipe of the sword and dropped below, allowing two of his elite to take his place in battle. It seemed as though Camael’s former captain did not wish to waste his prowess on a traitor to the cause.

The angel Sabriel swung his weapon, a scimitar that hissed as it cut into the arm of Camael’s jacket and the soft flesh beneath. He grimaced in pain and closed his wings tight against his body. Then he let himself quickly drop like a stone, to fall away from his two attackers. And as he descended, the air whipping around him, he again remembered the Grigori.

He had sought out this Zeke that Aaron had spoken of, hoping that somehow the fallen angel would help him to convince Aaron to embrace his destiny. He had tracked the boy’s rather powerful residual scent to a dilapidated hotel, where he found the building in flames and the old Grigori about to be murdered by two of Verchiel’s soldiers.

Not wanting to fall too far from the current battle, Camael spread his wings to slow his descent and arced heavenward with three powerful thrusts. The Powers’ eager cries filled the night. The sky was filled with them, each waiting for a chance to exact revenge on the one who had abandoned their sacred mission to side with the fallen.

He had helped the Grigori against the murderous Powers, impressed by the way the fallen angel had handled himself in battle. He could not recall the Grigori being all that adept at combat, but then again, Earth was a harsh and often brutally violent place and even heavenly beings had to adapt to survive. After escaping from the burning building, Ezekiel had wanted to know why Aaron was so important, why Verchiel was willing to sacrifice so much in order to see him destroyed.

And that was when Camael shared with him the prophecy and Zeke’s hard, world-weary features took on a new expression altogether.

It was an expression of hope—hope for forgiveness, hope for redemption, hope for them all. And even though he knew that Zeke was most likely dead, he could not wipe the memory of that moment from his mind. He would use the Grigori’s faith as a kind of banner, to chase away the doubt that had plagued him of late and spur him to victory against his enemies.

Exhilarated by Ezekiel’s hope, Camael spun unexpectedly, catching one of the four soldiers on his tail unawares. He swung his sword with all his God-given might and severed the angel’s head with a single swipe. He watched it spiral to the yard below, bursting into flame as it hit the perfectly manicured suburban lawn.

He imagined the humans in their homes blissfully unaware of the bloody warfare transpiring outside their windows in the skies above. The angelic magic used this night to mask the assault upon Aaron’s home must have been great indeed, he mused, still occupied with the thrill of battle.

Seeing their comrade slain, the other three fled, flying off in different directions, and Camael searched the skies for his true enemy, Verchiel. If he were to fall, the Powers would be leaderless and the fight would certainly leave the others—at least until they chose another to command them. This would give him time to take Aaron away, to hide him until he could come to terms with the turn his life had taken.

Rediscovering their courage, two of the three assailants descended from the cover of clouds, their bloodthirsty squeals of excitement giving them away. Camael surged up toward them, meeting their attack head-on with a savagery he had not felt since the Great War. They seemed surprised, as if believing his years among the humans had made him weak.

That wasn’t the case at all. He wielded his sword as if it were an extension of his body, swinging in a wide arc, cutting through one’s wings, and disemboweling the other. There was a part of him that despised this, for these were soldiers he had once commanded, soldiers who would have followed him into the most hopeless of battles if he had asked. But there was another part that realized that was a long time ago, and he was no longer the same being that had led them—and they were no longer his soldiers. There was cruelty in their eyes, a cruelty that came from the wanton taking of life. If he had stayed on as their leader, he too would have worn the cold stare of superiority—just as Verchiel now did.

A sound from below distracted him. He hovered, riding the currents of wind, and listened carefully. It had come from Aaron’s house, and the horrible thought that Verchiel might have slain the Nephilim entered his mind.

Again came the sound and he recognized it for what it was. It was a cry of battle—a war cry.

From the hole in the structure’s roof something emerged. It moved with incredible speed, on wings as black as a moonless sky. It wielded a weapon of fire and its exposed flesh was covered in markings that Camael recognized as angelic sigils, markings worn only by the greatest of Heaven’s warriors.

Camael suddenly understood what he was seeing—who he was seeing. It was the bearer of hope for the future made flesh. Aaron Corbet had completed the transformation. He stared in awe as Aaron soared closer. Never had Camael seen one like this—so full of power—and he couldn’t help but wonder who of the heavenly host could have sired one so magnificent.

The angels of the Powers were drawn to this new creature like sharks to blood-filled water. They circled their prey, briefly assessing its weaknesses, then attacked. And Camael watched in wonder as Aaron defended himself.

The Nephilim was awesome to behold, his bony wings spread wide as he darted about the sky, laying waste his attackers with uninhibited zeal.

“That is what you believe will save us all?” came a voice from behind, startling him.

Camael whirled, sword at the ready. This was the second time in a day that he had let Verchiel sneak up on him. The Powers’ leader was close. Dangerously so.

“I will see it dead and burning.” Verchiel scowled as he thrust a dagger of fire into Camael.

And he could do nothing but accept the blade, feeling the heat of the weapon break the surface of his flesh and begin to cook the meat of him from the inside. The pain was sudden and blinding, and he didn’t even have a chance to cry out as he fell from the sky, surrendering to the black embrace of unconsciousness before striking the ground below.

Verchiel watched the traitor fall toward the embrace of Earth.

“It did not have to end this way,” he said regretfully. “This world could have been ours if your mind had not been so poisoned by the delusions of inferiors.”

One of his soldiers cried out pitifully, and Verchiel returned his attention to the aerial battle at hand.

“The Nephilim,” he cursed, watching another of his elite soldiers fall to the prowess of the creature’s blade.

How is it this monster fights so fiercely? he asked himself, watching with perverse fascination as it moved through the air on wings of black as if by second nature. It was hard for him to imagine that this nightmarish joining of Earth and Heaven believed itself merely human only a few short days ago.

Another of his soldiers cried out in defeat and fell from the sky afire. The Nephilim’s style was crude, erratic, lacking in discipline—yet it fought with an unbridled savagery effective against those who knew not what to expect. The Powers had grown soft over the centuries, untested against a true adversary, but Verchiel knew this foe. Here was the personification of all he’d been fighting against, all that he despised, and he yearned to see it finally vanquished.

To destroy this creature, this symbol of a perverted future too horrible for him to imagine, would be the greatest victory of all. Kill the Nephilim and the prophecy would die with it.

Verchiel still held the dagger he had used to kill his former commander. With a thought, he willed the blade away and summoned another weapon, one he considered sacred. It had not been used since his battle against the armies of the Morningstar. He called this broadsword Bringer of Sorrow, and it was for only the most profound and important of battles.

This was to be such a battle.

The sword materialized in his hand and he pointed it up toward the kingdom of Heaven. And with arcane words used by his kind to bend the elements to their will, he called down a storm upon the world of God’s man, a storm to aid him in the defeat of the most horrible of evils.

A storm to wash away the malignant blight of prophecy.