Angels of War (Angels of War Trilogy Book 1) (2 page)

Joan dropped the cross to her side, her thumb pressed hard against the wood. Tears streamed from her brown eyes. Pain throbbed deep inside her, both physical and mental, far worse than a toothache. She flopped down on her soft leather chair. Her mind screamed for relief from the pain stirred up by regret. The medication she popped dulled the pain, like a heavy blanket thrown over a hungry lion. The beast remained, yellow-eyed and ravenous.
 

The pills made her thoughts thick and heavy. Each day became a labor for her. To wake up, to wash, and to brush her teeth required more strength every day.
 

Joan’s pastor told her how God meant for her to survive the plane crash. She placed a small hand over her face. Silent tears continued to seep from her eyes. She came close to telling her pastor to go to Hell. Charles and her son William died because of her selfishness.
 

Joan stared at the cross in her right hand and tightened her fingers around the polished wood. The wood remained sturdy, unbreakable, like the emptiness and self-pity so close to her.
 

For four long and lonesome months she endured. She filled each day with menial activities to keep her busy. Her work at the office became superficial and the indomitable drive she once harnessed evaporated. She spent four months alone in the house with the ghosts. Faint scents would drift by her nose from some errant breeze and remind her about their deaths.
 

Charles’s cologne and William’s sweet baby powder aroma would float by her nostrils like brief whispers. When those moments occurred, she would curl up on the couch and cry her day away.
 

Joan closed her eyes and despite her efforts, the G-7 crash replayed in her memory with cruel clarity. In the end, a green toy soldier lay on its back upon the wet brush and mud.

Joan, with cross in both hands, twisted at the wood. Her heartbeat thrummed faster in her chest. The cross, a symbol of love and faith, became mere wood in her eyes. Her faith died along with her family in the Florida swamps.
 

The purposelessness of her life clung to her brown skin like old oil. Bitter bile crested her throat. Why kneel to some invisible being who denied her happiness, love, and peace?
 

Joan longed to inhale the perfumed baby oil she rubbed against her William’s soft brown skin. She missed Charles’s morning breath with his hardness inside her.
 

Her fingers tightened, a hairline split slid up the wooden cross’s longest part.
 

“And do you think you will meet them in death?” A man’s voice said next to her.

Joan bolted from her seat, her hands fast as she snapped the Glock from her drawer and aimed the dark barrel at the man at her desk. Brilliant blue lightening lashed over the city from a cloudless sky. Thunder rolled from beyond the bright flash. The hairs along her slender arms bristled.
 

He stood five-foot eleven with long arms hung loose at his sides. He wore a light blue shirt and faded blue jeans. His brown eyes studied her with a fierce intensity.
 

The stranger stepped forward and placed both hands on the desktop. “Joan,” he said. “I asked you, do you expect to experience those things in death?”
 

Joan held the gun on the muscled intruder. She locked the office door earlier and checked the knob twice. “Who are you, how did you get in here?”

The man reached forward and removed the gun from her tiny hand. He studied the Glock for a moment, shook his head and tossed the weapon behind him like a useless toy. Her gun struck the carpeted floor and went off with a pop. “I guess your piece still works.”

Joan’s mouth dried. She backed away from the desk. Her eyes glanced left and right for an escape route. “Who are you? How did you get in here?”

“You don’t fear denying God, but you fear me? Where did you think you would go, Joan?”

Joan walked backwards until the cool window stopped her. Fresh sunrays filtered into the office and threw its warm light on the stranger’s face. She did not understand how this man read the terrible thoughts in her mind.
 

“I miss them, I want my family. They completed me. Besides, God doesn’t exist.”

The man stood straight, his eyes narrowed. “Destroying the cross…” He lifted his right finger and pointed at the cross. “…is not the path to your family.”
 

He swept around the desk with urgency, reached forward, and grabbed her arms with both hands.

Once his hands touched her, a warm calmness invaded her body. All the pain and mental anguish inside her fractured like hardened ice underneath his formidable gaze. A tingle rippled through her as if this man owned the ability to touch her soul. She wanted to resist his grip.
 

Joan released her fear and anger for the moment. She dropped her head against his broad chest and cried for a good five minutes. His love rose with a power she never experienced. Not a love from selfish wants, but pure love. She cried at the raw emotions he drew from her.
 

“Who are you,” she said between heavy sobs. Her tiny shoulders convulsed as she let herself go and allowed him to hold her in his huge arms. “Who are you to love me like this?”

“I am the archangel Michael and we need you and your sword, Joan. And this is not how your soul will end.”

2

Joan pulled away from her shattered faith as a distant voice echoed in her soul. Gooseflesh spread across her soft skin. She lifted her head from the stranger’s chest and stared into his eyes, old eyes. Distant worlds flashed and gleamed within them. Yet deeper still lurked the ferocity to kill.
 

“I want something to drink.” With reverence Joan set the cross upon her desktop and dried her eyes with her fingertips. She walked to a smaller side room equipped with a kitchenette, coffee table, and sofas. “Let’s talk. I need to talk to you.”
 

Joan wanted a hot drink to calm her nerves and decided to make coffee. Michael entered the room and sat on a green overstuffed sofa against the far wall. Her hands trembled as she used a small spoon to dip inside a tin can filled with ground coffee beans. Fine grounds spilled over the counter. Five minutes passed by the time she started the pot to boil.
 

Joan turned and studied the stranger. The man sat underneath the bright wall mounted lights. A smile played across his face. He wore well-worn cowboy boots joined by a cowboy belt buckle, gold and as big as a dinner plate.
 

The heated water started to froth in the coffee pot when she turned towards him. “I wanted you out of my office when you claimed to be the archangel Michael. How am I to believe you?”
 

She pulled a mug from an overhead cabinet. “You sit like a typical man. You’re sprawled out on my couch. The only thing you’re not doing is holding your balls.”

Michael grunted as Joan sat at a coffee table across from him. “What did you expect?”

“I expected someone more angelic with wings, armor, and a sword. The typical stuff.” She laid an arm over her midsection. Her left hand played with the yellow happy face printed on the coffee mug. She delivered him a long stare.

“I own those, but I prefer civilian clothes to keep you calm.” He bent forward. “Do you know who you are, Joan?”

Joan rose from the chair and poured hot coffee into her mug. “Who am I, Michael?”
 

Michael pointed a calloused finger at her. “You are an angel.”

Choppy laughter escaped Joan’s throat. She sipped the hot coffee and tried not to spill any as she fought for composure. Disbelief closed her mind. A sudden urge to run overcame her. She wanted to bolt for the door in fear, while curiosity kept her fixed at the counter.
 

“I loaded the gun with duds.”

Michael shook his head. “Don’t lie to me, Joan. Don’t change the subject either.”

Joan sipped her coffee. She padded forward like a skittish cat and sat on the love seat across from him. “Why? Why me? I’m a sinner who wanted to deny God.”

“You’re not the first one to lose family, Joan. Also, I am not here to judge your weak faith.” His brown eyes fell to the carpeted floor. He glanced up as fresh tears rolled from her eyes.
 

“You accepted this a long time ago, when the earth brimmed with fresh life and Satan took several million angels with him to Hell. You fought at the uprising, at the Battle of Seven Gates in Heaven.”

“I don’t believe you, this is ridiculous, you need to leave before I call the cops,” she said.
 

Yet, Joan understood Michael spoke the truth. His words sat perched in her mind like an exotic animal.
 

Michael’s eyes remained passive.
 

“An angel,” she said. The word hung on her tongue. She tried to bring a reality written in the Bible to her reality. “How am I an angel, Michael? How do you know my thoughts, my loss, my pains, and my wants?”
 

Joan placed the cold coffee mug aside. “…my fears.”
 

“What you lack is faith and purpose, Joan.”

“Why doesn’t God give us faith to use, and show us purpose when our life is flushed down a toilet?”

“He also blessed us with freewill.”

Joan leaned back in the loveseat and threw up her hands. She clicked her tongue at the conversation. “Well, the answer to all answers? God killed my husband and my son, not freewill.”
 

Joan paused. Michael did remove her pain. He showed her a powerful love she never experienced in her lifetime. Yet her mind did not accept what unfolded before her eyes. Her thoughts divided between her loss and pain and the reality she confronted. “Humor me, Michael.”

Michael’s face reddened, he leaned forward. “You took this upon yourself, knowing your actions, knowing the pain you would face being human. You took this oath at the gates of Heaven and I need you to wake up. Now.”

“Show me, Michael.” She rose from her chair and slammed her fist upon the tabletop. The coffee mug bounced and spilled its black contents on the rug. “Show me who I am.”

Michael bolted to his feet and closed the distance between them. He placed both hands on her small face. “Remember.”

Joan’s body went slack.
 

Her soul reeled away into darkness and light alike, into an ancient past beyond her imagination. White lightening graced her eyes as she fell. Majestic voices filled her ears, bright tears burst from her eyes. Bodies fell beyond gates made from gold and diamonds. War trumpets blared as horses charged from those magnificent gates.
 

Joan’s hair flowed long, black, and shiny. She wore pure golden armor. Above her in the white sky, angels fought each other. Large powerful wings sat upon their backs as they rode warhorses into battle upon white clouds. The warhorses, heavy with armor, made the walls built around Heaven tremble.
 

One angel in particular caught her attention. He raced away from Heaven with angels numbered in the millions behind him. She slowed her warhorse Basil to a gallop as the archangel Michael sank to his knees with tears in his eyes. Below her, the angels who rode towards earth twisted into horrors for their rebellion against God. Profound sadness filled Heaven at their fall.
 

God, whom she worshiped and adored, stood behind her. His hand outstretched as He hurled the rabble from Heaven and to the earth below.
 

Michael raised his sword above his head. He called for five warrior angels to protect the earth and take a vow to forget their lives in Heaven and become mortals. They would experience the mortal pains for centuries to come. Their purpose, to guard the back gate, and insure those who dwelled within the darkest place in the universe never escape. A place Michael once called the basement of Heaven, a realm God now called Hell.

Joan sheathed her sword and stepped forward along with four others who volunteered. They left Heaven to live amongst the mortals. To join in their pain and joys, to die and return many times over, many centuries over, and they would never recognize each other by name or sight until called upon by the archangel Michael.

“A war is about to erupt upon the earth. Satan wants to start the Apocalypse. We need your help, Joan.” Michael released her.
 

Joan fell to her knees and tried to catch her breath. Her world took a weird twist, as if all she once appreciated on the planet seemed old, like a play repeated with different cast members. Her knowledge expanded like an explosion. She cried out in surprise at the sudden clarity. “Forgive me.”
 

Michael pulled Joan to her feet. “Not to me you bow, but to God in Heaven. Joan, you can lead the others. Remember your past. Wake up, Joan.”

Joan slumped in his arms. Her old strength poured into her like sweet wine into a fresh wineskin. The newness made her weak. She remembered the battle in Heaven, every violent detail.
 

“Oh I remember,” she said. Her vision fogged until the light narrowed and enveloped her in darkness.
 

3

Joan opened her eyes and found herself laid out on the couch in the coffee room. A light blanket decorated with powder blue flowers covered her. The memories Michael brought back struck with enough power to overwhelm her mind. Joan sat up on her elbows.
 

Through the room’s open door, rain pelted the office windows from a sky packed with clouds. The clear morning weather fled but her despondency lingered on. She swept the blanket aside, lifted herself from the sofa and stood. Her eyes scanned the room for the archangel Michael.
 

She stepped from the kitchenette to find the archangel facing her office window, head tilted skyward. His gaze held on the heavens.
 

“Missing home,” Joan said.

Michael turned to her and smiled. “Yes I do, but I need to get you started. Time is running out, Joan.”

“Time is running out for what?” Ugly fear rose from a dark corner in her mind. Within the past hour, she fought to stay sane. She needed all her focus to accomplish the task God assigned her. “And get me ready for what?”