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“Not only did the seed root, but it bore fruit,” Belphegor said, his voice firm with certainty.

Verchiel steeled himself, gripping his weapon all the tighter. “It cannot be,” he whispered incredulously.

Belphegor shrugged again. “Mysterious ways and all that.” He smiled and turned his gaze back to the mural. “Don’t you see, Verchiel, it must be what He wanted—and if the Morningstar can be forgiven, there’s hope for us all.”

The church walls seemed to be closing in upon Verchiel, the revelation of the Nephilim’s sire testing his limits. Did he have the might to hold on to his sacred mission? He felt it begin to slip from his grasp. How could this have happened? The question reverberated in his skull.

“Is it so outrageous to believe that we can be forgiven?” Belphegor asked him, the question like a dagger strike to his chest.

“Lies!” Verchiel shrieked, his wings unfurling as he strode down the remainder of the aisle toward the altar.

He pointed his blade toward the mural and the fire from his weapon streamed forth to scorch the painted image black. And then Belphegor’s hands were suddenly upon his shoulders, and he was hurled backward into the rough benches, reducing them to kindling.

“You must face the truth!” Belphegor shouted, the altar burning behind him. “You are going against His wishes!”

Verchiel rose from the small pile of rubble, the power of his righteous fury building inside him. He remained silent, knowing what he must do.

“But it’s not too late…,” Belphegor continued.

Verchiel’s body began to glow, his clothing burning away to reveal flesh like cold, white marble. The floor beneath him began to smolder and the wood ignited.

“You, too, could be forgiven for your sins.”

The Powers’ commander spread open his wings and the fire of his heavenly being emanated from his body in waves.

“We could all go home, Verchiel,” Belphegor pleaded, as his own flesh began to blister.

Then Belphegor burned.

As would they all.

Malak wielded two daggers, slashing and darting forward with the murderous grace of a venomous serpent. He seemed tireless in his pursuit of Aaron’s demise, and the Nephilim found his defenses beginning to wane.

He didn’t want to remember his little brother as the monster attacking him now, so he kept the memories of the child he loved at the forefront of his thoughts, drawing strength from emotion. With both hands he brandished a large broadsword of pulsing orange flame, swinging it around as opportunity presented itself. The flat of the blade connected with Malak’s wrist, knocking one of the knives from his grasp in a flash of sparks as heavenly fire met magickally fortified armor.

Aaron heard a hiss of pain and anger from beneath the crimson face mask as Malak clutched his wrist to his chest. Although the blade could not penetrate the armor, the fragile flesh beneath would certainly suffer with the powerful force of the blow.

“It doesn’t have to be like this, Stevie,” Aaron said desperately. He just couldn’t bring himself to give up.

But Aaron’s futile attempts only served to enflame Malak’s anger all the more, and the armored warrior came at him yet again. As he ducked and wove beneath the assassin’s blows, Aaron knew a part of him was holding back. He also knew that if he didn’t wise up fast, that part would get him killed. Malak was not Stevie. He had to accept that before he could bring this battle to a close.

Aaron sailed up into the air as Malak swiped at him with a short-bladed sword. He reached down and grabbed the armored warrior beneath the arms, ebony wings pounding the air to hold them aloft. Malak struggled in his clutches as the Nephilim strained to carry him higher and higher still. When the Powers’ assassin violently threw back his head, jabbing one of the horns on his helmet into the tender flesh of Aaron’s stomach, the young man lost his grip, letting Malak plummet to the street below. Aaron watched the scarlet figure fall, fighting the urge to swoop down and save him. Malak hit the ground with a sickening clatter, his limp form tumbling to a stop in the center of the street.

The Nephilim swooped down from above to land beside the motionless body. Feeling the pangs of guilt, wishing he could hate the armored warrior, he reached out with both hands to pull the fearsome metal mask from the assassin’s head. Aaron wanted to see the killer’s face again, to look into his eyes, to find his little brother still alive somewhere within. He pulled off the horned helmet and discarded it, carefully placing a hand behind his neck and lifting his head. A single stream of red trickled from Malak’s left nostril.

Malak’s eyes slowly opened and Aaron tensed. The man’s body shuddered and then coughed. “Aaron?” he said in a voice that sounded as if it came from a hundred miles away.

It was weak, but there was something in it that Aaron recognized. He pulled the young man closer, daring to believe there could be a chance, no matter how small. “I’m here,” he told him, enfolding them both in the great expanse of his wings.

“Aaron…,” Malak said again, his voice strained and full of pain.

“Hold on now, we’ll fix you,” Aaron reassured him, certain now that Stevie was still in there somewhere, fighting for his identity, fighting against the pain and misery that Verchiel had used to distort him. He could see the struggle behind the man’s deep blue eyes and Aaron held him tighter, lending him his strength. “Belphegor and Lorelei—they’ll have the answers. We’ll make it right, you’ll see. Hang on, Stevie,” he urged.

Slowly Stevie reached up to touch his brother’s face, his gauntleted fingers tracing the black sigils.

“We’ll be a family again, me and you … and Gabriel.” Aaron laughed desperately, overcome with emotion. “Can’t forget him.”

He saw it in the man’s eyes before he had a chance to react. Stevie had lost his battle. Malak closed his hand around Aaron’s throat and started to squeeze. The grip was remarkable, cutting off his air supply completely as the metal-clad fingers dug into the tender flesh of his throat.

“Aaron,” Malak said again, only this time it was more like a reptilian hiss, absent of any emotion.

The Nephilim grabbed Malak’s wrist with both hands, struggling to break his grip. But Malak held fast, giggling maniacally. Explosions of color blossomed before his eyes and Aaron knew that it wouldn’t be long before he blacked out. He spread his wings and began to beat the air, stirring up a storm of dirt and rock as he fought to be free, but it did nothing to loosen the hunter’s grip upon his neck. Malak seemed to be enjoying the struggle, as if he too knew it was only a matter of time now.

Aaron’s wings faltered and a trembling weakness spread through his arms. He gazed into the cold, dead eyes of the thing that used to be his brother and opened his mouth to scream. It was nothing more than a croak, but to the Nephilim’s ears, it was a cry of mourning, a cry of rage for what had been done to an innocent little boy.

Malak smiled as Aaron let one of his hands fall away from the monster’s wrist.

But the Nephilim wasn’t giving up yet. From the arsenal inside his head, he selected a knife, a sleek and deadly object with the sharpest of blades. The weapon sparked to life in his free hand and he saw Malak’s eyes drawn to it. The killer’s armor was impervious to weapons of Heaven, but the flesh inside the shell was not. Aaron plunged the flaming dagger into the chink at the bend of Malak’s arm where the armor separated into two pieces.

Malak screeched in pain, sounding more like a wounded animal than anything remotely human, and pulled away his arm, releasing Aaron’s throat from his death grip. Aaron scrambled back across the ground, rubbing at his bruised windpipe, greedily taking in gulps of air.