He took her in his arms and the world around her began to spin. And as she fell into unconsciousness, Vilma Santiago wondered if she was being taken to meet with God.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Belphegor walked among his crops and in the primitive language of the bug, kindly asked them to leave his vegetables. Purging his gardens of toxic residue was like placing neon signs in front of all his plants, welcoming the various insects. But he hadn’t forgotten them. There was an area of garden he had grown especially for the primitive life forms, and he invited them to partake of that particular bounty. The insects did as he asked, some flying into the air in a buzzing cloud, while others tumbled to the rich earth, heading for a more appropriate place to dine. The bugs did not care where they ate, as long as they were allowed to feed.
The angel thanked the simple creatures and turned his attention to a pitcher of iced tea that was waiting for him atop a rusted patio table in the center of the yard. He strolled casually through the grass, his bare feet enjoying the sensation of the new, healthy plant life. Removing the poisons from the backyards of Ravenschild brought him great pleasure, although those same toxins were beginning to wear upon his own body. The angel poured himself a glass from the pitcher of brown liquid and gazed out over his own little piece of paradise as he drank. This yard, of all the yards in Aerie, was one of his favorites. He had made it his own and it was good again. If only it was as simple for those who had fallen from God’s grace.
And then came that odd feeling of excitement he’d experienced since first viewing the manifestation of Aaron Corbet’s angelic self. Is it possible? Could he dare to believe that after all this time, after so many false hopes, the prophecy might actually come true?
Belphegor sipped his bitter brew, enjoying the sensation of the cold fluid as it traveled down his throat. He would not allow himself to be tricked; there was too much—too many—relying upon him, to be caught up in a wave of religious fervor. But he had to admit, there was something about this Nephilim, something wild, untamed, that inspired both excitement and fear.
The teaching had been going reasonably well. The boy was eager to learn, but his angelic nature was rough, rebellious, and if they were not careful, a deadly force could be unleashed upon them—upon the world. But that was a worry for another time. The air in a far corner of the yard began to shimmer, a dark patch forming at the center of the distress. There was sound, very much like the inhalation of breath, and the darkness blossomed to reveal its identity. Wings that seemed to be made from swaths of solid night unfurled, the shape of the boy nestled between them. He looked exhausted, yet exhilarated, a cocky smile on his young face.
“That took longer than I expected,” Belphegor said, feigning disinterest as he reached for the pitcher of iced tea and refilled his glass. “Was there a problem?”
Aaron suppressed his angelic nature, the sigils fading, the wings shrinking to nothing upon his back. In his hand he held a rolled newspaper and whacked it against the palm of his other hand as he walked toward the old angel. “No problems,” he said, tossing the paper onto the patio table where it unrolled to reveal the Chinese typesetting. It was The People’s Daily. “I didn’t have any Chinese money to buy one, so I had to wait until somebody threw this away.”
The boy smiled, exuding a newfound confidence. He was learning fast, but there was still much to do—and so many ways in which things could go wrong.
“How was the travel?” Belphegor asked before taking another sip of tea. He had taught the youth a method of angelic travel requiring only the wings on his back and an idea of where he wanted to go.
“It was amazing,” Aaron said. There was another glass on the table and he reached for it. “I did exactly what you said.” He poured a full glass, almost spilling it in his excitement. “I pictured Beijing in my head, from those travel books and magazines, and I told myself that was where I wanted to be.”
Belphegor nodded, secretly impressed. There had been many a Nephilim that couldn’t even begin to grasp the concept, never mind actually do it.
“It was pretty cool,” Aaron continued. “I saw it in my head, wrapped myself in my wings, and when I opened them up again, I was there.” He gulped down his iced tea.
“And did anyone notice your arrival?”
Aaron tapped the remainder of the ice cubes in his glass into his open mouth and began to crunch noisily. “Nope,” he said between crunches. “I didn’t want anybody to see me—so they didn’t.”
Belphegor turned away and strolled back toward his plants and vegetables, leaving Aaron alone by the table. Absently he began to harvest some ripened cucumbers. The boy was advancing far more quickly than any Nephilim he had ever encountered. But the next phase of training was crucial, and the most dangerous. Despite his affinity, Belphegor wasn’t sure if Aaron was ready.
“So what now?” he heard Aaron ask behind him.
Belphegor stopped and turned, cucumbers momentarily forgotten. “We’re done for the day,” he said dismissively.
“But it’s still early,” the Nephilim said, genuine eagerness in his voice. “Isn’t there something more you can show me before—”
“The next phase of development is the investigation of your inner self,” the angel interrupted.
“Okay,” Aaron responded easily. “Let’s do it.”
“Do you think you’re ready for a trip inside here?” Belphegor tapped Aaron’s chest. “It’s going to be a lot harder than a jaunt to Beijing.”
Aaron’s expression became more serious, as if the angel’s cautioning words had stirred something—some shaded information hidden in the back of Aaron’s mind, about to be dragged out into the light.
“If you think you’re ready, prepared to find out who you are … what you are,” Belphegor said cryptically, holding the boy in an unwavering gaze, “then, we’ll begin. But I’m not entirely sure you’ll be happy with what you learn.”
Verchiel gazed upon the unconscious female who had been laid on the floor before him. “Can you sense it as I can?” he asked the prisoner in the hanging cage across the room. “Like a newly emerging hatchling, fighting against the shell of its humanity. It wants so desperately to be free of its confines, to blossom and transform its fragile human vessel into the horror it is destined to be.”
The leader of the Powers shifted his weight uncomfortably in the high-backed wooden chair. Though finally healing, the burns that he had received in his first confrontation with the Nephilim still caused him a great deal of discomfort. “It sickens me,” Verchiel spat, his eyes riveted to the girl at his feet. “I should kill the wretched thing now.”
“But you won’t,” wheezed the prisoner, still weak. “You took the trouble to bring her here, I gather she’s going to play a part in whatever new trick you have up your sleeve. Maybe bait, to lure the Nephilim into a trap?”
Verchiel turned his attention from the girl to the prisoner. “Are you learning to think like me?” he asked with a humorless smile. “Or am I starting to think like you?”
The prisoner raised himself to a sitting position. “I’m not sure that even in my darkest days I could muster such disregard for innocent life.”
“Innocent life?” the leader of the Powers asked as he studied the creature before him. “So simple—so defenseless—one can almost see why the Creator was so taken with them.”
The female moaned softly in the grip of oblivion.
“But looks can be deceiving, can they not?” He nudged the girl with his foot. “There is a monster inside you just waiting to come out, isn’t there, girl?”
The captive gripped the bars of his cage, hands pink with a fresh layer of skin. “A little bit of the pot calling the kettle black, don’t you think, Verchiel?” he asked. “After all you’ve done of late, do you really believe she deserves the title of monster?”