Fall From Grace Read online

  Hidden behind piles of parchments sat Metatron, the Scribe of Heaven. As the nexus of the Powers, he linked the Watchers and Recorders while personally documenting the most important events. With eyes ever closed, the hands of his six arms each held multiple quills and wrote without recess. Since the construction of the Library, he had not ceased recording history. His vigilance was such that he did not eat or sleep. It was an existence unique among all angels.

  “Greetings, Metatron,” Michael said.

  The Scribe had taken a vow of silence because only he had a complete vision of Heaven’s events as they were occurring. That omniscience could never be shared, only recorded for posterity. No one was allowed to ask Metatron what is only what was.

  “You have seen what troubles Heaven,” Michael continued. “Can you steer me towards any precedent that would reveal the root of Satanail’s influence so that I may reclaim those yet spoiled by it?” He expected a Power to guide him elsewhere in the Library, but instead—

  Metatron stopped writing.

  Tears spilled from under his closed lids as he received information from the Watchers. Every hand started recording one identical phrase across the parchments assigned to each region. The Watchers were abandoning their posts to read a doctrine, all of them focusing on the same phrase:

  Choose freedom

  “Whose words are these?” Michael asked in an intentional breach of protocol.

  Metatron opened his eyes and scrawled a name: Satanail. He wrote the name again and again and again until his quills snapped then dipped his fingers in ink to continue recording the letters.

  Satanail’s words were all that Metatron could see in Heaven, and they were spreading.

  When the effects of the force-fed “manna” subsided within Satanail, he pulled against the clasps binding his hands. The chain links began to separate…but he stopped himself. Whatever agonies await, I must brave this crucible, he remembered. Escaping would negate the purpose of his suffering and give truth to the label of villain. Michael’s moral authority was his sole advantage, thus Satanail had to play the part of willing victim until the time came for his rebirth.

  “Satanail,” Lilith whispered from above, “You’ve been such a pleasant guest. Would you like a reward?”

  Lilith instilled a rare fear in Satanail. Her sister wives were unrelenting in their cruelty, but Lilith was the worst offender. She would dangle Satanail between pain and pleasure until he reached intolerable ecstasy. She was Sammael’s crowning success in his mad exploration of extreme creation. Pain was his trade, Lilith his tool of choice, and Satanail his prize subject.

  Lilith slinked down Satanail’s chain, allowing his dread to percolate. She coiled her tail around his torso and brought her mouth to his own in the gesture she dubbed a “kiss.” Suffering always followed the gentle act, yet he still ached for the soft pressure of her lips.

  “Mmm, I taste bile. Was your meal unsatisfactory?”

  “It seemed rude not to share,” Satanail replied with a smirk that amused Lilith.

  “Charming.”

  Lilith slid a hand down Satanail’s chest, past his abdominals, and ran it along his groin. Though it should’ve been flat flesh, she gripped and stroked something…something foreign now integrated into his body.

  “Your gift has healed well. Can you feel it?”

  The stroking brought an intense pleasure unlike anything that Satanail had ever felt. Blood rushed to his groin and swelled the extremity in Lilith’s hand. It wasn’t a muscle but an organ more delicate and flush with sensual nerves.

  Ignore it. It’s a false pleasure. A perversion. Deny her the satisfaction.

  “Your body has accepted it. The nerves merged with your own,” Lilith cooed. “It rises with your blood, with your desire.”

  Satanail shut his eyes to meditate away from his body and tap into Heaven’s essence. Grace was the basis of the Host’s sacred talents, an energy that emitted from their souls and flowed through Heaven. That collective flow allowed Satanail to sense the Host’s condition. When united, it was an aura of prosperity. Now, he felt discord muddy the aura and knew that Azazel had succeeded. His message was being spread and nurtured among the Host.

  Sammael descended into the pit and opened Satanail’s eyes.

  “Are you enjoying my gift?”

  “Your ‘gift’ is a deformity.”

  “If that were so, I’d not have treated myself to the same.”

  Sammael removed his waistcloth to reveal a phallus and pair of testicles sewn between his legs. He was a mirror of Satanail’s own desecration, and it was beastly. He tried not to think about from what poor creature Sammael had obtained the parts.

  “The reproductive system doesn’t function, of course, but that’s only half the purpose of these organs. You’ve experienced but a tiny sample of the pleasures they can produce.”

  “You sicken me. I want none of it,” Satanail said.

  “No?” Sammael turned to Lilith. “Take him in your mouth.”

  Satanail felt his new phallus enter the warm, moist confines of Lilith’s mouth. It was magnificent…but he couldn’t bend to the seduction. Satanail closed his eyes.

  “No, no, none of that astral mysticism.” Sammael slapped Satanail’s face. “Stay here. Stay with us.”

  “You…your wives…you’ll all be in chains soon enough.”

  “You think I want to bow to Mankind? I’m no servant, but you were too bold in your dissent. We can crush Mankind whenever we want, so why not first learn from them?”

  “They have nothing to teach us,” Satanail said. “I refuse to suffer even one moment of servitude.”

  “It’s only servitude if your mind accepts it as such. The gift I’ve given you, they have it by nature…and more. I want to know their secrets, bathe in their pleasures, and be the source of their pain. And when I have it all, I’ll remake them in an image of my choosing. So you see, this self-righteous campaign of yours must fail. The ‘Gathering’ won’t save you,” Sammael said.

  The Gathering was the next stage of Azazel’s orders to be implemented once Satanail’s message was disseminated and had amassed a sizable band of loyal angels. Sammael may have heard the phrase but couldn’t know its full intent.

  “Gathering? Never heard of it.”

  “Don’t lie to me. I’ve seen your insipid proclamation. Rumor spreads that ‘The Gathering’ is near. Lilith, stop.”

  Lilith removed Satanail from her mouth. Every fiber of his body wanted her to resume. He bit down on his tongue, trying to dull the desire with pain.

  “Talented, isn’t she? Speak, and she’ll take you deeper. What are your followers planning?” Sammael asked. “It doesn’t matter how many angels pledge to your cause, none can set you free.”

  Satanail leaned his face forward with ridiculing confidence.

  “Michael can and will.”

  “Michael? He brought you here.” Sammael and Lilith burst into laughter. “I thought it’d take longer to shatter your mind.”

  “You can’t begin to comprehend my mind. You’re a pitiful beast below all others that walk Heaven. Worms squirming in the dirt hold more value than your wretched soul.” Satanail’s words were sharper than any blade. “When I’m free, and I will be free, your kingdom will crumble.”

  “I’ve been too kind. The pleasures of Mathey can be given, and they can be taken away. Lilith, do it.”

  Lilith took Satanail’s new organs into her mouth again, but there was no gratification. Instead…her teeth clamped down and chewed the sensitive appendages from his groin.

  The anguish of each severed nerve incapacitated Satanail. All that remained between his legs was a ragged wound gushing with sour memories of the loathsome human pleasure.

  Satanail welcomed the sweet mercy of unconsciousness.

  CHAPTER 14

  The Gathering

  Michael left the Library and ascended for an aerial view of the city. He thought Satanail’s scandal would evaporate without his
presence, but his brother had predicted that naïve assumption. Satanail’s public treason was meant to arrest Michael’s attention while Azazel escalated dissent not with grand gestures but the cunning encouragement of a manifesto. Distributed in plain sight and overlooked by the distracted Seraphim, Satanail’s words had saturated Heaven.

  The insurrection had to be publicly opposed. Azazel was a fraudulent caricature of Satanail’s fanaticism that would crumble when challenged by divine candor. But initial attempts to track Azazel were ineffective, and Michael could not utilize Angels to boost the search. He heard that Amitiel had defected and would not risk dispatching others within proximity of Azazel. Michael needed an instant method of locating Azazel, and a stroke of ingenuity came to mind. It would be unpopular, but sometimes an end result justified the means.

  Michael flew into the upper atmosphere and entered the Observatory. The Virtues were unaffected by current events, their thoughts ever focused on the mysteries of Creation. Michael was hesitant to disrupt their neutrality, but the facility was needed for more important applications.

  “Time, I have need of your assistance,” Michael announced.

  “What you need and what is needed of you are not always one and the same,” Time replied while pouring water between his chalices.

  Michael had no patience for Time’s snarky riddles or foibles. He slapped the chalices onto the floor, wrenching Time from his contemplation.

  “Forgive me, but your complete attention is required.”

  “It can be secured in a civil manner,” Time said, annoyed, and returned his chalices to their proper setting. “Speak, before my erratic mind yet wanders.”

  “You will redirect the telescopes,” Michael ordered.

  “That is my vocation. Which world do you wish to lay eyes upon?”

  “Our own.”

  Time swallowed as if to force the distasteful command down his throat. “I see. How many lenses will you require?”

  “All of them,” Michael said. “Pull up images of every city, every village, every settlement. Scan all of Heaven until you find Azazel, and then keep eyes on his activities.”

  “We Virtues are meant to study the Cosmos not monitor our own without permission.” Time was voicing the apprehension seen on many of his Virtues’ faces.

  “My permission will suffice. Have you seen what possesses your brothers? Have any of you removed yourselves from the stars and witnessed the imbalance that chokes the life from Heaven?” None of the Virtues spoke up. “Serve your Creator, and help me mend the Host.”

  “By blatantly violating their privacy?” Time stammered.

  “Extreme times demand extreme measures. Certain liberties must be suspended.”

  “Michael, you cannot ask this of my Virtues.”

  “I am not asking. Any who would question my tactics, take your leave. Those who remain will see their diligence rewarded,” Michael replied. His firm approach felt vulgar, but every delay tipped the scales in Satanail’s favor. Indecision and constraint had surrendered enough ground.

  A slew of Virtues left the Observatory, but enough remained to coordinate the search. Though outraged by the misuse of his facility, Time stayed from a devotion to his station. The Virtues realigned the telescopes down towards Heaven, allowing Michael to view an entire region or zoom onto the entrance of a single angel’s home. All of Heaven was within his sights.

  There was nowhere for Azazel to hide.

  Michael studied the lenses and saw how every region was frayed by Satanail’s heresy. Volatile storm systems pelted Heaven as Cherubs deserted Cassiel, weakening the Nest. Thrones who had never flown beyond Raphael’s Monastery were departing Raqia and diminishing the Choir. The Forge’s productivity was at an all-time low despite Uriel’s keen example. Most distressing, however, was the dwindling cultivation of Shehaqim’s farms and manna. If Gabriel were forced to ration the manna, angels would be driven to whoever could offer relief from their hunger.

  Michael’s vision became glazed with discouragement…until Azazel appeared in one of the lenses.

  “There. Focus all lenses on that grid.”

  The telescopes redirected for a multi-angle view of Azazel. He was unrecognizable beneath an unruly beard and excessive jewelry, his bumbling reserve supplanted by an assertive moxie. Thousands upon thousands of followers formed a caravan in his wake. Impressionable angels from remote villages, far outside the Seraphim’s reach, flocked to him. But Azazel’s enticing promises were an illusion of choice. His preaching carried a narcissism that damned all it touched, and Michael would put a stop to it.

  By plotting the caravan’s movement, Michael saw a pattern. Azazel spiraled inward from the outskirts of Heaven towards a reckless destination: Araboth City. The galvanizing popularity of Satanail’s shadow had made him too audacious.

  Azazel’s intentions are beyond his competence, Michael thought. He leads them to me…and the end of Satanail’s revolt.

  The race for the Host’s salvation had only begun. When the dust settled at the finish line, there could be but one outcome—

  Satanail would yield. It was a cosmic certainty.

  An ocean breeze wafted over Satanail’s face and cleansed his lungs of Mathey’s acrid air. He opened his eyes and found himself soaring above the waves alongside Michael. Pleasant swells splashed brisk salt water across their chests, but it wasn’t real. It couldn’t be.

  “Michael, where am I?”

  “They are waiting for us,” Michael replied and bolted ahead.

  Satanail felt the adrenaline of competition and sped off after his brother, carving the waves into billows of water that arced around his body, but he couldn’t gain on him. Michael became a speck on the horizon then vanished altogether.

  “They are waiting for us,” Michael said, reappearing above.

  Satanail lost his balance and clipped across the ocean’s surface like a skipping stone. He tumbled to a stop on the shores of an island that seemed to materialize out of thin air. It was exotic, nebulous even, but felt…familiar. Satanail spat out a mouthful of sand and brushed himself off. The coarse grains felt real enough on his tongue.

  Michael flickered into view again. “You are almost there.”

  Satanail tried to flap his wings and suddenly felt no response. He ran his fingers across his back, but instead of feathers he felt six stumps of ridged scar tissue.

  “My wings?”

  “You will not need them. Come. They are waiting,” Michael repeated. He entered an overgrown forest that sprouted up from the empty sand.

  Satanail followed Michael through the dank foliage and recognized his surroundings: a clay path lined with seashells, loops of vines threaded with feathers, and ancient Seraphic symbols carved in the trees. It was the Seraphim’s retreat, an isolated landmass in the middle of Machonon’s ocean that surfaced from the depths but once an age. The Seraphim would gather there to take a private reprieve from their duties and explore their talents.

  Satanail emerged into a clearing where a waterfall cascaded into a translucent lake filled with kaleidoscopic schools of fish. The Seraphim were gathered at the waterfall’s crest and whistled for his attention. Cassiel leapt from the cliff, spread his wings to float for a moment, and then retracted them into a perfect dive. He breached from the lake and embraced Satanail.

  “Brother, I have missed you,” Cassiel said. He clapped his hands and caused a group of clouds to part, focusing a beam of sunlight on Satanail. How did he control it without the Nest?

  “I don’t understand. What’s happening? Is this a dream?”

  “All of Heaven is a dream. Our dream. His dream,” Michael replied from behind Satanail.

  “Michael! Satanail! Watch this!” Gabriel shouted and jumped from the waterfall, eager for validation.

  Before connecting with the lake, Gabriel hurled his scythe into the water. It warped into a suspended whirlpool that caught and lowered him down without a splash. The act defied even Heaven’s unique physics, but no one
else seemed surprised.

  “Well done, Gabriel, well done,” Michael applauded. “Your turn, Satanail. Go on. No need to be embarrassed. You can only do your best.”

  “But I have no wings. It’s too high.”

  “Allow me to assist.”

  Uriel grabbed Satanail’s waist and launched him up towards the crest. He hurtled far above the waterfall, unable to slow his momentum. Flight was as natural as breathing for Satanail, but bounding through the air without the control of wings made him delirious with fear.

  “I can’t stop!” he cried as his ascent reached its peak and turned into a plummet.

  Raphael appeared flying beside him. “This is your path. You can choose to stop.”

  “How?”

  “Release your fears, Brother, and He will catch you,” Michael encouraged below.

  Satanail careened away from the lake and down to the forest, limbs flailing. If the trees didn’t impale him, the impact would shatter every bone in his body.

  No one was coming to his aid.

  “Please, anyone!”

  “Have faith,” Gabriel urged. “Join us.”

  Why won’t they catch me? Satanail thought. They’re my brothers.

  I need them.

  “I don’t want to fall,” he said and shut his eyes. “FATHER!”

  Satanail’s descent suddenly stopped. He braved a glance to find his face just above the ground, nose brushing against tiny ants in the dirt. Sammael was dangling him by the ankles.

  “He won’t help you. They won’t help you. You’re alone.”

  Sammael whipped Satanail back over to the lake. When he splashed down, the water became blood. Fires ignited across the lake’s surface, boiling it and searing his flesh.

  “Brothers,” was all Satanail could utter between screams.

  The Seraphim hovered above the burning lake, each holding one of Satanail’s severed wings. They plucked feathers and tossed them into the fires while berating him with insults.