And then there was a light, burning through the ebony pitch—and he winced, turning his face away, blinded by its awesome intensity.
“Fear not the light of my righteousness,” the voice said. “There is a powerful purpose awaiting you beyond the Stygian twilight—work to be done.”
And the radiance continued to grow, consuming the darkness, pulling him from the embrace of shadow and into the heart of illumination.
“Come to me,” said the voice, so very close. “And be reborn.” Reborn.
Verchiel knelt before he who mere moments before had been a child. Silently the Archons watched as the angel held the face of the magickally augmented boy in both hands and gazed into eyes vacant of awareness.
“Do you hear me?” he asked. “Your lord and master has need of you.”
The angel examined the magnificently muscled body of the boy-turned-man, pleased with the work of his magicians. The arcane symbols that had been painted, then burned into his naked flesh, had formed permanent scars decorating the perfect physique. These were marks that would set him apart from all others; symbols that proved he had been touched by the divine, transformed into something that transcended simple humanity.
Again, Verchiel looked into the eyes of the man. “I call upon you to come forth. There is so much to be done,” he whispered. Lovingly he touched the man’s expressionless face, running his long, delicate fingers through the blond, sweat-dampened hair. “I have need of you,” he hissed, leaning his mouth close to the man’s own. “The Lord God has need of you.”
Verchiel brought a hand to the man’s chin, pulled open his mouth, and blew lightly into the open maw, an icy blue flame briefly illuminating the cavern of the open mouth. The body of the man, who had once been Stevie, twitched once and then was still. Verchiel continued to stare, willing the man to consciousness, a vacant shell ready to be shaped into a tool of surgical precision.
An instrument of redemption.
The man’s body began to thrash, flopping about on the floor of the sunroom, and a smile languidly spread across Verchiel’s pale, scarred features. “That’s it,” he cooed. “I’m waiting—we’re all waiting.”
Awareness suddenly flooded into the man’s eyes, and his body went rigid with the shock of it. He began to scream, a high-pitched wail of rebirth that tapered off to a wheezing gasp as he rolled from side to side on the cold solarium floor.
Verchiel gestured toward the door, and several of his soldiers entered the room. They lifted the man, mewling and trembling, from the ground and held him aloft.
“Look at you,” Verchiel said, a cold, emotionless smile on his face. “The potential for greatness emanates from you in waves.” He held up a single, long, and pointed finger to the man who was crying pathetically. “But there is something missing. Something that will make you complete.” He turned to the Archons, who held pieces of an armor the rich red color of spilt blood. “Dress him,” the Powers’ leader ordered.
And the magicians did as they were told, covering the man’s body in crimson metal forged in the fires of Heaven. When they completed their task, they stepped away, and Verchiel approached. Every inch of the man’s transformed flesh was encased in blood-red metal—all except his head. He was a fearsome sight in his crimson suit of war, but he gazed pathetically at Verchiel, eyes streaming tears of fear and confusion.
“It’s all so new to you now,” Verchiel said, holding out his hands to the man. “But I will make it right.” Fire appeared between the angel’s outstretched hands, at first no bigger than the flame on the head of a match, then growing into a swirling fireball of orange. “I will teach you,” the angel said as the fire grew darker, taking shape, solidifying into a helmet the matching color of lifeblood. “You shall be my tool of absolution.” He placed the helmet over the man’s head. “My implement of absolution.”
Verchiel stepped back, admiring the fearful visage standing before him, clad in the color of pulsing rage. “Malak—,” he said, extending his hand, introducing those around him to the newest weapon in their arsenal. “Hunter of false prophets.”
CHAPTER NINE
In the apartment above the clinic, Katie was lost in her thoughts; in a place dark and dank, loaded with hundreds of metal barrels, corroded with age, their toxic contents seeping into the groundwater, invading the ecosystem of the Maine town.
The microwave oven began to beep, and she pulled herself from the disturbing reverie to answer its insistent toll. She took the steaming mug of chicken soup from inside and sat at the little kitchenette. Her stomach felt queasy with nerves, but she knew she should eat something before her late night maneuvers.
In between spoonfuls, Katie pulled a yellow legal pad over and reviewed the list of things she would need to gather before tonight. She tapped the first item on the pad with her finger. “Flashlight,” she said thoughtfully. “I saw one around here somewhere.”
She got up from the chair and approached some boxes that had been neatly stacked by the doorway to Kevin’s bedroom. How long had he been here and still hadn’t completely unpacked? Katie moved some of the boxes and found the flashlight, pointed it into the room, and turned it on. Its beam cut through the encroaching shadows that accumulated with the coming of dusk.
“Guess that’s a check,” she said, returning to the table and setting the flashlight beside the pad. She was just about to sit, when she heard a faint knock on the door. She glanced at the clock. She was expecting Aaron, but it was only just seven. Maybe he’d come early to try to talk her out of her planned adventure. “A little early, aren’t you…,” she began, stopping when she saw that it wasn’t Aaron on the doorstep.
Blithe’s chief of police stood stiffly in the doorway and stared.
“Can I help you with something, Chief?” Katie asked.
It was almost as if she’d woken him up. He kind of twitched, then politely removed his hat. “Sorry to disturb you, ma’am,” he said, “but I’ve got some news about Dr. Wessell.”
Katie felt her heart sink, as though the floor beneath her suddenly gave way and she was falling into a bottomless chasm. “What is it?” she asked in a breathless whisper, stepping aside to invite the sheriff inside.
He stepped in, and she closed the door behind him. The silence in the room became almost deafening, and Chief Dexter nervously coughed into his hand.
“Can I get you something?” she asked as she walked farther into the kitchen, trying to delay the inevitable.
“A glass of water would be fine,” he answered.
She took a glass from a cabinet and began to run the water. “You have to run it for a minute,” she said offhandedly, putting her hand beneath the stream. “Takes a while to get cold.”
He nodded, self-consciously turning his hat in his hands.
She handed him the glass, then leaned back against the sink and folded her arms across her chest. “Is it bad?” finally she asked.
Chief Dexter was taking a drink from his glass when he shuddered violently, as if wracked by an Arctic chill. The glass tumbled from his hand and smashed upon the floor.
“Chief?” Katie asked, moving toward him.
His eyes were closed, but he raised a hand to reassure her. “Dr. Wessell,” he began, his voice sounding strange … raspy, “he discovered some things about our town—things that should have remained secret.”
Katie was kneeling on the kitchen floor, carefully picking up the pieces of broken glass, when the implications of the police officer’s words began to sink in. “What exactly are you suggesting, Chief?” she asked, slowly climbing to her feet, the palm of one of her hands piled with shards of glass. “Did someone do something to Kevin?”
She was startled by the man’s response. Chief Dexter chuckled, and it was one of the most unpleasant sounds she’d ever heard—like his throat was clogged with fluid—and it must have been a trick of the light, but something seemed to be wrong with his eyes. “He serves the whole—as do we all,” he said dreamily, and began to sway from side to side.