Fall From Grace Read online

  “Only screams.” Beelzebub slapped Metatron’s cheek with the back of his hand, a belittling gesture to restore his status before Satan. “He’ll talk.”

  “Yes…but not to you. Step aside, General.”

  Come dawn, the invasion of Araboth City would commence. If the interrogation were to yield any information pertinent to the attack, Satan would have to compel Metatron himself.

  “I can break him,” Beelzebub stressed.

  “I don’t need him broken. I need him lucid enough to reveal what I want to know. Be assured that I’m quite cultured in the ways of extraordinary agony.”

  “Then what would you have of me, Father?” Beelzebub asked with a hint of jealously like a feral dog whose chewing bone was taken away by the pack alpha.

  “Distinction. I require armor befitting my divinity for when I enter the gates of Araboth. Something ceremonial but functional in battle. Return to my quarters in Limbo. There, you’ll find what you need.” Satan’s eminence surpassed that of any angel or demon. He needed to look the part for his moment of triumph. Beelzebub bowed and left him alone with Metatron.

  Satan cranked Metatron’s ropes and heard ligaments begin to tear within the limbs like stretched twine before it snaps.

  “I’ve been in your position, Metatron. Alone. Helpless in a fog of suffering. Neither awake nor asleep. All of this will cease if you but answer me one question: what defenses, what sorry trickery, does Michael have within the city?”

  “You are the Lord of Lies and Deception…not Michael,” Metatron replied.

  “He speaks. Where has my reputation of fraudulent behavior come from? Am I duplicitous? Only as much as the Creator made me. Cunning? Most certainly. But a liar? Never. Truth isn’t absolute. It’s a fragile thing that appears unique from all different points of view. I can dismantle your body without striking a mortal blow. I can keep you alive as my pet, a Seraph in a cage to abuse and ravage with my sinful appetites. So tell me, Scribe: am I lying?”

  “Your entire rebellion is a lie. A disease. Michael is the cure.”

  “That was the worst thing you could’ve said right now.”

  Satan unsheathed Wormwood and placed it in the tender pit under one of Metatron’s arms. With a quick flick of his wrist, the fibrous tissues connecting muscle to bone snipped apart. He moved from arm to arm, lancing tendons and ligaments until each limb became flimsy, feckless meat. But Metatron didn’t shed one tear for his appendages. The Scribe had guts…for now.

  “Your arms are dead. Useless. I can have them restored or fused into gnarled deformities of perpetual misery. You won’t be able to scratch your own ass, let alone function in any meaningful fashion. Now, what defenses does Michael have?” Metatron’s blank stare offered no insight, but it was a trivial resistance. “Surely, you understand a Seraph’s obligations? Your life and death aren’t your own to squander. How do you think the angels will react when I parade the disfigured body of their newly-minted Seraph through the streets of Araboth?”

  Satan moved behind Metatron and uncovered the three pairs of scars on his back that housed his Seraphic wings. He peeled open one of the slits and shoved a hand inside, fingers crunching the folded bones and feathers.

  Metatron’s screams resonated with a lovely pitch.

  “Do you know how an angel’s body contains the mass of his retracted wings? The feathers, muscles, and bones are all quite malleable—but fragile—in their internal state,” Satan said, tightening his grip. “You really must praise the Creator on His angelic design. Outdated, I think, but a solid prototype with room for improvement.”

  “Improvement? Your demon sons are anomalous, biological plagiarisms. Carve me in every way your sick mind can concoct. I will never betray the Host.”

  “There are other ways to wring out a soul like a wet rag. You may not care about your own life, but what of others? Those you’ve had an intimate connection with? Mammon!”

  Mammon entered the tent with a pair of former Powers who took the demonic names Crocell and Vual. Metatron’s blank face filled with recognition and emotional susceptibility.

  “Angels from all nine Choirs have joined my rebellion. You recognize your former colleagues, don’t you? They were part of your Powers, Watchers stationed around Raqia. Kahamel and Verchiel, I believe they were once called. Both the silent type but very loyal.”

  “I severed my link with the Powers when I relinquished the title of Scribe,” Metatron said. “I have no connection to them.”

  “Ah, but every connection runs two ways, and what was cut can be mended. Crocell, reestablish your sensory bond with Metatron.”

  Without a word or blink of hesitation, Crocell clamped his hands around Metatron’s skull and restored their biological fusion. The Seraph was too weak to resist the mental scrutiny. A milky film whitened his eyes as they became of one mind and one sight.

  “I taught them this skill. He will gleam nothing from me, but I will see every demonic secret that he knows. Feel his every thought,” Metatron gloated.

  “How does this feel?” Satan stabbed Wormwood through Crocell’s stomach. He opened the nodule and eviscerated the demon while Metatron shared the experience of death. “What are Araboth’s defenses? Speak.”

  “He…means…nothing to me,” Metatron tried to profess, but Satan saw his struggle. He was weakening. A little nudge would plunge him into unabashed compliance.

  Satan ripped Wormwood out of Crocell and slashed Vual’s neck. The demon collapsed and clutched onto Metatron’s feet, forcing him to feel the life drain in sopping gasps.

  “I have hundreds more Powers at my disposal. I’ll kill every one of them in front of you. You’ll feel every death as your own, each slower and more agonizing than the last,” Satan said into Metatron’s ear. “Speak, or I’ll bleed the Choir of Powers dry.”

  “Merkabah.” Metatron blurted like the word was painfully expelled from containment. “Merkabah,” he whispered in defeat.

  “Merkabah? Explain.”

  “I…I do not know.”

  “Bring in more,” Satan said to Mammon.

  “I do not know! I swear on Father, the Host, and Heaven, I do not know.”

  Satan gestured for Mammon to remove the bodies of Crocell and Vual. He gently lifted Metatron’s head and wiped his tears, discarding threats for sensitivity. Solo melodies of extreme pain could compel anyone to sing a desired answer, factual or not. But if Satan conducted the right orchestra of pain and relief, the harmony of truth would resound.

  “No one else has to die here. Explain what you can about this Merkabah. Spare them.”

  “Michael…he, he received divine inspiration. Something he called the Merkabah Project. It is supposed to act as a final hope for the city. Father, forgive me, that is all I know.”

  “I believe you.”

  Satan worried that the fight had been beaten out of Michael, that he would roll over and die, but the mysterious Merkabah Project brought an allure of perseverance. He wanted to stand against everything the Host’s leader could summon forth and still rip Heaven from his hands in dominant, violent form. But if Michael did receive true divine inspiration, then Father had chosen between them. Satan’s mind, his creations, would be tested against Michael and Father’s combined might. That was a worthy challenge—a classical conclusion to his rebellion.

  “Thank you, Metatron. Unfortunately, my Heaven has no need of a Scribe. Only I write its chronicles.” Satan cranked the ropes…the notches clicked away…tighter…tighter—

  Metatron’s six arms split from his torso.

  The thumping tension, a crimson rage surging within Satan, released into the transparency of clarity. He knelt in Metatron’s pooling blood, more splashing onto his chest like massaging waterfalls. There was no pleasure in all of Creation as potent as exercising his mastery over life and death, but Satan’s ecstasy wouldn’t last. It never did.

  Michael’s soul coasted through the Cosmos in an omniscient tour of Creation. Heaven felt so tiny, so
insignificant, in the vast breadth of His works. The Host, Mankind, the rebellion and war—it all seemed petty. Selfish. The angels assumed that they were the Creator’s premiere children, the sole life that called Him Father. But what if there were hundreds, thousands, of other races that prayed and loved and died as they did? What a disappointment the Host would seem for thinking that Creation revolved around them. How could they have been so narcissistic?

  Suffering, despair, anger, and doubt diminished as Michael was summoned towards an inexplicable bliss that felt like a terminus of all emotion. Since Satan’s initial act of rebellion, Michael felt disconnected from the Creator. Lost in uncertainty. Now, he was found.

  I have returned to you, Father, Michael thought upon reaching the axis of Creation. It was the celestial point of origin for all the energy that had birthed the Cosmos in an explosive expansion of matter.

  But Michael’s travels did not conclude. His soul continued beyond the euphoria and into a darkness that existed outside of the natural equilibrium. Rather than expanding, matter was drawn inward to a quarantined realm of chaos—the afterbirth of Creation composed from cosmic waste. It was a place where no life existed or ever should exist, where even the elements lashed out in distressed, swirling pockets of catastrophic energy. Michael felt like all of the gruesome, sinful experiences of the dead were corralled there in an ethereal smog of hostility.

  Why are you showing me this? Where am I? Michael prayed, but he already knew. Some part of him always knew of what existed beyond the Creator’s touch. It was the anti-Heaven.

  Hell.

  “Michael, I know you’re still in there. Come back.” Gabriel’s voice perforated the chaos and ensnared Michael, each word like a cable towing him back towards Heaven. “Rise! FIGHT!”

  In a flash, Michael’s soul was ripped across the Cosmos and into his body. He convulsed on the Council Room table, senses aflame. Light seared his retinas like he was staring into a sun. The grating city sounds pounded against his eardrums. Gabriel’s touch felt like granules of glass. In all the disorientation, one thought repeated: why did you send me back, Father?

  “Thank the Creator,” Gabriel said, but Michael was not thankful. His wings shot out and pushed him to a stand. “Easy. Take it slow.”

  Michael clobbered his fists onto the table, splitting the map of Heaven into befitting crumbles of stone. “No! I saw what lies beyond life, beyond grace, beyond Father. I saw what beckons the damned.”

  “But you’re back. The Host will survive.”

  Michael looked out to the dreary city. “What if we are not meant to?”

  “You don’t believe that. That’s why you’ve returned. You can’t leave Heaven like this.”

  “I did leave,” Michael snapped and unsheathed Excalibur. It felt blunt and lifeless in his hands. He uncurled his fingers from the hilt, relinquishing his right to its power. “I left you all.”

  “Grief has blinded you, Michael, but the Host’s vision is clear. We see who you are.”

  “You see a perception of me. I was finished. I was at peace. I turned from Heaven’s suffering,” Michael said while Excalibur clanged still on the floor. “I am not fit to lead.”

  “Not fit? How dare you.” Gabriel held the split ends of his scythes together, recalling their combined form. “I lived to reap crops with my brothers. That’s all I wanted. It was a simple life, honest and good. But I snapped my scythe, my peace, because I had to. Because of you. Now, these scythes, these weapons, are a part of me, as if combat is all I’m fit for…as if death is the very reason I was created. I thought: how could that be what Father intended for me? I don’t want this power. I don’t want this life. I don’t want any of it! But fit or not, I won’t reject it.”

  “Gabriel—”

  “Let me finish. I believe that we all have roles in this life. Maybe they’re not the ones we’d hoped for, maybe we even stray from them, but they’re ours to own. So we do it, because that’s what needs to be done. Those who can’t understand that will always be followers, never leaders. That’s what you taught me. Whatever decisions are haunting you, they were yours to make. Stay true to yourself, and the Host will not question them.”

  Throughout the ages, Michael and Gabriel’s relationship had ever been one of mentor and apprentice. No longer. They were now of equal standing. Gabriel had found spiritual balance within himself and the wisdom that comes from the experience of a seasoned soul.

  “And if my decisions were wrong?” Michael asked. “Should they not be questioned?”

  “None of us are omniscient. We don’t know where our choices will lead. If we did, they wouldn’t be as such. It’s your calling to deliver the Word, and the Host took a vow to follow it. To follow you. The angels in this city haven’t forgotten that vow. I haven’t forgotten.”

  A secret smoldered within Michael, one that he had kept to himself since Amitiel’s death. With the end of Heaven a very real possibility, and facing the truest support he’d ever felt from an angel, he needed to share the complete truth. He needed to clear his conscience.

  “Gabriel, there is something that…someone else should know the truth. After the rebellion began, the Fires disappeared from the Chamber of Creation. Father is gone, and I do not know if He will return.”

  “Gone? Then…?”

  “I did this, not the Creator. Everything that I have said and done in the war, there is no divine truth to any of it. We are alone,” Michael admitted, but the stunned look on Gabriel’s face said nothing. There was no blame, no odium, no dolor. “Say something.”

  Gabriel picked up Excalibur and pointed it at Michael’s heart. He expected to be cut down and would not defend himself…but Gabriel flipped the blade around and offered the hilt.

  “We’re not alone. We have each other, and that’s all the truth I need. Whether you’ve followed your instinct or were guided by the Creator, you’ve never led us astray. So take your sword, and finish what you’ve started.”

  Though reluctant and uncertain of his own worth, Michael reclaimed Excalibur. A faint glow emanated from the blade, as if the fight within him—his grace—was not yet depleted.

  “Look at the city. How can I face the Host again?”

  “Michael, you’re the single greatest angel I’ve ever known,” Gabriel said. “Come dawn, everyone will remember why.”

  CHAPTER 30

  Behind the Curtain

  Michael accompanied Gabriel from the Grand Hall and up to the Sanctuary but was cynical of the Seraph’s resuscitative endeavors. Disgraced by spiritual narcosis, he flew with only two wings released and trailed behind Gabriel to avoid detection. The Host had to believe that survival was a viable option against Satan’s impending onslaught, that there was a chance for resurgence and victory…even if Michael’s pallid defeatism did not.

  “Why bring me here?” he asked, landing on the Sanctuary peak.

  “There’s something you need to see,” Gabriel replied. A decorative sheet covered a large object on the platform that Michael had used to address the Host. “It’s for you.”

  “I am in no mood for surprises or deserving of gifts.”

  “It’s not a gift. It’s a reckoning.”

  Michael pulled back the sheet, unveiling the completion of his Merkabah design. It was an exquisite chariot—a glistening, golden creation of angular perfection brought to life from the smelted ore of the Monolith. Unlike Satan’s war machines, the chariot radiated love, its curves like the smooth contours of an angelic body. Rather than wheels, it had indentations on either side of the armored hull for angels to support it in flight. Steering was achieved through a synthesis of the angel in the driver’s seat and his partner harnessed under the hood. Using synchronized propulsion from multiple angels, the Merkabah could achieve intrepid speeds and dexterity beyond that of any one angel, even a Seraph.

  “This is what I saw in my dream. The Merkabah,” Michael said. He never thought that anything associated with war could be so beautiful.

&n
bsp; “An offering from the Creator. His chariot to steer us in our darkest hour. All is not lost, Michael. You must see that.”

  Michael wanted to believe…but he could not. He saw only another divine creation to be destroyed by Satan. “You belabor a lost cause. A single chariot cannot do anything but delay what I have to come to accept.”

  “Who said we only have one?”

  “One or a hundred, it will not resurrect that which has died within.”

  “Your faith isn’t dead.” Gabriel harnessed himself into the front of the Merkabah, refusing to be affected by Michael’s knotted string of negativity. “Get in, and see it revived.”

  Michael hesitated, afraid of failing the Host yet again.

  “I cannot be the Seraph I was.”

  “None of us can. The way I see it, you can whine on and wait for Satan to put his sword through your chest, or you can dig yourself from this stupor and seize the courage to evolve. Become something greater than an angel because, honestly, we’re not all that we thought we were. You taught us not to accept complacency, that we could be better. If everything we saw in you and everything we strived towards was a lie, then you really are no different than Satan,” Gabriel declared. “But if you still want to quit, I won’t stop you again.”

  Gabriel’s scathing honesty held up a mirror that was smeared with ugliness. Michael could accept his apparent disfigurement or fight to wipe it clean, but no one could do it for him. Every angel or demon had undergone a pilgrimage of the soul during the war where individual choices became a composite of their new self, and that self was constantly changing. Michael would not allow the broken Seraph he saw reflected to be the conclusion of his legend.

  Michael’s additional wings blasted out in a gust of emerald feathers as he leapt into the Merkabah. The vehicle felt infused with righteous purpose, like his hopes and dreams of old had been mixed into the golden veneer.

  “The Host, take me to them.”

  “I thought you’d never ask.” Gabriel whistled, and a pair of Angels hooked into the sides of the chariot, their muscular wings honed from ages of travel. “Hold on.”