Fall From Grace Page 26

  “I do.” Jehoel was nervous but devout. “You’re certain it was Hailael?”

  “The demons call him Dagon. Hailael is a memory.”

  “I don’t understand. Our time together can’t be measured, and he left the Reserve without a word to me. Guiding Mankind is little different than our charge over Heaven’s animals. If Hailael—Dagon—had misgivings, he never expressed them. I thought him content.”

  “I thought we all were,” Michael said. “When this war began, I spoke of redeeming our brothers’ souls. But the more cruelties they commit in Satanail’s name, acts of evil beyond their cause, the more I doubt that they can be saved in this life. I see no grace in them.”

  Jehoel lowered his eyes to the ocean. “It’s come to this.”

  “When an unstoppable force is in motion, the only means to halt it is with one of proportionate measure. Are you prepared?”

  “Most definitely not, but I’m here, aren’t I?” Jehoel said with an anxious snort. “You did say it’d abide my instruction, right?”

  “It is my earnest hope.”

  “That’s less than promising. After you.”

  Michael dove into the ocean, its frigid temperature shocking his body into heightened awareness. The marine life continued its tranquil routine as if the troubles of the surface world held no bearing in the deep. A being far older and more powerful than anything above was protecting their domain. The ecosystem warned against disturbing its sleeping guardian.

  Jehoel burst underwater and attracted a school of glowing fish whose fins traced strokes of light like a brush free of an artist’s hand. Other creatures were drawn to him without any aggression, including dangerous hunters whose teeth could shuck their flesh off. It was an auspicious demonstration of Jehoel’s rapport but like juggling pebbles whereas the proving grounds ahead would require him to move mountains.

  Michael and Jehoel swam until daylight could no longer penetrate the depths. Excalibur’s alabaster flames illuminated their descent, sizzling the water around prehistoric life forms that had never seen light. The creatures were riled by the angels’ encroachment, but Jehoel’s transparent bond with all life kept their primitive hostility at bay.

  The crushing pressure slowed Michael, like he was caught in a vice that cranked tighter to hinder his progress. He expelled every trace of air and gas in his body to protect his internal organs from collapse. The physical strain was coupled with a hallucinogenic effect from the abyss that exaggerated fears of the lurking unknown. Finally, when Michael thought he might never again feel the security of solid ground, the ocean floor appeared.

  Heaven forgive me if I am wrong.

  Michael thrust Excalibur into the bedrock and sliced open a sweeping fissure. He carved down and widened the gash until the ocean floor groaned from his violation. The fissure spread apart into a trench, releasing a rush of water that had been isolated and preserved in a sunken capsule of history.

  Every creature in the vicinity fled, an impulse that resonated within the angels. Michael prayed for the Creator to bless Jehoel as the brave angel descended—alone—into the trench.

  The wait was grueling.

  Michael’s rapid heartbeat was the only sign that time had not ceased altogether. He began to dread that Jehoel was lost until a glint of light rose from within the abyss. Eyes. The globular, incandescent spheres of animosity glared up at Michael—

  The Leviathan surged out of the trench.

  Michael was caught in a maelstrom and spiraled around the epic sea serpent as the scales of its vertebral column shot up like slabs of metal. He dug Excalibur into a passing fin and held on, yanked to the surface. The Leviathan erupted from the ocean and took to the sky…flying.

  The Behemoth was ancestor to Animalkind on and below the land while the Leviathan was the same for those that dwelled in the sea and air. Just as the Tree of Life breathed vitality into the flora of Heaven, the Behemoth and Leviathan were the primogenitors from which all fauna were spawned. The first single-celled organisms were shed from their bodies, imprinted with the Creator’s evolutionary designs that determined Heaven’s animal populace.

  The Leviathan’s gills sealed and lungs inflated to process air. Its undulating form moved hundreds of vertebrae laterally from side to side to propel itself along while the fins extended into wings. Michael’s vision spun from the dizzying motion, loosening his grip on Excalibur.

  “Jehoel!” he called out, searching for the Archangel.

  Hearing Michael’s voice, the Leviathan’s razor scales lifted to expose peripheral eyeballs along its sides. They all turned to Michael, pupils narrowing into resentful slits. The serpent rolled its body like a tumbling log but could not shake off the sword stabbed deep in its wing.

  “Calm, Lord of the Deep!” Jehoel shouted. “Our intentions are benevolent. Look upon me and know that I exist only to care for all life. It is sacred. You are sacred.”

  The Leviathan ceased its airborne tumble. Michael hoisted himself onto the wing and pulled Excalibur out, admiring the ethereal beast as it swam through the sky. He climbed up its scales like the slope of a mountain and moved towards the head, wisely avoiding its gaze.

  Jehoel knelt atop the Leviathan’s skull between its primary clusters of eyes. A forked tongue flicked out between layered rows of retractable fangs, tasting the secrets in the wind. When unhinged, its jaws were large enough to swallow the walls of Araboth City.

  “Long have you slept, and much has changed. Your brother is being manipulated to harm Heaven. We beg for your aid,” Jehoel said. He turned to Michael and motioned for him to kneel.

  “And for your forgiveness,” Michael continued from his knees. “We are all children of the Creator. From one son to another, please, help us.”

  The Leviathan hissed but did not toss them off. A pulsing membrane rose from the dermis between its eyes and encased Jehoel in electrified tentacles.

  “I can see it. The Behemoth,” he said between surges. “It’s heading for…by the Creator.”

  “Where? Where will it attack?”

  Michael prayed for a lesser target, as if any casualty could be qualified as such. Targets…casualties…collateral damage, those were terms used in the mindset of war, one that he longed to jettison. But the horror on Jehoel’s face dispelled any notions of trivial loss. With a terrified whisper, he revealed the Behemoth’s destination—

  “The Tree of Life.”

  Satan traversed the psychedelic channel, a gateway across Creation, and emerged in Mankind’s solar system. Staring down at their blue planet, it all made a certain cosmic sense. There had to be an open connection between Heaven and Earth for the angels to fulfill their Creator’s ludicrous decree. That connection posed an opportunity to achieve something Satan didn’t think possible: strike first.

  Mankind would eventually discover the gateway to Heaven and launch an invasion. Conquest was an inevitable ambition for all sentient civilizations. But Satan was prepared to do what any compassionate father would for his children: protect them at all costs, even if that meant the genocide of an entire race.

  Satan entered Earth’s atmosphere, soaring above a spread of continents and oceans. Compared to Heaven, Earth felt absent inspiration, a bland replica of practicality over creativity. Yet the artisan in Satan recognized a naked potential in its immaturity. What Earth could become under his rule—a secondary world for his children to populate—his mind hadn’t been so stimulated with possibility since he first flew over Heaven. It had been a long time since the desire to create overshadowed the urge to destroy, but his pleasant return to form was short lived.

  They were everywhere. Humans—tiny, filthy, and wingless imitations of angels teeming with imperfections. Parasites.

  An aboriginal tribe was returning from a hunting expedition, draped in stinking animal skins, their hair gnarled in knots. Even their tools were but rocks tied to sticks.

  I wouldn’t give them a desert of muck and shit, Satan thought, and yet the Creator has prov
ided an entire world of their own. Disgraceful.

  Satan followed the tribe to their village, if the handful of muddy huts could be considered that. He saw no evidence of any culture worth preserving. One of their habits, however, piqued his interest. With no manna, their sustenance came from the flesh of dead animals. It was a practice that the Host observed in the wild but never thought to partake in. By consuming a life, did a portion of the deceased’s strength bond with you?

  Having seen enough, Satan decided to confront Mankind. He landed in the village and thrust out his wings, blowing apart the huts into straw and kindling. He was a titan glaring down at rats and roaches. It would be so easy to squash them, but something unexpected happened: the humans came to Satan, unafraid, like they were beholding the return of a sacred being.

  “You’ve seen my kind before?” he asked but knew that their illiterate minds couldn’t decipher his language.

  One of the tribe’s minuscule offspring stumbled forward. Bile rose from Satan’s stomach at the thought of the fleshy act that produced their progeny. Clutched in the child’s hands was a wooden carving, rough but unmistakable—Michael. He had been to Earth. How long had he known of the gateway? Why did he keep it from the Host? What did he promise Mankind?

  The rage of Heaven’s war returned to Satan.

  “Michael…I’m not him.”

  Satan gripped the child’s head between his finger and thumb, hoisting it up for closer study. Had a life form ever been so altogether unimpressive? The child began to wail and voided its bowels. The others bleated pleas in their grating grunts, but no father stepped forth to save his son. Apparently, fathers were equally absent on Earth as they were on Heaven.

  “So you’re Mankind, the Creator’s finest achievement?” He laughed and dangled the child like a piece of rubbish. “I wonder: what do you look like on the inside?”

  With the ease of ripping soggy parchment, Satan tore the child apart. Heart, lungs, entrails—cheap forgeries of familiar organs.

  The tribe’s annoying shrieks of bereavement tried to chip away at Satan’s hardened shell, attempting to make him feel for their loss, but he wouldn’t waste a single thought of sympathy on the callow creatures.

  Satan unsheathed Wormwood. “If any of you know how to pray, now is the time.”

  Satan’s blade sang a hymn of death written expressly for Mankind. When the final verse of his butchery ended, only two adult males remained alive. Brothers. They cowered around the steaming, lifeless offal of their tribe.

  “You’re the epitome of weakness created for one purpose: to kill one another and bring yourselves unto annihilation.”

  Satan picked up a hunting spear. Flimsy, but it would do. He placed the spear in the hands of one brother and restrained the smaller one. “Spill the blood of your kin. End him.”

  The man gaped at the spear, confused or dumb with terror. Whether violence spawned from desperation, anger, fear, lust, or greed, the end result was always the same.

  “Take his life, or I’ll peel your flesh off strip by strip. Kill him.” Satan’s meaning broke through the language barrier, but the man still hesitated. The other was babbling—begging for his life, Satan guessed—so he yanked out his tongue. “Kill him!”

  With a deranged cry, the man plunged the spear into his brother’s chest. He punctured an artery and was drenched by crimson trails that stained more than his skin. The heinousness of the act penetrated beyond the flesh and coated his innocence with sin.

  “Again.”

  The raving attacker repeated his strikes, each squishy thrust filling his soul with evil until his brother was dead. Even with an imbecile for a pupil, Satan fancied himself quite the mentor.

  The first human murder had been committed on Earth.

  “It’s in you now, the evil, but don’t be afraid of its power. Listen to it. Feel it. Follow it to greatness,” Satan said and placed a finger against his chest. “I am here. I am in you.”

  The murderer slowed his breathing. He clutched the spear like a keepsake of his first kill, promising more to come. When he raised his head to face Satan, he was smiling.

  “Yes, there it is. Now go, spread my Word.”

  The disciple ran off, a changed man who would teach the art of death to others. Earth would be reshaped in Satan’s image.

  After Heaven, I’ll have this world, Satan prayed. I’ll damn all that you’ve made, Father, until the whole of Creation is mine.

  When Gabriel began to ship mass stores of manna to Araboth City, he knew it was only a matter of time until the demons attacked Shehaqim. Michael assured him that Satan wouldn’t strike against the Tree of Life, that he would consider it a vital spoil for the victor. Without the Tree, Heaven would be a wasteland. But Satan had stopped caring about what he was fighting for and became addicted to whom he was fighting against. How quickly morality faded in war.

  The raid came under the cover of night. The crop fields were burned first in a cataract of explosives dropped during an initial flyover. Smoke blinded the angels, allowing Mammon’s legions to swoop down undetected. The rivers of milk and honey and oil and wine became dammed with bodies before Gabriel could mount a counterstrike. He circled the fields and tipped over the floating irrigation islands, dousing the flames as his farmers mobilized.

  Life was a series of choices that rippled outward, affecting all things. In the moments when Gabriel could’ve been something more, he floundered and expected Michael to pick up the slack. But the farmlands were a product of his people’s skill, their sweat, and their grace. Now, the farmers of Shehaqim didn’t need a peer. Armed with only the modified tools of their trade, they needed Gabriel’s Seraphic command to fight…to kill…to survive.

  “Defend our lands! Take up arms and reap their souls!”

  Mammon veered the demons towards the Tree of Life with sadistic authority, lashing any that hesitated or showed even the slightest mercy. Wielding hand-held scythes, Gabriel reminded the invaders what it meant to be a Seraph in his physical prime. He sliced through foes without a single misstep or pause like a fatal dance choreographed with sanctified intent. The farmers fought and died alongside him while painting a mural of moral fiber across the farmlands in demonic blood. Gabriel had always been one of them, even when promoted to Seraph. His friendship was their inspiration—something that Mammon could never understand. But as the battle intensified, it became clear that the angels couldn’t repel the smothering attack.

  The demons approached the golden walls surrounding the Tree of Life. Bees swarmed from its branches to join the fight. They sacrificed themselves to prevent demons from ascending the wall, plunging their stingers into soft flesh exposed between segments of armor. Toxins swelled the wounds into bulbous pustules that sent the demons into shock and eventual death.

  Blocked from flying over the wall, Mammon decided to go through it. He saw the rings to unlock the gate on Sheburiel’s fingers and targeted the angel. Gabriel tried to intercept him, but Mammon’s wire whip lashed out and knocked the wind from his lungs. He crashed onto the soil, gasping as Mammon slammed Sheburiel against the gate.

  “Give me your rings, Porter.”

  “Not a chance, you gutless lout.”

  A swift backhand with the rings contorted Mammon’s nose. The old codger swung another hard punch, but the whip coiled around his forearm.

  “Look at yourself, demon. Cattle for Satan’s ambition. We were once one and the same.”

  “Once upon a time,” Mammon said and tightened his whip, amputating Sheburiel’s hand. “Now, we are the black sun, and you will burn in our darkness.”

  “Don’t,” Gabriel coughed, limping closer.

  Mammon winked at him…then snapped Sheburiel’s neck.

  “Five rings for five locks,” Mammon said and inserted the fingers of Sheburiel’s severed hand into the locks.

  The gate swung open.

  Mammon and his demons advanced on the Tree of Life, chopping and sawing at the bark. It immediately regenera
ted.

  Gabriel lurched forward and removed Sheburiel’s hand. He placed the rings on his own fingers. Be with Father now, he prayed. Look away from Heaven. You’ve earned peace.

  “You’re dead, Mammon. Dead! I’ll kill you!”

  “You? Doubtful if not outright laughable. Poor Gabriel, you are ill prepared for what is coming.”

  “I’m a Seraph. You’re a disgraced Virtue.” Gabriel aimed his scythes at Mammon. “I’ll take my chances.”

  “Not me, fool,” Mammon sneered. “Do you feel that? It is almost here.”

  The soil rumbled under Gabriel’s feet, up his body, and shook feathers from his wings. The angels looked to him for direction as the vibrations rolled closer. An earthquake? No…

  The Behemoth trampled out of the smoke and smashed through the Refinery, heaving debris and manna across the burning fields. Dagon guided the beast from atop and sent it stampeding directly for the Tree. The Behemoth stomped and butted through entire formations of angels, leaving no bodily remains but miscellaneous splatter mashed in the grass. The Princedom’s dramatic recreations had only conveyed a sliver of the giant’s destructive capabilities.

  “Father, help us,” Gabriel said, dazed.

  The Behemoth collided with the walls and snapped the gold like tinder. The bees were inhaled into its mouth, their stingers tickling the gums. Lowering its head, the Behemoth rammed its full weight into the Tree of Life. Thick chunks of bark tore off and released spouts of manna like arterial spray. The Behemoth shoved its face into the Tree over and over, pulling up roots and causing more damage than it could regenerate. As the Tree bled out, Gabriel thought he heard it cry.

  The Tree of Life was dying.

  Gabriel flew at the Behemoth and slashed its softer underbelly to get the beast’s attention. It turned and released a roar that perforated Gabriel’s eardrums into a leaking mesh. Gobs of mucous and saliva pummeled him like sopping stones, but he answered with a battle scream that would’ve sent any other opponent fleeing. Inexplicably, the Behemoth took a step back.