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prologue

Amidst the southSerbianMountains , nestled within the gorge of theBlack River , sat the Crna Reka

Monastery. The wind howled piteously, like the sad wails of a mother mourning the loss of her child, as itblew across the high rocks and sparse vegetation surrounding the holy hermitage.

It was a lonely place, a place for reflection and absolution. The church itself was constructed within alarge cave during the thirteenth century— an homage to the Archangel Michael. The hermit monks soonbuilt their cells around the church, and a small drawbridge was erected over theBlack River . By a greatblessing of God, the river disappeared underground just before the monastery, and then reappearedseveral hundred meters later, sparing the monastery the deafening roar of the water's noise.

The repenter knelt upon a worn, wicker mat ina cold, empty room of the monastery in the rocks, andlistened to the prayers of the world. No matter the time, be it day or night, someone, somewhere,searched for the aid or guidance of the Divine. A woman inPrague prayed for the soul of her recentlydeparted mother, a man inGlasgow for the continued health of his wife stricken with cancer. A farmer in Fort Wayne asked for relief from a fearsome drought, and a truck driver parked alongside a road in Scottsdale begged for the strength to live his life another day. So many voices, a cacophony of cries forhelp—it made his head spin.

He tried to lend them all a slight bit of his own strength, and asked the Creator to listen totheir pleas.
 
Does the Lord of Lords hear me?
 
he won  dered. The penitent hoped so. Though others would havehim believe that the Holy Father had stopped listening to him a long time ago, it did not prevent him fromspeaking on behalf of those who prayed—a conduit to Heaven.

Eyes tightly closed, ears filled with the sounds of benediction, the kneeling man smiled. A six-year oldnamed Kiley prayed with the passion of a saint for a brand-new bike on her birthday. Had he everprayed with such fervor for anything? The answer was obvious—it was the reason he continued towander the planet, searching out the most sacred places, hoping to quell the burning turmoil at the core ofhis being.

The sinner sought forgiveness—forgiveness for the evil he had wrought.

The sound of tiny claws scrabbling across the stone floor wrested him from his concentration, and heopened his eyes. A mouse stood on its hindquarters, nose twitching eagerly toward him.

"Well, hello there,"the penitent said softly, his voice filled with affection for the gray-furred rodent. He and the mouse had become good friends since his arrival at the monastery six months before. And in exchange for bits of bread and cheese, the little animal kept him abreast of events outside the hermitage.

From within the long sleeves of his robe, the repenter produced a crust of bread from the previousnight's supper and offered it to the small creature.
"And how are you today?"
 
he asked in a languageonly it would understand.

"Others here,"the mouse replied in a high-pitched squeak as it took the bread in its front paws.

For the last two months he had sensed something growing in the ether, building steadily over the pastfew days. Something with the potential for great danger—and yet also wondrous. He had his suspicions,but did not want to get his hopes up only to have them dashed to pieces again.

"Others like you,"the mouse finished, nervously gnawing on the piece of bread.

Suddenly the repenter was glad that he had sent the Crna Reka brothers to town for supplies this day. Ifwhat the mouse was telling him was true, he did not wish to risk the well-being of anyone else. The

brothers had been quite gracious in allowing him into their place of quiet solitude, and he did not want to

see any of them suffer for their charity.

He listened, focusing on the sounds of the monastery around him: the muffled roar of theBlack Riverflowing beneath the structure; the creak of the bridge outside, jostled by the winds blowing into the gorgefrom the mountains above; the rumble of thunder.

No, not thunder at all, something far more ominous.

The penitent picked the mouse up from the floor and placed it in his palm as he stood.
 
"And whereexactly did you see these others?"
he asked.

"Outside,"it answered, continuing its nibbling.
 
"In sky. Outside in sky."

It was then that the repenter began to feel their presence. They were all around him. The floor of themonastery began to shake, as if in the clutches of an angry giant. Rock, dust, and wood fell from theceiling, and the walls began to crumble. He clutched the tiny life- form to his breast to protect it from thefalling debris. An explosion, filled with sound and fury, rocked the monastery, and the walls before himfell away, sliding into the Black River Gorge to reveal theSerbianMountains, and those who awaited him.

They hovered there, at least twenty in number, their mighty wings beating the air—the sound like theracing heartbeat of the wilderness valley surrounding them—and in their hands they held weapons of fire.

The repenter stepped back from the jagged edge of a yawning precipice and held the trembling mousecloser. He did not take his eyes from them. He was not afraid. Some bowed their heads as his gaze fellupon them, remembering a bygone time when he had commanded their respect—but that was long, longago.

"Lift your heads,"ordered an angry voice in the language of messengers. Their numbers began to part, and he who led them moved forward.
 
"The time for this one to be shown reverence passed when the first seeds of the Great War were sown."

The penitent was familiar with he who spoke: a wrathful angel in the Choir called Powers. His name was Verchiel, and he bore the scars of one who had recently fought a fierce battle. The repenter wonderedwhy they had not healed, and almost asked the angel—but decided this was not the time.

"We have come for you, son of the morning,"Verchiel said, pointing his sword that burned like the heart

of an inferno.

With those words, the angels of the Powers glided closer, their weapons raised for conflict.

"Your corrupting time upon God's world hasended,"Verchiel said with a gleam in his deep, dark eyes of

solid night.

"You'll receive no fight from me,"the repenterreplied, looking from the fearsome Powers drawing inexorably closer to the mouse still held in his hand against his chest.
"Just keep your voices down,"
he continued as he ran a finger along the soft, downy fur of the trembling rodent's head.
 
"You're scaring the mouse."

"Take him!"Verchiel cried in a voice that hinted of madness, scars hot and red against his pale flesh.

And they flew at him.

The repenter did as he imagined he must. No weapons of fire sprang from his palms, no powerful wingsunfurled to carry him away. He slipped the fragile creature that had become his friend inside the folds ofhis simple robes, and let himself be taken.

Shackles of a golden metal not found on this world, their surface etched in an angelic spell ofsuppression, were slapped roughly upon his wrists, and he felt himself immediately sapped of strength bytheir inherent magic. Some of the Powers, but not all, clawed at him, striking him, beating him with theirwings—even though he offered no resistance. The penitent could understand their resentment and didnothing to halt their abuse.

"Enough!"Verchiel bellowed, and the angelic soldiers stepped away from the repenter's prone form on

what remained of the room's floor.

The leader of the Powers approached, and the prisoner looked up into his cold, merciless gaze.
 
"Soangry,"
he whispered as he studied the expression of cruelty burned upon the angelic commander's face.
 
"So filled with blind hatred. I've seen thatlook before. It's very familiar to me."

Verchiel motioned for his men to lift the repenter from the ground, and they did just that—but hecontinued to examine the leader's troubling features.

"I used to see it every time I saw my reflection,"he said as he was borne aloft by the angels of the

Powers.

His words struck a sensitive chord. Verchiel's expression changed to one of unbridled fury, and hehinged toward the repenter, a new weapon of flame taking shape.
Will it be a sword to cleave my
skull intwo—
or maybe a battle-ax to separate my headfrom my shoulders?
 
he wondered. The weaponbecame a mace, and the angel swung with a force that would shatter mountains. It connected with theside of the prisoner's head, and an explosion, very much like the birth of a galaxy, blossomed behind hiseyes.

As he slipped into the void, he was accompanied by the fading sounds of the world he was leavingbehind, the murmurs of prayer, the moan of the mountain winds, the pounding wings of vengeful angels,and the rapid-fire beating of a frightened mouse's heart.

Then, for a time, all was blissfully silent.

chapter one

Aaron Corbet accelerated to seventy on I-95 heading north. He turned up the volume on the cassetteplayer and casually glanced to the right to see the angel Camael wincing as if in pain.

"What's wrong?" Aaron asked. "Do you sense something? What is it?"

The angel shook his head, his expression wrinkling with distaste. "The noise," he said, pointing a slenderfinger at the dashboard cassette player. "It brings tears to my eyes."

Aaron smiled. "Oh, you like it?"

"No," the angel grumbled as he shook his head. "It pains me."

"It's the Dave Matthews Band!" Aaron exclaimed, genuinely stunned.

"I don't care whose band it is," the angel growled, moving agitatedly about in the passenger seat. "It

makes my eyes water."

Annoyed, Aaron hit the eject button, and the cassette slowly emerged with a soft, mechanical whir.

"There," he said, gripping the steering wheel with both hands. "Is that better?"

The radio had come on, and the sound of Top 40 pop filled the vehicle. One of the popular boybands—he could never tell them apart—was singing about lost love. He glanced again at Camael to seethat the angel was still making a face.

"What's wrong now? I turned off my music."

"And I am appreciative," the angel warrior said as he gazed out the window at the scenery whipping

past. "But I find all of your so-called music to be extremely discordant. It offends my senses."

Gabriel reared up in the back and stuck his yellow-white snout between the front seats.
 
"I like the songabout Tasty Chow,"
 
the dog said.

Happy to be talking about anything that can end up in his stomach,Aaron thought as he squeezed thesteering wheel in both hands.

"How does that song go, Aaron?"the Labrador retriever asked.
 
"I've forgotten."

"I don't know, Gabriel," he said, becoming more irritated. "That's not even a real song—it's a dog food

jingle, a commercial."

"I don't care,"the dog said indignantly.
"1 like
that song a lot—
and the commercial is good too. It'sgot kids and puppies, and they play on swings and run and jump and then the puppies eat Tasty Chow.
 
..."