The Fallen 3 (24 page)

“Shut your bloody mouth,” Jeremy demanded. He could feel his wild, divine nature surge, fighting against his control.

The leader chuckled.

“It was an act of mercy, killing them,” the angel said. “No
matter how desperately they fought to stay alive, the look in their eyes was always one of thanks when I stilled their beating hearts.”

It was like trying to hold on to a leash with a ravening pit bull on the other end. Jeremy did his best, but the angelic nature got the better of him. The Nephilim spread his wings and lunged, flying through the air as he screamed out his bloodlust, swinging his blazing ax.

But the Powers’ leader was faster, soaring above his attack and bringing his own blade down upon one of Jeremy’s wings.

The boy cried out, falling to the ground and rolling to extinguish the smoldering gash. He was about to attack again when the skeletal remains pushed up from the ground, wrapping its withered arms around his neck. Jeremy drove the hilt of his battle-ax back into the face of the corpse, but others had come to join the fray. There were so many that they pinned his wings and held him to the ground, the fetid smell of their decay making him gag.

His heavenly nature was insane with rage, but there was nothing that he … or it … could do. The corpses held him fast, no matter how hard he struggled.

The Powers’ leader approached, looming above him as he lay entwined in the arms of the living dead.

“There,” the Powers’ leader said. “Now we can talk.”

Jeremy growled like a wild animal, struggling to break the corpses’ grip but to no avail.

“Where did the other Nephilim go? Where did they take my prize?”

“Go to hell,” Jeremy sneered.

The angel looked around him. Parts of the cemetery were still aflame, and animated corpses stood around waiting for orders. Some of the black-skinned demon things clung to the trees.

“Too late,” the angel said, before turning his attention back to Jeremy. “I’ll only ask one more time.”

Jeremy remained silent. He knew that Lorelei’s magickal barriers would protect the school from any unwanted attention. They would never find it, even if they tried.

“Good,” Jeremy said with a mischievous grin. “I was getting tired of hearing your voice.”

The leader’s stare was laser-beam sharp, and Jeremy tensed for what was to come. The angel looked around and raised a delicate hand, motioning for one of the walking corpses to amble closer. The body of the middle-aged man was fresher, probably in the ground for no more than a month and showing only minimal patches of rot.

“I need to know where the Nephilim have taken the carrier and the instrument,” the angel told the corpse.

The animated body listened intently.

“I want you to get that information for me,” the leader continued.

The corpse looked from the angel to Jeremy.

“Maybe if you ask me nice,” Jeremy cracked.

“He will not tell me,” the corpse gurgled wetly with a shake of his head.

“I didn’t expect he would,” the Powers’ leader admitted, turning his malevolent gaze back to Jeremy. “I want you to go inside and take it.”

Jeremy wasn’t sure what that all meant, but he noticed that the corpse actually appeared flustered.

“He still lives,” the zombie began to explain. “There will be conflict.”

“Then it’s a fight I hope you will win,” the Powers’ leader said with finality. “Get me that information, or I would hate to be one of your species.”

The corpse hesitated, looking around at his rotting brethren.

Jeremy strained against the corpses’ grip, but they held him fast. He watched as the middle-aged corpse lumbered toward where he lay. Looming over him, the dead man slowly opened his mouth with an awful creaking sound as the jaw unhinged. Jeremy’s heart raced as a black eel-like thing surged up from the back of the corpse’s throat, slithering into his mouth, then dropped onto the Nephilim’s chest.

They were all watching now, the corpses as well as the angels.

“What is it going to do?” Jeremy asked, struggling against his captors as the eel slithered across his chest and up onto his chin.

The Nephilim thrashed his head from side to side. An idea
of the fate that was likely to befall him filled him with equal parts terror and disgust.

Decaying hands grabbed at his chin and lips, prying open his mouth as the eel patiently waited.

“Open wide,” Jeremy heard the Powers’ leader say, and he felt thousands of tiny, furry legs dancing upon his tongue.

I
NTERLUDE

T
he angel lay at the bottom of a deep, dark hole. His naked body burned with the fires of punishment, cleansing flames meant to scour away the sins he had committed in the name of his Creator. Everything that he was had been stripped away by the Lord of Lords. Down to the molecular level, every cell of his being had been dissected and reassembled.

The Almighty had wished to understand where He had gone wrong with His creation, but the mystery had eluded Him. From what He could surmise, there had been no error in the design, no flaw that had led to the angel’s perpetration of such horrendous acts. Nothing had been amiss.

The Lord had reassembled His creation and had returned him to life, asking,
“Why did you offend me? Why did you commit such atrocities in my name?”

And the creation had gazed lovingly at Him, with only truth in his eyes, and spoke:
“Everything that I did, I did for you.”

The Creator of All was angered by this, enraged by the knowledge that such sins—such atrocities—were committed in His most holy name. But instead of destroying the offending creation in His fury, the Almighty wrapped the angel in the divine flames of purity and cast him down from the heavens to the earth.

For was He not a kind and merciful God?

The angel, having fallen, now stirred, slowly rising to stretch his muscles and wings, which he had feared would never feel the winds beneath them again.

And he turned his gaze up, to look upon the faces of those peering down upon him.

A woman cried out, obviously overcome by the mere sight of him.

And Verchiel could not help but agree, for he had always been a most awesome vision to behold.

Aaron threw open his wings as he stumbled forward, gasping to capture his breath.

Vilma was waiting, a sickly looking Dusty by her side. The other Nephilim were gathered around them and greeted Aaron with expressions of concern.

“Where’s Jeremy?” Vilma asked.

Aaron turned, hoping to see the familiar shimmer as Jeremy appeared behind him.

But it didn’t come.

“He told me to come back,” Aaron explained, a wave of guilt suddenly coming over him. He looked at Vilma. “He said that I was needed here more than him.”

Vilma’s eyes grew moist. “It doesn’t mean he’s dead … right?” she asked.

“Right,” Aaron agreed, looking over his shoulder again, hoping the teen would appear. But still there was nothing.

He stepped closer to Vilma and placed a comforting arm around her shoulders. He wanted to tell her that Jeremy would be fine, but he had seen what the boy was going up against—alone—and he didn’t have the heart to say that Jeremy might not have survived.

Aaron felt his regret growing, and he was considering going back when—

“I want to thank you,” Dusty spoke up. He was shivering, as if racked with fever.

“How are you feeling?” Aaron asked him.

Dusty’s hand had been in his pocket, and he removed it to reveal a harmonica.

Aaron found himself stepping back and away from the seemingly harmless object, pure instinct setting off alarms of danger. “Is that it?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Dusty answered. “It’s quiet now. As soon as we got
away from them—the angels—and those dead guys …”

Aaron came in for a closer look. He laughed but with little humor.

“What’s funny?” Vilma asked.

“It’s a harmonica,” Aaron said. “The instrument to call down the End of Days is a
harmonica
. Am I the only one who sees humor in that?”

“I don’t see humor in any of this,” the Nephilim Melissa said, folding her arms tightly about herself. “I’m not sure if I’ll ever see humor in anything again.”

Aaron didn’t know what to say, but he watched as Cameron walked over and took her hand in his. That was what they had to do. They were all in this together and would need to help one another through the difficult times.

“It used to be a horn.”

Aaron looked to Dusty. “Excuse me?”

“This,” Dusty said, holding up the harmonica. “It was a horn before I got it. I guess it takes the form of the instrument that you’re most familiar with,” he suggested. “Does that sound right?”

“It sounds as sane as anything else I’ve heard these days,” Vilma said, staring expectantly out across the campus, checking for their missing comrade.

Aaron was furious with himself for leaving Jeremy.

“Whatever the shape, it’s dangerous and we need to figure out a way to keep you—and it—from falling into the hands of the Powers,” Aaron said.

“We should probably bring him to Lucifer,” Vilma said.

Aaron watched the expression on Dusty’s face, knowing exactly what it would be.

“Did you say Lucifer?”

“It’s a long story, but yeah. It’s
who
you think, only he’s not
what
you think, if that makes sense.”

Dusty smiled weakly. “About as much as anything else I’ve heard these days,” he said, echoing Vilma.

Aaron was about to suggest they head over to the administration building to find Lucifer when they all heard a loud, familiar sound. It was the sound of a reality being slowly torn in half. It was the sound of Nephilim appearing as they traveled within their wings from here to there.

The Nephilim turned toward the sound, and Jeremy appeared in a crouch, still wrapped in his brown-and-white-flecked wings. Aaron could not help but glance at Vilma. She looked so relieved now.

He was being stupid. He knew it. Aaron quickly pushed his feelings away. There were more important things to think about right then, one of them being Jeremy’s safe return to the school.

“You made it,” Vilma said, moving toward Jeremy.

Aaron grabbed her arm, stopping her. Something wasn’t right. He could feel it in the air around them. The angelic sigils that adorned his flesh in times of battle began to rise to the surface. That wasn’t a good sign.

Then three others appeared beside Jeremy: the Powers angels in all their horrific glory.

Jeremy stood awkwardly, his face a sickly shade of white.

“I’m sorry,” he said as the ax of fire came to life in his hands, and he sprang to attack the Nephilim.

The Morningstar was paralyzed with indecision.

It was all so much bigger and more complex than even he could have imagined. Certainly he had been aware that shadowy forces existed, but he had never imagined the extent of their menace.

The child’s laughter distracted him from his troubling thoughts, and he turned to see him reclining upon a great throne of ice.

“What is it?” Lucifer asked.

“I’m just happy,” the child said, bare feet kicking against the throne as they dangled. “Everything is moving along exactly as I anticipated.”

The temperature within the chamber became startlingly colder, and the smoother sections of the great ice walls frosted over with a crackling sound.

Lucifer tensed, unsure of what was happening. Images began to appear on the opaque surfaces of the ice, as if on a movie screen. At first Lucifer didn’t know what he was seeing, then recognized an image of earth shown from a great distance as it hung in the blackness of space.

“What is this?” he started to ask, looking toward the child.

“Patience,” said the child, feet kicking faster, as if watching his favorite television show.

The perspective changed, and Lucifer realized the cold bleakness he was seeing was the moon.

Lucifer glanced over to the child again.

“Watch,” the child commanded, as if anticipating his questions.

They were approaching a crater now, one of the larger ones visible upon the barren surface, and their point of view then traveled up and over the rocky lip and down into the darkness.

“We have to go quite deep,” the child said, his voice an excited whisper.

“For what?” Lucifer asked, his curiosity piqued.

“To find him,” the child said.

“To find whom?”

“The angel,” the child said with a sense of wonder. “The angel that will help make all my dreams come true.”

Something gradually began to appear on the black ice wall. As it took form, Lucifer began to realize the extent of the child’s plans.

“The Abomination of Desolation,” he whispered.

“A harsh name,” the child said. “But appropriate, I guess. I like to call him by the name given to him by God.”

A view of a sleeping giant took form. Like a fetus suspended in the womb, the angel hung there, enormous wings
furled upon its back, its body clad in ornate armor covered in the sigils of ending. God’s hand had put those markings upon the angel and its bodily armament, in case there ever came a time when the earth needed to end.

“Wormwood,” said the child, in awe of what was projected before them.

This angel was a last resort for a world suddenly plagued with evil.

And now it was about to be manipulated by the very being it was created to destroy.

“I don’t understand,” Lucifer said, staring at the image of the slumbering angel. “I gather you’ve been behind the remaining Powers’ attempts to locate the instrument and inspire its use.”

The child was now sitting cross-legged upon his ice throne, listening with anticipation.

“You’re doing quite well,” he said, urging Lucifer to continue.

“But I don’t understand the gain,” Lucifer confided. “Why would you awaken something that could potentially destroy you and your family, and all their horrible creations, not to mention the earth itself? It doesn’t make sense.”

“You’re right on so many levels,” the child said, now standing on the throne, moving excitedly from foot to foot. “Yes, oh yes, the Desolation Angel could most assuredly destroy me, my family, all its creations, and the world. I most certainly agree.”