He spun around gracefully, the spearhead slashing across the front of Aaron’s body with an ominous whisper. The Nephilim moved too slowly and the tip of the spear passed through his shirt to cut a fine line from his left shoulder down to the right side of his stomach. He leaped back, feeling warm blood seeping from the open wound. First blood was to Malak, and Aaron doubted it would be the last of it spilled in this battle.
“I’m your brother,” he tried again, preparing himself for the next assault. “Verchiel killed our parents. He took you, changed you, turned you into something—”
Like a rampaging bull Malak charged, the spear suddenly gone, replaced by a fearsome club, its surface studded with spikes. “He made me a hunter,” he growled. “A killer of Heaven’s criminals.”
Aaron dove beneath the club’s pass, discarding his own sword of fire and lunging forward to grab his attacker’s weapon. They struggled for control of the instrument of death, but then Malak slammed his armored face into the bridge of Aaron’s nose. Aaron heard a wet snap and blood exploded from his nostrils. It felt as though his head was about shatter, but he maintained his grip on the club.
Malak violently wrenched the weapon away, watching as Aaron stumbled backward, wiping the blood from his face. There was no pause in the creature’s reaction, not the slightest hint of mercy. The armored warrior came at him again, and Aaron called upon a sword of fire to defend himself. The club had become a two-handed ax, and it descended on him with incredible force. He brought his own blade up and the collision of heavenly fire with enchanted metal rang in Aaron’s ears like the crack of doom.
Both combatants leaped back, a brief respite before continuing their skirmish. Aaron became aware of the battles going on around him. The streets of Aerie echoed with the sounds of strife, and he wondered if it would have been the same if he had listened to Belphegor and not gone to Vilma’s aid.
Feelings of guilt fueling him, Aaron took the offensive, charging at Malak, the tip of his fiery sword tracing a sparking line across the enchanted chest armor. Malak stepped back, discarding his ax and reaching for another instrument of death from his seemingly endless magickal arsenal. Aaron did not wait to see what the warrior would choose. With the aid of his flapping wings, he propelled himself forward and relentlessly rained blows upon his enemy with his own sword of fire.
“I don’t know what he’s told you!” Aaron shouted, desperate to reach some trace of his brother, even as he drove Malak back. “But it isn’t true.”
“You are a master of deceit,” Malak said, drawing his own sword of dark metal to parry Aaron’s blows. The warrior moved with inhuman speed, his movements registering as little more than a scarlet blur. “Lies flow from your mouth like blood from a mortal wound.”
“Listen to me, Stevie!” Aaron yelled, on the defensive again, barely stopping the unremitting fall of the enchanted black blade.
“Malak,” his attacker bellowed, enraged. “I am Malak!” The savagery of his attack intensified. “I kill you now in his name,” Malak growled, preparing to deliver a final deadly strike.
And as Aaron primed himself to counter this killing blow, the question of futility echoed through his frenzied thoughts. Is it possible? He caught sight of the warrior’s eyes through the slits of the horned helmet-murderer’s eyes, void of any trace of humanity—and wondered if there was even a slight chance that Stevie was still somewhere inside the monster that was Malak.
Verchiel grinned, pleased by the ferocity of his pet’s attack. Everything was proceeding as planned. He looked out over the dilapidated human neighborhood, at the battles being fought in his name. The vermin would be routed from their place of concealment, and the process of purging the last believers of the prophecy from the world of God could begin. After Aerie was wiped from existence, it would only be a matter of time before all the Creator’s offenders were destroyed. And on that day he would return to Heaven, to the accolades of the Almighty, and he would take his place at God’s side.
The Powers’ leader breathed in the stench of violence, his memories taking him back to a time when his purpose was defined for him. He remembered the war in Heaven and how even when it appeared to be over, the followers of the Morningstar defeated, the true struggle had yet to begin. They took their audacity, their insolence, and fled to the Earth, hoping to escape the Creator’s wrath. To think that they actually believed they would be forgiven, the angel mused.
“Lost in thought, Verchiel?” A voice distracted him from his reflection.
Verchiel looked toward the entrance of the church and gazed upon the living dead. “Belphegor,” the Powers’ commander hissed. “Camael told us that he had taken your life in the Garden.”
“I think he may have exaggerated the truth a bit,” the Founder of Aerie commented.
His disappointment in Camael strengthened all the more, Verchiel started up the church steps two at a time. “What is it the humans say?” he muttered, murder on his mind. “If you want a job done right…”
Belphegor did not respond. Instead he opened the door of the church and slipped inside.
Verchiel suspected a trap, but the idea that one he believed destroyed so long ago was still among the living drove him forth. He summoned his weapon of choice, and the Bringer of Sorrow came to burning life in his hand as he took hold of the cold metal of the handle and yanked the door wide, plunging himself into the place of worship with the hunger of bloodlust beating in his chest. The church was enshrouded in darkness, the only light from candles burning before a makeshift altar in the front of the building. Belphegor waited for him there.
“Come in, come in,” the old angel said as he motioned Verchiel closer. “I was hoping to have a discussion with you before things got out of hand.” He shrugged. “I guess we’re a little late.”
Verchiel began moving cautiously down the center aisle; the flames of his sword illuminating the church’s interior with its wavering light. “I have nothing to discuss with the likes of you,” he snarled as he surveyed the offensive surroundings.
Belphegor smiled as if privy to some secret knowledge. “That is where you’re wrong, Verchiel,” he corrected. “There is much to talk about.” He turned to the mural painted upon the wall. “Have you seen this?” the fallen angel asked, gesturing to the depiction of an unholy trinity.
Verchiel sneered. “I have borne witness to myriad representations of this repugnant prediction in my pursuits. I cannot begin to tell you how it disgusts me.”
Belphegor nodded. “I figured that would be your answer.”
“It is heresy to even think that the Lord God would allow—”
“He has, Verchiel,” Belphegor interrupted. “He has allowed it. The prophecy has come true—you’ve seen it with your own eyes, but you’re too damn stubborn to accept it.”
The leader of the Powers seethed, the fallen angel’s barbed words stoking the fires of his wrath. “The Creator has entrusted me with a mission that I intend to fulfill; those who sinned against Him will be held accountable for their crimes.”
Belphegor moved toward him, defiance in his ancient eyes. “And what of our greatest sinner?” the fallen asked. “How is it that the first of the fallen was allowed to sire the savior of us all? Doesn’t that tell you something, Verchiel? Doesn’t that convince you that there might be some truth in the ancient writings?”
Sounds of the violence outside drifted into the place of worship, but it was nothing compared to the deafening din inside the angel’s head. “The first of the fallen sired nothing,” Verchiel roared, startled by his own fury. “We saw to that. Any woman who lay with him was destroyed. There was no chance of his seed taking root—”