Aerie

Aaron heard a hiss of pain and anger from beneath the crimson face mask as Malak clutched his wrist to his chest. Although the blade could not penetrate the armor, the fragile flesh beneath would certainly suffer with the powerful force of the blow.

“It doesn’t have to be like this, Stevie,” Aaron said desperately. He just couldn’t bring himself to give up.

But Aaron’s futile attempts only served to enflame Malak’s anger all the more, and the armored warrior came at him yet again. As he ducked and wove beneath the assassin’s blows, Aaron knew a part of him was holding back. He also knew that if he didn’t wise up fast, that part would get him killed. Malak was not Stevie. He had to accept that before he could bring this battle to a close.

Aaron sailed up into the air as Malak swiped at him with a short-bladed sword. He reached down and grabbed the armored warrior beneath the arms, ebony wings pounding the air to hold them aloft. Malak struggled in his clutches as the Nephilim strained to carry him higher and higher still. When the Powers’ assassin violently threw back his head, jabbing one of the horns on his helmet into the tender flesh of Aaron’s stomach, the young man lost his grip, letting Malak plummet to the street below. Aaron watched the scarlet figure fall, fighting the urge to swoop down and save him. Malak hit the ground with a sickening clatter, his limp form tumbling to a stop in the center of the street.

The Nephilim swooped down from above to land beside the motionless body. Feeling the pangs of guilt, wishing he could hate the armored warrior, he reached out with both hands to pull the fearsome metal mask from the assassin’s head. Aaron wanted to see the killer’s face again, to look into his eyes, to find his little brother still alive somewhere within. He pulled off the horned helmet and discarded it, carefully placing a hand behind his neck and lifting his head. A single stream of red trickled from Malak’s left nostril.

Malak’s eyes slowly opened and Aaron tensed. The man’s body shuddered and then coughed. “Aaron?” he said in a voice that sounded as if it came from a hundred miles away.

It was weak, but there was something in it that Aaron recognized. He pulled the young man closer, daring to believe there could be a chance, no matter how small. “I’m here,” he told him, enfolding them both in the great expanse of his wings.

“Aaron…,” Malak said again, his voice strained and full of pain.

“Hold on now, we’ll fix you,” Aaron reassured him, certain now that Stevie was still in there somewhere, fighting for his identity, fighting against the pain and misery that Verchiel had used to distort him. He could see the struggle behind the man’s deep blue eyes and Aaron held him tighter, lending him his strength. “Belphegor and Lorelei—they’ll have the answers. We’ll make it right, you’ll see. Hang on, Stevie,” he urged.

Slowly Stevie reached up to touch his brother’s face, his gauntleted fingers tracing the black sigils.

“We’ll be a family again, me and you … and Gabriel.” Aaron laughed desperately, overcome with emotion. “Can’t forget him.”

He saw it in the man’s eyes before he had a chance to react. Stevie had lost his battle. Malak closed his hand around Aaron’s throat and started to squeeze. The grip was remarkable, cutting off his air supply completely as the metal-clad fingers dug into the tender flesh of his throat.

“Aaron,” Malak said again, only this time it was more like a reptilian hiss, absent of any emotion.

The Nephilim grabbed Malak’s wrist with both hands, struggling to break his grip. But Malak held fast, giggling maniacally. Explosions of color blossomed before his eyes and Aaron knew that it wouldn’t be long before he blacked out. He spread his wings and began to beat the air, stirring up a storm of dirt and rock as he fought to be free, but it did nothing to loosen the hunter’s grip upon his neck. Malak seemed to be enjoying the struggle, as if he too knew it was only a matter of time now.

Aaron’s wings faltered and a trembling weakness spread through his arms. He gazed into the cold, dead eyes of the thing that used to be his brother and opened his mouth to scream. It was nothing more than a croak, but to the Nephilim’s ears, it was a cry of mourning, a cry of rage for what had been done to an i

Malak smiled as Aaron let one of his hands fall away from the monster’s wrist.

But the Nephilim wasn’t giving up yet. From the arsenal inside his head, he selected a knife, a sleek and deadly object with the sharpest of blades. The weapon sparked to life in his free hand and he saw Malak’s eyes drawn to it. The killer’s armor was impervious to weapons of Heaven, but the flesh inside the shell was not. Aaron plunged the flaming dagger into the chink at the bend of Malak’s arm where the armor separated into two pieces.

Malak screeched in pain, sounding more like a wounded animal than anything remotely human, and pulled away his arm, releasing Aaron’s throat from his death grip. Aaron scrambled back across the ground, rubbing at his bruised windpipe, greedily taking in gulps of air.

“That hurt,” Malak whined, sounding a bit like the little boy that he should have been. But Aaron now knew that wasn’t the case at all.

With his other arm, the scarlet-garbed warrior raked his hand across an area of open air in front of him, and tore a hole in space. For the first time Aaron took note of the sound that it made, and it reminded him of the ripping of heavy fabric. From his never-ending arsenal, the killer produced a loaded crossbow.

The fight was taking its toll. Wearily Aaron summoned another sword of fire, but his nemesis was faster. As his blade took form, Malak let fly a bolt. Aaron lashed out at the shaft of black metal, deflecting the projectile in a shower of sparks. With nimble fingers, Malak loaded another bolt and fired it. This time the Nephilim wasn’t fast enough and the bolt buried itself deep in the flesh of his thigh.

The pain drove him to his knee. He tried to pull it from his leg, but the shaft was greasy with his own blood. He heard the clatter of armor on the move and saw that Malak was moving toward him, holding a sword as he came in for the kill. Aaron struggled to stand, hefting his own weapon of fire

It was then that the church exploded. There was a flash from somewhere within the holy structure, and then it blew apart with a deafening roar, spewing hungry orange flames into the sky. Glass, metal, and wood rained down upon the battlefield.

“Master,” Malak cried pitifully, his attention focused entirely on the blackened, smoking hole that was Aerie’s place of worship.

Malak’s show of concern for the monster that had brought nothing but pain and misery was all Aaron needed to spur him to action. This was the moment he had both dreaded and longed for, the opportunity to finally bring the battle to a close. Time slowed and his leg screeched in protest as he threw himself toward his distracted enemy. With both hands Aaron brought the blazing sword up over his shoulder and then swung it with all the force he could muster. As he watched the blade cut through the air on course to its target, his thoughts were filled with images of the past—frozen moments of time that seemed so very long ago.

He saw the little boy he’d loved sleeping peacefully in his bed, Gabriel curled into a tight ball at his side.

The blade was closer now, and Malak began to turn, suddenly aware.

The child rocking before the television set, the image upon the screen nothing more than static.

“I’m sorry, Stevie,” Aaron whispered as the heavenly blade reached its destination, cutting through the thick muscle and bone of Malak’s neck, severing his head from his armored body.

Aaron fell to his knees before the body of his foe—his brother—and bowed his head. He felt drained of life, as if this last, violent act had sucked away his final reserves of strength.