A sound from below distracted him. He hovered, riding the currents of wind, and listened carefully. It had come from Aaron’s house, and the horrible thought that Verchiel might have slain the Nephilim entered his mind.
Again came the sound and he recognized it for what it was. It was a cry of battle—a war cry.
From the hole in the structure’s roof something emerged. It moved with incredible speed, on wings as black as a moonless sky. It wielded a weapon of fire and its exposed flesh was covered in markings that Camael recognized as angelic sigils, markings worn only by the greatest of Heaven’s warriors.
Camael suddenly understood what he was seeing—who he was seeing. It was the bearer of hope for the future made flesh. Aaron Corbet had completed the transformation. He stared in awe as Aaron soared closer. Never had Camael seen one like this—so full of power—and he couldn’t help but wonder who of the heavenly host could have sired one so magnificent.
The angels of the Powers were drawn to this new creature like sharks to blood-filled water. They circled their prey, briefly assessing its weaknesses, then attacked. And Camael watched in wonder as Aaron defended himself.
The Nephilim was awesome to behold, his bony wings spread wide as he darted about the sky, laying waste his attackers with uninhibited zeal.
“That is what you believe will save us all?” came a voice from behind, startling him.
Camael whirled, sword at the ready. This was the second time in a day that he had let Verchiel sneak up on him. The Powers’ leader was close. Dangerously so.
“I will see it dead and burning.” Verchiel scowled as he thrust a dagger of fire into Camael.
And he could do nothing but accept the blade, feeling the heat of the weapon break the surface of his flesh and begin to cook the meat of him from the inside. The pain was sudden and blinding, and he didn’t even have a chance to cry out as he fell from the sky, surrendering to the black embrace of unconsciousness before striking the ground below.
Verchiel watched the traitor fall toward the embrace of Earth.
“It did not have to end this way,” he said regretfully. “This world could have been ours if your mind had not been so poisoned by the delusions of inferiors.”
One of his soldiers cried out pitifully, and Verchiel returned his attention to the aerial battle at hand.
“The Nephilim,” he cursed, watching another of his elite soldiers fall to the prowess of the creature’s blade.
How is it this monster fights so fiercely? he asked himself, watching with perverse fascination as it moved through the air on wings of black as if by second nature. It was hard for him to imagine that this nightmarish joining of Earth and Heaven believed itself merely human only a few short days ago.
Another of his soldiers cried out in defeat and fell from the sky afire. The Nephilim’s style was crude, erratic, lacking in discipline—yet it fought with an unbridled savagery effective against those who knew not what to expect. The Powers had grown soft over the centuries, untested against a true adversary, but Verchiel knew this foe. Here was the personification of all he’d been fighting against, all that he despised, and he yearned to see it finally vanquished.
To destroy this creature, this symbol of a perverted future too horrible for him to imagine, would be the greatest victory of all. Kill the Nephilim and the prophecy would die with it.
Verchiel still held the dagger he had used to kill his former commander. With a thought, he willed the blade away and summoned another weapon, one he considered sacred. It had not been used since his battle against the armies of the Morningstar. He called this broadsword Bringer of Sorrow, and it was for only the most profound and important of battles.
This was to be such a battle.
The sword materialized in his hand and he pointed it up toward the kingdom of Heaven. And with arcane words used by his kind to bend the elements to their will, he called down a storm upon the world of God’s man, a storm to aid him in the defeat of the most horrible of evils.
A storm to wash away the malignant blight of prophecy.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The storm cover above his neighborhood had grown dense with dark steely clouds that appeared substantial enough to touch. Aaron maneuvered through them, water vapor lightly dampening his bare skin, invigorating him for the next wave of attack. The Powers had suddenly retreated, using the concealing clouds to hide and most likely regroup. Aaron imagined them lying in wait to take him by surprise, and he was ready.
He gazed about the expanse of sky over Baker Street, trying to understand the events of the last several minutes. He had wings. He was flying. And he was involved in a fight for his life, hundreds of feet above his home. It was insane—a thing of bad dreams. Yet he knew it was real.
The Powers had been relentless, coming at him from all sides. And he had fought them well. With his sword of fire he battled as though it were something he had done every day of his life, as if it were something he was meant to do.
Once he had accepted the transformation, the otherworldly presence had filled his mind with incredible knowledge. He remembered things that he had never known. Aaron suddenly knew the Powers, not just as heavenly beings bent on punishment and destruction, but as warriors who once served a noble cause.
Thunder rumbled and the gray skies were eerily illuminated by a flash of lightning. His eyes scanned the rolling clouds. More Powers tricks? he wondered as he looked for signs of imminent attack.
The winds were increasing in strength, and he was buffeted by their force as he continued to search the sky for his enemies. A crack of thunder that he felt from the top of his head to his toes shook the air, and lightning lit the sky. It was a full-fledged storm now, powerful winds, lightning, rain, and thunder. And still the Powers were nowhere to be found.
Aaron gazed with curiosity at the ceiling of churning weather above him and soared upward with powerful thrusts of his ebony wings. He broke through the storm cover and looked beyond his neighborhood. He was not at all surprised to see a calm, star-filled night above the city of Lynn—everywhere except over Baker Street.
He gasped in sudden pain as something hidden in the clouds below grabbed his ankle and viciously yanked him downward. He lashed out blindly with his sword and the hold upon him was relinquished, but not before he found himself back within the raging storm.
The wind howled and the rain fell in sheets. Heaven is crying, Aaron thought distractedly, not sure where such an idea would have come from. And before he had the chance to think about it further, above the wail of the winds and the hiss of torrential rain, he heard a powerful voice call out to him.
“Nephilim!”
Aaron twirled in the air, searching for the source, but knowing full well who it would be.
Verchiel emerged from the storm, an awesome sight to behold, white wings carrying him through the turbulent air with ease. He held aloft an enormous sword of fire that sizzled and spat as the rain fell upon it.
Aaron looked nervously at his own weapon and wondered if it would be wise to summon something larger.
“Your time is at an end,” the Powers’ leader bellowed.
The storm raged harder and Aaron found it difficult to stay aloft.
“I will sweep away your existence like so much dust in the wind,” Verchiel said as he turned his pale features toward Heaven and spread his arms wide.
Lightning zigzagged from the sky, a fracture of luminescence that struck the side of Aaron’s home while he looked on in horror.
“No!” Aaron screamed as he fought the raging winds to descend. Gabriel, Zeke—his mind raced.