Seven Archangels: Annihilation (8 page)

Jesus joined him after a few minutes. Michael didn't look at him, only kept his head lowered and his shoulders hunched as he walked, his green wings tense but not extended.

Jesus didn't challenge him, just kept pace, occasionally sweeping the black hair from his dark eyes.

Between one stride and the next, Michael stepped onto the snow fields of the Antarctic, ice that flowed like rock through centuries, rigid instead of rippling, locked into one form by an accident of location.

Jesus walked beside him there too.

Then they were climbing a mountain, and Michael used his hands to heft himself high through the trees and boulders, using a path too narrow to call a trail, seeking handholds until he reached a sheer rock face and there were none.

Jesus stopped at his side while Michael craned his neck to search up the sheer rock.

"Is he going to survive?" Michael said.

"That depends," Jesus said, "on how tightly Raphael hangs on."

Michael chewed on that for a moment. "Even if the Father would let him die, Raphael wouldn't."

Jesus nodded. "Raphael is definitely a force to be reckoned with."

"Uriel said Gabriel was stable for now, at any rate." Michael plunged his hands into the pockets of his clothes, which had morphed into jeans and hiking boots. "And we've set the strongest Guards we can around that room, so there's no way they'll know where he is to attack him again."

Jesus' brow furrowed. "Tell me about the rest."

Michael drew a sharp breath, then moved back to the rock face, found a handhold, and tugged, then looked for the next. "How's Remiel doing? Was she caught?"

"She's safe," said Jesus, "and undiscovered."

"It's occurred to me, if she'd been annihilated, we wouldn't know. Satan wouldn't tell us." Michael looked for the next handhold. "How is she, mentally?"

"I'm holding her together." Jesus looked into the deep of the woods. "The strain is hurting her, but she'll make it out again. Go on—that isn't all that's bothering you."

Michael ascended a little further. "I nearly didn't pierce their Guards at all. There were two levels. The first shattered easily, but the second held, and I'd never have broken through if not for that sigil ring." He frowned. "I'd better get that back from Mephistopheles. I really don't like that I let him keep it this long."

He pulled himself up another four feet, then searched again for a place to cling. Jesus remained at the base looking up at the climbing angel.

"It was just luck that I'd made that sigil at all," Michael said.

Jesus was smiling. "Luck?"

Michael lowered his eyes and looked at the stone only inches from his face. "Just because of that game."

"Lucky break." This time it sounded a lot like laughter in Jesus's voice.

Michael looked down. "You prepared that?"

Jesus nodded.

Michael jumped back from the wall, landing lightly with his wings spread.

Jesus folded his arms as he stood eye-to-eye with the Archangel. "Is that it?"

Michael made his eyes as bright as he could. "For now."

"What about your real terror?"

Michael paled.

Jesus chuckled. "Michael'shêli, I made you. I know when you divert your fear by dealing with another problem." He leaned against a pine. "Granted, it makes you efficient, but I can't have you crippled by doubt at a time when the host needs you at your sharpest."

Michael shook his head. "I can't do this."

"Not on your own."

The Archangel folded his wings. "I don't even know where to begin! I only have this position at all because I stood up a long time ago and told Satan that God alone was God. Anyone could have done that."

Jesus nodded.

Michael frowned. "But now I'm supposed to be holding what might as well be a press conference to tell everyone in Heaven what happened to Gabriel and how we're going to respond to protect the rest of them, and I haven't even figured it out for myself."

When Jesus said nothing, Michael turned to him. "What would you have me do?"

"I would have you do what you've been doing—exactly what you've always done before. Speaking up. Seeing what needs to be done and then taking care of it."

Michael walked back to the rock wall and lifted himself from one handhold to the next, faster than before. This time when he reached a spot where he saw no handholds, the rock itself seemed to resolve into more protrusions. He climbed until he reached a ledge, then pulled himself to sit on it. Jesus was already there waiting. Michael sat breathing hard.

"We can be destroyed." He waited for his breath to stop coming so rapidly. "And not by you. And I never thought it was possible one moment to love you and the next not to, but I wouldn’t even know I didn't love you any longer because I wouldn't be around to know anything. That's something I couldn't fix, and it would be all over for me, for any one of us."

Jesus looked grim. "That's what it would mean."

"That's
wrong
."

"That's why he wants to do it."

"To be uncreated by something that's not itself Uncreated, that's unimaginable." Michael clenched his fists until they hurt. "Until now. I never imagined it until now." His eyes narrowed. "Why?"

Jesus laid an arm over Michael's shoulder, and Michael cupped him with his wing.

"Why?"

Jesus said, "I won't permit it to happen to you."

"And it was okay that it happen to Gabriel?"

Jesus regarded him narrowly.

"I'm sorry."

"I'm not going to tell you all the details. Right now I'm asking you to trust me, and you'll figure out why in your own time, if you ever need to. The blow was going to land. It landed in the way to do the least damage."

Michael said, "And you were in control even then. Things like my sigil. Things like Camael being part of the team."

"Things like that."

Michael drew his wings close to his body and gazed out at the clouds. There was so much higher he could climb, but for now he sat.

"Humans deal with death all the time," Jesus said. "Angels don't. Never have."

Michael traced a finger over the flat of his knee. "You should end us all simultaneously."

"Humans have learned to recover from grieving."

"We shouldn't. It's against everything we are. Annihilation isn't a fulfillment, only a crime. The most tragic and unfair death humankind ever experienced is still a fulfillment. There's more to it. There's justice." Michael's opened his hands and leaned forward. "If our enemies can escape it into oblivion, what purpose is Hell? We made our choice for all eternity. You can't change the terms now."

Jesus frowned. "Can't I?"

Michael blanched. Even his wings went yellow.

"I won't, though."

"You'll stop them if they try again?"

"No." Jesus put a hand on Michael's knee. "I designed you to be my champion. You'll stop them."

Michael's mouth twitched, as though to say,
Well, that eases the pressure.

Jesus laughed out loud. He clapped Michael on the shoulder and then got to his feet on the ledge. "You're more than capable, and you're in command of the most amazing force I could create. Plus, they trust you as much as I do."

Michael stood, reached for his sword and realized he wasn't wearing it at the moment. "You'll guide me?"

"Of course," Jesus said. "I always do."

Michael glanced at one of the hawks circling and called it closer. It cried with that small-sounding voice, then drew nearer. He studied its flight, not moving. He could have left then, but for the moment he was content to stand, just stand, with his Lord at his side.

"You're needed," Jesus said.

As Michael turned to ask more, Raguel appeared before Michael, armed. "We've got trouble at the gates."

Michael flashed away with Raguel, not saying goodbye because he wasn't leaving Jesus behind. Jesus remained on the cliff face, inhaling the scent of pines and watching a hawk in a stoop, and it was good.

- + -

Michael and Raguel appeared at the heavenly gates where Mephistopheles stood before two Principality guards.

Flanked by white stone walls, the main gates of Heaven were formed of wrought iron, with guard houses on either side and a wide field visible through the bars. More for appearance than function, the gates served ceremonial purposes. Angels and saints could flash into Heaven at whatever point they wanted; the last time the gates had been opened had been for Jesus's ascension with the newly freed human souls. The gates served also as a convenient meeting-place whenever the enemy requested an audience.

Mephistopheles inclined his head, letting the light of heaven play over the ringlets of his hair and accentuate the poised lines of his face. "My compliments to the help. The service here is quite excellent."

Michael's eyebrows raised. "Would you care to fill out a comment card?"

Mephistopheles slid his hands into his pockets, but not before Michael caught a glimpse of his sigil ring. "Actually, the one I wanted to speak to was Raphael."

"I'll be glad to take him a message," said Michael.

"While I'm sure you would do an excellent job," Mephistopheles said, pacing languorously, "I'd prefer to see him in person."

Michael's wings raised a fraction, and his eyes went cold. "And you'll tell him what?"

"Give me the Seraph."

Michael's hand itched for his sword even as he forced himself not to form it. Mephistopheles still kept his right hand hidden, but Michael knew that if he concentrated from where he stood, he could make the ring hot enough to burn. But knowing it couldn't be hotter than the anger of God, he restrained himself.

Mephistopheles paused. "Why can't I speak with him?"

"Why can't you get it into your head that I won't let you?"

Mephistopheles formed his sword (left-handed) and instantly Saraquael with ten Archangels materialized behind Michael, who even then didn't make a sword of his own. He still looked like a backpacker. He could alter his clothing to armor in an instant if necessary.

Mephistopheles didn't acknowledge the newcomers. "Are you afraid I'm going to do something to him?"

"Like annihilation?"

Even Michael was surprised when Mephistopheles lowered his blade, and the ice-chiseled etiquette wavered. "I'm not going to gloat." Michael fought the urge to tighten that ring on his hand. "I wouldn't be so uncharitable as to vaunt the annihilation of a Cherub to his closest Seraph. But he was a member of my order, almost my superior, and I said I'd do him a favor."

Other than the out-and-out lie about being Gabriel's superior, the entire sentence didn't ring either true or false to Michael.

"At the end he wanted Raphael to know he loved him, and that he didn't blame him."

Michael's eyes went obsidian.

Mephistopheles whipped his head around. "You disbelieve me?"

Michael gave in just a bit and made the ring hot. "His last words would have been his love of God, which of course you've forgotten."

"I complied with his request." Mephistopheles gave no indication of feeling the metal searing his hand. "You should endeavor to show more appreciation."

"Thank you," Michael said. "Get out."

Mephistopheles flashed away.

Raguel rubbed his chin. "Do you think Mephistopheles was telling the truth?"

"I doubt Mephistopheles knows if Mephistopheles was telling the truth." Michael's brow furrowed. "Saraquael, choose three Principalities and have them keep tabs on Raphael all the time. This may mean Satan wants Raphael next, and that's unacceptable."

Saraquael nodded. "Should I assign guards to the rest of the Seven?"

"With all due respect," Raguel said, "I don't need that. And I can't imagine Satan being able to lay a hand on Uriel."

"I can't either," Michael said, "but to be frank, I couldn't have imagined having to have this conversation yesterday, so Saraquael, do it. Actually, make them Angels, and make them unobtrusive. Their first responsibility is to get help, not to get into the line of fire."

Saraquael nodded.

Michael folded his arms. "And although I hate to admit it, it's time for something else too."

- + -

Two hours had passed. Mary returned to Uriel's bungalow, carrying a medium sized basket.

Uriel sent Mary a series of images: the room, the room again, the room yet again, along with a sense of time passing. In Mary's human mind, that nonverbal communication parsed as "Still the same."

It wasn't entirely the same. Uriel had replaced the quicksilver droplet of soul in Gabriel's heart, hoping it would migrate to the correct place, and Raphael had fallen asleep, wings overspreading the Cherub, the amber glow pulsing even as both slept.

Mary peered at Gabriel as if looking over the side of a crib, and her heart trembled even as her stomach twisted. You didn't get used to seeing something like this.

Mary kept her voice low. "I brought you something." She set the basket at the edge of the bed, then unpacked a beige cloth, smoothed the cloth into a square, and set out cups, a thermos, muffins, butter and knives, another thermos, bowls, and cookies.

"Perhaps you recall," Uriel said mildly, "that angels don't eat?"

"Joseph and I got tired of praying ceaselessly with words and scriptures, so I prayed with cookies." Mary poured a cup of tea from the first thermos, handed it to a suddenly-solid Uriel, then wrapped two cookies in a napkin and passed those over as well. "Peter has every human he can in prayer right now, and Paul organized folks to visit churches on Earth and get them praying for healing, although clearly we can't specify for whom. But me, I baked cookies."

"It's good to know some things never change," Uriel said.

Mary looked up from pouring herself a cup of tea. "How so?"

"Remember when Elizabeth was giving birth to John? How many loaves of bread did you bake?"

Mary closed the top on the thermos. "It wasn't the bread that was a problem. It was the fish."

Uriel laughed out loud. "I'd totally forgotten the fish!"