Alan couldn’t believe what he had done. It was
working. He was calling on his abilities as a Nephilim and they were responding
with more power than he could have thought possible. There was no time for
celebration as Deborah used the lapse in Alan’s guard to her advantage. Coming
up behind him at lightening speed, she unleashed a fury of blows aimed at
Alan’s torso and face.
Alan did his best to block the incoming strikes
but she was too fast. For every fist he managed to dodge, another met his ribs,
sternum and cheekbones. Somewhere in the nearby distance, Alan could hear
Danielle’s screams. Blow after blow that would have broken any normal man in
half met their mark. In seconds, Alan was reduced to a coughing pile of open
wounds with bruises covering the better part of his body. He was learning by
trial and error that even his Nephilim power of invulnerability had its limits.
One incredibly strong strike to his kidneys sent him reeling back and to his
knees.
Through sweat and blood, Alan
looked up into the face of his attacker. Deborah was heaving with exertion. The
knuckles on both of her fists were bruised and bloodied. The pile of ruble that
marked Samson’s resting ground shifted. He rose from his tomb of broken stone like
a zombie from the grave. Samson’s long dark hair hung in dirty clumps around
his face giving him the appearance of an ancient barbarian
come-back-from-the-dead.
Alan pushed aside the pain his body screamed at
him to acknowledge and rose to his feet. Lifting his eyes, he stared defiantly
at Sera. Motion above the leader of the Death Angels caught his eyes making him
blink to focus on what he saw but couldn’t comprehend. Eight more figures including
Jericho joined the group. Eight impossibly intimidating and fierce men and
woman perched comfortably on the museum roof. Large black wings either folded
against their backs or spread wide ready to take flight at a moment’s notice. Most
stood with arms crossed, some with a look of interest and curiosity as they
watched.
Alan lost himself in the moment as
he stared at the beautiful creatures of Heaven. Thick feathers on their
powerful wings quivered in the soft breeze.
Of course, they're black. They’re
Death Angels. Did you really expect them to have white wings?
“We need your help,” Alan said
finding his voice amidst his moment of wonder. “If you won’t do it because it’s
not benefiting you than do it for those who lost their lives in the first war. Do
it for your brothers and sisters, so their sacrifice won’t be in vain.”
“What’s he talking about, Seraphim?” Jericho asked
from the museum roof.
“Nothing,” she said. “Samson,
Deborah, finish him. He’s a Nephilim for bleeding sake.“
Samson and Deborah advanced across the courtyard
again. This time massive wings more befitting a creature of mythical status
unfurled from their backs and beat against the still air. Both Angels’ feet
lifted from the ground as they prepared to attack. Without a word, they charged
Alan at once.
“Forcing everyone to work through the night. We
are very near our goal. In a few hours we should see the remaining pieces of
the statue reshaped into armor and weapons as instructed.”
Ardat nodded to Dominic who held a
broad sword at arm's length for her inspection. The interior of the cave was
warm. Flames from the hundreds of forges leaped at the darkness and cast
shadows across every wall. The fire’s light licked and flirted against the
steel Dominic offered.
Ardat let her hand gently touch the sword’s hilt.
The craftsmanship was rough and mediocre at best but what could she expect with
a human Nephilim in charge of the undertaking? The time constraint also added
to the lack of quality. Still the weapons would serve their purpose. As long as
they were stout and sharp enough to kill their enemies, that is all that was required.
“These will do.”
“They are nothing near the weapons
we used during the first war,” an elderly female voice said from the shadows.
Dominic jumped from his kneeling position sword in
hand. Ardat had sensed Triana’s presence as Dominic approached with the sword. How
long she had been there altogether, Ardat wasn’t sure. When the battle was over
there would be time to look into Triana’s peculiar behavior. However, with war
looming Ardat had enough to deal with. The last few minutes Dominic had been
talking, Ardat was waiting for Triana to make her appearance. “No, Triana, they
are not. Nevertheless, they will do. We will have an eternity after we win this
war to recast weapons. As well as time to question members of our kind and
ensure loyalties lie where they should.”
The small woman emerged from the
shadows like ink oozing from a broken pen. If she picked up on Ardat’s cryptic
message she showed no sign. “As always, Ardat, you are correct. I do, however
have a question that is not so easily answered. May we speak in private?”
Ardat nodded to Dominic who, with a bow, took his
slipper-clad feet into the recesses of their hidden cave. “Triana, as always I
am at your disposal. I am very glad you decided to join our first meeting and
have rallied to our banner. Please, what is it that bothers you?”
Triana stepped closer to Ardat
allowing the light to reveal her sharply pointed teeth. Black eyes looked into
Ardat’s with an expression of worry. “I fear we will be found despite our
remote location. Perhaps saving the weapons to strike another time would be
more advantageous to our cause. Others of the Fallen have expressed…concern.”
“Others,” Ardat played with the word like a rogue
bone in her mouth.
The hesitation in Triana’s answer was enough to
tell Ardat that the old woman was still playing at something. “Yes, others like
Belmore.”
“I see. Truth be told, I cannot wait to kill the
man once and for all. Now that we have weapons capable of ending immortal life,
I may pay him a visit before this war is over.”
Triana nodded too eagerly, “You
won’t receive complaints from me, dear. I agree with your decision. You have
led us this far without causing us to doubt you. Still clarifying what you
intend next may put some of the others at ease.”
Ardat weighed her words; still far from trusting
the woman she answered, “You are right to question. This location will not
remain a secret for long. If our enemies have not already discovered our
whereabouts they will soon enough.”
Triana tilted her head to the side straining
to see through the fog of Ardat’s words. Realization struck the small woman
like a hammer to the skull. “You want them to find us, don’t you?”
Ardat felt her lips twitch at the corners. “Yes, I
do. When they get here, they will be tired from the trip and unfamiliar with
the terrain. We’ll also be able to maneuver our troops accordingly, bringing
the Angels and Nephilim into a fight they cannot win.”
Triana also allowed her lips to turn up in a
twisted grin. “Oh, Ardat, that is just marvelous. I knew better than to
question you, still the others will rest easier when I tell them the details of
your plan.”
Ardat nodded and turned to leave. There were still
a number of tasks that called for her attention. Triana’s voice pulled her
back. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Ardat, I can imagine how busy you are but if you would
indulge a demon just a single question further.”
Ardat clenched her teeth. She was
not used others questioning her. Thus far, she had done her best to keep her
temper under control reminding herself that she needed the other Fallen to
follow her into battle. After the Angels were defeated, she could maneuver the
executions of those whose company she detested, like Belmore and maybe even
Triana. That time was coming soon; however, it was not here yet. “My, my so
inquisitive but please, Triana, do ask,” Ardat said with feigned courtesy.
“Well, this question is only for me;
but why is the remainder of the celestial metal being melted into large armor
and weapons? They are ten times the size of any fallen or Nephilim we have.”
“Well, dear Triana, they are for our Nephilim giants
of course.”
He would get back up no matter what. At least that
is what he told himself as Samson and Deborah rained down blows. The two were
truly seasoned warriors. Their skill surpassed even that of Angelica’s. Alan
did his best to parry and counter each strike. With two assailants striking,
the job was nearly impossible.
He did manage to land a right cross
that connected with Samson’s left eye that in seconds began swelling shut. He
also found a pause in the fight where he kidney punched Deborah so hard she
dropped from her hovering position just above the ground and fell to her knees.
These victories were short lived. The Death Angels pressed the fight and for
every strike Alan managed to land, two or three from his enemies collided
against his body.
Blood streamed into his eyes from a cut across his
brow. His lip was split, his ribs felt bruised maybe even broken, and his left
leg was only just able to support his weight.
Alan fell multiple times during the fight. Every time
,
he regained his feet and doggedly pressed on.
You’ve been beaten down worse
than this. This is nothing. You’ve spent a lifetime on your knees. Get up,
Alan. Get up.
Time after time Samson and Deborah
would think they finished Alan with either a punch or kick and a pause would follow.
Every time Alan found himself on the dirt floor of the courtyard, he would somehow
find the strength to rise.
“Just stay down,” Deborah said as she delivered a
brutal strike to Alan’s right temple.
Alan’s will held firm but his knees
did not agree. With a thud, he fell to the courtyard’s mutilated grass floor. His
lungs ached; sweat and blood covered the mass of bruises that was once his body.
His vision was blurring, the fingers of unconsciousness fought to control his
mind and send him reeling into the darkness of oblivion. Still the physical
pain he felt paled to the emotional rollercoaster of depression and anger he
had endured throughout his entire life.
With a grunt, Alan stood once again wobbling
unsteady on his feet. “I won’t stay down. Not until you agree to help us.”
Alan looked across the courtyard
past Samson’s and Deborah’s shocked expressions and to Sera. Danielle still
stood in Alexander’s grasp. Silent tears streamed down her face as she looked
on helpless and hating every moment of it. Alexander’s own expression was
steady and grim. Sera on the other hand fumed with resolve. “Samson, Deborah,
finish him.”
Samson looked Alan up and down as he nursed his own
left jaw. The look he gave Alan was one a wolf would maintain on a injured lamb.
Deborah’s face was much the same: her fists bloodied and bruised, dark wings
folded neatly against her back. “I don’t know what kind of Nephilim you are,”
Samson said, “but no one has ever endured that kind of beating and lived. Much
less stood and defied us again. There can be no victory for you here. Whatever
you hope to accomplish it is lost.”
Alan spat out a pool of blood that had
slowly formed in his mouth. Strength, speed, durability: they were all present
and accounted for. Now if only Alan could will his own wings to join the fight.
He knew he was capable of harnessing his powers. If he could master the others
then he could also call on his wings. Michael had told him before that no Nephilim
was capable of flight; Danielle confirmed this idea with awe when his wings first
emerged. Maybe they could help him now. They had to help him now; Alan was quickly
running out of options. In a moment of desperation, Alan rolled the dice, “If I
defeat you, will you come?”
Samson furrowed his brow and
exchanged a confused look with Deborah. “You can barely stand, kid. I’d say you
have a one in a million shot, but no I wouldn’t help you even if you—“
“I wasn’t talking to you,” Alan said taking in
deep breaths, trying to ignore the pain that coursed through his body while
struggling to straighten his stance. He looked past both Samson and Deborah and
locked eyes with Sera. “I was talking to you.”
Michael’s white wings beat against the dry humid
air. The vast Sahara desert spread out below him in every direction. Even with
his bird’s-eye view, the rust-colored sand was all he could see.
Clever girl
,
Michael thought to himself about the woman he still loved.
Clever place to
lure us into a fight, hundreds of miles of uninhabited land. No one will
witness the battle that will determine the rest of history.
Sand dunes emerged from the desert
floor at odd intervals providing perfect cover for surprise attacks. The
terrain was built for hidden foxholes and trenches capable of hiding numerous
enemies.
This is where it is all going to end
,
Michael thought.
This is where history hits a fork in the road. Either we
will live to tell our story, or they will.
Michael glanced behind him. An army
of Angels with wings beating against the dry air followed behind him. The sun
was flirting with the tops of sand dunes marking the close of another day. The
night would be cold but Michael refused to let even more time pass, allowing
Ardat precious hours to create weaponry and prepare for battle.
Flight, especially during the day had to be a
calculated risk. However, their need to confront the enemy as soon as possible
outweighed the need for secrecy. If they did not succeed, there would be no
secrets left to keep. Nephilim ground troops had confirmed that the area was
clear of any inhabitants. No curious eyes would see the group of angelic beings
as they speed towards their destiny. Just in case, Michael had ordered the army
to fly at a distance from the ground, which would ensure that if anyone did see
them, they would be much too small to identify.
As war plans ran and reran
themselves across Michael's thoughts, Esther and Caleb joined him at the front
of the caravan: Esther on his right, Caleb on his left. “The Nephilim units are
following as fast as they can on the ground, still they will be hours behind by
the time we arrive,” Caleb said past the familiar sound of gushing wind.