The Fallen

CHAPTER FOUR

Samuel Chia lay upon his bed, twisted in sheets of the finest silk, and dreamed of flying. Of all that was lost to him, he missed that the most.

It was not true sleep by human standards, but it was a way for him to remember a time precious to him, the time before his fall.

Sam rolled onto his back and opened his eyes to the new day. He did not need to check a clock to tell him the hour; he knew it to be precisely eight A.M., for that was when he wished to rise.

He lay quietly and listened to the sounds of Hong Kong outside and far below his penthouse apartment. If he so wished, he could listen in on the conversations of the city’s inhabitants as they lived out their drastically short existences. But today he had little interest.

Sam rose from his bed and padded naked across the mahogany floor to stand in front of the enormous floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over the city. A Chinese junk, its sails unfurled, caught his attention as it cruised gracefully across the emerald green water of Victoria Bay. He had lived in many places in his long life on this planet, but none brought him as much solace as this place. China spoke to him. It told him that everything would be all right, and on most days, he believed that to be true.

He pressed his forehead against the thick glass and allowed himself to feel the cold of its surface. His naked skin responded with prickled gooseflesh, and although he reveled in the human experience, everyday he longed for what he once had, for what was lost when he refused to take a side in the Great War.

His head still pressed against the window, Sam opened his eyes and gazed at the panorama before him.

Yes, he longed for the glory that was once his, but each day this place—this wondrous sight sought to seduce him with its vitality. A distraction that sometimes made it easier to accept his fate.

Sometimes.

Sam was slipping into his black silk robe, enjoying the sensation upon his pale, sculpted flesh, when the phone began to chirp.

He knew who was calling. Not from any innate psychic ability, but because she called each morning at this very time.

Joyce Woo was the human woman he allowed to manage his various business affairs, including his nightclubs, casinos, and restaurants.

Sam strolled from the bedroom to the chrome-and-tile kitchen and let the machine pick up. He decided to play a little game—to see if he could guess the problems she was calling to report. What trivial piece of nonsense would she choose to annoy him with this time? he wondered: an unexpected shortage of truffles at his French restaurant perhaps, or the local constabulary requiring increased compensation for their lack of interest in certain illicit activities performed at his clubs, or maybe she was finally calling to confess that she’d been skimming off the top of his earnings for the last nine months.

Sam popped a cork on a bottle of Dom Perignon and drank from it as he listened to the message.

“Good morning, Mr. Chia. This is Joyce,” said a woman’s voice in Cantonese.

He toasted the incoming call with the bottle.

“There was an incident at the Pearl Club last night that may require you to speak with the chief of police. I can give you more details when you come into the office this morning, but I wanted you to be aware.”

He could hear her turn the page of a pad of paper where she had written her notes.

“And be reminded that you have a two o’clock conference with the zoning committee about the Pier Road project.”

Believing that she had finished, he walked through the kitchen, bottle in hand, toward the bathroom. But she began to speak again. He paused in the hall to listen.

“Oh yes,” she said, “an old friend of yours—a Mr. Verchiel, stopped by the office this morning. He said he will only be in town for a short time and hoped the two of you could get together.”

“Verchiel,” he whispered. The bottle dropped from his hand to the floor, shattering and spilling the expensive contents onto the black and white tiles.

“He said that he will be in touch,” Joyce said from the machine. “There are a few other items, but we can discuss them when you get here. Good morning, sir.”

The line disconnected and still he didn’t move.

Verchiel.

Sam Chia bounded to his bedroom and threw open the doors of the heavy wooden armoire. He shed his robe and pulled out clothes. There would be no time for a shower today and he would not be going into the office.

He had to leave Hong Kong. It was as simple as that. If Verchiel had found him, then there was no doubt that the Powers had come to China. And if that were the case, then none of his ilk was safe.

Sam finished buttoning his white cotton shirt and began to tuck its tails inside his pants. He cinched the brown leather belt around his waist.

He thought briefly about contacting the others, to warn them of the Powers’ presence, but decided against it for it was likely already too late.

He slipped his bare, delicate feet into a pair of Italian loafers and donned a navy blue sports jacket.

He would go to Europe; France would suffice. He would stay in Paris until Verchiel and his dogs left China. Joyce could manage his affairs until he returned.

Sam placed his billfold inside his coat pocket and picked up the phone to summon his driver. He would go to the airport, charter a plane, and contact Joyce once in flight.

“Are you going out, Samchia?” asked a voice from somewhere in the room.

Startled, Sam dropped the phone and spun around to face the voice.

“How disappointing,” said the man in the gray trench coat standing in the living room in front of the sixty-inch digital television. “After we’ve spent all this time searching for you.”

There was a small, dirty child with him who pressed its unwashed face against the smoothness of the television screen and licked eagerly at his reflection.

“I’m sorry, do you prefer being called by your monkey name—Samuel Chia?” Verchiel asked as he slid his hands inside his coat pockets and began to slowly advance toward him. The child followed, heeling obediently at his side.

“What do you want?” Sam asked as the man approached.

Verchiel’s dark eyes roamed about the luxurious living quarters taking in every extravagant detail.

“Did you think that these would hide you from me?” he asked, pointing to a series of arcane symbols painted on the penthouse walls. To the human eye they appeared as decoration, but in actuality, they were much more than that.

The feral child had hopped up onto Sam’s leather coach, jumping from foot to foot, as he muttered happily to himself in a singsong voice.

“The spell of concealment must have gone stale with all the recent changes here,” Verchiel said, making reference to the recent shift in Chinese government. “My hound caught scent of you as soon as we arrived.” He patted the child’s head affectionately as he passed the sofa. “You live like a king amongst the animals,” the pale-skinned man said as he fixed his bottomless black gaze upon Sam. “For this you abandoned Paradise?”

Verchiel’s words stung like the barbed end of a whip’s lash.

“You know that’s untrue, Verchiel. I left because I did not want to choose sides. I loved the Morningstar, as I loved all my brethren, but to question the Almighty—I could think of no other solution but to flee.” Sam lowered his head, disgraced by his admission. Even after all this time, his actions shamed him.

“A coward by your own admission,” Verchiel said with a snarl as he moved closer. “If only the others could be so honest.”

The phone began to ring again, and Sam watched Verchiel’s attention turn to the device as the recorded message played out and Joyce began to speak.

“Joyce again, sir. Mr. Dalton from the licensing board just called and asked if you could reschedule Monday’s meeting to—”

A blast of searing white light erupted from Verchiel’s hand and melted the phone into nothing more than sputtering, black plastic slag. Startled, the child leaped from the sofa and ran to hide, as if sensing the violence that was sure to follow.

“The sound of their voices,” Verchiel said, his right hand gesturing toward his ear, “like the chattering of animals. It annoys me to no end.” Verchiel glided closer. “How do you stand it?”

Sam clenched his fists. Anger unlike any he had ever experienced coursed through his body. Perhaps he had spent too much time among the humans, he thought. Their rabid emotions had obviously begun to rub off on him.

“I’ll ask you again, why have you come here?”

Verchiel cocked his head to one side. “Is it not obvious, brother?” he asked. “Have you not been awaiting me since your fall?”

“Yes,” he hissed, “but it’s been years—thousands of years.”

Verchiel shook his head as he replied. “A second, an hour, a millenium; increments of time that mean nothing to the Powers,” he said with a cold indifference. “You have sinned against the Allfather, and time does not change that fact.”

Sam began to back away. “Haven’t I suffered enough?” he asked. “My self-imposed exile on this world has taught me that—”

Verchiel’s hand shot up into the air in a gesture to silence him. “Cease your mewling; I do not wish to hear it.” The leader of the Powers pointed toward the windows behind him. “You sound like one of them.” There was revulsion in his voice.

Sam knew it was probably for naught, but if there was anything he learned from living among humans, it was that it didn’t hurt to try. “But isn’t it enough that I have been denied the voice of my Father, that my true aspect is but a shadow of my former glory? Does this not count for anything?” He touched his chest as he continued his plea. “You may not believe it, but I have suffered.”

Verchiel again looked about the opulent living space. A cruel grin began to form on his pale white features as he fixed Sam with his icy stare.

“Suffered, have you?” he asked as he began to spread his arms. “Your suffering hasn’t even begun.”

Sam experienced a strange sense of elation mixed with sheer terror as he watched the enormous wings erupt from Verchiel’s back.

I once had wings as mighty, he remembered with overwhelming sadness. Wings that could have taken him away from this place, allowed him to flee the judgment of Verchiel. But that was long, long ago, and what were once mighty, were now nothing more than an atrophied shadow of their former glory.

Verchiel began to rhythmically move his wings and the penthouse was suddenly filled with winds as strong as tropical storms.

“Verchiel, please,” Sam pleaded, just before a crystal ashtray hit him in the face. It opened a bleeding gash above his right eye.

Sam’s body went limp and he ceased to struggle against the currents for a brief moment. He was picked up by the powerful gale and hurled backward, pinned against the picture windows. As he slammed against the glass, the sound of something cracking filled his ears, and he wondered if it was the window behind him or his bones.

Verchiel’s wings beat the air with ferocious abandon, their furious movement a ghostly blur.

“There is no mercy for what you have done, Samchia!” Verchiel shrieked over the pounding of the air. “Your time has come, as it will come for all the others who have fallen from His grace!”

Sam tried to pull himself away from the window, but the strength of the wind was too great. He wanted to speak, to scream out that he was truly sorry for his sins, but the blood from his head wound streamed down his face into his mouth, silencing him. He had never even seen his own blood, but now it was filling his mouth with its foul taste.

The inch-thick pane of window glass behind him began to crack and spiderweb across its surface. Windows that had been built to withstand powerful storms from the Pacific Ocean were no match for the power of Verchiel.

Again Sam struggled to speak. “Verchiel…,” he managed to bellow above the sounds of his brother’s merciless wings.

Verchiel continued his advance, wings flapping faster and faster still. “I can’t hear you!” he screamed in response.

Sam yelled all the louder. “Tell Him—tell Him that I’m sorry.” He could see the look of revulsion on Verchiel’s face, and knew his words of repentance were heard.

A heavy chrome kitchen chair tumbled away from the table, and as if made of tin, was propelled through the air toward him.

Sam closed his eyes on the horrible visage of Verchiel, his wings unmercifully assaulting the air. His time was at an end, of this he was certain. What he had feared most since falling to Earth was finally to claim him.

Samuel Chia, formerly Samchia of the Heavenly Host, willed his mind elsewhere, to a time before the war, before impossible choices, before the fall.

The chrome projectile did not strike him directly, but smashed into the window to the left of him, shattering the glass, allowing it to give way beneath the turbulent force of Verchiel’s wings.

Within a twinkling shower of razor-sharp glass and debris, Sam fell yet again.

And as he descended to his end, he dreamed.

He dreamed of flying.

Gabriel trotted happily into the living room where the Stanleys had assembled for Chinese takeout and the weekly Friday night movie rental. He was proudly holding a purple stuffed toy in his mouth.

Aaron sat on the floor with Stevie building a multicolored tower with Duplo blocks. Occasionally he looked up at the television to see what Mr. Schwarzenegger was blowing up. The fact that this was at least the third time his foster dad had rented the movie in the last six months didn’t bother him. The night was all about distraction, anything to keep from thinking about the strange incidents of the last two days. Except for the conversation with Vilma Santiago, he wished he could forget them completely.

The dog dropped the purple toy before Aaron and it rolled to topple the Duplo tower.

“Gabriel,” Aaron said, annoyed, as he batted the toy aside and attempted to right the structure.

“Play with Goofy Grape now,” Gabriel demanded with a wag of his thick, muscular tail.

Aaron ignored him and helped the child select some more blocks to fortify the tower.

Gabriel lunged forward and snatched up the toy with his mouth. He gave it a ferocious shake and let it fly. The stuffed toy bounced off young Stevie’s head and landed among the piles of unused blocks.

“Goofy Grape now,” the dog said even louder.

Aaron glared at the animal. “No Goofy Grape,” he said sternly, referring to the toy that he had nicknamed because it resembled an enormous grape with a face. “I’m playing with Stevie now. Go lie down.”

He could feel the dog’s intense stare upon him, as if he were attempting to use mind powers to sway his decision. Aaron didn’t bother to look up, hoping the dog would eventually grow tired and go away.

Gabriel abruptly turned and quickly strolled from the room.

Good, Aaron thought, connecting a blue block to a yellow. He didn’t want to hear the dog talking tonight. To anyone else it was typical dog noise, a series of whines, growls, and barks, but to Aaron it was a language—a language he could easily understand. Tonight he wanted it to be like it used to be. A bark, an excited wag of the tail—that was all the conversation he really needed from his four-legged friend.

From the couch Tommy Stanley let out a happy guffaw in response to one of the movie hero’s patented catch phrases.

“No one says ‘em like Arnold,” his foster father said aloud, a critical observation about the art of action films. “Your Van Dammes, Seagals—they’re all well and good with the fightin’ and blowin’ up crap, but nobody delivers the goods like Ahnold. ” He said the name with a mock Austrian accent and then went back to watching the film, sucked into the cinematic world of a one-man army out to rescue his little girl from the bad guys.

Aaron heard the sound of toenails clicking across the kitchen linoleum toward the living room, and then a strange grunting sound. He didn’t even have to see what the dog was bringing from his toy box; he knew just from the sound. Squeaky Pig was on its way.

Gabriel came around the corner, a pink stuffed pig clutched in his maw. With his muscular jaws he squeezed the body of the pig repeatedly, and it emitted a sound very much like that of a pig grunting.

As before, the dog approached and let the toy fall to the floor.

“Squeaky Pig better,” he said with a hint of excitement in his gruff-sounding language. “Play with Squeaky Pig.”

Aaron felt his temper rising. He was angry with the day and all the stuff that had happened, angry with the dog for reminding him that things are not how they used to be, angry with himself for being angry.

“He’s pretty vocal tonight,” Lori said from the recliner, looking up from her book. When she had seen what movie her husband brought back from the video store, she had gone upstairs to get out her latest romance novel. “Does he need to go out or something?”

The dog is being “vocal,” he thought. If you only knew the half of it.

“No,” he said, giving Gabriel the evil eye. “He doesn’t need to go out, he’s just being a pain in the butt.”

Gabriel flinched as if he’d been struck. He blinked his soulful, brown eyes repeatedly and lowered his ears flat against his skull.

“Not pain in the butt,” the dog grumbled as he began to back from the room, his tail lowered and partially stuck between his legs. “Just wanted to play with Aaron. Bad dog. Go lie down. Bad dog.”

He turned and sadly slunk from the room.

Gabriel’s words stung. How could I be so cruel? Aaron thought disgustedly. Here he was with the unique ability to understand exactly what the dog wanted—to be played with, to be shown some attention—and he was so caught up in his own problems that he couldn’t be bothered to give in to the dog’s simple request. I ought’a be ashamed.

“Gabriel,” he called out. Aaron had to call for him two more times before the dog finally responded, peeking around the doorframe.

“C’mere,” he said, patting the floor with his hand and smiling. “Come over here.”

Gabriel bounded into the room tail wagging, and began to lick Aaron’s face excitedly.

“Gabriel not pain in butt, yes?” he asked between licks.

“No,” Aaron answered, taking the dog’s blockhead in his two hands and looking directly into his brown eyes. “You’re not a pain in the butt; you’re a good boy.”

“I’m a good boy,” the dog happily repeated, and began to lick his face again.

Gabriel plopped his large body down beside Aaron and was having his tummy rubbed when Stevie looked up from his blocks. Aaron noticed the child’s stare and smiled.

“Hey there, little man, what’s up?” he asked the autistic child.

The child’s change of expression could be described like the sun burning through a thick haze of storm clouds. His usually blank face became animated as his eyes twinkled with the light of awareness. A smile so bright and wide spread across Stevie’s face that Aaron was genuinely warmed by its intensity.

“Bootiful,” Stevie said, holding out his hand.

“Stevie?” Lori questioned, her paperback falling to the floor. “Tommy, look at Stevie.”

But the sound of his son’s voice had already pulled Tom away from the movie. They both slid from their seats to the floor and watched as their child gently touched Aaron’s cheek with a tiny hand, a smile still radiating from his usually expressionless face.

“Bootiful,” the child repeated. “Bootiful.”

Then, as quickly as awareness had appeared, it was gone, the clouds again covering up the sun.

Stevie showed no sign that he even remembered what he had just done. He simply returned his attention to his blocks.

“He spoke to you,” his mother said, grabbing Aaron by the shoulders and squeezing excitedly. “He actually spoke to you.”

Tommy kneeled by his son, grinning from ear to ear. “What do you think it means?” the big man asked, his voice filled with emotion. “He hasn’t said a word in two years.” He touched the boy’s head lovingly. “That would be something, wouldn’t it?” he wondered aloud, his eyes never leaving Stevie. “If he started to talk again.”

Both parents began to play with the child and his blocks, hoping to elicit another verbal response. Something, anything to prove that the boy’s sudden reaction wasn’t just a fluke.

Stevie remained in his world of silence.

Aaron got up. “Do you want an apple?” he asked Gabriel.

The dog sprang to his feet and wagged his tail. “Apple, oh yes,” he said. “Hungry, yes. Apple.”

As they left the room Aaron couldn’t shake the uncomfortable feeling that Stevie’s behavior was somehow connected to the bizarreness that had been affecting his life since his birthday. So much for distraction, he thought as he took an apple from the small wicker basket atop the microwave and brought it to the cutting board on the counter.

“Did you see the way he looked at me?” Aaron asked the dog as he took a knife from the dish strainer by the sink and split the fruit in half. “It was like he was seeing something—something other than me.”

“Bootiful,” Gabriel responded, gazing up by his side. “He said bootiful.”

Aaron cut the core out, then cut half of the apple into strips.

“The way he looked at me, it was like the old man at the common.”

He fed the dog a slice of apple, which Gabriel eagerly devoured.

Aaron saw the old man in his mind pointing at him. “You are Nephilim,” he had said.

“First I’m Nephilim and now I’m bootiful,” he said to himself as he leaned against the counter.

“More apple?” Gabriel asked, a tendril of thick drool streaming from his jowls to the floor.

Aaron gave him a slice and took one for himself. Something weird was happening to him. And he realized that he had no other choice than to find out exactly what that was.

He took another bite of the apple, then gave the rest to Gabriel.

It was a crazy idea, but he was desperate to know what was happening to him. He would have to take a chance. Before his appointment with Dr. Jonas the next day, he would try to find the old man from the common.

“Hey, Gabriel,” he asked the dog, who was still chewing, “do you want to go to the common with me tomorrow?”

The dog swallowed and gazed up at him. “More apple?” he asked.

Aaron shook his head. “No. Apple’s gone.”

The dog seemed to think for a moment and then gave his answer.

“No apple. Then go to common.”

What was I thinking? Aaron scowled to himself. He pulled back and let the tennis ball fly.

Gabriel bounded across the common in hot pursuit of the bouncing ball. “Get ball,” he heard the dog say in an excited, breathless voice as he grew closer to capturing the fluorescent yellow prize.

It was a beautiful spring morning, with just the hint of winter’s cold that had only begrudgingly begun to recede a few short weeks ago.

The wind still had a sharpness to it and he zipped his brown leather jacket a little higher.

Gabriel cavorted with the ball clenched tightly in his mouth.

Since his strange ability to communicate with the dog manifested, Aaron was amazed at how little it took to make Gabriel truly happy: a scratch above his tail, a piece of cheese, calling him a good boy. Simplicity. It must be pretty awesome to get so much from so little, he mused as he watched the dog gallop toward him.

“Give me that ball,” Aaron demanded, playfully lowering himself into a menacing crouch.

Gabriel growled; the muscles in his back legs twitched with anticipation.

Aaron lunged and the dog bolted to avoid capture.

“C’mere, you crazy dog,” he said with a laugh, and began to chase the animal.

There was a part of him that really wasn’t too disappointed they hadn’t seen the old-timer. It meant a reprieve from serious thoughts of recent events, the weird questions with probably equally weird answers that he wasn’t quite sure he was ready to hear.

He snagged Gabriel by the choke chain around his neck and pulled the growling beast toward him. “Gotcha,” he said as he leaned close to the dog’s face. “Now I’m gonna take that ball!”

Gabriel’s growl grew louder, higher, more excited as he struggled to free himself. Aaron grabbed the spit-covered ball and pried it free from the dog’s mouth.

“The prize is mine!” Aaron proclaimed as he held the dripping ball aloft.

“Not prize,” Gabriel said, able to talk again now that the ball had been removed. “Just ball.”

Aaron wrinkled his nose in revulsion as he studied the slime-covered ball in his hand. “And what a ball it is,” he said.

He watched the dog’s head move from side to side as he tossed the tennis ball from one hand to the other. “Bet you want this bad,” he teased.

“Want ball bad,” Gabriel responded, mesmerized by its movement.

Aaron made a move to throw it, hiding the ball beneath his arm, and the dog shot off in hot pursuit of nothing.

He laughed as he watched Gabriel searching the ground, even looking up into the air just in case it hadn’t fallen to earth yet.

“Yoohoo!” he called to the dog. And as Gabriel looked in his direction, he held the ball up. “Looking for this?”

Surprised, the dog charged back toward him. “How you get ball back?” he asked with amazement.

Aaron smiled. “Magic,” he said and chuckled.

“Magic,” Gabriel repeated in a soft, canine whisper of wonderment, his eyes still stuck to the ball.

The dog suddenly became distracted by something beyond Aaron. “Who that?” he asked.

“Who’s who?” Aaron turned around.

At first he didn’t recognize the man sitting on the bench across the common, soaking up the sunshine. But then the man waved, and he suddenly knew. Aaron felt his heart beat faster, questions turning through his mind, questions he wasn’t entirely certain he wanted answered.

“What wrong?” Gabriel asked, concern in his voice.

“Nothing,” Aaron said, not taking his eyes from the man on the bench.

“Then why afraid?”

Aaron looked down at the dog, startled by the question. “I’m not afraid,” he said, insulted by the dog’s insinuation.

The dog looked at him and then across the common. “Afraid of stranger?”

“I told you I am not afraid,” Aaron said anxiously, and began to head toward the man.

“Smell afraid,” the dog stressed as he followed by his side.

They were about six feet away when Gabriel moved ahead of him, his head tilted back as he sniffed the air. “Man smell old,” he said. “Old and different,” he added between drafts of air.

Aaron could see that the man was smiling, his long wispy, white hair moving around his head in the cool, spring breeze.

“Beautiful day,” the old man said in English, rather than the ancient language he’d been speaking when they first met.

Gabriel ran at the man, tail wagging.

“Gabriel, no!” Aaron ordered, speeding up to catch the dog. “Get over here.”

The dog leaped up, putting his two front paws on the bench, and began to lick the stranger’s face as if they were old friends.

“Hello, I Gabriel,” he said as he licked and sniffed at the man’s face, neck, and ears. “Who you?”

“My name is Ezekiel, but you can call me Zeke,” the man answered as he patted the dog’s soft yellow head.

“Are you telling me or the dog?” Aaron asked as he took Gabriel by the collar and gently pulled him away. “Get down, Gabriel,” he said sharply. “Behave.”

The dog went silent, bowing his head, embarrassed that he had been scolded.

“He asked me what my name was and I told him,” Zeke said as he sat back on the bench and smiled at the dog. “He’s a beautiful animal. You’re very lucky to have him.”

Aaron stroked Gabriel’s head in an attempt to keep the excitable animal calm. He laughed at the old man and smiled slyly. “So the dog spoke to you?”

Zeke smiled back. “You spoke the language of the messenger to me yesterday,” he said, folding his arms across his chest. “Don’t tell me you can’t understand the dog.”

Aaron felt as if he had been slapped; a hot, tingling sweat erupted at the base of his neck and shoulder blades. “Who…who are you?” he asked—not the best of questions, but the only one he could dredge up at the moment.

“Zeke,” Gabriel answered helpfully, pulling away from Aaron to lick at the man’s hands. “Zeke, Aaron. He Zeke.”

Zeke smiled and reached out to rub beneath the dog’s chin. “He’s right, aren’t you?” he asked the panting animal. “I’m Zeke and you are—what did he call you? Aaron?”

The old man wiped the dog’s slobber on his pant leg and extended his hand toward Aaron. He hesitated at first, but then took Zeke’s hand in his and they shook.

“I’m very pleased to meet you, Aaron. Sorry about yesterday. Did I scare you?”

Their hands came apart and Aaron shrugged. “Wasn’t so much scaring as confusing the hell out of me.”

Zeke nodded in understanding and continued to pet Gabriel. “I bet it’s been pretty strange for you the last couple a’ days.”

Questions screamed to be asked, but Aaron kept them at bay, choosing to let the old man reveal what he knew at a natural pace. He didn’t want to appear too eager.

“And how do you know that?”

The old man tilted his head back, closed his eyes, and sniffed the air.

“How do I know that summer’s right around the corner?” he asked, letting the morning sunshine bathe his grizzled, unshaven features.

The man didn’t appear as old as Aaron originally had thought, probably in his early sixties, but there was something about him—in his eyes, in the way he carried himself—that made Aaron think he was much older.

“It’s in the air, boy,” Zeke said. “I can smell it.”

“Okay,” Aaron said. “You could smell that I was having a bad time. That makes sense.”

Zeke nodded. “Kinda, sorta. I could smell that you were changing, and just assumed that you were probably having some problems with it.”

Aaron had put the tennis ball inside his jacket pocket and now slowly removed it. Gabriel’s eyes bugged like something out of a Warner Brothers cartoon. “I can’t believe I’m having this conversation,” he said as he showed the ball to Gabriel and threw it across the common. “Go play.”

Gabriel ran off in pursuit. They watched the dog in silence. Aaron wanted to leave—but something kept him there. Perhaps it was the chance of an explanation.

“What happened first?” Zeke asked, breaking the silence. “Was it the language thing? Did the dog start talking and you thought you’d lost all your marbles?”

Aaron didn’t want to answer but found it was impossible to hold back. “Kids at school were speaking Portuguese. I don’t know how to speak Portuguese, but suddenly I could understand them perfectly fine, like they were speaking English.”

Zeke nodded with understanding. “Doesn’t matter anymore what language somebody is talking,” he said. “You’ll be able to understand and speak it as if it were your native tongue. It’s one of the perks.”

Gabriel was running in a circle. “I got the ball!” he yelled, diving at the tennis ball lying in the grass and sending it rolling. He pounced on it with tireless vigor.

“The language doesn’t even have to be human, as you’ve probably guessed by now.” The old man looked at him. “Wait until you hear what a tree sloth has to say.”

“It’s insane,” Aaron muttered.

“Not really,” Zeke responded. “They just have a unique way of looking at things.”

Aaron was confused. “What? Who has a unique way of looking at things?” he asked.

“Tree sloths,” Zeke answered.

“I wasn’t talking about sloths,” Aaron said, growing agitated.

“Oh, you were talking about all this with the languages and stuff?” Zeke asked. “Well, you’d better get used to it ‘cause it’s what you are,” the old man said matter of factly.

Aaron turned from watching his dog play and faced the man. “Get used to being insane? I don’t think—”

Zeke shook his head and held up his hands. “Not insane,” he said. “Nephilim. It’s what you are; you don’t have a choice.”

There was that word again. The word that had disobediently bounced around inside Aaron’s skull since he first heard it, impossible to forget—like it didn’t want to be lost.

“Why do you keep calling me that?” he asked, tension coiling in his voice as he readied himself for the answer.

The old man ran both hands through his wild, white hair. Then he leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. “The Nephilim are the children of angels and—”

“Angels and human women,” Aaron interrupted. He didn’t want to waste any time hearing things he already knew. “I know that; I looked it up in the library. Now tell me what the hell it has to do with me. ”

“It’s kind of complicated,” Zeke said. “If you give me half a second and let me speak, I might be able to clear some things up.”

He stared at Aaron, a stare both intense and calming, a stare that suggested this was not a typical, crazy old man, but someone who was once a figure of authority.

Gabriel had wandered over to a newly planted tree and was sniffing the spring mulch spread at its base.

“I’m sorry,” Aaron said. “Go on.”

Zeke stroked his unshaven chin, mentally found his place, and began again. “Okay, the Nephilim are the children of angels and mortal women. Not too common really, the mothers have a real difficult time bringing the babies to term—never mind surviving the delivery. But every once in a while, a Nephilim child survives.”

Gabriel had returned and dropped the ball, now covered in the fragrant mulch, at Zeke’s feet. “Look, Zeke, ball.”

Zeke reached down and picked it up, turning it over in his hands as Gabriel stared attentively.

“They’re something all right, part heavenly host, part human, a blending of the Almighty’s most impressive creations.”

The old man bounced the ball once, and then again. The dog’s head bobbed up and down as he watched it.

“Nephilim usually have a normal childhood, but once they reach a certain level of maturity, the angelic nature starts to assert itself. That’s when the problems begin, almost as if the two halves no longer get along.” Zeke threw the ball and Gabriel was off. “Seems to happen around eighteen or nineteen.”

Aaron felt the color drain from his face, and he turned to the old man on the bench. “You’re trying to tell me that…that my mother…my mother slept with an angel? For Christ’s sake!”

Gabriel returned with the ball and stopped at Aaron, sensing his master’s growing unease. The dog sniffed at his leg, determined that things were fine and went to Zeke.

“Did you know your father?” Zeke asked, idly picking up the ball.

“It doesn’t matter,” Aaron barked, and turned his back on the old man and his dog.

He could see his car parked across the street and wanted to run for it. He could feel himself begin to slip—teetering on the brink of an emotional roller coaster. Zeke’s question had hit him with the force of a sledgehammer. His mother had died giving birth to him, and the identity of his father went with her.

“That’s where you’re wrong, Aaron,” Zeke said from behind him. “It does matter.”

Aaron faced him. He suddenly felt weak, drained of energy.

“There is a choir of angels called the Powers. They are the oldest of the angels, the first created by God.”

Gabriel had caught sight of some seagulls. “Big birds,” he grumbled, and began to creep stealthily toward them like some fearsome predator.

Zeke stood up and moved toward Aaron. “I want you to listen to me very carefully,” he said, holding him in that powerful stare. “The Powers are kinda like—” He stopped to think a moment. “The Powers are like secret police, like God’s storm troopers. It’s their job to destroy what they believe is offensive to the Creator.”

Aaron was confused. “I don’t understand,” he said, shaking his head.

“The Powers decided long ago that Nephilim are offensive. A blight before the eyes of God.”

“The Powers kill them?” Aaron asked, already knowing the answer.

Zeke nodded slowly, his expression dire. “In the beginning it was a slaughter; most of the ones killed were still just children. They didn’t even know why they had to die.” The old man reached out and grabbed Aaron’s arm in a powerful grip. “I want you to listen very carefully because your life might depend on it.”

Zeke’s grip was firm and it had begun to hurt. Aaron tried to pull away, but the man’s strength held him tight.

“It’s still going on today, Aaron. Do you understand what I’m saying to you? Nephilim are still being born, and when they begin to show signs of their true nature, the Powers find them.”

Aaron finally yanked his arm free. “Let go of me,” he snarled.

“The Powers find them and kill them. They have no mercy. In their eyes, you’re a freak of nature, something that should never have been allowed to happen.”

Aaron was suddenly very afraid. “I have to go,” he told the man, scanning the common for his dog. He whistled and saw Gabriel in the distance lifting his leg against a trash barrel. The dog began to trot in their direction.

“You have to listen to me, Aaron,” Zeke warned. “Your abilities are blossoming. If you’re not careful—”

Aaron whirled and stepped toward the old man, fists clenched in suppressed fury. He couldn’t hold it back anymore. He was scared—scared and very angry for he was starting to believe Zeke’s wild story. He wanted answers, but not these—these were a ticket to a locked ward.

“What?” he screamed. “If I’m not careful these storm trooper angels are going to fly down out of the sky and kill me?” Aaron suddenly thought of his dream, the recurring nightmare, and wanted to vomit. It made him all the angrier.

“I know it sounds insane,” Zeke said, “but you’ve got to understand. This has been going on for thousands of years and—”

“Shut up!” Aaron exploded in the old man’s face. “Just shut your stupid mouth!” He began to walk away, then stopped and turned back. “And how do you know all this, Zeke?” he asked, sticking his finger in the man’s face. “How do you know about Nephilim and Powers and the killing?”

The old man looked perfectly calm as he spoke. “I think you already know the answer to that, and if you don’t—think a bit harder.”

Aaron laughed out loud, a cruel sound and it surprised him. “Let me guess. You’re a Nephilim too?”

Zeke smiled sadly and shook his head. “Not a Nephilim,” he said, and began to unbutton his threadbare raincoat. He was wearing a loose-fitting green sweater beneath and some faded jeans. “I’m a fallen angel, a Grigori, if you want to be specific,” he said as he moved closer.

He yanked on the collar of his sweater, pulling it down over his right shoulder to expose unusually pale flesh—and something more. A strange, fleshy protrusion, about six inches long, jutted from the old man’s shoulder blade. It was covered in what appeared to be a fine coat of white hairs—no, on closer examination it wasn’t hair at all—it was covered in downy, white feathers. Aaron jumped back as the protrusion began to move up and down in a flapping motion. Something similar on the other shoulder moved in unison beneath the sweater.

“What the hell is it?” Aaron asked, both fascinated and disgusted by the wagging, vestigial appendage.

“It’s all I’ve got left of them,” Zeke said softly, an almost palpable sadness emanating from him in waves. “It’s all that’s left of my wings.”