The Fallen 4 (22 page)

“That’s all right, little guy,” Aaron said softly. “We’ll see what we can do about finding your mom and—”

The goblin leaped upon his back.

“You will not deny the Darkstar his feast!” the goblin wailed, pulling a dagger from a small scabbard on its side.

Aaron reacted instinctively, flexing his wings and tossing
his attacker away. Then he gently set the car seat down and turned to the creature.

“His feast?” Aaron asked, stalking over to the goblin, which was pulling itself to its feet, still clutching a dagger. “You were going to feed that poor little kid to somebody?” He pointed toward the car seat, catching a glimpse of a woman using the distraction to snatch up her crying baby and race away.

The goblin lunged, but Aaron captured its wrist, halting the progress of the knife mere inches from his chest.

“Not just anybody,” the goblin grunted with all his might. “The Darkstar.”

Aaron savagely bent the goblin’s wrist to one side, snapping it like a pencil. The goblin wailed in pain as its knife clattered to the street.

“The Darkstar?” he asked the goblin, squeezing the creature’s snapped bones. “What’s so special about this Darkstar?”

The goblin looked up with something akin to euphoria in his protruding eyes. “He is the lord of us all,” it said in a reverent whisper. “He will lead us from hiding to claim this world as our own.”

“Lord of who?” Aaron asked, putting more pressure on the goblin’s wrist. “The goblins?”

“Do you have feathers in your ears as well, angel?” the goblin screeched. “He is the leader of us all—of us all!”

Slowly the full meaning of what the goblin was saying unfolded for Aaron.

They had a leader. Not just the goblins, but all of the creatures that the Nephilim had been fighting.

And now Aaron knew its name.

*   *   *

The door to the nursing home was open, and Mallus stepped into the lobby. The electricity was out. Emergency lights only faintly illuminated the gloom.

There wasn’t anyone at the reception desk, and the thick layer of dust on the counter made him wonder when was the last time there had been.

Pulling up the sleeve of his coat, he looked at the squiggling horizontal sigil that had been tattooed on his wrist. It was rippling like the surface of the ocean caressed by the wind. He was in the right place.

Mallus found the stairwell in the dim glow of the emergency lights. He climbed the steps, paying close attention to the sensation in his wrist. The closer he got, the more severe the tingling became.

By the time he reached the second level, it felt as though the sigil were ready to tear itself from his flesh. He stood on the landing, peering through the small window in the door at the second-floor hallway. This floor seemed deserted as well, but the sigil told him otherwise. Mallus opened the door.

“Tarshish,” he called out. “Tarshish, it’s me.”

He waited for a response, but there was only silence. Starting down the corridor, Mallus passed empty room after empty
room, and began to wonder if the sigil on his wrist, which aided in finding the Malakim, had somehow been tampered with.

An old woman wearing a heavy pink bathrobe and slippers shuffled around a corner at the end of the hallway and came toward him. She had a wig upon her head like a hat, tilted jauntily to one side, wisps of white sneaking out from beneath the artificial brown.

“Hello,” Mallus said in his most soothing voice. “I was wondering if you can help me find my friend. His name is Tarshish.”

Bolts of pure magickal force crackled from the old woman’s arthritic fingers, catching Mallus square in the chest and tossing him violently to the floor. His shirt was shredded, and his skin smoldered where the magick had touched him. He scrambled to his feet.

The woman continued her approach. Her robe was now burning with a supernatural fire, and her hands that had discharged the magickal blasts were burned and blackened. She came at him with arms outstretched, attempting to pull him into her fiery embrace. But Mallus drove a kick into her belly and sent her sprawling to the floor, where she exploded into ashes.

There was more scuffling and moaning. Other nursing home residents, their bodies alive with magickal energies, emerged from rooms he’d thought were empty. They came at him in a wave, launching magickal fire from their hands, mouths, and eyes. It was at times such as this that Mallus really did miss the protection of his wings.

He leaped behind the nurses’ station, magick exploding all around him as he reached into his coat and withdrew the Gleaning Blade. He hadn’t wanted to use the weapon, preferring to keep it safe in case it might provide them with new knowledge, but right now he could think of no better use. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, counted to three, and then sprang up onto the counter, slashing at the closest attacker.

The old man reared back with a grunt, his throat slit from ear to ear, leaking not blood but supernatural energies. Energies that ignited not only the man but at least five others near him as the power was unleashed.

Mallus leaped from the counter, dodging bolts of destructive power that tore up chunks of the ancient linoleum. He lashed out with the blade, cutting and stabbing.

The energy built, then exploded, picking up the fallen angel and tossing him down the length of the corridor like a rag doll. He bounced off the wall and landed in a smoldering heap upon the floor.

Mallus lay there for what seemed like hours, his body seared by supernatural energies. Finally he was able to push himself up from the ground. The hallway was silent and blackened with ruin. Not a soul moved.

Someone coughed, and Mallus was immediately on alert. He faced the open door in front of him, squinting into what appeared to have been the nursing home’s activity room. It was filled with tables littered with magazines and half-finished
puzzles. A big-screen TV sat in the corner, with several vinyl-covered recliners in front of it. All were occupied by elders, their dull eyes fixed to the empty screen as if they were watching the most riveting program imaginable. He heard the cough again.

Mallus carefully entered the room, searching the gloom for signs of life.

“I shoulda figured it was you,” said a voice from behind him. It sounded as though its owner had gargled with broken glass.

Mallus spun, mystical blade at the ready.

A wheelchair-bound figured sat in front of a card table. The man held a puzzle piece in his hand and was searching for its proper place.

The fallen angel cautiously stepped closer. “Tarshish?” he asked, not sure what form the Malakim might be wearing.

“That’s right,” the old man said, snapping the puzzle piece into place.

Mallus could now see the picture on the puzzle. It was a desert scene, pyramids rising up from the sand under a setting orange sun.

The old man looked up from the unfinished puzzle. Mallus could feel the ancient being’s eyes upon him, scrutinizing the markings that he had put upon Mallus’s flesh a very long time ago.

“Who touched up your ink?” the old man asked, looking back to his puzzle and picking up another piece. “Looks like crap.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

V
erchiel recognized where he was by the smell in the air, and the feel of the sand beneath his feet.

This was where the village had been, where he had heard a supposed prophet speak lies—
revealed as the truth
—about the Nephilim and their Chosen One, who would forgive the fallen angels, allowing them to return to Heaven.

This was the accursed village that Verchiel had wiped from the face of the earth.

“Where are we?” Melissa asked, hand upon her brow, shielding her eyes from the ferocity of the setting sun as she gazed about her desert surroundings.

“A cursed place,” Verchiel replied, remembering not only what he had done here but his recent memory of the old prophet.

“You know this place?” the girl asked.

Verchiel ignored her question, scanning the desert for a
sign of where they were supposed to be. In the distance he saw what appeared to be an encampment, and started toward it.

“Is that some sort of archeological dig or something?” Melissa asked, running to keep up with Verchiel’s powerful strides.

“It appears that way,” he said, keeping his eyes on the encampment, searching for signs of life. He saw none.

They came up over the dune to a view of the camp—tents of varying sizes and purpose on one side, trucks and Jeeps on the other. It appeared from the buildup of sand upon the vehicles that they had not moved in quite some time.

“Hey, Verchiel. Over here,” Melissa said, walking over to where a more solid structure had been erected.

He followed the girl, searching the area with a scrutinizing eye in the hopes of discovering what had happened to the camp’s inhabitants. He learned nothing other than that they were not there.

Verchiel considered that maybe the site had been abandoned, but then why would they have left so much behind? Inside a food tent, tables were still set for supper.

“Take a look at this,” Melissa said, holding open a heavy tarp so Verchiel might follow her inside.

Verchiel passed through the opening. An excavation site lay before him. The hole was large, with ladders leaning against the inside walls down into what seemed to be an open passage. The former leader of the Powers remembered how the village had looked before he’d called his wrath upon it.

“Should we go down?” Melissa asked.

Verchiel didn’t bother to answer, grabbing onto a ladder and heading down into the passage.

“Guess that’s a yes,” the girl said as she followed.

The excavated corridor had been shored up with wooden planking, and flickering lights hung from the ceiling. A generator droned somewhere ahead of them.

Verchiel found the first of the camp’s inhabitants sticking up out of the dirt floor.

“Is that a boot?” Melissa asked, stepping around the angel for a closer look.

Verchiel could only stare.

She tried to pick the boot up, and was surprised as it came away to reveal a dirty foot.

“Oh, that’s not right,” Melissa said, backing quickly away.

“No, it’s not,” Verchiel agreed.

Giving the filthy foot a wide berth, they headed farther into the tunnel.

Typical survival instincts would have encouraged the fight-or-flight reaction in most people, anything to avoid the possibility of impending death. But Verchiel was of the host Powers, and such instincts were not part of his makeup. All he knew was that he had to confront the danger and eliminate it. He glanced at the girl accompanying him, and could tell that she was struggling with her own survival instincts. He could practically feel the fear radiating from her.

“What?” she asked, catching his stare.

“You’re afraid,” Verchiel said, amused.
These are the powerful angelic warriors who are supposed to save humanity from harm? What was the Lord God thinking?

“Yeah, so?” Melissa said. “Hasn’t stopped me, though, has it?”

She did have a point.

“No, it hasn’t,” Verchiel agreed, momentarily considering the Nephilim’s courage.

“Then you shouldn’t worry about it,” she added, continuing on.

The passage opened up into a much larger area, and Melissa stopped to take it all in. She turned slightly as Verchiel joined her.

“What is this?” she asked.

“Obviously what they had been rooting around to find in the dirt and sand,” Verchiel said, knowing exactly what they were looking at.

He remembered the place as if he’d seen it only days prior, not thousands of years before. It was the marketplace where he and the Powers had meted out punishment for the lies of a supposed prophet.

“They’ve uncovered a section of the market,” Verchiel said.

Melissa stepped farther into the room. “It was buried,” she said, squatting down to brush at a section of floor, revealing the broken pieces of a clay pot sticking up from the ground. “Swallowed up by the desert and the passage of time.”

Verchiel remembered his rage, and how he’d called the
power of Heaven’s warriors upon the settlement and those who had provided that damnable prophet a safe haven.

The Powers had left no one alive, and had reduced the city to rubble. He was surprised to see even this much left intact.

“Removed from the eyes of God,” Verchiel said softly.

“What? You’re saying that all this destruction happened for a reason?” she asked, slowly rising.

“I’m saying that this place offended the Creator, and it was erased from His sight.”

“You seem to know an awful lot about this place,” Melissa observed.

“Yes, I do,” Verchiel agreed, finding it strange that a Fear Engine was here, of all places.

Before the female could prod him further, he began his search in earnest, extending his senses outward, searching for a sign of the infernal machine and what fate might have befallen this excavation.

There was another passage leading away from the marketplace dig, and Verchiel ducked into it, following a line of black electrical cables toward the growing sound of a roaring generator. This passage opened into a larger chamber that held the generator. Large spotlights had been erected around the circular cavern to illuminate a complex mural—a painting depicting the prophecy of the Nephilim.

Verchiel froze, remembering the strange dreamlike memory
he’d had back at the school, when he’d seen this very painting, and how it had seemed to go on and on.

“What is this?” Melissa asked over the rumble of the generator. She moved closer to examine the simple figures of angel and mortal woman joined together to form what Verchiel and the Powers had seen as abominations in the eyes of God.

It was all there, the birth of the Nephilim and the coming of a Chosen One, a savoir for them all.

Aaron Corbet.

“This is about us,” Melissa said excitedly.

But there was more here, more than what Verchiel remembered seeing or hearing. Images depicting the Nephilim in the midst of combat against a demonic foe, a world surrounded by darkness.

Verchiel found himself drawn to the crude paintings, finding images that had yet to be cleaned of a millennia of dirt.