Aerie

Bong! Bong! Bong! Bong! Bong! Bong! Bong! Bong! Bong! Bong! Bong!

The clock tolled midnight, and she saw that there were no messages from Aaron or anybody else. Vilma was overcome with disappointment and the realization that she was now a year older. She stared at the computer screen, wishing a message to appear, but it didn’t happen. “Happy Birthday to me,” she said sadly.

She prepared to disco

Vilma tossed her head violently back and the chair tipped over, spilling her onto the floor. The assault came upon her in waves. The sounds in her ears were deafening, a cacophony of noise through which she could just hear the panicked beat of her own heart and the swishing of blood through her veins.

What’s happening to me? Vilma thought as she struggled to her feet, her hands pressed tightly against the bludgeoning invasion of sound. Is this some kind of bizarre reaction to my lack of sleep, or the drugs I’ve taken? she frantically wondered. Smells were suddenly overpowering—cleaning products from the kitchen, wood stain from the basement, bags of garbage in the barrels outside. She gasped for breath. The light of the room was blinding, and she lashed out at the lamp on her desk, knocking it to the floor.

I’ve got to get help! Vilma panicked. She needed a hospital… She would wake her aunt and uncle…

Her hand was on the doorknob when she heard a voice from somewhere in the room behind her. “The seed of a seraph stirs to waking as the clock tolls twelve,” it said in a language that she had never heard before and should not have been able to understand—but did. “This new day is the day of your birth, I’d wager.”

The hairs at the back of Vilma’s neck bristled. She didn’t want to turn around, didn’t want to acknowledge this latest bit of insanity, but she could not help herself. As she slowly began to turn, a strange odor suddenly permeated the air. It smelled of rich spice and something rotten. It smelled of decay.

Vilma saw that there was a man inside her bedroom. He was dressed in dark clothes and wore a long raincoat despite the fact that it had not rained in weeks. His hair was long and combed back upon his head. His skin was deathly pale and seemed to glow in the limited light, and his eyes, if he had any, were lost within dark shadows that sat upon his face. Vilma had seen this mysterious figment of her madness before, perched in the tree outside her window: watching, waiting.

“You’re not real.”

“Think what you will,” he answered in the ancient tongue as he started toward her. “It is no concern of mine. My charge was to wait and watch for you to blossom—and that is exactly what you have started to do.”

She closed her eyes and wished the figure away, but still he moved toward her. A scream about to explode from her lips froze in her lungs, and Vilma watched in stu

“Come along, little Nephilim,” said the man who could only have been an angel. “My master has plans for you.”

He took her in his arms and the world around her began to spin. And as she fell into unconsciousness, Vilma Santiago wondered if she was being taken to meet with God.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Belphegor walked among his crops and in the primitive language of the bug, kindly asked them to leave his vegetables. Purging his gardens of toxic residue was like placing neon signs in front of all his plants, welcoming the various insects. But he hadn’t forgotten them. There was an area of garden he had grown especially for the primitive life forms, and he invited them to partake of that particular bounty. The insects did as he asked, some flying into the air in a buzzing cloud, while others tumbled to the rich earth, heading for a more appropriate place to dine. The bugs did not care where they ate, as long as they were allowed to feed.

The angel thanked the simple creatures and turned his attention to a pitcher of iced tea that was waiting for him atop a rusted patio table in the center of the yard. He strolled casually through the grass, his bare feet enjoying the sensation of the new, healthy plant life. Removing the poisons from the backyards of Ravenschild brought him great pleasure, although those same toxins were begi

And then came that odd feeling of excitement he’d experienced since first viewing the manifestation of Aaron Corbet’s angelic self. Is it possible? Could he dare to believe that after all this time, after so many false hopes, the prophecy might actually come true?

Belphegor sipped his bitter brew, enjoying the sensation of the cold fluid as it traveled down his throat. He would not allow himself to be tricked; there was too much—too many—relying upon him, to be caught up in a wave of religious fervor. But he had to admit, there was something about this Nephilim, something wild, untamed, that inspired both excitement and fear.

The teaching had been going reasonably well. The boy was eager to learn, but his angelic nature was rough, rebellious, and if they were not careful, a deadly force could be unleashed upon them—upon the world. But that was a worry for another time. The air in a far corner of the yard began to shimmer, a dark patch forming at the center of the distress. There was sound, very much like the inhalation of breath, and the darkness blossomed to reveal its identity. Wings that seemed to be made from swaths of solid night unfurled, the shape of the boy nestled between them. He looked exhausted, yet exhilarated, a cocky smile on his young face.

“That took longer than I expected,” Belphegor said, feigning disinterest as he reached for the pitcher of iced tea and refilled his glass. “Was there a problem?”

Aaron suppressed his angelic nature, the sigils fading, the wings shrinking to nothing upon his back. In his hand he held a rolled newspaper and whacked it against the palm of his other hand as he walked toward the old angel. “No problems,” he said, tossing the paper onto the patio table where it unrolled to reveal the Chinese typesetting. It was The People’s Daily. “I didn’t have any Chinese money to buy one, so I had to wait until somebody threw this away.”

The boy smiled, exuding a newfound confidence. He was learning fast, but there was still much to do—and so many ways in which things could go wrong.

“How was the travel?” Belphegor asked before taking another sip of tea. He had taught the youth a method of angelic travel requiring only the wings on his back and an idea of where he wanted to go.

“It was amazing,” Aaron said. There was another glass on the table and he reached for it. “I did exactly what you said.” He poured a full glass, almost spilling it in his excitement. “I pictured Beijing in my head, from those travel books and magazines, and I told myself that was where I wanted to be.”

Belphegor nodded, secretly impressed. There had been many a Nephilim that couldn’t even begin to grasp the concept, never mind actually do it.

“It was pretty cool,” Aaron continued. “I saw it in my head, wrapped myself in my wings, and when I opened them up again, I was there.” He gulped down his iced tea.