The Fallen 3 (6 page)

“You’re right,” Aaron answered, laughing. “I would be.”

He gave the dog’s side an affectionate thump as he stood. “Let’s go and get some breakfast,” Aaron suggested.

“Chicken fingers?”
the dog questioned.

“I doubt it, but there might be frozen waffles,” Aaron offered.

“Frozen waffles are all right,”
Gabriel grumbled, falling into step with Aaron as they continued to the cafeteria.
“But chicken fingers would be better.”

Aaron chuckled as the pair walked alongside the main building, which housed the cafeteria as well as the classrooms and the auditorium. “Maybe the next time we head to town, I’ll buy you some—”

A window in front of them exploded outward in a shower of glass and flailing bodies, powerful wings beating furiously as two figures grappled in combat above the grounds.

Gabriel barked angrily, and Aaron felt the sudden rush of
fear and exhilaration that came with the potential for battle. His keen eyes locked upon the figures aggressively circling each other in flight, his mind already racing with possibilities. Had an enemy breached their security? Had one of the newer Nephilim lost control of his angelic nature? And then he realized that neither was the case. Two of his own were fighting each other: William Dean and Jeremy Fox.

Of course Fox is involved
, Aaron thought, ready to end this nonsense.

“What the hell is going on here?” Aaron screamed at them.

A flaming sword spun through the air, plunging into the ground before him, just missing his foot.

“That was close,”
Gabriel growled, watching as the burning weapon dissipated with a sizzle and a flash of heat.

Aaron tensed, preparing to unfurl his own wings, spring up, and separate the pair when one of them was struck a powerful blow and fell to the ground.

William Dean struggled to stand.

“You,” Aaron’s voice boomed as he pointed to the youth. “You stay right there.”

William wiped a trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth and averted his eyes, obviously embarrassed that his opponent had gotten the better of him.

“And you.” Aaron turned his attention to Jeremy Fox, who had dropped from the sky in a crouch, his furious gaze still fixed upon his foe.

“No time for you, boss,” the Brit said, approaching William with a snarl. “Got myself some more ass to kick.”

“You’ll do no such thing.” Aaron reached out and grabbed the young man’s arm as he passed.

Jeremy’s eyes snapped to Aaron.

“Get your bloody hand off me or you’ll be drawing back a stump,” Jeremy warned, a sword materializing in his hand with a flash of heavenly flame.

That was all Aaron needed. He’d had issues with Fox before. The teen seemed to be having difficulty managing the angelic essence living inside him and the potential for violence it could ignite if left unchecked.

Aaron smiled tightly as his huge wings of shiny black unfurled, and the angelic sigils that were the names of all the fallen he had redeemed and returned to Heaven appeared upon his exposed flesh.

“Now, explain to me why I shouldn’t take that sword and shove it up your—”

Gabriel’s sudden barking interrupted Aaron’s colorful threat, and the air began to shimmer and pulse near the gathering.

Someone was coming.

The scent of powerful magick hung thick and unpleasant in the corridor.

Lucifer wrinkled his nose and began to breathe through his mouth as he walked toward Lorelei’s workshop.

The Morningstar carried coffee for the young woman as he had every morning since they’d taken up residence in the abandoned school and orphanage.

She should be wrapping up her scan of the ether
, he thought as he approached the closed door. He knocked lightly, then turned the knob and pushed open the door.

He hoped that today’s activities would be light, but he seriously doubted that would be the case. The things of darkness were becoming bolder, and more of them seemed to be venturing out into the world, their courage bolstered by … what exactly? That was a question the Morningstar was desperate to have answered.

Lucifer entered the classroom, stopping short as he witnessed Lorelei in the grip of Archon magick.

The poor girl was suspended limply above her workstation. The smoke wafting from the copper bowl had become like a living thing, throbbing, wrapping her in its embrace as it flowed into her body through her nose and open mouth.

The crimson cloud filling her with visions, visions of things that did not belong in this world.

Lucifer stood there watching, feeling absolutely helpless as Lorelei was assaulted by the ancient angelic spell. She twitched and moaned in the smoke’s grip, and he could only imagine the intensity of what she was experiencing, what she was seeing.

The mist began to recede, withdrawing from Lorelei’s body, dumping the girl unceremoniously on the floor as it
returned in a flash of blinding light to the bowl from which it had been conjured. The copper dish spun noisily atop the Formica-covered worktable.

Lorelei moaned as she tried to sit up, and Lucifer knelt beside her, placing a strong arm at her back, helping her to rise.

She looked at him, eyes trying to focus. A small trickle of blood leaked from one nostril. Lucifer took a Kleenex from his sweatshirt pocket and dabbed at her nose.

“Hey there,” he said with a smile.

“Hey,” she answered, recognition filling her eyes. “Wow, that was a nasty one.”

“Looked like it,” he said. He stood and retrieved the coffee he’d brought for her, placing it in her hands. “Two creams, one sugar.”

“Thanks,” she said, holding the hot mug in both hands and bringing it to her mouth. She gulped greedily, not minding the heat. “Mmm,” she said. “Just the thing to take the edge off having your ass kicked by angel magick.”

“What did you see?” Lucifer asked. It seemed that time was always of the essence these days.

“It wasn’t good,” Lorelei said, holding out her hand. He reached down, grasped her hand, and pulled her to her feet.

“We’re going to have to move fast on this one,” she finished.

Vilma never really knew what she would find when she returned to the school: students learning how to summon weapons of
fire or practicing aerial maneuvers above the orphanage grounds, her boyfriend and his dog waiting for her to appear, somehow always knowing that she was about to return.

That’s what she hoped was awaiting her now. She needed Aaron, his powerful arms holding her close while he whispered in her ear, reminding her how much he loved her.

She never expected this: Jeremy Fox, British bad boy and Nephilim-in-training, holding a sword of flame, about to face off against her boyfriend, who was wearing his full-on, scary, I’m-going-to-destroy-you form.

Gabriel bounded over to her, barking wildly for her attention.

“What’s going on here?” she asked as she marched toward them.

“Jeremy and Aaron are going to fight,”
Gabriel said excitedly, looking back to the pair.

“I don’t think so,” Vilma said. “What is going on here?” she repeated, feeling her anger rise. Her own angelic essence began to stir, but she held it back, reassuring the power that it wasn’t needed for something this trivial.

Aaron opened his mouth to explain, but she was faster.

“I leave for a little while and this is what happens?” she asked. She glared at Aaron and then turned her icy stare to Jeremy, who was still holding his sword of fire.

“Put that away right now,” she ordered, not even close to fooling around.

Jeremy sneered, but the sword dissipated in a flash.

The other students had gathered outside, standing near the building to watch the fireworks.

“Jeremy and William were having a bit of a disagreement,” Aaron said. The sigils on his flesh began to fade as he furled his black wings, withdrawing them into his body. “Things got out of hand.”

Aaron stared at Jeremy, waiting for the youth’s response.

“Tempers flared,” Jeremy said with a shrug. “It’s all good now that we’ve had a chance to cool off.”

Vilma folded her arms and cocked her head.

“And would it have cooled off if I hadn’t gotten here when I did?” she asked.

Jeremy smiled, and his gaze moved to Aaron.

“Eventually, I’d wager,” he said.

They all knew that Jeremy had some anger issues, that the angelic essence inside him was especially wild, but Vilma had never imagined that he would actually challenge Aaron’s authority.

“Yeah, we’re fine,” Aaron said. “Nothing that a few weeks of generator duty won’t solve, right, Jeremy?”

Ouch
, Vilma thought. Since Saint Athanasius was officially shut down, there wasn’t any electricity to the place. Their power was entirely supplied by industrial generators wired into the school’s electrical system. The generators ran on gasoline and needed to be refilled quite frequently. It wasn’t a favorite
chore of those living at the complex, so it made a pretty decent punishment when necessary.

“No problem,” Jeremy said, seemingly unfazed, but Vilma knew he was angry. “Perhaps your girlfriend would like to join me on my rounds. Make sure I’m doing it right and, y’know, keep me company and all.”

Jeremy sure knew how to push buttons, and he was doing an excellent job.

Aaron start to lean forward, and Vilma reached out to touch his arm, squeezing it tenderly, encouraging him to dial it down, reminding him that the kid was just trying to get a reaction.

“Sorry, but you’ll have to handle that particular chore on your own,” Vilma said with a smirk. “A girl needs her beauty sleep, y’know.”

“Not from what I can see,” Jeremy leered. “Everything looks fine to me.”

Vilma felt Aaron’s muscles tense again beneath her fingers, but this time it was the Morningstar himself who put an end to things.

“Excuse me,” his voice rang out.

They all turned to see the first of the fallen standing there. Even dressed in a hooded sweatshirt, jeans, and sneakers, he had something powerful about him.

And dangerous.

Thank God for Lucifer
, Vilma thought, recognizing that
there was something most definitely wrong with that line of thinking but grateful for the reprieve he provided.

“If you’d all come to the auditorium,” he said, gesturing for everyone to follow him. “Something has come up, and you’re all going to need to be briefed.”

He started to turn toward the building but quickly looked back to the group.

“That is, if you are quite finished here,” he added, a glint of menace in his dark eyes that said he knew exactly what had been happening there.

And that he didn’t approve.

O
NE
M
ONTH
A
GO

D
ustin “Dusty” Handy had always wanted to play the harmonica.

He stared at the harmonica lying harmlessly on the cracked, fast-food restaurant tabletop beside his bottomless cup of diet soda.

He’d told himself he was going to buy a book on how to play the mouth organ, and gradually teach himself to play before graduating high school.

Dustin had also always wanted to learn how to play the guitar, to ski, to make beer, and had even considered learning ballroom dancing at one time, but had never gotten around to doing any of it. Hell, he hadn’t even finished school.

But the desire to play the harmonica had stuck.

Staring at the instrument, the teen wondered if it was that long-standing wish that had caused the horn to change,
for it
had
been a horn when the blind old man had given it to him.

Dustin’s brain felt hot. He imagined that all the information he was trying to process was about to go critical, making the gray matter inside his skull melt and run out his ears and down his worn leather jacket.

He removed the plastic cover on his cup and took a large gulp of soda and ice, hoping the caffeine would help him focus. Absently he crunched on the ice as he set the cup down, eyes still locked on the musical instrument.

There was a part of him that never wanted to touch it again, a part that wanted to leave it right there on the table of the fast-food joint and walk—no, run—away.

Yet another part of him would rather die than be separated from the harmonica.

For a moment Dusty wondered which part was stronger. Then he reached out and gently spun the harmonica on the table.

Round and round she goes
, he thought. Memories of the night he’d found himself taking possession of the instrument flashed through his mind.

He’d been on his way from the bar and grill where he worked bussing tables to the tiny apartment he currently called home when he’d heard the commotion. Ordinarily he would have ignored the sound of struggle, preferring to keep his head low and not to get involved with other people’s troubles.

But that night something had made him stop. Almost without thinking, he’d paused, and then backed up a few steps to peer down the trash-strewn alley. Three good-size guys appeared to be taking out their frustrations on someone a heck of a lot smaller … and a whole lot older.

Dusty remembered feeling afraid at first, but that fear was quickly overwhelmed by anger at the sight of three goons kicking the crap out of an old man.

Maybe it was because he’d spent most of his early childhood getting beaten within an inch of his life, or maybe it was the incredible injustice of the act before him—three against one—that spurred Dusty to action. Maybe it was both; he probably would never know.

Regardless, he’d found himself yelling into the alley in his loudest tough-guy voice, telling the thugs to leave the old man alone or he’d call the cops. His warning didn’t seem to register. In fact, they seemed to start pummeling the man all the harder.

Dusty had tried to help, and it would have been perfectly fine if he’d just walked away. After all, what was he to do—take on all three? Certainly he’d been in his share of brawls since deciding to quit school at eighteen and take to the road, but three against one was practically suicide. And he’d never thought of himself as suicidal.