Aerie

Aaron nodded in approval and watched the threesome proceed down the street, Gabriel chatting reassuringly all the while. If only he could have the same level of confidence as his dog. He thought of Camael, who had yet to return, and icy fingers of dread took hold of his heart. He had to go back, back to Ken Curtis to help his friend. He turned to Belphegor. “I have to leave again; I have to help Camael.”

He unfurled his wings, but pain shot through his body, driving him to his knees. His head throbbed and the stab wound in his shoulder was bleeding again, he could feel the snaking trail of warmth beneath his shirt.

“You need to rest,” he heard Belphegor say evenly. “You’re no good to anyone now.”

“But he needs help!” Aaron said, fighting to get to his feet.

“Camael can take care of himself,” Lehash barked. “He’s fought many a battle without your help, Nephilim. You’ve done enough.”

Aaron stared across the street at the gunslinger and Belphegor. Their faces were blank, insensate, as if they’d used up their lifetime allotment of emotion long ago. But it was in the faces of the others, the citizens, that he saw what he was responsible for. They milled about, eyes darting here and there, waiting for answers, waiting to have their fears put to rest. He could feel the anxiety coming off them in waves.

“I couldn’t just leave her,” he said to them. “I had to do something.” He managed to get to his feet and lurched toward them, his angelic trappings fading as he drew closer. “I’m so sorry. It seemed right at the time, but now I…” He felt his strength wane and he suddenly sat down in the street, burying his face in his hands. “I just don’t know what to think.”

An aluminum chair leg scraped across the concrete sidewalk and he lifted his face to see that Belphegor was standing. The old fallen angel handed his nearly empty glass to Lehash, who stared at it with contempt. “Hold on to this,” he told the constable, and moved toward Aaron.

It hurt to think. It felt as though Verchiel had touched his brain with a burning hand; his thoughts were a firestorm. There was so much he had to do-so much responsibility. Why did he have to be the Chosen One? he anguished. In his mind all he could see were the faces of those he had failed: his mom and dad, Dr. Jonas, Vilma … Stevie.

“They … he changed my little brother into a monster,” Aaron said, gazing up into the elderly visage of Belphegor. “How could they do that to a kid?” he asked desperately as he ran a hand through his tangle of dark hair. “How could a creature of Heaven be so cruel?”

“Verchiel and his followers have not been creatures of Heaven for quite some time,” Belphegor replied. “They lost sight of that special place a long time ago.”

“Why can’t he just leave me alone?” Aaron asked, the weight of his responsibilities begi

Belphegor sighed as he looked up at the early morning sky above Aerie. “Verchiel’s still fighting the war, I think,” he said after a bit of thought. “So caught up in righting a wrong, that he can’t accept the idea that the battle is over. There’s a new age dawning, Aaron.” Belphegor slowly squatted down, and Aaron could hear the popping of his ancient joints. “Whether he likes it or not.”

Aaron looked into the old angel’s eyes, searching for a bit of strength he could borrow.

“And you’re the harbinger,” he continued. “Whether you like it or not.”

“But I’m responsible for ruining this,” Aaron said, motioning toward the neighborhood around them. “Verchiel and his Powers are probably coming here because of me.”

“Looks that way,” Belphegor said, calmly straightening up. “But we never expected it to be easy.”

Lehash left the crowd of citizens and came to them. The constable’s eyes had turned to dark, shiny marbles in the recesses of his shadowed brow. “Is this how he’s going to save us?” he asked Belphegor, speaking loud enough for everyone to hear. “Crying in the street? I always expected that a savior would have more balls than that, but I guess I was wrong.”

It couldn’t have hurt worse if Lehash had pulled out his pistols and shot him again. The constable’s words cut deep, and Aaron felt the power of angels surge through his body again. The sigils rose up on his flesh, his body afire as he leaped to his feet, his wings of shadow propelling him at the angel who had hurt him so.

“Do you want to see balls, Lehash?” he asked in a voice more animal than man. A sword of fire had materialized in his hand, and he stood ready to strike.

Lehash had drawn his golden guns. “Show me what you’re go

Belphegor stepped between them, placing a hand on each of their chests. With little effort, he pushed them both apart. “This isn’t going to help anything,” the Founder of Aerie said, giving each a piece of his icy stare. “There’s a storm coming, and no matter how much we rail against it—or one another—it doesn’t change the fact that the rain is going to fall.”

Aaron felt it at the nape of his neck, a slight tingle that made the hair stand at attention. He turned to see that something was taking shape in the air across the street from them.

“Camael?” Aaron asked, starting toward the disturbance.

Belphegor grabbed hold of his arm. “Wait,” he demanded.

Aaron pulled away, certain that it was his friend who had returned. Camael’s wings spread wide to reveal him, and Aaron gasped at the sight. The angel clutched his stomach, blood flowing from a wound to stain the streets of Aerie. Camael pitched forward as Aaron ran to him.

“It comes,” he heard Belphegor say in a foreboding whisper at his back. “The storm comes.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

There was so much blood.

Aaron cradled the body of the angel warrior in his arms, feeling Camael’s life force ebbing away. He was reminded of that horrible day he had knelt in the middle of the street holding a dying Gabriel. He had never wanted to feel that way again, but here it was, as painful as the last time.

“I can do something,” he said to his friend in an attempt to rally some confidence not only for Camael, but also for himself. Aaron reached deep within, searching for that spark of the divine that would allow him to save his mentor as he had his pet.

Camael took Aaron’s hand in his. “Do not waste your strength on a lost cause, boy,” he said, his grip firm, but weakening.

Aaron held the angel to him, gazing in mute horror at the stab wounds in his friend’s back. One was a blackened hole characteristic of a heavenly weapon’s bite, but the other showed no sign of cauterization and bled profusely. “We’ll stop the bleeding and you’ll be all right,” he told his friend, pressing his hand firmly against the wound.

Camael shuddered, and a fresh geyser of dark blood sprayed from the wound. The blood was warm, its smell pungent. “It will not stop.” He struggled to sit up. “The enchanted metal and Verchiel’s sword,” he strained, “I fear it was a most lethal combination.”

“Lie still, we can—”

Camael still held Aaron’s hand and rallied his strength to squeeze it all the harder. “I did not return to have you save my pathetic life,” the angel said, the intensity of his stare grabbing Aaron’s attention and holding it firm. “I never considered that the prophecy would apply to me … that I could be forgiven.”

“Stop talking like that,” Aaron said, dismissing the fatalistic words of his mentor.

Many of the citizens who had gathered in front of Belphegor’s home now stood in a tight circle around Aaron and Camael, watching the drama unfold. One of the men stripped off his T-shirt and offered it to Aaron to use as a compress against the angel’s bleeding wound.