

# The Peacock Angel

BY

G.D. BRIDGES

# .

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2013 Glenn Dale Bridges

License Notes: This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this ebook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Ebook formatting by www.ebooklaunch.com

# Table of Contents

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

# PROLOGUE

5799 BC

Eastern Turkey

Run. Run. Fast. Fast.

Only the one camel kept pace.

So far. Farther than anyone ever.

But it didn't matter. He could not outrun the water.

For five days Armaros tried, racing across the land without a moments rest, but the swollen gulf would not waiver. Eventually the sea claimed him—chased him down from behind like a great cat. Each of his lengthy strides now ended in a splash of ankle deep runoff.

Still, he ran.

The mountains must be close.

If only he could reach them . . .

He didn't know where else to go. Instinct alone urged him to push for higher ground. He hoped the peaks to his north would offer refuge from the flood. They must. He had run out of any other options.

The river he followed overwhelmed its banks; its current reversed from all the water forced upstream. Soon, it would merge with the rising waters from the lakes and seas surrounding him, along with the gulf expanding behind him, and blanket all the dry land he had ever walked upon. And even some he hadn't.

Still, he ran.

Much, much higher ground.

Above him, the skies began a sudden and ominous change. Terrible storm clouds rolled in with unnatural speed, blocking out the sun and darkening the land. Cold air awoke his exposed skin. A bolt of lightning, as thick as a tree, struck the earth ahead of him with deafening force. He stumbled, but he did not break his stride.

And then it began to rain.

Droplets, frigid and heavy, forced his head down and his eyes closed. His back and shoulders went numb quickly. The sky had broken, and the assault from above proved unforgiving.

To his right, the camel dropped. It had kept pace with him for half a day. The big bull's eye went white as its heart burst from exhaustion. Soon the water would take it away. It had purged the land of every other living creature trying to escape the deluge.

Except for him.

But wasn't he supposed to survive?

He continued to run.

All alone now. Higher ground. The mountains must be close.

"Leave these lands," his teachers had told him. "Leave now and live. You will walk with man."

He didn't hesitate. He took his sword and the parchment given to him by the scribe. They were the only two things he would ever need. Judgment was coming. Once they let him leave, he never looked back.

Not even when the screaming started.

His brothers received no clemency. Retribution was swift and chaotic. The cries for mercy, the shouts of hate, and the sounds of battle still rang in his ears. The memory would haunt him for as long as they allowed him to remain.

The water continued to gain on him from behind; to his east and west, it advanced even quicker. Through his half closed eyes, the area of dry land ahead narrowed.

Another massive lightning strike shook the earth. This one was closer than the last. A bit of the surge traveled up the flesh of his leg. He continued to run.

And then the mountains.

They were beautiful. Two massive white peaks erupted from the plain, and both reached thousands of feet into the heavens. Their volcano like shapes made them easy for him to climb. They were taller than he remembered.

They would need to be.

Still, he ran.

The water reached mid calf. He picked his knees up higher as he ran in order to make any progress. But he would not lessen his effort.

So close. Almost.

And then he stopped running.

He began to climb at once. The rock, strong and cold in his hands, seemed to welcome his touch. This mountain would be his protector, his home, and his sanctuary. There was comfort in the knowing. He continued to climb.

I will live brothers. Beyond that, I know nothing. But I will live.

* * *

The darkness was absolute. Azazel could see things at night or in poorly lit places, but not now. Here, deep in the bowels of the earth, light feared to tread. The shine did not visit. All black, all the time.

A giant slab of hot stone pressed against him. The rock crushed his body and held him motionless, but he could not see it.

The pain was unbearable. His bones, crushed by the weight of the rock, fought to heal themselves. His perfect flesh, seared and torn by the burning and jagged stone, would not die. His body raged against itself-trying to repair something both broken and eternal. A cruel combination no doubt, but he would endure. He must learn to numb himself to the agony, and embrace the hurt. Then the hate could sustain him.

It consumed him; the sting of his brother's betrayal remained fresh. No forgiveness. Not ever. His heart, dark and twisted even before the reckoning, pumped only loathing and revenge throughout every particle of his being. Thoughts of retribution filled his mind constantly—he envisioned those that had put him here, and then he imagined them burnt, dying, and dead. Countless times and in many different ways he had watched their demise. But always just in his mind. That would change though. Of this, he was certain.

Thoughts of freedom calmed him somewhat. A kind of melancholy washed over his tortured body. He even tried to smile, but the rock would not allow such a thing. His face, pinned sideways and distorted by the stone, would not respond to his mental commands. Even the tiniest of movements remained forbidden.

The hate rushed back in. They had done this to him. They deserved whatever they got. And they would get it.

He had not accepted his fate.

Never.

He would not wait here to die.

Like cattle.

He did not know about the others. Who lived? Who died? Who lay imprisoned beneath the desert, discarded and forgotten?

Not forever.

No matter. He would know everything soon enough.

They left him with his mind and his magic—all that he would need. In their arrogance, they had left him with the very tools he would use to escape from here. They had underestimated him. They had underestimated his will. He would get out of this goddamn hole.

It would not be easy. This process would, however, take quite some time and involve no small amount of pain. This pain-new, deep, excruciating-would be a welcome change. He looked forward to the hurt. Most of all he looked forward to seeing the faces of those that had put him here. When he rose up, free and powerful, he would end them. He would end them all.

With only a thought, he began the intricate process of disassembling himself. He could tell nothing at first, but he remained confident. He was certain tiny, individual pieces of himself were leaving his body and beginning their journey to the surface. There were many, many of these pieces. This would take quite awhile.

Time I have. Nothing but time.

# CHAPTER 1

1970 AD

Ravenna, Italy

The night air awakened Mikhael's skin as he moved across the field. Above him, a third quarter moon beamed down against the fog and illuminated the land in patches—some areas bright as morn and others dark with shadow. Despite his enormity, he was confident no one noticed him walking through the murk.

The pungent smell of the sea confirmed its nearness, and the soft soil beneath his feet felt rich and fertile. A light breeze blew and the temperature remained mild but cool enough to be refreshing.

He had never been to this part of the world before. The land seemed easy and restful. The surroundings were unfamiliar but pleasant.

"A land fit for kings," he whispered to no one and everyone.

As he continued to walk, another more subtle feature of his surroundings began to emerge.

This place had a soul.

From the townspeople sleeping on the other side of the old city walls to the ancient bones buried all about, he could sense the elemental nature here. A strong history of faith prevailed in this region. Mikhael drew in a breath of their devoutness and savored it. He liked it here.

A grin spread across his face as he started to understand. He now had a new appreciation for choices made by another.

A nice place to rest, Brother.

With his eyes forward and a surprising lightness to his step, he continued onward through the damp grass and thick fog. After only a few minutes, the fog thinned and soon after it broke completely. Here the moonlight reached the earth in an enormous swath, and it focused on a large, domed structure standing a mere stone's throw directly ahead of him.

He stood staring at the front of the monument from his current position. There were two door shaped holes, each about eight foot tall by four foot wide and stacked one directly above the other, serving as entrance ways to each floor of the structure. As he circled the exterior of the building, he found the bottom floor had ten sides as did the top floor. The upper section was a little smaller than the lower.

The entire structure was built out of large blocks of smooth white stone. The most impressive of these stones, a dome shaped monolith that probably measured upwards of forty feet in diameter, served as the roof of the entire edifice.

Every stone in the structure, regardless of size, cut, or function, absorbed moonlight from the night sky. The resulting effect gave the building a soft yellow radiance. It appeared to glow in the dark.

He found the monument curious but not overly impressive. He supposed it must be considered old by those who consider such things, but he judged antiquity on a much different scale. His walk around the outside completed, he ducked his head and casually stepped into the bottom entrance of the building.

It was much darker on the inside. Even though he could see in the absence of light, he rarely did. He took a moment for his eyes to adjust. The main floor was unspectacular. It stood completely bare and undecorated. Only a stair leading to the upper floor remained within the lower walls.

He didn't linger here; up the stairs and to the second floor he went.

Square holes cut into the rock up high on the walls let in moonlight from all directions. The upper floor looked very much like the lower, only brighter.

The sole content of the room was a circular porphyry tub located near the center of the floor. The igneous rock of the tub appeared a deep brownish purple sprinkled with fine grain crystals. He walked over and peered into it.

A royal tub. Empty. Not surprised. I've missed something . . . somewhere.

Back down the stairs he went. Almost immediately he found what he was looking for—a niche in the western wall leading down into a room that the moonlight would not enter. He submerged himself in this new darkness, paused a moment to get his bearings, and found himself in a cross-shaped chapel with a ceiling too low for him to stand erect.

For certain his earlier intuition had been correct. This whole place served as a grand burial chamber of some sort. Services were probably held in this room, and at one time a person of some importance was undoubtedly laid to rest in the big, purple tub upstairs. He smiled to himself at this newest revelation. How amusing. He continued his search.

After missing the niche earlier, he let nothing escape his gaze as he scanned this latest room. Not even the four stones near the bottom of the chapel's front wall went unnoticed. They seemed the slightest bit different to him for reasons he couldn't decipher. Dropping down on all fours, he pushed on the top two stones.

The stones moved.

He continued pushing until they slid loose from the wall and then dropped onto what sounded like muddy ground below. He pulled the other two stones out of the way and a hole in the wall just big enough for him to squeeze through remained.

With no hesitation, he turned around onto his abdomen and pushed himself feet first through the opening. It was almost a perfect fit—only the grandest of his wing feathers scraped the loose mortar of the hollow as he squeezed his shoulders through.

He let his body hang over the ledge on the other side of the wall as he passed through the hole. He held onto the ledge with his colossal hands until solid ground received him. Letting go of the chapel floor above, Mikhael turned to explore what he hoped would be his last hidden chamber.

Further examination revealed a large cavity almost exactly the same diameter as the tomb above. A number of marble base pillars resting on a huge foundation platform supported the entire structure. The earthen walls of the great hole were inundated with sand and moisture, and the whole place smelled of a nearby river. The air, heavy and wet, left a brackish aftertaste on Mikhael's tongue as it passed over.

He could see the far side of the dirt wall by looking through the rows of pillars holding the structure aloft. The cavity looked identical all the way around. Still, he must search down here all the same.

He placed his first step onto the foundation platform, and then he placed a second step. He was just before walking amongst the columns, beneath the crushing weight of the monument above, when a most unexpected thing happened.

"Mikhael . . . Is that you, Mikhael?" a voice asked.

The question surprised him. A figure stood behind one of the far columns from the direction the voice had come. The pillar could not conceal the hulking frame, and he knew at once who it was. He had expected to find his quarry at rest-not standing and speaking.

"It is," he answered.

"Have you finally come to kill me, Mikhael?" the voice asked.

"No, Armaros," Mikhael replied. The question hurt, saddened him, but he expected it. "Come from the shadows and talk with me."

"Have you come to take me home then? I've strived for redemption Mikhael . . . through my works here."

"No, Armaros," Mikhael replied once again.

Armaros stepped from behind the column; Mikhael continued standing just off the foundation platform. Armaros walked over to where he stood. They were almost of the same size. Neither of them spoke for some time.

Something about Armaros unnerved him. Well aware of his former student's capacity, it troubled Mikhael to see that defeat now darkened his eyes and his mannerism radiated disregard. He looked the same as he always had on the outside—perfect and powerful.

Yet your soul is weary and your heart has forgotten.

"Why do you sleep in graveyards Armaros?" he finally asked. "Do you fancy yourself a vampire? Are you going mad? This all seems a bit morose to me, Brother."

His attempt to inject a bit of comedy into what would undoubtedly turn into a serious meeting was not lost on Armaros. His brother's eyes narrowed as if he wanted to ask a thousand questions, but then softened.

"Above us is the Mausoleum of Theodoric," Armaros explained. "Theodoric the Great was king of the Goths, ruler of Italy, and the last friend I will allow myself. Some time back, silting from a nearby river that had caused the mausoleum to sink was drained and excavated. This chamber was the result of that excavation. All who knew of its existence have long since passed. I am left alone and at peace here, Mikhael. Theodoric, along with others I have known, still resides here in spirit. They provide the only companionship I require nowadays."

Mikhael opened his mouth as if to speak, but chose to remain silent as Armaros continued.

"And no Mikhael, I would never fashion myself after a vampire. I was old before the first of Lilith's daughters tasted the blood of man."

"A poor attempt at humor Armaros," Mikhael said. "I meant you no insult."

Expression crept onto the countenance of Armaros for the first time in a long while; a weary grin spread across his face.

"I know brother," he responded. "But there is truth in your words . . . about the madness I mean. I have been in exile now for almost eight thousand years. Such a juncture takes its toll on one's psyche."

"Is that a great span?" Mikhael asked. "As the passage of time is measured."

"Most would say yes," Armaros answered. His eyes narrowed once more.

"Excruciating . . . being sucked into linear time," Armaros went on. "It's like being pulled down into the maw of a maelstrom. Seconds, minutes, hours, and days pass by me never to return. I have lost all sense of eternity Mikhael. I lie down undisturbed and dream of the time before in order to lessen the hurt of living with a past, present and future. And that is the nature of my madness."

"There may be a way out of your maelstrom," Mikhael said.

"What way? I have walked a thousand different paths since the reckoning. The Elect and the Sons of God ignore me, demons loathe and fear me, and so I cast my lot with man. But man is short lived, and all those I loved . . . I watched die. Some so long ago even their bones are no more. No, there is neither love nor redemption left in me. I am the accursed one, and I fear that is all I shall ever be."

"There is the prophecy," Mikhael announced.

"Of Enoch," Armaros asked, sudden interest leaping into his eyes.

"Yes," Mikhael answered. Pain welled in his chest. The regret in Armaros' voice still lingered. He had been naive thinking theirs would be a joyful reunion.

"Only words Mikhael," Armaros said. "Just words written during a time of immense chaos. Nothing more."

A dream brother. You know better.

"True prophesy always finds a way Armaros."

His words seemed to strike his brother like a stone thrown from a sling.

"What's wrong?" Mikhael asked.

"Everything," Armaros answered. "First, you're here because the prophecy is real. Secondly, I'm afraid my part in all of this is more than I can bear. And finally certain events, one of which I cannot imagine even in my most violent nightmare, must have already transpired."

A coldness ran across Mikhael's shoulders and shot down into both his arms. His mind wavered and first his hands, then the rest of his body, went weightless. His heart on the other hand was heavy. The mass of the entire mausoleum seemingly crushed down upon it. He hated doing this.

"Why are you so certain the revelations of Enoch, son of Jared, will bear fruit?" Armaros asked.

"Because the second son of the seventieth generation will be born soon," Mikhael answered. "A boy. His parents will name him Thane."

"And."

The coldness returned throughout Mikhael's entire body and into the space behind his eyes. He hesitated before answering. "And there is an empty hole in the sands of Dudael."

Armaros' mouth was agape. A single tear found its way down his cheek.

"I know what's been buried deep in the desert," Armaros said. "I know what crawled up through the jagged stones and out of the opening in the Negev." Another tear fell from his cheek.

"I've never seen you weep before, Armaros."

"I weep for mankind, for the beasts of the earth, and for the angels on high," Armaros replied. "I know the ancient, furious evil that will soon be unleashed upon them all. God has broken his promise, Mikhael. There is no escape."

# CHAPTER 2

1970 AD

Mitzpe Ramon, Israel

Something squeezed Jibril's shoulder. He turned to cuff Nadim, his roguish camel, for nipping him, but he was mistaken. This was no camel.

He didn't hear the giant man approach. And he wasn't even sleeping—not soundly anyhow.

Fear took hold; he could not move. He tried. An unintelligible moan escaped his lips. The stranger didn't seem to notice.

The big man was odd—white skin uncolored by the desert from which he came, and his features sharp and unfriendly. He was also completely naked. And tall. The boy had never seen anyone from his village or from the surrounding tribes as lofty as the white haired stranger squeezing his arm.

"Your goats are fat boy," the stranger said as he released his grip on the young man. "You must know all the best lands to graze."

The fear ebbed with the big man's words. Pride replaced it. The stranger was right—he did know all the best places to feed his goats. His father had taught him, just as his father's father had taught him a generation before. On his tenth birthday he began looking after the goats of his people, almost a full year past.

"I wasn't asleep," the boy said. The stranger needed to understand this. "The sun is bright though, my eyes burn."

"Of course," the man agreed. "An accomplished goat herder like you would never leave his flock unattended. What's your name boy?"

"Jibril. What's yours?"

The stranger did not answer. He stared ahead at the goats and the grass and the trees in the distance—things Jibril found quite unremarkable. He seemed unconcerned with his nakedness.

"Where are your clothes?" the boy asked.

"They rotted away long ago. I suppose I need some new ones."

"What's your name?" Jibril asked again.

"I have many."

"Well what do I call you," Jibril pushed.

"Azazel will do. You certainly are full of questions. Long ago such behavior would have angered me."

"And now?"

"I haven't decided yet. But you'll know soon enough."

Jibril understood. He forced his mouth shut. His curiosity sometimes angered his father too. His eyes, however, remained open, and he inspected the man beside him closely. The differences became frightfully clear to Jibril rather quickly.

He almost ran away. No one could fault him for leaving the sheep behind and rushing to tell the village a devil was amongst them . . . or a god. Therein lay the problem—the unknowing. Jibril's curiosity trumped his instincts like always. He stayed put and continued to stare.

"Take me to your village," the stranger said.

Corded with lean muscle, Azazel's back seemed cut from stone. His front appeared no different. He stood at least as tall as the top of Nadim's hump, and Nadim was the largest of his father's camels. Jibril shifted his gaze to where he last recalled the animal and found him there still, chewing his cud and completely unconcerned with the stranger.

His hair was grandfather white, but his face and body were young. The skin of his flesh was pulled taut and without a blemish. It too remained ivory white. His eyes, however, were dark and too big for his long face. Jibril couldn't muster the courage to meet their gaze when Azazel turned.

"It's not really a village," Jibril answered. "Just a camp. You can see the tents from here. Look."

The boy pointed ahead and skyward. Azazel followed with his eyes. Jibril was relieved to have the stranger looking elsewhere. The Bedouin tents of his people were scarcely visible atop the northern ridge of the massive crater where his goats grazed lazily.

"The men will not be there," Jibril said. "They are all working on the road to Eilat. But grandfather will be. He is very wise. You must talk with him."

"Yes," Azazel agreed. "I would like to talk with grandfather."

Jibril grinned. He wanted to rid himself of this stranger. His grandfather would know what to do with Azazel.

Azazel waited beside the large rock where Jibril had been resting as the boy gathered his sheep and started them on their trek back to camp. He did not act impatient nor did he complain when a few goats strayed away and Jibril and Nadim took some time to right their course. The stranger seemed in no hurry. He filed in line behind Jibril, who sat atop Nadim, as they began their ascent to the Bedouin camp.

They had not gone far when the burial place of a nomad became visible from the well- worn trail. Bedouin resting places were exceedingly simple; an ordinary stone sat at the head of the grave and one at its foot. Nomadic tradition decreed that the clothes of the deceased remain atop the grave to aid needy travelers. An idea came to Jibril as they neared the gravesite.

"There are clothes if you wish to dress," he said.

"Perhaps it would be best if I did," Azazel agreed. He walked over to the grave and removed only a large white cotton tunic from the pile. The garment was fashioned to fall near the ankles of an average person, but it ended just below the knee when worn by Azazel. The rest of the fit seemed passable though, and Azazel returned to the trail seemingly satisfied and undeterred. Jibril grinned. Azazel didn't stand out as much with the tunic on. At least now it wasn't sinful just to look at him.

Jibril's sheep followed the trail uphill without further incident, and the group entered the camp a little quicker than usual by the boy's estimation. Relief washed over him when they found the encampment as relatively empty as it should be at this time in the afternoon. Nobody would see him bring the stranger into their midst. He penned the goats and beckoned Azazel to follow him.

His Father's tent was the largest in the camp, and it sat centrally located amongst the other shacks, huts, and tents of the encampment. His grandfather the Sheikh, along with his father, had the most goats in the camp. They were important members of the tribe, and Jibril was proud of his family. He turned to look for a reaction from Azazel before entering the tent. He found none.

The inside of the tent smelled strongly of spiced coffee. Jibril looked to his right, through the woven curtain dividing the tent. There his grandmother sat surrounded by other women from the village. She added cardamom to beans that she ground with her mortar and pestle. The dallah, however, already sat on the fire. She must be expecting more company.

Music mixed comfortably with the pleasant aroma of the coffee. Jibril turned his head and found his grandfather sitting right where he expected him to be. He was an older man, but not frail or weak. He commanded the same respect from Jibril that the boy gave his father. He pulled a curved bow masterfully across the one string of the long necked fiddle resting in his lap. He gave Jibril a nod when he noticed the boy had entered the tent.

For a moment, Jibril forgot. Nothing out of the ordinary here. A day like most others. Business as usual.

And then Azazel stepped into the tent.

The music stopped at once—the bow fell from his grandfather's hand. The women fell silent as well. No more chatter.

Company left—scurried away like rats from the light. His grandmother removed herself from the tent also, yielding to some instinct telling her that she should.

Jibril had not expected such a reaction. He had not intended to do anything wrong. His father taught him the importance of showing hospitality to strangers at a young age. He assumed that meant all strangers. Even extraordinary ones.

His grandfather looked concerned. Not scared because that was impossible. The men of his family feared nothing. But he did look very concerned. His eyes left the stranger and moved to Jibril—a thousand questions in his gaze. The boy had no answers.

Why didn't his grandfather say something? The silence became uncomfortable. Jibril felt somehow responsible. He hoped he hadn't done anything wrong, but he began to suspect otherwise.

Azazel spoke first. "Is this how you welcome all travelers grandfather? You hospitality seems to have all but expired? I remember a great time ago when nomads like yourself took pride in the way they treated visitors."

Grandfather very deliberately shut his eyes and opened them again. Too slow to be a blink, Jibril had seen him do it before. He usually followed the gesture with measured words of wisdom. But not this time.

"Leave us Jibril," he said. "Go and get your father. Tell him of our visitor. Hurry."

Jibril started to protest but thought better of it. Still, his grandfather made no sense. His father remained many kilometers away; it would take him and Nadim the better part of a day to reach the place where the men worked. His father would be home at his usual time long before Jibril could reach him. His grandfather must know this. Unless . . . his grandfather just wanted him away from the camp.

And away from the stranger.

"Yes grandfather," he said. Jibril turned and walked out of the tent the same way he came in. But he couldn't leave. Not yet. He must know more about the one who called himself Azazel. As quietly as he could, he slipped around to the back of the tent. He stopped and crouched down when the voices from inside became easiest to hear.

"Why are you here demon?"

"Demon? I am no demon grandfather. I am no one."

"You are one of the ancients. One of the two hundred. A demon."

"I told you once old man . . . I'm no demon. Do not call me demon again."

"You are right. You are worse than a demon. Magi filth."

Jibril expected an angry reaction from Azazel, but he got none. The insult his grandfather hurled seemed to have little effect. Only silence within the tent for a moment. It seemed to last an eternity. He considered running away, until finally Azazel spoke.

"How do you know who I am? I have been gone a very, very long time."

"I do not know who you are, only what you are—a Watcher. I have heard tales of your kind passed down since the dawn of my people. Always in whispers. Mostly to scare the children. The moral was always the same—if God would punish his own children as harshly as he did the Watchers, then just imagine what he would do to a little unruly Bedouin child."

"I am Azazel."

"Then you are the worst of them all."

"I taught your kind much."

"I have heard the stories. There are people who live in the lands north of here that consider you benevolent. They are the Yazidi. They are pagan. To them you are called Melek Taus."

"The Peacock Angel. I haven't heard that in . . . well, it doesn't matter. I always liked the way it sounded."

"You should go to them, and leave us at once. You are not revered among my people."

"I will be leaving soon enough, but first you will help me."

"You know I cannot help you devil."

"And you claim to know what I am capable of. You do not old man. I will peel the skin from that wife of yours and force the camels to ravage her right before your eyes if you test me. Besides what I ask is not much."

Jibril's heart hammered away in his chest. He was scared they could hear it beating inside of the tent. He should be well down the road by now. His grandfather's voice was different when he next heard it—defeated.

"What would you have me do?"

"Tell me where I am. Not with names of towns or tribes, those would mean nothing to me, but tell me of the land. That would not have changed much."

Jibril listened intently as his grandfather told the devil everything about the world they lived in. He spoke of rivers, lakes, mountains, desert, marshlands, and other landmarks. Azazel only questioned him twice—when he described Lake Van and Mount Hermon.

"And that is all I know devil," grandfather said. Jibril believed him. He hoped Azazel did as well.

"It is more than enough. The lake of salt in the mountains is where I will go."

"Why Lake Van? There is nothing remarkable there."

"I believe there is. Buried somewhere beneath the mountains surrounding the lake is my brother. I would free him as I have freed myself."

"Will you leave us now? I have done what you asked."

"I will, and I will not harm your family or your people. But I am not ready for others to know that I have arisen."

"I knew my time was over the moment you walked into the tent. I do not fear death."

"You shouldn't. Death is easy. It's the dying that's sometimes quite difficult."

Jibril used the silence that followed to make his escape. Guilt washed over him as he ran to Nadim. He couldn't help his grandfather. He lacked the courage to try. This was entirely his fault. He had brought Azazel into their camp. He was sorry, but that made no difference.

Nadim cooperated and rose quickly once the boy sat atop him. Jibril whispered a brief prayer of thanks. He wanted to be away from here as fast as possible. He never wanted to return.

He wasn't fast enough.

He could not outrun his grandfather's screams. They were foreign to his ears. No man from his camp had ever made such a sound before. He began to cry although he railed against the tears with all his strength. He urged Nadim to go even faster.

# CHAPTER 3

1994 AD

Rural Louisiana

When the phone rang, he let his answering machine take the call as he often did on his days off. After the infamous beep, he recognized Warden Holloway's voice.

"Thane this is Tim Holloway. If you would give me a..."

Thane Connally snatched up the receiver and interrupted, "I'm not giving you anything old man. Besides . . . you've got everything a man could want and then some."

The warden laughed. "I only wish that were true. How you doing son?"

"I'm fine," Thane answered. "How about yourself?"

"Can't complain either," Holloway stated. Then he abruptly cut to the chase.

"Thane, do you remember an inmate who got away from us about two years back? His name is Schwann. Rudy Schwann."

All pleasantries ceased. Thane sensed a subtle change in Warden Holloway's voice when his boss spoke Schwann's name. The warden had become gravely serious.

Thane remembered the name Rudy Schwann, and he felt sure he would never forget it. Schwann was a true hard ass. The man was tortured and disturbed—easily the meanest son-of-a-bitch Thane ever recalled housing at Gale Parish Penitentiary.

How Schwann busted out, nobody knew. The official report stated "unknown" as the inmate method of escape. The man simply vanished from his iron cage. The warden had taken the escape personally, and Thane could tell the old warrior was all business now.

"I know Schwann," Thane said.

"Well N.O.P.D. gunned him down less than four hours ago," Holloway continued. "He's at Big Charity now with a half dozen holes in him. Bastard still won't die though . . . save us all a bunch of trouble."

"I suppose I'm going to the city tonight?"

"For the first twelve hours Thane. We're going to guard him around the clock, but I'd like someone experienced and responsible to go in first and get a good grasp of the situation for the department. Plus, you never know with Schwann. Even all full of holes."

"I understand boss, but I'm not very familiar with New Orleans."

"It's a straight shot son. Come by the jail and pick up the van. I'll leave directions and the paperwork for you. Schwann won't be getting out of surgery until ten-thirty or so tonight, so if you get to Charity by eleven you'll be fine."

"Sounds good Warden. I'll call you from the hospital in the morning and fill you in."

"Thanks. Oh . . . and Thane."

"Yes sir?"

"Be careful son."

* * *

The warden's meaty fingers trembled as he hung up the receiver. He didn't like this . . . any of it. Schwann was trouble. Nervous energy pulsed throughout his body as he leaned back in his chair and rubbed his head with both hands. The knock at his office door was a welcome distraction. At first.

"You sending Connally sir?"

The warden resumed his head massage. He didn't need this. Not now.

"Yes Stanley. Thane's going," he answered from between his fingers. He noticed the familiar pursed lips appear on Lt. Stanley Rollins face.

"You put a lot of faith in that boy warden. Sure he can handle this one?"

The warden sat up straight in his chair; his hands dropped to his lap. "He's handled everything we ever put on his plate Stanley. He's as good as we got. If it can be handled . . . Thane's the one."

* * *

Several hours later Thane found himself rolling southbound in a huge Sheriff's Department van. After about ninety minutes on the interstate, the silhouette of Charity Hospital emerged from the nameless sprawl surrounding it. Moments later he parked in an empty lot beside the old landmark.

The digital block numbers on the van dash read eleven o'clock.

Abelson Thane Connally turned twenty-one years old just three days before he began his employment with the Gale Parish Sheriff's Department. A short three years later and he had already advanced to the rank of Lieutenant. He now served as the night shift supervisor at the parish prison. The prison was one of Louisiana's largest and most modern facilities. It housed over fifteen hundred inmates. At times, the care and supervision of these prisoners fell solely into the lap of Thane. The job entailed much responsibility, and Thane took his duties very seriously. Although he was young, Thane proved very efficient as a supervisor. The Warden leaned on him, but Thane didn't mind. He liked having his number called no matter how out of his element he was. And he was far, far outside of it here.

The moment the doors of the ramshackle elevator opened, he questioned his loyalty to the Warden for the first time. May have been a mistake taking this assignment. He had only traveled upwards four floors from the frenzied lobby below, and already he wanted to go right back down. A circus awaited underneath, but at least he could breathe down there.

At least there was life down there.

Too quiet up here . . . can hardly see . . . what the hell stinks?

The hallway running adjacent to the elevator reeked of stale piss and some disinfectant of one kind or another. The potent combination threatened to overwhelm Thane as he exited the elevator. The place seemed clean enough, but smelled blasphemous. Thane pulled up his undershirt through the collar of his deputy uniform and tried to breathe as shallow as possible into the cotton fabric.

Both to his right and to his left the hallway remained still and empty. For no particular reason he decided to head to his right. Dull lights hummed overhead. It seemed like dusk in the hallway; a dark gray quality accompanied everything.

He couldn't see much—only floor, ceiling, and wall, all standard institution issue. An uneasy solitude hung in the air and settled in his lungs, only adding to his growing apprehension. There were no sounds, no movements, nor anything for the senses to detect beyond the horrific odor. Thane's eyes, usually clear and determined, began to redden and leak.

The silence of the place was contagious. Thane's boots, oversized even for someone as big him, sounded perverse as they struck the hard tile floor. He wanted to be quiet. He soon found himself almost tiptoeing as he tried to lessen the echo of his gait.

Onward he stepped, exercising caution that felt both ridiculous and necessary.

Never again . . . never, ever again.

A tinge of adrenaline began to rise to the surface of his skin as he continued to wander deeper and deeper into the criminal ward of New Orleans' Charity Hospital.

# CHAPTER 4

1994 AD

Rural Louisiana

The incubi were frightened. Azazel could smell their fear. He relished the taste.

They did not know who had called them to this place. The voice of Azazel had been unfamiliar and demanding, yet impossible to resist. Very few beings could have willed all of them here at the same time, but he did, and with little effort. He was powerful.

Power was the only thing they respected.

They huddled together silently and kicked the earth around beneath them like chickens scratching for food. Azazel continued looking for something. He walked slowly through the far corner of the little cemetery with his head down and his back to the incubi. They would not disturb him. They would not risk angering him.

Azazel found his prize within moments. He turned and beckoned them to come.

Thirteen in number, the tallest of them stood just a bit over three feet-not much taller than a toddler. These creatures, however, could never be mistaken for children.

Their flesh was grotesque, misshapen, and mottled. Short, atrophied arms hung uselessly from their shoulders, but their bodies remained compact and powerful. Each leg ended in a clawed heel and three clawed toes. These claws were strong and hook shaped, and the middle toe protruded beyond the other two.

Much like the talons of a predator.

Atop the squatty neck of each creature sat a porcine head—black eyes, an elongated snout, few teeth, and no chin.

They were hideous. Abominations. But useful.

He beckoned again from the far corner of the cemetery.

Come little ones . . . come and let me show you.

His treasure lay in the stone coffin before him.

. . . tonight you will taste the flesh of an Angel.

As one, his minions slid the concrete lid off the sarcophagus. Its contents made clearly visible by the brilliant moon. Azazel peered into the great box. It was strange staring at his brother again after so much time.

Armaros . . . it has been too long.

As commanded, the minions jumped into the coffin and began an assault with their savage claws. They ripped, flayed, and maimed the flesh beneath them.

Have you missed me brother?

The little ones squealed with delight as they continued their butchery. The sounds of meat tearing filled the cemetery.

Now you will experience some of my pain.

# CHAPTER 5

Thane had watched enough of those B-movie horror flicks to realize that this place would excite any low rent set director. He was supposed to be scared. People are conditioned to fear this sort of eerie setting. Strangely, he did feel a flicker of uneasiness. The rapid beating of his heart disturbed him. He would have to remedy that.

Thane continued walking. He tried to keep his pace steady, and he decided to focus all his energies on the assignment given to him. This little mental exercise offered some comfort, as it always seemed to do.

In a way it was a crutch. It made him seem like a hard ass, but it always made things easier for Thane. He could suppress all thoughts and actions besides those deliberately laid out before him. It could also be offered up as an excuse. "Sorry Ma'am, kid, whoever . . . I've got to do what I'm told." By assuming the role of a lowly pawn, he could make his job much less complicated. He didn't enjoy portraying himself as a robot, but sometimes he had to take the emotion out of the equation. This was one of those times.

As Thane rounded his first turn in the hallway, he could see lights ahead. About one hundred feet or so down the hall, faint glows of yellow beamed into the hallway about six feet above the floor. This was a welcome change of scenery as far as Thane was concerned.

Maybe there's some life up here after all.

With rediscovered vigor, he stepped swiftly and silently towards the lights.

# CHAPTER 6

The incubi were frightened again. Their task was over. Soon he would send them back from whence they came. They would try to avoid that certainty for as long as possible

The imps remained frenzied. Now, however, they only pissed and defecated in the stone coffin. There was not enough left of its occupant to satisfy their bloodlust any longer. They were just being foul and trying to please their overlord-trying to stay in this place a bit longer.

It didn't work.

Azazel quickly tired of their charades. Once their usefulness expired, he dismissed them and they were no more. Back to the rock prison of Sheol they went.

He stared at the stinking mess before him and was satisfied. Armaros wasn't dead. That would come later—once he had procured other, more powerful help. But it would take Armaros much effort and time to recover from this savagery. And a little time is all that he needed. Just a little time for the sons of prophecy. Just a little time to destroy the Child of Truth. After all, it was expected of him, and he didn't wish to surprise anyone. At least not yet.

He went to work. Quickly he walked through the graveyard with his arms outspread until he found what he was searching for. The grave he hovered over was not that old; its head stone incomplete and the earth not settled. That was of no consequence. All that mattered was the contents of the grave, and the soul buried here was exactly what he was looking for.

A cursed human. One of the damned. A murderer. Perfect.

The spirit in the ground was trapped. It was stuck in a rotting corpse from which, for whatever reason, it could not free itself. There are a few like it in almost every cemetery in existence. These souls couldn't, or wouldn't, move on to another existence after their death. They remained earth bound and miserable. They are also extremely easy to manipulate.

He promised it things. He offered it salvation that he could not grant. He spoke of a trial it must pass in order to gain its freedom.

The desperate spirit believed everything it was told.

He called it from the earth by telling it secrets that the dead should not hear. He revealed to it the ancient words it must know to once again walk amongst the living. He taught it how to control its own lifeless corpse. Finally, he told it what it must do to lessen the pain of being dead, alone, and left behind. The ghoul was complete.

Azazel had created an abomination, and he was pleased with himself.

Slowly, so the creature would understand, he pointed through the woods and across a field. His remarkably long finger uncurled in the direction of a barely visible porch light a few hundred yards away. He was pointing at the home of Cane Connally.

# CHAPTER 7

Thane made it to the lights quickly-a little too quickly. He hoped no one had seen him scampering down the hallway. He was in uniform after all.

He found himself surrounded by eight doors, four on his left, and four more on his right. Each door had a small square window about head high that emitted a weak but visible beam of light into the dark hallway. None of the doors had latches or handles of any sort, and all were the same grayish color of the walls. In fact, if it weren't for the light beams protruding from them, Thane probably would have missed the doors altogether.

The only door that looked the least bit different was the first one to Thane's left. On this one, directly above the small glass pane, was the number thirty-one. It had been created with shiny new duct tape stuck onto the metal door. It was a savvy job, consisting of nine pieces of the strong adhesive. The edges of the tape were clean and straight. They had been cut with something extremely sharp. The angles were precise, there were no wrinkles in the tape, and the numbers were a goodly size for their purpose. Someone had taken their time with the makeshift door numerals. Thane couldn't remember ever being impressed with duct tape before now.

I like your work . . . whoever you are.

Thane had felt utterly alone since stepping out of the elevator earlier. The lights and the number on the door served as a beacon to his sub-conscious. Other human beings were around here somewhere. He would find them. He stepped forward and peered into door thirty-one.

* * *

Lucky Melendez was having trouble with his knees once again. Patiently he dumped the brown water out of his bucket and into the utility sink. Then, by flipping the bucket, he created a seat for himself. He eased his body down until his bony ass was comfortably nested in.

From where he sat, just outside of the utility closet and near the wall phone, his dark skin and chocolate uniform blended well with the shadows in the hall. Ahead, stepping into the lights, the young deputy appeared.

The man looked boyish to Lucky. That saddened him because he knew what must unfold here tonight. Youth was something that Lucky treasured. He had been young once, and strong, but that had been many, many, years ago. Now he was a pawn, and kept alive purely for malicious reasons.

He hated it. He hated the things that he had done. He longed to be released from his servitude, but he was powerless against the forces that bound him. His life was forfeit. There would be no happy ending for Lucky.

Stupid old man. Look what you've become . . . a monster.

Methodically, he rolled up the pants legs of his uniform and reached into a much worn carpenters tool belt that hung loosely from his hips. In it he kept items that were essential for him to complete his daily tasks around the hospital—screwdrivers, pliers, and such. The most important item of all was a tube of generic ointment that offered him some relief for his hobbled old legs. He grabbed for it and squeezed a king size dollop into his palm. As he rested on the bucket, he saturated both of his legs with the slimy gel. Lucky couldn't imagine life without the greasy mess. The relief was almost immediate. So was the odor.

I smell like a goddamn Christmas tree.

It was a land mine that had caused all the damage. Lucky had been in his prime then. The year was 1943. He had been a leader of men. He couldn't remember where in France he caught all the shrapnel in his leg, but it really didn't matter. The damage was done. Besides, it was a useless thought to ponder.

Nobody gives a horse shit about such things nowadays.

A shell of his former self, that was Lucky. He was tainted and that sometimes made it hard for him to cope. His job was the only thing left in his life that he cared about. There was no glory in being a hospital custodian, but it soon became his sole focus. He attacked his employ with as much vigor as he could muster because it gave him a reason to exist that was his own. And no matter how trivial that reason might be, it offered Lucky a little solace.

More so however, Lucky used the job to help purge his conscious. He could never atone for all that he had done, but he continued to battle with the unclean portion of his soul. Sometimes he even turned to God for help . . . whispering prayers in the darkness of the utility closet . . . begging for forgiveness . . . asking Him to make it all stop. But God never answered. And they would always interrupt.

They mocked him.

They cursed him.

They reminded him of the choice he had made.

They told him he would never see paradise.

They were right. He would burn just as soon as they were through with him. He was too much of a coward to take his own life and end the evil that he had become. He feared the flames. He knew they were real.

So he continued to do their bidding. Hopeless and tortured, he continued to do their bidding.

A monster . . . a goddamn monster that is going to burn.

Slowly he twisted the tiny white cap back on the tube. He placed it back in its proper place and reached into the opposite side of his handy belt. Here, resting next to a half used roll of duct tape, laid a fairly new utility knife. Lucky grabbed the knife and brought it out of the leather pouch. Using his thumb, he pushed the blade out and stared at its sharpness. The little light that was in the hall reflected off of the razor edge.

Lucky began to feel a familiar stirring in his groin, and he realized that his time to play host was at hand. Soon, the stirring spread throughout his entire self, and he was no longer alone inside his decrepit shell of a body. Regretfully, he made a last conscious thought, and then he relinquished control of his flesh to a separate entity.

God forgive this monster.

* * *

Thane saw a whole slew of police through the little window of door thirty-one. They were sitting around a big table playing cards. One of the uniforms, who had obviously spotted Thane through the little window, walked towards the door. Thane noticed that the little man kept looking back nervously at the table. It seemed to Thane that he held little trust for his fellow players and was very leery of tomfoolery at the card table. He also seemed none too happy about removing himself from the game. He wore an inconvenienced look on his slender, bird like face.

The officer stopped at the door and peered upward through the window. The thick glass was all that stopped Thane's heavy breath from blowing into the fellow. From the looks of him, that might have been enough to topple him over.

He was a petite man. He looked reed thin and ghostly pale. His sunken eyes, thinning hair, and anemic traits had Thane wondering if the man was sick. His uniform was N.O.P.D.

"Step away from the glass and identify yourself," the officer barked.

It was a shrill order that left Thane temporarily stunned. He realized it was procedure, but the little man's size and manner offended him. He was certain that this guy liked to harass people. The little fellow probably bluffed a lot of folks with his cocky demeanor and gold shield. Thane, however, had seen his type many times before, and he wore a badge of his own.

"Lieutenant Thane Connally from Gale Parish," he responded. "I believe you gentlemen are expecting me."

Thane took one step backwards and came into full view of the officer staring at him from behind the door. The tiny bastard's air of superiority dissipated completely. He became overly friendly almost at once. He tried to engage Thane in conversation as he hurriedly worked to open the door.

If there was ever a time to be sarcastic or overblown, now was that time. Instead, he waited patiently to enter. He had no use for that kind of behavior.

As the little officer struggled to get the door open, Thane detected movement out of the corner of his right eye. He turned his head quickly and made out a figure walking towards him. As best he could tell, it was another human being, which would be the first that he had seen in the fourth floor hall. Soon the figure drew close enough for him to tell for certain. It was a man-a skinny fellow wearing a brown uniform.

His features were hard for Thane to make out in the poorly lit hall, but the young deputy could tell that something was wrong with the man. His movements seemed jerky and labored. Each step was unsure and awkward. There was nothing fluid about the man's range of motions at all. He reminded Thane of a toddler just learning to walk, or better yet, he acted as if he was a puppet manipulated by strings from above. Thane fully expected the man to topple over at any time.

This guy's either really sick or really drunk.

"Hey friend, are you all right?" asked Thane.

There was no answer. Only the beginnings of what Thane thought was a laugh of some sort came from the down turned head of the man. He was getting closer.

He could tell that the man was old. His skin, spotted and wrinkled, was the color of heavily creamed coffee and hung loosely on his lanky frame. His hair was cut short. It was dark and shiny, peppered with gray. His face was still hidden by shadow. He was very close now.

"Hey man, can you hear me?" Thane tried again.

Still there was no reply. Just the laugh again. It was childlike, but it was far from innocent. To Thane it sounded like an eight year old girl hiding from a playmate. From the mouth of a babe it could have been a joyful noise, but coming from the emaciated figure approaching him now it sounded unnatural and more than a little scary. He was almost to Thane.

During his time with the Sheriff's department, Thane had always relied on his instincts to keep him healthy. Many times in inmate dormitories he was able to anticipate the exact moment before things got dangerous. This was one of those moments.

Twice he had addressed the man in the hall, and twice he got no response besides the impish giggle that he heard still. He would not address him again. His heart began to thunder as he kept his eyes glued to the man and his back pressed against the door behind him that still wasn't open. He readied himself for whatever.

The man was directly in front of him now, and for an instant he thought that the stranger was going to walk right pass him.

Then he stopped . . . and turned . . . and raised his face from the shadow.

Thane saw the knife in his hand first, and then he saw the man's face.

He quickly forgot about the knife.

What the hell are you?

# CHAPTER 8

What have I done?

Failed.

Father, Mikhael, Teachers . . . forgive me.

Or help me.

This is Armaros. You know me. You loved me once.

My body is ruined. I have been outdone by Azazel. But you know this.

I only slept so that I might see your faces. I love you still. Now I can do nothing but heal. And that will take some time. I cannot help the boys.

Do you hear me Mikhael?

They will surely be killed if you don't help. Heal me or help them. Please.

I am sorry. I will not fail again.

This is Armaros! Answer me please! Azazel has grown powerful. They are surely doomed.

Heal me or help them. Please.

This is Armaros. Amen.

Nothing. He was not surprised. Thane and Cane would be on their own for awhile longer. He was useless to them now, so he continued to heal and hope.

I am sorry. One of you please stay alive. I will not fail again.

# CHAPTER 9

Cane Connally stood naked on the front porch of his double wide mobile home. All of the trailer's outside lights had just been turned off, and only an occasional pair of headlights on the highway beyond his front yard disrupted the moon lit night. The temperature was uncomfortable, and the still air was bursting with humidity. Moisture gathered on Cane's prominent forehead, and his lean body was beading up with thousands of salty droplets. From the wooded area surrounding three sides of his home, an uncountable number of tiny eyes peered at Cane as he walked down the first two steps of his porch and stopped just shy of his gravel driveway.

Cane had to pee. And when the urge struck him, he chose outside over the toilet more times than not. It was the freedom that he enjoyed. The possibility of being seen excited him also. Sometimes, when he ventured out naked at night, he did more than just pee.

He thought it was all quite natural. Cane didn't consider himself the least bit unbalanced. All guys did it as far as he was concerned. Even when he began his recent streak of exhibitionism, he managed to convince himself that it was all perfectly normal.

I know there's others out there like me, probably close, and probably a bunch of em'.

He fancied himself as a rebel who was defying norms. He told himself that he wanted to be seen, admired, and worshiped for his sexual boldness. While in his yard naked to the world, he was the one true infinite spirit of fornication.

Maybe I could start a commune or something.

He was finished, and he was sweaty. He turned quickly and headed for the safety of his trailer. It seemed like a good time for a rinse off.

* * *

The eyes of the frogs, crickets, and other night ramblers who watched Cane from beyond the timbers were presently joined by another pair—the ghoul had found its way to the trailer.

Its eyes were was cold and unblinking.

Its eyes were dead and did not belong.

Its eyes studied the naked man hurrying into the trailer with quite a bit of interest. Deep inside of the decrepit husk that encased its rotting soul a yearning swelled. It was a primitive urge-a hungering for fraternity.

Slowly and laboriously it began to drag itself through the briars, weeds, and boggy earth surrounding Cane's home. A trek across the newly mowed yard would surely prove to be quicker and less difficult, but it couldn't risk being seen until the moment it chose to reveal itself was hither.

Onward it writhed. Ants bit, mosquitoes dove into bloodless flesh, and thorns tore into unfeeling limbs. Still, it was methodical as it wormed its way through the woodland.

* * *

The big stereo sitting in Cane's entertainment center was turned up. Way up. He needed to hear his new album when he showered three rooms down the hall.

As the lukewarm water poured over his shaggy hair, the music abruptly stopped. Cane was pissed. Now he would have to finish cleaning himself without _Alice in Chains_ filling his trailer with screams of torment.

I should have remembered to rewind the damn cassette.

He finished showering quickly. Without the music, showering became just one more menial task that he was expected to perform. There was no fun in it. Fun was important.

People had always expected too much of him. He blamed that on Thane. Little brother was always the best . . . always climbing the ladder . . . always winning. Doing things that required way too much effort as far as Cane was concerned.

What a dumb ass.

He would probably be a lot better off if little brother never came along.

Damn right I would be. People would get off my back. I wouldn't have to share the -

He stood motionless and listened. His dog was barking explosively in the backyard. He found this especially alarming. Old Scrub was the most worthless dog that Cane had ever owned. For him to be exerting this much energy barking hysterically was unheard of. Outside something was very wrong.

Cane jumped out of the shower, almost fell on the slick linoleum floor, and rushed back to his bedroom. He hurriedly searched through the mounds of clothes piled on the unused side of his bed until he found some old cut off blue jeans. With one quick leap and pull, he considered himself adequately clothed to investigate. He was ready to get to the bottom of this ruckus. Almost.

While still in his bedroom, he reached into his night stand and grabbed a 9mm handgun that Thane had "lost" some two years earlier. The gun was more for decoration than anything else. He tried to convince himself that he would use it if the need arose, but that probably was not the case. He had been a coward going on twenty -five years now, and that reality was not going to reverse itself in the blink of an eye. Coincidentally, he began to get a little jumpy as he moved towards the back door of his trailer. The gun felt cold and heavy in his hand. It was a dramatic contrast to the lightheadedness and hot flashes coursing throughout the rest of his body. Despite his fear, he forced himself to open the back door and step into the night.

Cane's mobile home was a twelve year old, twenty eight by seventy footer, that he had purchased some six years earlier. He had paid cash for it and the little bit of land that it stood on, with the money he inherited after his parent's fatal accident. The rest he squandered.

At least I'll always have a roof over my head.

The little bit of honest money that Cane had earned since dropping out of school, he had made doing carpentry work. He had some skill, and he had done some pretty respectable work in and around his home. He was very proud of his latest project.

Two weeks earlier, he had installed some fancy vinyl skirting around the bottom of his trailer. The skirting ran vertically from the bottom of Cane's trailer to the ground, and almost completely encircled the structure. The only exception being about a ten foot long section that ran beneath the mobile home's back porch. He had purposely left this section off in order to gain access to the underbelly of his home. This way, he could crawl beneath his trailer and do repair work if the need ever arose. The missing section wasn't noticeable, and the overall job was neat and really helped the appearance of his home.

Cane stood on his back porch now. He had flicked the switch, and an old Mason jar fixture shot light out into the night. It lit up an area that extended just beyond the dog pen. His dog Scrub was frantic. In fact, he had never seen an animal so disturbed.

Scrub was a tremendously large dog that was half Rottweiler and half something else big. He had been given to Cane as a pup, and the dog usually expelled all his energies digesting the enormous amounts of food that he ate. That's why his current behavior puzzled Cane so.

"Scrub, Scrub, whatcha see boy?" Cane shrieked. "Whatsa matter boy? Whatsa matter, huh?" His pleas to the big oaf went unnoticed. The dog continued to bark so hard that Cane was sure that he was going to injure himself; he'd bust a lung, tonsil, or something.

Easy boy. Easy. What in the hell did you see out here?

It seemed to him that the dog wasn't even stopping to breathe. He was staring at the hole in the skirting below Cane's feet and barking, growling, and barking some more. His mouth was frothing, his ears were folded back, and his huge teeth snapped at an unseen enemy. The creature that he stared at through the wire fence that surrounded it acted very little like Scrub.

The big dog was worthless, but Cane still cared for it. His concern for his dog momentarily overrode his fear as he descended his back steps to go and check on Scrub. As he approached the big dog's pen he witnessed a series of events which left him absolutely dumbfounded. The fear quickly gained back its advantage.

* * *

In the blackness beneath the trailer, the ghoul waited on the sodden earth. It had heard the man step outside, and it was growing increasingly excited. Seeing the naked man earlier, so animated and so alive, had awakened something inside of it. Feelings it thought had died along with everything else were very much alive and of a very powerful nature.

* * *

With two incredible leaps, Scrub had first reached the roof of his doghouse, and then cleared the chain link fence which, up until that moment, had served as the big dog's pen. The instant that his paws touched the ground, he was at full stride and heading into the woods behind the trailer. The dog never hesitated, not for a second, nor did it turn to look back at its owner who was standing by its pen with his mouth agape.

Cane felt abandoned and a little betrayed. He stood next to the pen for a full three or four minutes trying to grasp what had just happened. Scrub hadn't run since he was a puppy, and Cane could not recall him ever moving as quickly as he did moments ago.

What the hell is going on? Unless . . .

"Coons!" he declared. It all made perfect sense to him now. The same family of raccoons that had gotten into the trash on his back porch last week was on the prowl again tonight. Only this time Scrub saw them, and now he was chasing one down in the woods. He hoped that the big dog would kill the whole damn clan of them. He recalled the day after their last foraging with disgust and anger. Hung over and almost naked, he had spent the better part of a whole morning picking up after the creatures.

"Get em' Scrub!" Cane hollered. "Get em' boy." He kept on bellowing encouragement to Scrub until his throat ached. He was proud of his dog. He saw the mongrel in a whole new light now, and he was anxious for his return. Still, the mosquitoes were becoming uncooperative outside, and Cane decided to ease on into the back door. As he approached the steps, he remembered how Scrub was glaring earlier at the opening beneath the porch. He quickly made another brilliant deduction.

Son of a bitch! Coons under my trailer!

A rustling sound, like the shuffling of leaves, poured out from the opening below the porch almost the moment that he envisioned the raccoons under his home. That was all the convincing he would need. Fueled by his desire for revenge, and excited over the prospect of killing an animal, he hurried back into his trailer in search of some necessary equipment.

He emerged moments later. He hoped nobody could see him. Even Cane realized that his outfit must look ridiculous, but it seemed appropriate for such an absurd endeavor. And on second thought, to hell with what anybody else thought.

He was still crammed into his tight cut off jeans, only now he was also wearing a headlight and white rubber boots. There was a large garbage bag pulled half way through one of his belt loops.

The light fixed atop his head was not very bright. It was held fast by an elastic strap that was equal parts red, white, and blue. The strap was thick and tight, and it hurt like hell to wear it. Extending from the bottom of the light was a black electrical cord. The cord was connected to a couple of posts on a grapefruit sized battery that he was holding in his left hand.

In his right hand Cane still held the glossy steel of the 9mm. He was really looking forward to killing a raccoon with it. The garbage bag hanging from his left hip was for cleaning up the carcass, just in case he did manage to get one. The rubber boots were the easiest and quickest to put on out of all of his footwear. That was the only reason he wore them.

It was time. He was ready. Cane sprayed about half a bottle of insect repellant all over his exposed body before stepping down from the porch deck. He got down on his knees and elbows, lowered his head, lowered his body even more, and then was able to squeeze beneath the porch. Straight ahead, less than ten feet away, his headlight shined through the opening in the vinyl skirting and into the oil colored blackness beneath the trailer.

Coon killing time.

As he made his way to the opening, the ground beneath him changed from grass to mud.

I'm gonna have to take another damn shower.

* * *

From the northwest corner of the trailer, the farthest away from the opening, the ghoul stared at the pale moonlight beaming through the hole. Silently, in its makeshift den of vinyl, pipe, insulation, and moist earth, it lay in wait for Cane Connally.

# CHAPTER 10

"Lt. Connally, glad you're here. Sorry about this damn door." It was the New Orleans cop. He finally managed to swing the heavy door open. Thane very nearly tumbled backwards into the man, but he managed to regain his balance after the door gave. The little man instantly closed the door back as soon as Thane had stumbled past him.

Thane ran back to the door and looked through the glass. No one was there. Impossible. Yet, he wasn't quite ready to open the door back to go investigate. The whole episode had been unsettling—the laughing, the knife, and the eyes. Something was very wrong with the man's eyes.

They were too dark . . . all dark everywhere . . . never seen anything like that before. Not gonna push this one.

Thane was glad to be on the other side of the door. It was warmer, brighter, and felt safer in here. He was going to try and forget about the whole incident in the hall. He would not mention it to anybody. Ever. Maybe there was an explanation for all of it. Maybe the memory of the man's face would eventually be impossible for him to recall. He doubted it.

That's a nightmare waiting to happen.

He turned away from the door and faced the room. A wooden pedestal stood nearby holding a log book and pen. Thane signed his name and the time on the appropriate line. He was early like always; it was only 10:55. This was just the sort of mundane exercise that he needed to do in order to focus his attention back on his assignment. The little New Orleans cop was still nearby and talking. And still trying to get Thane to like him.

"Lucky needs to oil that door. You shouldn't have had to wait like that. Sorry buddy."

The cop extended his tiny hand and, albeit with some reservations, Thane shook it. He was the new guy here after all. He wasn't going to be that rude just because he didn't care for the guy's manner.

"My name's Babb. Greg Babb," the little man announced as he released Thane's hand and stepped around him back towards the door. He raised himself up on his toes and looked through the little window. He mumbled something that Thane couldn't hear then turned around and looked up at the big deputy.

As the two men stood there deciding what to say, Thane realized that the glass in the window had been flattering to the little man. Now, as he stared at the fellow with unobstructed vision, he appeared worse off than Thane had originally thought. He was the smallest adult male that Thane had ever seen.

He was barely five foot tall, but it was his reed thinness that was most alarming. He seemed to be malnourished or sick. His uniform swallowed him up whole. It looked like he was somebody's little brother wearing hand-me-downs that he hadn't grown into yet. Thane found himself feeling a little bit sorry for the man even though his first impression told him not to be. He decided to break the ice with the little officer.

"Who's Lucky?" Thane asked.

"He's an old Cuban guy that works as a custodian around this place," the officer answered. He seemed pleased that Thane had spoken to him. "He'll be around to fix it sooner or later. Come on and let me introduce you to everybody."

They took a few steps towards the other officers in the room, and Babb started pointing and barking out names. There were four men gathered around the large circular table. Sitting with his back to Thane was an older Italian fellow with thick grey hair named Joe. Thane didn't catch his last name. He was followed clockwise by Levois Selders, a clean cut black guy of medium build, and Troy Stevens, a big meat and potatoes looking kind of man who had blonde hair and a reddish goatee. They each wore N.O.P.D. uniforms exactly like Babb's.

The final gentleman at the table, sitting directly beside Babb's empty chair, wore a very different uniform. His name was Father Lucas Mundy, and he was the acting priest at Charity Hospital. He was a kind looking man: he had very little hair, was slightly overweight, and his cheeks were ruddy. He held an oversized mug of coffee in his left hand that looked like a good idea to Thane. He was the first of the men to speak to Thane.

"Good evening young man. Or good morning. Which is it? I often lose track of time in such glorious company."

There were chuckles from all around the table as the priest stood to shake Thane's hand. Thane grinned to. He liked Father Lucas immediately.

The rest of the men were standing up now and offering their hands to Thane. He shook all of them. They seemed like a good bunch of guys. Once the pleasantries were exchanged, Father Lucas spoke up.

"Greg, you sit down here and finish playing," he said. "The Lord knows you need as much practice as possible." Again there were chuckles. "I'll be happy to give Brother Thane here the grand tour."

Father Lucas excused himself from the table just as Babb sat back down. The little guy looked dejected. Thane had enjoyed the jesting at Babb's expense, although he could tell that Babb hadn't.

"We'll start right here Brother Thane," the priest exclaimed as he turned Thane to the left and pointed in a chest high, sweeping motion. "After all, this is the reason that we're here."

Thane had noticed the wire when he came in the room earlier, but now the heavy chain link was right in front of his face. Beyond the fence lay the inmates in various degrees of disarray. Life looked pretty bleak on the other side of the fence.

The small area where the officers played cards, and the larger area that housed the sick or injured inmates, both belonged to the same large room. The dividing wire ran from floor to ceiling and wall to wall. It looked strong enough to stop a truck.

On the non lawful side of the fence the lights were dimmed and all appeared calm. Twelve beds, six against each wall, lined the room. All but two of them were filled. A center aisle between the beds led directly into a bathroom niche located on the far wall. In it there was a lidless toilet and a shower head protruding from the ceiling. The niche remained continually exposed to the rest of the room. It would offer no privacy to its occupants.

Above the niche, on the same far wall, a television was mounted. It seemed higher up than it should be; its top almost touched the twelve foot ceiling. The television was turned on, but only static was visible on its screen.

Thane turned his attention to the prisoners. So which one of the ten faceless lumps filling the beds was Rudy Schwann? Father Lucas noticed Thane shifting his eyes from bed to bed, and he quickly answered the young deputy's unspoken question.

"I believe your man's in the last bed on the right," he stated matter-of-factly.

"I'd like to see him."

"One step ahead of you Brother Thane."

The priest winked at Thane as he unlatched the gate that would grant them entrance to the other side. Like the television, the aisle, and the niche, the gate was centered in the middle of the room. It was around seven feet tall and wide enough for a bed and two averaged sized people to fit through.

"Leave your gun with these fellows here," the priest told Thane. "We don't bring firearms into this part of the hospital." Thane knew this to be standard practice when housing inmates, so the young deputy quickly obliged. He handed his big revolver to Selders whom he had already decided was his favorite out of the other officers.

Father Lucas pulled the wide gate towards them and stepped around into the inmate section of the hospital room. Thane was close behind. Babb stood up and closed the door behind them.

They walked slowly and quietly down the center aisle. Thane measured his steps carefully for fear of stepping on the priest's heels. He didn't know why they were walking at such an elderly pace. Father Lucas was a little older, but Thane had seen him move already, and the kindly priest was very spry. Whatever the reason, he didn't mind. Things had been unnerving here at the hospital since his arrival. Perhaps a moment of calm would help him to adjust.

He kept his head on a swivel as he followed the priest down the aisle. He looked at the sullen faces both to his right and left as he passed the numbered beds. He was sure that they each had a story, but he doubted that many of them would have a happy ending.

In the first bed to his left was an elderly black man. The patient's gray beard and white gown were covered with yellow vomit stains. Farther up, to Thane's right, laid a ghastly looking young man. He was an albino. He was also emaciated. His cheekbones seemed ready to poke through the taut skin of his face. Disease had ravaged his body so completely that he looked non-human. Thane had to look away, even though he wanted to stare.

The other inmates were less spectacular, and Thane gave each only a fleeting glance. There were a couple of gang bangers, one huge biker, some Asians, and a grungy looking sluggard who was still awake. The latter looked like he was still adjusting to prison life. He was too scared to shut his eyes. Thane thought of his brother Cane as he looked away from the rocker wannabe. The end of the aisle was approaching.

"Here's your man Brother Thane," the priest announced as they came to a halt at the foot of the final bed. Father Lucas seemed unimpressed with Schwann as he pointed towards the back of the covered figure laying in the fetal position. Thane figured the Father had seen many like Schwann come through the doors of this place. And no matter what he told the priest about the outlaw lying there, just beneath the thin bed linens, to Father Lucas he was just another soul in need of saving . . . another who had wandered from the flock. But Thane knew. He knew just how lost this bastard really was.

The first thing that seemed odd to him was the lack of hospital equipment surrounding Schwann. He had expected tubes, wires, and the works. Instead, there was a lone I.V. dripping a steady dose of some narcotic into the convict's bloodstream. He seemed to be doing remarkably well for a man that was supposedly shot six times.

Why don't they have restraints on this freak?

Thane moved around the priest to get a better look at Schwann. That was another thing bothering him: he couldn't see the convict's face.

Dark eyes, stretched open, met Thane's gaze when he rounded the bed. The wounded man's expression made him uneasy. Schwann seemed to be expecting him. Thane didn't get too close.

He could smell the blood from where he was standing. Schwann was covered in it. It wasn't from his wounds. This was new blood—bright red and stinking. Schwann's face and the front of his blanket were wet with the gore. He smiled, clown-like, at Thane, and revealed his crimson stained teeth.

The young deputy was dumbfounded. His moment of calm was over. This wasn't right. He was helpless. What was he supposed to do? He wasn't a doctor. What in the hell had happened to Schwann anyway?

And how can that bastard lay there and smile at me?

He looked to Father Lucas for answers. The priest was unexcited; he had yet to see all the blood.

Thane looked at the other cops, still playing cards, through the wire of the gate. They seemed far away. He thought of calling for assistance, but wasn't sure that he needed it. He turned back to the priest. Maybe if he could show Father Lucas the blood, then the padre would know what to do.

Thane grabbed the priest up high on his arm and began to direct him towards the bloody mess.

"Father what happened to-"

Schwann was getting out of the bed. Fast.

Thane knew immediately were all the blood came from. As soon as the bed covers slipped off of Schwann's body, the horrible truth was right there in plain sight. The convicts right arm, from just below his elbow down, had been stripped of flesh. Only skeleton and a few tendons remained. Schwann had ripped and chewed the meat from his own body.

In the process he had created a weapon. The sharp bones of his fingers looked menacing. He spread them apart and curled them slightly, leaving no doubt that he intended to wield his new claw with deadly force.

He kept smiling at Thane, even as he drew back his freshly butchered hand to strike.

Schwann was moving quickly, but Thane's mind was even quicker. Things actually seemed to slow down around him. He had time to wish that this wasn't happening, but also realized that there was no getting around it. That's when he switched into self preservation mode. And Thane had always been good at avoiding bodily injury. He'd think of something. He'd better.

# CHAPTER 11

Armaros had rushed the healing. His body had been devastated, and the effort left him drained, but there was much to do. He was needed. This was the age of the prophecy, just as Mikhael had told him, and he would not be found lacking again. He hoped there was still time.

His brother Azazel was cunning. And patient. He had waited twenty four years before striking, but when he did attack, the results were absolute. Armaros had watched, trapped outside of his own body and helpless to do anything, as the fiend sent his most recent underling to Cane's house. The boy was probably already dead.

He removed himself from the stone coffin and started after Azazel's newest minion. Right away he could feel that he wasn't ready. The sword strapped to his back threatened to pull him back down. The healing needed more time. His strength was absent. The powerful forces that regularly surged beneath his skin, forces granted to him by the Elect at the time of his making, were not wholly replenished.

He could not recall ever feeling like this. His limbs seemed heavy. His senses, normally heightened, betrayed him now. The world around him was dull and cloudy. The land was silent; neither the trees nor the wildlife communed with him. He heard only his own footsteps as he continued towards Cane's trailer.

I can do no more than a man feeling like this. Still, I must try.

As he exited the little cemetery, a porch light in the distance beaconed. A thought entered his mind as he focused on his destination, and he tried to push the idea away. It was the First Magic. He could use it now and be at Cane's instantly. It had never left him, and it never would. He was the original and most fluent purveyor of the First Magic here on earth—at least he had been before, prior to the reckoning. And now Azazel was back. He wasn't sure anymore.

It had become as much a part of him as the life force he was still trying to replenish, perhaps even more so. He took what they had taught him and expanded upon that knowledge a thousand fold. Eventually, he surpassed even Raphael in his understanding of spellbinding. But that had been a long time ago. He hadn't used spells or incantations in thousands upon thousands of years. He had sworn an oath to himself that he would never practice the First Magic again. And so he fought against his own nature, and he never allowed the power to leave his body . . . not since the reckoning.

No, you're going to get there anyway you can . . . except that way . . . can't risk losing it again.

Armaros began moving faster as he put some distance between himself and the old cemetery. He was getting better. Perhaps he would be able to help Cane after all. The boy didn't deserve saving, but he wasn't going to judge anyone. That was somebody else's job. He forced himself to remain hopeful.

Come on boy, try to stay alive just a little longer.

# CHAPTER 12

The light crowning Cane's head was not doing its job. A small orange circle on the ground in front of him was the only evidence that the thing worked at all. He was on his hands and knees, completely under the back porch, and just before going under the trailer itself. Slowly he extended his neck until his head was through the hole in the skirting. Now he could really see how inadequate his light was. This new darkness beneath the trailer swallowed up its minuscule rays after only a foot or so.

Cane was livid—his his anger focused on the cumbersome battery in his left hand. Not only was it awkward to carry, but it was almost dead. It was also the only one that he had. That made him even madder.

He would not be stopped. Not tonight. He was bound and determined to kill the coons beneath his trailer. The six cans of Milwaukee's Best in his belly probably had a little to do with his brave determination.

Once Cane maneuvered himself through the opening in the skirting, he turned left and headed towards the north end of his trailer. The scrappy, rustling noise that he had heard earlier came from this direction. Something was down there, beneath the spare bedroom, and Cane was going to make things right.

Progress was slow and especially tedious. Beneath the trailer was a labyrinth of pipes, air ducts, phone and electrical wires. After hitting his head on a few different things right when he got started, Cane learned that it was best to proceed using a military crawl-with his head down and pulling himself forward with his elbows. This way did, however, render the already feeble light completely useless. Now, he could see nothing but the dark muck that lay inches from his face.

On Cane crawled. For thirty feet or so he contorted himself through the maze of hardware around him. He soon found himself near the extreme left end of the trailer, and movement became less encumbered. He figured he was directly beneath the spare bedroom that was so rarely used.

He needed a break. The confined crawling had taken a physical toll on him. He lay his face down on the cool earth to relieve the pain in his neck and shoulders. The ground here was not as wet as the muck near the center of the trailer, and for that Cane was thankful. He was also sobering up.

Cane didn't know if it was all the sweating he was doing, or if he had just lost track of time. Either way, he was losing his buzz and his desire to stay underneath his home any longer. He was tired, dirty, and there was a spot on his right calf that he missed with the mosquito spray. There was no way he could manage to scratch that part of his body.

This is just about the dumbest shit I've ever pulled.

Cane took a couple of long, slow breaths. He needed to gather himself. Uneasiness was creeping into the picture. His skin cooled and raised up; a bolt of adrenaline shot through his stomach and out the top of his head. This wasn't good. Full blown panic couldn't be far behind.

He continued to breathe in a very controlled manner despite his fluttering heart. He was using every trick that he knew in an effort to calm himself. This was no place for a panic attack.

After almost a minute, Cane's breathing exercises seemed to help. He was feeling better. Now he had to get out from under here. Backtracking was out of the question. He didn't have the stamina or the nerves to stay under his trailer the length of time it would take him to get back to the opening under the porch. That left Cane only one other option. He would have to kick open a new hole in the vinyl skirting.

He didn't like the idea of damaging his own home, but he liked the idea of staying under this trailer a second longer than he had to even less. He had to act fast. The fear was rising up again. He could feel a knot growing in his chest.

Cane lifted his head off the ground and reached out with his left hand to feel for the mobile home skirting. His fingers grazed it at once. It was close. He turned his head in the same direction and brought it close to where he felt the skirting. He could see it with the light once he got right up on it. He found a seam, and quickly decided upon a spot to aim his kick at. With one fluid move, he was on his back with his feet towards the outside of the trailer. He was ready to bust out of here.

He bent his knees and scooted his bottom close to the skirting. He drew both legs back. His knees were above his chest, and his legs were tightly coiled and ready to strike. Then, from the corner of his right eye, he saw the darkness move.

Something was coming towards him.

It was no raccoon.

From the sound the ground made as the form passed over it, Cane could tell it was much bigger than any of those little pests. It was close to. It was coming from the far end of the trailer, and now it was no more than ten feet away. He lashed out with both legs and all his strength.

The skirting did not break lose. It was too new, and the screws holding it in place were too strong. In fact, the recoil force of the blow actually pushed Cane a little towards whatever was down here with him. The panic washed over his body the instant he realized that things didn't go as planned.

He frantically kicked at the skirting some more. Nothing. He aimed his head and the light in the direction that the noise was coming from. Still nothing. He raised the pistol, pointed it in the same direction, and unloaded it in rapid succession.

The muzzle fire gave off enough light for Cane to see what was coming for him. He was sorry that he did. He couldn't move. Or scream. His entire self locked up in terror. He knew he hit the damn thing, but he could still hear it worming towards him. It was going to kill him. He could see that in its eyes. They were dry and black- blacker even than the darkness surrounding them. There was death in those eyes, and Cane understood that.

It was almost upon him.

He could smell it now. The stink reminded Cane of road kill.

It grabbed him by the hair atop his head.

Cane soiled himself and finally managed a scream. He also broke free from his temporary paralysis, but it was too late. By the time that his survival instinct took over from the fear, he no longer had any chance left to survive.

It had both of its gaunt hands wrapped around Cane's head. The thing was pulling him closer. It was unnaturally strong, and Cane could do nothing to stop it. His second scream was cut short when the center of his face was tore off. With one vicious bite, Cane's beak-like nose and thin upper lip were ripped from their place. Its teeth were not sharp, so the thing smashed and tore more than it cut. The pain was shocking, and Cane reflexively pulled on the trigger of the empty gun. The barely audible clicks of the pistol did nothing to halt the attack.

The second bite killed Cane, but his body was too full of adrenaline to stop just yet. Even after a large chunk of his neck, just below his jaw line, was taken from him, he continued his struggle to distance himself from his attacker. The thing let him go. He would not go very far.

Cane could feel the trail of his own hot blood as it flowed down his chest and beneath his abdomen. He was crawling military style like before, but his arms and legs felt like they were asleep. It was getting harder and harder for him to move at all. And he was so tired.

Maybe if I just rested for a minute . . . it's so dark anyway . . . and cold all of a sudden . . . can you smell without a nose? . . . I'm dizzy . . . nobody's gonna find me under here . . . I think I shit on myself . . . I should pray or something . . . wait, is that me lying there? . . . where's the light everybody talks about?

# CHAPTER 13

Cane was dead. Armaros could see the minion dragging the young man's limp body from beneath the wooden back porch. He was only moments from being upon them, but he was clearly too late. He wasn't surprised by what he saw, but the finality of Cane's death still struck him like a physical blow. Azazel had half of the contest won now. And Armaros had made it all so easy for him.

He prayed again. Still no answer. Would They help him keep Thane alive? He didn't know. The boy could already be dead to as far as he knew. He had no idea where the boy even was. This could all be over, and he not even be aware. That would be a final heartbreak Armaros could not take. He would not be able to go on having failed so miserably.

He pushed such thoughts out of his consciousness. He had mastered the ability of positive thinking long ago. Sometimes the melancholy still took him; these were the times he lay and dreamt. But for the most part he had remained hopeful as the millennia passed him by.

The ghoul saw him as he approached. Armaros could see that it was bathed in the dark blood of Cane. It let go of the boy's body and turned to face him. A dry, raspy, noise escaped from its throat as it bellowed a challenge at Armaros. He was not impressed.

Armaros had not battled evil in hundreds of years, but he had not forgotten. The first task Michael ever gave him was demon slaying, and countless hellions had met their end at his hands. He had used both his blade and the First Magic then. He had wielded both with deadly proficiency. He would not use either of them now. This wretch would not be much of a challenge. Armaros had thousands of years of practice on his side.

After everything that has happened, I am still an angel. This is what I do. It is what I have always done.

A comfort spread beneath his skin, and he knew that he was healed. His mind was focused, and his heart was not heavy. He felt strong. He felt good. He had a purpose again.

His next move was a blur. Armaros attacked the thing with such speed and accuracy that it was almost impossible to see with the naked eye and it was over in little more than an instant. The ghoul lay motionless at his feet. Its head, dark eyes now closed, lay ten feet or more away.

With one strike he had ended the thing-broke the binding that kept the dead flesh animated, and released its soul to some other haunt. He had used a simple hand chop, but he had thrown it with the force of a catapult. It was the first attack he had ever learned, albeit with a sword, and it had never failed him in battle.

He relaxed a little as he looked over the broken body of the ghoul lying about. It was just dry skin and bones. There was certainly nothing frightening or dangerous about it now. It had, however, done its job well.

Armaros had expected something much more elaborate out of Azazel. It seemed to him that such a cunning and devious mind would have come up with a plan of attack less straightforward than the one finally implemented. He had been wrong though. And the butchered body of Cane Connally lying there, just beyond the back porch, was the cost of being wrong when Azazel came to call.

The boy was a mess. The plan was genius. Armaros' mistake was thinking that his brother would try to avoid him. He realized now that he should not presume to know anything about Azazel. This newly emerged devil had been trapped beneath rocks for eight thousand years, and he was sure the agony of that experience had changed Azazel. It had made him stronger.

"The one is a direct consequence of the other," Armaros spoke aloud. He needed to hear himself think. It was paramount that he begin to understand how the modern day Azazel maneuvered.

He began speaking to himself shortly after the Flood. Then, and many times since, he found himself alone for great periods of time, without even a beast for company. He had grown used to the isolation, perhaps even longed for it sometimes, but other times he grew lonely. Just hearing a voice, even his own, eased the pain of those times. It became habit. And so he spoke aloud, and answered aloud, and held pleasant conversation with himself, and managed to stay perfectly sane. He could not say the same for Azazel.

His brother had turned into a monster even before he was cast into the darkness of Dudael. Shortly after they, Armaros and Azazel along with all the other Sons of God, descended into the world of man, the hidden flaws in his brother began to flourish. Soon all traces of divinity were gone from Azazel. He became enemy to all, and his works corrupted the whole earth. Eventually, his sins echoed to the heavens, and the Uncreated could not ignore what he had done. The last and only words he ever heard his Father speak still resonated in his head eight thousand years later.

" _Raphael, bind Azazel hand and foot, cast him into the darkness, and opening the desert which is in Dudael, cast him in there. Throw upon him hurled and pointed stones, covering him with darkness. There shall he remain forever. Cover his face that he may not see the light. All the earth has been corrupted by the effects of the teaching of Azazel. To him therefore ascribe the whole crime."_

Those words had terrified Armaros at the time. Now he wondered why the fiend was free. Azazel had certainly not found favor with the Elect. There would be no fixing such a monster. He could not be rehabilitated. But he was no longer restrained, and incredibly, had picked up right where he left off.

His actions were just as cold and calculated as they had ever been. Inexplicably, he had not descended into complete madness after spending eight thousand years in the dark, motionless, and in great pain. He was a monster yes, but his faculties seemed intact and as diabolical as ever. Knowing that Azazel possessed such mental fortitude worried Armaros. He was not sure that he could have emerged from such a nightmare unscathed.

His brother's newfound aggressiveness worried him a bit also. Azazel had always been wicked, but he usually preferred to work behind the scenes. Open conflict and personal involvement were not his usual method of operation. Things had obviously changed. Armaros concluded that Azazel had found a way to increase his power, and thus, his bravado as well.

Will you come for me brother? One day will you come alone to end me as it is written? Do you have that amount of courage? And do I have that amount of strength to stop you? We will see Azazel . . . we will see.

Armaros did not know where Thane was, but he didn't want the boy to see his brother like this- ravaged, filthy, and dead. Assuming he was still alive, Armaros needed to see him first. He had many, many things to explain to him. He hoped Thane would listen. Armaros was hopeful; he knew the kind of man the boy had become.

He had watched from afar as Thane grew up. The boy had been a pleasure to see mature. Actually, both Cane and Thane had given Armaros countless hours of enjoyment as children. He was always there, watching, protecting, and loving the two boys as they discovered the world. They never knew or saw him, but he was always there.

He had traveled to be with them within days of Mikhael's last visit. He arrived only weeks before the birth of Thane. It was a happy time for all. The Connally's, loving parents and two of the most decent people Armaros could remember, were about to bring home their second baby boy in less than a year's time. It would be up to Armaros to make sure that nothing ill befell them.

Cane was just learning to walk then. He was a handsome child with a tremendous mop of chestnut hair for one so young. Armaros remembered how the toddler, steadying himself by holding onto his father's knee, smiled when they first showed him his newborn baby brother. And Thane was quite the brother. He looked like he was six months old when he was born. He was a big baby with perfect skin and a good disposition who seemed more alert than he should be.

They were an idyllic family, and Armaros fell in love with them despite his best efforts to the contrary. He knew his heart would be broken again, like so many times before, but he never would have guessed the pain would come so quickly.

He jerked his faculties back to the present. He had no time for reminiscing. Cane lay dead at his feet, and for all he knew Thane could be in the same shape. It was time to work. He thought about the First Magic again. He could use it to locate Thane instantly and know if the boy was safe. Or if he was in danger, Armaros could move himself to Thane in order to protect him. He probably should use it. Thane was all that he had left, and the young deputy was important for many reasons. Thane could take care of himself, but he didn't stand much of a chance against whatever Azazel threw at him. Armaros was torn. He knew he should go to Thane, but still he resisted.

Why is this so hard?

# CHAPTER 14

Thane looked at the hand . . . just the hand. It had reached the peak of its arc and was now headed towards his face on a slightly downward trek. Schwann had taken a little jump step, and unfurled his maimed hand in Thane's direction. It was an athletic move; he looked like an outfielder throwing home.

Time seemed to slow once Thane realized that Schwann had gotten close enough to kill him. Such was the case anytime that he found himself in danger. Adrenaline surged through his body, and his heart raced out of rhythm. It was more like a vibration in his chest than a beating organ. His senses heightened to a point where everything around him stalled. This usually afforded Thane enough time to make a clear, albeit quick, decision. This attack was no different.

I'm going straight at him.

Schwann came for Thane too high. He left his lower body completely unprotected. Thane lowered his shoulder and launched himself into Schwann's mid section with all the power he could muster. The force of the blow separated the convict's feet from the floor, and caused his menacing hand to bounce harmlessly off of Thane's back. They landed on the frigid hospital floor with surprisingly little sound despite Thane's best effort to drive Schwann through the foundation of the building. Only the crack of bone could be heard as the back of the convict's head bounced violently off the polished concrete.

Thane jumped up immediately after they hit the ground. Schwann lay motionless and asleep on the cold floor in front of him. The young deputy was satisfied. That was the most perfect form tackle he had ever pulled off, and nobody would be getting up from that. Not even Schwann. Thane thought that he might have even killed the man. There was no way Schwann's body could take much more abuse. A fractured skull on top of his butchered arm and bullet ridden body might just be more than he could survive. He found the thought of a world without Rudy Schwann in it to be oddly comforting.

I won't be shedding any tears for you . . . you sick bastard.

He was turning to check on Father Lucas when the black eyes of Schwann reopened and sought him out. The convict's face stretched back into a grotesque smile once he focused in on Thane. It was enough to completely unnerve the young man. He wanted out of this place and away from Rudy Schwann. Once again he looked for Father Lucas. He needed to see a friendly face, and he wanted affirmation that this was really happening. He didn't want to deal with this monster alone anymore.

Father Lucas was not there.

From the far end of the room, a policeman began screaming.

Something was happening back at the card table. A confusion appeared to have set in.

The table had been overturned, and he could see the other officers moving around frantically in many different directions. Babb was the one screaming. A figure dressed in all brown was holding him from behind. Through Babb's piercing cries and the confused voices of the other officers, Thane heard the laugh of a child. That sound sent the coldest chill he had ever felt racing up his spine.

Thane hesitated. It was all too much. People had always praised him for being so calm in the face of crisis, but this night had reached a level of chaos that felt foreign and unrealistic. He didn't have any idea what was expected of him, or if there was any sort of protocol to follow. He knew only that he had to go help out those other officers, no matter what they were up against. And he had a pretty good idea who that was.

He should have left this place earlier-after the incident in the hall. His instincts had told him to. Thane had always acted on his vital impulses before tonight, and he had managed to stay safe because of it. He acted on what he felt, and he dealt with the consequences later. Except for tonight. Tonight kept getting worse and worse, and he was right in the center of the storm because he put his job ahead of his own well being. He wouldn't make that mistake again.

I'm getting out of here. I don't care what anybody thinks. I'm gone . . . just as soon as I help these guys out . . . I'm gone. Things aren't right here.

Firecrackers exploded up by were the other cops where. One of them pointed his gun at a figure in brown. Thane realized that shots were being fired. He couldn't believe that one of those guys would discharge his weapon inside a hospital and in such close quarters. The poor bastard must have really been scared for his life.

That makes sense . . . I'm starting to feel the same way.

"It's time for you to be leaving Brother Thane," a familiar voice announced. Father Lucas had come back. From where Thane didn't know, but the priest was certainly welcome. Strangely, the old man looked refreshed and confident. He also spoke with authority in his voice. That was fine. If Father Lucas knew what to do, then he would certainly let him take the lead. At least he wouldn't have to deal with all this madness alone anymore.

Thane was just about to say something to the padre when things got even worse. Schwann started to get up. With his eyes focused on Thane, the convict raised himself up to a sitting position. He smiled the whole time. From the far end of the room, new screams of terror and pain mixed with Babb's. "What the hell is going on here father?" Thane asked. He spoke louder than normal; he hoped that Father Lucas could hear the desperation in his voice. "And what are we supposed to do?"

_"_ You have to leave this place Thane," the priest answered. He spoke in that same compelling voice that he had used earlier. Thane knew then that he would do whatever this old man told him to, although he couldn't explain why. "The longer you stay here, the harder it's going to be for me to keep you alive . . . and that's all that matters anymore."

More activity commenced as Father Lucas finished speaking. Schwann was on all fours and trying to stand. Undoubtedly, he would attack again. A few beds away, the albino that Thane found so disturbing had risen up in his bed and began removing wires and tubes from his shell of a body. He turned his head with a sudden, bird-like motion, and stared directly at Thane with the same dark eyes and exaggerated smile as Rudy Schwann.

A cold fear tightened around Thane's heart.

On the other side of the fence, the screams stopped abruptly.

The albino laughed. It sounded familiar.

A shiver that felt like frozen lightning ran through Thane's body. He was through pretending that he wasn't scared. He was. The old priest had given him some good advice, and it was time to heed it. He was leaving, and he didn't give a damn what anybody thought about it. If Father Lucas thought that he could handle the situation, then Thane was going to let him try.

Prayers and God will probably do more good here than bullets and form tackles anyway.

Instinctively, Thane turned towards the gate at the end of the aisle to make his exit. He hoped that the other cops were all right. He thought that maybe he would check on them on his way out.

I gotta get on the other side of the fence. I'll be better then.

Thane rushed past the albino patient and reached to pull the gate open. It was locked. Through the cold chain link, he stared into the dark eyes of his keeper.

Thane made the sign of the cross, and said a little prayer of his own. Beyond the figure before him he could see the bodies of the other cops strewn about the break room. Some were writhing in pain, and others lay motionless. They were all bloodied. So was the man who had locked him in here.

While it only dotted his face and shoulders, both of the man's wiry arms seemed to have been dipped in gore. In his right hand he held a utility knife that was also painted with the blood of the police officers. Thick red drops fell from its blade as he let it dangle by his side.

Now that he was in such close proximity to the man, Thane could see for certain that this was the same person he had encountered in the hall earlier. He remembered the knife, the smell, and the chocolate uniform. He could even make out the name 'LUCKY' stitched into the uniform just above the man's heart. Thane recalled his conversation with Babb earlier, and realized that he was face-to-face with one incredibly disturbed janitor.

The man was eerily still. After locking Thane in with the convicts, he shut down like a toy robot switched to the off position. Thane took a moment to get a closer look at his eyes, which still haunted him from their earlier meeting in the hall. From a distance, it looked like the man's sockets had been hollowed out, but now that he was up close he could see that was not the case. They were incredibly dark though. His entire eyeballs seemed to be heavily bruised, and the flesh of the sockets that held them was no better. Thane looked for any sign of trauma, but he found nothing—no swelling, cuts, or abrasions were visible on the man's skin. It almost seemed like Lucky had been kicked in the face from within his own skull.

Thane grabbed the big gate with both hands and shook the hell out of it. It wasn't going to open, but he had to at least try before he came up with another plan. It didn't budge, and neither did the janitor. He was trapped in here with Schwann and the others.

He turned back towards the prisoners to find that the albino was upon him. His heart raced and time slowed again. The scariest looking thing that he had ever seen was coming right for him.

Our father who art in heaven . . . I'm gonna try to take your head off . . . hallowed be thy name . . . you ugly son of a bitch . . . thy kingdom come. . .

Thane sprang forward and clothes-lined the albino perfectly. Its disease ridden body flipped backwards and crumpled to the floor behind the force of the impact. It lay still on the linoleum with its head bent at an impossible angle. He knew he had broken its neck, and was relieved that he had one less threat to deal with. His respite was short lived: it was interrupted by new movement all around the room.

The others were beginning to stir. Every patient in every bed was getting up and putting feet to the floor. Ahead of him, Thane saw that Schwann had made it to his feet. He heard a metallic "clank" from behind and turned to see the janitor, awakened from his stupor, unlatching the big gate and stumbling into the room. At his feet, the albino scurried around in a circle like a wounded spider, its head bent at a grotesque angle. Thane didn't move. Even as the thing began clawing at his boot, he stood frozen. All around the room wounded eyes and childish laughter focused on him and held him fast. The room began to spin. He would not make it out of here alive.

The demented convicts all began moving towards him. They were not quick or even steady; all moved with the same puppet-like motion as the janitor. Still they came.

Only Schwann acted differently from the rest. He moved fluidly and with purpose. Thane saw the convict side-step Father Lucas at the end of the aisle and head straight towards him. He viciously shoved one of the other inmates out of his path as he neared Thane. Once again he brandished his claw and prepared to strike. He looked stronger than ever.

"Round two," Thane whispered as Schwann closed in. A new surge of emotion flooded his system. His mind knew it would all be over soon, but his body would not let him stand here and die. All fear had left him the moment he locked gazes with Schwann. It exited his body like the latter part of a breath, and it was quickly replaced with anger. His heart filled with hate for Schwann, for these things trying to kill him, and for this entire night. They would eventually bring him down, but he swore to God and to himself that he would not make it easy for them.

I'm gonna show you a monster now Rudy Schwann. It's time for you bastards to be scared.

Thane lunged for Schwann in a rage driven frenzy. Immediately he knew something was wrong. He didn't cover nearly enough ground and stumbled to a halt right in front of the crazed inmate. He was completely vulnerable to an attack, and the albino hanging on his right leg was to blame. His fury shifted targets. The pitiful little thing still clutching at his uniform pants was the new focus of Thane's malevolence.

He shook it loose and began to savagely stomp on its head. There was no forgiveness in the sole of his right boot. The albino's fragile skull gave way after the second blow. The thin bones of its head were no match for the young deputy's violence. But Thane didn't stop. He was still pounding the albino's flattened crown when the bone of Schwann's claw entered his body. The pressure surprised him, but there was very little pain. It was, however, suddenly impossible for him to draw an adequate breath. He fell to his knees.

Still no air.

Father Lucas was saying something. Thane didn't care.

His eyes quit working properly.

He wasn't mad anymore—the anger left with the last bit of air that escaped from his lungs.

# CHAPTER 15

Armaros decided to find Thane. He couldn't put his personal feelings above the needs of the greater good. Perhaps it was Cane's brutal death, or his own attack, that helped him to realize the gravity of the events that were starting to unfold. He had to use every resource available to him in order to keep the boy alive and help him to succeed. The First Magic was one such resource.

All he had to do was summon it, and it was there. It had never left him. He could feel it just beneath his skin.

The Magic wanted out. He had kept it hidden away inside of himself, suppressed and forgotten, for a very long time. Now it rushed throughout his body, heating his blood and looking for a way to escape. It felt like tiny bubbles of lava flowing within his veins. He loved the feeling. He had missed it. It was difficult admitting that to himself, but it was the truth. The sensation threatened to overwhelm him now; the potency of the Magic had grown and it took much restraint from Armaros to rein it in. Still, he realized that the Magic completed him, and he should have never forsworn its use. He was looking forward to testing its limits, and seeing how it had matured after all these years.

You're not the only one who has become more powerful Azazel.

He only wished to look. He needed to see if Thane was in danger. To do so should be simple. There would be neither words spoken, nor any tokens used, if the Magic still submitted to his will. He supposed that it would.

He closed his eyes and thought of Thane. He could see the boy clearly in his mind—a handsome man with striking olive green eyes. His face stretched into an affectionate smile as he envisioned his young charge. He was proud of Thane, and although he was never really a father himself, he understood how men must feel about their own sons when he looked at the boy. If only he could save him, then at least he would have a chance to try and convince Thane of what must be done. There was but one way to do that.

_I will tell him everything, and I will tell him the truth. There is no other way._ _But I must find him first, find him and keep him safe._

He pushed the Magic for an answer, and he got one in record time. He could see Thane standing in what looked like a hospital room. The young deputy was surrounded by patients, and there was also a priest standing within the walls of the institution. Thane looked frightened. Armaros knew immediately that something was very wrong. He recognized the patients quickly for what they really were-minions of Azazel.

The arch fiend had sent his demons to possess the convicts who, in their weakened states and with their already compromised morality, were easy targets. Still, he could not believe that Azazel could manipulate so many. Possession was not easy, and possession on this large of a scale was unheard of. He was sure that no devil, anywhere, had ever done anything like this before. For the first time since he learned of Azazel's escape, his confidence began to waver, and he wondered if he could defeat the monster alone.

Just how powerful have you become brother?

One of the patients struck Thane in the shoulder as he was looking down at something. Armaros watched as the young man tensed from the blow. He made the decision in that very instant to go to Thane's aid. The boy looked hurt and confused. His eyes told the story—he had no idea what was happening to him or what he was up against. At the speed of thought, Armaros moved himself to where Thane was.

He wasted no time studying his surroundings. He began his attack as soon as he appeared in the room. There would be no saving these men. They were too far gone to be brought back, and Azazel would continue to use them again and again unless he did something.

The minion nearest to Thane was destroyed in seconds. Armaros was a blur of violence as he moved on to the next, and then the next. He could have used the First Magic again and destroyed all of the possessed at once, but these things were trying to kill Thane, and he wanted them to feel his blade. It was more personal and satisfying that way. He looked about for his next target.

Something changed just as he was about to destroy his fourth or fifth minion. A new and powerful energy flooded the room. The creature nearest him, along with all the other convicts, dropped to the ground like dead birds. Thane also lay motionless near the center of the long aisle that divided the room in half. Only the priest, with his right arm extended before him, remained upright. A soft, warming light emanated from the man and filled the dormitory, spilling into the other side of the gate where the police officers lay. A perfect silence accompanied the light. Armaros paused and breathed in this new environment. This man was no ordinary priest.

The padre had cast a spell. It was an ancient spell of binding, powerful in nature, and one that Armaros recognized immediately. He recognized it because he had spent great effort ushering it into existence many, many years before. Not only was the priest using the First Magic, but he was using a spell designed and developed exclusively by Armaros. He was surprised. He didn't know how the man knew of the First Magic, but he aimed to find out.

Armaros sheathed his sword and stepped over one of the fallen convicts as he walked towards the very ordinary looking priest. The man had lowered his outstretched arm and seemed agreeable to Armaros' approach. He wore an expression of kindness and wonder on his face. Armaros did not mince words.

"Who are you priest? Where did you learn that invocation?"

"Are you Armaros? You've come for the boy haven't you?" the priest answered with a question of his own.

"I asked you first priest," Armaros reminded him. He hadn't heard his name said aloud since the last time that he saw Mikhael. That visit had taken place almost twenty-five years ago. This priest was full of surprises.

"My name is Father Lucas Mundy. I think we had the same teacher."

"Well Father Lucas Mundy, I am Armaros, and although I seriously doubt that you and I share a common teacher, the fact is that somehow, someway, you know of the First Magic and I want to know how you came by that knowledge. I also want to know what you're doing here and how you know my name. So talk priest."

Even though he looked prepared to burst with questions of his own, Father Lucas took a deep breath and seemed resigned to Armaros' request. The big angel had told him what was expected of him, and the priest appeared ready to comply. It would be foolish not to.

"I'll do as you say," Father Lucas announced. "I'm here to help. I've always been here to help. I'll tell you my story, and hope that you accept my service. I just can't do it right now."

Another surprise. Armaros waited.

"The boy is hurt Armaros, and my spell is waning. Others will be here any moment. You should take Thane and go. Let me deal with what's left behind. I'll find you soon, and then I will tell you all there is to know about me. Perhaps you will even let me help you, because I know of the prophecy Armaros, and your task is a daunting one. But there is no time for stories now."

Armaros knew the priest was right, but he didn't like it one iota. Father Lucas had aroused his curiosity, something not easily done, and now the man was dismissing him with a promise of answers at a later time. Still, the man had helped with the convicts, and did appear to have Thane's best interests at heart. Besides that, he couldn't sense any dishonesty in the man, and the big angel was a perfect judge of character.

"I'll take him back to his brother Cane's house. That one didn't make it, and I don't think Azazel will bother revisiting the place for some time. Which is good, because I have much to tell young Thane here."

Armaros bent over and scooped up Thane into his arms like he would a sleeping child. He paused for a moment and let his gaze rest upon Father Lucas.

"Do you know who Azazel is priest?"

"I do."

"And still you would offer me your help."

"Yes, I do."

"Then you're moonstruck priest. And help from a lunatic is the last thing I need." Armaros took a step forward, his powerful arms still cradling the young deputy, and both he and Thane vanished from the room.

* * *

Father Lucas felt the energy in the hospital shift as the pair disappeared. He quickly began to clean up the mess left behind. A comely young woman in a nurse uniform burst through the door to the room. The ruined bodies of two different cops were holding open both door thirty-one and the chain link gate. She stopped when she saw Father Lucas. The priest was busy trying to restore some sort of order to the chaotic scene in the room—moving bodies, righting overturned furniture.

"There's no use Mundy," she said. "Leave it. Everything has changed. Our real work has begun."

# CHAPTER 16

Azazel was pleased with himself. His great design had begun well. For the first time in a long while, his furious heart made room for a small bit of satisfaction. It dissipated quickly however, and the void left behind filled with hate once again.

Positive feelings confused Azazel. He had no use for them. His rage was his fuel, and there was still much to be done. Perhaps if all went as planned, and he destroyed those who opposed and punished him, judged and betrayed him, then he would rest. But not a moment before.

He knew the youngest son was still alive, and he was aware that Armaros was healed up and performing as expected. Neither of these two things surprised or concerned him. He would deal with the both of them soon enough, and if they were together then his job would be made even easier. They would not be able to hide for long.

He was, however, getting reports of something unexpected that happened earlier at the hospital. Two of his demons had escaped from Armaros before being destroyed. Both had cried to Kokabiel upon their return to Sheol that a holy man of great power had attacked them along with Armaros. This was unforeseen. Azazel wanted desperately to know who this person was, and what type of power he wielded. If Armaros had earthly allies, then Azazel would know them and destroy them.

He sat comfortably on a dusty stone ledge in a room deep within his lair as Kokabiel led the demons in. The two were rakshasa demons. Among the lesser demon kind, there race was few but useful. Their powers of possession were unparalleled. The two cowered before Azazel, groveling in the thick dust at his feet. All had learned to fear the fallen angel. He was legend.

"Tell Lord Azazel what you told me of this priest," Kokabiel demanded of the two demons. He spoke with authority in his voice. He was used to giving orders and having them followed. Azazel allowed him alone, amongst all the residents of Sheol over which he currently held dominion, to speak freely. His loyalty to Azazel, good council, and tremendous power had earned him that right; he was also brother to both Azazel and Armaros. Kokabiel was another of the fallen.

Once he had found himself whole and apparently unchanged after emerging from his prison of jagged rocks and burning sand, Azazel had went looking for his brother. He wasn't easy to find. Even with his improved mastery of the first magic and the Bedouin man's help, it had taken Azazel years before he was able to figure out where Kokabiel was being held. It had taken more years to get to him, and still more years to actually free him and get him back to Sheol. Azazel had patience however. It was his only virtue. Thousands upon thousands of years of lying motionless had taught him that.

Imprisoned by the archangel Mikhael during the time of the reckoning, Kokabiel had spent millennia bound hand and foot, and buried beneath the mountains of the earth. He had resigned himself to his fate and was waiting impatiently to be cast into the lake of fire when Azazel arrived to free him. Excited by the prospect of seeing his beloved night sky once again, he swore fealty to his brother on the spot. He also promised Azazel that the three-hundred and sixty-five thousand evil spirits that he commanded were his to do with as he wanted. Azazel had expected as much. By freeing Kokabiel, he inherited a powerful ally and a readymade army of evil that sat waiting restlessly for its master in the long abandon depths of Sheol. After his release, Kokabiel suggested that they get to his minions straightaway. Azazel had agreed.

Together they had found the entrance to the ancient underground kingdom, but it had not been easy either. It lay where it always had, but the earth had changed around it. After Azazel brought them as near to the place as he could recall, Kokabiel was able to pin point the location of Lake Ram, an antediluvian crater pool that hid the primary entrance to Sheol, only by using the stars as his guide. They both quickly dove into the maar once they reached it, and swam towards the snow tipped mountain looming in the distance. As they approached the far bank, they dove yet again. This time they swam down into the icy, black, bottom waters of the lake.

Azazel felt comfortable deep below the surface, and he swam better than the bulkier Kokabiel. He took the lead and his brother followed close behind. They found the entrance to the aquifer tunnel immediately. It was unchanged by the ravages of time. Again they dove.

They swam deeper still. The water was clear by day, but beneath the floor of the lake moonlight could not pass. Not even the two fallen brothers could see in this environment, which was completely devoid of light. Luckily for them, they didn't need to.

They remembered precisely where they were going. Azazel didn't even so much as bump his head when the aquifer tunnel turned upwards back towards the surface exactly as he recalled it doing. Kokabiel remained right behind him, and soon the two emerged from the frigid water into the old tunnel that would lead them home.

Azazel had found the grand halls of Sheol unchanged and accommodating. Sheol was not Hell. It was, in fact, a very different place. Azazel knew what Hell was like, and he much preferred the gloomy silence of Sheol over the chaos and confusion that reigned there. He could think here, and hide away himself and his ever growing army from all existence.

The giants, or nephilim as they would come to be known, had created Sheol some ten thousand years earlier. They had traveled west at the urging of their fathers once war with mankind became imminent. They had needed a land to call their own.

Their journey brought them to Mount Ba'al-Hermon, where they raged against the mountain for a hundred years-digging, tunneling, and crushing rock-until their new home was complete. Its dimensions were staggering, and it lay hidden deep beneath the foundations of the mountain. The humans named it Sheol which meant "to burrow" because of the years of digging it took even the giants to finish it. To man it has always been a place of death, and with good reason.

During the time of the nephilim, many a human were dragged down into the depths of Sheol to work, or to serve as feed for the giants. Few made it out alive, and those that did told of horrors endured and souls trapped within the dense rock of the mountain. As is often the case, these tales were intensified and inflated throughout the years. Eventually, the name Sheol became synonymous with Hell much like Gehenna. But Azazel knew that these were three very different places. He had spent time at them all.

"I will not repeat myself again . . . now talk," Kokabiel reminded the two demons who seemed a bit overwhelmed. Azazel was pleased with his brother. It had been no easy decision for him, deciding which of his brothers to free and in what order. In the end, it was Kokabiel's lack of ambition that made up his mind for him. He wanted support, and not conflict, as he established his army and empire.

Kokabiel was tremendous. He was bigger physically than both Azazel and Armaros. Only Semjaza, the largest of the fallen, was greater than Kokabiel. He approached nine foot when standing erect, and he had the body of a wrestler. His long blonde hair hung thick and unkempt down his back like the mane of a lion.

He had once been known as "the star of God," which was fitting since his knowledge of astrology remained unrivaled. He knew the hidden paths and worm holes through the cosmos that could take Azazel anywhere in existence; anywhere the Hand of God reached, so to could Azazel. His plan to thwart the Prophecy was off to a promising start, and his fallen brother had played no small part in that success. Besides Armaros, Kokabiel had always been his favorite—and he would remain so as long as he continued to do his job effectively.

"He was a human, but he knew the old ways . . . the old magic," the larger of the two demons announced as he stood and bowed his head before Azazel. His voice was like that of a snake. The pair was mottled and misshapen. Unlike the fallen brothers who were beautiful and enormous, these demonkind were man-sized and physical appearance was not their strong point. The features of their heads were too large, and their muscular upper bodies were out of proportion to their spindly legs. The cloven hooves of the biggest one made a clicking sound against the stone floor as he shuffled them nervously and continued his report.

"The stink of the pulpit was upon him, but he was more than just a priest."

"More than an ordinary priest my lord," the smaller of the two reaffirmed as he also stood up and bowed his head. His voice and manner of speaking was remarkably similar to the first demon's.

"Go on," Kokabiel prodded.

"The big goddamn angel was gonna kill us all, but that priest . . . he said something to him, made him take the boy and go. Then he tore us from our hosts and sent us back. There was no fighting him."

"No fighting him my lord," the smaller echoed once again.

"This angel . . . where did he come from?" Azazel asked the first demon.

"When the boy went down, he was just there. He just stepped into the room from nowhere."

"Came out of nowhere my lord," the little demon agreed, nodding his head.

Azazel struck with dizzying speed. He lashed out with his left hand and grabbed the smaller demon around the neck. Then he applied pressure. He squeezed through both flesh and bone quickly, and the headless corpse dropped to the ground. The small demon had annoyed him with its constant echoing of the larger one's reports. He didn't need to hear the same thing twice. Azazel watched as the evil spirit of the smaller demon escaped from its lifeless body to forever haunt the halls of Sheol. He looked at Kokabiel.

"Drag that mess outside of my chamber and feed it to the others," he commanded, pointing at the head and corpse littering his floor. The heavy stone dust had already settled back down onto the motionless body and malformed head of the departed.

Kokabiel did as he was asked. The sounds of others fighting for a share of the fresh meat filled the chamber as he walked back towards Azazel and the remaining demon. The creature had taken the incident quite well, and appeared no more shaken than he already had been.

"Continue from the beginning, and leave out no detail. There will be no more distractions," Azazel told the demon. It nodded and began.

"Lord Kokabiel summoned me, along with the others and told us what was expected. I sent myself immediately to the human that I have always used in that part of the realm above. The boy was already there when I took control of the old man's body. I tried to end the boy in the hall outside and without the others, but interference and a spirited host conspired to stop me. Later, though, we had him. I trapped him in a cage with the others. He was scared. He was hurt. We were going to finish him off . . . tear him up real good, and then that big goddamn angel shows up. He's right by the boy, starts killing everything around him . . . so fast. I was next. And then the priest casts a spell. It was powerful and old. Magic like that, undiluted and direct, I haven't known in ages. I couldn't exit my host or control him anymore. I was bound. At least the big goddamn angel stopped killing everybody though. I think he was as surprised by the spell as I was. He went straight to the priest and they spoke for a moment. I don't know what was said my lord. I was too busy struggling to free myself from the spell, even though it was useless to do so. After some time the big one picked up the boy and left. He stepped into another place and was not there. The priest freed us after that, and I willed myself back here immediately to report. That is all I know my lord."

"You have done well," Azazel told the demon. "What are you called?"

"I have no need of a name my lord. I survive only to do what is ordered of me."

"Give this one a name," he told Kokabiel as he nodded in the direction of the rakshasa demon. Both Kokabiel and the rakshasa seemed stunned by the command. Neither moved; an understanding passed between them with a fleeting glance at one another. Azazel did not miss the unspoken exchange.

"What is it brother? Did you not here this demon plainly? Armaros is using his magic again. Do you not know what he is capable of? I do not have time to guess what is on your mind. The two of you need not stand around like fools whispering petty secrets with your eyes."

"Forgive us my lord," the demon responded before Kokabiel could answer. "I know that you mean to reward me by giving me a name, and that is the most that this rakshasa could ever hope for. Also know that if given, I will bear my name with much pride. But you should also know my lord, that if lord Kokabiel gives me a name, I will not be able to serve you any longer. I shall be destroyed moments after leaving this room."

"The demon realm is simple Azazel," Kokabiel continued before his brother could question them further. "There is only power. No politics, no privileges, no justice. This demon survives only because those of his kind have banded themselves together, albeit loosely, in order to scratch out an existence within the rock of Sheol. They are useful to us, but not strong physically when compared to other demon kind."

Azazel did not speak. Kokabiel continued.

"The rakshasa are not highly regarded in this place. They are only a step or two away from being fodder. Their powers of shape changing, illusion, telepathy, and possession are formidable, but here they count for very little. Few of their kind could survive apart from the herd, and none are strong enough to exist here with an honorific title hanging from their neck. Only about a dozen demons throughout all of Sheol have names, and those that do are ancient and extremely powerful. So powerful in fact, that even I do not challenge their authority here. They will destroy him Azazel. If you name him, they will destroy him."

"Hidimba," declared Azazel. "We shall call the demon Hidimba."

The little demon swelled with pride upon hearing his new name. They would surely kill him now, but they could not take away the title his lord had given him. He spoke it aloud and seemed to like the way it sounded as it rolled over his thick, forked tongue.

Kokabiel looked stunned. Azazel had heard what he said and had always taken his brother's council before today. But this was different. Kokabiel remained too concerned with the demons that inhabited Sheol. Azazel had little respect for them. It was time to test his brother. This would complicate things somewhat. At the very least, Kokabiel's relationship with the demons of Sheol would become strained. Azazel had seen to that when he uttered the little rakshasa's name.

"Now," Azazel announced with contempt in his voice, "let us introduce Hidimba to your ancient and powerful demon friends." He rose from the ledge and moved through the heavy dust in the direction of the chamber opening. Hidimba hurried close behind.

Kokabiel paused for a moment, shook his head slightly, and followed them out of the room. Azazel had trapped him, but he felt no remorse for having done so. Kokabiel was bound to him. It was Azazel who had freed him from beneath the mountains when no other dared. It was Azazel who would have his loyalty for better or for worse.

As he exited the chamber, his mind began to envision different scenarios for the moment that he presented Hidimba to the great demon lords. Many things could happen. They all ended badly for the demons.

# CHAPTER 17

Thane opened his eyes with a start and knew immediately where he was. He hadn't been here in at least a year or better, but there was no mistaking the inside of Cane's trailer. His brother had an affinity towards rock posters and neon bar signs, and not surprisingly, the thin walls of his mobile home were covered with the both of them. An oversized Matilda Bay fluorescent provided most of the light in the room.

It always smelled like syrup and cigarettes inside his brother's place, and right now was no exception. From the reclined chair he awakened in, he could make out a half eaten plate of waffles on the bar across the room. A discount end table on his left held the guilty ashtray. It was in need of dumping and surrounded by empty beer cans.

The inside of Cane's trailer was cold. Thane didn't mind. He had always been most comfortable with the thermostat turned down a little lower than everybody else's idea of room temperature. It was about the only thing that he had in common with his older brother.

Thane moved himself and the recliner to the upright position. Very patiently he scooted his rump towards the edge of the great chair and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. An air conditioner vent in the floor blew up into his face, and Thane hung his head low to absorb it. He had always liked that about trailers-the air rushed up from the floor and you could straddle the cold if you wanted to.

The air felt good. It was a bit damp and earthy smelling, but very cool, and very refreshing. Thane ran both hands through his cropped hair and rubbed his scalp. He looked around on the floor by his feet for his cap, and when he couldn't find it, decided that he must have lost it at the hospital.

The hospital . . . Schwann . . . Father Lucas.

Every minute detail of what he had endured earlier flooded his memory. The heart in his chest, which only seconds earlier was steady and soothing, began to race and pound against his breastbone. It had all been real. He should probably be dead. What he was doing in his brother's trailer? Were more of those things were coming after him?

Instinctively he reached for his gun.

Damn.

Next, he reached his hand around to feel the back of his shoulder. His fingers found a tear in his uniform, but the flesh beneath was intact. Nothing hurt. He wasn't sore anywhere, or even fatigued.

Bullshit. I got stuck. Schwann did it.

His heart calmed somewhat as he realized that he was not in any imminent danger— at least any that he could tell. This was Cane's house, and even though he and his brother didn't get along, Thane knew he was safe here. There was, however, so much that he didn't know.

He sat still for a moment longer trying to make just a bit of sense out of everything that had happened to him. He had no answers. He was smart enough to know that there were forces at work here beyond his understanding, and he was smart enough to be thankful that he was alive and apparently well. That would have to be enough for now.

He turned his attention to the television set over his right shoulder. The volume had been turned all the way down, but the screen was bright with life. It was a twenty-four hour news show on the box, and he didn't need to hear the handsome anchorman talking to know what the news was. It had been the same for a couple of days now-the planet Jupiter was getting pounded by comet Shoemaker-Levy 9-and during a slow news week pictures from outer space always seemed to excite people. Thane wished he could share their enthusiasm.

Beyond the television, in the far corner of Cane's trailer, Thane finally saw the other man in the room. For the first time in his adult life he was unable to move.

The man was extraordinary. Thane wouldn't even allow himself to blink as he stared at the fellow. The man was big. He was the largest human being Thane had ever laid eyes on. Somehow he had crammed his colossal frame into the matching recliner across the room and seemed comfortable, but to Thane he looked like an eight- grader in a kindergartners' desk. It was more than just his size however. He seemed more than human. Better. Perfect. Beautiful.

He stared right back at Thane with the faint trace of a grin on his lips. He looked about twenty-five or so, but that was way off. This man was older than that. Much older. Thane could just tell. His eyes were kind and wise like a grandparent, and Thane felt like a child in his presence. He couldn't look away from the man.

The man's dress was curious and unlike anything the young deputy had seen before. For a coat a mantle is what he wore, fastened with a piece of polished bone, and similar to those worn by ancient soldiers. Underneath it a linen vest was gathered close about him and revealed the definition of his chest and limbs. A matching pair of linen pants fit his lower half much looser and actually looked comfortable. The entire outfit was relic, but the material appeared new and clean and the man seemed unconcerned and very at ease with his choice of clothing. The largest sword that Thane had ever seen was fastened to his back. His voice was clear and assuring when he finally broke the silence.

"You can ask your questions Thane. We should be undisturbed here for some time."

"Did you fix my shoulder?"

"Yes. Healing others is not my strong point, but yours was a fairly uncomplicated wound. Severe, but not intricate."

"And you brought me here to my brother's trailer."

"Yes again. I needed to bring you somewhere safe, yet familiar. You've experienced quite a lot tonight, and there is much more that you need to learn. Some of the things that I tell you might be as much of a shock to your system as the hospital attack. The least I could do was offer you a friendly setting."

"You said undisturbed. You mean from those things . . .those . . . well, whatever they were that tried to kill me."

"Those and others."

"They weren't just a bunch of sick convicts. Something else fueled that attack. Something unseen. Something beyond me."

"Evil has many faces Thane," Armaros stated with an understanding look worn on his face. "Those men were only vessels, you're right about that. Whether it was their weakened physical condition or their corrupt morality I can't say, but those inmates were easily controlled by other, darker, forces, who in turn were led by the darkest force of all."

"You mean Satan?"

Armaros shook his head ever so slightly before answering. "Satan is a spoiled child. He is vain, powerful, and the purveyor of much pain and suffering, but he still loves his Father. Everything he does, he does it for his father's attentions. Of course those attentions will never come. They have gone elsewhere. He knows it, but he cannot accept it. He blames man. He is jealous of mankind and that is why he attempts to thwart the advancement of your people every chance he gets. But know that he would stop it all-the temptations, possessions, advancement of sin-if only the Uncreated would take him back, forgive him, and tell him that he was right all along about man."

"Right about what?"

"Lucifer never believed that mankind was worthy of God's love. He was perfect. Man was not. Why should he serve a creature so flawed just because his Father could not see the shortcomings of his latest creation?"

Thane wore a puzzled expression on his face as he listened to the big man ask his question. He spoke with little emotion but a hint of authority. He reminded Thane of his favorite college professor, only younger looking and much, much bigger. How did he know all this stuff?

"Who then?"

"I'll explain many things to you soon enough."

"You seem to know an awful lot about the devil, me, and everything that's going on around here. That's good, because I don't. I'm a deputy sheriff, and I'm already in above my head friend. I don't know who are what you are, but if you can just take all of this away, make me forget everything that has happened so far or something like that, I would be grateful. I don't think I'm up for whatever I'm about to be pulled into."

"You're much more than a deputy sheriff Thane. What you choose to do for employment does not define who you really are. Especially not in your case."

"I can agree with that, but the point I'm trying to make is that I'm not up for this. I don't know what "this" is, but I know it involves demons, dark forces, and . . . well, whatever you are, we haven't even got to that yet. I'm no grand adventurer. Please find somebody else and put my life back like it was."

The big man shifted in the chair. It protested with sounds of wood creaking and springs straining, but still it held. He was all lean muscle, but his weight must have been significant in order to fill out such a massive frame. He seemed to sympathize with Thane as he spoke.

"I'm sorry Thane. I really am. I know this all may seem . . . well, odd to you to say the least. But I can't snap my fingers and make it all go away. Believe me; if I knew how to erase a memory or wipe a mind clean of undesirable retention, then I would have freed myself from my own history thousands of years ago. It just doesn't work like that. Besides, you're not being accurate in your assessment."

"My assessment of what? And who are you? I think it's time I knew."

"Of yourself Thane. I don't believe you have any idea what you're capable of. I've watched you since the day of your birthing, and have always marveled at your combination of intelligence and physical prowess. Yet nowadays, especially since your parents' death, you've grown . . . well, complacent. You've stopped moving forward Thane. You're not really living anymore. Not like you used to."

"Ahh . . . so you're a giant, funny dressing psychiatrist," Thane whispered with his head bent, thinking only he could hear.

"I'm many things Thane."

"How about telling me some of these things. I don't like being in the dark, and you seem to know an awful lot about me. That kind of gives you an unfair advantage don't you think."

"You're right. Perhaps I am stalling. But who I am is a big story Thane. I've watched you for over twenty-four years now, knowing that this day would come, but it's still not easy for me. I want every word to be perfect, every thought to be clear. It's imperative that I communicate to you a story which at times will seem both conceivable and impossible-a story of such enormous scope that your head will ache just trying to grasp some of the information I give you. And I am going to give it to you Thane. All of it. The truth. You've already been chosen. That part wasn't up to me. I do, however, feel like it's my job to help you understand everything as I know it, as I lived it, as I was taught it. I don't know why it's you Thane Connally, but it is. Perhaps we may even discover why together at some later time. I hope so. First, however, I hope you hear my story without prejudice or pre-conceived notions. Perhaps then you will accept what is fated."

"I'm listening. I mean I'm really listening," Thane stated flatly.

"Good," the great man said as he closed his eyes and stretched some of his lower facial muscles. "You asked me who I am, and now you will know. I was created by the hands of the Father, yet I have lived in hell. I am older than myth. Demons fear me and Angels whisper my name. I am called Armaros, and this is my account."

# CHAPTER 18

"Let us all swear an oath, and all bind ourselves by mutual imprecations not to abandon this plan but to do this thing." Those were the last words that I spoke before leaving heaven for the final time. They have resonated in my head for thousands upon thousands of years, haunting my existence and reminding me of the gravest misjudgment ever made.

Even with hindsight as keen as my own, I look back to the time before and can see no inkling of a clue as to how things would come to pass. Or perhaps I was just blind to what was right before my eyes. Maybe I didn't want to know. Is that why I left? The answer is neither here nor there. I suppose I am as guilty as the rest. I, along with all my brothers, birthed sin into the world of man, and doomed those that we loved the most.

When I speak of my earliest memories, you must keep in mind that this was a span before I knew of night and day, or earth and man. I was not exposed to these things until much later. I am certain that I am older than civilization, but I have no idea exactly how old you would consider me to be. Perhaps the earth had already been formed when I was created, perhaps not. Time was an unknown on high. Only after my descent did I learn of such things. But I digress . . . let me speak of the beginning.

I see the faces of angels when I remember. There were many, many angels . . . and such faces. My brothers all. Two hundred we were. I could tell you all their names, describe their beauty, talk of the many different personalities, but my memory pains me so for now I will tell you of the first estate.

In all my years on earth I have seen all that your world has to offer, and I have seen it at its most beautiful-when it was raw and undisturbed, before man walked its lands or bathed in its waters. It was savage then, and wondrous, and ever since it has never failed to delight. Even though it has been my prison for over ten thousand years, I hold no ill will towards this planet. In fact, I embrace it and all that it has to offer. But I will never think of it as my home.

A Part of heaven? Yes. What part? Above? Below? I do not know. I only know that the first estate was my home-where Father birthed me, and the only immaculate place I have ever been. A precursor to, and a more perfect Eden than Adam ever knew. I yearn for it continually. Inside my bosom I hold the pain of an entire populace, and millenniums worth of regret. But how can you get back to a place that strangely you know nothing of? Yes, I can tell you of its' wonders, for my memory of all things is unscathed by time. But the most important questions-Where? How? Why?-I cannot answer, nor can I ask those that would know.

I have imagined that my home is no more. It pains me less to think that Father ended it, or that it simply ceased to exist after we descended, than to know it awaits my return. For that is a return that cannot be.

Again I am rambling. I ask your forgiveness. As I continue my story, please keep in mind that I have been influenced by countless bards, scribes, priests, poets, and writers throughout my time here. I can speak all languages fluently, including those that have gone unheard for generations, yet sometimes I have trouble finding my own voice.

To say that I was literally birthed or born would be a misstatement. I simply was. Just as I am now, so have I always been. All of the memories and experiences that my life has left me with notwithstanding, I remain exactly the same as the day I descended from the first estate, and as I was before while in heaven, and as I was when I recall the first thing I ever remember doing: running from Azazel.

We were in what I can most simply describe as a meadow. Yet it was a meadow a thousand fold more beautiful than any fairy tale scene that you could envision. Most all of the area that we stayed in was pastoral in nature. If a picture could be painted from my memory of the first estate, it would not be considered realistic. Most would say that it was "too perfect." I say this because my home lacked much of the variety of today's world.

Every blade of grass was the same lush green, the exact same shape and length, slightly curved in the same direction, and always feeling the constant degree of coolness beneath our steps. Nothing else grew in our meadow except the grass. It was thick and soft, and it always beckoned us to sit or lay down into its embrace.

At what I always considered the center of our world was a shallow pool. When I stood in the middle of it and turned, everything appeared the same all the way around. The horizon seemed lost in every direction. The green of the land met the uninterrupted blue of the sky at the same point everywhere. Many times we left the pool and ventured out in various directions, but nothing ever changed. The lush grass stayed underfoot, the pure blue stayed above, and the horizon stayed afar. For this reason, and others to come later, we spent most of our time around the large, shallow pool that rested easily in the only depression the grass ever revealed to us.

The pool itself was circular and crystalline. Its bottom was covered with the same grass as the rest of our home. The ridiculous clarity of the water sometimes made it hard to ascertain that a pool was in fact there at all. But it was, no bigger than a large home and only slightly cooler than the world surrounding it.

The water never moved or rippled, as there was no wind. Only when one of my brothers or I entered into it did the surface shift at all, and then only slightly. The water seemed denser, almost syrupy, when compared to that here on earth. It rolled off the flesh, and we always exited the pool as dry as when we first entered.

These things that I describe never seemed odd to me then because it was all that I knew. Even later when I left my home and lived in your world with its irregular grass and different water, I never really thought of the first estate as odd, but I quickly concluded that it was indeed different. Although it seems a trivial thing when comparing heaven and earth, the small differences between the grass and the water here versus there always seemed to nag at my consciousness and perplexed me somewhat during my early years on Earth. It took me some time to realize that it was no great mystery. Our world was a forerunner of what was to become-a much simpler and less varied version of the Earth that was to be. Land and water—the basis of your world.

In many ways, we to were a vision of what would be. There were differences yes, but even while in heaven I believe that we could have passed for human if not viewed by an overly scrutinizing eye. After we descended the differences became even more subtle and we were accepted as human, albeit extraordinary ones.

All of my brothers and I stood over seven foot tall and some, such as mighty Semjaza, towered closer to nine. Limbs, digits, members, all slightly elongated and just overly proportioned with our trunks when compared to humans. I always appreciated the beauty and power of our anatomy, even before I knew of any other organisms to compare them to.

Our bodies were like that of an elite runner: all lean muscle stretched taut across an enormous frame. Our shoulder muscles were also disproportionately large. They held more mass than the other muscles of our bodies. Thick and tall, they reached somewhere near mid neck. I always imagined that they were so immense in order to support the wings that we were lacking . . . wings that we would surely receive . . . wings that never came.

The faces of my brothers were both alike and different. Each held small distinctions in features that enabled one to tell them apart. Slightly larger eyes, fuller lips, hair color-the same distinctions that make individual humans so easily identifiable. On the other hand, all of their faces were angular and slightly gaunt, with strong features and thick hair. The same diversity that exists today amongst humans was lacking to some degree amongst my brothers and I. We looked like . . . well we looked like brothers, and our faces were both handsome and fearsome at first glance.

We had no wings. Not in the beginning, nor the end, not ever. All the angels before us had wings. From the archangels such as Gabriel with his grand, white, splendid appendages, to the lesser known celestial beings who warred against heaven alongside the Accuser only to be cast down, they were winged to the last. The ancients, and hence mankind as a whole, always assumed that our wings were taken from us-burned away by an angry God-after we descended to earth. A just punishment it would seem for such a profound sin against heaven, but that was not the case. Once again I believe that father was etching closer to his final design for humanity when he birthed us. Thus, we had no wings.

Strangely, we never longed to have them. We weren't the least bit envious of the other angels. In the beginning, petty jealousies didn't exist. Even my brother Azazel, who developed an exceptional ability to turn the most trivial of matters into open conflict, never expressed to me any longing to have feathers on his back. We always just assumed that we would get our wings once the Uncreated deemed us worthy enough to have them. It really didn't matter when. Time was meaningless, and we all felt certain that at some point we would be winged like the rest of the heavenly host. We could not have been more wrong.

We played mostly. Like children, our time was spent chasing each other, wrestling in the meadow, or swimming in the pool. We didn't eat or sleep, and we never tired or were injured. There was no night and day, and no one to tell us to stop. Thus, we enjoyed ourselves to the fullest continuously.

Our games were innocent when we first played. We all thought of ourselves as brothers and equals. There was no resentment or envy, no rival factions, and no rifts or contemptuous behavior of any sort. We ran for the sake of running and sang for the joy of hearing our own voices. It was a simple and joyous beginning . . . a consummate and timeless existence. It was heaven, our first estate, and my home.

Perhaps I would be there now laughing like a child and full of love for all things, had I not chosen a different path. Had we not all chosen a different path. If left alone I've no doubt that we would still reside in paradise, but not even heaven is immune to villainy. During my time there that villain, full of selfishness and subtlety, flew about on twelve radiant wings.

# CHAPTER 19

The seraphim or "burning ones" as they came to be called, are the first and highest order of angels. They are few in number, I myself have known but four, and are inflamed by love for their creator because of their nearness to him. They are the only beings able to see and speak to the most high without special happenstance. They would become our teachers, guides, and castigators. I loved them almost immediately.

The first of them simply appeared on the horizon as a tiny speck that slowly moved closer and closer. He seemed in no particular hurry, and he appeared to enjoy the lengthy walk to the pool. We had stopped our games as soon as we noticed him from afar. By the time he reached the pool we were standing motionless and silent, huddled together in awe just in front of the water. This was unprecedented. We had never before seen any other angels, nor had we ever entertained a visitor of any sort. In fact, I don't recall ever considering the notion of their being anything more than my brothers and our home before this most magnificent of creatures came to stand before us. I cannot convey the feeling of love that overwhelmed me as he opened his arms as if to embrace us all.

"Sit," he said as we all circled around. It wasn't a command. It was more like an invitation. All were anxious to be near our visitor, and soon we were crowded about him, cross-legged in the grass, like schoolchildren at an assembly.

"I am called Mikhael," he said. "That is the name given to me by the Uncreated. The Uncreated is my father and yours, the creator, the elect, everything . . . and although I may strive to be like him, I shall never be. For his glory is beyond us all."

His words were simple yet complete. When he spoke of this Uncreated he radiated even more brightly than usual. His brilliant aura spilled over us, warming our insides and leaving us entranced. He continued-his words so sweet I could smell the honey.

"I will teach you about the Uncreated and his love for you. I shall give you each names to be called and responsibilities you must honor."

I wondered if my brothers were as excited as I was. The prospect of having something of my very own stirred me a bit. A name meant individuality, and although I never realized it, my yearning for such a thing must have sat quietly just below the surface. I was eager and impassioned. I thought about how my name might sound or what it would mean. My mind was awakened with possibilities and my head swam until Mikhael began to speak once again. I put such thoughts aside and focused on him.

He was as easy to look at as he was to listen to. For the most part, he looked like the rest of us, but there were subtle differences that enhanced his appearance. And there was one not so subtle difference that completely elevated him above the rest of us. Mikhael was winged.

Three sets of feathery appendages, decreasing in size, flowed from his upper and middle back. The extreme upper wings were the largest and most powerful. They were obviously responsible for any flying that was to be done. The two remaining sets were significantly smaller and hard to discern without some serious scrutiny. Only under close observation could one tell that the lesser wings were independent of the greater and that Mikhael had six wings instead of what appeared to be two. I always supposed that these secondary wings were to help with things such as balance and direction, but then again I have no way of knowing besides asking one of the winged, and that was something that I never did. After all, Mikhael was to become my primary teacher and confidant, and his wings seemed an afterthought to him-hardly worth mentioning-and so I never did.

Mikhael never flew or even extended his wings whilst in our company. Not in the beginning anyway. I believe he felt that perhaps they would be a distraction, and he was never one to draw attention to himself. He was and is still the most glorious creature I have ever known, yet he remains completely unaware of his flawlessness. In his mind he exists only to serve and spread the love for the Uncreated that burns throughout him . . . a perfect servant.

"Others will come after me to help with your education," Mikhael continued. "Although you were created with a vast amount of knowledge and understanding at your disposal, you still have much to learn. We will teach you. We will show you how to awaken the wealth of enlightenment that resides in each of you. All the secrets of heaven await you brothers, you must be overjoyed."

I was beyond overjoyed. My thirst for knowledge had reared up immediately upon hearing Mikhael speak for the first time, and now my eagerness was in complete control. I had slowly maneuvered myself, using only my palms and rear end, to a spot nearest Mikhael; I was amongst those who sat in the inner circle. I wanted to stay there forever.

I noticed the warmth that emanated from Mikhael almost as soon as I drew near to him. I had never before experienced temperature change of any sort outside of the pool, and although it was subtle, he did indeed raise the temperature in his immediate vicinity by a few degrees. How he did it, or why, I cannot answer. I can only say that it seemed involuntary, and Mikhael seemed completely unaware of his effect on his surroundings. To me the added warmth was comforting. I noticed that the others nearest to him also seemed to be slightly more relaxed than our brothers behind us.

On the average Mikhael was larger than all of us. He may have been slightly shorter than the loftiest of our kind, such as Semjaza, but his muscularity was beyond reproach. He was dense and powerful with the arms of a warrior.

His dark hair grew long past his shoulders. It was ever so slightly curly with sheen like glass. Thick and wavy, it appeared unkempt, yet never seemed to move at all. His face was ruggedly handsome, appearing strong yet kind, with a perpetual grin even though his message sometimes seemed a bit severe.

"You will learn to be forces of good in the army of the Elect," Mikhael stated with slightly more authority in his voice than before. "Some of you will learn the skills of battle and the art of war. Others of you shall be taught the secrets of divining and become powerful sages. Still others of you will study the universe that surrounds us all. In it you will come to know of many wonders such as all the celestial bodies and their place in the larger scheme of things. Countless subjects we will enlighten you on, from the mundane to the most magnificent. Soon all will be revealed to you."

Already I felt so many questions rising up to the surface of my tongue. I was anxious to know all of it . . . everything. It was hard to stop my mouth from opening, but I remained patient in spite of myself. I would not appear impetuous in front of Mikhael. For some reason what this stranger thought of me had suddenly become very important. I decided that there would be time later for all of my questions. After all, I had forever. For now silence remained the best option.

"We shall see each other again," Mikhael told us. "But for now I must take my leave. There is always much to be done. Farewell for now. Know that I love you all, as does your Father."

With these last words he made his way through the bodies, some of which were trying to scoot out of his way, and began to walk in the same direction he had came from. I remember hoping that he might launch himself into the blue above with powerful beats of his wings. What a grand departure that would be. But it was not to be. Not with Mikhael. Instead, he casually continued to walk until he was only a speck on the horizon, and then until he was no more. Gradually we realized that he was really gone, and we slowly began to rise up and meander about-trying to remember what we each were doing before Mikhael. Not that it mattered much anymore. Our existence would never be the same again. Everything we thought we knew was already beginning to change.

# CHAPTER 20

Just as he said they would, other seraphim arrived shortly after Mikhael left us. Two of them, also walking from the horizon, approached the pool where we stood about like herd animals yearning for a drink. Ours, however, was a thirst for knowledge that had been recently awakened and could not be satiated by the curious water of our pool.

They introduced themselves as Raphael and Gabriel. The first thing that struck me about the pair was Gabriel's remarkable resemblance to Mikhael. He was slightly shorter, and of course less muscular, but their features were mostly identical. It seemed strange to me then that Gabriel would appear with Raphael instead of Mikhael, seeing as how the two appeared so similar. Raphael, on the other hand, bore no resemblance to anyone I had ever seen.

As I have stated earlier, all of my brothers and I, along with Mikhael, shared many common features appearance wise. Much like other families, an observer would be able to tell that we were all related. Raphael, on the other hand, did not appear to be from that family. He was the exception.

His hair was incredibly bright and the color of flame. It hung down in thick ringlets just past his shoulders and dominated any first impression that he made. In fact, at first glance it looked like his head was on fire. This was in stark contrast to his skin, which was a smooth white with a flat shine-like the surface of an enormous pearl.

Raphael's wings were different to. Unlike the wings of the other seraphim which were a brilliant white without flaw, his seemed highlighted at the base and tips by an earthy, rust color. Bits of twig and grass could be seen in both his hair and his wings. He made no effort to pick them out, and seemed genuinely unconcerned with their presence. He was certainly a striking figure, perhaps even a bit unsettling when compared to the meticulousness of the other seraphim, but when he opened his mouth to speak the same warmth and caring that we had felt emanate from Mikhael also poured forth from Raphael. After just moments, both he and Gabriel put us at ease with their words and we knew that they loved us.

No one saw Mikhael approach, but he was there among us now, appearing only moments after we grew accustomed to Gabriel and Raphael. I suspected that he dropped in from above while we were entranced with the other seraphim. That's just like him-taking the transparent route whenever possible.

I recall feeling a sense of family, standing there with my brothers and these three archangels. Yes, there was a closeness that I felt towards my brothers before the seraphim arrived, but it wasn't complete. We were just going through the motions like parts of a clock. Over and over we did the same things without any real purpose or thought. I liked that and felt comfortable doing it, but I developed no individual relationships because none of us acted like individuals. We were pieces of a whole that shared a consciousness, and we would be there still playing our games moment after moment, had the seraphim not awakened us to our purpose. They inspired intimacy and completed our family. All three were kind, caring, and seemed genuinely concerned with our well being and development. And even though I had no way of knowing at the time, and there were no outward signs as such, I always assumed them to be much older than the rest of us. They were certainly much wiser. The seraphim began calling us over now, one at a time, to an area where they stood about thirty paces from the pool.

These were the first moments I recall being aware of the passage of time . . . standing there, waiting for them to call me over. The largest of us, whom they would name Semjaza, was the first to convene with seraphim. After some time, they turned him back around to face us and stepped a few paces closer to the mass.

I admit that when Gabriel started announcing the importance of things such as arrangement and organization I was unimpressed. My thoughts were of names and purposes. More specifically, I wondered what my name and my purpose would be. I had correctly guessed that Semjaza had just been told both of his, and I was anxious to own that kind of knowledge also.

Gabriel then went on to tell us about something that we would be a part of, something he called the _celestial hierarchy_. "Ultimately, Father is the only superior that you have," he said. "He is the pinnacle of our linking. However, there are almost four hundred million of us now; all of us have specific jobs and responsibilities. Without method I fear we would be much less effective and efficient in carrying out our duties. I'm sure that the two hundred of you will come to see the wisdom of our system."

Mikhael then placed his hand on the small of my brother's back and nudged him to the forefront. "Servants to the elect . . . messengers of the truth," he addressed us louder than usual, "I give you Semjaza, your leader and first among the Watchers. Amen."

* * *

"Did you say four hundred million?" Thane asked with a touch of skepticism. "Because that's a lot of angels."

Armaros smiled and seemed somewhat amused by the interruption. "I had wondered how long you could listen to my story without respite," he countered. "I understand it must be difficult to digest or even hard to believe all that I tell you. To your credit, you sat there and listened longer than I thought you would before stopping me. And yes . . . at one time the angels numbered four hundred million. Of course many things have changed since then."

"No Armaros," Thane said, "I don't find it at all difficult to believe what you say. From the first words that came out of your mouth, I knew that whatever you told me would be the absolute truth. I can't explain why, but I'm certain that you're telling me the story just as it happened."

Thane had noticed an open pack of discount cigarettes while he was talking. The smokes were resting atop an end table next to the recliner he was sitting in. He didn't smoke very often-card games, nights on the town-but the pack was right there and the circumstances seemed to warrant a drag or two. He reached into his pants and pulled out a silver Zippo that he took with him anytime he wore pockets. It had been a gift from his Dad.

"I'm pleased that you feel that way Thane. I had hoped that you would. One of the most daunting things I've ever had to do was confront you, tell you my story, and convince you that I am who I say I am."

"I don't know who you are," Thane replied. "I had never heard the names Armaros or Semjaza before today. All I know about you is only what you've told me up to this moment, but I have heard of Mikhael, Gabriel, Raphael, God, and heaven. I do believe you Armaros . . . I mean . . . you're doing some pretty heavy name dropping here. It has an affect you know."

Thane leaned back slightly in the big chair and crossed his legs. He took a long, deliberate pull on his cigarette, switched it over to his left hand, and dropped it into one of a half dozen empty beer cans that littered the end table. His eyes fixed on the big angel as they left the can.

Armaros was watching. He seemed to sense that Thane had more to say, and he was giving him that opportunity. A quiet ensued, but neither seemed bothered by it. In fact, Armaros looked as if he rather enjoyed the silence.

"You're not snappish or impetuous," Armaros said, "I'll give you that. But you must have countless questions in your head. It's okay."

After almost a full minute, Thane found his voice again.

"After my parents were killed I prayed all the time," he began. "Not just lying in bed at night or at church on Sundays, but all the time. I suppose I could have questioned God and turned away right then and there, but I didn't. I never thought to do such a thing. My faith was strong, and I accepted the deaths of the two people that I loved most in this world as part of His plan."

"I noticed the first chink in your cool demeanor just now when you mentioned your parents," Armaros admitted. "It was a barely audible crack in your voice, but I caught it. I've been scouring you for some show of emotion ever since we first met. I've gotten very little for my efforts. It hasn't been long ago that I laid myself down to sleep in a little cemetery-a month or two perhaps-but I was beginning to fear that you were damaged in my absence; you seem so detached, even when presented with a story such as my own. But now I know better. You still hold a tremendous capacity to love. You're just guarded, and seemingly unflappable."

"There was no pretend in my faith either," Thane continued. He could not respond to the words of Armaros. Not now. "I was steadfast in my beliefs no matter the situation. I focused on my work and my church, and I felt like I made it through that time in my life pretty well considering."

He paused once more and began anew. "But as time passed my hurt lessened as is the natural course of things. Without even realizing why, I was praying less and less. My faith began to dissipate, and other things seemed to become more important. Eventually I came to understand that I had been using my faith as a crutch, and I was not nearly as devout as I believed myself to be. Nowadays, I pray rarely if at all. I'm lukewarm at best."

A final pause and Thane concluded his confession to Armaros. "I tell you this because I realize there's a reason why you're here. Something is expected of me, and I don't think I'm up to task, whatever it may be. You've only just begun your story Armaros, and already I'm ashamed by my faithlessness. The moment I truly understood what you were and the consequences of what that really meant, I wanted to hideaway and never be seen again."

"I have hidden away Thane. I've tried to escape the attention of the Uncreated for thousands of years at a time . . . always believing that he thought me destroyed or imprisoned and that it would be the end of me if he found out otherwise. As you just said, I have only just begun my story. I'm far from being a normal angel, the kind that you would feel ashamed in front of. I'm no messenger of God, or happy cherub; my story is unique Thane, and I think you need to hear it all before you judge yourself too harshly."

Thane had just begun to nod his head in agreement when a knock on the thin trailer door startled him immensely. This was beyond unexpected. He looked at Armaros pleadingly for direction.

"Answer the door Thane. It seems we have company."

# CHAPTER 21

The group moved quickly through the chambers of Sheol. The place was enormous. Hidimba had never dared to venture this far down before, and he was amazed that the halls and caverns grew larger as he descended. They were passing through the most immense grotto yet. As big as a field, it was circular in shape with a domed ceiling high enough for trees to grow. It had a smooth, level floor with only one protuberance, right near the center, also circular in shape, and rising up about ten foot into the air. It was of goodly size, and obviously was once used for a particular purpose. Strangely, both the floor and the raised stage were untouched by the heavy rock dust that blanketed all the rest of Sheol. A small amount of natural light, a rarity this far down, had somehow been engineered to reach the rocky protrusion; it bounced off the flat top of the dais and gave the whole cavern an eerie glow.

Hidimba figured the oversized cavity must have had some special purpose. Almost all of the other tunnels and caverns beneath the mountain were rough cut and imperfect-created by the giants out of necessity with little thought given to form or style. But this one was clean, smooth, and polished. Much extra work went into its creation.

He envisioned the mighty giants of old gathered here, listening to their leaders tell them of their plans to win the battle against mankind. He was sure their chants of war must have shaken the very foundations of the mountain. Now, however, only silence greeted them as they passed through its vastness.

Kokabiel had assumed the lead, and he kept them moving along at a brisk pace. It was obvious that he did not want to draw attention to them by the way he moved. He probably did not want this to happen at all. He was losing on both fronts.

Azazel, looking relaxed and confident, walked behind Kokabiel, and Hidimba was last, following a few paces behind his master. It was hard for the smaller demon to keep up with the two brothers, however, and the echoes of his cloven hoofs hitting the stone floor sounded in double time more often than not. Behind him, keeping themselves within the edge of shadow, still others followed.

Hidimba knew they were there. Azazel had use for them. He had no intention of keeping this meeting clandestine, and the dark walkers would spread word of his power and purpose throughout Sheol like the waters of a flood. Hidimba agreed it was time that they knew.

They whisper his name . . . wondering if he is real or myth. He is both. Soon they will know. Soon.

Hidimba paused and turned as they exited the great chasm. A flicker of regret raced across his heart. It was not a common emotion among demonkind, but melancholy spread throughout him nonetheless when he thought about how long he had been below this mountain, and how little he actually knew about it. The great cavern was not beautiful. He had caught fleeting glimpses of beautiful, both natural and man-made, from time to time when he was summoned to the world of men. But it was nice. And nice was unique in this place.

It was also very near the rocky outcropping were he fought for survival every single day. He wished he would have discovered it long ago. Perhaps now that he had a powerful master and a new name he would be able to explore all of Sheol without fear. His mood lightened somewhat at the thought of this possibility.

As he peered out into the cavern, his keen demon eyes caught a glimpse of movement near the carved dais. He froze, as still as the rock, and focused. They were out there. Other demons, perhaps a dozen, were trailing his group. He could see them clearly now, and he was sure that some in their party had seen him as well. They looked like Se'irim. That would normally be bad for Hidimba. The goat demons were plentiful here, and although they were close in size to the rakshasa, their muscles were denser and they were much stronger physically than Hidimba. Fortunately for him, his master would protect him, and he was unconcerned with the approaching herd.

Hidimba turned around quickly to rejoin his master and was horribly surprised to find no one there. It took a moment for him to realize what had happened-the tunnel leading out of the great cavern split soon after exiting, and he had no guess as to which direction his masters went. Panic began to slowly tighten its grip on his demon heart.

How long did I stare into that stupid cavern . . . thinking stupid thoughts . . . and now I may be torn to pieces and eaten by goat soldiers.

"Master," he screamed as he approached the fork in the tunnel. "Master," he shouted again and again into each side. No response. He listened. Nothing. He could, however, hear the cloven hooves of the goat demons clickety-clacking against the floor of the great chasm and drawing nearer to him by the moment. He had to make a choice. Fast.

Right.

And he was gone. He raced forward hoping to see his master and Kokabiel at any moment. It didn't take long for him to realize that he had chosen incorrectly. He should have easily caught up to them by now.

No. No. No.

Hidimba stopped running and listened. The goat demons had also chosen incorrectly. They trotted along in his direction, although it sounded like less of them than before.

They've split up . . . taken both paths. No matter, six will kill me as surely as twelve. Must keep moving.

Ahead, there was only more tunnel, but Hidimba knew it was his only option. He would not give up. He would not quit searching for the safety of his master's company until either the goat demons or something else down here killed him. He couldn't believe how stupid he had been back at the cavern. He was a survivor, ever alert. And now that he had caught a break, now that one good thing finally happened to him, he was running for his life and in the most danger he had ever happened upon. He knew what irony was, and he thought about it as he raced away from the oncoming goat demons.

He tired soon enough. Hidimba was not built for endurance. It took great effort for his spindly legs to carry the rest of him any great distance. His strength lay in his arms and shoulders, though neither did him any good at the moment. Inevitably, he slowed. Then he stopped. Right away he heard the damn clickety-clacking. It was closer than before.

Hidimba screamed. Furious with himself and the damn goat demons that wouldn't stop, he had been unable to keep his fury pent up any longer. He immediately regretted doing it. Although it wasn't a very loud scream, his voice was whispery by nature, the Se'irim had heard. They would know he was close. They would know he was scared. He had shown weakness. The pursuit would intensify.

Desperate, Hidimba took up the race once again. He had not run very far at all when his chances for survival increased twofold. The tunnel forked for a second time. He chose the left fork-it seemed to be the one that would bring him back towards his master-while in a full out sprint. Once more he ran as far as he could. He then tired, stopped, and listened. Silence. Besides his own labored breathing, he heard nothing. All the goat demons had evidently taken the other tunnel or they had ended their chase altogether. Why hadn't they split up again. Perhaps there group had grown too small. Strangely, he found the lack of pursuit unsettling. It was hard for him to accept that he had just gotten away. Things usually didn't turn out for the best in Sheol.

He thought about backtracking, running all the way to where the great cavern was and going after his master, but he decided against it. The goat demons may have been back there waiting for him to do just such a thing. No, his path was set. It was onward and downward-wherever that may bring him. Reluctantly, he put his tired legs into motion and began his journey anew.

Hidimba walked . . . and walked . . . and walked some more. He had covered quite a lot of tunnel without incident, but he was growing weary. He needed to rest. His legs began to shake considerably as he stopped walking and prepared to lie down on the floor of the tunnel.

The rock felt good on his back. He couldn't recall ever being as spent physically as he was right now. This wasn't a good idea-lying down in an unfamiliar tunnel, all alone, in a place inhabited by other demons-but he couldn't help it. At this point in his journey, death was a welcome alternative to his aching legs. He tried to remain still so as not to overly disturb the dust that was all about him, and he concentrated on his master.

Master said he needed me. He needed to show me to those that rule this place . . . or those that used to rule this place. Master is strong. Lord Kokabiel is strong. They'll find me. They'll come for me. They'll walk right through this damn rock and take me with them. I know they will. They must be looking for me by now. Master said he needed me.

Hidimba felt the pressure on his legs and his first thought was one of wonder. Had his master really came for him? As he was pulled into the air feet first and his head slammed into the floor of the tunnel for the first time, he figured out the answer was no. It was not his master that had come for him. Nor was it the goat demons. It was something far worse. He could see only the leg of his captor as he flailed about upside down, but he knew what had him. There could be no doubt, yet it was impossible. The back of his head slammed violently into the stone floor once again, and a scream that had taken Hidimba much effort to muster relaxed and passed through his thin lips as only a shallow breath. Mercifully for him, unconsciousness followed.

* * *

Bones were everywhere. Hidimba had awakened in a pile of them, bound and bruised, and certain that his skull was broken. His head hurt terribly. He was lying face down with his hands cinched tightly behind his back. His legs, crossed and numb, were equally bound just above his hoofs. He was completely helpless, and he had no idea how long he had been here.

He shifted his head ever so slightly and then moved only his eyes around the heap of bones that he lay amongst. They were familiar. He could tell that they belonged to other demons; they had come from mostly lesser demon kind like him.

Hidimba recognized the skulls of a great many Se'irim scattered about. All of them were damaged in some way. Something had been killing a great many of his kind, especially goat demons, for quite awhile. That was evident by the height of the pile he was laying on top of. He had a pretty good idea of what was doing it. He also had a pretty good idea of what was to become of him.

_Food. Just like the rest of them . . . blood, bile, and humor drank . . . flesh picked clean from the bone . . . left alive until the very end._ _Where is it at? Has it left me? Where is master?_

Despite a very real fear of drawing attention to himself, he had to turn his battered body over atop the great pile of bones. He had to get a better look at his surroundings if he was to have any chance of escape, no matter how impossible that seemed, or any way of seeing what his captor was up to. It was a painful undertaking, as many fragments of skeleton jabbed into his carcass with even the tiniest of movements. Eventually, however, he made it to his back, and he was pleased by how quietly he had pulled it off. He began to look around, and within moments identified his tormentor.

It was a giant. Hidimba had figured as much. When he first saw the thing's leg back in the tunnel, man shaped and horribly oversized, he knew that was all it could be. But he still couldn't believe it. These were creatures of legend even among demon kind. He couldn't recall how many thousands of years ago they were supposed to have been tricked by the archangels-excited one against the other and slaughtered to the last-but that was well before his time or any other demon that he knew. He was confident that the great demon lords had been around then, but he had no way of knowing for certain. No demon lord had ever spoken to him.

It doesn't matter. There's a giant here now, and I, Hidimba, am around. Master needs to know about this giant. Master will know what to do.

He watched as the giant tended to a fire. The colossus was about a stone's throw away from where he lay with his back to the pile of bones. As far as Hidimba could tell the flames came from a hole in the stone floor of the giant's cavern. Every so often the giant would pour something out of a bowl, probably demon fat judging from the way it popped, hissed, and spat, onto the open flames. The fire would then rush up into the air with a wicked crackle and burn brightly for a moment or two. When the flames reached their highest, Hidimba could make out all the detail of the creature's fascinating lair.

It was not as large as the earlier cavern Hidimba had visited, but it was of goodly size. It was round with a high ceiling, though not nearly as lofty as the great chasm with the dais, and the walls were smooth and shiny. The wall nearest the fire was inlaid with shelves and storage spaces that had been cut into the rock. One such space, near the center and by far the largest, had its contents concealed by a cut sheet of stone that filled the opening—its once smooth surface covered with strange glyphs that Hidimba could not decipher. An artisan, seemingly very skilled, had etched them onto its surface and fit the stone almost perfectly over the hidden chamber. In fact, the only reason that Hidimba could tell that a compartment existed behind the rock was because of a faint glow that outlined it. The demon concluded at once that this was where the giant kept his treasure. He knew that the giants had been a greedy lot. Also near the fire were two raised sections of rock like he had seen in the larger cavern, but they were much smaller and lower than that one. As best he could tell, they served as a table and a bed for the giant.

Hidimba was impressed by the amount of work and craftsmanship the giant had put into his lair. Just from listening to the legends, he had always imagined them to be simple and monstrous creatures that coveted and destroyed, not created. Nothing he had seen of Sheol before this day had led him to believe otherwise. Most of the place seemed to have been created in a rush; it was as if those who labored did so only to create space and protection, which they did a very good job of. Sheol remained vast and undisturbed. Hidimba knew, however, that the giant that shaped out this room was no mindless savage.

He seemed too . . . well . . . civilized. There was a kitchen area, dining area, sleeping quarters, storage space, and even a refuse pile in his cave. This was not the lair of a monster; it was more like a home. And Hidimba figured the giant that lived in here must be patient and organized. That was a good thing for the demon. Hidimba knew that with patience came wisdom, and if this giant was wise then perhaps he could be reasoned with.

Hidimba continued to watch the giant working with the fire. He was most impressive looking. As tall as a young tree, his muscles were thick and corded. He wore no hair on his head, a full beard just below his chin, and only stubble on his face and upper lip. Something about him reminded Hidimba of lord Kokabiel and master. Perhaps it was the proportion of his body, or the perfect glow of his skin. He didn't look as old as Hidimba thought he should either. Very few age lines were visible upon him. He did, however, carry many scars on his massive frame. They were all faint and well healed, but anyone could see that this giant was a warrior and very battle tested.

Hidimba's fear had yielded to fascination while he watched the giant work the fire. Things changed back quickly when he realized it was a cooking fire that the behemoth was trying to get just right, and rakshasa demon was what he intended to cook. He didn't have much time left. With the last bit of his courage Hidimba took a gamble.

"Giant," he yelled. "Giant . . . come and free me from these bindings."

Hidimba didn't have to yell twice. The giant obviously had exceptional hearing because he snapped his head around quickly before the second word had even left the demon's mouth. He then sat his bowl down and began lumbering towards Hidimba with an amused look on his face. He looked even more intimidating from the front. The closer he got to the bone pile, the more Hidimba regretted opening his mouth.

What a fool . . . to order a giant. A giant that would eat me. A giant that will see through this false bravado and suck my eyes from my skull. Quiet Hidimba. I should have stayed quiet and worked on the bindings . . . maybe sneak out of here undetected. Now it is too late. It is over.

"Awake and talking I see," the giant said as he drew close to Hidimba. "Both are surprises."

The giant's voice was deep and smooth. He spoke clearly and not too fast-like a good leader would. He was not as ugly as Hidimba imagined him to be either. Up close he reminded the little demon even more of his master. He was a lot bigger though, which Hidimba would have thought impossible before seeing him.

Azazel and Kokabiel were much larger than any humans Hidimba had ever seen, and he never imagined discovering another man-like creature that dwarfed them both. But this giant did. Hidimba guessed him to be thirteen or fourteen foot tall, and figured he must weigh the same as a bull. He wore a pair of pants cinched around his waist that looked to be made from the skins of animals sewn together and a pair of much worn sandals. Hidimba lost his voice once the giant was upon him. The colossal didn't fail to notice.

"Oh come now," he said with mockery in his tone. "Just a moment ago you were ordering me about. What was it that you wanted again? For me to free you . . . is that correct? Isn't that what you said?"

Hidimba managed only a nod and some sort of mewling sound. Nothing had prepared him for this amount of fear and nervousness. The giant was so near to him. Just the thing's presence seemed to choke him down.

"And why would I free you? Tell me that, huh . . . I mean I'm not even sure what you are. A demon surely, but what kind I do not know. Certainly you're no goat, or one of those little pig faced incubi, and I 'm not positive of this . . . but I don't think that you're Dantalion either." The giant barely managed to finish his last sentence before a hearty laugh rushed out of his chest. He was clearly amused and having much fun at Hidimba's expense.

The little demon watched as the giant bent at the waist, put his hands on his knees, and continued with the uproarious laughter. Hidimba didn't find the jest as funny. He knew who Dantalion was-the great Duke of Hell, commander of legions of demons, resident of Sheol-and that he could never attain that kind of ancient power. But unlike the behemoth before him, he also knew that his master and Lord Kokabiel, who were just as ancient and maybe as powerful as Dantalion, were residents of Sheol now to. And they were looking for those that would oppose them. A little of Hidimba's fleeting courage managed to return to him, and he finally addressed the giant.

"I am rakshasa . . . shape-shifter and possessor of men. My kind is few. We live near the top of the first chasm upon the Ledge of Sorrow." The little demon saw that the giant had quit laughing and was listening to what he said. "I am called Hidimba," he stated nervously and watched for a reaction from the giant. He didn't expect the one that he got.

The giant began to laugh again. This time it was harder than before. Only now, right after he would draw a breath, he would precede almost every laugh with a few words. It was no secret what he found so funny.

"A named demon . . . right here in my bone pile . . . says his name is Hidimba," the giant squeezed in between his great chuckles. After some time he regained his composure. The little demon had remained silent, only watching as the giant berated him.

"Forgive me demon. I've forgotten my manners, to laugh at such an esteemed guest as you. Hidimba you say. Well Hidimba, may I ask you a question?" The giant continued straightway, without waiting for an answer. "How is it Hidimba that you would need my help to free yourself from your bindings? How is it that I was able to even put you in the bindings in the first place? And how come you and I are not battling each other fiercely this very moment? You see little demon, I know Dantalion . . . and I know Naberius . . . and I know others of their kind. I do not, however, know of any Hidimba. And while it's possible, perhaps even likely, that I may not know all named demons . . . I know you're not one. I will applaud your ingenuity though. Telling such a magnificent lie in order to stay alive was very original."

"I'm not lying giant."

"You're a demon. It's your nature to lie. But you don't have to really. Once I heard you speak, I knew I couldn't eat you. Good conversation is hard to come by when you live deep beneath a mountain inhabited by demons."

"Now who's lying giant?" Hidimba asked very skeptically.

"Well, if you were fatter perhaps it wouldn't matter that you can talk," the giant responded with a grin. "But you're hardly more than an appetizer, and besides, I've developed a taste for goat over the years. But I'm sure you've figured that out already."

"Will you untie me then?"

"Perhaps. But not just yet. I want to know where you heard the name Hidimba."

"My master gave it to me."

"Named demons do not have masters . . . at least none that I have ever known."

"I think perhaps that's about to change. At least to some degree. My master is very powerful," Hidimba said proudly.

"This is nothing new little demon. Every few hundred years or so one arch fiend or another, either from within the rock of Sheol or without, convinces itself that it is powerful enough to lead all the other demons. It never works. Demons have no desire to be led-they only respect and fear that which is stronger than they are, and no one demon lord or arch devil is powerful enough to force the rest to close ranks behind them. And so chaos and misery ensues, and the world of man and the elect stay safe and in control. It has always been so. Don't get too caught up in the vision of your master little demon. It will end badly for you if you do."

"My master is neither demon nor devil . . . he is . . . well . . . I think he's an angel."

The giant threw his head back, amused once again, but stopped short of uproarious laughter. Only a single "Ha" echoed off the rock. He was shaking his head slightly when he next looked at Hidimba. "Your stories are remarkable demon. I have never met one as entertaining as you. But I should warn you . . . don't go around this place announcing that you're in league with an angel. I find your lies amusing, but others here may not."

"But they're not lies. I know I'm not powerful. Not yet anyway. I had hoped that one day master would make me so . . . but anyway, master named me not long ago and we were on our way to tell the great demons of this place when I became lost. Goat demons chased me to the point of exhaustion, and then you found me, bashed me on the head, and I woke up here."

"I do hope your head feels better. It was an accident-you were taller than I thought you were when I lifted you up."

"I'll survive. At least, that is, if you're an honest giant and don't throw me into your cooking fires. You said you wouldn't," Hidimba reminded him. He was feeling better about his chances for survival, but he still didn't trust this giant. He did, however, find himself drawn to the hulking figure. "An idea has struck me giant . . . one that I think will be good for the both of us. You could free me, and then help me find my master. He would like to see you I'm sure. Perhaps he would even give you a name."

"I have a name little demon . . . I am called Og," the giant responded quickly. Hidimba knew he had offended the colossus; the warmth and humor left the giants voice. He couldn't concern himself with that at the moment; however, another thought was marching through his demon brain.

Og. I have heard that name. Why do I know that name. What did Og do? Who told me about Og? Og. Og. Og. I must know.

"And I told you that perhaps I would let you go," Og continued, "but I never said anything about finding your master. I have no desire to leave here. If and when I let you go, you're on your own."

Hidimba didn't know, if given the chance, if he would leave the safety of Og's cave without the giant accompanying him. The incident earlier with the Se'irim had been very trying on the little demon, and if he left Og to go searching blindly for his master more of the same would follow. Without someone, either his master or Og, to act as a safeguard, he could not survive this place for very long. His luck would eventually run out.

He resigned himself to befriending the giant. Strangely, he hoped that Og might like the idea. Hidimba found everything about Og fascinating, and he could think of worse things than having a giant for an ally.

First lord Kokabiel returns, then a new master, then a name, and now I have found a giant and I am still alive. Strange times. Strange times indeed. If only I could recall . . . Og . . . where in the name of the Morning Star have I heard that name before?

"Would you set me upright Og the giant? The bones poking into my back are quite uncomfortable." Hidimba was testing the behemoth. If Og cared one iota about his comfort then maybe he really wasn't going to eat him. Perhaps the giant even enjoyed his company. The loneliness and isolation of this cave would make even the most hardened creature long for some sort of companionship. "Even if I could escape these bindings, there is nowhere for me to run except right back into the waiting embrace of the goat demons. Grant me this one small request Og the giant. I beg of thee."

Og nodded once and reached out with his enormous hand. He grabbed Hidimba by the left shoulder and set him upright amongst the pile of bones. The heartiness had returned to the giant's face, and Hidimba assumed that all was forgiven.

"Thank you great Og."

"It is nothing. I'm afraid that I'm not a very good host to begin with. I'm out of practice. Almost all of the guests that I've ever had here, I've had to eat. Through the years I have learned to hold sway over my once voracious appetite, but unfortunately I cannot master it completely. I still require food from time to time. Speaking of which . . . are you hungry demon? I have food stored near the fire."

Hidimba shook his head. "Unlike most of the others here, my kind requires little to eat. Which is good, because I'm no hunter."

"No you don't look like it," Og remarked. "You don't look very dangerous at all. Yet you tell me that you have a name, Hidimba I believe it was, and that your master whom you think is an angel, will soon be uniting all the other named demons in this place and assuming lordship over all of Sheol. Just entertainment to me, but to most others those are dangerous words . . . dangerous words indeed."

Hidimba sighed heavily. He was defeated. "I'm not dangerous. And I don't know what my master has planned for this place or those that manage to stay alive inside of it. I only know that when lord Kokabiel told my master of . . ."

"What name did you say demon?" the giant interrupted. All humor left his person, and his countenance became gravely serious. "Who told your master of something?"

"Lord Kokabiel?" Hidimba answered with a question of his own. He hoped this was the answer Og was looking for. The abruptness of the interruption and the tone of Og's voice had left him shaken. The giant could go from jovial to fearsome in the blink of an eye, and it was wearing on Hidimba.

"He has returned? Kokabiel. The star of God has returned?"

"Yes. I mean . . . I know he's been here in the past, but that was before I came to be at Sheol. I have no memory of him. I never thought of his arrival as a return." Hidimba found himself speaking in an apologetic tone, and he didn't know why.

"No," Og remarked, "you wouldn't know of the time before. Only myself and the eldest of demons here in Sheol would remember." He still spoke with a serious voice, but reason had returned to it. "You speak his name so casually Hidimba. Do you know anything at all about Kokabiel? Do you know why he was taken from Sheol so long ago? Do you know that it is impossible for him to be here now?"

"No, no, and no," Hidimba replied. "I know only this mighty Og-some time ago lord Kokabiel walked into Sheol from the direction of the old tunnel. He was followed closely by my master. They continued walking the old tunnel path until it reached its narrowest point right near the center of the great chasm. I had a very good view because, as I told you earlier, the rakshasa live near the trail on the great ledge. Once there, surrounded by nothingness, lord Kokabiel announced to Sheol that he had returned, and that he had brought his brother with him. His voice shook the mountain; it echoed throughout the great chasm and raced into the tunnels. All, except perhaps the old demons of the deep, heard or felt the power of his proclamation. They didn't linger out in the open afterwards. Quickly, they moved across the stone trail to the far side of the chasm where they lodged themselves in the old slave quarters. They have been there ever since. Now, I don't know by what means you measure the passage of time great Og . . . or if you measure it at all . . . but for the sake of my story I will tell you that it has been no more than two hours of an earthen day since I was summoned before my master, Azazel, and named. You know the rest of my story."

Og was staring at Hidimba with a look of disbelief frozen onto his face. His eyes were focused on the little demon's mouth, but his mind was somewhere very distant. This was a new reaction. Hidimba was beginning to tire of the giant's antics. It seemed to him that every time he spoke, Og acted like his words would topple the entire mountain range they lived beneath. He listened as the giant came out of his stupor and addressed him.

"I'm sorry Hidimba. Memories of a time that I had all but forgotten came rushing forward like a great wave. It overwhelmed me for a moment. You are certain that your master's name is Azazel?"

"That is what lord Kokabiel called him more than once."

"Then it is true. He has somehow freed himself, along with Kokabiel, from permanent imprisonment and certain damnation. Impossible."

"He is here. And he has been busy."

"Busy?"

"Many of us have been summoned lately, and for many different reasons. Master and lord Kokabiel have sent us all over. Such activity is . . . I don't know . . . very unusual for lack of a better description. It's almost like they have a purpose or plan, which is rare around here."

"Of course they have a plan," Og roared. "You are a young, silly little demon, and you have no idea who you're consorting with. They are not angels Hidimba. They are Fallen. They are Watchers. They are Grigori. Angels once, yes . . . but they left heaven to lay with mortal women and eventually corrupted the entire earth. There were two hundred of them at one time. Now all have been destroyed except for a select few who were imprisoned forever deep beneath the earth-their sentences pronounced by the Uncreated himself and carried out by the archangels. Lord Kokabiel and your master, Azazel, were two of their leaders. Azazel was . . . well is . . . the most purely evil and diabolical soul I have ever known. If he has escaped, then he has a plan, and all should be afraid."

Now it was Hidimba's turn to be skeptical. "You know my master?" he asked. "And lord Kokabiel?"

"Yes," Og answered. Concern now mixed with the disbelief in his voice. "I know them little demon, and we must find them after all. You see Hidimba . . . they are my uncles."

# CHAPTER 22

Thane opened the door to the trailer without hesitation. If Armaros wasn't worried about visitors, then he would steel himself and not show concern either. He refused to even look through the peep hole. With a twist of the wrist and one swiping motion of his arm, the metal door was open and he was staring at Father Lucas Mundy and the strikingly beautiful girl that was accompanying him.

He was immediately glad that Father Lucas was here. The padre had shown concern over him at the hospital, and Thane was comfortable with him around. He also remembered that there was more to the man than meets the eye. He was not surprised at all that Father Lucas just happened to appear while he was listening to the most amazing story he could ever imagine and learning things that just hours earlier he could have never hoped to know. It was no coincidence. Of that he was certain.

As for the girl, Thane thought that like Armaros, she must be some sort of angel. Her skin, unblemished and the color of desert sand, lay perfectly over both her well toned muscles and her womanly curves. Her legs and her hair were long. The latter was shiny and straight and pulled back loosely with a single knot just above her shoulders. Her eyes were sharp, the color of unworked jade, and they met with Thane's for just a moment. He was glad that she was here too, although he had no idea who she could be.

"Brother Thane," the padre announced as he looked the young man up and down. "You seem to be doing much better since the last time I saw you."

"I'm sure that I am Father but . . . I 'm still not sure what exactly happened."

"Bad business son . . . all of it. Just be glad that Armaros came for you. He has told you his name hasn't he?"

"Yes sir, among other things. I was listening to a bit of history when you knocked."

"Well I'm sorry that we interrupted. Perhaps we could sit and listen with you," the priest suggested, "that is . . . if Armaros has no objections." He leaned to his right and then his left, trying to get a peek at Armaros, as he finished talking. The big angel heard and saw him.

"Let them in Thane. I think the good Father is on our side, but he does have some explaining to do."

Thane stepped aside and gave the two a smile as they stepped inside the trailer. He could smell the girl's hair as she walked past. The scent made him think of dried flowers. The two sat on a worn couch that ran the length of the bar on the living room side. The girl had yet to speak.

"Is this your daughter priest?" Armaros asked jokingly.

"No, no, I'm sorry. This is Basia. We, uh . . . work together. She was at the hospital with us earlier, but I forgot that you didn't see her."

Basia inclined her head as she addressed Armaros. Her voice was intelligent and sprinkled with just a hint of some accent that Thane couldn't place. "You are very handsome to be called 'the accursed one' Armaros. I had expected a skin malady or perhaps a deformity of some sort."

Armaros laughed at the jest. "Thank you Basia. You are kind. I'm sure, however, that both you and Father Lucas know my curse is not a physical one. I found the priest there full of surprises last we met, and I'm sure you won't disappoint in that department either. You both seem very knowledgeable. And I will know about the magic priest. You have lots of answers to give me."

"And you shall have them Armaros," Father Lucas replied. "I shall tell you all about Basia and myself whenever you ask. Even now if you wish . . . but I didn't plan on interrupting your education of young Thane here."

"We had come to something of an impasse when you knocked. It will be easy to resume from that point," Armaros stated as he looked at Thane. "That is, if Thane is ready to continue."

"Almost," the young man answered. "Maybe you should tell me about this curse before we go any further."

"I have been called 'the accursed one' since the time of Noah. There is no real curse of any sort upon me though Thane . . . it's more like consequences for choices made long ago. I believe men began calling me that out of pity actually. Although forgotten, it's no secret that I spent much of my time here on earth trying to get back to where I came from-the first estate. It seems that it was all to no avail. The name has always followed close behind."

Thane could see a sadness welling up in Basia's eyes while the big angel spoke. When he finished she looked to Thane and gave him a little smile while mouthing something like "hey" or "hello." He supposed it would have to do for an introduction. "I believe you were telling me about Semjaza, and getting your names," he said to Armaros in a voice loud enough for the others to hear. "I would very much like for you to continue your story."

# CHAPTER 23

Semjaza did look impressive standing there before us. It seemed he was a natural choice to be our leader. He was certainly the largest of us all, rising just a bit above Mikhael who was standing beside him now. I saw him in a different light almost immediately.

I knew of his strength and size from the games that we had played before the seraphim came calling. I also knew that he had a penchant for being spontaneous and sometimes a bit impressionable. He would not have been my first pick, but if the archangels had chosen him then I must have been missing something. I had complete confidence in their wisdom. I would call him my leader without question.

My favorite brother was called next. Of all the others, he was the one that I spent most of my time with. His size and strength were both average among our kind, but I found his wit and intelligence second to none. He was always able to make me laugh. They named him Azazel and, along with Semjaza, declared him to be the second of twenty decarchs, or rulers of ten, that would lead the rest.

I was confused almost immediately. Was Semjaza then just one of the twenty? Was he the leader of the twenty? I had just, albeit somewhat reluctantly, accepted him as my leader, and now I was being told that either eighteen or nineteen more leaders were going to be named. But hadn't they said just moments before that he was first among the Watchers? I didn't dare ask; I didn't want to appear difficult, and part of me still thought that the archangels might explain further after all the leaders were picked. Instead, I listened intently so that I might know the name of my own decarch.

After Azazel, Mikhael continued naming those that would become decarchs. In order, they were Arakiba, Kokabiel, Tamiel, Ramiel, Danel, Ezeqeel, Barakiel, and Asael. Besides Azazel, out of the first ten named I knew only the one they dubbed Kokabiel. Again it was mostly his size that set him apart from the rest. He was not quite as tall as Semjaza, but he may have been a tad thicker-his muscularity was second only to that of Mikhael's. His hair was golden also, and few of our kind had light colored hair. He had always seemed pleasant and a bit aloof from what I could recall. I remember standing there hoping that I would be under his command, when a most unexpected thing happened. Gabriel pointed directly at me.

At first, I was sure that it was a mistake. One of my brothers must be standing behind or beside me, and it was he that Gabriel was calling over. Surely I wasn't going to be named a chief of ten. There was nothing that set me apart from the rest. I had no special skills. But as I continued to look at Gabriel, it became clear that it was indeed me that he wanted. I was a bit embarrassed as I took my first step in his direction.

The seraphim were all smiling as I drew nearer to them. No doubt they found the astonished look on my face amusing. But by the time I got to where they stood, my embarrassment had faded and excitement had replaced it. I had convinced myself that I was just as qualified to lead as any of the others that had been chosen. It was in the hands of the seraphim after all, and their reasoning was surely sound.

Mikhael and Gabriel each extended an arm and placed it on my corresponding shoulder as I entered their circle. Bliss rushed from their fingertips and completely filled me up. I never wanted to be away from them again. Raphael stood directly in front of me, and he was the first to speak.

"You seem happy brother. Were you hoping to become a decarch?"

"No brother," I answered. "I thought perhaps I was mistaken when I first saw Gabriel motion for me to come over. I still don't know why I was chosen, but I have faith in those that chose."

"We three did not choose you, brother," Gabriel corrected. "But we know why you were picked to be a decarch. It is obvious to all that know you, but perhaps hard for you to see yourself."

"You are the most complete of the two hundred," Mikhael continued. "You are one of the largest, one of the strongest, one of the smartest, and the most reasonable and measured of the entire lot. We, along with others, have watched you and all of your brothers interact with one another since the day you were created."

"We have particularly enjoyed watching you Armaros," Raphael remarked casually.

And just like that . . . I had a name. Armaros. Raphael made it seem magical, mysterious, and powerful all at once when it rolled from his lips. He was grinning, and wondering if I had caught on to his intentional slip of the tongue. I had. I liked the way it sounded when spoken aloud. Arm-a-ros. It was good to have a name.

"What does it mean?" I asked. My eyes were looking ahead at Raphael, but my question was directed to any of the three that cared to answer.

"That will be up to you Armaros," Mikhael answered. "Your name is a blank canvas that will be painted by the choices you make and the actions you take. You have shown promise since your creation though. And by not thinking of yourself as a decarch but still trusting in the decision to make you one, you have shown that you possess two more very angelic traits-humility, and faith."

"It may even be that you are the one Armaros . . . to go beyond what has been fated," Raphael interjected. After he told me this, Gabriel and Mikhael immediately turned me to face my brothers and introduced me to them as one of their leaders and the eleventh among the watchers. I had been dismissed. But I would not forget what Raphael had said to me.

I knew it was another intentional slip. There was a message in his words that was hidden from me, and from their actions, I could tell that the seraphim didn't want to answer any more questions. The more I was around him, the more I learned that Raphael quite often said things that were confusing at first, but would make perfect sense eventually. And it did . . . eventually. In this case, however, eventually seemed like an eternity. Now, it seems like an eternity ago.

Either way, I had been named and I now had other things to concentrate on besides some obscure words muttered to me in haste. Although I would never forget them, I was decarch now, and I was sure that would entail some responsibility. I was determined to make the seraphim pleased with my ability to lead. As I walked over to where the other decarchs stood I began to think of ways to do just that. The answer became apparent soon enough.

After the last of the chiefs of ten was named, a very serious brother whom the archangels named Sariel, the naming process was expedited for the remaining brothers. The seraphim separated and walked amongst the one hundred and eighty that were left. They touched each of them on their shoulder and spoke their name aloud but once. Fortunately, all seemed to be paying close attention to the archangels, so no name fell upon deaf ears. Once they were all named, the seraphim motioned for the decarchs to spread apart. As soon as we were sufficiently separated, they sent nine of the remaining and freshly named brothers to each of us, and training ensued.

I decided straightaway that my first act as chief of ten would be to attack whatever training they threw at us with all the zeal I could muster. The nine others under my command seemed like a willing enough bunch, and it was important to me that they did well. The only way that I knew to ensure that happened was to lead by example and hope that they followed. If the seraphim deemed me unfit as a decarch, it wouldn't be from lack of effort.

Weapons training was to be the first order of business for my group of ten. We, along with four other troupes, were led a fair distance away from the pool to a spot where many two handed swords were stuck neatly into the ground in a perfect circle of fifty. I didn't know how long they had been there, but by now we were accustomed to things simply appearing in our once pristine residence, so the swords were no cause for disquiet. Without having to be told, we formed a circle of our own-one each behind every sword. There we awaited the direction of Mikhael, who had led us over and now stood in the center of our circle of soon-to-be warriors.

"Your sword shall become an extension of you," he began. "It is the only weapon that you should ever wield. These blades, like yourself, are made from bits of the Uncreated; therefore, you and they are one and the same, and you shall treat them as such. They have been formed by the Principalities who reside near the middle of the earth and labor under the watchful eye of Cerviel their chief. They will not break, and they cannot be destroyed, but be careful how you wield them. They are one of the few items that can actually cause you significant harm.

I stared at the sword before me with new found respect. I knew of the Principalities-Gabriel had explained that they were angels from the third sphere who function as soldiers and artisans-and I understood that my great sword would be perfect. I wanted to pick it up so badly, grip the cruciform hilt in my hand, and feel the power and balance of its thrust. But I wouldn't . . . not yet . . . not until Mikhael told me to.

He reached over his right shoulder with his right hand and placed it under his raiment near the center of his massive back. With one graceful pull, he unsheathed his own previously hidden blade and revealed it to the rest of us. I could see right away that the only noticeable difference between his blade and my own was the color. While my sword, along with all the others in the circle, was brilliant silver, Mikhael's appeared to have a coppery hue that ran the length of its blade. It too was brilliant, and when he held it before us his entire persona changed. No longer did Mikhael the kindly teacher and mentor stand amongst us. Instead, Mikhael the warrior had come to light.

"You may remove your swords from the grass," he said. "Afterwards, I want each of you to take three steps backwards in order to create space between yourselves. You will need room in order to practice with your blades."

I pulled my sword from the firmament and held it closely before my eyes in order to inspect it more carefully. It was unscathed. Even the tip that I had pulled from the grass held no residue or blemish. I didn't know what was beneath that grass, but I had expected at least a smudge of something to be clinging to my blade.

I had also expected Mikhael to say more. He didn't. Instead he began to execute a series of very basic looking maneuvers with his sword. He would switch from one hand to two hands, from circular swings to stabbing thrusts, and then finish with a dodge and counter motion. At first I only followed with my eyes, but soon I was mimicking his every move with my own sword. The exercises felt very natural. The blade was comfortable and lighter than I expected. I felt like I had been created to wield this weapon.

As I continued practicing, I began to hear the sounds of my brothers nearest to me doing the same. Remembering the promise that I had made to myself, I interrupted my own training for a moment in order to look about and be sure that all who called me decarch were exercising also. They were. I was pleased, and my confidence in our group of ten grew as I saw the determination in their efforts. Satisfied, I returned to my own training just as an angel that I had never seen before plummeted into our midst. He was followed by a sound and a wind that together seemed they might rip our world apart.

I never looked away. Most had shielded their faces or turned away from the heart of the circle when he landed, but I had seen the angel racing down upon us and was not surprised when he touched down. His entrance neither startled nor impressed me. I was, however, interested. Already I knew that he was very different from the others.

There was no smile on his face as he straightened himself up to his full height and looked around the circle. In fact, as he turned and inspected us all with his chin jutting into the air a bit, he seemed quite unimpressed with the lot of us. That feeling was not mutual. I disliked this angel almost immediately, but I can't say that he was unimpressive.

His wings were the grandest of them all. He had six sets of them that he kept semi extended as he moved towards Mikhael. They decreased in size from top to bottom and emitted a silver brightness so intense, that it was hurtful to behold. Only after he completely relaxed them was I able to fully open my eyes.

As he approached Mikhael I could see that he was almost the exact height and build of our teacher. He looked bigger than all of us though because of the extra bulk of his tremendous wings. I could tell he was aware of this distinction by the way he stood painfully erect once he reached Mikhael.

The hair on his head was beyond dark. It was a blue-black color with very little curl. He wore it long like most of us, but instead of letting it hang loosely about his shoulders, he had it pulled back tightly away from his face and woven into a single braid that fell perfectly into the crevasse between his wings. His skin had a red cast to it. It wasn't apple red, but it looked like perhaps he was burned a bit by the sun. I remember wondering when I first saw him if that was his usual color, or had he flown to close to one star or another.

His face was handsome, but not kind. The cleft in his prominent chin was very distinguished. His cheekbones were high and prominent also. He was lacking any roundness or fullness; his face was all angles and severity. I can't remember anything worth noting about his eyes.

All of my brothers were watching along with me. They had quickly recovered from the shock of the angel's entry, and were now sauntering over to their original positions. The circle was soon complete, and it was maybe a little tighter than before. Fifty pairs of eyes looked upon the two seraphim that stood near the center of it. None of them knew what to expect.

"Starting without me Mikhael?" the angel asked. His voice was intoxicating. I found myself wanting him to say more. Fortunately, he also seemed to like the sound of his voice and was happy to oblige. "You know that our new brothers would benefit from my knowledge of all things relevant to their eventual posts. Especially the sword. I have no equal with a blade. They should see me with one. I think it would behoove them to do so. Don't you Mikhael?"

I looked to my teacher for his reply. He wore a look of defiance upon his face. His answer was a bit too long in coming. "Perhaps Sammael," he said. "But I'm afraid that our brothers don't-

"Viceroy," the angel called Sammael interrupted. "I am to be called viceroy by all. Even you Mikhael."

Our teacher's grin returned when he heard the heightened tone of Sammael's voice. It was more mischievous looking than normal. I knew then that he had deliberately provoked the other seraph. This bantering between the two was apparently nothing new.

"Perhaps viceroy," Mikhael stressed. "But I'm afraid that our brothers don't even know who you are, seeing as how you have never visited them before . . . viceroy." I didn't know if Sammael caught the sarcasm in Mikhael's voice. If he did, he chose to ignore it, but it was there. His lack of respect for Sammael was obvious. I was surprised to see two seraphim behaving this way. I remember thinking that perhaps I had been holding them too high above the rest of us. Maybe I had been naive putting them on a pedestal, and they were not so different from us. The thought was as uncomfortable as the tension that hung thick in the air, making us all a bit uneasy. Not one of my brothers nor I knew where this was headed. Conflict was a stranger to us all.

Sammael turned away from Mikhael and began to walk slowly around the inside of the circle. He looked into the eyes of each of us as he passed; his air of superiority was in full display as he began his introduction.

"Forgive me," he said in an overly dramatic fashion. "Forgive me for not neglecting all of my heavenly duties so that I could be here to hold the hands of you two hundred Watchers. Forgive me for not being here when good Mikhael, dear Gabriel, and sweet Raphael first enlightened you and explained about how things are done here. But I'm sure that they mentioned something called the 'celestial hierarchy' to you, did they not?" He stopped where he was and spun around so that he could see all of us. I found myself nodding in answer to his question. Many of my brothers were doing the same.

"Good," he continued. "Then you will be able to better understand just who I am. My given name, as you heard from Mikhael here, is Sammael. But you are to call me viceroy. That is the title given to me by the Uncreated. I rule heaven in his stead, and like God, my true name is not to be uttered.

I was first among the winged to be created, a fact that has never set well with Mikhael here. I am spawned from fire-the heart of God-and only particles of the Uncreated exist within me. Over four hundred million angels answer to me either directly or indirectly, and I take my responsibilities very seriously. The celestial hierarchy they told you about, well that begins with me. I am at the top. You are at the bottom. I have looked upon the face of God. You shall never see it. So once again, forgive me Watchers for not being here when your teachers deemed it appropriate that I should be."

As he finished his introduction, he also completed his walk around the circle. He was back near Mikhael who looked as if he was about to deliver his own monologue. But he didn't. He swallowed whatever it was he wanted to say, and forced himself to remain there, his grin still apparent. Sammael managed a grin of his own as the two faced off.

"Shall we demonstrate proper sword technique for our new brothers?" the viceroy asked.

"I think they would find such a demonstration highly educational . . . Sammael."

The viceroy drew his sword from over his shoulder before Mikhael even finished speaking. He made no attempt to hide neither the anger spreading across his face nor the determination in his movements. This latest insult would not go unpunished. I feared my teacher would be cleaved in half as the viceroy, who never slowed the motion of his sword as he pulled it from its scabbard, swung downward in a great arc-his blade directed at Mikhael's forehead.

* * *

"Who is Sammael?" Thane asked. He couldn't contain his curiosity any longer. He could tell that Basia and Father Lucas both knew who this viceroy was, but he had never heard the name before and he had the distinct feeling that he was the only one missing something. "I mean who is he really? I'm sorry to interrupt again, but I feel like I should know this angel if he is a seraphim like Mikhael and the others-all of which I was familiar with. Why don't I know Sammael?"

"You know him Thane," Armaros countered. "Permit me to tell just a bit more of my story, and I promise things will become clearer for you . . . especially where Sammael is concerned."

"Sorry. I try to stay composed and take all this in stride. I really do. It's just that . . . well, I know what I'm hearing is special stuff. Privileged stuff. A story unlike any other ever told, and I don't want to be overwhelmed by it all. I want to stay on top of every detail. So when I feel like everyone else knows something that I don't, I feel like I need to speak up. I don't want you to take for granted that I know something that I really don't. Do you understand what I mean?"

Armaros leaned forward in the big chair, his elbows resting on his knees. "Do not be sorry. I have always regarded questions as a measure of seeking wisdom Thane, and I want you to ask as many as you feel are necessary. The story that I tell is for your benefit. It is imperative that you understand it. Father Lucas and Basia are here as our guests. I do not know what they know of me and the events I speak of. Much like you, I suspect that they know much. But that doesn't mean that I will not have them leave if it would make you more comfortable."

Thane involuntarily looked towards Father Lucas and Basia. They were both nodding in agreement with Armaros. He was a bit alarmed. He didn't want them to go, especially not Basia he admitted to himself. "No, no," he said quickly. "That's not what I want at all. I'm glad you're here. Really. I just may need a little of your patience from time to time."

"And you shall have it Thane. Always," Basia noted. Thane could hear genuine concern and care in the girl's voice. He believed what she said, even though he had only known her for a short while. He realized he was staring and forced himself to look away.

"Thank you," he said.

"Does anyone want a beer?" Father Lucas asked.

Thane got the feeling that the priest was trying to lighten the mood.

"It looks like our gracious host partakes occasionally. Wouldn't you say?" the priest continued. Thane looked at all the beer cans and thought of his pathetic brother.

"Where's Cane?" he asked. He knew the answer to his question almost before he finished asking it. Father Lucas and Basia looked away from him very casually when he mentioned his brother's name. That confirmed what he already suspected. Cane was dead.

A part of him knew all along. His brother rarely left the trailer for any length of time, and Thane was sure he had been here for several hours. And if he did leave, Thane knew he would have taken his smokes and his keys with him, but there they sat, right next to Thane on the little end table. He wasn't sure how he felt just yet, but he needed to know more. He at least owed Cane that much.

"What happened?" he asked as he looked towards Armaros. He figured the big angel was most likely to give him an answer.

"He was dead when I got here Thane," Armaros answered. "I was too weak to protect him. The same evil that ravaged me destroyed him, and I could not stop it from happening."

"Was it more of those things? Like in the hospital."

"Not exactly. It was a ghoul, one of the undead-a rotting husk summoned from the grave and animated with a soul of the lost."

"Summoned by whom?"

"The same dark force that we spoke of earlier."

"Where is he?"

"Who?"

"Cane."

"I had to destroy his body," Armaros admitted painfully. "I'm sorry Thane, but if given the chance those who oppose us would have used your brother's corpse against you in some unspeakable way. I'm certain of it. I couldn't let that happen."

"What did you do?" Thane asked, more curious than mournful.

"I burnt him where he lay," Armaros answered, "with a conjured fire as hot as a star. There is nothing left, not even ash. Where the spirit has gone I have no idea."

"I could make a guess," Father Lucas interjected. "Forgive me for saying so, but you both know that Cane was a son-of-a-bitch. He and Thane could not be more dissimilar."

"Good God priest," Armaros announced with genuine surprise in his voice. "Cane was still his brother despite his shortcomings. He wasn't always as bad as he was near the end of his short life. And another thing priest, you're drinking alcohol and cursing. A cigarette next perhaps? Are you a clergyman or a soldier?"

Father Lucas, who now stood behind the bar in the kitchen after exploring the trailer's quietly humming refrigerator, stopped short in the middle of taking his latest swallow of beer. "I don't know the answer to that question anymore," he answered with a chuckle. "A little of both I think. But I do know all things in moderation." He raised his can in a mock toast. "You're right though. Perhaps I was a bit insensitive."

"It's all right," Thane said. "I know Cane was far from perfect. We had pretty much quit talking to each other altogether this past year or so. I resented him so much for the way he led his life, but he didn't deserve to go out like that. I mean . . . a ghoul killed my brother. It's like a bad Halloween story."

Thane looked at the floor and shook his head. He was starting to feel a little guilty for not being more upset about Cane's death.

Why can't I feel anything? He was my brother. Basia must think I'm a heartless bastard. I'm not . . . I just . . . I got nothing. Maybe I'll get sad later.

He considered trying to force out a couple of tears for show, but he had never been much of an actor. Furthermore, he rarely cried when he really was upset. It wasn't healthy to live like that, stoic and impassive, but it wasn't something that he could control. Thane had always been aloof, even as a child he shrugged off most things that didn't go his way. Since his parents death; however, he had become almost unfeeling when it came to matters of the heart.

At least he was smart enough to realize it wasn't something to be proud of. Although from time to time it helped in his line of work, for the most part Thane didn't like feeling detached. Especially now. Cane was dead, and he couldn't muster one tear for his big brother.

"I am sorry about your brother Thane," Basia stated. Her voice shook the young deputy out of his stupor. He glanced up and met her gaze. There was genuine care in her manner that made Thane comfortable. Basia would take care of him no matter what, even though he barely knew anything about her at all.

I met her less than an hour ago, yet I would weep if something bad happened to her. How is that?

"Thank you," he replied. He didn't dare say more. He was being pulled in so many directions-questions for Armaros regarding his account, questions for Father Mundy about who he really was, a growing interest in Basia, and now the death of his brother Cane-that he feared if he began to speak he would ramble on and embarrass himself. Instead, he reminded himself to be patient and listen. He knew that what Armaros was telling him was all that he should be presently concerned with, and he decided to make it so by focusing on the big angel's story with the same type of concentration he used for work assignments. It was a way that Thane could center himself, and force everything else to become secondary. Clarity is what he needed right now more than anything.

Father Lucas returned to his seat on the couch next to Basia. Both were looking at Armaros. Thane, newly focused and seemingly relaxed, was also watching the Watcher. Armaros smiled.

"As I was saying . . . Mikhael's head was but a moment from being cleaved in half . . ."

# CHAPTER 24

Hidimba was getting tired again. It was harder keeping up with the giant than it was trying to keep pace with lord Kokabiel and his master. Og's strides were lengthy, and each equaled three or four of the little demon's. Any attempt to rest or slow the giant would be futile. His only option was to keep up.

They were walking out of Og's lair via the same tunnel that the giant had used to drag Hidimba into it. Although unconscious for the latter part of the trip the last time he passed through this stretch of rock, the demon was beginning to recognize features of the tunnel. They were backtracking, and he hoped that none of the goats that had chased him into Og's cave were waiting for him still. The giant would be formidable if need be, but the goat demons were many in number, and fierce in their own right. He would just as soon avoid any trouble if he could.

Og had insisted on leaving the relative safety of his cave almost at once upon hearing of Kokabiel and Azazel. He had freed Hidimba, grabbed an immense spear from a crevice in the wall over by the fire, and marched in the direction of the tunnel closest to the bone pile. At the time, Hidimba didn't know where it led. Now he did, and he was uneasy.

Og had told him nothing more about those he called Watchers, or his relationship to them, as they journeyed. In fact, the giant hadn't spoken at all since they left the cave. All Hidimba heard was the sound of his own hoofs striking the rock floor of the tunnel over and over. Og on the other hand, was as quiet as a hunter as he moved swiftly through the mountain. He was comfortable in this rock, and his movements were fluid and easy. After watching the giant for some time, Hidimba came to realize that the owners of all those bones he once lay atop of never had a chance. And neither had he. A shiver passed through him at the thought of being stalked by Og through these halls. He decided to redouble his efforts to befriend the giant so that he would never have to worry about such a thing. As they continued to walk, Hidimba mustered the courage to speak.

"I would know more of your uncles great Og . . . that is, if you would tell me of such things."

"Our walk is not so far," the giant answered, "that I could tell you all I know of the Watchers. Theirs is a story of lust, sin, wretchedness, and destruction unlike any ever known before or hence. Theirs is a tale of antiquity, and yet it has not been completed. Their story is in a way, my story to. And it's one that is too sad for me to tell."

Hidimba's curiosity reached its zenith as he listened to Og speak. He never imagined that this rogue giant would know his master and lord Kokabiel so intimately, but he could see pain rising to the surface of the colossus' face as bad memories began to reign down on Og like blows. Hidimba, walking briskly to keep abreast of the behemoth, kept his head turned to the left and watched as Og winced every time a new recollection struck. The little demon wanted to see those memories very badly. He knew, however, that he would need to be subtle when dealing with the brooding giant.

"I understand," he said. "It's just that I was curious about the one I call master. A demon like me, weak and short lived, can only depend upon his wits and cunning to stay alive within this mountain. Knowing things, such as those you speak of, may help me to avoid being destroyed or eaten. It's demon nature to always think of oneself. And of staying alive too."

"So it is," Og murmured. "So it is."

The giant continued walking and silently contemplating. Hidimba hoped that Og would say more, but the giant probably needed a bit more persuasion if he was to open up. He was desperately trying to think of ways to needle the brute into telling him more when a recollection of his own flashed about in his demon brain. He remembered who Og was, or more specifically, he remembered where he had heard the name Og before.

"You're supposed to be dead," he told the giant.

Og glanced sideways at the little demon, but continued walking.

"You were a king once-a king of man. I've heard stories of you from the elders."

"Who would tell stories of me? And why?"

"Only the rakshasa, among the lesser demon kind, have memories of any length," Hidimba announced with pride in his voice. "The oldest of our kind tell stories all the way back to when the first rakshasa was formed. One day I will be expected to tell those same stories. It has always been this way among my kind."

"Demons telling stories? Your kind has certainly evolved from the slobbering filth that I've grown accustomed to."

"The rakshasa have always told stories. It is our collective memory. It is part of what makes us rakshasa." Hidimba grew more agitated as he continued. "We have always been civilized. Because we are relatively few in number, we were forced to band together to survive from the very onset of our time here. We rarely even kill our own kind, and we are not slobbering filth."

"Easy little demon," Og chuckled. "I believe you. I knew you were different when I first caught you in the tunnel. And the fact that you can talk, well that's probably what ultimately saved you from me. It's obvious that you're more advanced than the pigs or the goats. On the other hand, you're still a demon that lives beneath a mountain so you can spare me the noble, civilized talk when describing your kind."

"I only meant when compared to the Se'irim or the incubi. We do not behave like other lesser demon kind."

"Very good," Og replied as he continued walking. There was a finality in the giant's tone. Hidimba had been dismissed. This annoyed the demon. The giant's reluctance to talk was becoming irksome. There were things Og knew that Hidimba desperately wanted him to share.

As Hidimba thought of his next move, he looked ahead and realized they were approaching the area where the tunnel had last split-the area he had lost the goat demons. His uneasiness returned. With a few subtle steps, he eased himself closer to the giant as they passed into the one tunnel and beyond the fork. As they emerged, he turned and pointed in the direction of the other cave entrance.

"This is where I tricked the Se'irim. They took the right side, I the left. Where does this go to anyway?"

"To my chamber, just as the one I found you in does," Og answered. "However, your tunnel slopes downward very slightly and comes out level with the floor of my cavern. This tunnel, on the other hand, slopes upward and stops very abruptly just above the highest point of my chamber's ceiling. There, a rather large hole in the tunnel floor awaits any unsuspecting wanderers. The fall is high enough to kill, but usually it's just bones that are shattered."

Hidimba listened, but missed something. He wore a bewildered look on his face.

"It's a trap demon. The right tunnel is a trap-an easy way to get a bit to eat every once in awhile. I cut the rock and formed it myself. Now do you see?"

"Yes," Hidimba nodded. "Occasionally food just falls from the sky. Convenient. Do the beasts also land in your cooking fire when they plummet to their doom?"

Hidimba's voice was thick with sarcasm. Something about the tunnel trap had upset him, although he couldn't for the life of him figure out what it was that had him so on edge. If anything, he should be elated that he didn't take the right tunnel and end up broken on the cavern floor.

"No," Og answered. He glared at Hidimba. "Often times I have to drag them, bloodied and bleating, over to the fire. Luckily for them, the pain of the short trip usually renders them unconscious before I toss them into the flames."

Hidimba said no more. The giant had made his point—Og held no sympathy for demon kind or anything else that he might eat.

"You tricked no one little demon," the giant said. "The goats didn't take the right tunnel. They took neither tunnel. My trap has become less and less effective as of late, because the goats have figured out that this area of Sheol lends itself to the disappearance of their kind. They will not venture any further than where we presently stand. It has forced me out to hunt more and more. In fact, I was on my way to get more meat for my reserves when I found you lying about. So count yourself lucky Hidimba, but not particularly crafty."

Og turned away as he finished talking. He set his gaze straight ahead and his pace was a half step brisker than before. Hidimba rushed to keep up.

They walked in silence for some time. The unchanging rock of the mountain continued to both encircle them and pass them by. Hidimba had managed to keep pace with the giant, but the effort was taking a toll on him. He was too run down to even call out for rest. His legs moved only on instinct. The demon knew that soon he would begin to fall behind. He kept looking as far ahead as he could and hoping with all of his black demon heart, that when the next fork in the tunnel appeared Og would grant him a moment of respite from the pains of this journey.

The demon's lucky streak continued. Hidimba had just decided to lay down in the tunnel and die, when he noticed the faint glow of natural light ahead. He knew that it was from the great cavern with the dais, the entrance to which was only a short distance away from where the tunnel that he was in came to an end. Og called for a halt when they emerged. Hidimba crumpled to the rock floor.

"Tired demon?" Og teased. He had to wait a moment for a reply as Hidimba gathered himself.

"This is where I lost my master," Hidimba remarked, choosing not to acknowledge the giant's badgering. "We had just come through the great cavern there, and I turned to get a final look at it. When I turned back around, master and lord Kokabiel were gone. I chose the wrong tunnel in my pursuit of them."

"So you did my little friend," Og agreed. "And now fate has brought the two of us together for what is surely going to be a volatile time for all. Strange bedfellows we are . . . eh Hidimba?"

The demon only nodded. He was too exhausted for stringing together a verbal reply. Besides, he had no idea what Og meant about this being a _volatile time_. He did notice that Og had called him friend, however, and he found the thought pleasing. He had never had a friend before. He wasn't even sure if demons had the capacity to befriend anyone or anything, but he was going to try. Og was somewhat temperamental and liked ribbing him a bit, but Hidimba still liked the giant and felt safe when he was around him.

"You liked the cavern you say? It is still impressive isn't it?" the giant asked. He had walked over and stood in the entryway to the grotto. "My father, Ogias the great, was king of all giants and the mightiest of our kind. His father, Semjaza, was first among the Watchers and brother to both your master and Kokabiel. Thus, I call them uncle."

Hidimba watched as Og walked into the great cavern. Despite his weariness, he forced himself off the floor and followed the giant in. He could not miss any of the giant's musings, no matter the cost to his aching body. Once inside, he spotted the giant nearing the large protrusion that stood in the center of the cave.

Og had his arms crossed and resting upon the dais when Hidimba reached him. His chin sat gently upon one of his massive forearms and his eyes were looking up. His mind, Hidimba knew, was far, far away.

"Mighty Og," the demon whispered. He hoped to gently bring the giant back to the present. He grew frightened without him. "Mighty Og . . . shouldn't we keep moving," Hidimba said. He reached out and lightly nudged the giant's thigh. "Og . . . Og . . . Og . . ."

"Now is not the time to show fear Hidimba," Og stated flatly. "I want you to promise me that you will remain calm despite what I'm about to tell you."

Og's tone had already frightened Hidimba more than anything that he could say would. The giant was deathly serious. He had not been daydreaming at all. Instead, he was studying and concentrating on whatever unnamed menace was out there.

"I will do my best," the demon whispered, even though he knew his best wouldn't make a difference. Already his knees weakened.

"Your friends the Se'irim are here with us. They watch us now. To your right . . . gathered in front of another of the cavern's entryways. Look slowly, and make no reaction."

Hidimba did as the giant said. It took him only a moment to see them. He was surprised by how many were there. He counted at least thirty, but they were too far away and moving about too much for him to be sure. He was sure of one thing, even in the waning light it was obvious that all of their black goat eyes stared in his direction.

Hidimba continued watching them. He was far too concerned to look away. They seemed restless and antsy, but also a bit unsure of themselves. He so hoped that they would just leave or let him and Og leave without incident. Thirty or more seemed too many, even for Og the giant.

"What are they doing?" Hidimba asked.

"Looking and waiting."

"Looking for what?"

"Weakness. Fear. Either of the two would incite an attack. These Se'irim, like their counterparts, are herd animals. Can you see the big ram up front? The darkest of them with the eight horns."

"Yes. I see him."

"He's leading this group. Probably the oldest, certainly the strongest. The rest wait to see what he does. If he goes, they go. If he attacks, so do they. But right now he's having trouble making up his mind. I'm sure he's never seen anything as large as me before, and he doesn't know if it's worth the risk. I hold the promise of much meat for the group. What he's not sure of is how much death I might also promise the group."

"What's the answer? How many of them do you think you could take down with you?" Hidimba asked nervously. He hoped for a goodly number. If his life was at stake, Hidimba was certain that he could defend himself against two of the beasts.

"I will kill them all. And I will not be taken down," Og answered. Hidimba turned away from the goat's and looked at the giant. Og was still staring at the black ram. He had not been boasting, nor even stretching the truth. Hidimba was certain that the giant really would kill them all.

"Then why are we so concerned with whether or not they attack us? I mean if you can slay the whole group of them, what difference does it make what they do?" the demon asked. He was confident as he turned back towards the Se'irim.

"Because I'm not sure that I can kill the whole lot of them . . . and keep you alive while doing it."

The little demon closed his eyes. His newfound confidence had dissipated quickly. He hated these damn goats. He hated Sheol. He hated being a demon.

"Do what you must Og. I am unconcerned with what happens to me. I grow weary of running from goats. I grow weary of this entire place."

"Perhaps we will gamble then," the giant answered. He grabbed Hidimba around the chest with his mammoth right hand and tossed him up onto the carved rock dais. Hidimba stumbled, but managed to stay on his feet. "Tell the beasts what you think of them," Og continued. "Tell them your name, the name of your giant, and anything else that you can think of. Hold nothing back and make it convincing. I'll take care of the rest. When this is over Hidimba, if you're not dead, the goats may fear you for a change." Og smiled at the little demon and began moving away from him. Hidimba assumed that he was going to hide from the goat demons. "Tell them," he heard the giant's voice say from behind the far end of the stage.

The little demon turned towards his tormentors. He focused his anger and his misery on the big ram. His voice came easily.

"I am called Hidimba by those brave enough to speak my name," he began. His voice was louder than it had ever been. He didn't know if it was his hate or the cut of the stone that amplified his speech, but all of the Se'irim stopped meandering about and listened as he continued. "I am consort to the ancients and master of giants. All who know me, fear me. Pain and death are my companions, and they follow me closely. Those who bring me to anger shall feel both of their icy grips. I travel from-

"Point at their leader . . . the big one up front," Og interrupted with a hushed voice from behind the dais.

-the depths of Sheol, and now you will know my wrath," Hidimba finished. He raised his arm and slowly unfurled his discolored finger right at the big ram. His proclamation was followed immediately by the sound of light footsteps and a great movement of air. He kept his eyes and finger pointed at the dark goat despite the bit of activity he had heard to his right. He watched as the beast was lifted off of its feet and shot backward against the cavern wall. There it stayed. Dead. Og's great spear protruded from both its chest and back, and penetrated into the rock beyond. The ram, its hooves inches from reaching the ground, hung limply from the lance that had run it through.

It was an impossible throw. Hidimba knew the distance was too lengthy. The force necessary was too great. He was as dumbfounded as the remaining goat demons that stood about staring at the carcass of their newly impaled leader.

"Finish your speech," Og said in the same hushed voice he had used moments earlier. "And make it convincing."

Hidimba composed himself as Og requested and found his voice once more. He still, however, could not accept that the giant had really thrown that spear. "Who else will oppose me?" he asked, his voice painfully shrill and loud as before. "Who else dares to stare and posture before me? Which of you goats shall I end next? Is there no one?"

Og remained hidden in the shadow of the rocky protuberance. The Se'irim were in disarray. Hidimba had hoped as much. Now he wanted them to flee. Og had only one spear. The rest was up to him. If they regrouped and charged, Og would not be able to keep him safe-especially without his spear. Hidimba was performing to save his own life. He needed to act like it.

"Go then," Hidimba continued, "and tell all of your kind of the rakshasa who tames the giants. Tell them of Hidimba."

The bluff was working. The goats scrambled back into the cave opening from which they came. None turned to give a final glance at the mighty Hidimba. The ruse was complete.

"Tell me little demon," Og began as he rose up to his full height and neared Hidimba, "had you practiced that speech before? In your dreams perhaps, or when no one was watching. You were convincing . . . giant tamer."

"Not that specific one, no. But I have often imagined myself as more than just a common rakshasa," Hidimba admitted, "and I have, from time to time, thought over the words I might tell my subjects."

"A demon with imagination," Og said, "you continue to surprise me little one."

"I can say the same for you. How can a lance be thrown so far, so straight, and with such force? It remains in the rock still. I'm sure you've ruined it."

Og offered his hand, and Hidimba walked over to it. The giant grabbed him snugly and set him down from the stage. He was glad to be back at the giant's side. The speech was fun, but he had felt alone and exposed upon the rock and not nearly as confident as he had sounded.

"I've been throwing that spear since before this place was dug," Og remarked. "And when we reach it, it will be intact. Your master made it for my father. Ogias was the first born child of the Watchers and cause for much celebration. It fell into my hands after his death. It has no equal amongst spears, pikes, lances, or any other like weapon. Azazel was, and I imagine still is, unrivaled at creating instruments of war and death."

The giant began walking in the direction of his spear. Hidimba followed. The demon wasn't enthusiastic about visiting an area that the Se'irim had just left, but the idea of being away from Og was even more frightening. He scurried to catch up.

The dead ram smelled awful. As the two drew closer to the spot where the suspended beast hung, both Og and Hidimba were squinting their eyes and breathing shallow in an attempt to circumvent most of the stink. In addition to the goat's musky, earthy, everyday odor, the smell of shit also loitered about. Once they reached the creature, they saw that it had emptied its bowels, probably after it was already dead.

Hidimba stopped to take a closer look at the dead goat, but Og walked a few paces more and peered into the cave that the other Se'irim had used to exit the cavern. Seemingly satisfied, he turned and strolled back to stand beside Hidimba who was staring into the open but lifeless eyes of the goat demon. Both seemed to have grown accustomed to the smell.

Hidimba had never been this close to one of the Se'irim before. Although they lived all about him, the goat demons and rakshasa always kept a goodly distance between themselves-unless of course the voracious goats saw an opportunity for an easy meal by picking off the occasional rakshasa that strayed from the clan. The rakshasa, on the other hand, ate very seldom, and when they did it was almost exclusively incubi. No goat demon had ever been drug into the rakshasa stronghold that Hidimba could remember.

"They look even more like _real_ goats than I thought they would . . . up close like this I mean," Hidimba exclaimed. He was still looking at the dead Se'irim. The creature's neck and jowls were meatier than a real goat's. Its eight horns and its canine teeth also separated the demon from the domesticated brand. It did, however, look mostly like a goat from the neck up and from the waist down.

The in-between was unmistakably humanoid. Only the dark fleece that blanketed the entire ram kept its chest, arms, and torso from appearing wholly man-like. It even had hands, not hooves, which ended in dark, overgrown nails, hanging from the end of each of its oversized arms. Even hanging lifeless and impaled on the end of a spear, the beast's powerful muscles were on full display.

Hidimba revisited his earlier train of thought. After seeing the Se'irim up close, he was not as confident as before in his ability to hold his own in battle with the creatures. He still thought that he would be a good match for one, but defeating two would be next to impossible for him. Even in death, the ram seemed formidable. Hidimba was uneasy.

"There is _real_ goat in their ancestry," Og answered. "The first pair of these abominations was created on a whim-just to see if it could be done. They are experiments. They are not natural. They did not evolve. They are not supposed to exist." The giant reached out and took hold of the end of his great spear. Hidimba could see the anger in his movements. His voice was rage tinged with disgust. "Then again . . . neither am I."

With a great tug he dislodged his spear from the cavern wall. The ram remained skewered. Og kept the lance level and brought the goat demon in closer for a once over. His upper lip rose into a malevolent sneer. Hidimba shuddered.

"A woman. A goat. Fallen magic. The soul of a demon," Og said. "That's all it took to create an entire caste of devils that, if left unchecked, will eventually overrun all of Sheol. These things breed continuously and there isn't enough greater demon kind left here to keep their numbers in check. It's inevitable. A species that was produced solely to spawn and produce food has endured and thrived whilst those around it have dwindled in number or died out completely."

Og shook his head and lowered the tip of his spear to the ground. The weight of the goat demon caused it to follow. It made a sickening, wet sound as it's innards past over the shaft of the great spear for the second time. The giant then stepped on the beast's chest and removed his spear with a bend of his mammoth arm. He gave the creature a final look as he stepped over its lifeless form. "I can't kill all of these monsters by myself," he said, "but I would enjoy the challenge."

Hidimba followed as Og walked back towards the rock dais. He didn't know why they were revisiting the high stage, but he was sure the giant had good reason. Upon reaching the proturbence, Og again lifted the little demon up and sat him atop the carved rock.

"Am I to give another speech? Did you enjoy the first one so much that you'd have me give a new one just for you?"

Og chuckled at the demon's remarks.

"I like you Hidimba. Although I never imagined myself befriending one of the lesser demon kinds, you are an interesting mix of fear, curiosity, and humor. You're also full of surprises. Your behavior is sometimes very un-demon like, and I find that refreshing-especially in a place like Sheol, where being different usually means being dead. I do not yet know why circumstance has brought you to me, but I believe it to be more than just coincidence. Fate taught me long ago to never be surprised by my appointed lot. I've decided that you deserve to be enlightened. For better or worse, you need to know the scope of what you're being drawn into. I have no idea where your loyalties lay, or if you even feel loyalty to anyone or anything, but still you will be told. If things are as I suspect, it will soon be time for picking sides. Are you ready to listen?"

The demon was eager. He knew what Og meant. At least he hoped that he did. Finally he would know more of his companion than just a name, and the fact that he could throw a spear for a great distance. He would know of the Watchers, the giants, Sheol, his master, maybe even Og's time as king. There was just no telling what this giant might know. He had himself worked up into quite a fever, but still he managed to answer the giant and look relatively at ease while doing so.

"I would hear what you have to tell me Og. And I must admit that I'm hopeful its information about yourself and your rather peculiar genealogy."

Again the giant laughed. "Yes Hidimba," he nodded, "it is. But it wasn't your constant needling or subtle trickery that convinced me to tell you about that which has your curiosity so piqued. Instead, it is my fear that you have some part to play in future events that were prophesied long ago. These events may or may not be unfolding. That is what I will soon find out. Either way, I will have you educated. I will not let it be said that a lack of preparation on my part tilted the scale of Enoch's prophecy one way or another."

"Who's Enoch?"

"He was a scribe. Now he is more. But I will get to that all in good time. Do you ever stop asking questions?"

"I'm sorry great Og. I will force myself to show restraint even though I'm very anxious to hear your story."

"We don't have time for stories Hidimba. I've told you that once already. Besides, I'm no storyteller. Any yarn that I could spin would undoubtedly bore you to death. What I will tell you, however, is the facts as I know them. Maybe if you know a bit of history, you will be better informed and able to make better decisions in the future, especially as they relate to the Prophecy of Enoch. I will be as brief as possible, and I will not embellish. On the other hand, I will try to be thorough. Perhaps then I will have earned a refrain from your damnable questions. Do not interrupt me."

Hidimba only nodded. He couldn't help feeling a little privileged. A giant stood before him about to tell him things that only the most ancient denizens of Sheol would know. His good fortune seemed to be continuing. Sadly, he didn't know who to thank. There was no God in Sheol.

# CHAPTER 25

Mikhael was too fast even for the viceroy. What should have been a killing blow missed completely as our teacher moved to his right and swung his own sword at the head of Sammael. He missed also. Sammael was just as quick. We all continued staring at the two archangels as they hacked, dodged, parried, and swung at each other with unrivaled swiftness and accuracy. Neither gained advantage over the other.

They were perfectly matched. But while Mikhael seemed resigned and accepting of that fact, Sammael was furious about it. His visage was twisted with rage and his every movement was filled with bad intentions. I had never before seen such open malevolence on display. This was no training exercise. I, along with all of my brothers, could plainly see that the viceroy meant to do Mikhael great harm.

For his part, Mikhael seemed unconcerned with Sammael's attack. He still wore his grin, and I'm sure that infuriated Sammael all the more. His movements were calm and effortless, and his demeanor never changed. Not even when the viceroy pressed his attack.

When it first happened, none of us even realized what the viceroy had done. Only after the two archangels slowed for the briefest of moments could I see that Sammael now held a second sword in his opposing hand. Instinctively I looked around to see where he had gotten it. It never occurred to me that he would have a second sword hidden beneath his raiment, and indeed he hadn't. One of my brothers, whose name I had not yet learned, was standing directly across from me with his mouth agape and his sword hand empty. Sammael had somehow taken his sword and was now using it, along with his own, to attack Mikhael.

Our teacher continued to grin and hold his own against the dual attack. He was, however, constantly on the defensive now and never able to muster an assault of his own. As I watched, a new and troublesome passion welled up inside my chest and threatened to overcome me. I was enraged. I didn't care that this other angel called himself the viceroy. I hadn't liked him from the start, and he had done nothing to change my opinion of him since. He was not like the others. He was arrogant, self righteous, and now also a cheat. My sense of fairness was under attack. I could not stand idly by any longer and watch this battle.

Again acting on instinct, I tossed my own sword into the fray. Mikhael snatched it from the air as it drew near him, just as I had hoped. Those closest to me at first seemed shocked by my interference, but they soon forgot what I had done as the swordplay in the circle escalated. Mikhael, no longer at a disadvantage, was back on the attack, and the action was intense.

Their limbs a blur, their swords no more than a flash of light and a twang of metal, the two continued to duel. Even with two swords apiece they remained evenly matched. I began to fear that the contest would have no end. Obviously, stamina was not an issue, and mistakes would not be made. The swordplay, then, could conceivably go on for quite awhile. I hoped that one or the other would eventually grow bored with the display and call a halt to the fighting. Or perhaps the prideful Sammael would cease his attack once his temper cooled.

In the meantime, I resigned myself to studying every move the two made. Others may have been just enjoying the display or waiting to see the outcome, but I used the battle to learn. I memorized every attack and counter that I saw, and vowed to perfect them later. I, like Mikhael and Sammael, would be a master swordsman. Of this I was certain.

"Mikhael," someone boomed. I was separated from my thoughts by the urgency of the voice. "Sammael," it yelled once again. I turned and saw Raphael approaching the circle with his students in tow. "Stop this," he said. "The Watchers have seen enough. Let us end this lesson and allow them to practice."

I realized what he was trying to do immediately, but as I said before, I knew this was no training exercise. Raphael would have us believe that the two archangels were simply overzealous in their coaching, and that there was no malice or ill will between the two. But I had seen it. I had seen it pour forth from Sammael like a fountain, and now poor Raphael, embarrassed and concerned, would have us believe otherwise. It was damage control, plain and simple.

The two combatants were still going at it as Raphael brushed past me and entered the circle. "Viceroy," he cried, "remember yourself please." He continued walking until he was so close to the others that I feared he may be struck by one of the four blades whistling through the air. He didn't seem concerned. Instead, he looked more determined than ever to break the two up.

"Stop," he bellowed one final time. I think. I couldn't actually hear the word as much as feel it. The power of his voice seemed to shake the very firmament beneath my feet. My bones were tickled beneath my skin. I watched some of my brothers adjust their footing in order to stay balanced. Like a great trumpet his voice was-a physical force that finally separated the two other archangels who stumbled backwards and lowered their swords. But the damage was done as far as I was concerned. I knew that things weren't perfect here. And I knew that Sammael was to blame.

Mikhael was first to speak. He played along with Raphael's charade. He grinned at us all and begged or pardon for focusing too intently on his own swordplay and not being a teacher to us first and foremost. He was so very convincing that I found myself at first wanting to forgive him, but then I remembered that he had done nothing wrong to begin with. Sammael had started this, and it was Sammael who had refused to let it end.

The viceroy was still not happy. He threw the extra sword he had been using back to the brother he had swiped it from. He then looked to Mikhael and said nothing. It took me but a moment to figure out his intentions. He was waiting for Mikhael to return his extra sword. Sammael didn't know from whence it came, but he obviously wanted to. Suddenly, I was extremely aware of my empty sword hand.

There was nothing I could do. When Mikhael made no move to return my sword, Sammael began to look around the circle. His eyes found me soon enough, and as expected, focused on my empty hand. I quickly looked away. I didn't want to enrage this archangel again. If he attacked and none came to my aid, I knew that he would dispatch me quickly. I would not challenge him with my eyes.

I could, however, feel the weight of his stare upon me. My sword hand seemed to tingle from the attention. I didn't know what I could do to hide its nakedness. I prayed that Mikhael or Raphael would say something and pull the viceroy's attention from me. Instead it was Sammael who spoke.

"What's your name Watcher?" he asked loudly. I knew without looking that it was me he was addressing. As I turned my gaze back in his direction I found that he was approaching me rather deliberately. I did not know what to expect from the viceroy. I had just witnessed his capacity for violence and now I was the focus of his anger. And I didn't even have a sword. My eyes involuntarily looked to Mikhael as I answered.

"Armaros," I replied. My resolve strengthened when I said my name aloud, and I fixed my gaze once more upon the angel Sammael. Where I had expected to find rage and bitterness etched into his countenance, I instead found what I could only describe as amusement mixed with surprise. I got the distinct feeling that he knew who I was, although I could not figure how that was possible.

"So you're Armaros," he said as he stopped before me. He looked me up and down as if he was appraising my worth. "I should have guessed as much. Unable to stand by and do nothing in the face of what you perceive as an injustice . . . always trying to help in some way . . . benefactor to the clay people . . . these are the things I have been told of you. Do you wonder how it's possible that I could know so much about you and so much about things you have yet to even do?" He didn't wait for me to answer, but I was puzzled by the things he was saying. "You are the one they say—the one that will go beyond what has been fated, and walk with prophecy."

"That is enough viceroy." It was Mikhael. "What has been fated by the Uncreated is not your plaything. You will not toy with Armaros' destiny. Whatever it may be."

Sammael listened and smiled at me. There was no warmth in it. The advantage was his and he certainly knew it. I had expected a physical attack from him for my interference, but this psychological game he played was far worse.

"He doesn't know of what I speak," Sammael replied loudly for all to hear. "No damage has been done." Then the viceroy lowered his voice so that only I could hear. "Do you know what they will call you in the hereafter?" he whispered. "Do you want to know what the name Armaros will mean to your precious clay people in the sweet by-and-by?"

"Yes," I whispered back. I couldn't help myself although I didn't really know what he was talking about.

"The accursed one," he spat at me. And then he walked away.

I realized after my exchange with Sammael that the archangels knew much about us. Much more than they were willing to share. Twice now, first from Raphael and then from the viceroy, my name had been spoken in the same breath as the phrase "What has been fated." That's what I wanted to know. What had been fated? What would be my place amongst this heavenly hierarchy that the archangels kept speaking about? Why did they call the two hundred of us Watchers? Who were the clay people that Sammael spoke of? My head was spinning. I wanted so badly to scream out for answers, but I knew it wouldn't do any good. I, along with all of my brothers, would have to wait. All I could do was continue to put my faith in my teachers and the Father that they spoke of.

I cleared my thoughts and broke free of my stupor. Mikhael, Sammael, and Raphael were conversing near the center of the circle. As I guessed at what they could be discussing, a hand rested upon my shoulder. It was Gabriel. His touch brought warmth, and I relaxed beside him.

"Do not be troubled by what you have heard," he began. "Sammael is a most glorious creature, but he needs to be constantly reminded of his superiority. If not, he lashes out like he did with you. Do not let it bother you. Take a lesson from Mikhael. Sammael has been at odds with him since their creation, yet Mikhael still loves him. As you can see they are brothers again are they not?"

He was right. The three archangels were all smiles now. They continued their banter in the circle, and Gabriel left me to join them. I was glad that he had stopped.

When they broke their huddle we were once again instructed to begin practicing with our swords. Before I could protest, Mikhael returned mine to my hand with a smile and a nod. I saw Sammael watching us from afar; his face was unreadable.

This time all two hundred of us stood together with four teachers walking amongst us observing and correcting. We practiced in pairs, I with a smallish brother from my group of ten named Kasbeel, and the effect was immediate. Much could be learned when fencing with an opponent. Kasbeel was fast with his blade, and we brought out the best in each other. Eventually, however, he was unable to match my growing proficiency.

I thanked and encouraged him as I looked for another partner to practice with. One by one I went through all nine of those who were under my leadership. None could match my skill with the blade. I tried to help them. I was decarch after all, and I wanted those under my leadership to excel. I went over everything we had been taught and all that I had picked up on my own, but lack of knowledge was not their problem. For whatever reason, I was just faster and smarter with my sword than any of the others.

After sword practice was called to a halt, my brothers and I were encouraged to sit about in a tight half-circle and await directions. Soon, Raphael was before us explaining the next phase of our instruction. Magic.

Raphael and the others didn't call it that. To them it was the _divine science_ or _divining._ And we would call it that also at first. Only after the knowledge left heaven did man rename it magic, which eventually and more specifically evolved into the first magic. I, however, have always thought of the art as a science, and my doggedness in treating it as so, by studying the body of facts that govern it and by experimenting with its laws, has led to my exceptional understanding of the forces that guide it. Basically, I'm good at magic because I study and practice all the time.

Divining didn't come as natural to me as swordplay, but I made up for that by working harder than everybody else. I burned for knowledge from anyone that could give it, and more often than not that ended up being Raphael. He held a universe of information beneath his red hair, and he never tired of sharing it with me.

I was also unafraid to experiment or push the limits of what I was taught. Sometimes this rashness came with consequences, but mostly I reaped knowledge from being bold. Even after leaving the first estate I continued to test and attempt different variations of the science here on earth. Again I was rewarded. The science was good to me. It was as if the art knew how hard I worked and delighted at my passion for it. It gave me its bounty. It loved me. Even after I abused it and left it alone for millennia, it never left me.

Our final area of study was broader than the rest. Primarily, it was the universe that we learned about, but the archangels also blended everything that wasn't sword or magic into this area of learning. Besides all of the heavenly bodies, we were taught a great deal about the celestial hierarchy, and any other subject we may have been interested in. This whole division of our training was much less structured than the other two disciplines. Brothers were commonly left to their own discretions regarding how they chose to further their educations. Many times the whole period became a question and answer session with the archangels. They were always truthful and helpful. Even Sammael, though not as endearing as the others, proved to be a very capable teacher. Inevitably, one of my brothers asked about our purpose as Watchers, and it was the viceroy who answered.

"Soon all will be revealed to you," he said. "Once your training is complete you will know your place among us. I must admit that the two hundred of you are progressing rapidly, and I dare say . . . perhaps you are not as inferior as I first imagined. But that remains to be seen. Just do as you are told, and you will have your answer soon enough."

And so we trained, and trained, and trained some more. There was no room in our schedule for things like wrestling or swimming. Those activities seemed beneath us now that we had a purpose, even though that purpose remained unrevealed. We practiced sword, we practiced magic, we practiced whatever it was we wanted to, and then we started the cycle over once more.

The archangels began to spend less and less time with us. Once they were satisfied that the decarchs had asserted themselves as leaders and were doing an efficient job of piloting the training sessions, there visits became less frequent. In fact, after our first few cycles of lessons the four of them never appeared together at the same time again. I imagined that they must be busy catching up with their regular duties, but I missed them all the same.

I felt that my own personal training was coming along exceptionally well. My usual routine, which was also everyone else's usual routine, was to stay within my group of ten during both sword and magic training, and then disperse to train with whomever I wished during the open session. It was a good formula that I felt maximized everyone's potential.

My open session was always spent with either Semjaza for extra sword work, Azazel with whom I would put in additional time divining, or Kokabiel whose infatuation with the cosmos was sometimes contagious. I became fast friends with all three of them. Actually, I had always been fond of Azazel, but now that we all had names it was official. The four of us worked hard at making each other better Watchers and better decarchs.

Semjaza was so big, so strong, and so passionate. He wore his feelings on the outside and was always easy to figure. His approach to anything was always the most direct, and when he made his mind up about something it was not easy to change. He was my only equal among all of the Watchers with a blade, and the tremendous length of his arms played no small part in balancing that equation. It was next to impossible to get past his defenses.

Azazel could not have been more different from our leader. He cared very little for the sword, instead choosing to use his mind to master the intricacies of the divine science. He had the ability to see not just the whole, but all the parts as well. He showed little emotion except for when he needed to display a bit for his own benefit. His ability to get other Watchers, myself included, to do things for him was uncanny. We were well matched in the art of divining.

It was hard for me to get a handle on Kokabiel's personality. His every thought and movement was steeping in his obsession with the cosmological model. The archangels had transformed our pool into a sort of astronomical observatory when they first introduced the study of the universe to us. It became a slowly changing window to the heavens. It was difficult for Kokabiel to stop himself from looking out of that window.

He would pull me over and begin naming heavenly bodies of all sorts: galaxies, nebulas, stars, planets, and natural satellites. His passion for the heavens surpassed even my love of sword and magic. I admired his dedication, and I must admit the view was astounding. Many times I found myself beside Kokabiel, staring out at all of creation, lost in the sound of his voice and the wonder of space. I was in one such stupor, hoping to visit a distant sun that my brother had just named, when angels began to rain down upon us.

They fell like molten rocks thrown from the hand of a giant. There were too many to count; our pristine sky was blotted with the figures of angels flailing about uncontrollably as they plummeted towards the grass of the meadow. They flipped and turned as they fell. Their limbs struggled uselessly against an unseen force that tossed them about like a slip of paper lost in a great storm. As far as we could see in every direction, the sky darkened as more and more angels fell. Terror, unbeknownst to my brothers and me before now, seized us all and forced us to cower around the pool.

The first of them crashed to the firmament with a sonic roar followed by a sickening thud. He landed but an arm's length away from the outer edge of our group. I was crouched nearby. At first glance, I could plainly see that he was an angel, but I could also see that he was changing before my eyes. He had only one pair of wings, which was normal for the _malakhim_ , or messenger angels, but they looked dull and leathery. I could not imagine anything even remotely related to the archangels having wings such as these. His skin was also strange looking. It had lost any brilliance or glow that it might have once emitted, and had now darkened to an ugly gray. He had the hue of a storm cloud. Our eyes locked for only an instant, but his told a complex story. Within them I saw confusion, rage, resentment, helplessness, and most of all . . . regret.

He began sinking into the grass the moment he collided with it. It wasn't a fast descent by any means, more like a gradual swallowing, but the angel was powerless to stop it nonetheless. All around us the same thing was happening to every angel that fell. And there was thousands upon thousands of them.

I don't know how it was possible that none of the fallen angels landed amongst us. All around our group they stayed stacked up on top of each other three or four deep, all sinking together, all unable to resist the power that drove them through the firmament. Perhaps it was divine intervention. That was the most logical explanation to me, seeing as how we were in Heaven. It was also the answer that gave me hope. If the Father was protecting us, then perhaps we wouldn't meet the same fate as these others who were crashing through our home. And if it was the Uncreated himself doing this, which also seemed logical to me, why would he spare us now if he intended to cast us down later?

I didn't know the answer. Truthfully, I was still terrified and unsure of what was going to happen. We were all rattled and confused. The tremendous and continuous roar of the angels falling throughout our world was deafening, and it made it impossible to talk or be heard. The displacement of atmosphere caused by their falling created a mighty wind that battered us and kept us hunkered down. We were helpless, and I remember wanting so badly for it all to stop. But the war in Heaven had only just begun.

Someone shook me to get my attention. I turned to find one of my brothers pointing in the direction of the pool. The others had separated a bit, and they had created enough room for me to maneuver the short distance to the edge of the water. I could see that Semjaza, Azazel, and other decarchs were already there, heads bowed on hands and knees, all staring out into the pool. I began my crawl at once.

I made my way towards Azazel, whose back was facing me, down at the far end of the makeshift path. I reached him quickly, and gave him a gentle nudge on his right side. He scooted over and granted me a seat at the pool.

Azazel stared at me as I got myself situated. Once he was certain that he held my gaze, he stretched his arm out and pointed to an area near the center of the pool. As I followed his finger across the heavens, he drew an imaginary line from that point to the edge of the pool where we sat, and then back to the center once again. He repeated this movement four or five times. I nodded at him to let him know that I understood and he, satisfied that I would look in the correct area, turned away from me and stared exclusively into the pool. I fixed my eyes along the line my brother had drawn amongst the stars and focused. I saw straightaway what the decarchs had discovered.

It was the fallen angels again. They were being sucked into the void by an invisible vortex-their bodies spiraling about the great space maelstrom that must have began just beneath the floor of the first estate. I watched as they spun, slowly at first as they passed around the outer rim of the massive funnel, and then faster as the whirlpool pulled them down the helix and nearer to the center. I was terrified all over again.

How could this happen? Where was the maelstrom taking them? Were we next? Was I going to be sucked through the floor of my home like these winged brothers? I backed away from the edge of the pool a bit at the thought of falling into the great maw of the monster beneath me. I knew that if the vortex wanted me resistance would be futile. What I didn't know was if this spiraling, turbulent space cyclone would spit me from its mouth if I fell in due to my own carelessness. I thought it best to avoid such a scenario altogether and not force the thing to make such a decision, so I moved even farther away from the pool. Besides, I had seen enough.

As I turned from the chaos of the pool to the chaos that surrounded me, I was pleased to find that the path to my old spot remained clear. I bent my neck to stare at the grass and crawled back to where I was previously crouched. I felt safer here. I know it made no sense, but huddled amongst my brothers was the only place I could find solace in the midst of such disorder. Being so near to the edge of nothingness and watching those that had fell struggle against the void had left me badly shaken. I wanted nothing more to do with the horror unfolding across the heavens, framed perfectly by our shallow pool turned observatory.

As the angels continued to strike the firmament as far as I could see, a new fear raced through my brain. What would become of my teachers? Would I ever see Mikhael, Raphael, or Gabriel again? I doubted that I would. I was sure they were being discharged along with all the others. Without a conscious thought I found myself scanning the gray, ashy bodies of the fallen that piled up around me, hoping to catch a glance of one of my beloved tutors. Right away my intellect confirmed how silly my instincts had been. They would not be found. Nothing could be found in this seething mass of angel flesh.

There was just too many of them. And it became impossible to distinguish one from another as they crashed and stacked upon themselves. I was sure every angel that existed had fell or was falling. I was wrong.

Things continued like this-me watching angels fall from above and getting sucked through the foundation of my world by a giant space maelstrom-until I began to suspect that the funnel storm was somehow bringing the fallen angels back to the uppermost part of heaven to fall again. That scenario didn't seem any more unlikely than what I was actually seeing happen. It could be a never ending cycle for these unfortunate brethren. They could fall forever. I decided that must be the case. I was wrong again.

When they did finally stop falling, it didn't happen all at once. Instead, much like the droplets of a dying storm, the concentration of bodies lessened and lessened until no more fell from above. It didn't take long after the angels stopped dropping for the grass to clear itself of their bodies. I watched as the last of the fallen, who crashed down in almost the exact same spot as the first of them, disappeared through the firmament and out of our world.

I was ecstatic. The violence and fear was over. There were no more explosions of sound or waves of pressure battering us. I was the first to stand.

I found our home undamaged and pristine once again. It remained unchanged despite the violation. It was as if the broken angels had never rocketed down and overrun our little part of the heavens.

I looked towards the pool, but was careful not to gaze into its depths. I was still shaken by what I had seen there earlier. All the other decarchs, except for Kokabiel who had not once lifted his head from the horrors of the pool, were beginning to stand and compose themselves. I took their disinterest to mean that the maelstrom had run its course. The show must have been over now that the last of the angels had fallen. I noticed Semjaza barreling towards me. He stopped only after his face was so close to mine that I could see nothing but the rich brown of his eyes.

"What has happened brother?" he asked. His voice was a whisper and there was a note of pleading in his tone. I could tell that he was rattled and confused. He wanted some sort of an answer. We all did.

"I don't know what's going on," I said, "but I fear we are the only angels left."

"That wasn't four hundred million of them," a familiar voice interjected. It was Azazel. He had also walked over. I don't know why, but we three continued to whisper our words.

"What do you mean?" Semjaza said. "There was no way to count every angel that fell. And what does four hundred million have to do with anything?"

"The _celestial hierarchy_ ," I remarked. "Both Gabriel and Sammael made mention of the number four hundred million. That's how many angels there are supposed to be."

Azazel nodded his agreement. "That's right," he said, "and that wasn't four hundred million."

"But how can you know that?" Semjaza demanded. "How can you tell how many angels that was?"

"I can't," Azazel answered. "Not exactly anyways. But I can make an educated estimate of around one hundred and twenty- five million . . . and that's only about a third of the hierarchy. I don't think we're the only ones left."

"I'm curious brother," I said. "How did you settle on such a number?"

"Unlike you Armaros," he answered, "I take interest in things other than sword and mysticism. Mathematics is one discipline I find particularly intriguing. Raphael has shown me how to make approximations whenever incomplete information prevents one from giving an exact representation. In the case of the fallen angels, I used iteration as opposed to any direct method. By doing this I wasn't able to come up with an exact solution, but my guess should still be close enough to be useful."

I was dumbfounded. Besides my initial understanding of numbers, which I assumed all my brothers and I were granted upon our creation, I had never given mathematics a second thought. Azazel obviously had. He knew he held the advantage, and I had just been chastised, albeit shrewdly, for questioning him. I wouldn't make that same mistake again. I nodded my head in silent agreement. His number suddenly seemed just about right.

"Then where are the rest?" Semjaza asked. He looked to both Azazel and me for a response. Neither of us could give him one. He did, however, get an answer. Once again it fell from above.

Rain. I had never before felt it upon my skin. Now, however, it began to fall in heavy drops from a sky that remained blue. It was accompanied by the unmistakable sound of metal against metal-the clashing of swords. Two hundred pairs of eyes stared upwards. Waiting.

More angels, also darkened and descending like the previous ones, became visible all at once. I used my own powers of approximation to number them at around a thousand or so. They were armed with swords, and they fell slower than the others. Most even managed to land on their feet just a short distance from where we all still stood near the pool. These angels were not _malakhim_. They were a mixture of heavenly beings much more powerful than the messenger angels that had littered the ground only moments before. From my teachings, I was able to recognize many different types of angels from many different orders of the celestial hierarchy, but only the last of them to touchdown was familiar to us all. We knew him intimately. It was Sammael. He stood defiantly and looked to the sky from whence he came.

He was followed by an army. Bright and shining, they descended in mass to a point across from and just above Sammael. There they hovered and stared accusingly at the archangel and his companions whom they outnumbered tenfold.

It was painfully obvious that these were two opposing forces. Sammael, the light taken from him and his face the color of iron, did not cower before the might of the gleaming ones, but he was beaten nonetheless. Those who stood with him were battered and in pain. They had resigned themselves to defeat. Upon closer inspection I could see that their feet had begun to sink into the firmament. I watched as again and again they pulled their feet from the grass in order to gain new footing, but the effort was taking its toll. They were tiring fast. Some had quit resisting altogether and found themselves already buried up to their knees. The maelstrom would not be denied. It would have them all in its great maw eventually, just as it had the lesser of the fallen.

From above us a chant began. The heavenly host, their voices perfect, sang out the name of their champion. He lowered himself from them in a brilliant ball of light too powerful to look upon and landed in front of Sammael. Once my eyes adjusted to the radiance I could see who stood amongst the flame. I was not surprised by what my vision revealed. The song of the good angels had named the new viceroy. Mikhael was among us.

Sammael raised his sword as Mikhael approached. The two engaged in a brief skirmish, but it was obvious that Sammael was done. He could not fight both Mikhael and the maelstrom. His movements became labored and Mikhael, with one deft maneuver, removed the doomed angel's sword from his hand. Sammael remained defiant.

"I am fire of fire," he boasted. "I was the first angel formed, and shall I worship clay and matter? I will not bend my knee before something as newly created and as flawed as man. Surely you can see the folly in Father's plan Mikhael."

"You are prideful Sammael. You have always been so. But your arrogance was so often overlooked because of your station and because Father loved you so. Even now the heavens weep as you fall."

Sammael opened his hands and looked upwards once again. After a moment of silent contemplation, he quit the fight, and in one final act of defiance, allowed himself to be pulled backwards by the invisible forces of the space helix. He landed squarely on his back and began to sink into the grass at once. Bending his neck, he addressed Mikhael again.

"I will oppose you. I will turn man from the Uncreated. You will see how inferior these clay people are," he said. "You are all fools. You and your entire host Mikhael. Why are we given free will yet are not allowed to exercise it? Answer me that. I am the greatest of you all yet I have been defeated and dishonored. What makes any of you think that your place here is secure? He is a God of whims, and any of you could be next."

Ignoring the outburst, Mikhael walked forward and placed his foot on Sammael's chest and the point of his sword on the disgraced archangel's chin. Sammael refused to look Mikhael in the eye any longer, so he turned his head to the right as the new viceroy began to speak. Strangely enough it was my eyes that he gazed into as Mikhael continued.

"You will become the opposite of God. You will be the prince of darkness and the subverter of souls. You are cast from Heaven and shall be condemned to eternal torment on earth and in hell. You are the adversary, and so shall be called Satan. You are the accuser, and so shall be called the devil."

With these final words, Mikhael began to push the once great angel through the floor of heaven and into the waiting embrace of the maelstrom. Pity consumed me. I wasn't sure if he deserved this kind of punishment. Banishment? Surely this was far too great a price to pay for whatever his transgression might have been.

As the newly named Satan disappeared beneath the floor of heaven I saw that he was mouthing something to me. I turned cold. I read his charcoal colored lips. Over and over he was whispering the same thing, "accursed one . . . accursed one . . ."

# CHAPTER 26

"You were right about Sammael," Thane said. "About me having heard of him and everything." The angel's story was remarkable. Thane had made himself listen intently in the beginning, but soon he became enthralled and hung on Armaros' every word. He was now a slave to the account. He did, however, have a question or two he wanted to ask.

Armaros broke himself free from the past and smiled at the boy. "I remember things in such detail, that sometimes the line between past and present blur a bit," he said. He looked from Thane over to Father Lucas and Basia. "I see, however, that I am inside a trailer. This is not the first estate. There are no beer signs in heaven."

"That was fascinating Armaros," Father Lucas stated. "Thank you for telling us. I feel . . . I don't know . . . privileged maybe. Or lucky perhaps. Whatever it is I feel, gratitude is what I'm giving. I know that a first person account of the fall of Sammael is an exceptional thing."

"Yes. Thank you," Basia agreed. "I've heard the story of the war in heaven told once before, but your perspective is different to say the least. And very enlightening."

"Who told you of the fall?" Father Lucas asked. Thane thought he heard a drop of envy mixed with the padre's curiosity.

"Raphael," she answered.

"Raphael?" Armaros asked. He appeared incredulous. The big angel's voice was rife with skepticism.

"Yes, Raphael," Basia repeated. She smiled and both the envy and the skepticism left the room. Her beauty and warmth held power. None of the other three were immune to her allure.

"The archangel is our benefactor Armaros," Father Lucas said. "I think maybe Basia forgot that we hadn't told you that yet."

"No Mundy, I didn't forget," Basia said. "I just thought that it was time our hosts knew a little about us. We, after all, know a great deal about Armaros here. And Thane's life has been an open book for the both of us-one that we've read cover to cover. It doesn't seem fair to me that we're sitting here cloaked in secrecy while an angel, trusting and forthright, tells us stories of cosmic importance."

"You're talking about the same Raphael?" Thane asked. "The same angel that taught Armaros?"

"Archangel Thane," Father Lucas said, "and yes we're talking about one and the same."

"That's who taught you the magic," Armaros said. "You told me that we had the same teacher, but I didn't believe you. I didn't know that Raphael had been active here on earth."

"I wouldn't say he's been active," the padre replied, "his visits are very infrequent."

"And what is the purpose of these visits?" Armaros asked.

"I'll let Basia tell you everything," Father Lucas said. "She's older, wiser, and far prettier than I am."

Thane agreed with the pretty part. Anybody would. And the wiser part? Well that could be possible to. But as far as Basia being older than Father Lucas, that seemed impossible to the young man. The priest must have been joking. Thane knew the padre liked to kid around.

Yet somehow it seemed plausible. Father Lucas did kind of yield to Basia. All of his mannerisms were subordinate in nature when she was around. And Thane recalled just a moment earlier when she said something about having read his life like a book. Had she known him as a child? Did she, much like Armaros, watch over him as he grew, yet remain unseen?

Thane was staring. She looked younger than he did. She looked strong and perfect. She was talking to Armaros about something that was probably important and fascinating, but Thane's thoughts were of a more primal nature. He couldn't help it. Luckily he regained himself in time to hear Basia say something that confirmed his intuition.

"Raphael knew the time of the prophecy was at hand," Basia began, "but as you know angels have trouble relating to linear time. Thus, Raphael first appeared to me shortly after the First Aliyah. That was the year 1894. I was twenty years old."

Thane did the math. It was easy addition. Strangely, he wasn't bothered by the fact that he had been lusting over a hundred and twenty year old woman.

"What was the First Aliyah?" he asked.

Basia gave Thane an apologetic look. 'Sorry," she said. "It's just a name given to a time when a great number of my people migrated to Palestine from Eastern Europe. The czar of Russia had been assassinated in 1881, and not surprisingly the Jews were blamed. After that, Russian authorities continued to push Jews out of business and trade until Moscow was almost entirely devoid of Jewish people. But it's okay. By the time my family left, Zionism had taken a hold of us all and we were ready to reestablish the homeland. Israel stands today because of my family and others like it."

"I never would have guessed you were Jewish," Thane said, "or that you were over a hundred years old. After today I'm going to be a hard man to surprise."

"I know the feeling," Basia replied. "I never really think of myself as being Jewish anymore Thane. Just like I doubt that Mundy thinks of himself as being a Roman Catholic priest. Once the mysteries of the heavens have been explained to you by an archangel, such subdivisions of faith seem . . . I don't know . . . tedious perhaps. I know that Armaros hasn't told you of certain things yet, but after he does you'll understand what I mean. Just let me tell you that things are probably a little different than you thought. Also, I know how it feels to be sitting where you are right now. It wasn't that long ago that I sat beneath an orange tree in the middle of an orchard that was planted on the outskirts of our moshava. Maybe four hundred people lived in Rishon LeZion then, so it was easy to disappear. It was there that Raphael came to me. He told me wondrous things Thane. He taught me all about the mysteries that Armaros is telling you now. And he told me of you."

"He told you about me a hundred years ago?"

"Well, not you exactly. But he did know that the sons of prophecy were to be born soon. It's just that his idea of soon and our idea of soon are very different."

"Are you saying I'm a son of prophecy? What does that mean?"

Instead of answering the question, both Basia and Father Lucas turned to Armaros. Thane could see that the two expected something from the big angel. Armaros shook his head gently.

"No," he said, "I haven't told him of the prophecy yet. I had planned on getting to that once he knows more of my own story-perhaps after we reach the point where I meet Enoch. We're getting ahead of ourselves again." The big angel then turned to the young deputy and continued, "Be patient Thane. I have in mind a certain order that I want you to know things. I think this particular order will best serve the greater good and the ultimate means to an end."

"Absolutely," Thane answered. "I didn't mean to press."

"It's my fault," Basia said. "I only intended to answer some of Armaros' questions and comfort Thane by letting him know that I could relate to his situation. I went too far."

"No, no," Armaros rebutted. "You could not have known that I hadn't told him yet. Any reasonable person, like you, would assume that would be the first thing I would tell young Thane here. And maybe it should have been. I don't know. But he will know the prophecy of Enoch soon enough. For now, I would know a bit more about you and Father Lucas here."

"Raphael taught me much the same things that he taught you," Basia said. "Of course I could never be as proficient as an angel, but I have always practiced hard, and my talents have always proven adequate. I am particularly adept with a blade. I leave the divining to Lucas. He's the magician."

"Hardly," Father Lucas scoffed. "I'm just no good with a sword so I put all my efforts into learning the magic. I had to make myself useful somehow. I couldn't imagine failing Raphael."

Thane cringed at the priest's choice of words as soon as they rolled past his lips. He looked to Armaros and was happy to see that the big angel seemed unaffected by the remark. Thane didn't know the nature of Armaros' current relationship with Raphael, but he assumed that at some point it had become strained. Armaros was, after all, a fallen angel.

"And what was it that Raphael asked of you? In exchange for the training and the magic and the particles of the Uncreated that were given you, what did the seraph ask in exchange?" Armaros questioned the two of them.

"We were to look after the boys. And help you when the prophecy began to unfold. Raphael always knew that you would do your part when the time came," Father Lucas answered. "I was also charged with finding Basia. She had been enlightened for a little more than forty years by the time Raphael called upon me. Luckily, we had the magic, and we were able to find each other relatively quickly. We went to work shortly after that."

Thane did the math again, and concluded that Basia and Father Lucas were about the same age. He almost mentioned it aloud, but decided against it. There was, however, something he had to get off his chest.

"I'm sorry but what are particles of the Uncreated?" Thane asked.

"No I'm sorry Thane," Armaros said. "Now it's me getting ahead of myself because of my own curiosity. Give me just a moment more and I will answer all of your questions, but for now just know that the particles of which we speak are tiny pieces of God. They are the smallest elements of matter. Modern scientists are still a long way from identifying them. Raphael obviously bestowed an increased concentration of them upon our friends here. That's why they no longer appear to age."

"Laminins," Thane said. It was more of a question.

"No," Armaros countered. "They're much smaller than that. And they're in everything."

"I've aged a bit the last hundred years," Basia interjected. "I don't think I look twenty years old anymore. More like twenty- five."

"At that rate," Thane added, "you might live to be two thousand years old."

Thane saw Basia in a completely new light. It was different from before. He didn't like it. The yearning was gone; it had been replaced by a stare of reverence. That wouldn't do.

"I'm still human," she said. "Nothing special, and if things go as we all hope they do, well . . . never mind."

She was holding back. That was obvious. Thane couldn't figure out why. What was it that she couldn't reveal here? Amongst this company. Unless the timing was off again. Armaros was in charge here, and Basia would not want to make things any more difficult for the big angel.

"You say that you went to work. What do you mean by that?" Armaros asked.

"The first thing that we did was procure ourselves a home: a safe headquarters from which we could work," Father Lucas answered. "Most of our endeavors since then have been archeological in nature. We have accumulated a vast amount of information and artifacts that relate to the prophecy of Enoch. But we didn't stop there. We dug deeper. We researched the Watchers, the Nephilim, the giants, Sheol, the Flood-anything and everything that related to that time in pre-history. And we studied you Armaros. We've assembled a pretty accurate time line that we think shows what you've been doing the past eleven thousand years or so. There are gaps of course. Maybe you could help us with those someday. It's all stored away neatly, but it's easily accessible if we need it."

Armaros was smiling. "Where is this hideout of yours located," he asked.

"Once the Connally's decided to call this land home, we set up shop here to," Basia responded. "It's close if we need it."

"We may," Armaros said. "One last question: Is there just the two of you?"

"No," Basia said. "There are two more."

"Who?"

"Major Jibril Gamal. Israeli Special Forces."

"And has he also been visited by Raphael?"

"No," Basia answered. "He was visited by Azazel."

"And he's still alive to tell of it?" Armaros stated more than asked. "Who else?"

Basia shared a glance with Father Lucas. It was the priest that answered. "Here's where things get a little surprising."

# CHAPTER 27

I never knew who my mother was. I still don't. She was just a vessel used for breeding. Like so many other human women, she died while birthing her giant brood. Her body was incapable of bearing the strain. Whelping a child four times larger than normal is a daunting task. My father didn't love her or even know her name. She was a slave of Sheol and he was king; he violated her and then waited for his son.

I was born only four days before my brother Sihon. We had different mothers of course, but Ogias was father to us both. I think he found us both rather disappointing.

Sihon was half-witted and overactive during his early years. It was a bad combination and the other giants found his behavior annoying to say the least. I kept him near to me and occupied so as to save him from as many beatings as I could. Only later, after hundreds and hundreds of years of instruction, was he able to reason at an average level. I, on the other hand, have always been resourceful, but I never really learned how to behave like a proper giant. I was not a savage, and I refused to act like one.

Neither of us grew as large as our father. I always thought that it was more than just coincidence when Ogias chose to sire no more sons. I believed then, as I do now, that we remained an embarrassment to him up until the time of his demise.

He was not a terrible father. He was just uninterested. Sihon and I were left alone for the most part. Besides the obligatory weapons training, we spent almost all of our time hunting for food or exploring these very halls and caverns. Sheol was unfinished in the days of my youth, but enough progress had been made to provide two young giants with countless hours of adventure and many places to hide in order to escape beatings.

As Sheol grew, so too did we. Soon both our home and our bodies reached maturity. Once I finished growing, I found myself filled out to my current proportions. Sihon was my height, but his body was not as muscular. My brother was lean and fast. I remain brawny and powerful.

We were not supposed to leave the safety of the mountain. The war with the humans was at its zenith when I was a young giant, and my father felt that Sihon and I would surely be killed if we ever came anywhere near a field of battle. Worst yet, we might distract the real warriors fighting against the humans and thereby cause them to be injured or killed. Ogias thought it best if we just stayed away from the conflict altogether. We thought differently.

Only Sihon and I knew how proficient we had become with our weapons. Our instructor Mani, handpicked by our father to train us, was uninterested in our progress and development. He resented his appointed station and wanted nothing to do with the two of us. In our youth, he would tell my father that we were hopeless, and that our hands were better suited for carving rock than for doing battle with weapons. The disappointment on Ogias' face was easy to read each time he came to check on our progress and watched us struggle through our lesson. Eventually he stopped coming at all, and soon Mani grew even worse.

He would show us our lesson but once and then leave us to our own devices, preferring instead to gorge himself on cattle and slaves. That was fine with us. He was an arrogant ass of a giant anyway. He particularly enjoyed tormenting Sihon who was an easy target because of his simplemindedness. I eventually had to kill the brute, but that's another story entirely. Luckily for the both of us, I had another instructor.

We practiced what he taught us. We disciplined ourselves and worked very hard at mastering all of the weapons that were at our disposal. We trained with spears, axes, swords, staffs, and even bows. I think we both realized that it would be up to us and us alone if we were to rise above our current station in life. I, and even Sihon to a lesser degree, wanted desperately to be more than just the underachieving son of Ogias.

Our escape was easy. As I said before, none of the other giants paid much attention to us or cared about what we did. I assumed at some point that Ogias would be told of our absence, but I was sure that it would be days or possibly even a week before he knew that we had left. And I was just as sure that once we were gone, Ogias would not put forth any great effort to get us back. In fact, I suspected just the opposite. With us gone, Ogias would be unburdened and no longer ashamed. He would shed no tears for his missing sons. Good-bye Father.

We left Sheol on the heels of a troop of giants. They were a motley crew, about fifty in number, going off to do battle with men. We kept our heads down and our weapons at the ready and we walked right through the main entrance of Sheol just behind the last of them. I didn't recognize any of the troop, but that was no assurance that one or more of them wouldn't know who we were. I decided it was best to separate from them as soon as we put a little distance between ourselves and the great cave that led into the home we were leaving behind.

After we walked with the giants for three or four miles, I decided it was time for us to go our own way. I knew the troop was headed east towards the great rivers and the villages of men, but I also knew that they would find Ogias and the battle lines well before they reached those settlements. The humans had been busy expanding, and their nearest village was now no more than sixty kilometers away from the entrance to Sheol.

They called it Dimasqa. It was wrapped in an oasis of lush fertile land that they had converted into a green agricultural belt surrounding their village. They grew things like plums, cereals, and all varieties of vegetables. Thus the inhabitants of Dimasqa had no trouble feeding the ever growing army of men who came there to help battle the giants. Ogias had managed to put a stop to their advancement, but I always felt like they were right upon us.

Once the giants reached Dimasqa they would join the slaughter and spill blood, either their own or that of the enemies. As of late, the scales had balanced and neither side held the advantage. The blood odds were even.

It was no secret that the war was at a stalemate. The giants, although much larger and stronger, were horribly outnumbered by the humans. There had never been much more than about four thousand giants around, but the humans were like insects and they numbered twenty times that. I recall hearing Ogias say once that, "Man is an inferior species, yet I cannot stop them. They spread like a disease of the skin." His description was vulgar, but it was also accurate. After almost a century of conflict with the giants, the humans had swelled in number instead of being depleted by the wages of war. I knew what this meant, and I suspected that my father did to. Eventually man would defeat us. They would push us back down into the mountain and wipe the land clean of giants. I didn't know if the Watchers would let that happen, so far they had stayed neutral, but without their intervention our demise was inevitable. Still, Ogias fought on.

I was born in Sheol and knew very little of the outside world when I decided to venture out into it. This was not the case with most of my kind. The first generation giants, those fathered by the fallen ones, spoke of a time before when man and giant lived side by side and shared the sunshine that warmed the land. Their relationship was always an uneasy one, but open warfare had always been avoided. Then the famine came, and everything changed. The giants, maddened by their hunger, began to attack and devour humans. This didn't sit too well with the leaders of men. They had no desire to be fodder. The giants were driven from the land around the great rivers, and the war began.

Giants, including myself, have voracious appetites. If you were born a giant, then you were born starving with a hunger that can never be satiated. I am the last of my kind and have lived longer than any giant ever born. Despite the great strides that I have made, even now I struggle to control my ravenous cravings. The pangs are always there. The hunger is in the blood.

Ogias, my father, was the first giant. He was fathered by Semjaza, one of the most lustful and powerful of all the Watchers, and his birth was cause for great rejoicing amongst the earth bound angels. They knew that if Semjaza could sire a child with the fully corporeal body that he was given when he descended, then they should be able to do the same with theirs. They wasted little time in proving themselves correct.

Within the first ten years of Ogias' life the two hundred fallen angels known as Watchers fathered almost two thousand more giants. Semjaza alone fathered an additional one hundred or more. Their lustfulness knew no boundaries. These Watchers procreated with as many mortal women as they could convince to lay with them, and took still others who resisted their advances. They could not be stopped. The men of earth were powerless to impede their ravaging behavior.

These Watchers were mighty beings who knew many things such as magic, astrology, and the art of war. The humans used to tell of a bright morning when these angels fell from the sky and landed atop Mount Ba'al-Hermon. There were two hundred of them, led by twenty of the strongest that walked down from the peak and into the world of man. Life on earth was changed forever.

The angels were tall and handsome, and the people of earth found them fascinating. They spread into all the villages of men and began to teach basic, yet beneficial things at first-agriculture, animal husbandry, handwriting, engineering-and man's quality of life improved by leaps and bounds. As you can imagine, these Watchers became very popular amongst the villagers, and they were embraced by all of the people who lived in the region of the great rivers. In turn, the angels began to enjoy the attention and soon wholly acclimated themselves to life on earth. They taught much, but they also kept many secrets that they only hinted at from time to time. This way they kept an air of mystery about them, and their star would not fade. In truth, they were addicted to their own celebrity.

Two of the Watchers fathered no sons. Both of them were mighty decarchs, or leaders of ten, but they were different from the others. The first of them you already know. It is your lord Kokabiel. He gave no thought to women or the cravings of the flesh. He had but one love: that was the cosmos and the canopy of heaven above. He was either studying astronomy to increase his own formidable knowledge, or he was teaching what he knew to the humans in order to help them better understand the tiny planet they lived on and its place in the void.

The other was Armaros. I always considered him to be the most extraordinary of all the Watchers. He was certainly the most complete and well rounded of the lot of them. Whereas the other Watchers usually contented themselves mastering just one discipline each, Armaros attacked all fields of knowledge with voracity. He continued to educate himself long after the other angels grew complacent and satisfied with the teachings of the archangels. He was curious and driven, and he couldn't accept not knowing the answer to something or not being able to master a weapon that someone else wielded.

I don't know why Armaros never fathered children. He would have made an excellent parent. He was kind and patient-two traits my own father sorely lacked-and seemed to genuinely care about others besides himself. It may have been due to his own morality, his loyalty to his teachers, or because he never stayed in one place long enough. I don't know. But if I had to guess why he chose to remain an uncle instead of a father, I would have to answer the obvious. He didn't like giants.

We got along quite well, but as I said before, I never really behaved like other giants. Armaros had a lot to do with that. He took an interest in me from the start, and his frequent visits to Sheol were almost solely to help with my development. I believe that at first his interest in me was purely a product of his own curiosity. He wanted to know if a second generation giant was doomed to repeat the same ill behavior as his father before him. Luckily for me I was groomed by Armaros, and the answer was no. Despite my shortcomings, I would not grow up to be a monster.

Eventually Armaros came to care for me. I could tell it in the way he spoke and acted. I was now more to him than just a social experiment. He was pleased with me, and although his visits grew farther and farther apart the older I got, his influence upon me never lessened. Inevitably, I began to look upon him as a surrogate father. This only widened the gulf between Ogias and me.

All of the giants knew that their uncle Armaros cared very little for them. They knew he detested their crude behavior, gluttony, and sinful natures. And so they hated him right back. The resentment remained unspoken on both sides, but it was there. I believe there may have been a begrudging respect between Armaros and Ogias, but it also remained unspoken. When Armaros came to Sheol only looks and nods were exchanged between the giants and him. They didn't want him there, but they couldn't stop him from coming to the mountain.

I recall the last words that my father said to me. He had left the battle and was back at Sheol in order to check the progress of the few able bodied giants that continued to labor on the mountain. While he was there, he also decided to check the progress of his two sons. Sihon and I were summoned to the weapons area where both our father and that ass of an instructor awaited us. We knew what came next. Feelings of confusion poured over me as I walked over and removed a sword from the crude wooden rack which held the practice weapons.

It had been a long, long time since our father had last judged our weapon proficiency, and to be honest with you, I thought that he had given up on us. That's why this latest test surprised me. Ogias must have been getting desperate for bodies to bring back to the front lines if he was considering using his children, whom he had previously thought of as completely inept, as soldiers in the war with man. It also excited me. If he was serious about needing warriors, then I knew Ogias would take me back to the war with him once he witnessed my ability with a weapon in my hand. I felt confident that I would put on quite a display for my father. With a little luck, Sihon might even do well to.

I think Mani was just as surprised by the impromptu weapons test as we were. He was also scared. He was completely inept as a teacher, and now he feared that he was about to be found out. Before he had always been able to blame our ineptitude on our youth, awkwardness, or lack of concentration, but now we were full grown and he was out of excuses.

It sickened me to know that Mani might receive any credit from my father if I showed proficiency with the blade in my hand. I gave serious thought to miserably and purposely failing this little test that Ogias had arranged. It was hard for me to decide what I wanted the most: Mani to be punished and shamed, or I to be fighting beside my Father against the humans. Sihon sparred with Mani first, and as I watched their session unfold I made my mind up to have both.

Sihon was fighting as best he could, but he was clearly overmatched. Mani, despite being lazy and corrupt, was well trained with his long sword. Sihon was naturally quick, but he had trouble learning and couldn't remember much in the way of technique. The many intricacies of sword fighting that Armaros taught me, and I in turn tried to teach my brother, were lost in the open spaces of Sihon's mind. Mani pressed his advantage.

Our instructor had always taken great joy in tormenting my younger brother. He constantly berated him for being feebleminded and wiry in stature. Even though most of his insults were lost on Sihon, I heard them too. Mani knew this. It had always been his mission to bring misery upon me by way of my simple brother. Memories welled up inside of my head as I watched Sihon continue to struggle. The back of my neck grew hot.

"Enough," my father shouted. "Sihon has learned all that he can. I fear my youngest son will never be a warrior."

The two lowered their swords. Sihon looked to me for encouragement, and I gave him a little nod of approval. That was all it took. He was happy. Despite the numerous whelps and scrapes that covered his body, compliments of the dulled edge of Mani's practice blade, my brother was happy because I tricked him into thinking that he had done well.

Perhaps he had. He had surely done his best. Mani had battered his body, but Sihon's childlike spirit remained uninjured. My thoughts, however, were still dark. Now was the time for retribution. I recalled the look on our instructor's face every time he struck Sihon a blow. He had enjoyed the lesson a little too much. He would not enjoy the next one.

We met near the center of the stone floor and touched blades like we had done many times before. This time, however, I went on the attack and caught Mani completely off guard. Before he even realized what happened, an angry red whelp rose up across his cheek: it was put there by the flat of my blade. I watched the rest of his face change to the same color as the wound, and I knew that my blow had its intended effect. The brute was furious.

He charged at me just as I knew he would. Almost all giants, and Mani was certainly not the exception, were slaves to their own rage. It was a form of madness that very few of my kind learned to control. Much like the hunger, it was another savagery that defined our species. It was sometimes useful in battle and sometimes it was not. This was going to be one of those times when the rage would not serve Mani well.

I quickly sidestepped my enraged instructor and dealt him another blow, this time two-handed and across his back, with the flat of my blade. He howled in pain and anger, and then he charged again. We continued like this for some time-him charging and me dodging-and then he began to tire. Now it was my turn to attack.

I went after him like a rabid fox. I felt faster than I ever had before. Mani probably thought that I had somehow split myself in half and was in two places at once. He had no defense. I called on everything that Armaros had ever taught me as I danced and struck as no giant ever had before. I tried my hardest to color all of my instructor's flesh with the end of my blade. He deserved no clemency.

Mani endured for what felt like another minute or so, and then he dropped his blade. Right after that he fell back on his bottom and scurried backwards until his back was against the wall. The act was a sign of submission and a plea for mercy. I had no choice but to grant it. To do otherwise would have been barbaric, and I had been taught better. Still, it would have been satisfying to continue pummeling the monster, and part of me considered it. Instead I lowered my blade and turned to my father.

"Mani is no teacher," I said, "nor has he ever been one. He is lazy, hateful, and a glutton."

"He is a giant," Ogias answered. He was looking at me strangely and closely. I felt like I was being studied. I also felt embarrassed, but I had no idea why. "All these traits you mention, they are fairly common among our kind. When you condemn Mani, you condemn us all . . . yourself included."

"I am nothing like him," I responded.

"You are like none of us," father shot back. "You behave differently because of the teachings of Armaros. He has corrupted you and made you believe that being a giant is a condition which needs to be remedied. It is not. I will not apologize to anybody, especially a Watcher, for being a giant. You are a giant Og . . . and the son of a king, yet you are not satisfied with your station. You want to be more."

"I only want to fight by your side," I said. "I sought to prove myself here to you. Nothing more."

"I will not have you dancing about on the battlefield. You do not fight like a giant, and I don't want your strange style, no matter how effective it may be for you, corrupting the minds of my giants." Ogias spoke with finality in his voice, and I knew it would be futile to argue with him. "Mani, you will come back with me. Goodbye Sihon. Goodbye Og."

"Goodbye father," we spoke together. I knew then that I would be leaving Sheol. The next day I found myself walking with my troop of giants.

Sihon and I broke north once the troop reached the eastern plateau. Here the land was filled with both caves and great volcanic cones. Both made excellent hiding spots for a couple of young giants. Sihon and I, both already well versed in the art of disappearing, did no more than just lag behind as the troop pushed eastward. I don't think they ever noticed us at all.

We were all going to the same place-the battlefields where others of our kind fought against the armies of man-but it was necessary for Sihon and me to enter the battle unrecognized. My plan was simple: I would find my way onto the field of slaughter and kill humans until my arms were too heavy to lift. Then, after they had seen my exploits and I revealed to them my true identity, Ogias and the other giants would not be able to deny that I was a very formidable warrior. They would be delighted to welcome Sihon and me into their ranks, and our involvement just might turn the advantage back to the sons of the fallen. Of course I was young, naive, and foolish, and what actually happened was nowhere near as extraordinary as what I had imagined.

* * *

"What is it Hidimba?" Og asked. He was watching the demon fidget around on the rock dais. "You look as if you're going to burst, and you've looked like that for some time now."

"I've seen this Armaros that you speak of," the demon answered, "he almost destroyed me not long ago." Og's menacing gaze softened at once. The little demon could tell that the giant wanted to know more by the expression that he wore.

"Do you remember earlier when I told you that lord Kokabiel and my master had been busy?"

Og nodded.

"Well, the last time that I was summoned I was sent along with many others of my kind to kill a boy who lived among men, you know . . . in the outer world. We failed. At least I think we failed, but I can't be sure. It was a big warrior type who suddenly appeared and stopped us. He was terrifying. Beautiful, but scary and powerful when seen through my eyes. He, along with a priest, destroyed many of my kind and bound me with magic. When I returned here to report to lord Kokabiel and master, they knew who the big angel was and they called him by name. I specifically remember master saying something about Armaros using his magic again."

It had been hard for little Hidimba to keep all of that information penned up inside of himself for as long as he did. It actually caused him physical pain-like his chest was going to explode. But Og had told him not to interrupt, and so he did not, even though he had figured out that this Armaros character was a significant player in whatever drama was unfolding. Hidimba had aspirations himself. He hoped to increase his own role in the production. Fate continued to cooperate.

"This is a first," Og said, "a demon gives me some good news." He reached out and lifted Hidimba off of the rock and sat him down gently. The giant's mood had lightened. "We must get moving. I'll tell you what's left of my story, at least the relevant parts, while we walk."

"You are anxious to see your mentor?" Hidimba asked.

"Perhaps I'll see him again," Og countered, "or perhaps not. That's of little consequence in the grand scheme here Hidimba. What does matter is that Armaros is aware of what's going on. Or at least he knows that something is going on. And if that priest you saw is who I think he is . . . well, that's another plus. It's all still unclear, but I'm sure that it's related to the writings of Enoch."

"This Armaros . . . he will oppose my master?" Hidimba asked.

"Of that I am certain little demon," Og said. "Unless of course your master is not planning something diabolical and his intentions are good. But that's about as unlikely as you growing wings and flying off to live happily ever after with Raphael and the rest of the seraphim. No offense of course."

"None taken. Who's Raphael?" the demon asked as he scurried to catch up with Og. The giant was already half way to the tunnel where earlier Hidimba had inadvertently separated from his master.

"He's an angel Hidimba," Og answered incredulously. "I see that I've got a lot to teach you. What I don't have is enough time to do it in. So listen closely because it's just the facts from here on out. One question first though. How can you have heard of me and not know who Raphael is? I thought you told me that your kind tells stories. Surely one of your elders must have mentioned something about the archangels."

"Our stories are of this world and the world of men. I know who the archangels are, but the only one I know by name is Mikhael. And I had never heard them called seraphim before. You know what I am Og. You call me demon just as much as you call me by my name. We demons don't tell stories of angels."

"Fair enough Hidimba," Og said. The giant stressed each syllable in the demon's name. He seemed to like teasing his companion. It bothered Hidimba a little, but if it was amusing to Og then he wouldn't protest. He had been good entertainment right from the start, and Og had grown fond of him. The giant stopped and turned when he got back to the fork in the tunnel. The determined little demon was right behind him.

"Stay close," Og said.

Hidimba nodded. His feelings were still a little hurt. The giant continued into the left tunnel and he followed.

"As we continued to the battlefield, a most unexpected thing happened," Og said. He was continuing his story as promised. Hidimba, despite being a little angry with Og, drew even closer to the giant. He did not want to miss any of this.

"We ran into a bit of trouble, and were taken captive by-"

Og froze. Hidimba walked into the giant's buttock and fell backwards onto his own bony rump. From his seat on the stone floor, Hidimba peered through Og's massive legs and focused on the tunnel beyond. There, less than a stone's throw away, stood the reason why the giant had stopped. They were not alone in the tunnel.

# CHAPTER 28

"We don't know who the third is," Basia said, "but we think he may be a demon or some other dark force."

"He lives in Sheol," Father Lucas added.

"Sheol?" Armaros repeated. His voice was thick with doubt. "How can anything that comes from beneath the mountain be trusted?"

"Raphael trusted him," Basia said. "He was chosen like we were and the information that he's given us over the years has always proven to be accurate. We have details of the hierarchy in Sheol because of him."

"Is Dantalion still running things there?" Armaros asked.

"For now," Father Lucas answered. The priest stood up and made the short walk into the kitchen where he kneeled down and dug for another beer in the refrigerator. He emerged seconds later with a can in each hand and extended one of them outward as an offering to the others in the room. Everyone else declined and the priest mumbled his disappointment as he put one of the beers back into the fridge. "I've got a hunch that he may not be for much longer though. Not if your brother comes a calling."

Thane remained silent even though they were talking about things of which he had no knowledge. Again. He grew weary of asking questions and wanted only for Armaros to continue his account of the Watchers. He trusted that he would learn everything in time. The three of them had promised as much.

"We think that Azazel will go to Sheol," Basia said. "He may even be there already."

"I'm not surprised," Armaros remarked. "I've spent much time contemplating what my brother's next move might be, and Sheol always made the most sense. Besides the fact that evil attracts evil, Sheol is a refuge that remains completely unassailable. And this new Azazel, the aggressive, straightforward one, wouldn't care that he was doing the predictable thing. He's too confident to worry."

"So how do we find out for sure?" Mundy asked.

"Can you contact your third, the one on the inside, and see if he knows anything?"

Basia shook her head. "We've never spoken with him directly," she said. "Bits of information just seem to find their way into our hands from time to time. I wouldn't know where to begin if I needed to reach him right away."

"Sheol would seem a logical place to start," Armaros said, "wouldn't you agree."

Father Lucas stopped mid-sip and exchanged an alarmed look with Basia. Thane could tell by their reactions to the big angel's words that neither of the two was in a hurry to visit the place called Sheol. The young deputy didn't miss much, and he quickly deduced that if the padre and the girl were scared of this place then he would probably be better off avoiding it also.

Armaros had unsettled his companions. Thane was glad he didn't push the issue and alarm them any further.

"Even though it's a distinct possibility that I will have to journey beneath the mountain, perhaps it won't come to that," he said. "Anyhow, for now I need to finish educating Thane here. We'll decide our next move after that. Agreed?"

The nodding heads were unanimous.

* * *

"And so it is done," Mikhael said. His head remained bent as he spoke. His eyes still watched the ground beneath his right foot. "Sammael and those that would side with him have been banished, never to return to the heavens. It is a woeful time brothers, but the purge was unavoidable."

I could hear it in Mikhael's voice. He was torn about what had just taken place. I wanted to offer him comfort of some kind, but I couldn't pretend that I knew what he felt. In fact, besides confusion, I wasn't even sure what I felt. I had so many questions, but before I could speak I found out that I wasn't the only one.

"What did they do?" Azazel asked. His voice was deep with emotion. He was visibly upset; his cool demeanor and analytical manner had left him. I remember hoping that Mikhael wouldn't be offended by the way in which the question was asked, but he didn't seem bothered by Azazel when he answered. I got the impression that he was planning to tell us all what happened, regardless if anyone had asked him to or not.

"We seraphim do not rely on faith," Mikhael began. "We have none." There was an audible gasp from the Watchers, myself included, in response to Mikhael's declaration. He was patient and let the murmuring desist before he continued. "Faith is an act of trust or reliance in something despite having no material evidence to support your belief. You Watchers assent to the truth of what is declared by Gabriel, Raphael, and myself, because of our supposed authority and truthfulness. You have faith. There are humans on Earth who have never seen the Uncreated, an angel, or even witnessed anything remotely divine, yet they have already established a set of teachings based on their belief in a transcendent reality-our reality. They have faith." Again there were murmurings. This time Mikhael was not as patient as before.

"I will tell you of the humans in a moment," he declared as he raised and then lowered his arms in a quieting gesture. It worked. Calmness ensued, and for the first time since Mikhael began speaking, I noticed that the rest of the host was gone. Only Raphael and Gabriel remained alongside Mikhael. There was no sadness in the eyes of the new viceroy's companions. Those two seemed unaffected by Sammael's fall.

"We have knowledge of celestial things," Gabriel said, "and we always have since the moment of our creation."

"Sammael also had this knowledge," Raphael added. "He was the first to which it was granted."

"The Uncreated reached into his center and removed a part of himself," Gabriel said. "It was from these particles that he fashioned Sammael, Mikhael, myself, and Raphael. We are undiluted-born of the same substance as the stars and the Father himself. We are an extension of Him . . . tiny pieces of God."

"And when you have that knowledge, when you know that what you serve is real and you have looked into the face of your creator," Mikhael said, "then faith by definition ceases to exist."

I understood. The three remaining archangels had always been excellent teachers. And Mikhael was right; I would believe anything that they told me.

Raphael was next to speak. "Sammael, and those who follow him, are guilty of unforgivable sin. They know the Uncreated intimately and they know his will, yet they choose to stray from the path that he has laid out for them because of their pride. They will not receive mercy or salvation. Ever."

"You all heard Sammael mention man, did you not?" Mikhael asked. "He called them clay people, and he did not hold them in very high regard. But he was wrong. They are not made of clay, and they are exceptional. Tragic yes, but still exceptional."

"But most importantly they are the chosen of the Uncreated," Gabriel said. "That's what Sammael could not accept. He thought too highly of himself. He could not stand the idea of being no more than a shepherd of man, whom he deemed a clearly inferior creation. And so he refused to carry out the will of the Uncreated, and now he is banished for all time. All because of terrible, sinful pride."

The three of them continued on for quite awhile, working as a team, and explaining to us about humans, Sammael, and where it all went wrong. I could tell that it was important for them to explain themselves. What I couldn't decide is whether they were trying to convince us that their actions against the fallen angels had been justified, or if their confession was purely therapeutic and meant for no one other than themselves.

Either way I was satisfied with their version of what took place. From the very first time that Sammael had visited us, I knew that he behaved differently from the other archangels. He was a good instructor at times, but that's where the similarities between him and the other seraphim ended. I always thought of him as flawed and arrogant, and I always presumed that the rest of my brothers must have felt the same way. Surprisingly, I was learning now that some of the other Watchers held him in a much higher regard than I did.

"You tore him from his home just because he disagreed with the Uncreated?" Again it was Azazel. "Were we not created with free will? Are we to suppress all contrary thoughts?"

His line of questioning was making me uncomfortable. I had never considered challenging the authority of the archangels, but Azazel spoke with an accusatory note in his voice and seemed dissatisfied with the seraphim's explanation. I feared my brother would be next to ride the maelstrom if he persisted with this impudence.

Mikhael, however, would not be baited. He chose to ignore Azazel and continue his explanation of the human condition. "Sammael has always made it clear to all that he was the first being shaped by the Father. He is mistaken. During the time of the expansion, when the Uncreated amplified and separated himself to begin forming the cosmos, he laid the foundation for the eventual emergence of humans. He did this before any angels, including Sammael, were formed. A goodly amount of time, even when measured by heavenly standards, did pass before the Uncreated judged the humans evolved enough to be enlightened, but whereas we archangels feel the passage of time only minutely, the Uncreated is truly timeless. And so enlighten them he did. Of all that is now, has been, and shall be, mankind has always been at the center of the Uncreated's vision. They were always first, and we were made to serve them. Sammael could not accept that reality."

"He enlightened them how?" Azazel asked. Much of the anger had left his voice, and relief spilled over me when he spoke.

"By revealing himself to them," Raphael answered. He was grinning at me even though it was my brother who asked the question. "He chose a pair of humans and made a covenant with them. First, he filled them with more particles of himself and they became aware. Right away this influx of fire gave them advantage over every other strain of human on Earth-they are to be the dominant line. The Earth shall one day be populated only by the generations of this pair of humans. He then offered his guidance, protection, and love in exchange for their piety and that of their descendants. They could not refuse him."

Murmuring erupted throughout our group. Others were asking questions now-their curiosity piqued by the talk of humans. I heard someone inquire as to where this Earth was that Raphael made mention of. Another voice wanted to know why these humans weren't residing in Heaven with the rest of us. One of my brothers even asked aloud to see the humans. I remained silent even though my own interest was heightened.

"Turn and look Watchers," Mikhael said.

It was the pool again. A new vision had revealed itself across the surface. This scene was unlike anything we had ever been shown before. It was raw, beautiful, and gripping. The whispers and muttering stopped completely as my brothers encircled the pool and stared, completely enthralled, into its divine waters. Before Mikhael even told us what we were looking at, I knew the name of this new place. It just seemed to fit.

"That's Earth," he announced.

As I smiled knowingly the scene in the pool shifted and it continued to do so long after my grin had turned to slack-jawed wonder. Images of the planet-great oceans, towering mountains of stone and ice, deserts of red sand, canopies of green-flashed across the pool and burned themselves into my mind. I was enamored from the start.

* * *

"I know the three of you are familiar with your own planet," Armaros said, "so I'm not going to bore you with details and descriptions. But if you will, try to imagine seeing it all at once for the first time. Try to imagine seeing it when it was almost entirely unpopulated and undisturbed. It was savage but perfect."

Thane, Basia, and Father Lucas all did as Armaros asked. Each paused and took a moment to reflect upon the beauty of the planet they so often took for granted. Thane even closed his eyes and called upon memories of his own in order to try and get a better understanding of how Armaros may have felt when the big angel first saw Earth. It didn't work. He feared that the bit of awe he mustered inside of his own mind probably fell short of what Armaros experienced.

"How can you want to leave a world so badly that you hold in such high regard?" Thane asked. "You told me early in our conversations that you yearned for the first estate continually, but you seem to have some strong feelings for our little planet too."

"I must have given you the wrong impression when we first spoke Thane," Armaros countered. "My longing for the first estate has everything to do with my prolonged absence from its perfect simplicity, and nothing to do with any negative feelings towards the Earth. In fact, towards the end of my time spent in the first estate I was longing to visit this planet. But I've been here long enough now. I'm ready to go home. Sadly, I fear that will never happen, but I yearn to feel the grass just the same."

Nobody said anything for awhile. Melancholy had settled in the trailer much like the thin layer of dust that sat atop most of Cain's furnishings. It was Thane that finally broke the silence.

"What was it that you saw next?" he asked.

"You," Armaros answered with a smile.

* * *

The images slowed gradually until they stopped changing altogether. We were left with a vision of a green and fertile land surrounded by full running rivers and bordering a large gulf. As we continued staring, the vision in the pool continued to narrow. More details of the land were revealed to us, and we could see that shelters of wood had been built and fields of crops had been sowed. The picture in the pool tightened even more, and finally a human was revealed to us.

A collective gasp escaped from the lips of my brothers and I when the first representative of mankind came wholly into focus-he looked exactly like we did. I felt akin to this human at once. How could I not? He could have passed for one of my brothers was it not for his smaller stature. I don't remember having any preconceived notions of what humans would look like, but their likeness to my own kind was still surprising.

The man was fishing. Over and over he cast his net into the slow rolling river. Sometimes he would pull a whiskered fish or two from the muddy water, but more often than not his net returned to the bank empty. He placed the occasional fish that he did catch into a neatly woven basket where they would flop around until they drowned in the garden air.

I was impressed by the human's determination. It took him some time and many, many throws, but he did eventually fill his basket. Once he did, he didn't linger by the river a second longer than it took him to gather his net and basket. We all followed with our eyes as he walked a well worn path that led from the river back towards the cluster of shelters that we had noticed earlier.

I grew eager as the man walked. I hoped he was going back to feed his family. I looked up from the pool for just a moment to help ease my anxiety. Right away I saw that I was the exception. Although I could sense that my brothers were also excited by the prospect of seeing more humans, none of them felt the need to look away as I did. They remained in the grip of the pool. I scanned my surroundings quickly, a habit that I had developed soon after I began weapons training, and returned my own gaze to the man walking the path. He was nearing the shelters.

As I had expected, there were more humans in and about the settlement. Many more. This was unexpected. The seraphim had led me to believe that the pair of enlightened humans had just sealed their covenant with the Uncreated, but judging by the number of them in the village they had been on Earth for some time. Whereas I had hoped to see a dozen or so of these humans, I counted at least three hundred of them. And there may have been more in the fields that I couldn't see. I concluded that life on Earth was even more accelerated than I had originally thought when compared to the progression of events here at the first estate. I was right.

I learned much later that the enlightened humans had already occupied the land by the rivers for a little over six hundred years by the time I first saw them. This disparity between the passage of time in the first estate versus that of Earth troubled me and eventually, once I actually descended to Earth, led me to develop a formula that shows the relationship between the two. Actually, Kokabiel and Azazel developed the formula, but it was based off of my observations. We concluded that eight hundred and thirty-three Earth years feels like one hour in heaven. We had no way of knowing if we were right, but I still feel like we got it close.

The humans around the settlement were anything but idle. They were patching roofs, weaving baskets, making tools, preparing food, and doing a whole host of other things that looked both laborious and necessary. The amount of activity was astonishing, and I discovered quickly that there was no way for me to see everything that was going on in the village despite my best efforts to do so. These humans were a busy bunch.

A question occurred to me as I watched all these people scurry about. How did we not see them when the village was first revealed to us? Then another thing occurred to me: It was always me and never any of my brothers who seemed to find mystery in the silliest of happenings. I looked up from the pool and found them all still enjoying the show. None of the other Watchers seemed to care that the settlement wasn't filled with humans the first time we saw it. I decided to bring it to the attention of at least a couple of them.

"Where did they all come from?" I asked Azazel. "The shelters were barren when we first saw them. Do you remember?"

No reply.

"Maybe the pool hid them from us," I continued, "because it wanted us to study the lone man before it showed us the whole lot of them."

Still no reply.

"Azazel . . . Azazel."

He didn't acknowledge that I was speaking to him at all. He remained frozen-all his energies focused on the pool. Even when I touched his shoulder Azazel remained unresponsive. I looked back into the pool and saw why. The vision on its surface had changed again.

We were looking at a familiar riverbank, only this time there was no one fishing in the waters. They were bathing instead. And this was no lone male frolicking about naked in the water, but six females-a vision of hips, breasts, and buttocks. When I looked once more from the pool, I saw something in the faces of my brothers that left me shaken. There was foreboding in their eyes. Things would never be the same. Woman had been revealed to the Watchers.

# CHAPTER 29

It was one of the older demons. Hidimba recognized him immediately. The rakshasa poked Og a few quick times to gain the giant's attention.

"That's a Deadtalker," Hidimba said. He spoke in a hushed voice so as not to be overheard. "There are two of them. Twins. Both blind. They're under Dantalion's command. I think that's the smaller one."

By the way that Og was nodding, Hidimba was forced to assume that the giant knew about the Deadtalkers. The little demon didn't like being hushed, but yielding to Og was an easy decision. The giant was very convincing.

After quieting Hidimba, Og stilled himself once again and watched the Deadtalker. It hadn't moved since they discovered it. It stood near the center of the tunnel with its head cocked to one side-listening. Some poor soul had been granted its ear, and now the Deadtalker attended to the damned.

Dantalion had created the thing. Hidimba was reminded how unfeeling the demon lord could be when he looked over the Deadtalkers tortured body. Its eyes had been plucked from their sockets-it did not need to see. An empty cavity remained where its nose should have been-it did not need to smell. Its original skin had been burnt off long ago, and the nerve endings beneath were incinerated also. Only scar tissue, overly thick and stretched taut, remained. It did not even need to feel. What was left of the creature only needed to do one thing—hear.

The twins relied heavily on their one remaining outlet to their surroundings, and as a result both developed auditory skills that would humble a wild animal. They could hear a bug settle in another room, or a demon swallowing a meal halfway across Sheol. But most importantly, they learned to hear the dead speak, which was what Dantalion had intended for the pair all along.

Lost souls, especially those newly ushered into Sheol by agents of the demons, are an extremely annoying lot. No more than a consciousness full of emotions and with only a voice, the souls can do nothing but wail at their surroundings. To the corporeal beings that can hear them, their mournful cries are maddening. It was more than Dantalion could stand. And so he created the Deadtalkers.

They acted as a buffer between the damned souls and the ruler of Sheol. The Deadtalkers listened to the cries of the departed, deciphered their moaning, and reported anything useful to Dantalion. Meanwhile, the arch demon was free of the incessant wailing and could focus all of his attention on remaining atop the heap of demons who would usurp his authority given half a chance. In exchange for their sacrifice the twins were given nothing. They lived in Sheol; rewards do not exist in such a place. They were allowed to exist. That would be the only wage they ever earned.

Og and Hidimba were lucky. If this Deadtalker had not been communing with the unseen, then it would have heard them coming from a great distance away. Dantalion and the others would already know that they were coming. Og didn't want that. He hadn't told Hidimba exactly what he was going to do once he reached his uncles and the arch demons, but the demon knew that he'd rather not lose the element of surprise if at all possible.

Still there was a problem. The Deadtalker may have been oblivious to their presence, but it remained squarely in their way.

"It's going to be impossible for me to squeeze past the poor monster, and I doubt that you, although small enough, possess the dexterity needed to creep past the thing undetected," Og said. "But this is the only tunnel to the lowest levels of Sheol where Dantalion and the other ancient demons stay. There is no going around. We have to figure something out. Quickly."

"Let's get out of here before he notices us," Hidimba said. His voice was just above a whisper. "We can go another way."

"Did you hear me demon? There is no other way," Og said. "One way in and the same way out. That's how Dantalion likes it."

The giant stepped towards the Deadtalker. Hidimba looked on horrified. He was sure Og was going to do something to the creature, and the little demon knew what that meant. This Deadtalker was no random, nameless goat demon. It was an agent of Dantalion. An attack on it would be the same as attacking the arch demon himself, and Hidimba wasn't ready to declare open warfare on all of Sheol. Og, on the other hand, seemed up for the challenge.

There wasn't anything graceful about the giant's attack. It didn't seem to Hidimba that Og had really thought it out much at all. The giant rested his spear against the tunnel wall and snatched the Deadtalker from the stone floor. He pinned the creature's arms to its sides with his massive hands, and now held the thing out from his own body like a human would with a child that had recently soiled itself. Only after Og lowered the poor creature a bit did Hidimba guess what the giant's intentions were. He was going to drive the Deadtalkers head into the rock of the ceiling.

Hidimba looked away. He held no ill will towards this pitiful beast, and its death would not be a pretty one. He waited for the sound of its demise-rock cracking, bone crunching-but he heard something different entirely. The Deadtalker began to speak.

Its voice was devoid of any emotion. It wasn't conversing, only reporting. Og looked over his shoulder and exchanged a look of disbelief with Hidimba. The giant didn't know why the Deadtalker was giving its account. Neither did Hidimba. He could only assume that something picked it up every time it was supposed to report. Regardless, he decided to listen to the thing.

He was already on his way over to the giant. Once he arrived, the two stood together and listened as the Deadtalker recited a series of remarkable stories that had undoubtedly just been conveyed to it by a number of new arrivals. Og held the thing aloft the whole time. Hidimba was glad; he feared that it would cease to report if the giant moved it.

As best they could tell, the Deadtalker had granted an audience to seven of the damned since its last report. Of these seven new testimonies, the first two and the last were of particular interest to Og and Hidimba. The accounts given the Deadtalker by the first two souls had much in common and sounded much the same coming from its lipless mouth.

Both spirits had told the Deadtalker that they weren't surprised to find themselves in such a place-they knew they were damned before they ever saw the rock of Sheol. They both lost their corporeal bodies while trying to kill a young man whom, by the way each described him, must have been the same person. And finally, they each talked about falling under attack from a priest, a girl, and a giant man that moved with inhuman speed.

Og and Hidimba concluded quickly that these two had perished at the hospital. Hidimba couldn't remember seeing a girl there, but he remembered everything else that the spirits had moaned about. There could be no coincidence.

The last story that the Deadtalker retold seemed at first listen unrelated to the other two. This final spirit was restless and scared. It didn't understand why it was here. Over and over it told the Deadtalker that it had never hurt anybody. A mistake, it claimed, had been made. Neither the giant nor the demon was stirred by its revelations. They both knew that souls didn't end up here by mistake.

Two things that the Deadtalker said, however, did excite Og and Hidimba a bit. Its words revealed to them that this final spirit was convinced it had been killed by a monster. More specifically, it claimed to be the victim of a reanimated corpse. Furthermore, it then swore to watching, already separated from its body, as this same corpse was then itself destroyed by another being. It described this other being as an extremely large man that moved too fast to be human.

"Your friend Armaros again?" Hidimba asked. He kept his eyes on the Deadtalker as he spoke to Og. The thing was silent now, but Og still held it up and out. Hidimba was curious what the giant would do with it.

"I'm sure," the giant answered. "They're all together now."

Before Hidimba could ask him what he meant, Og drove the Deadtalker headfirst into the rock ceiling of the tunnel. The little demon had suspected as much earlier, but now he was caught completely off guard by the giant's actions. The violence and force of the maneuver left Hidimba shaken.

"Why did you do that?" the little demon asked once he regained his composure. He watched as Og released the body of the Deadtalker to the floor of the tunnel. At first glance it appeared that Og had somehow taken the things head off, but as Hidimba looked closer he could see that wasn't the case. Instead, the power of the giant's blow had forced the creature's head and neck down into its chest. There was only gore and bone visible in the depression between its shoulders.

"It's better off," Og said.

"Really?" Hidimba countered. "Because I can't see its face to judge just how happy it is right now. But if you're sure, well then . . ."

"Living as a maimed slave. Performing like a puppet. You would choose that kind of existence over death?"

"I am a slave Og," Hidimba answered. "We're all slaves here in Sheol. And while my flesh hasn't been maimed, I'm not exactly attractive either. But I still want to live Og. As terrible as this place is, I still fight to stay alive. Everything here does. I've never heard of a demon committing suicide have you?"

"What would you have me do Hidimba?" the giant asked.

"I don't know what. Talk to the thing maybe."

The giant's face twisted into an expression of scorn. His voice was heavy with contempt. "I've already told you Hidimba, that thing was a puppet. A trained bird. It only memorizes the stories of others. It has no true voice of its own. There can be no talking to such as that. If I would've let it go, then it would've ran back to Dantalion and told him anything that we said."

"But we didn't say anything," Hidimba argued, "so you could have just let it go. There was nothing to report."

Og looked weary of Hidimba's talk. He did not seem inclined to explain himself any further. When he spoke his voice was like thunder. "Enough. What is done . . . is done," he roared. "It was just another demon."

Hidimba sensed that the giant regretted his choice of words as soon as he heard his own voice speak them, but by then it was too late.

"I'm just another demon Og," Hidimba said. "Would you end me just as casually?"

Og opened his mouth to protest but closed it just as abruptly. Hidimba saw why. A number of figures emerged from the darkness of the tunnel ahead. He looked behind himself and found an equal number there as well. They were caught.

Og muttered curses to himself.

"I'm just another demon as well giant," a new voice proclaimed, "but I think you'll find me a bit more difficult to end than my unfortunate Deadtalker there."

Hidimba dropped, fully prostrate, to the rock floor.

# CHAPTER 30

They told us that man needed our protection. The humans, they said, were highly impressionable and too weak to protect themselves from otherworldly forces. Like the flocks in their fields, they could easily be led astray. The seraphim did not want to see mankind corrupted-turned from the Uncreated as Sammael had threatened. At least not without a fight.

Sammael and his legions had already begun their treachery. Sammael, whom they now called Satan, had kept his promise. He maintained a constant presence on Earth, and his fallen ones attempted to subvert the Uncreated's great experiment at all times. They were a confounding factor-their interference, if left unchecked, would never allow the humans to reach the heights that had been envisioned for them. That's where we came in.

Our purpose, and as I was beginning to suspect the only reason we were created, was to safeguard this select line of humans from excessive demonic influence. I say excessive and not all demonic sway, because it was made clear to use that some of this devilishness was to be tolerated, and was, in fact, necessary. It was a bit confusing at first, but I soon discovered that I had an innate ability to judge essential evil. It was a convenient talent.

It was all too perfect for me. I became convinced that everything-our training, the fall of Sammael, the subsequent rise of humanity, our positions as Watchers-was predetermined. The choices that we made as individuals meant very little. Our die was cast. It was a sobering realization.

The seraphim knew. Both Raphael and then Sammael had hinted as much to me before, but I had chosen not to listen. They both knew something about me . . . something about my future and that of my brothers. I would never get the chance to question Sammael further, but I firmly resolved to ask Raphael about my destiny and that of my brother's the first chance I got. His next visit presented that opportunity.

None of us had left the pool since the seraphim had last taken their leave. There had been no activity on earth, at least not of the demonic variety, that demanded our interference. I understood now why we were called Watchers. That's all we did it seemed. We watched and waited, trusting that we would know when it was time for action and believing that our instincts and training would guide us when that time came. When I saw Gabriel and Raphael reappear by the pool, I believed such a time would soon be at hand.

I viewed the seraphim as harbingers now. They knew when events of importance were going to take place, and they didn't miss much. Besides, there was really no other reason for them to visit us anymore. We were trained and educated. We had a purpose. And the seraphim were too busy for social visits. I didn't care though. When Raphael passed behind me I tore myself from the pool and turned to face him.

He was waiting for me when I turned around. There was an understanding in his eyes. Some of my determination dissipated when I met his gaze. This was bigger than the both of us.

"You know what I'm going to ask don't you?" I said.

"I know that you've figured things out. You always figure things out Armaros. That's just how you were made I guess."

"Sammael told me once that these humans will eventually come to pity me. They will call me 'the accursed one' he said. Why is that I wonder?"

"Don't read too much into what Sammael told you. He was cross when he said those things. The realities of his words are not nearly as sinister and dramatic as he made them seem."

"But they are true?"

"Perhaps. The real truth is that I can joke and hint and make light of my ability to know what will eventually transpire, but I cannot talk in absolutes. Even if I wanted to answer all of your questions, it would be impossible for me to say anything to you that could alter the cycle. And that's not a choice that I make-it's more like a universal law I guess."

"Did you know what would happen to Sammael and the others?"

"No. I'm not even sure the Uncreated saw that coming. The closer you are to something, the cloudier its future becomes. That's why it's impossible to know one's own hereafter. I did, however, know that some sort of fall was imminent. We all did. And we knew that you and your brothers would be needed after that fall."

"And what about . . . my going beyond what is fated? Both you and Sammael said that to me. You said that perhaps I was the one to go beyond what is fated."

Raphael looked defeated. He wanted to answer me, I could tell he did, but something was holding him back. There was conflict inside of him. When he spoke it was with a heavy voice.

"It will end badly Armaros. But I think a part of you already knows that. Just remember that you're only responsible for you and not your brothers. You can't save them. Now please, let's get back to the pool. I think you may be needed shortly."

The archangel gave me a light smile as he turned me back towards the pool. He was trying to comfort me I suppose, but I was in no mood for Raphael's humor. His words had stung. A feeling of hopelessness now nested in my chest. Nothing seemed fair.

"Look," I heard one of my brothers call out, "look there, near the sleeping child." His excitement was contagious. It chased my melancholy away. I didn't want to be interested in what was happening on Earth, but I couldn't stop myself from hustling back over to the edge of the pool in order to see what had provoked my brother.

Raphael followed and turned his body sideways in order to squeeze in between Azazel and myself. He also seemed excited. Judging from his demeanor, he had moved past the sullen conversation that he and I just had. I realized that he was trying to set an example for me. He wanted me to move past it also. I would try. I would carry out my duties as a Watcher and be as vigilant as possible while preserving the humans, but I wouldn't forget what Raphael had told me. I couldn't. Not ever.

The child was sleeping, but not soundly. She tossed about feverishly on her simple straw mat. Her tiny body, no more than five or six years old, was under assault.

The adults were outside of the thatch hut listening to the elders of the village who entertained them with stories. It was the night before the Sabbath, and the mood in the village was light. The girl's parents laughed and sang with the others. When she finally awakened and managed a partial scream, her cry fell upon deaf ears. Nobody heard the terror in her voice. Nobody saw the horror that she saw. Nobody except us.

Three of the demons were holding her down-two at her legs, one at her shoulders-and the fourth was trying to gain entry into her body. They were hideous; their bodies were shrunken, darkened, and full of malice. I was stunned by the transformation that had obviously continued even after they fell from the heavens. It was hard for me to believe that these foul and offensive things had once been beautiful.

I didn't know what they were trying to accomplish by attacking the girl, but I knew that it could not be permitted. The fourth demon, who was the smallest of the lot, had forced himself halfway down the child's throat when she opened her mouth to scream. He squeezed and contorted his body, which was becoming less corporeal by the moment, down into the girl's gullet, and now only his lower half remained visible. The poor child's face was stretched beyond the limits of her flesh, and the tears that rolled from her panicked eyes let me know that she was in great pain. I could watch no more.

My instincts were ablaze. I leapt into the pool. It seemed like the right thing to do. I was confident that I was supposed to help this child, and I hoped that jumping into the vision was the quickest way to accomplish that. When my feet hit solid ground less than an instant later, I knew that my leap of faith had been the right thing to do.

I was behind the hut. A wall of tall reeds was the only thing separating me from the savagery inside. We didn't stay separated for long.

The demons were still attempting their crude possession ritual when I tore through the wall and surprised them. The three holding the child retreated at once. They fled past me before I could even draw my sword. The speed of their movements was astonishing. The fourth had no idea that I was there. He continued trying to burrow his way down the child's throat. The girl sat up once the fleeing demons released her, and I didn't hesitate. I grabbed the two legs of the demon that were kicking wildly and still protruding from the desperate child's mouth. The girl's pallor was the color of a new bruise, and I knew I didn't have time to be gentle. I hoped she survived the strain.

I tightened my grip on the dry, cold legs of the demon, and began to pull. At first I met with a little resistance, but the demon surprised me and quickly relinquished his hold on the girl. I felt his body regain its physical substance as he allowed himself to be removed. He plopped from her lips like a newborn-covered in fluids and extremely agitated. The tip of my sword pressed against the vein of his neck as I held him fast.

With one last glance at the child, who seemed like she was going to survive judging by the health of her screams, I ran from the village with the demon at my mercy. I didn't know what I was going to do with the thing. There was no precedent for this sort of adventure. At least that was what I thought until only moments later when, most unexpectedly, I found myself amongst Semjaza, Azazel, and the bodies of two dead demons.

"The one got away," Semjaza said. "These things are fast."

"Why haven't you killed that one yet?" Azazel asked.

"I don't know," I answered. "I haven't really had time to think about it." I raised my arm and looked at the putrid little creature I held. It was pitiful. An unforeseen surge of hot rippled through me when I looked at it. A furious anger welled up inside of my chest when I thought of what it did to the human child only moments before. It was stronger even than when I first became enraged watching Sammael attack Mikhael. I noticed Azazel was eyeing me curiously.

"It's called hate," he said, "and you should embrace it. Use it to your benefit. It can make you strong."

The demon in my hand twisted itself violently and managed to lash out at me with his filthy claws just as Azazel finished speaking. He scratched the flesh just beneath my arm on my left side. The wound began to heal itself at once, but the sharpness of the pain came as a shock to me. I had never been cut so deeply before. Even during my countless sessions practicing with my blade, I never took more than a nick from any of my brothers or instructors. This attack was all the prodding I would need.

With a flick of my blade, I removed the creature's head from its body. Its carcass, still dangling from my left hand, went limp and I quickly tossed it over by the other dead demons. With a well-placed kick, I also managed to send its head amongst the other bodies.

"You certainly have a talent for this brother," Azazel said. He wore a smirk on his face that somehow made me feel dirty. I didn't know why. I was glad the demon was dead and I knew that it deserved to be. Still, I had taken no pleasure in the killing of it. It was a completely neutral action for me and one that I was, after all, created to do. Still, the dirty was there deep inside. I had to shake it off.

"You two seem proficient enough yourselves," I countered. "I've put no more demons into that pile than either of you have."

"True . . . true," Azazel agreed, "but neither of us did it with such precision. We're both a little sloppy when compared to you-a true professional."

I didn't like where this conversation was going. I didn't know what Azazel was up to. And I didn't feel like talking.

"I'm no more a professional than you brother," I said. "My training was the same as yours. Now, how do we get back?"

"I don't know," Semjaza answered. He was shaking his head. "I just leapt in the pool. I never thought about getting back. Me and Azazel, we landed side by side and watched you tear through the wall up ahead of us. When those demons rushed past you we were here waiting for them."

"Why the hurry to get back?" Azazel asked.

"Because our job here is done for now brother," I answered, "and there's no reason to stay."

"And it's so hot here," Semjaza added. He was right. Now that all the excitement was over I had noticed the stifling heat. There was also a peculiar wetness to everything. These climate variances were not something I was used to. I was ready to get back to the first estate.

"The others are watching I'm sure," Azazel said. "Let's entertain them a bit. Perhaps give them something to talk about."

I ignored him. Everything that he said seemed strange and a bit ridiculous to me. I feared that the move to Earth was having an adverse affect on my brother. Instead, I let my instincts take over again. I closed my eyes and thought of my home. Specifically, I thought of the spot where I had stood beside Raphael on the bank of the pool. And it was done.

When I opened my eyes, I was back in the first estate. Raphael was still there too, but where Azazel had stood Mikhael now appeared. There was a void to my right: Semjaza had not returned either. I tried to convince myself that they would be right behind me, but with every passing second I became less and less certain.

"What are they doing?" It was Mikhael's voice. He was asking me—testing me. When I looked towards him, I saw that he was looking down into the pool. I knew then that I had been foolish to await the return of my brothers. Everyone else was watching them in the pool. They weren't leaving Earth just yet.

I didn't know how he did it. I was certain that Semjaza wanted to leave Earth just as quickly as I did. Undoubtedly my brother Azazel, whose behavior was becoming increasingly unsettling to me, had found a way to convince our leader to stay on the little blue planet a bit longer. Somehow, I wasn't surprised.

"Azazel wanted to see more of the village and the countryside," I said. "Semjaza must have decided to stay with him." The excuse rolled off my tongue before I even realized it. It wasn't a lie, but I wasn't convinced that it was wholly the truth either. At least one of my brothers felt much the same way. He spoke up almost before I was finished talking.

"I doubt it's the village that he wants to see," he said. He was average looking for a Watcher. He stood on the far side of the pool. I didn't know his name then. Everyone around that pool knew what he was implying, myself included, but not another word was said about it. We all just continued to watch.

Azazel and Semjaza walked straight back to the outskirts of the village. Many of the humans, who must have heard the little girl screaming sometime after I left, had gathered near the damaged marsh hut. They were gesturing and talking. The child was still upset, but her cries had lessened to a gentle mewing now that she clung to the familiar leg of her mother. The comely young woman was nursing a much younger child as she comforted her daughter by gently stroking the girl's dark hair, which matched her own. I could see that she had almost managed to erase all the evidence of the attack just by straightening the child's mussed up locks and mothering the little girl a bit.

Azazel and Semjaza stood just beyond the gleam of the torches that the humans used to see at night. They too were watching-gawking at the young mother whose swollen breast lay exposed to the night. I was embarrassed. My brothers stood there like predatory animals with unabashed lust on their faces, and I was in the company of archangels. Embarrassment turned to anger.

I looked to the faces of Raphael and Mikhael, Gabriel was too far away for me to read his reaction, and I could portend nothing. They were masks of stoicism. I chose not to speak.

The faces of my brothers on the other hand were easy to read. More lust. All those that I could see were staring at the young mother right along with Azazel and Semjaza. Anger turned to fear.

That was the moment. I knew right then that what Raphael had told me was the truth. Actually, I knew that it was true as soon as he told me, he was after all an archangel, but I thought up until that moment that I could perhaps alter the course of things. Not anymore. I wasn't going to be able to change my brothers, and I wasn't going to be responsible for their actions. All I could do was let things happen as they may. I was not like the others. I knew that now. It was time for me to stop pretending otherwise.

I left the pool. I wanted to be alone. I had never felt that way before, but I couldn't stand there anymore and pretend. Not everything was going to be all right. There was a flaw in the Watchers that I could see clearly, and the two brothers whom I felt the closest to were the worst of all. We would not be able to protect the humans. In fact, I was beginning to think that the humans would be better off with the demons than with us amongst them. Only time would reveal how justified my concerns at that time were.

I walked with only my thoughts for what must have been a considerable way. They were strange company, but they certainly kept me occupied. When I did finally stop, I found my surroundings remained unchanged except there was no pool and no Watchers. Same grass. Same blue sky. Same unreachable horizon.

This was the first time I had ever stood detached from the others. It felt strange at first, but not unpleasant. I was in no hurry to get back. I wasn't even sure I wanted to go back. Fortunately for me, I have always been equally comfortable alone as amongst others.

Part of me wanted to just keep walking-trek onward and remain hopeful of finding a new and separate existence. There might eventually be change ahead, and if there wasn't that was okay to. I had never minded the grass or the sky. They had always brought me comfort. The only thing that I found discomforting lay behind me. It was a judgment not yet rendered for transgressions not yet committed. But they would be. Of that I was certain. I didn't know how long it would be but, as Raphael had told me, it would end badly. And I was powerless to prevent that from happening. It was a finality that both terrified me and drew me in. It was something that I knew I had to be a part of. I turned and began the long walk back to my brothers.

# CHAPTER 31

It had gotten cold inside the trailer. Thane couldn't recall hearing the air conditioner shut off once since he had been here. It seemed like a good time for him to go and check the thermostat. Armaros had gone quiet and both Basia and Father Lucas were staring at the big angel and doing nothing else. Thane hoped that by producing a little movement in the room he might break his companions free from their stupor. It didn't work.

"Armaros . . . Armaros what happened next?" he asked. Thane was trying to be polite. He didn't want to push too abruptly, but he desperately wanted Armaros to continue. He wanted answers.

"I'm sorry Thane," Armaros answered. "The memories are so vivid . . . and so inviting. I'm growing weary of talking. I wish I could just show you the rest of what you need to know."

"How much more do I need to know?"

"I could teach you for a lifetime and there would still be more to learn."

"I could listen for a lifetime."

"We don't have nearly that much time. Besides, I'm growing restless. Storytelling is a tiresome business."

"Then just cut to the chase. Give me answers-starting with why you're telling me your story in the first place."

Thane looked over to Basia and Father Lucas who had both remained quiet during the exchange. He wanted their opinion, and they both obliged with nods of their heads. He was glad. He had grown fond of the two of them. At least they partially understood just what he was feeling. Raphael had drug them into this years prior.

"As I'm sure you've figured out by now," Armaros began, "we left the majesty of our home to come and live on Earth. It was during the time of Jared. The year was 8783 B.C. Azazel convinced Semjaza that we could do a better job of protecting the humans if we lived amongst them. So Semjaza had us all swear an oath, it was the one that I began my story with, and descend together to the top of Mount Ba'al-Hermon."

The big angel shook his head ever so slightly as he continued. "It was all a ruse. I knew it. They came for the women. Eventually, they would prove my intuition correct by taking wives and siring a race of giants. They corrupted the entire Earth. Still, I went along. I swore to myself that I would see this thing through and do all that I could for the humans."

"Mikhael and the others didn't try to stop you?" Thane asked. "They just let all of you up and leave heaven?" The young deputy decided that when he had a question he was going to ask it. If this was all for his benefit, as Armaros said it was, then he wasn't going to hold back his questions for etiquette's sake. Besides, the big angel just told him that he was going to get answers. He was ready for them.

"It was all predetermined Thane," Armaros said. "We were supposed to fall. Mikhael and the others knew what was coming. And even if the archangels didn't know we were going to leave, they wouldn't have tried to stop us once they found out. The seraphim do not interfere with free will."

"What did the humans think of you?" Father Lucas asked. The one time priest was smiling. "I can barely imagine what my ancestors must have thought the first time they saw the Watchers. I know the story, but I've only retained what I've read in books. I know only the facts. Having Armaros add even a dash of emotion to the story would be a real treat for me."

"They were very receptive in the beginning," Armaros said. "These people were strong in their faith. We were instruments of their God. They embraced us. And I have to admit that those first years on Earth were some of the most rewarding and happy times I have ever experienced in all my years here. My brothers behaved themselves for the most part, and we taught those humans so much. They yearned for knowledge, and when we gave them morsels of it they would swallow those down as fast as they could and look for more. Kokabiel taught them the phases of the moon and how to gauge the apparent motion of the sun across the sky. From this they were then able to develop a highly accurate calendar and table of planetary periods. They learned stars, constellations, and regular weather patterns, which enabled them to plant their crops at the best times of the year. It was amazing to watch. The humans evolved from totally clueless as far as astronomical information was concerned, to knowing when an eclipse would occur."

"That's extraordinary," Father Lucas said. "What other things did you teach them?" The padre was asking all the right questions, and Thane was content to let him go. He wished that maybe Basia would ask one or two herself. He liked the sound of her voice. It was thick with something that stirred him on the inside.

"Handwriting, engineering, irrigation techniques, herbal medicines . . . and those are just the first ones that come to mind. I loved teaching and helping the humans to better their quality of life. Kokabiel did to. In fact, he and I made many long pilgrimages across this Earth of yours in those early days. We were passionate, and we felt like all humans, not just the enlightened ones, deserved a taste of the knowledge we were serving. Now that was adventure. And so fulfilling. We helped civilizations flourish on the other side of the world from where we first descended. It was incredible."

Thane hadn't seen Armaros this animated since the big angel began his account. It was intoxicating. Thane couldn't help but smile. He was happy for Armaros.

"But none of that matters now," Armaros continued. "Kokabiel is no more. Besides, you want answers now and not more stories."

"I'd like to hear those stories sometime Armaros," Basia said. Thane noted how perfect her tone was-compassionate yet interested. He was starting to feel like everything about her was perfect. That worried him a bit.

"Maybe," Armaros said. He was nodding his head ever so slightly. "If we make it through this."

Thane didn't like the way that sounded. Armaros was serious. He was always serious.

"Make it through what?" Thane asked. The mood in the trailer changed when the young deputy asked his question aloud. He noticed it and was almost sorry he asked. Maybe the answer was something that was supposed to remain unspoken. He didn't want to force anybody to tell him things that he wasn't supposed to know or some secret that he couldn't keep. He could see it on their faces. Everyone in the room that wasn't named Thane was anxious. Basia and Father Lucas turned to Armaros. Whatever the answer, it was the big angel's to give.

"War," he said. "War against the darkest force of all. War against Azazel, who is both my brother and the most dangerous being ever created. Azazel who somehow has escaped the Uncreated's judgment. Azazel who is as smart as Raphael is, as powerful as I am, and more diabolical than Sammael ever was or is. He will war with no care for the outcome, but only for the sake of birthing destruction. And I fear that he will assemble an army of incredible power that will be almost impossible to defeat." He paused for a moment. Thane knew that Armaros wanted him to be scared. He wasn't. Not yet. He didn't really understand what Armaros was talking about.

"The war in Heaven was not easily won Thane. Sammael and his minions were holding their own until the Uncreated stepped into the fracas. And that was against discontented angels only, many of them confused and non-committed. If Azazel is in Sheol, as I believe him to be, then he has already begun to construct his war machine and he will lead a force of demons that are united in their hate for everything good and focused on a common goal—havoc."

"But they couldn't actually beat God . . . could they?" Thane asked. "I mean he's omnipotent isn't he?"

"God?" the angel asked right back. "Thane, this has nothing to do with God. I'm sorry if I confused you. I only used the war of the angels as an example. I wanted to make you see how great a threat these paranormal entities can be, especially when they band together . . . however loosely that association might be. No, I think the Uncreated will probably sit this one out. The threat is to mankind Thane. It's Earth where this war will be fought."

* * *

Og could not remember how long it had been since he last saw Dantalion. It really didn't matter. The Great Duke of Sheol never looked the same; his appearance changed as often as his mood. He mostly wore the face of a man or woman, but sometimes, like now, he twisted the flesh of his visage into something monstrous. It was only for show-to let the other inhabitants of Sheol see how truly fearsome he could be. It worked. Dantalion was horrid. And that voice.

It never changed. Og had recognized it immediately. It made his brain itch. He couldn't get it out of his head. It was like a sickness that needed to be cured.

Hidimba had remained silent as they continued being marched down the tunnel. Og wished the rakshasa would look at him. During their capture, Og had offered no resistance to Dantalion and the elder demons that acted as his personal guard, and he offered none now. It didn't make any sense to fight. He was being led exactly where he wanted to go. Dantalion must have known it too. The Great Duke seemed confident that Og would not try to oppose them, even going so far as to let Og carry his own spear. The giant found the weapon in his hand comforting. He knew Hidimba was terrified, however, and for that he was sorry. But he wasn't going to let anything happen to his little demon friend if he could help it.

"Hidimba," he whispered. "Hidimba look at me." The little demon obliged, wide eyed and unsteady, but alert. He picked his chin up some when his name was called, and Og could see that he was trying to be brave. The giant was proud of his friend. He knew what this must be like for Hidimba. "Do you think they heard us? I hope they didn't hear us."

"What difference does it make?" Hidimba said. "Og . . . what's gonna happen to us?"

"There's no need to be frightened Hidimba. Nothing's changed. We're still going to see your master and Lord Kokabiel." The giant made a casual gesture of looking around. He smiled for Hidimba's sake. "We just have escorts now."

Og's smile broke suddenly. Hidimba watched as he closed his eyes and flared his nostrils. It was the voice again. Dantalion prodded them from the front of the group.

"Have you ever heard a giant try to whisper before Og?" he said. "It's amusing, and quite impossible. And in your case completely useless. Your thoughts betray you already, so there's really no need in masking your voice."

The realization hit Og like an arrow to the chest. Dantalion was telling the truth. The Great Duke was a seer. An incredibly powerful seer. The thoughts of everyone around him entered his head as easily as his own ideas manifested themselves inside of it. Og had forgotten. He hadn't shielded his mind from the Great Duke's prying, nor had he instructed Hidimba to do the same. It would cost him. That critical oversight would change things dramatically. It made him the enemy.

It would cost his friends too. Surely Dantalion had seen Basia and Father Lucas floating around in his head. And probably Armaros. There was no way of knowing how long Dantalion had listened to the secrets he kept inside of his head. The Great Duke could have been in the darkness of the tunnel, listening, for the entirety of the time that the Deadtalker confessed. If that was the case, and Og figured it was, then Dantalion knew as much as he did. More damning was the fact that he would also know where the giant's loyalties lay. And soon, Azazel would too.

Og was feeling cornered now. Thoughts of escape flooded the giant's enormous head. He began to take a better look at his surroundings to assess his chances. They were not good. Hidimba's were worse still. He hoped that the little demon wouldn't look at him. He couldn't pretend that everything would be all right anymore. It wouldn't be.

The group continued walking. Og had no choice but to continue right along with them. He wouldn't leave Hidimba, and he had thought of no brilliant plan for escape. In fact he tried not to think of anything. Even though the damage was done, he didn't want to divulge any more of his thoughts to Dantalion. He told Hidimba nothing. The little demon's mind held no secrets that could worsen their situation.

They reached Dantalion's lair soon enough. The moment that they stepped from the tunnel and into the grotto, the giant could see that the Grand Duke's lodging was different from the rest of Sheol. It was, in fact, quite impressive.

The cave itself was not much bigger than Og's, but the feel was entirely different. The air was cooler and tasted of the water that fell from the highest point of the domed ceiling. It was a goodly flow that landed with a roar into a waiting rock pool. The resulting splash kept everything in the vicinity damp and fed the bright green lichens that clung to the stacked stones surrounding the perimeter of the pool. It was the only moving water that Og had ever seen beneath the mountain. It was beautiful, but it seemed somehow inappropriate to Og considering the circumstances.

Fire was everywhere. Og could not tell if it was naturally occurring or magical in nature, but deep orange torch light flickered at measured intervals all around the cavern wall. Although it wasn't as high as the ceiling, the fire was high enough up on the cavern wall that the flames illuminated the cave more than adequately. Very little shadow remained.

They were led past the waterfall to the area of the cavern opposite the entrance tunnel. There was another stage here, but this one was carved into the wall as opposed to jutting from the floor. The giants had not created this: it was too detailed and the emphasis had been on style rather than function during its creation. The rock was clean and had been polished smooth.

Detailed statues of what looked like angels decorated either side of the stage apron. They were to scale and masterfully carved. Just behind them and beneath the proscenium arch, a massive throne arose from the stage floor. It was quite simply made, shaped as a high-backed chair with armrests, yet grand in its stature and strength. It was also empty. This came as sort of a surprise to the giant. Og had fully expected to see Azazel resting comfortably on the cool stone.

Further to the back, past the ceremony of the stage front, Og could see what looked like living quarters carved into the rock. He assumed this to be the Great Duke's apartment. The giant recognized straightaway that Dantalion's living area was remarkably similar to his own. He didn't know what to make of that, but he did find it rather peculiar. Strangest of all, however, was what lay on the floor near the foot of the raised sleeping stone-three human females.

They weren't bound. Og wasn't surprised. He could tell they were too terrified to move. And if they could muster the courage to flee, they wouldn't get far. What Og did not know is why they were here. As far as he knew there hadn't been humans beneath the mountain in many thousands of years. But they were here now. A little dirty, a little battered, but certainly alive and awaiting their fate. He had that in common with them.

"A gift of slaves for your new master?" Og said aloud. All in the group knew he was addressing Dantalion. The Great Duke turned and walked from the front of the assemblage to near the center where Og and Hidimba stood. He stopped just before the giant.

"Mighty Og . . . you are tremendous aren't you?" he said as he looked the giant up and down as if he were assessing the colossus' strength. "Soon you will learn to call him master also. It's inevitable. And it's no great surprise. You've heard the prophecy. You, the girl, and the priest, were heralds for its arrival." Og could not mask the concern showing on his face. The itching was terrible again. He was convinced insects feasted within his skull. Dantalion, as sly as any of the old demons, noticed the giant's discomfort and pushed his advantage.

"Did you really think I wasn't aware of your presence here giant?" the Great Duke asked. "Did you really think I wouldn't miss all of the poor goats that you've killed over the years? All to feed that voracious appetite of yours. You know, son of Ogias, you are still a giant. It's not too late to embrace your true nature and free yourself from the influence of your dear uncle Armaros. You could train the other giants and then lead them into battle. Be a part of something and join with us."

Og felt sick. Too much of that voice. It was inside him, making him weak. He looked at Dantalion's mouth and thought of pushing his arm down the Great Duke's throat. He needed to silence the demon. When Og found his own voice it was unsteady and lacking its usual confidence.

"There are no other giants Dantalion. I am the last."

"For now . . . yes," the Great Duke agreed. "Unless of course we count the corpse of your brother. How is Sihon? Still the same I'd wager." Og said nothing. The colossal was somehow reduced, and that caused him to worry even more, which he didn't think was possible. He felt a collapse approaching. The weight of this uncertainty was more than he could bear. And the Great Duke kept prodding.

"Pathetic. The son of a king betrays his own kind to live among men, leads those humans to their deaths, and then runs and hides beneath a rock with the body of his dead brother. And now he consorts with humans again in the hope that he can somehow redeem himself by shaping events that he has no control over. That about sums it up . . . eh Og?" The giant remained silent. His eyes were closed and he was in great pain. The hurt was paralyzing. Still he thought of Hidimba. The little demon must be beside himself. He needed to help his friend in some way, but he had no experience offering comfort and wouldn't know where to begin. And right now he couldn't even help himself.

A war was raging inside his body. The contents of his skull had betrayed him and were trying to spread their pain to the rest of his being. His mighty legs were weak and his arms heavy. His eyes were closed but he still knew that the floor was spinning beneath him. He was on his way down, and then-

Dantalion's voice again. Only now it was like sweet medicine.

"Azazel will be happy to see you. As will Kokabiel. They'll be with us soon, just after they see to it that some minor annoyances are put to an end. Rest until then, and think about what I've told you. You are the Prince of a lost race Og. It's time for you to assume leadership of your own kind."

Dantalion ordered his guard to escort Og and Hidimba onto the stage and back to his living quarters. The humans were understandably terrified when a giant and a new demon were brought near them. Both Hidimba and Og sympathized with them, but neither spoke to the humans or acted to put their fears at rest. They had their own set of problems. Only after the demon guards left them and formed a line across the front of the stage near the angel statues to prevent any of the captives from escaping, did Hidimba speak.

"What happened to you back there?" the rakshasa asked. "Are you all right?"

"Magic," the giant answered. "Dantalion bettered me twice. He's as crafty as they come. I let him in my head and he took advantage of that by beguiling me with that voice of his. I won't let it happen again."

"Was what the Great Duke said true? About Sihon."

"Yes," Og said. The demon waited for more, but no explanation was forthcoming. He didn't push. The giant had just been pushed enough.

"What do we do now?" Hidimba asked. "Just wait here for your uncles?"

"We don't have that luxury friend. We have to act and act fast. I was hurting earlier Hidimba . . . hurting badly. I didn't understand all of what Dantalion was telling me. But I do now." Hidimba watched as Og sat his enormous frame down on the floor and rested his left arm on Dantalion's sleeping stone. He rubbed the skin atop his head, took an impossibly long breath, and then looked at the little demon for quite some time before he continued. "I think they're going to try and kill the boy again, and my friends right along with him. That's what Azazel has gone off to tend to. And thanks to the Deadtalker, my negligence, and Dantalion's magic, Azazel knows all he needs to know to do just that. If he takes them by surprise, then I doubt that even Armaros can save them all."

"What else Og?" the little demon asked. The giant was struggling to find his next words. He looked to Hidimba like he couldn't believe what was about to come out of his own mouth.

"They're going to make more giants," Og said as he cast a glance over at the human females still huddled together and trembling, "and if that happens then there will be no stopping Azazel."

"I understand. I don't know exactly why I understand, but somehow you've conveyed to me just how sinister Azazel can be. Too sinister even for a simple little demon like myself. I'll help."

A change came over Hidimba right before Og's eyes. His companion wasn't scared anymore. He had decided to help, and Og was sure that he would. The little demon poked his chest out a bit once his mind was made. "What can we do to stop them?" he asked the brooding giant.

Og contemplated a thought that he had been bouncing around in his head. It was their only chance. He made the decision. "Do you remember what that boy from the hospital looked like?" he asked Hidimba.

# CHAPTER 32

The raven stood a full head taller than most men. He was, however, still much shorter than his two visitors. The three stood facing one another and talking of unpleasant things. The visitors called the raven Naberius.

They made it clear what was expected of him. They had come here, to the very bottom of Sheol, in order to make it clear to him. The raven lived here by himself. He did not care for the company of others, and most of the inhabitants of Sheol would never dare to venture this far down. But these two were different; these two were powerful. He knew who they were. He would do as they asked.

The raven commanded nineteen legions of cursed humans in Sheol, but he would only need a handful of his best to carry out the orders of the visitors. He had handpicked them already from the horde that lived just above him. Six of his most fierce and loyal dog soldiers stood off to the side awaiting his command. He ignored them. Instead he kept his black, wet eyes on the two visitors. When he spoke his voice was hoarse to the point of being indecipherable.

"Where is this boy?" the raven asked. His elongated throat feathers rose some when the guttural rattle of his voice passed from his bill. The base of these neck feathers were a pale grey. That was the only part of the raven that wasn't oily black in color.

"I know the place," Azazel answered. "It's secluded. It's not far from the cemetery where I'll bring you."

"All of us?" Naberius asked.

"Yes."

"At the same time?"

"Yes."

The raven didn't believe him. No entity possessed such power. Very few that lived beneath the mountain had the ability to move even themselves, much less six ghouls and one grown demon, halfway across the human world. The visitor would fail.

"There will be one amongst them who is powerful," Azazel told the raven. "It must be you Naberius, the valiant Marquis of Sheol that engages this one. The others will be no match for his sword and his magic."

"If you get me to the cemetery of which you speak," Naberius said, "then I will handle the rest. The humans will be killed. We will butcher them all, including the one who has power."

* * *

Kokabiel didn't like the raven. He never had. He hoped that Armaros killed it, but destroying a demon such as Naberius would be a daunting task. The fiend was strong. He was one of the original fallen and, besides Dantalion, the most feared demon in all of Sheol. Most of the time he appeared as he did now-a giant black crow with oversized eyes. When he was excited, however, he took the form of a vicious three headed dog that was horrible to behold and even worse to try and fight. Kokabiel had seen the beast in battle. Only Dantalion's cunning had kept him in power here. The Great Duke was no match physically for Naberius. Armaros was.

Kokabiel was tempted to go with the demon. He wanted to see Armaros again. Of course he couldn't let Azazel know how he felt. His brother was maddened with hatred for their sibling. It was a hate that was completely unfounded. Armaros had always let his conscious guide him, whereas Azazel failed to develop one. And now Azazel blamed Armaros for everything ill that had ever befallen him. It was irrational thinking.

He desperately wished that it would have been Armaros who had freed him from his captivity. But it wasn't, and now his die was cast. He was dead to Armaros. He must remember to try and stay that way. It should be easy to do. Of course if he did forget, all he had to do was look at his own reflection in the unfeeling eyes of the raven before him to know that he had come to a place where Armaros would not tread.

"Do you know who it is that you're going to try and butcher Naberius?" Kokabiel asked. He couldn't help himself. He wanted to relieve the raven from a bit of the confidence that he was so painfully stuffed full of. "It's not a hu-"

"I'm sure it doesn't matter to the Marquis," Azazel interrupted. He gave Kokabiel a look that screamed for silence. "Naberius . . . if you're ready, then so am I. Just stand with the others. I'll do the rest. The path will be clear once you arrive at the cemetery."

The Marquis of Sheol did as he was asked. He kept one eye on the bigger of the two visitors. Kokabiel stared right back at him. Neither flinched. The animosity was thick. Both reveled in it.

"I will butcher all of them," Naberius said. He was talking to Kokabiel. "Even the one that's not a human."

"Good bye bird," Kokabiel said. The Star of God was smiling.

No words were spoken. No invisible glyphs were written on the air. Azazel did nothing but close his eyes and extend his arm in the direction of Naberius and his underlings. A few seconds later Azazel and Kokabiel stood alone in the Marquis' lair.

"Why would you say such a thing to Naberius?" Azazel asked. There was a hitch in his voice. Kokabiel knew that his brother was weakened from the great effort that he had put forth to transport the demons. It was still an impressive display. Azazel's divining skills had grown by leaps and bounds. That worried the former Watcher.

"I've never liked that raven. His conceit annoys me."

"That may be so brother, but I didn't go through the trouble of freeing you from your fetters to have you sabotage my intentions with your emotions. I need Naberius to do this thing. His level of success or failure will be my gauge."

"Gauge for what?"

"Armaros' strength. I will know what we are up against. Your beloved brother and his new apprentice are destined to be our primary adversaries. I must stay a step ahead of them if my design is to accomplish anything."

"What are your intentions Azazel?"

"I seek only change. I have never agreed with the archangel's management of humanity."

"And how do you propose to change an entire civilization?"

"War. War against everything."

# CHAPTER 33

Thane had more questions. He had a lot more questions. He would probably forget some of them while he listened to Armaros answer other ones that he did ask. That was okay he decided. Eventually he would know everything, or at least everything that his mind could grasp. Armaros had been very forthright with him up to this point. The big angel was perhaps a little slow in revealing certain things, but he had kept no secrets from Thane, and the young man believed everything that Armaros told him. Even the part about going to war with an army of demons was starting to sink in.

"We have weapons," Thane said. "Very powerful weapons. I think Azazel may be surprised by the advancement of human weaponry since . . . well whenever it was that you came to earth. I wouldn't be so sure that he could defeat all of humanity."

"8783 B.C. was the year we came. After 5799 B.C. there were no other Watchers remaining besides myself, or I should say the only Watcher remaining that was left to his own devices was myself. Anyways, I don't think that Azazel could defeat all of you humans either. At least not in a classic military style conflict. But what you have to realize Thane is that nothing my brother does will be governed by any sort of rules or morals. He will bring with him a brand of warfare previously unknown to humankind. He advances with trickery, deceit, subterfuge, confusion, and the like. By the time man was to unite and all nations and peoples realized the common enemy that they were up against, Azazel would have already changed the course of humanity. He would have the spirit of mankind teetering on the edge of oblivion. Your very powerful weapons would be of little use then. I've seen him bring the human race to the brink of destruction once before Thane, and I've no doubt that he can do it again if we don't stop him."

So that was it. He was to help Armaros defeat Azazel. The big angel had said if 'we' don't stop him. Thane had picked up on that right away, and now he wanted to know why he was picked to be a part of all of this. He wasn't complaining anymore, but he certainly was curious. And how could he help? He didn't have magic or a sword or even those particles that the others had. All he had was some firearm training, people skills, and a set of pretty good instincts. He didn't know how his skill set would make a difference in the face of such overwhelming malice. Before he could ask, however, Armaros continued to clarify.

"It won't be Armageddon," he said. "Even if Azazel was left unchecked I don't believe his ultimate goal is human extinction. He probably doesn't even have an ultimate goal. He doesn't hate humans. In fact, he used to quite enjoy them. It's the way they live-their rules, their laws, their religion, their virtues-and the way they love that sickens him. He blames the archangels, and probably me, for imposing our influence upon mankind and shaping them into what they currently are. We're the ones he hates. He considers us failures. There will be no convincing Azazel that his design for humanity is flawed and much worse than the current path. But I've seen his way. I've seen a world governed by the beliefs of a morally corrupt angel. It was sickening to behold, and we can't let it come to that again."

"You said 'we' again," Thane interjected. "Is that what it all comes down to? Is that why you're here talking to me?" He paused, but not long enough for Armaros to answer. "Just before Father Lucas and Basia joined us, I confessed to you that I didn't feel worthy of whatever was expected of me, and that still holds true. I've heard nothing from you that changes my opinion of myself. I just don't see what good I would be to you."

Thane felt better now that he had cleared the air. He was surrounded by extraordinary individuals, but he needed to remind them that there was nothing special about him. He was a man; he was only a man. A very young man at that. It was time to stop pretending that he was a part of this group. Judging by the silence in the room, the others were in agreement with him. He was ready for his dismissal. It was Father Lucas who cleared his throat to break the quiet, and Thane assumed that the priest was the one who would tell him that he could go.

"Are you familiar with the book of Genesis brother Thane?" the padre asked. "The first book of the Christian Old Testament, the Hebrew Bible, and the Torah or Pentateuch."

"I've read the Bible. I know the stories of Genesis-Creation, Adam and Eve, Cain and Abel, Noah's Ark-as good as anybody I suppose," Thane answered.

"That's good son," Mundy said. 'That's good. Now in Genesis 5:1 we are given Adam's line of descent going through Seth. This is sometimes referred to as the 'Generations of Adam.' You still with me?"

"I am," Thane answered. He was nodding his head confidently. "I know quite a lot about Bible genealogy. I actually took an elective theology course in college that was well taught. I retained most of what I learned. I'm pretty solid from Adam to David. Is this about Enoch?"

The priest answered with only a look of puzzlement.

"Armaros mentioned his name earlier," Thane said, "and I know that he's a descendant of Adam. That's why I ask."

Father Lucas smiled at Thane and then shifted his gaze to Armaros. Something passed between them-an understanding of sorts that Thane could sense but wasn't privy to. The priest then excused himself and walked back over to the refrigerator. Thane was starting to get warm.

The air conditioner had gone from running constantly to dead. There was no in between. Thane decided that he would take the cold. Sweating indoors made him miserable. He rose up out of his chair and began to walk back to the thermostat. He only made it about half of the way there.

* * *

Thane dropped like a stone just as he entered the kitchen. The whole trailer felt it when his head made contact with the linoleum covered plywood floor. The other three were at his side at once. They gently rolled him over, and Father Lucas applied his most recent, unopened beer to the growing lump on Thane's forehead. He didn't keep it there long.

Armaros knew something was wrong as soon as the boy opened his eyes. They were too dark. Like back at the hospital. When he rose up to a sitting position, his movements jerky and unnatural, the big angel was convinced that Thane was not in control of his own body. Somebody was though, and they only had eyes for the former Watcher.

"Are you Armaros?" it asked him. The voice was unmistakably demon. Serpentine. All three remaining in the trailer recognized that at once.

"What do you want demon?" Armaros asked.

"Listen," it said. "No questions. There is no time. The boy is strong. I am Hidimba . . . friend to Og who is the final piece of the triad of Raphael. I am no enemy to you. I am not hurting the boy. He is . . . strong though. No time. They're coming for you . . . your brothers . . . the giants . . . back. Leave."

And it was gone. Thane fell backwards and would have bruised the back of his head also if Basia wouldn't have leapt to grab him. She was astoundingly fast. Quickly, she positioned herself on the floor behind him, and gently lowered his head down onto her lap. Father Lucas offered her the beer, but she didn't take it, instead she pointed above the refrigerator. "Ice," she demanded. The priest had it for her momentarily.

"Will he be all right?" Mundy asked.

"I'm sure," Basia answered. "The demon was right. He's very strong."

"Did the two of you know that Og was alive?" Armaros interjected. He assumed that they knew who Og was, and judging by the shaking of their heads, he was correct in that assumption. If the giant did truly live, then Armaros would find out, but he was not ready to accept the vague and labored words of a demon as fact. Not yet. They could have misunderstood the thing, or the whole episode could have been a trick of Azazel's. He couldn't be sure. He did know that he would err on the side of caution as far as the boy's safety was concerned. He wouldn't be taken by surprise. Not after just getting such a spectacular warning. He pushed thoughts of giants from his head and turned back to his young charge lying on the floor. "We need to wake him up," he announced.

* * *

Thane opened his eyes on cue. Basia appeared. He stared at the outline of her neck and jaw. He was aware of how close he was to her lips. They were moving. His head was cold. He didn't know what happened. Time to get up.

"I'm okay," he said as he raised himself upright. None of the others seemed to believe him. When he stood up they moved in closer around him, protecting him. He felt Basia's hand on his lower back. "What happened to me?"

"Listen to me Thane," Armaros said. "Take a minute. Take a breath. Are you sure that you're okay."

It took Thane longer than it should have to answer Armaros. He was momentarily flabbergasted by the onetime angel's immense size. This was the first time that Armaros had gotten out of the recliner since Thane awakened hours earlier. The big angel couldn't stand erect in a trailer that Thane knew had eight foot ceilings. The young deputy had played college football. He had seen big before, but not this kind of big.

"Yeah, I feel fine. Really."

"Something forced itself into your body Thane," Father Lucas said, "and used you to get a message to us."

"You mean like back at the hospital," Thane asked. He suddenly felt dirty and maybe a little nauseous. He hadn't made his mind up about the latter yet.

"Just like that," Mundy answered. "But you were too strong for him Thane. He couldn't stay in control of your body for any length of time."

Thane focused on Basia's hand rubbing his back. It felt good, even through the polyester of his uniform. He took a couple of breaths though his nose. That helped. He was doing his best not to be sick. "What was the message," he asked.

"That we're out of time," Armaros answered.

* * *

Hidimba was spent. He lay motionless on the sleeping stone, his spirit trying to acclimate itself again with his own body. Possession was never easy; it was exhausting for Hidimba and usually quite trying for the host as well. What the little demon had just tried, however, was reckless. It was impossible to control an unwilling and healthy adult. But Hidimba had, if only just for a moment. And now he was paying the toll.

Og understood. He hated asking the little demon to do what he did, but there was no other way. The others had to be warned. He hoped that Hidimba would recover quickly. He hoped that the boy was all right. But that's all he could do. Just hope.

Azazel was back. He could hear his uncle's voice mixed with the words of Dantalion. The two of them were conversing somewhere in the ancient demon's cave. He couldn't make out the words, but he didn't need to. They were giving orders and making plans-plans that Og would rather not think about.

He listened intently for the sound of Kokabiel's voice intermingled with the other two, but it was not to be heard. The Star of God was either absent or strangely silent. Og hoped he was there. He would know soon enough. The voices were getting closer.

The demon guards to his right, up near the throne, separated and turned. He glanced back at Hidimba to his left. Still no change. With one mighty heave, Og was up with his spear in hand. Azazel was here. The giant would meet him standing.

His uncle remained the same. That was no surprise to Og. The Grigori were forever. Azazel was smallish for a Watcher, but he was still the tallest of those approaching the giant. Kokabiel was not with the group. They stopped before getting too close to the cornered giant. Azazel made no attempt to placate the colossus. He didn't pretend to be happy.

"Take his spear," Azazel said. Dantalion motioned at two of his guards to carry out the order. They were understandably hesitant. Og did not seem ready to relinquish his weapon just yet.

"You made this for me," the giant said. "Only after much loss of life will it change hands."

"I made it for your father Ogias-a real giant," Azazel shouted. "And no one is dying . . . not yet anyway." He raised his right hand, palm open, just as he finished speaking, and aligned himself with Og. The giant knew exactly what was about to happen, and he didn't hesitate. He needed to close the distance. Immediately.

Dantalion's henchmen were well trained. When the giant charged, they put themselves between the attacking behemoth and their masters. Six of them filled the void, and they did so without delay. Their earlier apprehension was overridden by the sense of duty that had been tortured into their psyche. Four of them were destroyed in the blink of an eye.

It was the great spear. Og swung it in an arc that seemed to burn through everything in its path. Bone, flesh, armor, and weapon all yielded to its speed and masterful design. Of the remaining two guards, one survived minus only his sword arm, while the other managed to escape unscathed by smartly dropping to the stone floor and rolling away from the deadly attack. Og paid him no attention, instead choosing to draw his weapon back for the killing throw, his eyes locked on the chest of the Watcher.

He saw Dantalion also. Fear had replaced the smug confidence that the Great Duke wore on his face not seconds earlier. Now he cowered close to Azazel, trying to maneuver his body behind the Grigori and away from Og's spear. His alarm would prove unfounded.

Og felt the fallen magic take him just as he was about to loose the spear. He watched the mighty weapon crash harmlessly to the stone floor as it slipped from the hand that he could no longer move. All of his limbs were unfeeling and unresponsive. His body crumpled and he landed on his side facing back towards Hidimba. Helpless. He was done. Azazel was too powerful.

"What an incredible weapon," Dantalion said. The Great Duke had removed himself from behind Azazel once Og was down. The giant could only hear his words, but was not surprised by Dantalion's behavior. His mood was nonchalant and evasive, as if the whole episode, especially his own cowardice, had never happened. Shifty as ever.

"The giant or the spear," Azazel asked.

"The both of them . . . together."

"An incredible waste if he cannot be made to embrace his true nature," Azazel said as he bent over and collected the spear for himself.

"And how do we do that Lord Azazel?"

"We starve him Dantalion. Bind him, lock him up, and let his hunger do the rest."

"And what of the little demon there on my bed? The one you named Hidimba. He and Og seemed to be getting along quite well."

"A gift to you Great Duke. You have done well. Do with him as you see fit . . . just take the giant from here. Hide him away where he cannot be found until I am ready. And bind him securely. The spell will weaken eventually. I don't want this one running loose. I'm sure you understand."

"Perfectly. It will be as you say."

"And have the humans brought up to the old slave quarters," Azazel added as he exited the stage.

"Again, it will be as you say."

Og heard it all. He was able to see also, even though his eyes pained him. He couldn't blink. He had listened to their conversation, and was fearful of what was to come. They wanted to reduce him to an animal. They would do it; the hunger would win. And Hidimba. What would become of him?

The giant sensed movement. They were trying to pull him away. It would take a great many of Dantalion's demons to move him. He began to hope once more. He hoped that those responsible for his relocation would fall or injure themselves in the process. He hoped that the theurgy rendering him helpless would fail and allow him to kill everyone he sees. But mostly he hoped that his friends were safe and that Hidimba would forgive him. The little demon would be horribly unsettled when he woke up and his protector was nowhere to be found.

A set of feet that suddenly appeared right near his face disrupted Og's thoughts. Both the skin and nails were the color of burnt wood. It was Dantalion. He heard the Great Duke order the demons to roll him onto his back before they drug him away. He sensed movement again, and his view changed from Dantalion's feet to the fiend's face as his head followed the roll of his body. The Great Duke was smiling.

"Mighty Og . . . reduced to a quivering mound of flesh by your dear uncle. Not exactly the reunion you were hoping for now was it." Dantalion stepped over the giant's body and straddled his massive chest. Next, he lowered himself down, sat directly on Og, and then leaned his face in close to the giant's. He let some spittle roll out of his own mouth that fell high up on Og's cheek and found its way into the colossus' left eye. He did not lower his voice even though he was only a couple of inches from Og.

"Things will get better. Soon you will call us master. Azazel and me. I will bring you a fat goat, and you will call me master just like your sleeping friend over there. You know, you should be proud of your little friend Hidimba. I have decided to bestow quite the honor upon him when he awakens. He will replace the Deadtalker that you destroyed. Of course I'm doubtful as to whether he can endure the measures necessary for such a post. The rakshasa are not a very robust breed of demon. Well, I suppose we'll find out soon enough won't we."

Dantalion raised himself off the giant and stepped from Og's view. "Take him to the holding cell just before Naberius' lair," he ordered. The demons, mindful of their master's wishes, began to pull. Og followed. The tears of a giant trailed them all.

# CHAPTER 34

They sat Thane back down in the recliner that he had spent most of the night in. Outside the morning was still dark; the light of the sun would be another hour in coming. Armaros turned to the young deputy.

"It won't be long now. Very bad things are about to happen here Thane," he said. "Demons and the like are coming to try and kill you. Do you have a gun?"

Thane didn't know what to say. He had a gun at one time, but after everything that had happened and been revealed to him tonight it seemed somehow inconsequential whether or not he still had it. Yet Armaros had asked.

"I think I lost my gun back at the hospital," he said, 'but I don't know what difference it makes. Can bullets even stop what's coming? And why are they even coming for me at all? Why is this happening to me?"

"I don't know exactly what's coming for you Thane, but I feel certain that shooting them will prove more effective than not shooting them. We're going to do everything in our power to protect you, but you should arm yourself with whatever you're comfortable with."

"I'll find something. I'm not exactly helpless."

"You're far from helpless Thane," Armaros said. A weak smile spread across his face. "That's why we may just make it through this."

"Why me?" Thane asked again. The increasing amount of adrenaline coursing through his body made it impossible for him to muster a smile of his own. His hand shook a bit as he waited for his answer.

"Mundy will tell you," Armaros answered. "I must go see what we're up against. But know this Thane. Everything I told you tonight was to gain your trust and educate you. I wanted you to be at ease with your part in the prophecy. I wished for you to aid me because you understood the importance of the events unfolding, and because you wanted to help. Perhaps if we had more time and I could finish teaching you then it would have happened that way. But if what your possessor said was true, and I believe it is, then we don't have that time because it sounds like Sheol is coming to us. You remain reluctant, and I understand. But there is no choice to be made here tonight. Demons are coming to kill you because you are the Child of Truth. You are a part of this. Whether you embrace your station or not will make no difference to the hordes of Azazel when they begin to flay your skin from the muscle beneath."

The big angel turned away from them and carefully maneuvered himself out of the front door. Thane noticed that his hand, resting on the arm of the recliner, was shaking a little more than before as he watched Armaros leave. He made a fist to try and stop it, but it wasn't doing any good. His whole body had turned cool; a shiver nested deep inside of him.

"Enoch was the son of Jared, a great-grandfather of Noah, and father of Methuselah," Father Lucas began. "He was the first man that learned to write and read. It was he to whom Kokabiel first taught the signs of heaven, and it was he who was the first among men born on Earth that had the wisdom to write down an order for the months and seasons. He was a righteous man and a favorite of the Uncreated. Earlier you asked if this was about Enoch. It is in one important way. It was Enoch who prophesied the return of the decarchs, and the rise of the Child of Truth . . . you."

"He sounds extraordinary," Thane said.

"From everything that I've learned of him, he was," Mundy said, "and he was also very close with Armaros."

Thane seemed surprised. "He never mentioned Enoch to me," he said.

"He's run out of time Thane," Father Lucas explained. "There's much more he hoped to tell you. Armaros has been here on Earth for almost eleven thousand years. I know he has much to talk about."

"We've only scratched the surface as to how much Armaros has influenced the growth of mankind," Basia agreed, "and we've researched him for years and years. We do know, however, that he and Kokabiel spent a great deal of time in Egypt, South America, and the British Isles. It seems they were quite the benefactors. There's so much more to him than this damn prophecy."

"Ahh . . . the prophecy," Father Lucas said. "That is why we're here Basia."

"I know why we're here Mundy," she said. "It's just that . . . Thane I know that this seems unreal. Like folklore or something mythological—full of demons and angels and prophesy. But it's more than that. There's a ton of science and history buried beneath all the mysticism. In fact, I have no doubt that Mundy and I have collected enough evidence to totally rewrite the books on human prehistory. And Armaros is the central figure in that book."

"I understand Basia," Thane said. "I do. Would you tell me what the prophecy says?"

Basia looked over at Father Lucas who nodded his approval. The priest reached into the front breast pocket of his shirt and pulled out a small red book. Thane recognized it for a Bible at once. The padre opened it to a marked spot, and removed a folded piece of parchment from between its pages. He handed the paper to Basia who began to unfold it.

"The Watchers called him Enoch the scribe," Mundy said as he watched Basia and the paper. "After they taught him to write he recorded everything that he deemed relevant. A journey throughout the heavens, guided by angels of the Uncreated, certainly fell into the relevant category. As did the record of the Watchers themselves and their giant offspring. Thus we have the Book of Enoch-an ancient Jewish book of writings that was passed down from Enoch's son Methuselah to subsequent generations. Thus Noah preserved it during the deluge of the Reckoning, and copies were eventually made so that the teachings of Enoch would survive to prosperity."

"How come I've never heard of it?" Thane asked.

"The Book of Enoch fell out of favor with church fathers in the early centuries A.D." Father Lucas continued. "Its depiction of lustful angels was eventually deemed blasphemous, and the book was dismissed as heresy. At one point it was even lost to the world for over a thousand years. Nowadays it is part of the apocrypha, and thought of as a fairy tale."

"Enoch also meant for his book to be a guide for his descendants," Basia said. "He used the tale of the Watchers as an example of how not to behave. He prophesied the demise of these fallen angels, and it came to pass just as he said. So too did the destruction of the giants and the biblical flood which I 'm sure you're familiar with. Many say he was the mouthpiece of God."

"What did he say about me?" Thane asked. He wanted to know. Now.

"There has never been a chapter eleven in the Book of Enoch," Father Lucas answered, "at least as far as mankind is concerned. But Enoch did write a chapter eleven. For some reason that only Enoch himself would know, he tore it from the rest of his writings and put it in the hand of Armaros before he ascended back into the heavens. The rest of the book he had already given to his family. Chapter eleven of the Book of Enoch has come to be known simply as the prophecy. It's only one verse long. I keep a copy of it in my Bible and near my heart as a constant reminder of my purpose in all of this. Basia . . . if you will."

"Here Thane," Basia said. She reached out her hand and handed the piece of parchment to Thane. "You read it. I'm sure you're tired of hearing our voices by now." The young deputy carefully unfolded the paper once. It didn't look that old to him, but Mundy had said it was a copy. Must have been the priest's handwriting too. He began to read:

.

THE PROPHECY OF ENOCH-SCRIBE OF RIGHTEOUSNESS

ENOCH 11:1

.

IN THOSE DAYS WILL THE REMAINING ANGELS RETURN AND HURL

THEMSELVES UPON THE EAST . . . TO STIR UP THE KINGS AND PROVOKE IN

THEM A SPIRIT OF UNREST . . .

AND LED BY AZAZEL TO WHOM ALL SIN IS ASCRIBED, THEY WILL MARCH

UP TO AND TREAD UNDERFOOT THE LAND OF HIS ELECT ONES . . .

AND ON ACCOUNT OF THE CHILDREN OF MEN, A CHILD OF TRUTH,

PERFECT IN HIS GENERATIONS, SHALL ARISE TO OPPOSE THE FALLEN.

AND BY ACCOUNT OF THE ACCURSED ONE, SHALL HE DISCOVER THE

SECRETS OF HEAVEN, AND WAR AGAINST ACTS OF BLASPHEMY, TYRANNY,

AND SIN . . .

THE FALLEN WILL BEGIN TO FIGHT AMONGST THEMSELVES . . .TIL THE

NUMBER OF CORPSES THROUGH THEIR SLAUGHTER IS BEYOND COUNT,

AND THEIR PUNISHMENT BE NO IDLE ONE.

.

Thane read the paper again, and then he read it once more. He understood some of it. Some he didn't. Some seemed vague. Some was very definitive. He had more questions, of that he was certain. "What does it mean by 'perfect in his generations' here where it describes the child of truth?" asked Thane.

"It means you're a direct descendant of Enoch," Father Lucas answered.

"It's true," Basia added. "Armaros has been around that long. He knows your lineage. There is no giant blood in you."

"And what about these secrets that I'm supposed to know? I haven't been taught anything that's going to help me battle Azazel. I'm nothing before him. I don't even-"

Armaros burst back into the trailer with purpose on his face. He startled all three of its occupants. "They're here," he said.

# CHAPTER 35

The magic was wearing off. Og could feel a tingling sensation in his extremities, but the giant knew that it was too late. He was alone and bound. The chains that held him remained strong. They had once been used to keep giants bigger and stronger than he restrained. He was in a prison made by giants, for giants. There was no escape.

He couldn't see this far down. No light traveled here. There were no torches either. He couldn't remember ever having had trouble seeing in Sheol before his imprisonment.

His mind was tortured. There would be no forgiveness from Hidimba. Not if they did _that_ to him. In his head he could hear the screams of the little demon. He was calling for Og-his protector. That was him. He was Og. He could do nothing. Nothing. The screams went on.

He hadn't been in the cell for very long. An hour maybe. It didn't matter. The hunger that he had learned to master was stressed. His mind couldn't hide from it the fact that no food was coming. It was already starting to protest.

He heard the sounds of approaching footsteps intermingled with the imagined cries of his friend Hidimba. They stopped just outside the cell door. So did the cries for now. Og regained his faculties and listened. Somebody was opening the door.

They didn't have a torch. Still, Og could tell that the door was open judging by the subtle movement of air against his skin. Whoever it was remained perfectly still in the carved frame of the stone door. He wondered how they could see . . . unless.

"Who's there," asked the giant.

No answer, only more footsteps. Og could sense that the other entity was close, but the mystery visitor remained silent. Suddenly, the heavy chains began to slough off of the giant's body like the skin of a serpent. Og found that he had recovered sufficiently enough to stand.

"Who's there," the giant asked again. He was reaching his arm out into the darkness all around himself, trying to get a feel of his emancipator. He stopped once he realized how futile it was, and began searching for the door. If his benefactor wanted to remain anonymous that was fine. He didn't, however, have time to play guessing games. Hidimba needed him. He had to get to the little demon.

"Walk to me . . . if it's the door you seek," the visitor finally spoke. Og recognized the voice. It had been a long time.

"Where have they taken Hidimba?" the giant asked.

"You can't save him Og. Save yourself. Go to Armaros. Tell him everything."

"About the giants you mean? I already have. I think. Why are you helping Azazel?"

"I have no choice, but you do. Go now to Armaros while Azazel is occupied with the humans."

Og shook his head in the darkness, but he knew the visitor could see him. "I won't leave Hidimba behind. I will take him with me."

"He is just a demon Og . . . another casualty of Sheol. There have been thousands before just like him. If you are caught I will not be able to free you again."

"That little demon sacrificed himself to save the Child of Truth. If the boy lives it is because of Hidimba. And he's my friend. I think he's worth saving."

Og heard a breath of exasperation leave his visitor's chest. He imagined that his emancipator was angry with him. He didn't care. He heard movement from the direction of the massive stone arch that was the door frame.

"Dantalion's bed," the visitor said. "He lies there still. Follow this tunnel. There is light ahead."

"I know the way," Og replied. He touched his way through the door opening and began to follow the tunnel leading him away from the cell and up towards Hidimba. The blackness ebbed with each step he took. He increased his speed accordingly. Hope, seemingly gone forever just moments before, had once again returned to him and he found the courage to embrace it.

Far behind him now, the visitor remained frozen near the great cell door. He had watched the giant leave with a heavy heart. He wished that he could have talked with him more. Instead he whispered into the stone prison. "The boy has to die Og . . . that's the only way Azazel will ever be stopped." No answer was forthcoming. The visitor didn't expect or want one, but it was better having told his secret.

* * *

Og was at a full sprint. He could see, he had full control of his body, and he was ready for whatever tried to stand between him and his little demon friend. Dantalion's cave was not much further ahead. He could smell the water in the air, and the sound of it crashing down into the pool was growing in volume. He managed to run even faster.

He was well into the lair of the Great Duke when he finally slowed. Instinctively, he assumed a defensive posture and readied himself for the attack from Dantalion or his guards. It never came. Og was alone.

He took no time to ponder his good fortune, choosing instead to race past the falling water and rock pool straight over to the stage apron where he bypassed the stairs and leapt up to the center of the stage. Past the statues and beyond the throne, Og could see Hidimba still lying on the stone bed. The hope in his chest began to bloom. As he drew closer to the little demon and could see him clearly, however, the hope withered, died, and was replaced by a pain that dropped the giant to his knees.

The process of turning Hidimba into a Deadtalker had begun. They had already burned him. Og was too late. Hidimba was almost unrecognizable, but the giant knew it was his friend they had done this to. He lay exactly where Og had seen him last, and his cloven hooves with their unique markings were left unharmed. The rest of him, however, had not been spared.

It was hard for Og to look at what lay on the bed, but he forced himself to. The little demon was all one color now—a raw pinkish hue had replaced his mottled skin. His ears and most of his nose had been burnt off. His lips, formerly thin and dark, had swollen so much that they were splitting near the center. His eyes were also swollen, and Og couldn't tell if they remained in their sockets or if they had been plucked out. Bone was visible where the flesh from his cheeks had been cooked off and on the end of most of his fingers. Og imagined that Hidimba had tried to shield himself with his hands, thus the severe burning of his digits. That visual took Og down to all fours. He wanted to die right here next to his friend. This was his fault.

Hidimba was still alive. The demon's body trembled continually from the trauma inflicted upon it. The giant wished it wasn't so. Death was release for the demon. Hidimba would be far better off free from this ruined body, his spirit unbound and able to roam. Perhaps he could even find a new body-a better body. And like a stone cast from an angry mob, and idea struck Og with dizzying force.

It was madness. It probably couldn't be done. It was their only chance. But first Og had to take Hidimba away from here. Moving the demon would most certainly kill him, but there was no other way. Dantalion and any of the others could reappear at any moment. Og would kill them if they did, but that wouldn't do Hidimba any good. And if Azazel came here, well, Og hoped he didn't.

"Hidimba," he whispered. "Hidimba . . . I'm going to take you away from here. I'm going to fix this. I'm so sorry for what they did to you, but I'm going to fix this. Can you hear me little friend?"

There was no response from the demon besides more trembling and a raspy wheeze that escaped from its throat. It may have been an answer, or perhaps just Hidimba fighting to stay alive. Either way they had to go. The giant scooped Hidimba up in his arms as gently as he could. He could feel the demon's ruined flesh sticking to his own. He fought back the tears that threatened his eyes.

The same raspy noise came from Hidimba again. This time Og knew that the demon had said his name. He tried to compose himself before answering. "I'm here little friend," he said. "I've got you. I'm taking you away from here."

"Og," the demon found the strength to whisper, "I wanted badly . . . to hear . . . the rest of your story." Hidimba collapsed from the effort. He didn't even tremble anymore. Og feared it was over.

"You will hear it little friend," the giant whispered back. "I'm going to fix this. Get you a new body. A strong body." His thoughts turned to his own cave, and he began to run back to it with remarkable speed. But no matter how fast he moved, he still couldn't outrun the giant tears that were trailing him again.

# CHAPTER 36

Armaros had moved them all to the kitchen, which was about the center of the trailer. He explained to them that they would defend this position for as long as they could. It was as safe a place as there was in the mobile home.

Armaros and Basia had their swords unsheathed and at the ready. Father Lucas stood around calmly. Thane knew that his magic made him a formidable adversary for whatever they were up against. It was himself that Thane worried about. He had nothing. It hadn't bothered him until he realized that everybody else was armed in some way. He felt like a child. He was not accustomed to being the weak link.

Outside it remained calm. Thane likened it to being in the eye of a storm. Bad things were coming. He had seen the face of the big angel when Armaros came back inside earlier. The Watcher appeared unsettled. Thane was smart enough to let that worry him.

The deputy tried to catch a glimpse of what was coming to kill him by looking through the small window built into the back door. Armaros asked him to move back from the door and he did. He couldn't see anything anyways. It was still mostly dark outside. He was making his way back over to stand amongst the protection offered by his friends, when something struck the trailer.

The impact was terrible. To Thane it felt like a vehicle had rammed into it. The whole trailer moved. Cabinet doors opened to spill their contents, pictures flew off of walls, and water began to leak from somewhere beneath the kitchen sink. Thane and Father Mundy were knocked off their feet and landed in a heap on the kitchen floor with Thane landing on top of the priest. Basia managed to steady herself by grabbing the kitchen counter, and Armaros seemed unaffected. Just as Thane was picking himself up off of Father Lucas, it struck again.

This attack was different. The creature struck higher up on the exterior wall of the trailer instead of at the floor level. Here the walls were thin, and there was no steel frame to absorb the blow. When the thing struck, an entire section of trailer wall crumpled into the living room from the rear of the mobile home. The creature's head and shoulder came in with it. Thane got a good look at the beast, but immediately wished that he hadn't.

It looked more like a dog than anything else—an impossibly large dog with no ears or fur, only dull black skin. Its teeth were oversized and a dirty yellow color. Thick saliva dripped from its canines and wet the living room carpet. It was easily the worst thing Thane had ever seen. And it smelled horrible.

Either some part of the creature or the entire creature stank unmercifully. The inside of the trailer was filled with it. Thane held his breath and thought of rotting meat . . . burning. That's all he could come up with.

Its eyes were heavy with blood when it turned and looked at the group. It withdrew from the trailer quickly when Armaros raised his sword.

"Naberius," Armaros said. He walked over to the gaping hole in the trailer and then turned back to the group. "This changes things. Naberius is old. Older even than I am. I don't know how Azazel-"

The great dog attacked again: he launched his head back into the trailer in an attempt to bite Armaros. Thane was certain the creature had succeeded. Only after it withdrew from the hole did Thane see that Armaros was still with them. The big angel had moved fast. Too fast for Thane's eyes.

"Guard the boy," Armaros said. He then leapt through the hole in the trailer, apparently to go after the black dog. Mundy and Basia moved in front of Thane, then they all moved together in order to get a better look at what was going on outside. They stopped in front of the hole and Thane looked over the heads and shoulders of both Basia and Mundy in order to see out into the backyard.

Morning was almost upon them. The first hints of sunlight were changing the darkness to a heavy grey. Neither Armaros nor Naberius seemed to notice. Both were already busy trying to kill the other.

It was the fastest moving melee Thane had ever witnessed. The black dog, which Thane could now see was three-headed and the size of an elephant, was terrifying to behold and moved quicker than something its size should have been able to. All three of the monster's wretched muzzles snapped at Armaros with teeth the size of hunting knives. It continually circled the Watcher, trying to find a weakness in Armaros' defense.

There was no weakness. Armaros moved even faster than the great dog; his sword was a silver blur only. Thane knew he had to be. He was outnumbered three to one. At the moment Naberius was not allowing the big angel to launch an attack of his own, but Thane knew that if the great black dog ever tired, Armaros would take the advantage. The angel was incredibly skilled.

Thane heard Basia make a comment about Armaros' swordsmanship. There was awe in her voice. He started to say something of his own, but was cut short when the cursed humans attacked.

The first of the hellions to pounce at them was cut down in mid-air. Basia was fast with her blade too. Just not quite fast enough. The second ghoul made it into the trailer and slammed himself against all three of them before she could regain control of her sword. He was quickly followed by one, two, three, four more demons of the same ilk.

Thane was pushed backwards into the kitchen and then down a narrow hall. Father Lucas and Basia were pressed tightly against him by the mass of demon flesh giving chase. The close quarters within the trailer forced human and cursed human together as one roving mob of chaos. Basia used this to her advantage once she reached the end of the hall and knew Thane was safely behind her in the master bedroom. With one great push she managed to create some space between herself and the demons. It was enough distance for her to raise her sword and plunge it into the eye of the nearest denizen of Sheol.

Thane covered his ears. The ghoul let out a death cry unlike anything the young deputy had ever heard. It sounded to Thane like a dying cat, only amplified. Its scream ended abruptly when Basia removed her sword from the one eye and with one deft maneuver plunged it into the other one even deeper than before.

The ghoul collapsed in a heap on the floor. The four that remained behind him seemed hesitant to step over his twisted corpse and taste Basia's blade. Their moment of indecision created all the time Father Lucas needed. He didn't hesitate.

The priest stepped forward and raised his right hand over the girl's shoulder. The magic was coming. The lead ghoul knew it.

The creature charged and leapt at father Lucas in what amounted to a suicide mission. It was impaled upon Basia's blade just as the magic left the priest's hand. All three hellions in the hall crumpled, as did the lead ghoul. The priest's magic was potent as always. Thane was opening his mouth to thank them both when Father Lucas crumpled as well.

Thane caught the padre before he hit the floor. He sat the priest down on the bed and moved to see what was wrong. It wasn't hard to decipher.

Blood was soaking through the man's shirt at an alarming rate. The lead ghoul had managed to stick him with its steely claws before it succumbed to either the magic or the sword. Father Lucas pushed his good left hand against his injured right shoulder. "It's not that bad," he said. "Really it's not."

"You've been cut," Basia said. "Cut deep by a denizen of Sheol. A ghoul nonetheless. That's septic right now Mundy. You know that. We've got to get home where I can help you. And fast."

"What about those particles in you?" Thane asked them both. His voice was one of desperation. "The ones that Raphael gave you. Surely you can't be injured too badly with those in you?"

"We're not like Armaros," Basia answered. "We're not forever. Those particles of which you speak are the only things keeping him alive right now. If that ghoul would have struck you instead of Mundy, you would already be dead Thane. But the particles are in a fight they can't win. Eventually they will abandon his body."

"She has a way of making things seem rather dire doesn't she Brother Thane?" The priest tried to make light of things for the boy's sake. It didn't work. The thought of Father Lucas dying terrified Thane. Now was his chance to do something. He had to help.

"I'll get Armaros," he exclaimed. He hopped off the bed and headed for the hall. "He fixed me. He can save you too Father Lucas." Thane heard them both yell for him to stop as he leapt out of the trailer and onto the grass outside. But he didn't. They needed help. They were just too stubborn to admit it. Thane knew the big angel would help. Armaros would fix it.

Nothing had changed outside except for the appearance of the first rays of the morning sun that were peeking over the tall pines beyond the mobile home. Thane found they helped him to see fairly well. He could plainly see that Armaros and Naberius were still going at it. He got as close as he could to the melee and then hollered Armaros' name.

He knew right away that he had messed up. He had been impetuous. The youthful tendencies that he had worked so hard to suppress while working at his civilian job had rushed to the surface and taken hold of him. He should not have rushed out here like he did. He was not invincible, and he was about to be reminded of that fact.

Naberius struck. It was purely instinctive on the great dog's part. Thane had startled him, and like a cornered animal the Marquis of Sheol attacked the young man with one of his three heads. The other two he kept trained on Armaros.

Nobody could stop it from happening. Basia, who had just managed to help Father Lucas up and walk him to the opening on the trailer wall, could only scream in horror as the attack unfolded. Father Lucas, himself gravely wounded, was trying hard to stay conscious. The septic poison from the ghoul strike was fighting to propagate itself deep within his tissues. And Armaros was busy trying to destroy one of the most ancient and powerful demons in all of existence. Thane was on his own.

He tried to jump out of the way. He had seen Armaros do it earlier, but Thane wasn't nearly as fast as Armaros. He had barely picked one foot up off the ground when he was taken into the terrible maw of Naberius.

It was a defensive strike. Naberius only bit the young man once and then released. But it was enough. The baneful teeth of the great black dog sunk deep into the chest of Thane Connally. Its canines went organ deep.

They pushed easily through the thick muscle of Thane's chest and hit both heart and lung. It was a killing bite. Thane knew it was, but he couldn't accept that. Not yet. He tried to call to Basia but his throat was filling with blood. He managed only a sort of gurgle. He needed to breathe, but his ruined lungs gathered no air. His feet were useless also. He couldn't get them to move. There would be no one to hold him. Again he thought of Basia. He managed to remain upright for a moment after Naberius released him, but he was dead before hitting the ground. The Child of Truth had received his final summons.

* * *

The Marquis of Sheol fell soon after Thane. Armaros had pushed forward and plunged his sword deep into the black heart of the monster when the third head of Naberius failed to strike at him. It was all the opening he needed. The body of the great black dog fell to the earth with a crash, and its dark soul—the demon that was Naberius, raced away from the expired body and the one who had defeated him. It would take him much time and no small effort to find his way back to the confines of Sheol. There his spirit would haunt the mountain with countless others.

Armaros ignored the body of the fallen arch demon, and moved swiftly to Thane's side. It wasn't good. He had failed. The boy was dead. A sadness struck the big angel—his chest seemed somehow empty. He feared it would be a permanent condition.

"Armaros," a voice called. The Watcher looked to the trailer, and saw Basia holding up Mundy. He had assumed they were dead too. "Bring the boy," she said. "We have to go. Mundy is hurt badly."

"I can heal the priest," Armaros answered. "But it's too late for Thane. It's over."

"The boy was supposed to die Armaros. That's the way it had to be. And it's far from over, in fact it's only just beginning. Trust me. Now please . . . save Mundy."

Armaros was numb. He didn't know what to make of what Basia just told him. He decided to rest his mind. He would let the girl lead for awhile. Nothing seemed to matter much anymore. He picked up Thane's body and walked to the trailer as he was told.

* * *

"What do you mean he's not there," Azazel asked. He was more agitated than usual. Kokabiel had interrupted his recreational time with the humans.

"I mean that I went to see him and he's gone. His chains were broken with magic I believe. Og is nowhere to be found."

"That weasel Dantalion will answer for this. I want the giant found."

"I can assure you that the Great Duke is looking feverishly. At last count, he had over a thousand of his goats searching for Og. In his defense brother, there are probably ten or more demons residing here in Sheol that we have yet to visit and who are capable of such magic. Some of them are from the first fall. Any of them could be in league with Og."

"He calls himself the ruler of this place. At least he used to. He should know if treachery is afoot."

"Treachery is always afoot Azazel. We're living amongst demons."

"And what of you brother? You don't seem bothered by the giant's escape. He could have been a powerful ally."

Kokabiel shook his head. "There was no turning the giant. I have spent almost as much time with Og as Armaros has. He would have given himself over to the madness before joining with us."

"Perhaps you are right," Azazel said. His mood lightened. He turned his back to his brother and began leading Kokabiel deeper into the old slave quarters. They hadn't gone far at all when Azazel stopped and extended his hand into an almost completely empty rock cell. Its only contents: three human females who were naked, bloodied, and sobbing. "It doesn't matter what happens to Og," he continued. "Soon real giants, my sons, will roam the halls of Sheol once again. We will feed them meat, and we will watch them grow."

"And in the meantime?" Kokabiel asked.

"We shall begin our search of course."

"Our search for what Azazel?"

"The rest of our family."

* * *

The sadness had lifted. Armaros believed what Basia and Father Lucas had related to him. He still felt a degree of guilt over young Thane's death, but they had convinced him that it was imminent, necessary even. That's what Raphael had told them-among other things.

Armaros had been picking their brains and admiring the wealth of information they had gathered ever since he had arrived with them at their residence. The house itself was nice enough, and sat well off the beaten path. It was made of plank wood and large quarried stones. Oversized windows let in much natural light. Armaros felt comfortable here. He needed the rest. They all did.

Father Lucas had fully recovered. Armaros' healing coupled with being back at his own home had done wonders for the priest. His wit was sharp as ever. Basia fell back into her usual routine of sword practice and research. She was consumed with the pre-history of mankind. Armaros knew it was only a matter of time before she began to ask him questions. Especially now that they had filled him in on so much information that he hadn't been privy to.

They had been here for three days. During that time Basia and Mundy had told him about his remaining brothers. He was surprised to learn that besides himself and Azazel, six other decarchs remained. They had even narrowed down possible locations for each of those left alive. They were almost assuredly impossible to reach, but the two had maps to their locations just the same. Armaros was impressed. He admitted to himself that Basia and Mundy were helpful. He was glad they were on his side of the prophecy. He wasn't as sure about Jibril Gamal.

The Major had arrived this very morn. He entered the room with urgency and purpose, and had yet to relax. He acknowledged Armaros with a curt nod and nothing more. The big angel decided to reserve judgment on their newest companion.

He was relieved to see Kokabiel's name among the living. He and Semjaza were the only two of the six that Armaros figured he would not have to destroy. Kokabiel because he had always remained neutral, and Semjaza because he eventually became so repentant for his sins that he had exiled himself from the entire universe more than eight thousand years earlier. But the other four Armaros knew would join with Azazel if given the chance. And that chance was coming. Either they would disassemble themselves and escape like his brother, or his brother would free them in exchange for their loyalty. Armaros could not let that happen.

"Which decarch is the closest to us?" he asked them both. "I need to find them before Azazel does." It was the afternoon of the third day, and the Watcher felt the first hint of restlessness stirring in his body. They all sat near one another on a leather sectional.

"What will you do if we manage to find another decarch?" Father Lucas asked.

"Destroy him if I have to."

"How?"

"The short answer Mundy . . . I butcher him and then throw all the pieces of his body on to the surface of your Sun." Father Lucas went quiet. Even the usually loquacious priest was at a loss for words. He needed a moment to process what he had just been told.

Basia was sipping a cup of tea which she removed from her mouth to answer. "We suspect that Tamiel is buried somewhere along the western coast of South America. Below the Andes to be more specific."

"Then perhaps we should plan a trip to Chile," the Watcher said. "I've spent some time there you know."

"That I do know," Basia said. "But there is much I don't. I was hoping you might fill in some of the pieces for Mundy and me."

"And then we can leave?" Armaros asked.

"I already have my parka packed," Father Lucas joked.

The angel smiled and readied himself for another round of storytelling.

# CHAPTER 37

The big man stepped out of the pool. The grass was cool beneath his feet. He turned first his head and then his body in order that he might see in every direction. It all looked the same. Something about the place was familiar to him.

He began to notice things. He felt good. His skin was dry. The sky was blue. His body seemed different. He didn't know what his name was. But nothing bothered him. Not here.

He noticed a tiny speck on the horizon. He watched it as it grew and moved closer. Soon, an angel stood before him. It was magnificent, and he could not look away. He knew this angel. He didn't know how, but he knew him.

"Hello Thane," the angel said. His voice was kind. His presence warmed the big man. "I've been expecting you."

His name was Thane. That sounded right to the big man. "Hello Mikhael," Thane answered. That sounded right to him also. And then he remembered. Everything.

Mikhael watched as Thane recalled who he was and what had happened. "It's difficult for you . . . to go from a corporeal body on Earth to a perfect and larger body here in Heaven. It has only been done twice before if I remember correctly, and I always do." He gave Thane a moment. The youngest angel didn't take it.

"This is the First Estate," Thane stated. His eyes were alight with purpose. Mikhael smiled.

"It is," the archangel said. "Now come along. Your training is to begin without delay."

THE END

