The Fallen

“A hound perhaps,” he said aloud. “You have the eyes of a tracker.”

It was then that the Nephilim began to carry on, and Uriel stepped back with the child in his arms.

“Calm yourself, Nephilim,” Verchiel said in his most soothing tone. “I told you, I wish the little one no harm.”

There is a great power growing within this one, Verchiel observed, studying the Nephilim. He could feel it radiating dangerously from the young man’s body.

“The parents, on the other hand,” he said slowly as he pointed his blade at the husband and wife. “I have little use for them. And since they have been infected by your presence…”

Sammael and Tufiel stepped quickly away from the two as the flame from Verchiel’s blade roared to life—and hungrily engulfed the pair in its voracious fire.

Aaron’s parents screamed for mere seconds—but it seemed to him an eternity. Their blackened skeletons, burned clean of hair, skin, and muscle, collapsed to the ground in a clumsy embrace.

Verchiel looked to him, seemingly savoring his expression of complete despair. “Now,” he said, a hint of a smile on his pale, bloodless lips. “Shall we continue?”

Gabriel tossed his head back and began to howl, and Aaron was certain he had never heard anything quite so sad.

His parents were dead—burned alive before his eyes.

He jarringly recalled the day—his birthday, in fact—when he had stood and stared at his sleeping foster mom in this very room, and thought of her now no longer in his life. His heart raced and he could barely catch his breath.

The pungent aroma of overcooked meat hung sickly in the air, and he did all that he could to keep from vomiting.

Verchiel was saying something, but he wasn’t listening. The smoke alarm was blaring from the ceiling above him and he barely heard it. The image of the two people he loved most in the world being consumed by fire kept replaying before his mind’s eye as their skeletal remains still smoldered before him.

Disturbingly, Aaron wondered if the fire used by the murderous angels was the same as what he cooked with, or what burned on the head of a match. Maybe it was a special fire, given to those with special identification by high-ranking officials at the pearly gates. Aaron smiled, more like a grimace of sharp and sudden pain. If I’m so special, maybe I can wield this fire as well.

He caught movement from the corner of his eye and pulled his gaze from what was left of Lori and Tom Stanley.

Stevie was being taken from the house. The angel—what had he been called? he asked himself. Uriel? Uriel was taking his little brother out through the broken front door. But to where? Where were they taking his little brother? He didn’t have on any socks or shoes. Aaron thought about trying to follow, but was distracted by the latest nightmare unfolding in the middle of the living room.

They had Gabriel.

Four angels pi

Gabriel was struggling, foaming at the mouth and snapping his jaws trying to take a chunk out of the creatures that held him. Aaron wanted to cheer his dog on, but found that he just didn’t have the strength.

He looked back to his parents. Even the bones were almost gone now and he wondered if his bones would burn as fast. Something called to him. He could hear it echoing far off in the distance, but didn’t pay it any attention. He was busy, watching the fire finish the gruesome task it had started.

Again he was called, louder, sharper and Aaron realized that the sound wasn’t coming from inside the room, but from somewhere inside his head. He turned to see Verchiel raise the sword above Gabriel. It seemed to be happening in slow motion.

How come everything horrible seems to happen in slow motion? he wondered with building dread.

Again Aaron heard the sound of his name, this time far more forceful. It partially shook him from his stupor, and he came to realize how angry he was. How enraged. They’d killed his parents, taken his little brother. He couldn’t let Gabriel die too. But what could he do? It was just too much for him to bear.

Two angels still held him in their grasp. He was on his knees, his arms pi

The voice from inside his mind continued to urge him from his complacency, not in words, but in feeling—raw emotion. He knew what it was that called to him. When he had last encountered it, it had resembled the strangest of serpents, and it had held open its arms to him and he had accepted it.

Now it was older, more mature—stronger.

And as much as he hated to admit it, it was part of him.

A surge of strength coursed through his body and Aaron struggled to his feet, throwing off his captors with extraordinary power.

Verchiel stopped his blade’s descent and glared. “You only delay the inevitable,” he said, advancing toward Aaron. “But if you are so eager, then you may die before the animal.”

And they closed in around him. Each of them summoned some weapon of fire, and Aaron braced himself for their attack. He was prepared to go down fighting.

The windows of the living room exploded inward, showering the room with broken glass as two more entered the fray.

The Powers seemed to be as startled as he. Gabriel broke from those who held him and ran, panting nervously, to Aaron’s side. The angel called Camael slowly straightened to his full, imposing height before the shattered window, a burning sword of flame in his hand. And beside him, his skin singed a scarlet red and his hand holding what appeared to be an old Louisville Slugger with multiple six-inch nails pounded into it—turning it into a kind of primitive mace—was the Grigori, Zeke.

“Camael here’s been telling me some interesting things about you, Aaron,” Zeke said with a cagey wink, breaking the palpable silence. He raised the bat as if to swing at a pitch.

“Told ya you were special.”

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.