The Beast That Was Max (44 page)

The other three Navajos jumped forward, slashing air and flesh. Four bodies converged, wrestled. Silver and turquoise flashed, along with steel. Wet, sucking sounds and harsh breathing were punctuated by occasional curses and cries of pain.

"Is this what you call vengeance?" Max shouted. "Taking innocent lives?"

The oldest Navajo was thrown aside, knife planted in Dex's other eye. The remaining two forced their blade hands toward Dex's throat as the twins encouraged them to sever the head. Suddenly, the seraphim leaned back, giving way to mortal strength for a moment. With a slight tap of their arms, the angel redirected the Navajos' desperate lunges. They stabbed each other in the shoulder and went to the floor in each other's arms, coming to rest atop broken prayer sticks and a pool of blood.

"If they served you, they were not so innocent," Enoch said.

The shuwwafat sobbed, picked up the oknirabata's stone knife, stood between Max and the angel. Mrs. Chan spared a moment from her furious stitching to slide her cane closer to her foot. Dex's left arm hung by threads of sinew to his shoulder. A deep gash had been carved into the base of his neck. The jewels of his eyes were gone, but living darkness swirled in the pits that had housed them. Gaps showed in the lines of multicolored gem teeth embedded in his shredded gums. Skin flapped loose, exposing ribs, broken bone, glistening organs, a still heart. His genitals glowed bright with the blessed light of angels. When he began walking toward Max, tiny gem fragments rained from his tattered flesh.

"They served me no more than you serve the one you call your Lord," Max said, pushing through Mrs. Chan's attempts to keep him down. "They served honor, and loyalty, and the bonds of blood and justice."

The angel stopped short, raised its good arm high, man-aged to haul the left arm partway. "Don't dare speak of justice. I will not hear it, not from your mouth. Killer! Rapist!"

"My victims did not send you," said Max, as Mrs. Chan tied off the last thread. He felt the warmth of trickling blood between his legs, running down his thighs.

"No, they could not. They have not yet come to rest.”

“Your Lord did not send you."

"He . . . no."

"Then who are you to judge me? Who are you to sacrifice mortal souls to your desire for my death? How are you different from what I was, from what you condemn?"

"I am Enoch! I am an angel of destruction! I am vengeance, I am punishment. I am the consequence which cannot be escaped, the truth from which there is no escape!"

"And what is the consequence that you flee, seraphim? What is the truth that drives you to me, through the blood of so many living men? What is your sin, Enoch?"

The Beast's rage drove Max to his feet. He knocked Mrs. Chan back and upset the pod on the sofa so that some of the bloody fluid it contained spilled. A faint cry came from the pod.

The angel came forward, and the shuwwafat intercepted it. She cut fingers from the hand reaching for her, but could do nothing to stop the elbow that came around to smash the side of her face in. But even on the floor, she hacked at one of Dex's feet, until the seraphim stomped her head and neck and back to make her stop.

Mourning ululation erupted from Kueur and Alioune. Max leaned forward to take a step, but his body betrayed him. The world dropped away from him. Mrs. Chan gave him a push as he lost his balance and fell. He landed on the sofa inches away from the pod.

The Beast's rage was stoked higher by its failure to engage the angel. Max blinked back tears, sweat, blood. "What did Mr. Johnson do? Or Mr. Tung? Neither of them would have given their lives defending me. Yet you possessed them, led them to their deaths."

"Their souls were weighted with enough sin to warrant my attention. Doing the Lord's work granted them a measure of grace." The angel took a step toward Max. Dex's knee snapped from the punishment it had absorbed, gave out. On all fours, the seraphim continued to make its way toward the couch.

Max shielded Mrs. Chan with his body while she probed the pod's depths.

"He is ready to come out," she whispered.

Pride sparked in Max. He had a son. And his son was free from the sins of his father, the pain of his mothers. His son was an innocent. From all the hurt and death and terror of his life, he had brought out something that was its antithesis.

His pride shrank to nothing as he watched the angel's relentless progress. "Take him, train him," he told Mrs. Chan. "Show him the paths I never took."

"Do not flee your work so quickly, student," Mrs. Chan replied. "I cannot do it for you."

Max stared at the angel. "Pride," he said.

The seraphim looked up. The pools of blackness tugged at Max's soul.

"Pride is your sin, Enoch. You think to do the Lord's work. You take on the pain of wronged souls. But what are you? An angel. An instrument of your Lord's will, nothing more. How can you make yourself your Lord's eyes and ears? How can you take on your Lord's power of judgment? Would you take on your Lord's power of creation next? Would you make new worlds, new life? Do you dare usurp your Lord's place in his Heaven?"

The angel rocked from side to side, as if staggered by Max's words. "What do you know of my Lord? His burdens, His trials? He is Lord of all Creation, the Maker of Life. He made me, and you, and all the women you killed."

"He made the men and women you killed, as well."

"Do not presume to judge me, murderer. My Lord is my only judge."

"Then he should have been the one to judge me."

"He has turned his Might on the Chaos that assaults His Order. He battles the Other, and cannot spare—”

“Your Lord has abandoned you."

"You do not understand, sinner. You cannot understand."

Max shook his head. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Kueur crawling toward the end of the couch. "You upset the order you claim to protect," he said. He held up his hand. "This is my instrument. It does not act on its own. You did not judge this piece of flesh and bone. You chose the soul that empowered the flesh to receive your punishment. That is the order of things in your Creation, is it not? The mind, the will, the soul, drives the flesh. Your Lord would never punish the instruments of mortal sin. He would never destroy a gun, or a knife, or a bomb, in place of their users. The instruments do not act on their own. And yet you do. You, an angel of destruction, one of your Lord's tools for punishment, presumes to act. Will I judge your Maker by what you have done? Will your Maker punish himself because of your reckless killing, the pain and suffering you have caused?"

"What do you know of Heaven? What do you know of the duties and responsibilities of its tenants?"

"I know there are no other angels of destruction seeking me out. I know angels of destruction are not rampaging across the world punishing all the other evil men and women who live with me next to all the weak and the innocent. I know your Lord has not judged me, for whatever reason he has deemed fit. And so I know that you have taken on more than your Lord intended. You are the evil one here, Enoch. You are the one who presumes to change the Order your Lord has created."

The seraphim reared, one arm flailing wildly, the other reaching for Max. "Abomination," Enoch screeched.

A hissing sound came from behind Max, and he turned. Kueur was draped over the end of the couch. She met his gaze, and he saw the dull flickering of life in her eyes. She pressed a button on the remote triggering device in her hand.

A bomb, he thought. No. What have they done? Destroy us all, that is not the way, not what I wanted

A tower of flame rose up from the planter next to the couch, next to the angel. The planter's ficus tree was a black skeleton sheathed in fiery flesh.

The angel rolled away, shielded its eyes. "My Lord," it said in a hushed voice. "You have returned."

Fire crackled.

"My Lord, have you come to bear witness to my work? Have you come to bless my labor?" Fire whipped through the air, almost touching Dex's ravaged body.

"My Lord, speak to me. What is Your Will? Do you wish to pass Your Judgment on this soul beyond redemption?"

Fire receded, smokeless, until it was a thin rod of flame hugging its wooden frame.

"My Lord, please, I cannot bear this silence. Speak to me. Let me hear Your Voice once again. Let me feel the touch of Your Glory. Let my faith be renewed by Holy Presence."

The fire burned evenly, silently.

"I think your Lord has come to judge you, Enoch," Max said.

"No, He has come for you!"

"I've been here for quite some time, Enoch. You're the newcomer."

"No, my Lord! Tell him. Let him see the Truth of Your Divinity. Show him, my Lord."

The fire did not flicker.

"No, my Lord! Do not forsake me!"

"He hasn't forsaken you, Enoch. He's come to take you away."

"No! Please, my Lord! Do not protect this abomination! The souls of those he murdered cry out for his punishment. I hear them. Their agony fills the emptiness where once You dwelled, my Lord. They wait for him. They wait for You to send him to them. I only seek to help, to do what You shou—must do to satisfy the desire for vengeance that troubles those wronged souls, so they may one day come into Your Light!"

The seraphim threw himself at the couch, but his hand only managed to brush Max's foot. Max drew his leg back. He turned to catch a glimpse of his son before the angel closed with him, knowing even if he managed to destroy Dex's body, Enoch had many more to choose from. The Beast filled him, willing, eager to surrender itself to a final orgy of killing.

A cry split the air. Mrs. Chan held up a squirming, bawling lump of bloody flesh. She put herself between Max and the angel, leaning on her cane while cradling the infant in her other arm.

"Would you kill this one to render your judgment?" she asked.

Chubby legs kicking, the baby wailed.

The angel drew his good arm back as if it had been touched by hellfire. "My Lord, you have come again!" The darkness in Dex's eye sockets thinned, as if its essence were draining through a secret hole at the back of Dex's skull. "No, my Lord. Not from this one! How could You have chosen this, this thing through which to manifest yourself?"

Mrs. Chan took the boy in both her hands and thrust him toward the angel. Max wanted to haul her back, but could not reach her.

"Now you come? Now you answer my prayers? Now you break what is left of my heart?" Tears of starless night dripped from the Dex's angel-filled eyes. It balled its hand into a fist. Stared at the baby. Turned away. "I am not Judas, or even Peter. I am not one of the Pharisees. I cannot bring harm to the Lord again!"

Dex's body settled as the seraphim withdrew from its material house. The black pools vanished, revealing the two raw holes in bone. Silence smothered the loft.

Mrs. Chan prodded Dex's body with the cane, then offered the baby to Max. He took the child, stared in wonder at the pinched face, the blind eyes and round, open mouth. Holding the baby awkwardly against his chest, he offered one of his thick fingers to the baby's clutching hands. He looked over at Kueur, who smiled as she fingered the remote device. The fire in the planter went out.

The flicker of candlelight stroked Max's weariness. He closed his eyes, and when he opened them again the candles had burned out. He was lying on his back on the couch, his head in Alioune's lap, his feet in Kueur's lap. Mrs. Chan walked back and forth in front of him, nursing the baby. He closed his eyes again, opening them moments later, and found himself holding the baby. Mrs. Chan was framed in the doorway to the loft, absently spinning her cane. At last he gave himself to sleep, where he found no dreams or pain.

~*~

"So how did you know fire would be the key?" Max asked Kueur as they watched Alioune sitting between them on the couch, humming to the baby.

"We didn't," Kueur said, playing with the baby's hands. "But when we heard the demon pursuing you was an angel, we remembered the missionary's lessons, the Old Book's burning bushes. Of course, we've seen the desert's flaming gas vents during our traveling days. So we took some of your supplies, pieced together a device that would give us a decent flame, put it in the planter. We hoped for a moment's diversion during a fight, something to give us the room for a death blow."

"But if Enoch fled," Alioune said, "where can it hide?”

“Where all angels go when they've fallen," answered Max.

The blood of killers moved the last of the black plastic body bags out of the loft. The killer carrying the clipboard stopped in front of Max. "Busy night, sir?" he said with a smile.

Max waved him away, but the killer sank into a crouch.

"A van is waiting for your party downstairs, sir. I understand there were parties killed here connected to forces who will hold you responsible for their deaths. Arrangements have been made for your safety, until you can negotiate a settlement."

"Mr. Tung's and Mr. Johnson's—" Alioune began.

"I understand," said Max. "Your idea saved our lives." He reached over to the ficus, rubbed one of its a waxy leaves between his fingers. "Did your people replace this tree?" he asked the supervisor.