The Fallen

EPILOGUE

“Are you sure about this, Aaron?” Principal Costan asked from behind the desk in his office at Kenneth Curtis High.

It had been two days since the supposedly freak lightning storm took the lives of his foster mother, father, and little brother, and Aaron felt it would be best that he leave school, and the city, as soon as possible.

Aaron nodded as he handed the man the papers he had signed officially withdrawing from Ken Curtis. “I’m sure, sir. I just can’t stay around here anymore. It’s for the best.”

It had been the same at the animal hospital, people asking him if he was certain that this was what he really wanted to do. Of course it wasn’t, but the threat of the Powers had left him little choice.

Mr. Costan took the papers and frowned. “Y’know, it’s none of my business, but running away from something isn’t going to make it any—”

“I’m not running away,” Aaron cut in, perturbed at his principal’s suggestion.

The disturbing image of Verchiel and his soldiers descending from the sky, fire in their hands, laying waste to the school and everyone inside it, played out in his mind.

“There are just too many memories here,” he said. “I think I’d seriously benefit from a change of scenery.” And the quicker he got on the road, the quicker he could find Stevie, he thought as he watched the man behind the desk across from him.

Camael had explained why the Powers had taken his little brother. It had something to do with the handicapped—“the imperfect” as Camael had coldly referred to them—having some kind of sensitivity to the angelic, making them perfect servants. The thought of his little brother acting as a slave to the monster Verchiel both chilled him to the bone, and made him seethe with anger. He had to find Stevie before any harm could come to him.

The principal scrutinized the completed documents and placed them in an open folder on his desk. “Very well then. It doesn’t appear that I can change your mind. And since you’re now of legal age…” Mr. Costan closed the folder and stood, extending his hand.

Aaron stood as well and took the principal’s offered hand.

“Good luck, Aaron,” Costan said, “and if you ever want to come back to finish your senior year, I’m sure we could work something out.”

Aaron shook the man’s hand briefly and then let it go. “Thanks for everything,” he said as he turned and quickly left the office, desperate to escape before the principal tried yet again to make him reconsider his decision.

The clock in the reception area said that it was a little after nine. If he hurried, he could clean out his locker, drop off his books, and be out of the school before first period ended.

The halls were empty as he made his way to his locker for what would be the last time. Memories flooded through his mind. He remembered the first day of freshman year as if it were only a few months ago. The place had seemed so huge then; he thought he’d never learn his way around. Aaron smiled sadly—if only his problems had remained so inconsequential.

At his locker he removed the textbooks and gathered his belongings, double-checking to be sure he hadn’t left anything behind. He slammed the metal door closed for the final time, and was overcome with an intense sadness and anger.

It isn’t fair, he thought. He was supposed to leave this place just like everybody else: finish up senior year, attend graduation wearing that brightly colored gown and the seriously goofy mortar board, and then go off to college.

But fate had dealt him a cruel hand, and his destiny lay down a different path altogether.

Aaron lashed out and kicked the locker to release some of his pent-up frustration. The sound was thunderous in the empty halls. He lost his grip on the books beneath his arm and they tumbled to the floor in disarray. Aaron felt like screaming, but somehow managed to control himself. He bent down to retrieve his belongings with a heavy sigh, feeling like a complete moron. An angry, complete moron.

“Do you want some help?”

Aaron quickly looked up, feeling the sudden weight of sadness press him even further into depression. This was why he’d wanted to get out before the first period ended. He hadn’t wanted to see her.

Vilma Santiago knelt down beside him and helped him gather his books.

“Thanks,” he said, trying as hard as he could not to make eye contact.

“You were leaving without saying good-bye, weren’t you?” she said softly as she handed him his history book.

He looked at her then and saw that her eyes were moist and red. She had been crying.

“I don’t know how, but I knew you were out here.” She showed him a piece of pink paper, a hall pass. “I said I had to go to the bathroom.”

She smiled and laughed a bit. Though filled with sadness, it still was a disturbingly beautiful sound, and his heart ached. Nervously he straightened the stack of books, unsure of how he should address her accusation.

“I didn’t want to go through the whole good-bye thing,” he said, wishing with all his heart that he could tell her he was only trying to keep her safe. “I just can’t deal with anything else that’s sad.”

He was dying inside. Of all the things he was leaving behind, Vilma was the thing that pained him the most. There was no one else here to say good-bye to. Aaron stood, holding the stack of books beneath his arm.

“For what it’s worth,” she said with a sniffle, “in Brazil…when my mother died, I didn’t think I would ever be happy again.”

A tear began to fall from her left eye and Aaron almost dropped the armful of books to wipe it away.

“I’m sorry.” She looked embarrassed and quickly reached up to wipe away the moisture from her face. “I know you’ve been through a lot; I don’t want to make you feel any worse.”

The nine-fifteen bell began to ring and the empty hallway was filled with its jarring, metallic peal.

“What I’m trying to say, Aaron, is that it won’t hurt like this forever. Right now you probably don’t think so, but trust me on this, okay?”

He nodded and tried to smile. “Thanks,” he said as the corridor crowded with students going from one class to the next. “I really appreciate it.”

He started to move away from his locker, from her. He had to go now or there was a good chance that he would never leave.

“I have…I have to go,” he stammered, backing away.

She started to follow. “Where will you go?”

“I don’t know,” he answered truthfully. “I…I just have to get away.” He had to find his brother and something inside was urging him to travel north. Camael said that it would be in their best interest to trust these urges.

Aaron started to turn away from her.

“Will you be back?” she asked hopefully, now at his side.

He shook his head. “No. I doubt it,” he said, and looked away from her with feigned indifference. This was killing him. He hated to be so mean, but it was for her own good.

Aaron again heard Verchiel’s cold words threatening to kill everyone close to him.

“I really have to go,” he said, and quickened his pace, leaving her behind.

She moved in front of him, blocking his path, leaned in close, and took him in her arms. She smelled incredible, clean, like bath powder and fresh-cut flowers. She gave him a hug and a warm, gentle peck on the cheek that made his legs begin to tremble.

“You take care, Aaron Corbet,” she said softly in his ear. “I’ll miss you very much.”

And he felt his heart shatter into a million, razor-sharp pieces that tore his insides to ribbons.

He didn’t say anything more, forcing himself down the hall. After turning in his books at the main office, he practically ran from the building.

Outside on the steps, the wind blew and Aaron pulled the collar of his leather jacket up around his neck. Although it was officially spring, there was still a cruel bite of winter in the air. He was parked in the school’s horseshoe-shaped driveway, and could see Camael and Gabriel waiting for him by the car.

This is it, he thought, and put his hands inside his pockets for warmth as he began to descend the steps.

Something was in one of his pockets, something that hadn’t been there before.

He removed the piece of folded paper and opened it. It was from Vilma and it was her e-mail address and telephone number. She must have put it there when she hugged him. At the bottom of the paper, in delicate handwriting, it said, “Just in case you want to talk.”

Aaron thought about throwing the paper away, but couldn’t bring himself to do it. He placed it safely back inside his pocket and continued on his way to the car. For some reason, he felt strangely warmer.

He could hear Camael and Gabriel talking as he approached.

“For the last time, no,” he heard the angel say, a touch of petulance in his tone.

“What’s the problem?” Aaron asked as he came around the side of the car.

Gabriel had dropped the tennis ball at Camael’s feet, and Aaron knew immediately what the problem was.

“He won’t throw the ball for me, Aaron. I asked him nicely and he still refused. I think he’s mean.”

The angel seethed. “I have never thrown a ball and have no desire to ever do so. It has nothing to do with my temperament.”

Aaron squatted down to the dog’s level. “What did I tell you about trying to force people to play with you?”

The dog playfully swatted the ball with his paw and caught it in his mouth before it could roll away.

“Gabriel?” he cautioned.

The dog lowered his head, shamed by his master’s disapproval. “He wasn’t doing anything, and I got bored.”

“He said he didn’t want to play and you should respect that.”

“I’m sorry, Aaron,” Gabriel said, ears flat against his head.

Aaron lovingly ruffled the dog’s floppy ears. “That’s all right. Let’s just try and be a little more considerate.” Then he shot a withering look at the angel. “Though it probably wouldn’t have killed you to toss the ball a couple of times.”

“I still think he’s mean,” the dog muttered beneath his breath before he defiantly snatched up the ball in his mouth.

“Did you accomplish your task?” Camael asked, ignoring the animal, hands clasped behind his back.

Aaron turned and looked back at the school, taking in every detail of the brick and concrete structure. “Yeah,” he said, saving the image of his high school to memory. “I’m ready to go.”

He was opening the driver-side door of the car when Gabriel let out a cry.

“Shotgun!” he bellowed, startling them as he scrambled to the front, passenger-side door.

Camael looked at him, an expression of confusion on his goateed face. “What did you say?” he asked the dog.

“I said shotgun,” Gabriel explained. “It’s what you’re supposed to say when you want to ride in the front seat.”

Aaron could not help but laugh. No matter how many conversations he had with the animal, Gabriel’s increased intelligence still managed to surprise him.

“That’s what I thought you said,” Aaron said. He then looked to Camael. “Do you mind riding in the back?”

“Front or back,” Camael growled with an air of distaste. “It doesn’t matter. I despise the confines of these hellish contraptions no matter where I ride.”

“Great,” Aaron said as he pulled open his door and pushed the driver’s seat forward so that the angel could crawl into the back. Then he went around to the front passenger door to let his best friend in. “Shotgun is all yours,” he told Gabriel, and let the dog hop up into the copilot seat.

“Awesome,” said the dog, bright pink tongue lolling happily from his mouth as he panted with anticipation.

Aaron started to close the door. “Watch your tail,” he said, and slammed the door closed.

He plopped himself down behind the wheel and started the car up, but did not put it into drive.

Aaron was staring at the school again—his school—and thought about all the things lost to him over the past few days: the closest thing to mother and father he had ever known, his home, his job, his school—and even his humanity.

He thought about Vilma, her eyes red from crying. If only he could have explained; yet another thing taken away from him.

“Are we ready, Aaron?” Camael asked impatiently from the back.

Aaron used the rearview mirror to look into the backseat and the angel seated there.

“To be perfectly honest, no, I’m not,” he said, putting the car into drive. “But, from what you’ve told me about the prophecy and all, I don’t think I really have much of a choice.”

He pulled the car away from the curb and proceeded down the driveway. At the end of the drive he waited for his chance to go, and pulled out into the flow of traffic, pointing the car to the north and the uncertainty of the future, the still-tender memories of things loved and lost left sadly behind.

“Where are we going, Aaron?” Gabriel asked, his head moving excitedly from side to side as he watched the other cars on the road with them.

“I’m not sure,” he answered, changing lanes to pass a minivan in need of a new exhaust system.

“Then how will we know when we get there?” the dog asked, concerned.

Aaron could feel the animal staring at him, waiting for an answer. He reached over and scratched beneath the dog’s neck. “Don’t worry pally,” he said, keeping his eyes on the road. “I have a feeling we’ll know.”

It’s supposed to be like this, he thought with disdain as he took the exit that would lead them onto the highway going north.

Predestined, whether he liked it or not.

The Saint Athanasius Church and Orphanage, vacant since 1959, squatted dark and brooding at the end of a seldom used road in western Massachusetts.

It was supposed to have been turned into elderly housing sometime in the mid-eighties, but the cost of refurbishing and renovating the buildings far exceeded their value.

There was an air of disquiet about the place, as if the old, ramshackle structures had gained sentience, and were bitter about being abandoned. It was this atmosphere that gave the grounds its reputation of being haunted.

So there it sat for the last forty-some years, its structure slowly wasting away at the mercy of the elements, absent of life except for the wild creatures of the fields that had gradually found their way inside the buildings, to live within the walls and nest in the belfry.

Mournfully vacant—until a few days ago.

From a wooden seat upon the altar within the Church of Saint Athanasius, Verchiel gazed up at the rounded, water-stained ceiling and examined the depiction of Heaven painted there.

The angel shifted uncomfortably in his chair as he studied the artwork. Pieces of burned flesh painfully flaked away from his body and fell to the altar floor.

“You haven’t the slightest idea,” he mused aloud as he gazed at the castle of gold floating among the clouds, and the harp-wielding angels that blissfully circled above it.

Kraus, the healer, crept carefully toward him, his worn leather satchel of medical tools wedged beneath his arm. Though blind, he stopped before Verchiel’s chair, sensing his presence—his divinity—as only the imperfect could.

“I am here to minister to your needs, Great Verchiel,” Kraus said, bowing his head in reverence.

Verchiel had been in perpetual agony since the lightning strike, the entire surface of his body charred black. “Proceed,” he said with a wave of his blackened hand, his nerve endings vibrating in blinding pain with even the slightest movement.

The healer knelt down before Verchiel. He placed the satchel upon the ground, undid the tie, and rolled it open to expose the instruments contained within. His hands hovered over the wide variety of scalpels, blades, and saws—tools of healing used by his predecessor and hundreds of others before him.

By touch he found what was needed, a twelve-inch blade that glinted sharply in the beams of sunlight that streamed in through openings in the boarded-up windows.

“Shall we proceed?” the human monkey asked, the sourness of his breath offensive to Verchiel’s heightened senses.

The quicker he was treated, the quicker he could be away from the offensive animal. “Do as you must,” Verchiel responded. He lifted one of his arms and presented it to the healer, a sound like dry leaves rustling in the wind filled the air.

The healer leaned forward, and with great skill, began to cut away the burned, dead flesh.

The pain was unbearable, but Verchiel did not cry out, for it was part of the price he must pay. What was it when the monkeys begged forgiveness for their indiscretions?

Doing penance, he believed it was called.

It was obvious that he had disappointed his Holy Master, for why else would he have been punished so? The pain was his penance. For failing to slay the false prophet he had to suffer, to show that he was truly sorry.

Kraus carefully peeled away a swath of dead skin to expose the raw, moist flesh beneath. If he was to eventually heal, this would need to be done to his entire body; all the burned, dead skin would need to be removed. It would be a long, painful process, but it was something Verchiel was willing to endure—the penance he would pay to receive the Creator’s forgiveness.

The sound of a child’s moan distracted him from his agony.

The Nephilim’s brother, the imperfect one called Stevie, sat on the far side of the altar and rocked from side to side, staring wide-eyed at what had been placed before him.

It was a helmet the rich color of blood, cast in the forges of Heaven—a gift to the child from his new master.

The child groaned again, his eyes transfixed upon it, almost as if he were somehow cognizant of the fate he, and it, would eventually share.

“I shall change you, my pet,” Verchiel said with a hiss, his body trembling with torment as more of his skin was cut away. A pile of dead flesh grew at his feet as the healer continued his gruesome task.

“Transforming you into my hunter of false prophets—”

The child rocked from side to side, his repetitive cries of “no” echoing through the once holy place.

“A tool of absolution,” Verchiel said as he leaned his head back against the chair and again looked to the church ceiling and the all too human images of Paradise. A place that, if he were to have his way, only the truly worthy would ever be allowed to enter.

“My instrument of redemption.”