Armageddon (40 page)

“A choice not yet made,” the prophet repeated, as the paintings faded, replaced by the stark white walls of the chamber.

“No, a choice made,” Verchiel said with certainty.

*   *   *

Enoch remembered his visit to the angel called Verchiel. The Lord God had been so disappointed in this one and was determined to discover what had caused him to so fail.

The Almighty had dissected His warrior angel, examining
each piece and particle, but He saw no obvious defect. Verchiel had simply made choices, and it was those choices that had led to his downfall.

Enoch remembered how God had told him that this angel, despite all his faults, was special.

This one’s name is Verchiel,
God had said, as He reassembled the angel.
Remember it, for he will be important.

Enoch saw a flash of recognition in the angel’s eyes.

“Quickly now,” the child ordered. “There is still much to be done.”

*   *   *

Verchiel nodded at the child, as a hand fell firmly upon his shoulder.

“A choice,” the being that reeked of God’s power reminded him.

There was a great explosion from outside the room, and a section of wall tumbled in. Verchiel’s attention was drawn to the scene, as an angelic being—a Nephilim, of this he was sure—fought against black-garbed foes.

The grip on his shoulder suddenly intensified. “A choice,” the being repeated all the more forcefully, the sound of his voice echoing painfully in Verchiel’s head.

“Yes,” Verchiel answered above the commotion.

For the first time in so very long, his mission was clear.

A sword of fire came to life with the power of his thought, and he wrenched his shoulder from the angel’s powerful grip.
He raised the sword of fire above his head as his wings carried him up, and with all his might, he drove the sword into the sphere that contained the child.

There was a blinding, deafening release of force as the bubble exploded, but above the din, he heard the angelic being’s voice, dripping with supreme disappointment.

“Verchiel! What have you done?”

*   *   *

One moment Lorelei was in the Architects’ stronghold, and the next, she was standing before a large stone slab in what appeared to be a temple.

The ghost of the angel A’Dorial was beside her, with the countless number who had died since the world was cut off from Heaven, waiting ever so patiently for the opportunity to continue their journey.

“Where am I?”

“This is what your father wanted you to see,” A’Dorial said.

“What is it?” Lorelei asked. She could feel something emanating from the stone in waves, and the best word she could think to describe it was . . .

Potential.

“Is this it?” she asked the angelic ghost. “Is this the Ladder?”

“It is,” A’Dorial acknowledged. “Though it is dormant.”

She drifted closer to the slab, letting her hand float over its smooth surface. Her fingers entered the stone, and a warm tingle reminded her of the sensations she’d felt when still alive.

“How do we turn it on?” she asked.

“That is why the child is needed,” A’Dorial answered.

She looked at the ghost. “Then I have to go back. I have to help Jeremy save the child. . . .”

The scene around them abruptly changed, the quiet of the temple erupting with the violence of battle.

“What is this?” she cried out, as gouts of fire exploded around her. Even though she could not be hurt, she still found herself shying away from the destructive forces.

“The battle has begun,” A’Dorial stated. “Armageddon is in full swing.”

Signs of struggle were everywhere. Angels with metal wings, which she recognized from the department store parking lot where she’d found Jeremy, wrestled beasts of every conceivable size and nature. For a brief moment her attention was totally transfixed upon the chaos unfolding before her, but she then became distracted by the sight of something far more awesome.

An angel of great size, his body clothed in golden armor, was squaring off against a being of darkness.

If Lorelei had still been able to breathe, she would have gasped at what she saw next. The golden angel’s opponent was clad in armor that seemed to be made from solidified night, and he wore the face of her friend and confidant, the Morningstar.

He had been the one to kill her.

The desert sands exploded about them as the two forces
waged their war, and suddenly, Lorelei felt her own abilities awaken.

“Is this how you wish to use their life energies?” A’Dorial asked.

“What do you mean?” Lorelei asked, her desire for vengeance against the one who had hurt her fully aroused.

“The power that you use belongs to them.” A’Dorial gestured toward the dead who watched. “Their residual energies are there for your disposal,” the angel continued. “But are you certain this is the right battle?”

She watched the giant angel of Heaven swing a sword of fire at his darkling foe. Light would perpetually struggle against dark, and Lorelei knew that she had her own part to play in that struggle.

“The child,” she said. “We have to help the child.”

A’Dorial smiled.

“Good choice.”

*   *   *

Jeremy drove on, slashing at the Architects’ Agents, never pausing, even as he fought his way inside their sanctum.

He knew that he could not slow his attacks. He had to bring the Agents down before they brought him down with their superior numbers and savagery.

Switching from sword to battle-ax, Jeremy swung the enormous blade, cutting a flaming swath through a charge of attackers, their bisected bodies spilling harmlessly to either
side of him, as the next wave of Agents came at him without pause.

“Bloody hell!” the boy cried out, starting to feel the effects of exhaustion. “Don’t you guys ever quit?”

And that was when he caught another movement from the corner of his eye. He glanced toward the back of the room, where a glass sphere hung.

Enoch.

The sight of the little boy made the Nephilim fight all the harder. He was determined to rescue him.

He took his eyes from the sphere to dispatch two knife-wielding Agents with a grunting swipe of his ax blade, and when he glanced back, an angel clad in armor hovered near the floating bubble, a sword of fire raised above his head.

Fear coursed through Jeremy. There was no doubt in his mind what the angel’s intentions were. He lashed out in any way he could, frantically trying to cut through the endless wave of Agents.

But the angel’s sword came down with great sound and fury, a shock wave flowing across the chamber, knocking the Nephilim off his feet.

Jeremy was already on the move to see if the child was safe, when he heard a booming voice cry out. “Verchiel! What have you done?”

At the mention of the name, Jeremy’s blood turned to ice in his veins.

Verchiel,
he thought with escalating terror.
That’s the bloke who nearly wiped us out.

Jeremy fought with renewed purpose now. His ax struck the Agents down with double the fury, as he charged toward the back of the chamber. He spread his wings as he leaped, battle-ax of fire crackling as he propelled himself toward the armored visage of Verchiel.

Heaven help the angel if he’d harmed the child.

*   *   *

The Overseer had expected Verchiel to accept his offer. Together, they could have transformed the world, but the child of God had intervened. The Architect felt an odd sensation. It was an emotion common to those beings that he and his aspects had manipulated over the millennia, but it was new to him.

Anger.

Recoiling from the sphere’s explosion, the Overseer watched the child tumble through the air to land on the floor. Verchiel’s attack had surprised the Overseer and caused new concerns for his mission.

“Verchiel! What have you done?” the Overseer screamed in displeasure.

What occurred next was another unforeseen turn of events. The Overseer watched as the Nephilim intruder found his way into the Architects’ sanctum, flying to attack Verchiel in anger.

The two were locked in battle, and the Overseer could
see the situation getting quickly out of hand. It was time to eliminate the most dangerous threat to his plans.

The child called Enoch was sprawled on the floor amid the shattered remains of the sphere that once held him. He was beginning to stir, but the Architect would not allow him to awaken. This child of God, this instrument of discourse, could very easily ruin everything that he had worked so hard to achieve.

The Overseer selected the longest, sharpest piece of the containment sphere that he could find. This would be the quickest and least dangerous way to dispose of the troublesome youth. Carefully, he advanced upon the still stunned child, and then he felt it, a presence close by. At first, the Overseer saw nothing, but as he perceived other realities that existed around him, he saw the spirits of the dead that crammed the room. One in particular, a female, came toward him, a look of determination upon her face.

“You’re not going to harm that boy,” she said, using an audio spectrum that only he could hear. She stood before him, her fists clenched in repressed anger.

And the Architect simply turned away.

Unconcerned by threats from the dead.

*   *   *

Lorelei had thought that there were more Architects, as the one lunged toward the child.

She had warned the heavenly creature, but it was obvious
that he had made his decision.

As she had made hers.

Lorelei radiated energy from her hands in a single, concentrated burst.

It struck the Architect squarely in the back, sending him sprawling to the floor.

“I warned you,” she said, sensing the number of dead assembled behind her diminish.

The Architect had dropped his makeshift weapon as he fell, and now he lay perfectly still. Cautiously, Lorelei approached him, wondering if she might have gone too far.

The Architect grabbed her arm with a spidery hand, startling her. How could he touch her?

“The dead never posed a problem before,” the Architect said. “I must reconsider that.”

Lorelei tried to pull away, but his hold was too strong. As she struggled, A’Dorial and the others slowly drifted away from her. She screamed for their help, but she saw only fear in their haunted stares.

Lorelei could feel her soul’s energy grow weaker, less defined, as the Architect’s grip strengthened on her arm. She suddenly became painfully aware that it was only a matter of minutes before her essence would blow away like smoke from an extinguished match.

The Architect rose, stronger, as he selected another slice of
glass from the floor. “This will do nicely.”

Lorelei struggled to break free, her strength dwindling, as he dragged her along toward the child.

Enoch sat where he had fallen, still appearing dazed and confused.

The Architect loomed above the little boy.

Lorelei turned her fading gaze on the other spirits, holding out her hand, desperate for their assistance. She knew what they feared; their soul energies would be consumed, never to return to the source of all things. But she needed their strength, their energy, to save the child without whom the world would be lost.

The Architect drew back his arm to strike, and the mass of dead acted.

A’Dorial took hold of Lorelei’s hand, acting as a conduit for the others. Their energies flowed through him, and Lorelei could feel the power of her own soul return twentyfold, giving her the strength to fight back against her aggressor.

The Architect halted his assault in mid-slash.

He tried to wield his weapon, but now it was Lorelei’s turn to hold fast.

Glowing with the energies of the other spirits, she looked deeply into the single, bulging eye beneath the Architect’s scarlet hood.

“You’re not going to like this one little bit.”

T
he power of God attacked with relentless fury.

It did not care if its host body was caused irreparable harm by its unbridled assault, or if the very world upon which it stood was damaged beyond repair.

It cared for nothing except the eradication of its enemy, light vanquishing darkness.

It was as simple as that.

Simple, but oh so dangerous.

Aaron knew the destructive potential of the power that resided within him, but the longer he spent with it, the less he cared. With every passing moment, he was becoming less Aaron Corbet, and more the Metatron.

The Metatron drove the Darkstar back, his enormous broadsword of fire striking its foe again and again. But the
Darkstar met each of the attacks with his own mighty blade, forged of impenetrable darkness.

What remained of Aaron could not help but feel a twinge of sadness as he looked upon his mortal enemy, who wore the face of his father. He was tempted to pull back on the savagery of his attack, hoping that Lucifer’s goodness would re-emerge. But the rage of the God power would hear nothing of it, overwhelming his sympathies with ease.

This was the enemy, and he would be vanquished.

The Metatron’s blows rained down upon the Darkstar, driving him back against the great stone slab that held the mystery of the Ladder. But Satan’s wings propelled him upward and at the Metatron. Taking advantage of their close quarters, he summoned a small blade of ebony and thrust it with great force into the Metatron’s stomach.

Aaron’s cries of pain mingled with those of the power of God. Great gouts of burning blood poured from his wound, coating the Darkstar and the stone slab.

The Metatron’s wings beat the air savagely, as he retreated from the temple. Kneeling just outside the door, Aaron gazed down at the hilt of the blade still protruding from his gut. With a trembling hand, he gripped the knife and tried to pull it free.

The handle dissolved in his gauntleted hand, but he could still feel the blade inside him.

He looked back into the temple and saw Satan standing over the stone slab. The Darkstar’s body was burning from the Metatron’s blood, but he did not seem to care. Instead, he wiped the blood on the stone.