Fall From Grace Read online

  Inside the facility, the last angels of the Cherubim Choir were sedated in their beds. The aura emitting from the pores in their bald skulls was diluted to a murky vapor.

  “Thrones, wake them.”

  The healers among Michael’s warriors pulled out the feeding tubes and removed the Cherubim from stasis. The abrupt interruption was dangerous but so was leaving them connected to the faulty Nest. The Thrones placed their hands on the Cherubs’ foreheads with no effect.

  “Their minds are comatose,” one reported. “We cannot wake them here.”

  “Then carry them.”

  Michael dropped into the core where Cassiel was in a manic state, trying everything to control the imminent implosion.

  “Cassiel, come with me.”

  “Wait. I can regain control. Give me more time!” Cassiel was devoid of his distinctive acumen. The ruination of his life’s work had atrophied his mind.

  “There is no time! We have to abandon the Nest.”

  “Allow me this chance, Brother. I am no angel of war, but this…this is within my power. I have wielded the Nest’s energy for millennia—”

  The fractured nodules on the dais shattered, displacing a tempest of untamed elements into the core.

  Michael and Cassiel were caught in a cauldron frothing over with a lightning-laced ice storm, a blizzard of broiling heat, and a sandstorm merged with monsoon downpours. The weather peeled apart the walls and lambasted the Seraphim. Bruises, cuts, burns, frostbite—their bodies were subject to every form of pain and injury that Mother Nature could muster.

  Michael was pitched near the exit and plunged Excalibur into the ceiling. He reached out as Cassiel was thrown across the core.

  “Take my hand. The Nest cannot be saved!”

  “Then it will be my tomb.” Cassiel stopped struggling against the storms. “Let me die as I have lived. Go, Michael. I am not afraid.”

  “What of the Cherubim? They still need you. Think of them. Live for them.” Michael reached farther…and grabbed Cassiel’s wrist. “Fly with me.”

  Together, they flapped their wings and caught a gale that whisked them out of the core. Michael closed the hatch just before the anomalous conditions converged and gutted it. Cassiel saw his Cherubim with the Thrones, sallow but breathing.

  “Creator, forgive me. What did I let them do?”

  “Nothing that cannot be healed, but we must return to Araboth,” Michael said as the entire Nest began to capsize. Equipment slid across the floor and cracked into angels, bowling them into the walls. “It is coming down. Everyone out!”

  The Nest tipped vertical, its entrance now looming above them. Michael and Cassiel flew up, deflecting the loose debris away from those who followed. A column of angels darted between the facility’s toppling fixtures and spewed out of the hole like a thermal spring.

  The demons extolled the Nest’s collapse…until the saucer hit the ground, expelling a wave of unstable energy that flashed over and killed everyone surrounding it.

  In that instant, all weather ceased. The climate became stale, bereft of winds or moisture. It was neither cold nor hot, wet nor dry, just stagnant like a lump of clay with no means to mold it.

  “Why would Satan do this? Heaven…” Cassiel trailed off.

  “Will be as it once was. Primordial,” Michael said. Heaven’s regions would return to their original state. Storms would ravage tamed skies and fields would regress to uncultivated barrens.

  An earthquake shook Shamayim and split open a chasm, like the Creator had ripped the earth apart with His hands to swallow the Nest. A demon stood at the fissure’s edge and watched the ruins crumble. Hailael, now Dagon, glanced up at Michael…then leapt into the chasm.

  “This attack was never about the Nest,” he thought aloud as the demons retreated despite their apparent victory.

  A sonorous roar emitted from the chasm depths like the war cry of nature proclaiming its vengeance for eons of exploitation. The angels covered their ears from the baritone siren.

  “It has awakened,” Michael said. The next word came like the exhumation of an abandoned, mythic secret: “Behemoth.”

  The Behemoth arose from its tomb within the inner crust—an archaic being of havoc. Walking on all fours, it stood over one hundred angels tall and equally wide. Each monstrous hoof could crush the mightiest Raqian tree like a twig. Its rotund body was a sea of muscle protected by an impenetrable, scaled hide ending in a hulking tail that swung like a tower-sized bludgeon. Ten pairs of bitter eyes lined up a flat head capable of ramming through a mountain. Nostril craters flared as the Behemoth reared up on its hind legs and stomped hoofprints the size of small lakes. Its colossal mouth opened to expose rows of interlocked, blunt teeth that could grind any element to dust.

  With a single intake of air, scores of angels were sucked into the Behemoth’s maw.

  “Angels, return to Araboth! RETREAT!” Michael ordered his bewildered warriors. They took off and ascended above the safety of the clouds, but Michael flew towards the Behemoth.

  Dagon was perched atop the Behemoth’s forehead, stroking its hide in the same affectionate manner he used to calm the animals in the Reserve. His affinity for wildlife had established a connection with the beast.

  The Behemoth’s eyes focused on Dagon, receptive to his voice. Timeworn. Intelligent. And utterly unafraid of anything.

  “The great Lord Satan has secured your freedom, Ancient One,” Dagon said then pointed at Michael. “And there’s the one who stole it from you.”

  The Behemoth’s eyes shifted to Michael and flooded with black fury. It stamped a foot, snorted, and trampled at him. The ground split and upended under its hooves. Michael and Satanail together were barely able to subdue the Behemoth. What could he alone do against it?

  Michael flew low and slashed Excalibur, but it ricocheted off the front hoof like swinging a hammer onto an empty anvil. The dull impact interrupted his momentum and knocked him down.

  The Behemoth’s back hoof lifted, casting a shadow the size of the entire Nest. Michael could not escape the width in time—

  Whoosh! Cassiel snatched him up and flew from under the hoof before it mashed down.

  “Retreat with the others,” Michael said. “I will hold it back as long as I am able.”

  “You were not alone when last you faced the beast, nor are you now.”

  The Behemoth’s tail swiped below them and ripped the earth apart like russet rain. Michael stabbed Excalibur into its rump, piercing it down to the hilt, but the blow was no more effective than the mandibles of an ant.

  “The hide is too thick!”

  As the Behemoth stampeded back for another pass at them, Cassiel saw its thick eyelids open and snap shut in a rhythm that offered a brief window of weakness to the bulbous spheres.

  “Time its blinks, and aim for the eyes. I will distract it.”

  Cassiel darted ahead before Michael could object, extending his six wings and spinning to release an alluring squall of feathers.

  The Behemoth opened its mouth, engulfing the plumes, but Cassiel stayed clear of the vacuum. Michael flew in from the side and drove Excalibur into one of the eyeballs. Hot, ocular fluid spritzed under the blade.

  “Nature can’t be killed,” Dagon said while repeatedly kicking Michael’s head until Excalibur slid out.

  Michael lurched down the Behemoth’s face. He scraped the sword along its tough skin, trying to divert himself away from the chasmal mouth.

  “Hold on! I am coming!” Cassiel turned to catch him—

  But the Behemoth lunged and clamped its jaws around Cassiel.

  It swallowed him whole without a thought like a whale would plankton and huffed at Michael with satisfaction.

  A Seraph, one of the seven pillars of Heaven, was dead.

  Michael pointed Excalibur at the Behemoth. “Come, beast!” he taunted, about as intimidating as a grain of sand to the ocean.

  “Lord Satan has staked claim on your life,” Dagon shouted from atop
the Behemoth. “It’s his to collect. Until next time.”

  Dagon turned the Behemoth away. The thunderous steps barreled the beast along faster than Michael could follow. It was a mass of tectonic force that flattened Shamayim in the direction of Heaven’s more densely populated regions.

  Michael’s strength, his speed, his grace, and his faith could not halt the Behemoth or even slow it down. The warped mind of Satan had conjured its release. By drinking from that same lagoon of delirium, the sole solution revealed itself—Leviathan.

  Satan crawled behind the Forgotten, his face pelted by loose dirt as they dug up the mountain just beneath Araboth’s surface. With no light and constantly aware of the tunnel’s flimsy stability, claustrophobia was a formidable trial. The Forgotten are at peace in the darkness, bundled in its stifling embrace like a warm cloak. What part of themselves did they forfeit to adapt to such squalor? he thought, appreciating Sammael’s obsession with their anatomy and behavior. One must understand a beast to command it, a trait that earned Dagon the honor of emancipating the Behemoth. Satan regretted that he had to miss the historic awakening but questioned the Behemoth’s ability to forgive. It was a weapon that could only be aimed, not controlled. Satan’s presence would tempt its hatred.

  A rush of air hit Satan’s face and purged the mildew from his lungs. The Forgotten had broken through to their destination: the catacombs underneath the Sanctuary. They scurried out and crouched in a line, creatures of habit awaiting new orders. Satan exited the tunnel and stretched his stiff limbs.

  It was exhilarating to be home again.

  “You don’t understand what this is, do you?” Satan asked the Forgotten. “You have no concept of Araboth, of where we now stand. Close your eyes.”

  The Forgotten obeyed with the enthusiasm of domesticated animals expecting a reward. Satan beheaded them all with one clean slash of Wormwood. He felt nothing and hid their bodies in the tunnel like tools that had exhausted their utility. No one could know of his visit, but perhaps in an age or two, he would excavate the fossilized Forgotten for posterity.

  Satan maneuvered through the catacombs, tempted to sneak into the Sanctuary and slaughter all those taking refuge within, but the lucidity of logic prevailed. He didn’t know what manner of defenses had been erected within the city, and mere murder wouldn’t satisfy his ambition. Michael and the Host needed to be publicly trounced and disgraced.

  Upon reaching the sealed wall to the Throne Room, Satan found his handprint chiseled off. No matter. He hacked Wormwood against the wall until the rock split and caved in. Beyond, the gentle strumming from the Elders’ harps ceased. They heard Satan coming and were waiting for him.

  Satan’s footsteps tapped on the glass floor as he strutted into the Throne Room, Wormwood craving more blood (or was it his own craving?) The twenty-four Elders stood in unison to block the flaming throne. Quite the amusing display of gallantry, he thought.

  “You will proceed no farther,” they said as if their combined voices could intimidate him.

  “Don’t throw your lives away, Elders. I am forever, and you are faded relics. Lower the flames, and I’ll be on my way.” The pacifistic words were only for appearances. Satan very much wanted to test the capabilities of Wormwood.

  Swords dropped from the Elders’ sleeves into their hands. They linked arms and formed a wave, spinning their weapons together like the rotating blades of a plow.

  “Very well. Blood it is.”

  The Elders flew forth as one to fillet Satan.

  Satan threw himself back, life saved by a hair as the spinning swords sliced thin cuts across his chest. The Elders’ speed was arresting, despite their sedentary nature. They split apart and surrounded Satan, the tips of their swords pressed to his neck from every side. It was a stimulating challenge.

  “I bestowed the honor of Elder upon every one of you. You’ve no real power outside of a title that came from my tongue with no more value than spittle.”

  Satan spat in the closest Elder’s face and ejected his wings to repel those behind him. He ducked the decapitating thrusts and yanked a blade away from another, pinning him to a wall through the chest like a trophy.

  When the Elder died, the flames on the throne lessened.

  The Elders charged again. Satan impaled one on Wormwood and turned the handle. As the Elder’s insides inhaled into the nodule, Satan gripped the hilt with both hands and spun in a circle. The gored body smacked into the others before sliding off, emptied into a husk.

  A backward slash cleaved the face off another silly Elder that thought he could stalk Satan from behind.

  “Who are you? Who are any of you? Nameless watchdogs!”

  An Elder sacrificed himself in a frontal attack so the others could rush Satan. They wrestled him down and knocked Wormwood away. Satan rolled in their grip, smashing them through the harps. He wrapped a snapped string around one of their necks and tightened it until the flesh began to split.

  “You don’t want me to finish this with only my hands,” he growled.

  Satan slipped free and moved towards Wormwood using the choked Elder as a shield. Sorry strikes from the others diced their brother’s flesh into ribbons. Satan pulled the harp string tight and severed his hostage’s head.

  The body took a few reflexive steps forward, neck spraying the Elders with blood.

  Satan used the grisly distraction to reclaim Wormwood. He scraped its blade across the floor, splitting jagged shards of glass into the faces of his outmatched assailants.

  The slight pause as the Elders covered their eyes was the end of it. Satan darted from one to another, leaving the Elders as mounds of minced robes and body parts.

  Only one Elder remained breathing. He dropped his sword and muttered a repeating prayer.

  “You’re praying to the wrong Creator.”

  Satan grabbed the Elder’s hood and dragged him over to the throne. The flames were reduced to a small but scalding blue glow over the gold, still protected by the interlocking wings of the Michael and Satanail statues. Michael’s stone face seemed to stare with pious denunciation.

  “Even in stone, you level indignity upon me.”

  Satan crunched the final Elder’s hooded head into the statue. Blood dripped down Michael’s face like crimson tears as Satan repeated the attack.

  “I despise your sanctimonious judgment—thunk!—I despise your egotistical, false humility—thunk!—I despise you, Michael!”

  The final blow shattered the statue’s face and killed the Elder. So gratifying.

  The throne’s fires dimmed and extinguished. A few slashes of Wormwood cleaved the statue wings apart and cleared the seat. Satan sheathed it and retrieved one of the Elder’s harps.

  Sitting on the throne, Satan strummed a smooth melody of his own composition. The musical failsafe was one of his most elegant devices, but now the notes felt like a forlorn eulogy for his former life.

  The throne descended into the Chamber of Creation. Satan stepped off and saw…nothing. No Fires of Creation, no overwhelming sense of divine presence, nothing. He had come to confront that which he most feared, his Father, but He was gone. The irony swelled inside Satan, wrenching a throng of emotions that gushed out in a delirious laughter.

  “I should’ve known. With a thought, you could dismantle me into atoms, but you won’t, will you, Father? You’re allowing us to kill each other, and in your absence, you sanction it.”

  Satan danced around the Chamber with outstretched arms.

  “Your gaze isn’t even on Heaven. What could captivate you more than your own sons at slaughter? Where have you gone?”

  Then, the eyes of rebellion focused on it—a tear in the fabric of Creation. Satan stepped closer and felt its cosmic tug drawing him in. Beckoning him. He knew in his gut—no, in the remains of his soul—the purpose of what lay at his feet. He knew what was on the other side.

  Satan opened the tear, bathing in the brilliant light of infinity.

  “It’s here. A path to Eart
h. The disease of Mankind ulcerates beneath my feet. You should’ve hid them better, Father.”

  Anticipation, sheer excitement, took hold the likes of which Satan hadn’t experienced since his creation.

  “I owe them pain. As it is in Heaven, so it shall be on Earth.”

  Satan released his wings and dove into the light.

  CHAPTER 24

  In the Shadow of Monsters

  Michael hovered above the coastline of Machonon, the gentle ebb and flow of the tide consigned to memory as relentless tsunamis battered its shores. The region’s coastal villages had all been evacuated or lost to the waves that reclaimed their beaches. Mother Nature was liberated from the Nest, but hers was not the only umbrage inflicted upon the angels. If the Behemoth reached a major settlement, the Host would pray for something as manageable as a flood.

  For all the death Michael had seen and caused, losing Cassiel cut deepest. Rebellion and war were exposing many complicated feelings, but grief was the most difficult to manage. Heartache could not be quantified or remedied, only dulled by time. When angels knew only the positive side of their emotional spectrum, they controlled their temperaments with harmonic ease. Now impaired by pain, anger, jealousy, and remorse…that peace of mind seemed unattainable.

  Jehoel joined Michael, outfitted in armor crafted from the firm hides of deceased animals to honor their memory. He did his best to protect them in life, and they were returning the gesture in death. Jehoel’s only forged armaments were curved blades that protruded from the knuckles of each hand like claws. As an Archangel, he was the wildlife’s caretaker. As a warrior, he embodied the spirit of every species, prepared to fight tooth and nail with their feral instincts.

  “I mourn for Cassiel. Heaven will never know his equal.”

  “Condolences are too common of late.” Michael swallowed the lump in his throat that began to moisten his eyes. “You understand why I have summoned you?”