The Fallen

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 ru

“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 begi

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, sca

“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.