“I couldn’t save her!” Stoneworthy’s voice cracked. “I couldn’t!” A shudder ran through him. Deep and hollow as emptiness his sorrow welled up and began to drown him. And as he dropped his head on Oliver’s shoulder he understood what had happened to him in the battle. Deep inside him, his pain had festered. His guilt had grown horns and poisonous fangs. Every man that he had murdered with his own dead hands had died as payment for his pain. The City Defenders protected corruption, and corruption had killed Karen. And it had killed him. It had killed him!
I don’t want to die!
“Cry Able,” Oliver whispered, smoothing his hair. “You are waking up. Your pain has grown in you. It has fed your doubt. We do the Lord’s work.” Another pat. “But you are full of sorrow because you have died, weep my friend.”
All around him, Stoneworthy could hear the sorrow of many thousands. Others had accumulated their pain. Others had fed their doubt with guilt. Only by releasing it could they restore their faith. Only with faith could they bring righteousness to the City.
“Look!” A voice rose up excited.
“Look! There!” came another.
Stoneworthy’s head rested on Oliver’s chest. He heard his friend’s voice. “Oh dear God, Able. Look! Look! Here is your sign!”
And Stoneworthy looked up, blinking tears away. He looked to the moon’s opalescent crescent in the sky. There was movement against its radiance. Two black shapes flickered across its surface, whirled over the moon’s face like birds-and then descended-spiraling downward over the heads of the army.
“Look Able!” Oliver’s words burst from his chest.
“I see!” Stoneworthy watched the shapes drop lower and he saw wings. The minister leapt to his feet, Oliver rose too-arms still clasped about him.
“Angels!” A chorus of shouts rose.
“Angels!” Stoneworthy shouted. “You see, Oliver. Angels of God!” He drew Purdue closer. “Come, let us get Updike. He will need our strength.”
They ran toward Updike and his gathered Generals who had dropped to their knees. General Bolton and another, Trung Mac knelt to either side of the Captain. Their eyes were locked on the heavens. Oliver and Stoneworthy threw their arms around the preacher. Stoneworthy saw that pain still clenched Updike’s features, but his face flushed with hope.
“I heard them!” he laughed, one hand instinctively rising to his left eye. “Just before the moon showed itself I heard them singing.”
Overcome with joy Stoneworthy pressed his lips against Updike’s. He had heard the preacher’s stories, and believed them.
“Make room!” Updike shouted, as the Angels circled fifty feet overhead. The gathering parted. The Angels, seeing this, turned gracefully, and with a gentle flap of wings alighted. Around them, the army fell to its knees.
“Praise the Lord!” Updike bellowed.
“Praise the Lord!” the army echoed. Stoneworthy had only seen the Angels for a moment before prostrating himself. One was golden-haired with wings of pure white-the other had silver hair and gray-white wings. That one held a long golden horn. That one, Stoneworthy knew. Both were large-standing nine feet or ten.
“Arise! Servants of God!” said the Angel with the horn. The minister recognized the voice.
Stoneworthy lifted his eyes. There the Angel stood, just as he had in his office-just as he had in the apartment of sin so long ago.
“I am Archangel Gabriel!” The Angel’s voice carried across the throng without losing strength. “Commander of the Army of God!” Updike sputtered something, but was overpowered by his pain. The Archangel’s eyes drilled into Stoneworthy’s-held them. “You have come far, servants of God.”
67 – Swimmers
Felon cursed his recklessness. If he hadn’t indulged his anger and killed the Angel, he’d never have been surprised. But the Marquis had talked too much. He’d said: “I know you.” And Felon started shooting. He wanted to knock the look of satisfaction off the bastard’s face. And he did.
He was dragged through the cold and darkness. Eventually, numb he realized that escaping his captors would kill him. So he had focused on his limbs, forced them to curl inward, and accept the powerful hands that drove him on. He allowed his brain to relax-to focus on a calming memory: The sun was shining on a boy by a lake. His face was warm. The sun was warm. A breeze turned the leaves overhead.
Finally, Felon felt the hands on him release their hold-he thrashed sputtering from the water. A faint orange light, like candles, burned his eyes-the cold pulled at his numb limbs, made them shake like palsy. His arms were dead. Numb, flying water was his only indication of movement. He coughed, gasped, fell-shoveled black sand into his mouth-spat. Felon shook his head to clear his eyes of water-his long hair whipped his cheeks like icicles.
He sprinted for control. Every second put him closer to death. Why he lived now was inconsequential, he had to remain so. Though blinded by the pulse hammering in his skull-his retinas throbbed with gray destruction-he detected shapes and movement. Felon raised a frozen hand to wipe water from his eyes, pistol-whipping himself in the process. He had retained his grip on the. 9 mm though his hand felt as cold and dead as the metal. There was no strength to pull the trigger.
He dragged himself shivering from the water. Hypothermia was setting in. He needed warmth.
Shapes moved around him. He flopped onto his back snarling, threatening the darkness with his teeth. Death was near. He could taste it-had already rolled it in his mouth. A crackle reached his ears-an echoing crunch of flames. Orange light flickered on his nose. He rolled, levered himself painfully onto his knees.
A fire.
It etched the mortar and lines of bricks-a wall, and a doorway. At its base, a clutter of tiles led toward him-broken and fragmented memories of order. Three yards away on white and ruby tiles was a fire. A chair and broken table burned. Beside it, prostrate, a naked man. The feet that pointed at the assassin were white and swollen, the legs warped and twisted. The body slid away from him and was obscured by the flames. A head moved over the fire-a small crescent was all he could see. It was shiny, the skin white-the forehead flawless and porcelain.
“Warm yourself.” Dead cold words whispered through the darkness. A hand bloated and flipper flat beckoned beside the flames. Felon’s urge to murder conflicted briefly with his will to live-he crawled forward-skin prickling with new warmth.
“Fire,” the voice said-quietly. It was flat, nasal and devoid of inflection. The speaker did not speak often. “Fear not.”
Felon’s hand ached, screamed at him to throw the frozen weapon away, but the gun was all he had left.
“We are Swimmers.” It dragged itself across the tiles. Pale despite the warming light, the Swimmer arm-walked around the flame. Its chest was powerfully built, and shone as though molded of plastic. The head, mounted on a slim and flexible neck was oval in shape-thick hair was plastered to it with water. The face was human, covered in a skin like white wax. Mild discoloration beneath it showed jaw muscle and bone. The creature seemed to have neither eyelids nor irises. The pupils covered a quarter of the eye’s surface.
“Fire.” The creature slithered past Felon. “We are Swimmers and have no need of heat.” The Swimmer’s weight grated against the broken tile and sand until it moved into the water. Following its action, Felon saw that others-his abductors-waited in the icy water. Their foreheads and eyes protruded from the blackness like frogs’. The Swimmer who spoke to Felon propped itself on its forearms in the shallows.
“Fire,” it repeated, splashing water under its chin. “We must talk.”
Felon dragged himself to the flames. He knew that if the Swimmers wanted him dead, he would be dead. So he put aside his thoughts of killing, drew near the flames instead. The heat scorched his frozen skin, but it burned until it won acknowledgement of life. Shivers took him. He shuddered on a deep breath. He gritted his teeth until his jaws ached. Felon had to know more. Anger twisted his lips-he grunted something, and struggled out of his coat and jacket. To do so, he had to set the gun aside by sheer force of will. His fingers resisted, unclenched painfully. Keeping a wary eye on the Swimmers, he laid out his clothing on the tiles. He needed time to think. The Swimmers hadn’t moved.