Then, as if Heaven had decided to answer his prayers, an angel fell from above, its body engulfed in flames. It landed atop Verchiel, knocking him to the ground. Aaron looked up to see Camael hovering above him, his suit tattered and torn, his exposed skin spattered with the blood of the vanquished. “Save the girl!” he ordered, before turning to defend himself against another wave of Powers’ soldiers.
Vilma’s captor had driven her to the floor, a fiery blade beginning to take form dangerously close to the delicate flesh of her throat. There was murder in the angel’s face, and Aaron knew there was a chance that he would not reach her in time. But the image of a weapon took form in his mind—and a spear made from the heavenly fire that lived inside him became a thing of reality. Solid in his hand, he let the weapon fly and watched with great satisfaction as the razor-sharp tip plunged into the neck of the Powers’ angel, knocking him away from the struggling girl and pinning his thrashing body to the bleachers.
Aaron was on the move again. “Vilma!” he shouted. The girl was in shock, stumbling about as she gazed around at the nightmarish visions unfolding before her. He called her name again, and she turned to look in his direction with fear-filled eyes.
He stopped before her and held out his hands. “It’s me,” he said in his most soothing voice. She stared at him, an expression of surprise gradually creeping across her features. He was pretty sure that at the moment he didn’t look like the boy she’d said good-bye to in the hallway of Kenneth Curtis High School a few weeks ago, but now was not the time for explanations, all he cared about was keeping her alive. “It’s Aaron,” he continued, slowly reaching for her.
Vilma blinked, then turned and made a run for the door. Aaron dove for her, his powerful wings allowing him to glide the short distance and take her into his arms. “Please,” he said, holding her tightly. “Listen to me.”
She fought, punching, screaming, and kicking. She turned in his embrace and began to pound his chest with her fists. “No! No! No!”
“Vilma, it’s really me,” Aaron said in her native Portuguese. I’ve come to help you.”
For an instant she stopped fighting, looking into his eyes as if searching for lies in his words.
“Please, Vilma,” he said again. “You have to trust me.”
She sagged in his arms, the fight draining out of her. “I want to wake up,” she said in a voice groggy with shock. “Just let me wake—”
There was an explosion from the center of the gymnasium, and Verchiel emerged from the conflagration, face twisted in madness as smoldering body parts of soldiers once in his service rained down around him.
“Aaron,” Camael cried from above as he pitched another victim of his flaming swordplay at the Powers’ commander. “Take the girl and leave!”
Gabriel charged across the gym. “Yeah, let’s get out of here.”
The yellow fur of the dog’s face was spattered with blood, and Aaron wondered what it had taken to keep the armored Malak down. He gazed upward looking for Camael. The number of Powers’ soldiers had diminished to five and still the warrior that he had learned to call friend fought on. “Camael!” he cried, Vilma slumped in his arms, his dog at his side. He gestured wildly for the angel to join them.
“Leave me!” the former leader of the Powers shouted as he swung his sword in a blazing arc, dispatching two more attackers.
“Nephilim!” Verchiel screamed as he strode across the bodies of his soldiers.
If they were going to leave together, it had to be now. Aaron again gazed up at his mentor. “Camael, please.”
“Get out of here now,” Camael commanded. “Too much depends upon your survival. Go. Now!” Then he spread his wings and hurled himself at Verchiel.
Aaron wanted to stay, but as he looked at the trembling girl in his arms, the realization of Camael’s words slowly sank in. The citizens of Aerie were depending on him, and if he was indeed the Chosen One, he owed it to them to make their prophecy a reality. As much as it pained him, he knew that Camael was right. He had to leave.
“Aaron, we should go,” Gabriel said from his side, his warm body tightly pressed against his leg.
“I think you’re right,” Aaron answered. He took one last look at Verchiel and Camael locked in deadly combat, then spread his ebony wings wide to enfold them all.
“Nephilim!” Verchiel screamed as Aaron pictured Aerie in his mind. “You will not escape me!” And they were gone.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Swords of fire came together with a deafening sound that reminded Camael of the birth cries of Creation. Slivers of heavenly flame leaped from the blades, burning shrapnel that eerily illuminated their twisted faces as he and Verchiel clashed.
Camael gazed sorrowfully at the scarred features of the creature before him, a once beatific being that had served the will of God, but had somewhere lost his way. He too bore scars, but his were deep inside, still-bleeding wounds of sacrifice for his chosen mission—for a path traveled alone. But this was not the time for philosophical musings, and Camael quickly returned his attention to the task at hand, the total annihilation of his foe.
“Surrender, Camael, and I shall see that you are treated fairly,” Verchiel snarled over their locked blades. “It is the least I can do for one I once called friend.”
Camael thrust his opponent away and propelled himself backward with the aid of his golden wings. “Friend, Verchiel?” he asked, landing in a crouch five feet away. “If this is how you treat your friends, I shudder to think of what you do to your enemies.”
Thick black smoke from the burning bodies of Powers’ soldiers billowed about the room, triggering the fire alarms and sprinkler systems.
“Humor?” Verchiel asked above the tolling bell as he took to the air with a powerful flap of his wings. “You have been amongst the monkeys too long,” he observed coldly. “In matters of God and Heaven, there is no place for humor.”
Camael propelled himself toward his adversary. “Aaron has often said that I lack a sense of humor,” he said, pressing his attack. “I do so like to prove him wrong.”
Verchiel parried a thrust from Camael’s sword and carried through with a furious strike of his own, cutting a burning gash through Camael’s shoulder.
“Listen to you,” he said. “Proving yourself to the animals? You disgust me.”
Driven by anger and pain, Camael attacked, a snarl of ferocity upon his lips, the swordplay driving Verchiel back through the rising smoke.
“Do you not remember what it was like?” Verchiel asked, his movements a blur as he blocked Camael’s relentless rain of blows. “Side by side, meting out the word of God. Nothing could oppose us. We were Order incarnate, and Chaos bent to our every whim.”
Camael leaned back as a swipe of Verchiel’s sword narrowly missed his throat. “Until we became what we professed to fight.” He stopped his attack, hoping that Verchiel would hear his words. “Bringers of destruction and fear. Chaos incarnate.”
Verchiel’s eyes widened in disbelief. “Are you so blinded by your insane beliefs that you cannot see what I’m trying to achieve?”
A whip took shape in his hand, and he lashed out with its tail of flame. The burning cord wrapped itself tightly around Camael’s neck and instantly began to sear its way through his flesh. The pain was all-consuming as Camael felt himself pulled toward his enemy with a mighty yank.
“It was that accursed prophecy that brought pandemonium to the world,” Verchiel said as he fought to pull Camael closer. “This belief in the Nephilim’s redemptive powers has created bedlam; I only seek to stem the flow of madness.”