Fall From Grace Page 36

  Livid, Mammon latched his whip onto the gallery benches and yanked them airborne. Gabriel flipped and dove between the hurtling seats, but the whip coiled around his leg. He shielded himself with his wings as Mammon dragged him from one end of the courtroom to the other, lambasting him through the furniture. Gabriel sliced himself free and rolled to a stop.

  “You are battle weary, Gabriel,” Mammon said despite his own body failing. “You do not have the fire in you to do what is necessary. You never did.”

  “You don’t know a damn thing about me.”

  “I know you will not let them die.”

  Mammon whipped at the fragile ceiling and fled the courtroom. Stone plates loosened, about to crush the judges. If Gabriel saved them, Mammon would return to battle and kill countless more angels. The Creator taught that no one life was more important than another, but that was a truth of peace. This was war, and Mammon needed to be stopped.

  Break them, Michael said. Those were my orders.

  Gabriel saw the first palpable emotion that any of the judges had expressed: empathy for his difficult choice…and consent. He flew out of the Heavenly Court right as the ceiling caved in and inhumed the judges.

  Gabriel soared after Mammon like a bird of prey, tracking puddles of blood on the floor until he located the demon. He swooped down, hooked his scythes into Mammon’s back like talons, and slammed him through a wall into the Council Room. Mammon slipped off the blades and tumbled across the busted table, dazed but still dangerous.

  “You had the admiration of an entire Choir, Time. Angels revered you and your work.”

  “That Observatory was my prison!” Mammon belted out. “Charting Creation is an infeasible, ceaseless task. I should have been a Seraph. But no, Michael and the Host chose you, an infantile sluggard. An embarrassment.” His whip slashed out during the rant, clumsy and unsteady. “Satan gave me respect and the opportunity to achieve what I desired.”

  Mammon was done for, a dying animal snarling at its reaper.

  Pitiful.

  Gabriel caught the whip on his scythe and flew circles around the general, binding him in a wired cocoon. He dragged Mammon to the archway and propped him up to look over the city.

  Araboth was a bevy of flames.

  “This is what you desired?” Gabriel asked. “Do you feel nothing for Heaven?”

  “I…I could not do it anymore,” Mammon admitted in the honesty of death’s approach.

  “Do what? Live in paradise?”

  “Serve! Serve Father. Serve Michael. Serve Creation. And then Mankind? No, I made my choice, and I would do it again in a heartbeat.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I was free, Gabriel. It was worth killing for. It was worth dying for. I was free. You must understand.”

  “I do.” Gabriel could’ve easily followed that same path, if not for Michael. “But it doesn’t change anything.”

  Gabriel dug both scythes into Mammon’s heart, holding the blades inside the organ until its last beat.

  Mammon’s body plummeted from the archway. The whip’s slack snagged on the exterior of the Grand Hall and snapped tight, hanging him like a dripping gargoyle.

  Gabriel slumped against the wall, not mourning Mammon but himself. The war, all the killing, had taken an immeasurable toll and changed him into something loathsome.

  Please, Father, let me die. If any grace remains in my soul, I don’t feel it. I don’t feel anything. I’m so tired. Let me die. But Gabriel’s prayer wouldn’t be granted.

  The Grand Hall swayed on its weakened foundations from the war machines’ progress. A boulder shattered the stained glass ceiling, a feather away from squashing Gabriel. It was a reminder, a sign, that there was more for him to do.

  Gabriel flew out of the Council Room and sped through the corridors, legions of demons and Forgotten belching forth with the war machines. He reached the rear doors and scraped his scythes along the metal to spark a fuse trail—

  Explosives lining the exits of all nine Choir halls detonated in a sequence of fireballs that enveloped the entire building.

  Angels on the hill beyond cheered, thinking that the demons’ advance was halted. But when the smoke lifted, more waves of enemies marched over the ruined Hall.

  “Hold position,” Gabriel ordered.

  Rows upon rows of angels lined the hill and surrounded the Sanctuary steps with their remaining chariots positioned above. The Host stared down death with dignity and heroic poise.

  “Beelzebub and Mammon have fallen, and Satan will soon follow!” Gabriel shouted to the approaching demons. “Lay down your arms and surrender.”

  With no leadership, Satan’s demonic hordes had degenerated into barbarians of violent instinct. They didn’t care about victory or freedom. The cause of the rebellion was now lost to them. They had become pure demons, liberated from individual thought like a sentient evil born from the immoral recesses of Satan’s soul.

  For Demonkind, Heaven had one law: kill or be killed.

  The Fires of Creation bordered Michael and Satan’s battle like pillars, both His sons battered and caked in each other’s blood. Michael was locked in the very confrontation he prayed every day to avoid but always knew was fated to occur. He lost track of time, stuck in a world of fist and sword. How long had he been fighting with Satan? What if he prevailed only to be alone in the ruins of Heaven? Perhaps he could hope for nothing better, a deserved punishment for a—

  Wormwood pierced the meat of Michael’s thigh and snapped his thoughts back to the battle. The blade slid in and out so quickly that the flesh remained whole until he took a step.

  “Concentrate, Michael,” Satan said from refuge in the black.

  “Why do you hide?” Deception, insult—Michael was sick of Satan’s mind games. They were curtains drawn over his fear. Satan was afraid of failure, afraid of death. But most of all, he was afraid of Michael. “Fight me on equal ground.”

  “There is no equality, not for us.”

  Satan swept through the Chamber and struck his blade across Michael’s forehead. Blood trickled into his eyes from the shallow wound, blurring his vision. Faced with an opponent whose skills matched—if not exceeded—his own, Satan’s doubts about his self-worth required him to embarrass Michael. He favored flashier strikes to whittle his rival down and rebuild his own languishing pride instead of seeking a killing blow. In that need to decisively dominate Michael, Satan became predictable.

  Michael closed his stinging eyes. He heard the shift in Satan’s wings as he began another pass, felt the slight ruffle of his own feathers from the redirected air, and smelled the approach of tainted blood. Michael slashed Excalibur…and cleaved off four of Satan’s six wings.

  “That is correct. We are not equals.”

  “My wings…” Satan reached back and felt the stumps, in shock. Only two wings remained, the loss of stature wounding his ego more than his body. “MY WINGS!”

  “You deserve worse,” Michael said. “I should have taken them all.”

  “You maimed me for Mankind, but there’s no saving them.” Satan focused his energy like a Throne to clot the bleeding stumps and retracted them into his body. “They’re going to kill themselves.”

  “You know nothing of human nature,” Michael replied.

  “Corruption is their nature. That’s what Father created.”

  Satan flipped Wormwood upside down and dashed forward with backhand strikes. He was slower from the loss of wings but replaced speed with his uncanny strength. Obsessive resentment guided every ferocious, fanatical swing.

  His power truly is without mortal equal. Brother, what you could have become, what you could have accomplished for Creation—a running slash vibrated Excalibur in Michael’s hands and knocked it away. He dropped to his knees, bleary with exhaustion.

  “Finally, you accept your place,” Satan said. “This is where blind faith has brought you, Michael. I’ll make it quick. Close your eyes.”

  Behind all of Satan’s in
sanity, Michael saw a trace of hesitation. “One day, you will hate yourself for this. Remember that I still loved you. You will always be my brother.”

  Satan’s grip on Wormwood faltered. The subtle pause was shorter than a blink but felt like a lifetime. Michael rolled to reclaim Excalibur and stabbed him in the gut. The flames seared Satan’s bowels as he slid off the blade.

  Michael placed his foot atop Satan’s face, pinning him to the floor, and lifted Excalibur.

  Satan stared up at Michael in disbelief, recalling the Creator’s vision. “I saw this.”

  Excalibur came down…but stopped against the delicate skin of Satan’s neck. His artery pumped beneath the tip, the smallest increase in pressure capable of puncturing it.

  “Ask your Creator for forgiveness,” Michael said. “It is not too late for redemption.”

  Satan’s body was a stew of agonies. He still felt his other wings despite their separation, like wailing phantoms lamenting his defeat. His insides convulsed with each breath as blood filled his stomach cavity. How can this be…?

  “Ask Him!” Michael demanded and dug his heel into Satan’s temple. No, it wasn’t a demand. It was a plea. After all of his offenses against Michael, the Seraph still pleaded for his soul. It made Satan hate—and love—him all the more. “ASK HIM!”

  Satan opened his mouth with the appearance of remorse. Michael lowered his guard to listen, the gullible sap, and Satan’s lips twisted into a wry smile.

  “Never.”

  Satan flapped his two remaining wings to shove himself from under Michael’s foot. He darted across the Chamber and opened Wormwood’s nodule, preparing for the deadly blow that he should’ve struck a thousand times over. Michael hoisted his sword to do the same.

  The gateway to Earth lay between Michael and Satan like the finish line to their race for Mankind’s future. Would it be one of prosperity or annihilation?

  “Then Father will rejoice in your death…Satan.” It was the only time Michael had spoken his demonic name.

  Satan and Michael soared at each other, their blades clashing directly above the gateway—

  CLANG!

  Excalibur and Wormwood cleaved the subatomic particles of matter in the air. A chain of nuclear fission split the neutrons and protons from their atoms, releasing an exothermic reaction that exploded with extinctive force.

  The last image Satan saw was Michael’s face before a blazing, golden light engulfed them.

  CHAPTER 34

  The Fall

  The Host was hopelessly flanked by Satan’s legions. Demons and Forgotten loomed like the shadow of a tidal wave about to break onto the mountain peak. Angels were clustered around the Sanctuary, a lost herd facing the culmination of their mortal journey, but still they fought. Awakened from the dream of victory, they fought so that their struggle would be remembered. When Angelkind was but a faded footnote in history, Creation would remember that the Host never surrendered, never submitted, even as death’s fingers tugged at their souls. This was the Host’s bow at the finale of Heaven’s apocalyptic tragedy.

  One Seraph remained at center stage in a bittersweet farewell to his brothers and world. Gabriel had no more encouragement for the Host; all he could offer them was his life until it, too, was spent. How many demons he killed in that defiant stand, how many angels perished around him—the sludge of corpses tallied like a running count of the Host’s sins. Gabriel wondered if they looked like ants to the Creator, scuttling around to claim a hill of meaningless sand.

  Then it happened—a baritone pulse from in the mountain. The proclamation preceded a piercing light that blinded the bold few who didn’t avert their eyes.

  Father…?

  Gabriel thought that the Creator was descending to save His children, that all their prayers for clemency had been answered. But the Creator was love, and this was extinction.

  “FLY!” Gabriel shouted and began to hurl angels away from the Sanctuary. His warning was so dire, so sudden, that angel and demon alike heeded it. One common word was all that prevented the complete erasure of Heaven’s inhabitants.

  An explosion came from the mountain’s core with a nuclear magnitude that incinerated the Sanctuary like the cosmic ignition of a star. It flared into a mushroom-shaped cloud that atomized every angel, every demon, and every building within its blast radius.

  A sphere of scorching heat and winds blasted outward down the entire city. It rolled over the towers of Araboth, toppling the great skyline into blackened rubble. The gutted mountain began to collapse inward from the source and swallow the ruins like a sinkhole.

  “Faster! Don’t look back!” Gabriel yelled as war machines and chariots were abandoned to the flames. “Link arms and flee the city!”

  Everyone clung together and synchronized wings to boost their flight velocity. The Forgotten, unable to fly, were burned into silhouettes preserved like shadows on the charred walls.

  The winds hit the chain of flying bodies and staggered them head-over-heels. Gabriel split off to reconnect anyone that broke loose. They neared the base of the mountain, but the superheated shock wave was gaining on them. Fast as they were, it couldn’t be outrun.

  Gabriel saw the tunnels that the Forgotten dug to bury the city walls. “Into the chasms!”

  The survivors dove into the rifts, taking refuge behind the fragmented walls as the shock wave billowed overhead and set the plains ablaze. Limbo was obliterated, its columns of tents snapped like twigs and the memory of its debauchery sterilized by fire. Angels and demons huddled together until the deafening sound and heat abated.

  Gabriel climbed up to the surface. “By the Creator…”

  Araboth City—the entire mountain—was leveled. Nothing remained standing in the flattened panorama of rubble and embers.

  Warriors from both sides exited the chasm to face the aftermath. The fighting was over. Whatever rage or righteousness that drove them during the conflict was melted away in the blast. Some aimlessly stumbled through the raining ash while others dropped their weapons and wept. The war had been summarily ended, but by whom? Among the questions swirling through Gabriel’s mind, one shouted louder than the rest: Where are you, Michael?

  Raphael’s caravan of Thrones and injured angels neared the regional borders of Araboth when they saw the explosion. It was as if the light of Heaven’s heart burst in the last gasp of a dying world. The mountain, an obelisk of their indestructible faith, was gone. A profusion of death radiated out from the source and slammed into Raphael like a groundswell of screaming mortality.

  “I must see the extent of this catastrophe. If I do not return by nightfall, continue to the caves of Mathey…and pray they are abandoned,” he said to Ofiel. The Thrones’ compassion and bravery were exceptional. Raphael trusted them to survive, with or without his guidance.

  “I’m coming with you. I can still fight,” Uriel rasped from his healing throat.

  “The battle is over. Listen,” Raphael replied.

  The shrill cacophony of metal clashing against metal that had echoed behind their caravan was snuffed out in the explosion.

  “Then…we’ve won?” Uriel hoped, but the mushroom cloud suggested otherwise.

  Raphael sniffed the approaching winds and sensed a poison that threatened to mutate his cells. Their immune system could fight it, but the foul taint was spreading across the region like an atmospheric banner of their race’s downfall.

  “There is no victory in the air. Only death.”

  Raphael and Uriel returned to Araboth, but the mountain was an arid distortion of debris piled upon a foundation of the dead. The two armies were spread on the plains, commingled in despair. The war had come to a stunned halt like a clock needing to be wound. Without the keys of Michael and Satan, the hands were frozen in position, their purpose negated.

  Gabriel dug through the rock like a manifestation of the Host’s disbelief, fingers bloodied from the effort. His body was singed with burns and his feathers toasted or missing altogether.
<
br />   “Gabriel, stop.” Raphael had never felt so helpless, so unable to heal a brother in need.

  “He’s here. He has to be. I’ll find him.”

  “The air is befouled, and your wounds—”

  “My wounds? You didn’t see them, Raphael. They burned to nothing. Shadows.” Gabriel lifted a section of wall where the silhouette of an angel or demon was imprinted on the stone, the terror of his last moments immortalized. “I’ll find Michael…or what’s left of him.”

  “He was in the Sanctuary. No one could’ve survived that. He’s gone, Brother,” Uriel said as the three remaining Seraphs huddled together in mourning. “He’s gone. They both are.”

  The instant that Excalibur and Wormwood had connected in an atomic blast, Michael and Satan were hurled into Earth’s gateway. They emerged unconscious above Mankind’s planet, and the gravity pulled them into a spiraling descent through the atmosphere. Michael awoke in flames from the entry, doused as they burst through torrential storm clouds and hit the ground like two steaming meteors. His wings were mangled upon impact like split branches dangling by a string of bark. It felt like every minuscule bone under his feathers was granulated. Satan fared no better. White shards jutted through his skin like portholes to internal hemorrhaging. Were they anyone else, both would have died in the fall.

  Michael managed to stand, but every motion of his body triggered excruciating agony. The world around him came into focus, and Earth was not as he remembered it. The skies were dark with anger, and the lands dispensed a harsh antagonism from the soil.

  “This is His final insult, that we should fall here…among them.” Satan dragged himself up, his confidence stout as ever. Though their swords were missing, he raised his fists to continue their duel. “But at least I can still watch you die.”

  “We must be here for a reason, and you would still fight?”