Authors: Nic Widhalm
Definitely scotch. But it did settle his stomach.
“And to answer your question,” the man said, “it’s
Powers
, not ‘power.’ One is something you have, the other is what you
are
.”
Hunter had grown so used to these half answers he didn’t bother to respond.
“Let’s keep it simple for now,” the man said. “I know you’re familiar with the idea: Apkallu—body of a man, soul of something else.”
“An angel,” said Hunter, voice thin with exhaustion.
“Sure, let’s call it that. But not every Apkallu’s created equal. We’ll start simple: Seraphim. First Order” the man held up a hand, ticking off his fingers. “Leaders, top of the food chain—you name it, they can do it. Cherubim,” he ticked off another finger. “Second in command. You’ve met one already.” Hunter looked up, confused. The man laughed, his eyes crinkling in surprise. “What, you thought he was the ringleader?
Bath
? He may act like he runs the show, but he’s just filling in for Gavri’el.” The man shook his head and reached over to refill his glass from a glass decanter sitting atop the mini-fridge.
“Cherubim. Singers. Raising their voice to praise God,” the man snorted. “I’m guessing you already saw Bath’s ‘praises.’ You’ve got to watch yourself around them, they can make you see whatever they want.” He held up a third finger. “Thrones, the keepers of law. Prophets. That’s the first choir.” He paused, giving Hunter a chance to respond.
“Prophets?” Hunter shook his head. The scotch was filling his body with a lazy warmth, his thoughts struggling like a fly in honey. “I guess that would be helpful,” he mumbled.
“Would be, if there were any left.”
“Wait…what—”
“You wanna gossip, or can I finish your lesson?”
“Sorry,” Hunter straightened, resisting the urge to massage his temples. “First choir. Gotcha.”
The man leaned across the limo, his voice dropping even lower. “Is that right, Hunter?” He rumbled. “Do you ‘got me?’”
The fatigue disappeared in a flash. He had dismissed this man as an errand boy, a gopher for Mika’il. How could he have been so stupid? The dark, older man sitting across from him oozed menace. Tensed, he looked like he could spring across the limo and snap Hunter’s neck in an instant. Hunter cleared his voice, “I apologize,” he said.
The man nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving Hunter’s, then sank back into the soft leather seat. “What I’m telling you might save your life one day, son. Stay with me.” Hunter nodded quickly, his trembling fingers sloshing scotch over the side of his glass.
“Second choir, beginning with the Dominations.” The man held up a forth finger. “That’s me. Generals. We call the shots, so the good little soldiers can march in and get the work done.”
“And your…ability?” Hunter asked, voice on the edge of shaking. Whether it was from fear or Adrenaline he didn’t know.
“I can see the outcomes before they happen, run every strategy before it takes place. And I can do it in the same time it takes you to blink.” Hunter’s eyes widened. The man grinned, “That’s not even the best part,” he said. “If I talk, you listen. Even if you don’t want to.” His lips stretched dangerously, then he laughed and Hunter relaxed as the stranger’s fierce façade broke. A strange juxtaposition with the bowl-twisting gaze he had been leveling at Hunter a moment ago.
“Easy pal,” he said. “You look like I just fondled your nuts. Relax, this is just your first lesson. Dominations: if you’re a lower order you can’t disobey me. You’ll try—everyone does at some point—and I’ll let you. All part of the training. Now, listen close, this is important,” The man took a swallow from his glass, then set the drink down next to the decanter. He leaned forward and offered Hunter his hand.
“Hash.”
Hunter reached out, thanking whoever was listening that his hand had stopped trembling, and grasped the giant mitt, trying not to grimace at the stranger’s—no, no longer a stranger,
Hash’s
—bone-crushing grip.
“Hunter.”
Hash gave it a moment, then released him. He sat back once again, eyes lidded.
“No,” he said. “That’s not your name anymore.” Hash paused, considering, opened his mouth, then stopped. His fingers tapped his thigh as he watched Hunter. “But what is it…?” He asked softly, under his breath.
“My name’s Hunter,” he responded, as if the question hadn’t been rhetorical.
Hash shrugged. “I guess that’ll do until we figure out this mess.”
“What—” But Hash held up a fifth finger, interrupting Hunter. “Next are the Virtues,” he continued, as if Hunter had never spoken. “The hippies. Nature lovers. And if you run into one—trust me, you will—dollars to donuts they’ve got some kind of flower shoved up their ass.” Hash scowled. “They’re useful in a tight corner, but they can’t focus worth shit. And that brings us to you, bucko,” He held up his left hand, lifting a single finger. “Powers. Sixth order. The soldiers. You, my friend, are my arsenal.”
Powers.
Sixth order.
Hunter rolled the words around, hoping for a sense of connection. Here it was; his place in the world. It boiled down to just two syllables. He should feel something—a tingle, an echo of memory, a sense of coming home. But all Hunter felt was tired.
Hash, sitting comfortably and drinking his scotch, watched Hunter’s reaction. He seemed to be waiting for Hunter to respond, but after another silent minute where the young man said nothing, he finally nodded and held up both hands, palm up.
“That’s the second choir. Third choir, seventh order, we have the Principalities. Docs. I imagine Bath introduced you to one or two, if I know that son-of-a-bitch at all. You heal quick, like all the second choir, but a Principality will multiply that by a hundred. A good one will increase it by a thousand.”
“Tarshish,” Hunter said slowly, struggling to recall the name.
Hash leaned forward again, sloshing his drink. “They have a few other tricks up their sleeve, so you still gotta be careful around them.” His voice slurred on the last word, so faint that Hunter thought at first he’d imagined it. “Good enough guys, though,” Hash continued. “Good for a drink after a fight.” He took another drink, then held up the next finger.
“Archs,” he said. The word came out “
Awks” “
Eighth order. Couriers. They’re fast little buggers. Your friend, Zadkiel, you saw what she could do?” Hunter nodded. “Well, that’s nothing. Wait till you see them in battle. Bastards will stab you a hundred times before you even see ‘em. You’ll be thankful to have a Prince around if that happens.”
“And the ninth?” Hunter asked, hoping to hurry Hash’s lecture along; his head was splitting.
“Angels,” The older man said, his drink sloshing on the seat.
“I thought we were all—”
“No, no,” Hash interrupted. “That’s the name of their order. They’re Angels, not Cherubim or Powers. Catalysts. Great in battle when you need to communicate quickly. They take what’s up here,” Hash pointed a twisted, gnarled finger that looked like it’d been healed one to many times, at his head. “And put it there,” he moved the finger to Hunter’s forehead. “And that’s it. All nine orders. Don’t worry, the quiz isn’t until next week.” Hash let out a giant explosion of laughter, sloshing another finger of murky liquid down his hand.
Hunter stayed silent until it was clear that Hash had winded down. Then, after five minutes of cold, hard silence, asked, “So now what?”
“Now,” Hash smiled and took another swallow, emptying the glass. “We make you a weapon.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Freezing water slammed into him like a stone. He gasped, trying not to choke as the icy liquid flooded his mouth. Hunter’s eyes snapped open, fixing on a featureless gray wall in front of him. Gasping, struggling to catch his breath, Hunter whipped his head to each side, trying to stand. He almost tipped over before realizing he was tied to the chair.
The room was small and empty. Short of the steel chair Hunter was resting upon, it was free of furnishings and had a clean antiseptic feel. A single door occupied the corner, and standing next to it the frighteningly beautiful Mika’il. Even now, gasping from the cold water, struggling to shake the fog of sleep and the rope burning against his wrists, Hunter couldn’t help but stare at her. She had styled her long blond hair in a bun, exposing a pale, graceful neck, complimented by a thin silver chain and a diamond pendant. A navy blazer hugged her torso, setting off a pair of ice-blue eyes. And her lips were blood-red, glistening against the most flawless skin Hunter had ever seen.
“Awake? Good.” Mika’il leaned down and peered into Hunter’s eyes. “I want to make sure you’re…you. Nod if you’re all there.”
Hunter, still lightheaded from Mika’il’s presence, nodded slowly. “Yeah—” He began to say, but his words were cut short by a slap that nearly removed his head.
“I said
nod
. I’ll talk.” Mika’il straightened, taking a step back. Studying Hunter’s worshipful eyes, she tapped one delicate nail against her teeth. “Sometimes I wish I could lessen this…
effect
. It’s beyond irritating trying to converse with you like this,” she sighed. “I’m told it helps if you focus on my eyes.”
Hunter blinked, spots of color still exploding from Mika’il’s slap, and tried to narrow his gaze to her eyes. Her bright, sapphire, eyes. Slowly Hunter’s head cleared. Softly, carefully, he tried flexing his muscles against the rope.
“What am I doing—” he began, then cut off as Mika’il raised her hand slightly. She smiled, lowering her arm.
“Good, you can follow orders. Hashmal has told me some disturbing things—he says you exhibit
lethargy
when it comes to following commands
. That will not happen with me, understand?
Hunter nodded, still testing his bonds.
“That was quite impressive, what you did to Hashmal. He told me he gave you a direct order to stop and you disobeyed. Is that true?” Mika’il raised one of her sculpted eyebrows, and Hunter felt his mouth go dry.
Her eyes,
he instructed himself.
Focus on her eyes
.
“Is he alright?” Hunter asked, ignoring her question.
Mika’il slowly circled his chair, her finger tracing the ropes binding his wrists. “These seem excessive. There’s certainly no need for them to be so tight; you’re on our side, after all. Aren’t you, Hunter?”
Hunter grunted, remembering not to speak.
Mika’il circled back into view. “You’ve been here a month. Plenty of time to adjust, to begin your training and take your place among us. You think I’m cold, but I know the shock you acolytes go through during your first month. You’ve been living as a human your entire life…a certain amount of adjustment is reasonable. You agree?”
Again, Hunter grunted, unsure of the correct response. Where was this going?
“Hashmal’s told you,” Mika’il continued, circling around Hunter for the second time, “that it’s your duty to protect the choir, to obey your leaders, to strive toward a universe where the
Adonai
are no longer a threat. Yes?”
Hunter said nothing, trying with all his will to look at nothing but Mika’il’s eyes as she came back into view.
“Oh, now you’re silent?” Her lips quirked into a small smile. “I’ll take that as agreement. My question, really, is what you think of it, Hunter? By now most acolytes have bought into the rhetoric. Not because it is logical, not really, but because it is
part
of them.
Elohim
is not just a banner we throw up, a cause we decided to follow—it’s in our blood. Or, since we’re only temporarily human, whatever ethereal fluid substitutes for blood in the beyond. It is the fabric of our existence, what holds us together. We are more than just family, more than just a set of ideals. We are the same, Hunter. And at our most basic level we all know that. We all understand.
“But you’re different. Aren’t you?” Her grin faded. Hunter continued to focus on her eyes, hoping the question was rhetorical. Mika’il stared back, and Hunter felt the tension in the small room build.
“I guess,” he finally said, voice cracking slightly. He was looking through Mika’il now, no longer focusing on her sapphire orbs. Beyond her stood Hunter’s father, his eyes wide in the same expression he’d worn the first time he realized just how
not
normal his son was.
Mika’il nodded slowly, expectantly. She backed up to the wall, only a few feet away from Hunter’s chair, and sank half-way until she was resting on the back of her heels. Her pose was excruciatingly erotic, her knees parted in a gesture both suggestive and innocent. Hot saliva flooded Hunter’s mouth.
“Different. I know what that’s like. Every
Elohim
, every Apkallu, has felt at some point the way you do. Outcasts, freaks, untrusted…alone. Those aren’t exclusive to you, Hunter. Have you wondered at all over the last month why we gather here, all under one roof? I’m not a fool, I’m aware you’ve seen the
Adonai’s
home.”
“I noted the resemblance,” Hunter said. Though in reality the only resemblance between the sprawling
Adonai
mansion and his new home among the
Elohim
was the same staggering size. The
Adonai
mansion was impressive, no question, but it was nothing like the
Elohim’s
home. Where the mansion seemed designed for comfort and artistry, the home of the
Elohim
was primarily martial. Hunter could still remember his first sight of the fortress, arriving sick and exhausted after his experience at the
agioi
. The limo had traveled the back mountain roads for hours, turning from asphalt to dirt, before finally arriving at the castle
.