The power was intoxicating, and Aaron felt himself caught up in the enormity of its strength. It wanted nothing more than to explode out into the world, to vanquish the enemy before it—and then to move on to the next. It was a power of battle that had become part of him, and it reveled in the art of war.
The transformation nearly complete, Aaron gazed with new eyes upon the weapon still clutched within his hand. “This isn’t mine,” he said, his voice like the purr of a jungle predator. He tossed the blade of light to its originator, the Archangel Gabriel—who caught the sword with ease, taking strength from contact with the radiant weapon.
A sword of Aaron’s own design came to life in his hand, and he gazed at the weapon with a growing sense of anticipation. “This belongs to me,” he said, admiring the blade’s potential as it sparked and licked hungrily at the air.
“Yes,” Gabriel said with a nod. “I believe it does.”
The power sang within him, and Aaron found it hard to remember what exactly he had been so afraid of—but only for the briefest of instants, for the monster Leviathan attacked.
“I’ve found you, Nephilim,” it growled, its ruptured eye still dripping thick streams of yellow fluid, the other wide and bulging. “And what I see, can be made mine.”
Before he could act, Aaron felt his mind viciously assaulted, and his perceptions of the here and now suddenly, dramatically altered. He was no longer standing in an underwater cave, sword of fire in hand, a monster of legend looming above him; Aaron now stood in the middle of the playroom of his loving home in Lynn, Massachusetts, his foster parents familiarly nestled into their appropriate pieces of furniture. It was Friday night—movie night at the Stanley household.
“Are you going to sit down and watch the flick, or are you going out?” Tom Stanley asked from his recliner, the plastic box for the video rental in his lap.
Aaron smiled sadly at his foster dad, a mixture of happiness and sorrow washing over him—and he didn’t quite remember why he would feel that way.
A new feeling forced its way to the surface of his soul, violently attempting to tear the heartfelt emotions away. Aaron actually twitched, eyes blinking severely, the level of feelings washing over him so intense. What’s going on? he wondered, too old to blame it all on puberty.
“It’s the new Schwarzenegger,” his dad said, holding up the plastic case. “The one where his family is killed by terrorists and he gets revenge.” There was an excited grin upon his face.
“He always liked those kinds of movies…,” said a voice inside his head that sounded more like an animal’s growl than his own. And again he shuddered.
“Are you all right, hon?” the only mother he had ever known asked from the corner of the couch. She put down her latest in a long succession of romance novels. “You look a little out of it,” she said with genuine concern. “Why don’t you sit down, watch the movie, and I’ll make you up some soup.”
The growling voice inside his head was back. “That was her first line of defense against all kinds of illness,” it said, letting the meaning of its statement begin to permeate. “It didn’t help her a bit against Verchiel.”
An anger fueled by sorrow ignited in his chest, and the palm of his right hand began to grow unusually hot, tingling as if asleep.
Lori Stanley got up. “Go on,” she said, touching his shoulders. “Sit with Stevie and Gabriel and I’ll make you something to eat.” She headed for the kitchen.
For the first time, Aaron noticed his foster brother sitting on the carpet surrounded by blocks of all sizes and shapes. The dog was sleeping soundly beside him, his breathing rhythmic and peaceful. Aaron scratched at the tingling sensation in the palm of his hand and wondered where he had heard the name Verchiel before.
“I really think this is going to be a good one,” his dad said excitedly from his recliner, staring at the picture on the front of the video box. Distracted, Aaron gazed down to see that the little boy was spelling something out in the letter blocks upon the carpet. But that was impossible; he knew Stevie could barely talk, never mind spell.
Aaron knelt down beside the child, his body torn by a maelstrom of emotions that were attempting to take possession of him. He hadn’t a clue as to what was wrong with him—until he read what Stevie had spelled out upon the floor.
Your mother and father are dead, it said in multicolored plastic letters, which he unnecessarily remembered had magnets on the back of them so that they could be stuck to the refrigerator.
Aaron sprang to his feet, and a fire sparked in the center of his hand as his mother returned to the room with a steaming bowl of soup. Aaron was holding a sword of fire now, and he gazed in awe upon it as if he had never seen its like before.
“Sit down, Aaron,” his dad said as he motioned with his hand for him to get out of the way of the television. “This is going to be the best movie night ever.” Again, Tom motioned for him to sit, to forget all the conflicting emotions running rampant through him—to forget that he was now holding a flaming sword.
“Here’s your soup,” Lori said, holding the bowl out to him. “It’s chicken with stars,” she said.
This was what he wanted, more than anything, but something inside him—something very angry and quite powerful—told him that it wasn’t to be, that it was all a lie.
He again looked down at the words spelled out in plastic letters.
Your mother and father are dead. The words were like the powerful blows of a sledgehammer, breaking away the false façade of a world that no longer existed, and Aaron began to scream.
He lashed out with his sword of fire, giving in to the rage that tried so hard to show him the deceit of it all. Aaron felt nothing as the weapon of fire passed through the form of his mother. She wailed like the mournful screech of breaks on a rain-soaked highway. His father cried out as well, still eagerly holding on to the video box as his body slumped to one side, consumed by fire.
“It’s all a lie,” Aaron bellowed, letting the living flame from his weapon extend into the playroom, burning away the untruth—and the screams of the unreal grew all the louder.
Aaron became conscious in the grip of Leviathan, the monster recoiling from the ferocity and violence of his thoughts. This was the personal heaven of his angelic nature unfolding within his skull that the sea beast now bore witness to. A heaven consisting of untruths burned away to reveal reality, the enemy vanquished—consumed in the fires of battle. It was a version of Paradise that Aaron doubted the great beast had ever created in the minds of its prey—a perfect bliss that involved its very own demise.
And it could not stand the thought of it.
The monster howled its displeasure and hurled him away. He could not react fast enough, his wings crimped from being entwined in the multiple tentacles of the beast, and bounced off the cave wall, falling to the rocky floor.
“What’s the matter?” Aaron asked as he struggled to his feet, and slid across the loose rock. He flexed his ebony wings, their prodigious span fanning the stale air of the undersea cave. “See something you didn’t like?”
He sensed that the power within him had a streak of cruelty; exploiting the weaknesses of his enemy, prying away at the chinks in its armor, and that it would stop at nothing to achieve its victory. Aaron wondered exactly how far it would go—and, if it became necessary, was he strong enough to stop it? He would just have to hope that he was.
Aaron spread his wings and sprang into the air, sword at the ready. A savage war cry escaped his mouth that both frightened and excited him with its ferocity. He flew at the swaying monster, ready to bury the flaming weapon into the creature’s flesh and end the nightmare’s threat to the town of Blithe—as well as to the world.