Leviathan

“I’m … I’m not feeling so good, Aaron,” Gabriel whined in his arms.

The dog shivered and Aaron guessed that a fever was brewing. He felt his temper spike. He’d already wasted enough time with the Mainiac in the Red Sox cap; he wasn’t about to let his dog suffer anymore. “Look,” he said rather forcefully, “I’ll fill out all the forms you have, but could you please get the doctor out here? I think he’s got a pretty nasty infection, and I want to get some antibiotics into him as soon as possible…”

“All right, all right,” the redhead said as she stood and moved around the counter. “Let’s take him in back and I’ll give him a look.” She motioned for them to follow.

“You’re not Dr. Wessell,” Aaron said, taken aback.

“No,” she responded. “But I almost was. I’m just plain Katie McGovern right now.” She laughed. “But not to worry, I’m also a licensed veterinarian.”

Aaron laughed self-consciously as he carried Gabriel toward the examination room. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to come off like a jerk, it’s just that it’s been a really long day and I thought you were—”

“The receptionist?” she asked. She opened the door to the exam room and stepped back for him to enter.

“Yeah,” he answered. “You don’t look old enough to—”

“I’m twenty-seven,” she said, closing the door. “The product of fine Irish genes. I can show you my diploma from the University of Illinois College of Veterinary Medicine,” she added as she helped him lay Gabriel on the metal table. “How you doing, buddy?” she asked the dog, stroking his head and rubbing his ears.

“My name’s not Buddy,” Gabriel growled. “It’s Gabriel.”

“His name is Gabriel,” Aaron told her.

“Hello there, Gabriel,” Katie said as she slipped on a pair of rubber gloves. “Let’s take a look and see what we can do about fixing you up.” She examined the wound in his leg, gently prodding the seeping injury. “What did you say bit him?” she asked.

“I think it was a raccoon,” Aaron answered lamely.

“A raccoon?” she questioned, looking up from the oozing bite. “If that’s a raccoon bite, I’m a teenage receptionist.”

Camael could feel it on the breeze—one of many strange things he could sense ever since he finally arrived in the town of Blithe.

He walked slowly down Portland Street, taking a right as he left the stretch of dirt road. Something in the atmosphere told him that he belonged here, that he was welcome—but there was also something else, something he couldn’t identify. It was an odd sensation hidden beneath layers of other, far more pleasant impulses.

The angel widened his perceptions as he turned onto Acadia Street. It was as quiet as death here, void of life, the only sounds the gentle hiss of the warm presummer breeze and the pounding of the surf far off in the distance. Offices lined both sides of the short street: Johnson’s Realtors, McNulty Certified Public Accountants, Dr. Charles Speegal, Optometrist, and the largest building belonging to the Carroll Funeral Home, taking up almost one whole side of the street.

Everything about this town said that he was supposed to be here. It disarmed him, made him think about and feel things he had not experienced in thousands of years. There was an unwarranted contentment here, and the angel wondered if he and Aaron had indeed stumbled across the haven that was Aerie. He crossed the street to stand before the white, two-story building that was the Carroll Funeral Home, and looked around carefully. But then, where are the others?

Again came that wave of sensation he could not immediately identify, like a great beast of the sea breaking the surface for air before diving again beneath the dark, murky depths. But this time there was something in it that he finally recognized: the scent of an ethereal presence trying very hard to hide beneath sensations of serenity. Now that he had the scent, he had to be careful not to lose it. It was old, very, very old—a whiff of chaos that had not been breathed since the days of creation.

Camael heard the sound of a door opening and turned back to face the funeral home, willing himself invisible. An old man, dressed in a dark suit and tie, was standing on the top step, looking down at him. Camael was perplexed; it was as if he were able to see the angel—but of course, that was impossible.

The feelings of tranquility tripled, bombarding Camael with sensations meant to keep him complacent, but he held on to the ancient scent. No matter how hard it tried to hide beneath the oceans of serenity radiating from the town, he knew that at the core of Blithe there was chaos.

The man continued to stare at him with eyes black and deep, and Camael knew that the man in the suit could see him. “How is this possible?” Camael asked.

The old man’s head cocked to one side strangely, and he smiled. Then he blinked slowly, and Camael noticed a milky, membranous covering over his eyes. Not something that he had ever perceived on the human anatomy before. Sensing that he might be in danger, Camael was about to summon a weapon of fire when the old man leaned forward, his bones creaking painfully, and coughed. Tiny projectiles, about the size of a cherry, and barbed, were expelled from his mouth to stick in Camael’s face and neck.

The angel scowled angrily, reaching up to pluck the offensive matter from his flesh when he felt his body growing numb. “Poison,” he grumbled, tearing one of the barbed projectiles from his face and staring at it. It was brown and pulsed with an organic life of its own. It was the second time that day that some primitive form of life had attempted to vanquish him using toxins.

Camael closed his eyes and willed the poison from his body. Shockingly, it did little good, and he found that he did not have the strength to open his eyes again. The world seemed to tilt beneath his feet, and he fell to the ground.

Through the darkness behind his eyes, he heard the sound of the old man’s feet as he shuffled down the stairs toward him. Pulled deeper and deeper into the clutches of unconsciousness, Camael was consoled by the town of Blithe.

“You were meant to be here,” it said, easing the angel on his way into oblivion. “For without you, I would die.”

Aaron petted Gabriel as he watched Dr. McGovern shave away the fur on the dog’s leg, then squirt some saline solution into the wound. She dabbed at it with a cotton swab and leaned in to examine it more closely.

“Mouths are filthy, so I just assume that all bites are infected,” she said, squirting more saline into the wound. “This one is particularly nasty, though—especially for a raccoon bite.” She looked up to catch Aaron’s eye.

“I said I thought it was a raccoon,” he responded, flustered. No way was he going to explain that Gabriel had been bitten by a nasty little creature created by fallen angels. “I didn’t get that good of a look at it—I guess it could have been just about anything.”

“It was an Orisha, Aaron,” Gabriel grumbled.

“I know, I know,” Aaron said reassuringly.

“He’s pretty vocal, isn’t he?” The vet threw the soiled cotton swabs into a barrel, then rubbed Gabriel’s head affectionately.

“You don’t know the half of it,” Aaron replied with a sly smile and a chuckle. “Say, is he going to need a rabies booster?”

“A shot?” Gabriel grunted, lifting his head from the table.

“When did he get his last vaccination?” Dr. McGovern asked.

“I just got a shot,” the Lab whined.

“About six months ago,” Aaron said, ignoring his best friend.

“Yeah, why don’t we do a booster, then. Better to be safe than sorry,” she said, pulling a syringe from a drawer and getting a vial of vaccine from a tiny fridge beneath the counter.

“Better no shot than sorry,” Gabriel growled.

“He doesn’t sound too happy,” the vet said, filling the needle.