Fall From Grace Read online

  “Heretic.”

  “Your soul is damned.”

  “Burn, heathen. Burn!”

  Finally, someone lifted Satanail to shore. Michael cradled his brother as the charred skin slid off Satanail’s chest in blackened strips, exposing his beating heart.

  “I know what is in your heart,” Michael said. “Nothing.”

  Michael split open Satanail’s ribs and ripped out his heart. The organ shriveled into a leathery pulp then disintegrated.

  The Seraphim’s laughter whooped amidst the orange light of a sun. It faded to reveal Michael kneeling before legions of Mankind on the barren landscape of Heaven. Beneath their feet was a field of angel corpses. The humans wore their wings as trophies.

  Frozen, Satanail could only watch as Mankind tore Michael apart. The wings were hewn from his back and thrust high in savage victory.

  “MICHAEL—”

  Satanail awoke in Sammael’s hole, his cry mimicked by the Forgotten, but the horrors of his prison were now mitigated. The Creator may not have imparted the vision, but Satanail knew it was gospel. The same credence of purpose that the Word gave Michael had fused onto his soul.

  This won’t come to pass. The Creator has renounced the Host, so I’ll be their guiding light. Their savior. Their Father. Their new Creator.

  Michael stood atop the walls of Araboth and gazed upon the distant skies. Azazel’s caravan appeared over the plains like a mobile city that blotted out the daylight. As it drew near, Michael recognized familiar faces crafted into anemic replicas of Satanail by a repetition of propaganda. Erastiel, Uriel’s most talented apprentice, flew beside Azazel as escort. Hailael was also among them, a shocking sight that meant he had abandoned his brother and the animals that they considered kin. Why had so many angels discarded their friends and duty for false promises?

  Azazel steered his caravan towards the city while spouting off incessant deceit. “Michael is no prophet. He’s our oppressor, an absolutist who confiscates power without the right to it!”

  The caravan was immersed in a mania inflated by hysterics. Azazel could say almost anything without question. His status as Satanail’s second was enough to maintain the seduction.

  “Michael supplanted our elected Archon and encroached upon his city. Where is our brother? WHERE IS SATANAIL?” Azazel continued, stirring the simmering stew of bane.

  “I say we fill Araboth’s streets and demand Satanail’s release. We won’t concede a single stone in the city until he rejoins our ranks. Only he can guide us into a future of equality, a future of freedom. ALL HAIL SATANAIL!”

  Azazel propelled his caravan towards the main gate.

  Father, bless me with temperance, Michael prayed. He dove off the wall, flew straight for Azazel, and spread his six wings to discourage the caravan’s advance.

  “Halt! Fly forth, Azazel.”

  Azazel waved off Erastiel’s guard. He and Michael hovered within arm’s reach of each other, neither willing to budge.

  “Turn back and disperse,” Michael said. “I will not allow you to defile Araboth with your presence and corrupt its citizens.”

  “This isn’t your city. Araboth is Satanail’s home. We’re his people by pledge, by sacrifice, and we’ve more claim to it than any others!”

  Azazel’s caravan roared their approval.

  “I am Logos and Archon. I am the authority of Heaven.”

  “We know what you pretend to be, but real authority can’t be snatched from grasp like a coveted bauble. We have a word for what you truly are: Tyrant.”

  Trading juvenile insults would only lead to rash action, and Azazel’s weakness of character spoke for itself.

  “I will not waste my breath on your corroded mind.” Michael flew past Azazel to address the caravan. “See me, brothers. Am I not the same angel whom you have embraced your entire lives? Azazel calls me a tyrant, but all the grace in my soul is dedicated to the continued glory and welfare of the Host.”

  “Fallacy! He will shackle us to Mankind,” Azazel shot back.

  “Nurturing Mankind is not bondage, it is benevolence. The humans are flawed creatures of passion with boundless potential, ones we could call brother, but they will fall to misery and death without our aid.”

  “Why is that our responsibility?” The well of arguments filled by Satanail was running dry. Would Azazel’s tongue speak true when moistened only by his own thoughts?

  “Because of what we are. The Host is the jewel of Creation. We are what all other life can strive to become.” Michael took a knee in the air and bowed. “As I bowed before Mankind, I bow to you. Remember your love. Your friendships. Return to them. To your lands. Your homes. Your duties. Heal this wound.”

  Reconciliation was within grasp.

  “And if we don’t abide your commands? Will you see more contention in every angel of free mind? Will you claim dominion over more regions and force submission?” Azazel’s delusions were endorsed by fear, a fierce emotion thought banished from the Host’s hearts. “Michael will see us all to our end. No more talk. Take the city!”

  “Do not do this,” Michael pleaded to the angels. “If you care for Heaven and the Host as I know you do, you will disperse. Disperse not because I command it, but because you are free.”

  “If we’re as free as Michael claims, then he’ll grant us entry,” Azazel countered.

  Though the caravan posed a threat, to deny their entry would sustain Azazel’s lies. Michael felt something awful gnaw within, something as far from love as he could imagine. Satanail once spoke of a theory he called “hate.” Had such immorality invaded Michael’s soul?

  “Then enter, as is your right,” Michael said and drew Azazel close. “But you will be watched.”

  “We already have been.” Azazel pointed to Virtues among his caravan. They must have reported Michael’s recent use of the Observatory. “Your sins haven’t gone unnoticed, Tyrant.”

  “Nor have yours.”

  Michael flew aside and allowed the caravan to enter Araboth City. The commotion scattered faithful angels but emboldened others, bolstering the caravan as it swarmed into the Coliseum. There, Azazel rallied his angels with a call for Satanail’s freedom that quaked through the city.

  “The Gathering” had begun, and Michael’s voice could not quell its uproar. He needed the one angel in Heaven who could subdue an eruption of this magnitude.

  He needed Satanail.

  Satanail’s breathing lapsed into shrill wheezes, every gurgle depleting what remained of his mortal life. His soul began to separate from his mangled body and glimpsed the perpetual process of creation. Forces without emotion or purpose crashed together at random. Satanail saw no design, only the arbitrary cause and effect of chaos. If this was the end, where was Father to welcome him? Was nothingness all that waited in the realm of death?

  The frigid suffocation of eternity suddenly released its hold on Satanail’s soul as his chain retracted up the hole. His time in Mathey was over. He was meant to survive.

  All that Satanail suffered had exposed him to the succulent spread of life’s flavors. The totality of existence, from the purest joys to the most profane of torments, was his to explore. Grace and goodness had been the sole, limiting source of his power, but now he saw the mighty endowments of evil—an untapped resource that he would teach the Host to wield.

  The Forgotten dragged Satanail through the passages and into an obscene yet decadent bedchamber. Chandeliers of bone hung from the ceiling surrounded by sheets of cured skins draped like curtains. A bathtub supported by severed feet bubbled over with mucous. Sammael’s wives slept in four hammocks made from membranous sacks positioned around a bed where the Seraph sewed assorted gristle into a cloak.

  “Ah, Satanail, welcome to my sanctuary.”

  “I’d sooner wallow in a vat of piss and shit than accept your pleasantries.” Fresh curses sprung from Satanail’s liberated mind.

  “That can be arranged, if it’s your desire.”

  “When
the arrangement of my desires involves you, Sammael, your soul will wail for mercy…and receive none. Am I to be released, or shall we see those desires expedited?”

  “You are, but we can’t have you looking so rudely handled for your reentry into society.” Sammael clapped, and his wives slinked from their hammocks. “Cleanse him.”

  The wives lifted Satanail by the chains and dunked him into the stinking bathtub. The mucous sizzled and coated his wounds, sealing them faster than any Throne’s touch. When removed, Satanail’s flesh was again flawless, but the scars from Sammael’s torture ran deeper.

  “It’s an original recipe of mine, all-natural. We’re not privileged with the Thrones’ talents in Mathey, and my studies require an accelerated recovery,” Sammael explained. “The tingling feels delightful, doesn’t it? I only wish you had appreciated my gift.”

  “You’ve earned far, far more than my appreciation,” Satanail warned, removing the smug leer from Sammael’s face. “Know that, upon a day, I will return your hospitality.”

  “You couldn’t adopt a shred of humility?” A petulant voice caused the wives to scramble out of sight. “Speak to me with such sarcastic tone and find yourself back in the hole.”

  “Gabriel,” Sammael greeted, nervous, as the Seraph flew in. “I expected Michael.”

  “And I expected an evening of warm drink and numbed senses.” Gabriel recoiled from the bedchamber’s decor. “Your depravity exceeds reputation. If you’ve harmed Satanail, Michael ordered that I’m to return the insult tenfold.”

  Sammael’s atrocities were within discovery. Fear gripped the jailer, something Satanail planned to enjoy again very soon, but he wouldn’t allow another to rob him of the satisfaction.

  “Flattering but unnecessary concern, Gabriel. Sammael was a consummate host. I’ve never known such kindness,” Satanail assured but shot Sammael a look—a promise—of their certain reunion. He savored the slight twitch in his captor’s eyes.

  “Then we’ve no cause to waste any more time in this blister upon Heaven.”

  Gabriel grabbed Satanail’s chain and yanked him to the exit. It stung that Michael didn’t come for him but only meant that Azazel had more success with The Gathering than anticipated.

  “Where is our destination, good chaperone?” Satanail knew the answer and wanted to hear the beloved location spoken like his vindication from Gabriel’s reluctant lips.

  “Araboth.”

  The execution of Satanail’s plan was flawless.

  CHAPTER 15

  A Light Extinguished

  Michael watched the Coliseum from the Council Room archway. Lost souls percolated from every seat and space of air, their fanaticism bloated by Azazel’s dangerous words. The crowd was an entity of mayhem whose restraint was shaking under the weight of its own gluttony. Patrols of angels were maintaining the appearance of order in the surrounding streets but would be overthrown if the riot advanced beyond the Coliseum.

  Raphael entered with Uriel and Cassiel. “They act as animals, not angels.”

  “Animals act from instinct. Theirs is a synthetic devotion to Satanail sculpted by artifice,” Michael replied as they sat around the table. Its map charted Azazel’s movements from the outer regions to Araboth. “I know your regions suffer and require your presence, so I will be brief. Angels are abandoning their homes and duties, straining every Choir. The Nest is barely operational. Trade has all but halted. Provisions dwindle. Heaven is slipping from our grasp, and with it the faith of the Host.” He paused to unfold a ragged parchment with Satanail’s manifesto scrawled on it. “All because this trash desecrates the sanctity of our values and beliefs.”

  “I burned pyres of the wretched document only to see it rise anew,” Cassiel said. “They recite it like scripture.”

  “Rumor spreads like wildfire, and yet truth only blossoms over eons,” Raphael mused. “To think such plain words could jeopardize all that we know.”

  “My apprentice, Erastiel, deserted the Forge with half of my blacksmiths, and for what? To lick at the boots of a jeweler,” Uriel said. “It’s preposterous.”

  “Azazel is but Satanail’s steward, one meant to gather the strength of the masses to secure his release,” Michael said. “The Coliseum fans embers seeking to ignite this city. To smother them, we must appear to capitulate. Satanail has proven equally dangerous from Mathey as he was in public view, if not more so. I have instructed Gabriel to bring him here.”

  “You did what?” Cassiel said, baffled. “If you tolerate this farce now, where will it end?”

  Uriel stood. “I agree. Michael, there’s no one I respect more, you know this, but returning Satanail to Araboth is unwise. And to send Gabriel…what if Satanail turns him?”

  “Impossible.” Michael was offended by the suggestion.

  “Was it so long ago that he split my skull because I spoke in the Creator’s favor?”

  “Gabriel is my pupil, his cause firmly anchored to my own regardless of past misdeeds,” Michael replied. “He is more fit than any for the task.”

  “Then you suggest that we can be swayed?”

  “Your tone does little to alleviate my concerns.”

  Raphael stepped between Michael and Uriel, placing hands on their shoulders. “Allow sober minds to prevail.”

  Michael felt Raphael’s touch flush the scorn from his system.

  “I did not mean to offend, Uriel. You all have my complete trust. You must believe that.”

  “I do,” Uriel apologized. “My thoughts feel as polished steel hammered into distortion.”

  “We have all been affected. Sin is brewing in Heaven and overflows at the slightest provocation,” Raphael said. “That sin is instigated and maintained by Azazel and Satanail.”

  “Which is exactly why Satanail should remain in Mathey,” Cassiel urged. “You see what words on parchment have stirred. What would happen if Satanail spoke them directly?”

  “Satanail may yet return to sense, and his presence will pacify them. He would not wish to see the city suffer,” Michael said. “What are your thoughts, Raphael?”

  “The risk is acceptable. We cannot bridle a mob of this size.”

  “Michael can,” Uriel interjected. “You subdued the primordial beasts. Remind them of your strength, and they’ll disband.”

  “Using force, opening that door…I fear what lies beyond,” Michael replied.

  “But what’ll they listen to if not force?”

  “Me.” Satanail appeared in the doorway, beaming with pride. “My name carries well in the air, wouldn’t you agree?”

  A loathsome reticence choked the room. What do you say to the angel who broke Heaven? Part of Michael wanted to embrace his brother, but if he exposed any altruistic thought or intention, Satanail would abuse it for his own purposes.

  “I should’ve muzzled him,” Gabriel said and dragged Satanail in by the chains. “He prattled on the entire flight here. The wax of his nonsense still coats my ears.”

  “You should be so lucky,” Satanail hissed back.

  “Satanail, you were brought back here for mutually beneficial discourse, not to exchange in slander,” Michael said. “I agreed to this meeting against my better judgment.”

  “A kindness to be remembered.”

  “Do not think it so. My compassion is for those that risk their souls in your name, but I will not hesitate to return you to Sammael,” Michael cautioned. “Give us the room.”

  “His mind is altered. Devious. You need us,” Gabriel said.

  “When Michael requires an errand, he’ll call on you,” Satanail mocked.

  Gabriel coiled the chain links around his fist and swung for Satanail’s mouth, but Michael deflected the strike.

  “He has no hold over me, Gabriel. Leave us.”

  Gabriel threw down the chains, and the reluctant Seraphim exited the Council Room. Michael was left alone with Satanail for the most important discussion of their lives.

  Satanail sat close enough to notice nuances
in Michael but not so near as to be flagrantly intimidating. Nothing was said as both ran potential scenarios in their minds. It was a seminal moment not to be rushed, another round of their greatest contest where each was priceless.

  “You look well, though I’m perhaps a bit worse for wear,” Satanail began to bait Michael into thinking him weakened.

  “I doubt it. You appear of sound body and mind.”

  “Appearances can be fallacious.” Satanail held up his chains. “Shall we be civil about this? Or have you joined the ignorant in their fear of me?”

  “Why would I fear that which is pressed firmly under my heel?” Michael said and removed the key to Satanail’s bindings from around his neck.

  “You should learn to press harder.”

  Satanail ripped his arms outward, shattering the chains. His wings spread and split their clasps with one flap. Shards of metal links scattered across the room like useless trinkets.

  Michael’s body tensed with apprehension.

  “Much better.” Satanail leaned back in his chair, comfortable. “You see, I’ve respected your law by choice.”

  “It is the Creator’s law, and chains can always be reforged.”

  “Why so obstinate? We’re here to compromise, Michael, to give and take. You’ve given me freedom. Fresh air. The delight of your company. What would you ask in return?”

  “I want you to end this.” Michael pointed out the archway to the Coliseum. “Send them back to their lives before Heaven ceases to function altogether.”

  “Before your Heaven ceases to function. I’ve a new one in mind. Those angels scream for me. Should I will it, they’d storm this city—the city you misappropriated—and rip it from your hands. What would you do? What would you risk to stop them? What would you sacrifice within yourself?” Satanail’s questions scraped away the layers of Michael’s feigned bravado.

  “I will not humor intimidation, but I do wish to understand you. Is that not what you want? Explain yourself, Brother. Why would you lead them away from the Creator?” Michael asked. It was a solid tactic, appealing to Satanail’s reason and vanity, but concealed desperation.