CHAPTER THREE
Malak’s arrival was heralded by a tremble of the very air. It shook years of accumulated dust and dirt from the heating pipes and ducts spreading across the ceiling of the dormant boiler room in the sub-basement of the Saint Athanasius Orphanage. And then there came a tearing sound as a rip in the fabric of space appeared in the room and grew steadily larger to allow the servant of the Powers access to his place of solitude.
The fearsome figure, clad in ornate armor the color of drying blood and carrying a dripping sack, forced his body through the laceration in the flesh of reality. The armor, forged in the fires of Heaven and bestowed upon him by the chieftain of the Powers host, allowed him this fantastic mode of transportation. In an instant he could follow a scent wherever it might take him. As his feet hit the concrete floor of his dwelling, the hovering wound behind him revealed a place of frigid, howling winds, covered with ice and snow. Gradually it healed and soon, was no more.
Malak sniffed the air, searching for signs that anyone other than he had been within his den. The scent was all his and the hunter relaxed. He placed the satchel on the floor and pulled the helmet from his head, setting it down atop a stack of magazines tied with twine. His scalp tingled as it was exposed to the air, and he raised a gloved hand to his head, running metal-encased fingers through his shaggy blond hair. It’s good to be home, he thought, gazing about the dank, dark room. His eyes fell upon the familiar sites: the piles of wooden desks, stacks of moldering textbooks. There were rows of file cabinets, their once important information now meaningless, and an ancient boiler, squatting in the darkness, its system of pipes and ducts reaching overhead like the tentacles of some long-extinct primordial beast. This was his place, a. respite where he could gather his strength and concentrate on the hunts to come.
Home…
Malak retrieved his bag from the floor and headed across the sub-basement. The bag was dripping and left a serpentine trail upon the stones. He passed a dust-covered globe of the world and cheerfully gave it a spin.
Bolted to the wall at the back of the boiler room were rows of shelves that had once held supplies for the upkeep of the church buildings, but now held items of a decidedly different nature. Malak struck a match from a box and lit the candles placed about the shelves. The hunter’s smile broadened as the flickering light illuminated his treasures, prizes from his hunts. He admired the leathery ears he had cut from the heads of a tribe of fallen hiding in the jungles of South America, and the glass jars with the eyes of those who did not recognize the heavenly authority of the Powers on Earth. The tongues he had pulled from the mouths of those fallen that had spoken ill of his lord and master, and the countless, bloodstained feathers he had plucked from the wings of those cast out of Heaven—all of this filled him with a burgeoning pride. So many hunts, he mused, recalling the death strikes to each and every one of his hapless prey.
Malak stepped closer to the shelves and pushed aside the blackened skull of a fallen angel who foolishly believed that God was by his side as he fought. He then reached into his dripping sack and removed a pair of severed hands, placing them in the space he had just cleared. In his mind he heard the screams of the angel as the appendages were taken from him only a short time ago, and he smiled, the pitiful cries of torment sweet music to his ears. He stepped back and again admired his growing collection. Feet, he suddenly thought. My collection could use a pair of feet.
Another stronger scent wafted up from the saturated bag in his hand and Malak pulled it open to peer inside. He licked his lips, feeling his stomach churn and gurgle with hunger as he gazed upon the most delectable prize still within. Carefully he withdrew the last item from the sack, the source of the soaking fluids staining its bottom—a dripping angel’s heart.
“I trust your latest undertaking was a success?” said a voice from behind him, and the hunter turned quickly to gaze lovingly upon his master.
Verchiel casually strolled toward him, hands clasped behind his back, and Malak dropped to his knees, bowing his head in reverence.
“I hope I have made you proud,” the hunter said.
“I am certain you did,” the angel said as he walked past his kneeling servant to approach the trophy shelf.
“I see that there are many more … items since last I checked,” Verchiel said, his eyes studying the hunter’s display.
“Every day I hunt,” Malak replied. “Sometimes two or three of the criminals die at my hand. I like the trophies to remind me of the glory of the moment.”
“You most certainly do,” Verchiel clucked, turning away from the shelves to look upon him. “And the scent of the Nephilim? Have you found it again?”
Malak bowed his head again, not wanting to endure the look of disappointment in his master’s eyes. Two weeks ago he had found the scent of the half-breed in the lair of the sea beast. There had been a great battle there, and the Nephilim had stained the rocks with his blood. But Malak soon lost the trail. The Nephilim and his companion were taking no chances, masking their travels with powerful magicks.
“I have not,” Malak said sadly. “But it is only a matter of time before I pick up the trail again and track him down—to the ends of the world if necessary.”
Verchiel chuckled. “I’m sure you will, faithful Malak, but do not fret.” The angel smiled down on him and the hunter was bathed in its radiance. “Losing the scent of our enemy has provided you with an opportunity to hone your special skills.” He gestured toward the shelves filled with Malak’s trophies. “Think of these as steps to prepare yourself for the final confrontation with the Nephilim.”
Malak raised his head proudly and met his master’s dark eyes. “I am ready now,” he proclaimed.
“Yes, I do believe you are.” Verchiel motioned for him to rise. “But we must have patience. Soon enough it will be the heart of Aaron Corbet that you have in your hand.” Verchiel gestured to the dripping heart the hunter still held.
The hunter raised the angel heart in a toast to his master. “This will be the Nephilim’s heart,” he said, bringing the bloody muscle to his mouth and taking an enormous bite.
Verchiel nodded knowingly. “Far sooner than you imagine.”
Mr. Arslanian’s voice had become nothing more than a buzzing drone inside Vilma’s head as she nervously glanced at the tree outside the second-story window. She flinched, for a moment expecting to see a man perched upon one of the branches watching her. I’ve got to stop this craziness, she warned herself, trying to refocus on her history teacher’s lecture. She really had no idea what the day’s topic was, although she was certain it had something to do with the Civil War—for when didn’t a class of Mr. Arslanian’s?
Vilma’s eyes burned and she was sure they were bloodshot and red, despite the drops she constantly put in them. She needed sleep so badly, just a few good hours, and then she was sure she’d be good as new. But with sleep came the dreams, and the visions of men perched in the trees outside her bedroom windows. Images from her nighttime terrors flashed through her mind: fearsome angels, clad in golden armor, destroying an ancient city; a girl, very much like herself, fleeing through the desert as the creatures of Heaven pursued her; those same winged creatures descending upon the girl, dragging her up into the sky, ripping her apart, tearing the flesh from her—
“Miss Santiago?” beckoned a voice, and her entire body convulsed, sending her history book tumbling to the floor. The other students snickered, and she felt the warm flush of embarrassment spread across her face and down her neck. Vilma quickly retrieved her book from the floor, glancing to the front of the classroom where Judy Flannagan, the guidance office aide, was standing next to her teacher.