The Fallen

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 ba

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.