They Who Fell (4 page)

“You must know something of what you’re doing, else why would you do it?” said Rhamiel.

“Because I have to,” said Jana. She couldn’t think of any other response, and it was true.

He smiled, and patted her on the shoulder in mock empathy. She flinched, as he’d known she would, and he relished in it as she overcompensated, trying to compose herself by putting on an exaggerated show of nonchalance. He knew he was making her nervous, and he meant to take full advantage of it.

“One never has to do anything,” said Rhamiel. “We merely tell ourselves that we do. You might surprise yourself, if you release yourself from the shackles you’ve imposed.” Easy to say, for one in his position. He had all the power, and all the prestige. What he wanted, he got. She survived at the pleasure of her masters, and got only what she was permitted to have.

She looked up to see her escort, now shooting her a glare.
Now you tell me
, thought Jana. She was hardly an expert on angelic protocol. If the woman hadn’t wanted her to sit, she should have let her know beforehand. What was she to do? If she wasn’t brave enough to deny Rhamiel herself, how could Jana be expected to? Then she saw someone striding up to them, probably the source of the woman’s newfound confidence. She recognized her from below—Nefta. She didn’t look pleased. Half her face was broiled from the Fall, the other half was that of a striking blonde beauty, and both sides were set in a scowl. Jana could tell she’d been one of the perfect ones before she’d fallen. Her wings moved, agitated—a disturbing sight. They’d been particularly damaged, and were left looking something like those of a bat, with scattered feathers still clinging to the leathery flaps that remained.

“Rhamiel,” said Nefta. “I don’t interfere in your affairs, and I expect you not to interfere in mine.”

“We’re entertaining, not interfering,” said Rhamiel, grinning impishly. “You can’t ask us not to be good hosts.”

“You know what you’re doing,” said Nefta. “I sent for her, and I don’t like being delayed. Girl, come with us.”

Jana froze, looking back and forth between the two. Going with Nefta might offend Rhamiel, or even Zuphias. Ignoring her could be fatal. She’d been given a direct order. Rhamiel looked Jana over in silence for a few terrifying seconds, taking a little selfish pleasure in her indecision, and then he did her a kindness.

“Go. We’ll share our bottle later, once you’re free from Nefta’s clutches. The two of us had plans of our own, in any event. We’re to go out into the world, and see what mischief we can stir up.” He looked amused, and didn’t seem to have taken any offense. Rhamiel stood, and towered over Jana. She’d only seen him seated, but now he was tall, imposing, and moved with a confident strut. He and Zuphias walked away, down one of the corridors and off to one of the many platforms that dotted the exterior.

The woman grabbed Jana’s arm roughly, and the two fell in line behind Nefta. Jana could feel the eyes of the room upon her. That kind of attention wouldn’t end well, if Sam was to be believed. She’d seen a number of people disappear over the years herself. But then again, maybe some of them were still kicking around in the upper levels. The people here had to come from somewhere. She had a more immediate concern, though: Nefta. Neither she nor her escort seemed happy, and that couldn’t be a good thing.

Nefta veered off into a narrow corridor, which wound upward to an isolated chamber. She stood in front of it, waiting impatiently as the woman opened the door for her. Jana followed them inside. They appeared to be in some kind of foyer. The walls were lined with hand-carved wooden masks, depicting a series of faces in intricate and lifelike detail. Jana had only just begun to admire them when she felt something collide with her head, and fell to the floor in a daze.

CHAPTER SEVEN

“T
his island, here,” said Uzziel. “A nest of vipers. There’s at least two encampments down there in some of the parklands. And there could be hundreds of them scuttling around in the structures nearby.”

He’d intercepted Rhamiel and Zuphias on one of the balconies, and was holding a map and gesturing at it excitedly. It was covered in scribblings and notes from either Uzziel or one of his lieutenants—battle plans, perhaps, or just intelligence about the general area. The balcony was small, but it had a perfect view of their surroundings. It had no railings or other protections; just a bare platform, extending outward into space. There were a number of them around the tower, and the angels came to them to think, or brood, or simply to stare out at the skies.

“We’d love to spend the day debating military strategy, Uzziel, we really would,” said Rhamiel, brushing away the map. “But this trip is purely for pleasure. An aimless jaunt into the countryside to admire the scenery.”

“And I’d promised myself I’d stay out of martial affairs,” added Zuphias. “I’m not particularly happy with the results of my last foray into that field.”

Uzziel glowered at them both, and thrust his finger at the area of the map that was most heavily scrawled upon. “These are threats. Every one of them a threat. It’s vigilance that protects a garrison. I’d conscript the lot of you, if I could muster the support. Instead you dedicate all your lives to loafing.”

“Uzziel, look around you,” said Rhamiel. “This is hardly some defenseless camp. We’re in the skies, far from danger. And a little loafing would more become you. You’ve too much energy. Why, sloth is one of the sins with the most to commend it. You’ve done nothing since we arrived but relive old battles and gin up excuses to drill for new ones.”

“We’d certainly help you if it became necessary,” said Zuphias. “But it’s all so dull. I’ve had more than enough lifetimes of service, myself. You can put aside these labors now. Do something of your own choosing.”

“This is labor for ourselves, not for others,” said Uzziel. “How do any of you feel safe with enemies around us? We must at least be prepared. That’s all I ask. Just do some basic scouting. Just fly past, get me my intelligence, and then idle away as many of your days as you please.”

Rhamiel smiled, looking amused. “Perhaps, Uzziel. Perhaps. We’ve no particular plans, and can make no particular promises. But if we’re in the area, and feel so inclined, we’ll wander about and report to you immediately if the armies of men are massing around us. Some armada has doubtless been cleverly disguised down there for the last decade, awaiting the perfect moment to strike.”

Uzziel scowled and huffed off. He was used to ruling through authority before the Fall, and hadn’t taken well to the need to use persuasion to achieve his ends. Orders were simpler, and they didn’t require any thought to the inclinations of their recipients. Now he was a general without an army. The heavenly host was shattered, and the most disciplined of its former soldiers had become the wildest when they suddenly found themselves without their old restraints. Uzziel had been reduced to hectoring anyone with the patience to listen. The angels had been left to their own devices for long enough that convincing them to act in concert was akin to herding cats.

“A final drink, and then let’s be off,” said Rhamiel, as he motioned to a waiting attendant. Rhamiel and Zuphias both preferred wine. It didn’t get them drunk; the angelic constitution was too strong for that. But there was something biblical about it, and they both enjoyed the old classics.

“Perhaps we should perform Uzziel’s spywork,” said Zuphias. “I won’t say the feeling of flight isn’t a joy on its own. But it’s nice to have plans.”

“Plans get rid of all the fun,” said Rhamiel. “We’ll improvise. You should talk to Ecanus. He’s not exactly of our stature, but I’ve never met someone so creative about his cruelty. He simply follows his own fancies wherever they lead him. He’s a tad dark, but there’s something to learn from that. We could topple a building, or you could perform some of those miracles you’re always going on about.” He downed his drink, and approached the edge of the balcony.

They had a perfect view of the ruined city. The skyline was nothing but jagged rows of dilapidated buildings in various states of decline. Rhamiel stood at the brink, facing outward, and lifted his wings. Then he held out his arms and dropped. His wings caught the air, and he began to glide. Zuphias followed shortly, and soon they flew side by side, aimlessly circling the tower.

“Let’s follow the wind, and see where it takes us,” Rhamiel shouted. They rode a current of air, hardly needing to flap, and drifted lazily over the city. Nothing much happened for a time. The buildings were empty, and the streets were quiet. Rhamiel and Zuphias flew in silence, looking on the crumbling works of man below them. The current was unstable, and veered from street to street. Both were soon lost in flight and in their own thoughts. It was a form of meditation for them—calming, and a welcome break from the politics that often engulfed their home. Neither was much for all that, but many of their comrades felt compelled to busy themselves with petty bickering.

Then Rhamiel spotted it. Something moving on the ground. Just a speck in the distance, but it intrigued him. He motioned to Zuphias, and they flew lower. Closer, now, and the scene became clear. They could see two people, moving. And next to them a body.

“That looks like Abraxos, doesn’t it?” asked Rhamiel. Quiet and something of a loner, Abraxos was prone to solitary flights. He’d been the equivalent of a heavenly security guard before the Fall, patrolling its vast boundaries without ever engaging in formal warfare like Uzziel. He was mostly a non-entity to them, but this was too interesting to resist. They moved in, flying lower, and drew their swords.

CHAPTER EIGHT

T
hane could see them in the distance, up in the skies. Two dots, rapidly approaching, with fire waving from their sides.

“Tongues! She’s talkin’ tongues!” he shouted into the radio, and lifted Faye over his shoulder.

Holt knew instantly that things had gone bad. Glossolalia was a sure sign you were being targeted from above. Some said it was the true angelic language, but if so, they’d never been heard to speak it. Others thought that it was a trick of the mind—that it was the angels worming their way into the brain somehow, scrambling the synapses temporarily to render their prey vulnerable. What
was
known was that speaking in tongues meant that they were around, and that they had targeted you.

Holt raised a hand to preemptively silence Dax. He was prone to chatter, and this wasn’t the time. Then he leaned to the edge of the window, trying to get a good view without giving himself away. He could see Thane entering a nearby building, carrying Faye and hoping to find cover. It wasn’t likely to work. The angels knew they were there, and they’d tear the place apart to find them. The angels came into view, drifting in the air over the body. Two of them. They were having some discussion or another between themselves, and leisurely began inspecting the carcass.

“Holt!” Thane’s voice came through the radio’s static. “Faye’s back, but she’s not lookin’ so hot. Too woozy to fight.” Whatever mental connection there was must have broken, either from the distance or from the angel otherwise losing sight of her. But he’d been in her head, and that could be a nerve-racking experience. She’d be shaky and confused, and would need some time to recover.

“Found a closet to hide her in,” said Thane. “I’m doubling back. I’ll distract them; you get out of here.”

Holt barked his response. “Don’t be an idiot. They’re not even following you yet. Get some distance and we might all get out of here before they get their act together.” But Thane was Thane. He’d lost a lot of loved ones, like most. For many people, this sparked a survival instinct, making them increasingly cautious as the years went by and friend after friend joined the dead. The Vichies took this attitude to extremes, willing to lick boots and dutifully act as toadies if it meant even a few more moments were added to their own lives. In Thane, the loss just turned to anger. He actively stoked it. His wounds were emotional, but he was constantly poking at them, nursing his grudges and refusing to allow time to gradually erode the misery of his memories. Holt doubted that Thane would ever let them go. It made him a more dangerous soldier, but also a more reckless one.

Holt could see him now, coming back out of the building through a gash in its side near a collapsed wall. This wasn’t about distraction. Thane had the taste of blood in his mouth, and you couldn’t just slip the bit back in and expect obedience. He drew the flaming sword he’d retrieved, called out to the two angels, and adopted a fighter’s stance.

They looked at him, scoffing, and not entirely sure if what they were seeing was serious. “Poor Abraxos,” said the younger looking one. “Driven down into the muck by the Maker, only to die in perhaps the most humiliating way possible. Slain by this little yelping thing with its foul temper. But at least in dying, he set us onto a diversion from the day’s dreariness. There’s something to be said for that.”

Thane’s war face was on, and he didn’t flinch. “I killed him. Now I’m gonna kill you. Then I’m gonna kill every one of your friends, one by one.” He moved towards them, but his steps were more cautious than his words. The angels waved their swords as he approached, teasing him. In all likelihood, either could have finished him off in a few seconds. But they prolonged their play, standing by the body and waiting for him to make the first move. He stopped a few meters away, eyeing them and hoping that the standoff was giving the others enough time to flee. Boundless confidence and blind rage had gotten him this far, but he wasn’t a fool. This wasn’t a winning fight, but you had to at least throw a punch.

“Thane. Duck.” It took a moment for the command from the radio to register and for his thoughts to click. Thane looked up, locking his eyes on a familiar window in one of the buildings above. Then he turned, and ran.

“What a curious creature. All claws and snarls one moment, and panicked hysteria the next.” The older-looking angel watched Thane rushing away, bemused at his sudden loss of confidence. Then a thump and a crackle came from above them. They had just enough time to turn to see something roaring towards them, and then it was inferno all around. They were blown outward, the younger one into a pile of debris and the older one through the windshield of one of the city’s many abandoned vehicles.

Holt put down the missile launcher and picked up his walkie-talkie. “They’re stunned, but they won’t be that way for long. Get Faye and get your ass into a sewer before they’re up. Risk her again to play games and I’ll kill you myself.” The gloves were off, and it was iron underneath. He turned to Dax, who flinched and dropped his eyes. Dax was smart enough to know when it was time to do as he was told. “Get what we need, what we can’t live without. Then let’s go. Now.”

Dax scrambled around, grabbing his laptop and various other assorted sundries and shoving them into a backpack. The room was a mess. It’d been that way when they arrived, but camping out there for this long had left it covered in trash, the old layered beneath the new. Broken glass and soggy old books were mixed with crumbs from their food and balled up dirty clothes. Holt snapped the footlocker shut, kicking it under a table. They’d come back for the launcher if they could, but it was too much to carry on the run. He took another careful peek outside the window. Thane was gone, and presumably had gone back to following orders now that they suited what he wanted to do anyway. The angels were still down, and neither one was moving yet. That gave them at least a few minutes.

“Holt. This is Faye. I’m fine. Thane and I got out and onto another street. There’s a subway station up ahead, and if we get stuck we’ll hole up there until dark.” The city’s underground networks were a mess. Many of the old passageways were blocked or had been destroyed. But some paths were still passable, and could be used to travel to the city’s edges. From there, you could generally move freely once night had fallen. The angels couldn’t see you from above, then, and while some of the Vichies could be a threat, if confronted they often would revert to the same meekness they showed their masters. With many of them, the urge to roll over and expose their bellies when threatened by anyone or anything had become their second nature.

“Thank God,” said Dax. He pulled his backpack over his shoulders and looked to Holt for guidance on what to do next.

“We’re going downstairs,” said Holt. “Stick to the interior of the building until we get to the ground floor. I saw a hole going into the next building in one of the walls. We go through, hide, and wait this thing out until sundown.” Dax’s eyes bulged to the edges of their sockets, and he started to stammer. Holt heard the flapping, and turned.

The younger angel had recovered. He was outside the window, sword drawn and hovering as he held himself aloft at eye level with Holt. He was handsome—strikingly so, almost perfect except for a trickle of blood flowing across his face from a gash on his forehead. Holt’s missile had done something, at least, but that wasn’t much comfort to him now.

The angel touched his wound gingerly, withdrawing his hand. He eyed the blood on his fingertips, and then glared at Holt in fury.

“You did this. This face survived the Fall unscathed, and now you’ve marred it. You’ve earned an agonizing death for that. Ungrateful little wretch. You can’t fathom how long I slaved away for your kind. I saved the ones the Maker thought deserved to be saved, and I killed the ones he thought had to be killed to keep the rest of you safe. All those centuries, all those people, and I’ve never,
ever
, seen one of you foolish enough to strike me.”

“First time for everything,” said Holt. “And now there’s a second.” He pulled a taser from a holster on his belt, aimed directly at the angel’s treasured visage, and fired. Wires burst forward, clamping onto the skin of his face and buzzing loudly with energy. The angel dropped his sword and grasped at his head, tumbling downward and jerking the taser out of Holt’s hand as he spiraled out of control and into the ground below.

“Move!” Holt yelled, directing Dax down a staircase with an urgent wave of his hand. Dax ran, as quickly as could be expected from him, with Holt close behind. Sometimes the leader must follow, when danger’s in the rear, and Holt had always felt an obligation to shoulder the bulk of any risks to his subordinates himself. They raced down the stairs, floor after floor, and finally heard a crashing from above. The angel must have recovered, and was certainly in an awful mood. They could hear him tearing apart the floors above, as they ran to Holt’s escape route and crawled through a breach in the brick walls separating their building from the next. Holt led the way—he made it a habit to scout around before selecting a base of operations, and he always had a few contingency plans up his sleeve. They descended into a basement, wound their way through a maze of dusty boxes held in storage for the building’s previous residents, and huddled down among them as they listened to the clamor of destruction from above.