“Call me crazy,” the prisoner said conversationally as he gestured with his chin beyond the confines of his prison, “but even locked away in here I can feel that something is happening.”
Verchiel found himself drawn toward the cage. “Go on.”
“You know how it feels before a summer storm?” the prisoner asked. “How the air is charged with an energy that tells you something big is on the way? That’s how it feels to me. That something really big is coming.” The prisoner continued to pet the vermin’s head, waiting for some kind of confirmation. “Well, what do you think, Verchiel?” he asked. “Is there a storm on the way?”
The angel could not help but boast. His plans were reaching fruition and he felt confident. “More deluge than storm,” Verchiel responded as he turned his back upon the captive. “When the Nephilim—this Aaron Corbet—is finally put down, a time of change will be upon us.” He strode to a haphazardly boarded window and peered through the cracks at the New England summer night with eyes that saw through darkness as if it were day.
“With the savior of their blasphemous prophecy dead, all of the unpunished criminals of the Great War, driven to despair by the realization that their Lord of Lords will not forgive them, will at last be hunted down and executed.” Verchiel turned from the window to gaze at his prize. “That is what you are feeling in the air, Son of the Morning. The victory of the Powers—my victory.”
The prisoner brought the mouse up to his mouth and gently laid a kiss upon its tiny pointed head. “If you say so, but it doesn’t feel like that to me. Feels more special than that,” he said. The mouse nuzzled his chin and the prisoner chuckled, amused by the tiny creature’s show of affection.
Verchiel glided toward the cage, a cold smile forming on his colorless lips. “And what could be more special than the Nephilim dying at the hands of his sibling?” he asked the prisoner cruelly. “We have spared nothing in our pursuit to destroy him.”
The prisoner shook his head disapprovingly. “You’re going to use this kid’s brother to kill him? That’s cold, Verchiel—even for someone with my reputation.”
The angel smiled, pleased by the twisted compliment. “The child was a defective, a burden to the world in which he was born—that is, until I transformed him, forged him into a weapon with only one purpose: to kill the Nephilim and every tainted ideal that he represents.” He paused for dramatic effect, studying the expression of unease upon the captive’s gaunt face. “Cold?” Verchiel asked. “Most assuredly, for to bring about the end of this conflict I must be the coldest one there is.”
The mouse had defecated in the prisoner’s hand and he casually wiped it upon his robe of heavy brown cloth. “What makes this Nephilim—this Aaron Corbet—any different from the thousands of others you’ve killed over the millennia?”
Verchiel recalled his battle with this supposed savior, the ancient angelic sigils that covered his flesh, his ebony wings, the savagery of his combat skills. “There is nothing special about this one,” he sneered. “And those of the fallen who cling to the belief that he is the savior of prophecy must be shown this.”
He remembered how they battled within the storm he himself had conjured, weapons of heavenly fire searing the very air. It was to be a killing blow; his sword of fire poised to sever the blasphemer’s head from his body. And then, inexplicably, lightning struck at Verchiel, and he fell from the sky in flames. The burns on his body had yet to heal, the pain a constant reminder of the Nephilim, and how much was at stake. “With his death,” Verchiel continued, “they will be shown that the prophecy is a lie, that there will be no forgiveness from the Creator.”
The prisoner leaned his head of shaggy black hair against the iron bars of his prison as the mouse crawled freely in his lap. “Why does the idea of the prophecy threaten you so?” he asked. “After all this time, is absolution such a terrible thing?”
Verchiel felt his anger blaze. His mighty wings unfurled from his back, stirring the dust and stagnant air of the room. “It is an affront to God! Those who fought against the Lord of Lords should be punished for their crimes, not forgiven.”
The prisoner closed his eyes. “But think of it, Verchieclass="underline" to have the past cleared away. Personally I think it would be pretty sweet.” He opened his eyes and smiled a beatific smile that again reminded Verchiel of how it had been in Heaven—and how much had been lost to them all. “Who knows,” the prisoner added, “it might even clear up that complexion of yours.”
It was a notion that had crossed Verchiel’s mind as well—that his lack of healing was a sign that the Creator was not pleased with his actions—but to have it suggested by one so vilified, so foul, was enough to test his sanity. The leader of the Powers surged toward the cage, grabbing the bars of iron.
“If I have incurred the wrath of my heavenly sire, it is for what I failed to do, rather than what I have done.” Verchiel felt the power of his angelic glory course through his body, down his arms, and into his hands. “I did not succeed in killing the Nephilim, but I have every intention of correcting that oversight.”
The metal of the cage began to glow a fiery orange with the heat of heavenly fire, and the prisoner moved to its center. His robes and the soles of his sandals began to smolder. “I deserve this,” he said, a steely resolve in his dark eyes. “But he doesn’t.” He held the mouse out toward Verchiel and moved to the bars that now glowed a yellowish white. He thrust his arm between the barriers, his sleeve immediately bursting into flame, and let the mouse fall to the floor where it scurried off to hide among the shadows.
“How touching,” Verchiel said, continuing to feed his unearthly energies into the metal bars of the prison. “It fills me with hope to see one as wicked as you showing such concern for one of the Father’s lowliest creatures.”
“It’s called compassion, Verchiel,” the prisoner said though gritted teeth, his simple clothing ablaze. “A divine trait, and one that you are severely lacking.”
“How dare you,” Verchiel growled, shaking the bars of the cage that now burned with a white-hot radiance. “I am, if nothing else, a spark of all that is the Creator; an extension of His divinity upon the world.”
The prisoner fell, his body burning, his blackening skin sending wisps of oily smoke into the air as he writhed upon the blistering hot floor of the cage. “But what if it’s true, Verchiel?” he asked in an impossibly calm voice. “What if … it’s all part of His plan?”
“Blasphemy!” the angel bellowed, his anger making the bars burn all the brighter—all the hotter. “Do you seriously think that the Creator can forgive those who tried to usurp His reign?”
“I’ve heard tell,” the prisoner whispered through lips blistered and oozing, “that He does work in mysterious ways.”
Verchiel was enjoying his captive’s suffering. “And what if it is true, Morningstar? What if the prophecy is some grand scheme of amnesty composed by God? Do you actually believe that you would be forgiven?”
The prisoner had curled into a tight ball, the flesh of his body aflame, but still he answered. “If I were to believe in the prophecy … then it would be up to the Nephilim… wouldn’t it?”
“Yes,” Verchiel answered. “Yes, it would. And it will never be allowed to happen.”
The prisoner lifted his head, any semblance of discernable features burned away. “Is that why I’m here?” he croaked in a dry whisper. “Is that why you’ve captured me … locked me away … so that I will never be given that chance?”