They were both smiling now, and Johiel began to believe that his gambit had actually paid off. He wished his weapon away as a sign of good faith, but he could not help thinking again of those who would die so that he could live. I’ll learn to live with that, he thought. “Your word is your bond,” he said aloud to Bethmael and Kyriel. “Do we have a deal?”
They laughed, a shrill, high-pitched sound that conjured images of a bird of prey as it dropped from the sky upon its kill. Johiel should have seen this for the warning that it was.
“The Powers do not bargain with criminals,” Bethmael said as a weapon—a longbow—formed in his grasp, and in a matter of seconds he let fly a shaft of fire. It hissed as it cut through the air, as if warning its target of the excruciating pain of its bite.
The arrow of fire plunged deep into the flesh of Johiel’s shoulder, the momentum carrying him backward, pinning him to the body of an ancient oak. Frantically Johiel tried to free himself. He gripped the shaft and the night air was suddenly filled with the sickly sweet fragrance of burning flesh. He screamed pathetically as he pulled his blistered hand away. Through eyes tearing with pain, he watched the two angels stalk closer.
“It is our turn to make a bargain with you, fallen one,” Bethmael said. His bow had already been replaced with a dagger of fire that he held menacingly before Johiel. “You will tell us your secrets, and then you will be killed mercifully.”
Johiel struggled to pull his shoulder from the tree, but the pain was too great. “I… I’ll tell you nothing,” he said, voice trembling with fear and agony. The fire of the arrow was beginning to eat at the flesh of his shoulder, beginning to spread voraciously down his arm.
“I was so hoping you would say that,” Kyriel said, a knife coming to life in his grasp as well.
Johiel didn’t want to die—especially not painfully. Perhaps a taste of his secret knowledge would grant him a small respite. “I know where the fallen hide,” he proclaimed as the burning blades moved toward his flesh.
Bethmael stopped and motioned for Kyriel to halt as well. “Go on,” the angel urged. “Unburden yourself.”
“I… I can take you there … right to their doorstep,” he stammered.
“He’s bluffing,” Kyriel snapped, and again started forward with knife in hand.
“I could tell you where, … but you won’t find it without my help,” Johiel whined, writhing in pain as the heavenly fire of the arrow in his shoulder continued to feed upon his flesh. “It’s hidden with magick, … but I can show you where it is.”
“I grow tired of his games, brother,” Kyriel said, eager to inflict more pain. “We’ll cut the flesh from his traitorous bones and—”
“Silence, Kyriel,” Bethmael ordered, a look forming in his black gaze that told Johiel the Powers’ soldier had begun to understand the importance of what he knew. “What is this place of which you speak?” Bethmael asked with intense curiosity.
Johiel looked to the arrow protruding from his shoulder, and then back to Bethmael. “Remove the arrow, and I’ll share all that I know,” he said, sensing that he was suddenly worth more to them alive than dead.
“What is the name of the place of which you speak?” Bethmael asked again.
Johiel was about to tell him when a rustle of brush and the snapping of twigs distracted them all from the business at hand.
The yellow-furred dog was the first to come upon them. It stopped, cocked its head to one side, and stared with deep brown eyes showing far more intelligence than expected from the average canine. A boy was next, followed by a familiar angel. Johiel believed his name to be Camael, a great angel warrior and traitor to the Powers host.
“Told you I could find them first,” the yellow dog said to the boy.
“And now that we have?” the angel warrior inquired.
The boy’s appearance began to change, and Johiel thought he heard the Powers gasp. Sigils, angelic sigils appeared upon the boy’s flesh. It was then that Johiel realized this was much more than a mere boy.
“And now that we’ve found them,” the boy repeated, his voice dropping to a rumbling growl, “we kick their asses until they tell us what we want to know.”
“I urge caution,” Camael said quietly, placing his hand on Aaron’s shoulder. “Enter into battle without prudence, and have no one but yourself to blame for an untimely death.”
Camael eyed the scene before him. It was typicaclass="underline" two agents of the Powers preparing to dispatch yet another fallen angel for crimes against Heaven. How many had died by his own hands in service to the Powers and their sacred mission, before he realized that the dispensing of death was not the answer.
“All right,” Aaron said, impatience in his tone. “I’m being cautious. I haven’t attacked yet—but how long should I be cautious before I get to kick butt?”
The two Powers stepped away from their prey, spreading their wings and puffing out their broad warriors’ chests. The knives they each held changed, growing in size to something more formidable, something far more deadly.
“Do my eyes deceive me, brother Kyriel?” asked one soldier to the other. “Or is that former commander Camael I see before me?”
Camael was familiar with both Kyriel and Bethmael. They had served him well in his time as leader of the Powers host. It saddened him now to see the glint of madness in their eyes.
“But how can that be, Bethmael?” Kyriel asked mockingly. “The great Camael left the ways of violence to ascend to a higher level of being. I hear tell that he has taken up sides with a savior of sorts, a divine creature with the ability to bend the ear of God.”
“Do tell,” said Bethmael in response. “Then I am sorely mistaken, for those who stand before us now are neither higher beings nor saviors of any kind.”
Camael would have welcomed a chance to explain his change of heart, his altered philosophy clarified by the reading of an ancient prophecy that foretold the coming of a Nephilim. This spawn of angel and mortal woman would bring absolution to those that had fled Heaven after the war. But he knew, in the core of his being, that the soldiers of the Powers would not listen. They had been changed over the millennia, poisoned by their mission of murder under the leadership of Verchiel.
“So you know these two, huh?” Aaron asked, still obliging Camael’s warning of caution.
“They once served beneath me,” he answered, his gaze never leaving the angelic soldiers. He recalled that the two had been ferocious warriors, their dedication to the cause unwavering. They would be formidable opponents indeed.
Bethmael pointed his awesome sword of flame at them. “Let us show you how we deal with traitors and mongrels,” he said, a goading smile on his aquiline features.
“Have you heard enough of their crap yet?” Aaron asked.
Camael brought forth a blade of his own and readied himself for battle. “I believe I have.”
Aaron suddenly turned to face him, placing a sigil-covered hand upon his chest. “Let me do this,” he said forcefully. The young man’s eyes glinted wetly, like two black pearls in a sea of unbridled emotion. “I have to learn to control it, you’ve said so yourself.”
He could not argue with the boy, for it was what he had been attempting to teach Aaron all along. The angelic nature of the Nephilim was often a dangerous and tempestuous force. The human animal was not meant to wield such power, and it often drove them insane. Camael tried to recall the number of Nephilim driven mad by the power of their own angelic nature that he had been forced to put down. There were far more than he cared to remember.
“Don’t worry,” Aaron said confidently. “I’ll give a yell if I need a hand.”
The boy turned away and flexed his shoulders. Powerful wings of shiny black feathers sprouted from his back, tearing through his T-shirt. In his hand a sword of orange flame appeared and he hurled himself at the angelic opponents with a cry of abandon.