Fire Prophet (Son of Angels) (13 page)
And then everything began to move at regular speed again, the whole scene before him swirling into focus. He whipped his head around to see people sprawled out around him. There was glass everywhere, tables overturned, a woman with her hand plastered over her mouth, and a bald man sitting in the corner, weeping.
The police had whisked him inside and asked him and a handful of others a thousand questions. What exactly did they see? What kind of car was it? Could they make out a face? What did the gun look like? The truth is, none of them were much help. The whole incident had taken less than ten seconds.
One question topped all of the others, though. It was one they could find no helpful answer for at the moment: why hadn’t anyone died?
A few of the officers stood and chuckled to themselves, not wanting to make light of the situation in front of the victims. They made quiet jokes about how bad the aim of the gunman must have been to miss so many people at such short range. Soon
some of the others were laughing along with them, marveling at their incredible luck.
Roger had a suspicion that the last thing involved had been luck. He used to believe in luck, but not anymore.
He forced himself to stop counting steps and run his mind back over the incident as slowly as possible. He wasn’t sure, but he thought that he might have caught a glimmer of something in the corner of his vision. The gun had been flashing, so he couldn’t be sure, but he thought he glimpsed a different kind of flash.
Angel wings?
Of course, once he had been visited later that day by the angels themselves, he knew he must have been right. They had been the ones to shield him and the others from the bullets. They’d been the ones to stop the attack.
They had come to move him, warning him of danger. They told him that not only he but also his son were targets of the Fallen.
It had brought back all the memories from the previous year that he had so carefully locked away: the horrifying places he’d been taken against his will, the creatures he had only had nightmares about before, but now had seen face-to-face. The details of those faces were etched inside of him, somewhere deep. He even remembered their smell, and had found that he couldn’t tolerate even a whiff of a scent of garbage now. Taking out the rubbish had become a daily chore.
But there was more. These angels seemed so good. But he didn’t trust them. How could he? The only person in his life who had never let him down was his son, Rupert. Everyone else had abandoned him at some point—his mother had died, he’d never met his father, his peers had always made fun of him, and his wife had left after Rupert was born.
Yes, he would send Rupert away, since the angels seemed to have their wings all twisted out of shape about it. He did believe that the threat was real—he had to, since he’d seen it with his own eyes. He would do anything to keep Rupert safe.
But he wouldn’t accept their protection for himself. He was determined to continue on as though nothing had happened. His routine, his job, his regular stops at the café—even though they were mundane, they were his. He had only agreed to the angels’ protection for his son when it was clear he would get to speak to Rupert, though he had to endure that awful angelic tornado to do it.
There was something else, though. Something he wouldn’t tell anyone else.
He remembered what it felt like.
Last year, he had discovered what it felt like to give in to him. The awful, evil, intoxicating feeling of power. He had seen it in Marduk’s eyes. He had felt it course through his soul, even for that brief moment.
He hadn’t been able to forget the whispers inside his head. Whispers reminding him that Abaddon, the Evil One, could give him all the power he could ever need to protect himself and Rupert forever. With that kind of power, he would never need anyone else again.
Roger continued counting steps, all the way to forty-two hundred. He turned to walk up the steps and into his flat.
It felt smaller with Rupert gone. He sensed the emptiness around him and sighed, dropping his old leather satchel on the dining room table. The place was spotless, just as he liked it. The thought zipped through his mind that he would now be able to keep it much neater without Rupert around. As soon as he thought
it, though, he felt a tinge of regret. The loneliness was a fog hanging over every room in the house.
He threw a frozen dinner into the microwave and hit Play on his answering machine. Thirteen messages. He listened to them patiently as he waited for his food. One was from the London Fire Brigade for fund-raising. Delete. The other twelve were from various news agencies looking for interviews about “the alleged terrorist attack” on the café.
He deleted them all and leaned against the kitchen counter. Covering his eyes with his hand, he felt tears begin to flow as he pressed against them. His chest heaved for a few seconds, but he flung the tears away from his face angrily, forcing himself to stop. He never cried, and he wasn’t about to start now.
Even by himself.
Roger didn’t bother to turn on the light in the den. He plopped down on the creaky sofa and ate his meal in the dark.
The chill that entered the room was barely noticeable at first. And with the steaming plastic tray of meat and noodles on his lap, it took him a little while to figure out what the other smell in his house was.
Maybe he had forgotten to empty the rubbish bin last night. In all of the commotion, he was sure this easily could have happened.
He made a move to get up and check on both the temperature and the trash, but he sat back down again. It was as if a weight were across his chest. He just couldn’t bring himself to get off the sofa. He felt so tired. Maybe he just needed to get some extra rest.
He placed the half-empty tray on the floor and lay down flat on the sofa. He felt so tired that he couldn’t even reach down to untie his shoes. He was barely able to loosen his tie and undo
the top button on his shirt. Folding his arms across his chest, he closed his eyes.
It was easy for Dagon to slip past the six angels keeping watch over the London flat. Easier than he had imagined it would be. He simply had a couple of his associates create a stir in the alleyway across the street—basic diversion tactics.
Elohim’s angels really are getting sloppy
, he thought.
Of course, maybe I’m just that good.
He silently watched Roger prepare his food, listen to his messages, and break down crying.
Pathetic
, he thought.
What a weak-willed lowlife.
He saw the dimly lit glow coming from the center of his chest.
If he only knew.
He couldn’t help but grin.
He has no idea . . .
Roger sat down on the sofa. Dagon was beside him as soon as he sank into the cushions.
Time to get to work.
He dug into his shoulders, finding just the right spot. This was the part of his job he relished the most. The other fallen angels could make war with arrows and swords and intimidation. But Dagon knew where the real war was fought—and right now, he was on the front lines.
It took only a few minutes for Roger to fall into a deep sleep. The fallen angel continued his work, whispering into his ear. Roger moved restlessly on the sofa, sweat breaking out on his forehead.
In the nightmare Dagon painted, Roger found himself in a black pit. Dark sludge covered the sides, which made it impossible to climb out on his own. He tried, but he couldn’t scale the walls—each time he just slid back down into the dirt. A light
appeared above, and he somehow knew instantly what it was, or rather, Who.
That’s Elohim
, he thought in his dream. When the hand extended down from the light and into the pit, Roger wavered for a minute.
But slowly, he found himself shoving his hands into his pockets. He couldn’t bring himself to take it. He wasn’t sure he could trust that hand, or where it would lead him.
The light faded, and for just a moment, a feeling of crashing loss overtook him. Then he saw another hand. It was dark and scaly, but it looked strong. Above it, two eyes pierced through the darkness. He looked into them and found he couldn’t look away. There was something in them that was familiar. He’d peered into eyes like this before. Where was it? He struggled to remember.
They drew him in. No words were said, but with every second that passed, Roger heard the promises the eyes spoke. They promised enough power to protect Rupert from anything. They promised to give his son everything he deserved in life. Maybe even enough power to wash all his fears away.
In a moment that caused him to tremble with both ecstasy and horror, he grabbed the hand. Whether it pulled him up and out of the pit, or simply joined him down in it, he was unable to tell.
W
here am I? What am I doing here?
Those first few seconds of waking up made him feel disoriented.
Was what happened last night just a dream?
His answer came as he turned his head and saw his tall African roommate sitting cross-legged across the room on his bed, his dusty old Bible on his lap. David’s eyes were focused on the page in front of him, so much that he didn’t even look up as Jonah moved.
Jonah turned to look at the alarm clock. 11:43. Whoa. He had slept late. But then again, he hadn’t dragged himself under the covers until almost three o’clock.
He rolled over and reached underneath his bed. His hand brushed against his own Bible and he pulled it out. Flipping the pages over, he began to read in the Psalms. Over the last year, since the spiritual world had become so real to him, he had found himself searching the Scriptures more and more. At first he was just
looking for answers. Seeking out information about the angels, the Fallen, nephilim, and himself.
But he began to find that the more he read, the more he wanted to read.
He found himself in Psalm 20. He glanced back up at David, who now seemed to be praying quietly. Jonah’s fingers traced the words, and he let them seep into his heart.
Some trust in chariots, and some in horses; but we will remember the name of the lord our God.
The name of the Lord our God. Elohim. Strong One. His dad’s favorite name for God. He mulled over those words for a few minutes.
Whatever happens, I trust in You today, Elohim. I put my trust in You.
Jonah grabbed the first clothes he could find and rushed through a shower so he and David could head down for a bite to eat before school.
The smell of whatever meal was being cooked now wafted down the hallway, and Jonah’s stomach growled. About half of the other kids had already arrived in the dining hall when Jonah and David sat down at a table covered with bowls full of heaping helpings of scrambled eggs and hash browns.
“Jonah!” Jeremiah said loudly, hopping down from his seat and running over to give him a hug. Jonah rolled his eyes but hugged his brother back. “I’m already on my second plate! This food is the best!”
“Good, Jeremiah,” Jonah said as Julia and Lania, who were sitting nearby, giggled. “It sure does smell good, that’s for sure.”
“I guess this is breakfast,” said David, wide-eyed as he looked at all of the food. “I don’t think I’ve ever eaten breakfast at noon.”
“I can’t believe you two like that stuff,” Jonah said as he took a big swig of orange juice and looked at David’s and Eliza’s coffee mugs in disgust. Eliza poured a dash of cream and some sugar into her steaming cup, but David left his black. They dug into their plates.
“One day when you grow up a little, you’ll love coffee, Jonah,” she said, raising her mug to him and smiling. She clinked it against David’s and they both took sips.
When everyone had finished breakfast, they made their way into makeshift classrooms the nuns had arranged on the first floor. There the quarterlings were arranged by age—Jonah, David, Frederick, Lania, and Andre; Eliza, Julia, Rupert, Hai Ling, and Ruth; Jeremiah, Bridget, Lania’s younger sister, and Carlo, the younger brother of Julia. After several hours of listening to lectures about photosynthesis and quadrangles, and reading
The Pilgrim’s Progress
together with only a short break for dinner, Jonah’s group emerged a little cross-eyed and more than ready to get back to the library for another session of Angel School.
That evening, at 8:55, the quarterlings made the quiet trek from the convent to the New York Public Library in the hidden realm. The angels stood, vigilant as ever, on the tops of the buildings around them.