Fall From Grace Read online

  “This is it. Split them up, and put them down,” he ordered.

  The home terrain of Araboth was the Host’s key advantage. Uriel had studied the winding city streets and mapped a route of withdrawal up the mountain—control through movement on their own terms. The angels fought and fled in rotation, luring the demons into narrow alleys between buildings to split their numbers like channeling floodwaters.

  Unlike the demons, the Forgotten weren’t controlled. They were unleashed without formation or strategy. Some wove up walls like vines and leapt onto passing chariots while others mobbed over everything, angel or demon. But they were sloppy and easily baited. Uriel impaled a Forgotten on his wings and flung the body into a pack of others.

  “Over here!” he screamed, tempting them into a cross stream of pursuing demons. By coaxing the Forgotten into slim back streets, they impeded Beelzebub’s infantry and gave the angels brief openings to capitalize on the confusion.

  Keep them guessing. Uriel had invented a new form of ambush warfare, and it was working. While the demons were inebriated with the perception of victory, his angels were sneaky. Intelligent. Hidden battalions positioned in buildings along the path of retreat struck down on the congested demons and Forgotten. The mobile, hit-and-run tactics disorganized their enemies and bought the one commodity that still held value in the war: time.

  The war machines, however, were flattening Araboth in a slow climb up the mountain. Though their bulk contained them in the main streets, the catapult range encompassed much of the city. Gaping holes were bashed through buildings and crumbled them like towers of sand. Uriel saw the Cascading Gardens and Library mowed down in the slugging crossfire. The Heavenly Records were cremated and their ashes milled underneath the machines’ wheels.

  May the Creator hasten your victory, Michael.

  Michael’s Merkabah barreled after Satan through the chaotic city skies. He and Gabriel wove along tight corners where even the smallest erroneous drift would spell their deaths. Satan’s flight patterns were unpredictable, applying a diverse rhythm of loops, rolls, and altitude changes that appeared random but were calculated with impeccable precision. Michael realized that in all of their races, Satanail had only used a fraction of his talent.

  Chariots dominated the aerial demons and peppered the war machines with explosive oils from above. The slick, coordinated Angels steered them with organic accuracy. Sudden stops with no drift, complete reversals in an instant, rotations that bent the laws of gravity to smash through enemy formations—Mammon’s troops had no means to match their nimble dexterity.

  “Idiots, you cannot chase them!” Mammon shouted in frustration then latched his whip onto the rear of a chariot. The sudden torque altered its course and slammed it into another, crushing the drivers between metallic jaws. “Use the chariots against each other!”

  Michael saw the chariots begin to falter under Mammon’s strategy. Satan used the interference to break free of the battle and spiraled up the tower of his former residence. His speed shattered the windows into a funnel of glass. The Merkabah gained on him, boosted velocity expanding the razor whirlwind, but shards began to dice the wings of its drivers.

  “We have to split off,” Gabriel warned.

  “No, push onward.” Michael raised Excalibur, almost within striking distance…

  A large chunk of glass clipped one of the Merkabah’s Angels, opening his throat. He drooped in the harness and tilted the chariot off course.

  “We are losing speed. Stay on him,” Michael said.

  Gabriel tried to stabilize the Merkabah. “We can’t maintain altitude and still track Satan up the building.”

  “Then go through it.”

  “Understood.” Gabriel redirected the Merkabah at Satanail’s residence, but catapult fire hit the balcony and blocked their opening. “I don’t have a clear path. I can’t pull up—!”

  Michael leaned forward and slashed Excalibur to split the rubble just as his Merkabah hit the balcony. They punched through wall after wall of the home, shattering priceless artifacts and collections. Brick and mortar pelted the Merkabah’s hull until it emerged from the other side, leaving behind a hole through the entire building.

  Satan passed over the Grand Hall and began his ascent to the Sanctuary, wings curved back for maximum thrust. Michael’s surroundings became a blur of speed as his senses honed on Satan. A bead of sweat crawled down his nose and splashed onto Excalibur. The burst droplet echoed like a gong.

  Satan rotated to face Michael, in the same state of profound perception. He thrust his wings open, jerked to a complete stop, and chopped Wormwood down at the Merkabah.

  Gabriel lurched to avoid the blade, but his harness split off the frame. Satan’s sword cut through the gold chassis from front to rear like a shark fin and cleaved the chariot in two, nearly bisecting Michael.

  The Merkabah collapsed down to the city, Michael’s wings caught in the mangled wreck. He crashed into the roof of a tower and exploded through ceilings and floors, driving down dozens of stories before crunching into the foundation.

  Satan watched Michael’s pitiful chariot dig its own grave. No movement came from the ruins. This was the Creator’s ingenious Merkabah, what passed for divine inspiration? Old age must’ve depreciated His quality of invention. Still, Satan was certain that Michael would arise. He’d make no assumptions about Michael’s death until Wormwood drained the life from him.

  A rush of chariots soared at Satan like screeching hatchlings with no mother to protect them. Gabriel flew front and center, as if he had any chance to do what Michael couldn’t.

  “Forward!” he yelled. “Concentrate your attack on Satan!”

  Satan applauded his gumption. The Seraph didn’t miss a beat as Mammon poured forth demons to intercept them. Gabriel greeted the danger head-on and cleared a path for the chariots, but the smallest motions were enough to avoid them. A half-turn in one direction, a duck in another—no one could touch Satan.

  “Form a barrier! Wing-to-wing! Don’t let him through!” Gabriel positioned the chariots around the Sanctuary in a steadfast wall of gold and feathers. “It’s an honor, Satan, to kill you.”

  “Still a poor imitation of Michael. I could’ve made you great. Goodbye, Gabriel.”

  Satan revolved his body in a barrel roll, spinning the metal-coated bones on his wings, and sliced through the barricade of chariots and angels. His spiraling blades sawed them into red clouds of amputation.

  Gabriel’s armor was shredded and the skin beneath crosscut with deep gashes. He careened like a swatted fly among the carcasses and dismantled chariots.

  Unhindered, Satan landed at the doors of the Sanctuary.

  Michael’s eyes fluttered, the lashes caked in dust. He coughed and felt the sting of broken ribs. How long have I been unconscious?

  Where is Satan?

  Muscling through the pain, Michael pushed aside the debris pinning him down and climbed from the dregs of his Merkabah. He flew back up the tunnel it had carved through the building, every flap of his wings registering more broken bones beneath the feathers.

  The battle raged on. Uriel’s forces had split the demons and Forgotten into smaller herds but were still retreating up the mountain. Beelzebub stalked them with Satan’s war machines, crushing entire city blocks into a leveled mess of structural framework.

  In the air, Mammon and his demons had survived the initial shock of the chariots and were timing their attacks to pick off the drivers. Gabriel caught falling chariots, directed angels to weaknesses in Mammon’s formations, and shielded Thrones so they could evacuate the wounded.

  It was a masterful balance of offense and defense.

  “Gabriel,” Michael called out as he rejoined the fight.

  Blood spewed down Gabriel’s chest from hideous cuts that exposed the white of bone. “Satan has entered the Sanctuary. We have to take him now.”

  Michael held Gabriel back.

  “The Host cannot spare two Seraphs. Lead the battle
here. Prevent the demons from entering the Sanctuary at all costs. Satan’s generals must die. Break them, Gabriel. Break them.”

  “My life or theirs.”

  Michael gripped Gabriel’s hand, perhaps for the last time. “If I fall—”

  “You won’t. Strength and grace, Brother.”

  “Strength and grace.”

  Michael flew away from Gabriel, away from the Host, and entered the Sanctuary. He had to leave behind everything but one thought, one purpose, one destiny: the death of Satan.

  CHAPTER 32

  Blood in the Streets

  The central aisle of the Sanctuary stretched before Michael in a surreal road to oblivion. A canter of bloody footsteps coaxed him down the trail, like Satan had indulged delusions of an adoring crowd’s ovation. The ceiling was cracked and brittle, its murals of Heaven as dilapidated as the actual regions. Debris sifted down like sand in an hourglass, more lives snuffed with each fallen grain. The Host fought to clear the stage for Michael, and all of Creation aligned to watch its two acclaimed players deliver their fated performance. If Satan’s rebellion was a monologue of death preached to their absent Father, Michael was His emphatic riposte.

  Michael approached the altar, but it was absent the light that had bathed it in warmth like the Creator’s gaze. Looking over the empty pews, he thought back to every preached sermon and the elated reception of every Word preceding the announcement of Mankind. The Host had taken Heaven’s peace for granted, never understanding its worth until it was gone.

  “I am sorry,” he said aloud to the absent congregation, but it was not an apology. Michael no longer doubted his choices, only regretted their inevitability. Raphael was correct: if not Mankind, another catalyst for war would have emerged. By accepting that truth, Michael broke the naïve chains binding him to a utopian perspective of the Host—of Satan—that ceased to exist with the first breath of dissent.

  The catacombs beneath the Sanctuary seemed laughably small, a safeguard devised by a youthful mind with no concept of evil’s determination. Again, Michael felt the delight in Satan’s tracks through the maze. There was no sense of urgency or concern for his demons as if they were minions to be exhausted and disposed. Satan thought himself their Creator, their Father, but what meaning did the titles hold if all his children were dead?

  Michael entered the Throne Room, its sanctity desecrated with smeared gore that replayed the Elders’ massacre like their spirits were trapped in a loop. With Satan’s affinity for poetic symbolism, their showdown had to occur at the site of their inception—the Chamber of Creation. Staring into the chasm, he finally understood the root of his brother’s hatred. As long as Michael lived, Satan felt secondary in Father’s eyes. He believed that the only means to obtain the respect and unequivocal love he craved was to prove himself superior to Father’s “favorite” son. It was tragic, but Satan’s madness had to stop.

  Michael ignited the flames of Excalibur and leapt down to the Chamber of Creation.

  Uriel fought on fumes of adrenaline as Beelzebub’s infantry drove up the mountain. The crazed Forgotten cleared a path for the war machines while demons advanced behind the covering fire. Opportunities for Uriel’s surprise tactics became fewer and riskier once above the clouds. In the bedlam of the Old District, Mammon’s legions splintered the angels with crashing chariots. Rivers of shrapnel and corpses cascaded down the slopes.

  “Eyes peeled!” Uriel shouted, ducking a chariot that spun over his head. He snagged the wreckage and diverted it onto the demons. “We give as good as we get.”

  The Grand Hall stood behind Uriel—nowhere left to retreat. Raphael and the Thrones were gathering injured angels on the final slopes beyond the Hall and would be easy pickings if the demons broke through. The Host had to make a stand.

  “Send all wounded through the Hall,” Uriel said. “Phalanx formation. Rotate on the Dominions’ signal and hold the line!”

  The Host interlocked in a barrier of shields. They braced as demons slammed into them but deflected the charge and retaliated. Uriel put his heel against a forward war machine and kicked. It rolled downhill, crunching over foes…until Beelzebub halted it with one hand. He hoisted the boulder from the machine’s catapult and chucked it at the phalanx like a pebble.

  Uriel hurled his hammer and pulverized the stone before it could connect. He rushed for his weapon only to be descended upon by Forgotten. They ignored the flames burning their flesh, claws and teeth sliding between the coals of his armor. Being eaten alive, Uriel had one desperate attack left at his disposal. He stiffened his wings and ejected hundreds of dagger feathers, impaling the Forgotten like pincushions. He shrugged off their bodies and faced Beelzebub, his wings reduced to a flightless framework.

  “Grounded again,” Beelzebub said and sent his demons in for another charge.

  “I don’t need wings to kill you. Angels, brace for impact!”

  The Host held their ground against the blitz of demons and Forgotten that pounded into their shields like battering rams. Angels stabbed over the blockade while the demons shoveled back the dead like dirt to replenish their line.

  Between rushes, another battle of brute strength played out: Seraph vs. Demon General. If Uriel could defeat Beelzebub in front of his legions, it might dwindle their morale enough for the Host to route them back down the mountain. A clearing formed around the brawl, spectators cheering it on like sport with shouts of “Gut him, Beelzebub!” and “Smash his brains!” The angels couldn’t break formation to assist Uriel, nor did he desire their help. Beelzebub was his apprentice. His responsibility. His kill.

  Beelzebub sidestepped heavy, ferocious hammer swings that stamped divots into the mountain. His morning star flogged back and crunched chunks of Uriel’s armor, exposing the flesh.

  “You’ve grown weak, Forgemaster.”

  “Petulant ingrate. I taught you everything you know.”

  Uriel tangled the morning star’s chain around his hammer and pulled Beelzebub in close. He delivered bruising body blows with his free hand, feeling the general’s abdominal muscles tear from the blunt impact.

  “Everything you know, which is nothing. Satan opened my eyes to real power. To evil. To pain.”

  Beelzebub yanked his morning star loose and swung the metal ball into Uriel’s face.

  Uriel dropped his hammer as the spikes pierced through his cheek and shattered teeth. Half of his vision went dark, but one eye was enough to see the angels look away in anticipation of his death. The rage that Uriel struggled to subdue was clamoring for release.

  Why should I deny this strength? Why should I cripple myself? Uriel thought as Beelzebub stalked for a finishing blow. I can control it. I can kill him. I can kill them all.

  Uriel’s mind went blank, clear thought transposed into a black passion for violence. His heart sped up, and his body seared with internal fires of savage bliss that boiled the blood in his veins. Blistered his soul. For the first time, Uriel understood what it meant to burn.

  “I’ll shatter your body one piece at a time,” Beelzebub said and flung out his morning star.

  Uriel tilted his head, a swish of air brushing through his fires as the spikes swung past. The chain became rigid, and the ball recoiled towards the back of his skull…but Uriel turned and caught it. He registered no pain from the metallic thorns impaling his palm. His fingers wrapped around the hefty ball, preventing Beelzebub from retracting it, and steeped the weapon in flames.

  Uriel wrenched Beelzebub forward by the chain and stabbed the ball into his chest. He twisted, digging the spikes deep and collapsing a lung. Gasps came from Beelzebub’s pursed lips like a fish out of water while the incendiary morning star crisped his internal organs.

  Kill him was all that Uriel heard as he reclaimed his hammer.

  Uriel shattered the general’s femur like a brittle shell. “One piece at a time, was it?” A second swing mashed the other leg.

  Not one demon had the nerve to step between them.

 
“Uriel…please.”

  “You never did grasp how to properly wield a hammer,” Uriel said and hoisted it above Beelzebub with both hands. He could taste the terror, the despair, and hungered for more. “Look closely. I won’t show you again.”

  The blow that felled one of Satan’s notorious generals was heard across the city.

  Uriel ripped his hammer from Beelzebub’s splattered head and turned to the demons, chunks of skull and gray matter dripping off his face.

  “Who’s next?”

  Beyond the Grand Hall, in the stretch of incline before the Sanctuary summit, Raphael and the Thrones fought their tireless front against a scourge of graphic injuries afflicting the Host. Though they did not take up arms, the battle was no less savage. Thrones traversed the city to rescue the wounded, and many died for their altruism. The healing energy of Heaven’s communal life force had depleted, so they began to transfer their own health. The Thrones were near-death from their efforts, like bilious skin stretched over skeletons.

  Raphael heard the angels and demons clashing outside the Grand Hall. The Thrones would soon be overrun, but most of the wounded were not stable enough to transport. Hear me, Michael. You must hurry, he prayed while pushing a fractured bone back into a Dominion’s arm.

  “Raphael!” Ofiel landed near him, a senior Throne not easily shaken. “It’s Uriel. He’s gone mad…he’s killing everything.”

  “Command the Thrones until I return,” Raphael replied.

  Each angel was battling his own soul’s twilight, and those who were swayed by its evil became demons. If Uriel had turned…no, Raphael had seen too many brothers cast aside their grace. Not this time. Not Uriel.

  Raphael flew down to the Grand Hall, but nothing in the war prepared him for what had become of his brother. Uriel was a butcher, a fiery executioner whose gluttonous pleasure compounded with each kill. The phalanx of angels was aghast as the blur of his gigantic hammer bashed bodies into smears of black feathers and crimson vapor. The battlefield was Uriel’s anvil, and all who tried to flee were hammered like molten metal. Cruelty. Arrant hatred. Raphael had to intervene before the infection in Uriel’s soul permanently rotted his grace.