He turned the key in the ignition and started up the car. “You don’t have to thank me,” he said, shaking his head, feeling a little sad that he was leaving. The town of Blithe had really started to grow on him. His own little voice—the selfish one again—was telling him that he should turn the car off this instant, accept Katie’s offer, and take up permanent residence in the now peaceful town—to turn his back on the prophecy.
“Never ignore the little voice in the back of your head, Aaron,” she said, leaning into the open window and giving him a quick peck on the cheek. But he knew that it wasn’t to be; that if he had listened, it would be no better than the false peace that he had known in the belly of Leviathan.
“Thank you,” she said as she withdrew herself from the car.
“You’re welcome,” he responded, and she turned from the car with a final wave and continued with her morning run.
He had responsibilities now, he thought as he watched Katie recede down Berkely Street, duties that extended far beyond his own personal satisfaction and happiness. It was a lot to cope with, but what choice did he have, really? He’d tried to deny it, to keep it locked away, but that had almost got him killed. Begrudgingly, he was beginning to accept it was all part of what he had to do—the job he had been chosen for.
“I like her,” Gabriel said as Aaron put the car in drive, beginning the process of turning the car around on the dead-end street. “Even if she is a vet.”
“I like her too,” Aaron said in the midst of completing a three-point turn, his mind already elsewhere. He thought about his brother, and the dangers that were obviously to come—and he thought about his father.
He began to drive up Berkely Street, and on reflex turned on the radio. Paul McCartney and the rest of the Beatles were singing “Yesterday.” It had always been one of his favorite oldies, and listening to the words now, it had new meaning for him. He turned the volume up a bit and felt Camael’s burning gaze upon him.
“I want you to listen to this,” he said, glancing over at the scowling angel as he took a left off Berkely and headed back through the center of town. “Don’t think of it as a song—think of it as poetry.”
“I despise poetry,” the angel growled, looking away from him to gaze out the passenger window at Blithe passing by.
“Bet you thought you hated French fries too,” Aaron said, chuckling.
Would his life ever again be filled with lazy Sundays reading the newspaper, drinking milk, and eating doughnuts? Aaron had no idea what the future held, but he did know it would certainly be interesting; it was in the job description.
What else would one expect as a Messenger of God?
EPILOGUE
It was a dream—but it felt like reality.
The night was cool, although she could feel the heat from the sand, warmed by the day’s relentless sun, beneath her bare feet as she fled across the ocean of desert.
It seemed so real, as if part of a life lived in the past. Long, long in the past.
Her heart beat rapidly in her chest, and she turned back to gaze at the city burning in the distance—somehow she knew that its name was Urkish. The sky above the primitive desert-city had turned black, as smoke from the burning buildings of straw and mud rose to hide the stars.
She could hear a sound, a high-pitched, keening sound, and even at this distance, she had to cover her ears against it. It was like the cries of birds—hundreds of angry birds. and she found she was beginning to fear sleep. She would have given anything for a dreamless night of rest. But it wasn’t to be.
Someone called to her, and she remembered she wasn’t alone. Eight others had fled Urkish with her—eight others had escaped from … from what? she wondered. A girl no older than she was, wrapped in a tattered cloak and hood, motioned frantically for her to follow. There was fear in her eyes, fear in all their eyes. What are they afraid of? What has driven us from the city? She wanted to know—she needed to know.
“Quickly,” said the girl in a language the dreamer had never heard—yet could comprehend. “We must lose ourselves in the desert,” the girl said as she turned back to the others, her ragged cloak blowing in the desert breeze. “It is our only chance.” They started to run, fleeing across the dunes—but from what? the dreamer wondered again.
She turned her attention back toward the city. Was the answer there? The fires burned higher, and any semblance that a civilization had once thrived there was lost—consumed in the rising conflagration.
The others called to her, their voices smaller in the distance, carried on the wind. They pleaded for her to follow, but she did not move, her eyes fixed upon the city in flames.
Sadness enveloped her as she watched the city burn—as if Urkish was somehow important to her. Was it more than just a place she dreamed about? Did it actually have some kind of a special meaning for her?
She stamped her foot in the sand, frustration exploding within her. “I want to wake up,” she shouted to the desert. “I want to wake up now.” She closed her eyes, willing herself to the surface of consciousness, but the world of dream held her in its grasp.
The horrible cries again rang in her ears, and she opened her eyes. She saw them flying up from fires of the city, their wings fanning the billowing black smoke as they rose. There were hundreds of them, and even from this distance she could see that they were clad in an armor of gold.
She knew what they were. Ever since she was a child, they had filled her with wonder and contentment. She had fancied them her guardians, and believed they would never let any harm befall her.
Breathlessly she watched them fly now, dipping and weaving above the burning ruins of the city. She knew she’d been in this dream before, but for the life of her, could not remember why the heavenly beings had come to Urkish.
“They’ve come to kill you,” said a whisper from the desert, and she knew the voice was right.
They were flying beyond the city now, out over the desert waste—searching. Searching for her.
She started to run, but the sand hindered her progress. Her heart hammered with exertion as she attempted to catch up with the others. She remembered now. She remembered how the creatures had dropped from the sky, fire in their hands—and the killing. She remembered the killing. Her thoughts raced with images of violence as she struggled to climb a dune, the sand giving way beneath her frantic attempts.
They were closer now—so very close. The air was filled with the sounds of pounding wings, and the cries of angry birds.
No, not birds at all.
She reached the crest of the dune. She could just about make out the others. She cried out to them, but the sound of her voice was drowned by the beating wings. She turned to look at them—to see how close they were.
And they were there, descending from the sky, descending from Heaven—screeching for her blood.
Angels.
How could she have ever loved creatures so heartless and cruel?