The power that resided within this boy was different than any other Camael had borne witness to; there was an intensity to it, something that hinted at the potential for greatness—or something devastatingly destructive. It was this that set him apart from the others, that made Camael believe that Aaron Corbet was indeed the one foretold of in prophecy, the one who could unite all of the fallen angels with Heaven. Perhaps even… He cut that thought off before it could go any further.
Camael watched with a cautious eye as the Nephilim touched down before the Powers warriors. “Let me show you how I deal with a coupla assholes,” he heard the boy say, goading the angels to attack.
At first the teenager had been afraid of his talents, but now Aaron was using his new abilities more and more frequently. Camael hoped that he would soon see the unification of human and angelic in the boy—and not a gradual descent into madness. He wished this not only for the sake of the boy, but for all fallen angels hiding on Earth, hungry for reunification with God and the kingdom of Heaven.
Bethmael was first to attack, bringing his blade down in a blazing arc, crackling and sparking as it cut through the air. Aaron spread wide his ebony wings and pushed off from the ground, evading the weapon as it bit into the underbrush and set it aflame.
“Fast, but not fast enough,” the Nephilim said, lashing out with his own sword of fire. The blade cut a burning gash across Bethmael’s chest and the angel cried out in shock and dismay.
Eyes riveted to the scene unfolding before him, Camael suddenly felt Gabriel’s presence by his side.
“I’m afraid,” the dog said.
“Not to worry,” Camael replied reassuringly. “Aaron will be fine.”
There was silence for a moment, but then the animal spoke again.
“Right now I’m not afraid for him, Camael,” the dog said with a slight tremble to his usually guttural voice. “I’m afraid of him.”
As he struck at his enemies and watched the surprise and fear spread across their faces, Aaron wondered again why he had ever been so afraid.
Bethmael and Kyriel stepped away from him, cautious now that he had drawn first blood. He could still hear Bethmael’s blood sizzling on the blade of his weapon. It was a wonderful sound that made the power within him yowl with delight.
This angelic essence was indeed a thing to be feared, but it was part of him now, and there was nothing he could do to change that. At first he had believed that the best way to deal with it was to suppress it, to keep the alien nature that had been awakened on his eighteenth birthday locked up inside, but that proved to be nearly impossible. The power wanted to be free to fulfill its purpose, and to be perfectly honest, Aaron knew he really wasn’t strong enough to deny it. Self-control had been something he’d fought to learn for years in foster care. But his first confrontation with Verchiel over the burning remains of the only people who had ever treated him like family quickly taught him that he would have to occasionally free these newfound powers to stay alive.
“What’s the matter? Scared?” Aaron asked the angels, a nasty grin spreading across his face. He imagined how he must look to them, and a chill of excitement ran up and down his spine. He wanted them to be afraid—he wanted them to fear him. They were agents of Verchiel, and that was all he needed to know. They didn’t seek unification and peace. Only the merciless slaughter of those they considered “beneath” themselves.
That was it. They came at him with cries that reminded him of a bird’s waiclass="underline" an eagle, or a hawk perhaps. Bethmael’s fiery blade passed dangerously close.
“Verchiel shall have your head,” he heard the angel hiss. He felt the heat of heavenly flame streak by his face as he bent himself backward to avoid its destructive touch. Then he drove his foot into the angel’s stomach, kicking him away.
Kyriel, working in unison with his brother, thrust his blade of fire toward Aaron’s midsection. Aaron brought his own weapon down, swatting Kyriel’s lunge aside, and carried through slashing his sword across the warrior’s face. The angel stumbled back with a cry of surprise, a hand clutched to his now smoldering features.
“Bet that’s gonna scar,” Aaron taunted, feeling the ancient energy that he’d fought so hard to squelch course through his body. At that moment he felt as though there was nothing he couldn’t do.
“He … he cut me,” Kyriel said, gazing at the blood that covered his hand.
There wasn’t much of it, the flames of the heavenly blades cauterizing the wounds, but Aaron wondered how long it had been since the angel had last seen even a little of his own blood. The Powers’ soldier looked to his brother for support, though he too had been stung by Aaron’s blade.
“Then we shall cut him back,” Bethmael growled, spreading his wings of golden brown and springing from the ground, sword of fire ready for a taste of Nephilim blood.
Rallied by his brother, Kyriel forgot his wound and dove at Aaron.
Aaron watched them descending upon him as if in slow motion, the crackling flames of their burning swords growing louder as they drew closer. He tried to move, but found he could not. The angelic essence had grown tired of this particular battle, and was ready to bring it to an end. Aaron gave in, letting the divine power wash over him like a wave.
They were almost upon him, their angel scent filling his nostrils. There was arrogance in their stench. Even though he had held his own against their master, Verchiel, they still believed themselves superior. These angels would suffer for their conceit.
Kyriel was the first to meet his fate. His wicked blade of fire fell—its purpose to cleave Aaron in two, but the Nephilim was not there to meet the weapon’s bite. With surprising speed, he moved beneath the descent of Kyriel’s sword and thrust his own burning blade into the soldier’s ribcage, thinking to pierce the creature’s black heart.
Aaron had no time to cherish the look of sheer surprise that bled across his attacker’s face for he had the other to deal with now. He turned just as Bethmael slashed a painful bite from his shoulder. But he ignored the wound, following through with his own swing. His blade passed through the thick tendrils of sinew, muscle, and bone and severed Bethmael’s head from his body. Aaron watched with a perverse wonder as the angel’s head spun slowly in the air before falling to the ground. The body followed, the stump where its head had once been still smoldering from the cut of his weapon.
Aaron was surprised by his feelings as he gazed down at the astonished expression, frozen upon Bethmael’s dead face. There was no revulsion, no surprise. It simply felt right.
He was suddenly distracted by a moan from behind and turned to see that Kyriel was still alive. The angel knelt upon the grass, clutching at his chest, a black oily smoke drifting from his wound. He was burning from within and the expression on his face was one of unbridled pain. Aaron looked upon his attacker and he felt no pity—only a cold, efficient need to see the job done.
“Aaron,” he heard Camael call from close by. He ignored his mentor and prepared to finish what he had started.
“Aaron, what are you doing?” Camael cautiously questioned as the Nephilim brought his sword of fire up, and then down upon Kyriel’s skull, ending his life and bringing the battle to a close.
He felt Camael’s hand fall roughly upon his shoulder, spinning him around to face his mentor. There was a split second when the power inside told him to lift his blade against the angel, but he managed to suppress the urge as he slowly emerged from the red haze of combat.