The Fallen 4 (25 page)

Tarshish had not, for the wails of the Metatron echoed inside his mind as he had heard them that fateful day when he and Mallus had carried out the Architects’ chore.

“I heard nothing but an echo of the past, Mallus,” the old being said, staring at his puzzle.

“I said that I believe there might be a way to undo what we have done,” the fallen angel repeated.

Tarshish studied his former partner in crime, looking for signs of madness. It would not be the first time that one of God’s messengers, fallen or not, had succumbed to the crippling affliction.

“Why do you say such things?” the last of the Malakim finally asked. “Why do you torture me with redemption that can never be?”

“Listen carefully, Tarshish,” Mallus said, reaching across the card table to grasp the Malakim’s hand. “There is truth—just a glimmer, I know—in what I am saying to you.”

Tarshish pulled his withered hand from the fallen angel’s.
“Impossible,” he said with finality. “There is no turning back from what we did. The awful act was done, and we have been left to bear witness to the repercussions.”

“I agree,” Mallus said with a nod. “But what if there is a way to fix things?”

“How is it possible to fix what we did?”

“I didn’t think it was possible either,” Mallus explained. “But that was before I met them… before I met
him
.”

“Who?” Tarshish asked, impatience in his tone. “Who did you meet that could make you believe in the impossible?”

As if on cue, there was a sudden commotion from somewhere outside the activity room, the sounds of battle escalating as the stink of burning human flesh permeated the air. Mallus was about to investigate, when a section of wall exploded inward and ancient bodies crackling with arcane energies and burning with divine fire tumbled into the room, collapsing into dust as they struck the floor.

And through the broken hole in the wall, a lone figure appeared. He had wings of black, flesh adorned with the names of warriors who had fallen in the war with Heaven, and in his hand he held a sword of Heaven’s fire.

Tarshish had never seen such a sight. He turned to Mallus.

“Speak of the proverbial Devil, and he appears,” Mallus said, and shrugged. “Or should I say, ‘Speak of the Devil’s son.’”

*   *   *

“I found him, Dusty,” Lorelei said, heading down the corridor as fast as her cane would allow her. Milton sank his claws into her shoulder, holding on for dear life.

“But where?” Dusty asked as he hurried along beside her.

“I told you, I don’t know, which is why we have to get to the library.”

The library had been left to her by one of the original fallen angels who had believed in the prophecy of the Nephilim, believed in Aaron and his destiny. The library existed in its own space, its own universe, and its contents were practically endless. Lorelei knew that if any book existed that could tell her how to find Lucifer, it would be in the library.

She pushed open the door with great ferocity, and lurched inside, her brain afire as she skirted the jagged edges of the enormous hole in the floor where Verchiel had come crashing back into their lives. She made her way to the special alcove reserved for Archon magick. She was sure she’d find the answers with the ancient angel sorcerers.

If only the price weren’t so damned high.

“I’m sure you’ve already been through these books and scrolls,” Dusty said, trying to join her but stopping near the hole, afraid to proceed.

Noticing his distress, Lorelei gently moved Milton from her shoulder to the table in the center of the alcove and went to guide Dusty.

“Maybe I missed something,” she said, sitting him at the table and scanning the rows of old leather-bound texts.

“Do you even know what you’re looking for?” Dusty asked.

She pulled a large book down from a shelf, the weight of it sending her cane clattering to the floor and nearly causing her to lose her balance. She glared at him as she turned and stumbled to the table.

“I know exactly what I’m looking for,” she said. “I’m looking for my friend who is in some sort of danger.”

She let the heavy volume fall with a thud, which sent Milton scurrying to the other end of the table with an indignant squeak. Using the corner of the table for support, Lorelei bent to pick up her cane.

“Let me try to guide you again,” Dusty offered, his voice soft.

“You can’t,” she answered briskly, not even wanting to look at him, lest she be enticed by his offer.

Tapping into the power of the Instrument had devastating side effects. Dusty was still relatively raw when it came to these kinds of powerful magicks, and she didn’t want to risk permanently hurting him. What he had done for Aaron and the others by locating the Fear Engines had been more than enough.

And what she had asked of him after that had totally pushed the boundaries of their friendship, as well as his well-being.

“I’m willing to try again,” he said.

She could hear the trepidation in his voice, but also his seriousness. He was willing to do this for her—for them.

Milton crawled onto Dusty’s hand, his tiny tongue flicking out to lick the salt from his skin.

“I really think the visions are getting easier to control,” Dusty continued, lifting the mouse so the two of them were nose to nose. “I think the Instrument is getting used to me.”

Lorelei didn’t respond. Instead she continued to leaf through the ancient text before her. The smell of old, musty pages wafted up from the book. She’d always loved that smell, and remembered how Lucifer Morningstar did too.

She missed Lucifer terribly, and wanted him back. She needed him.
They
needed him.

Lorelei looked up to stare at Dusty. He was pale, his skin almost waxy. In spite of herself she wondered if she could lend him some of her strength if they again attempted to reconnect with Lucifer.

“We can’t,” she said quickly, trying to push away the thoughts. “I’m sure we can find another way.”

“It isn’t like we’ve got a ton of time,” Dusty said. “You’ve seen how it is out there, what we’re up against. If Lucifer is as powerful as you say he is, we really need him right now.”

Every word he spoke was true. Lucifer was one of the strongest of all the angels, and not having him to help the Nephilim during these sinister times was an extreme detriment.

“I’m just afraid of what this is going to do to you,” Lorelei finally admitted.

Dusty chuckled. “Don’t worry about me,” he said. “These
visions are going to kill me eventually anyway. I might as well get the most out of them while I can.”

She slowly closed the old tome. She hated herself for what she and Dusty were about to do, but she also knew how much they needed Lucifer back.

“We’re going to have to go deep,” Lorelei warned Dusty. “Even deeper than last time if we’re going to make some sort of contact.”

Dusty grew paler as she talked, and she was about to dismiss the whole thing, when he spoke up.

“Let’s just do it,” he said, setting Milton back on the table. “We can’t let Aaron and the gang have all the fun.”

“No, we can’t,” she agreed, Dusty’s willingness making her throw all caution to the wind.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

T
he wall of sand suddenly came alive and pulled Melissa inside.

Her curiosity had been piqued by the mural on the chamber’s wall, and her guard had been down.

Now Melissa was being drawn deeper and deeper beneath the shifting sand. It took everything she had to keep the desert from forcing itself into her mouth and nose, from crawling inside her and claiming her as it had the others from the archeological dig. As she fought to free herself of the sand’s hold, Melissa saw the fates of those who had lost the struggle floating past her in this sea of sand.

Am I strong enough?
Melissa asked herself. A memory suddenly flashed in her mind. She saw herself not too long after she had first arrived at Saint Athanasius. She hadn’t been adjusting well to her angelic powers and had told Aaron that
she didn’t think she was going to make it through the transition. She’d told him that he had wasted his time finding her and bringing her there.

Melissa remembered the concern on his face as Aaron had asked what made her believe such a thing. Melissa had told him of watching her mother murdered by the Powers, and how the only thing she’d been able to do was run. She hadn’t even lifted a finger to help her mother; she had been too afraid.

“I’m not strong enough,” she had told Aaron then.

Writhing in the hold of the living sands, the corpses of those who had given in to its course touch floating past her, she recalled the intensity of that fear.

The fear had been stronger than she was.

Or so she had believed.

Aaron had looked at her, with his dark and piercing eyes, and had said simply, “I don’t believe you.”

She had argued, telling him how weak and cowardly she was. He had listened and nodded.

And when she had finished her rant, he had looked at her and said with all seriousness, “Melissa wasn’t strong enough.”

She had been startled by his statement, not really expecting him to agree with her. But then he had said the most startling thing.

“Melissa wasn’t strong enough, but
you
are not Melissa anymore.”

She had looked at him as if he were crazy, but her gaze had
begged him for some sort of additional explanation.

“The old Melissa died with her mother, so the new Melissa could live.”

Melissa had wanted to tell Aaron so many things in that moment, like that he was mistaken, that she was still the same awful person who had let her own mother be taken by vengeful angels.

But before she’d been able to get the words out, Aaron had reached out to her with a hand that had started to glow. For a second she’d thought he might burn her.

And maybe in a way he had.

Aaron had touched her with his angelic power, and the thing inside her—the Nephilim—had come fully awake. She remembered crying out, and a feeling like she was on fire from the inside.

It was her fear that had burned away.

Still beneath the sand, her oxygen waned. Melissa tapped into the power at her core, calling it to the surface.

She felt her wings emerge and her body begin to glow with divine fire.

Once again it was the fear that died.

Because she was now, as she’d been then, strong enough.

*   *   *

The prophet had returned to gloat.

As the cobra of sand struck, sending Verchiel to the ground and into darkness, the fallen angel heard the ancient one’s voice.

“It is happening as I saw.”

Disoriented, Verchiel spun, awash in a sea of shadow. He called forth a blade of flame, illuminating the space so he might find and dispose of his enemy. But the sword barely touched the inky gloom, showing him only the back of an old man as he worked upon his mural.

“What is this?” Verchiel demanded. “Where am I?”

The prophet touched up some details in his portentous art, before he turned to address the angel.

“A frozen moment,” the prophet said. “When Heaven showed me a glimpse of what was yet to come.” He went back to his painting, recording the images that were inside his head.

“I killed you,” Verchiel growled, stepping closer. “I brought the fires of Heaven down upon your head, and destroyed the city that tried to protect you.”

“Yes,” the prophet agreed. “You did, but not yet.”

“Not… yet?” Verchiel repeated, still confused.

“A frozen moment,” the prophet said. “A frozen moment in time.”

“A frozen moment in
your
time,” Verchiel said as he finally began to understand.

The prophet smiled and nodded as he continued to paint. “You’ve got it,” he said.

“But I wasn’t here for this,” Verchiel started. “How… ?”

“Because I’ve brought you,” the old man said. “To show you.” He reached out, grabbed hold of Verchiel’s wrist, and
dragged him and his burning blade toward the wall to illuminate his artwork.

In the light of his sword, Verchiel squinted. “What are you showing me?” He leaned closer.

“That you have a part still to play,” the prophet explained, “but it has yet to be determined.”

“I see something,” Verchiel said, trying to decipher the images upon the wall.

“A choice,” the prophet spoke. “You have a choice to make.”

Verchiel tried desperately to see—to understand—his place in the picture. But the prophet’s grip held the light steady so that Verchiel couldn’t illuminate his part of the story.

“I cannot see it,” Verchiel said. “Let me bring the fire closer so that I…”

The flame of his sword began to die.

“A choice not yet made,” the prophet said as the light dwindled. “But one that will soon be expressed.”

Verchiel’s sword disappeared with a hiss. He tried to call forth another, but the darkness bore down upon him, attempting to crush him.

The darkness had become sand, which surged around him, trying to scour the flesh from his form and crush the life from his body under its oppressive weight. Verchiel fought back, but it was as if he were an insect frozen in amber.

Blocking out the pain, the angel closed his eyes and called upon the fire that seethed at the core of his being. But before he
could bring it forward, there was a terrific flash. The sand that held him in its stony grip was suddenly pulverized, and Verchiel’s body was tossed backward on a shock wave of incredible force.

Verchiel was momentarily dazed, then lifted his head to see that he was still within the excavated chamber, but its dirt and sand ceiling had now been blown away to reveal the twinkling nighttime sky.

“How?” Verchiel rose to his feet as his wings sprang forth.

And then he witnessed the most surprising of sights, for he would have figured her for dead.

The Nephilim Melissa stood across the way in a crater of her own. The sand beneath her feet had turned to an opaque glass, which still steamed in the cool desert air. Here was the force that had set him free. She had her back to Verchiel, facing something that rose up from the sand, unearthed by that release of her preternatural fury.