“What you are, what you represent, is a virulent disease,” Verchiel said from the bleachers above, “a disease that has infected this world.”

Aaron’s head was ringing and he was finding it difficult to focus. But the power of the Nephilim coursed through his body, urging him to his feet. Sensing his attacker close by, Aaron lashed out with his sword of flame. The blade touched nothing.

“But I believe I have found a cure for this epidemic.” Aaron could hear Verchiel descending the wooden bleachers a step at a time.

Another blow fell on the back of his neck with such force that he wondered if it had been broken. He rolled onto his back and gazed up into the fearsome visage of a warrior clad entirely in armor of red—the color of spilled blood.

“This is Malak,” he heard Verchiel say from somewhere nearby. “And he will be your death, body and spirit.”

And as Aaron studied the armored figure looming menacingly above him, he had a sneaking suspicion that Verchiel might very well be right.

CHAPTER TEN

The armored warrior called Malak reached into the air, and from some hidden pocket in space, removed a sword of dark metal. The light of the Powers’ flaming weapons illuminated strange etchings on the blade, similar to those on the manacles Aaron had worn in Aerie. But he had little time to consider that, as Malak brought the weapon down, intending to cleave his skull in two.

Aaron rolled to the side, then flexing his powerful wings, propelled himself upward and lashed out with his own sword. The burning blade clipped Malak’s shoulder, sending a shower of sparks into the air. Malak was already moving to counter the attack, his sword gone, replaced with a long spear made of the same dark, etched metal. He struck out with the shaft of the spear, catching Aaron on the chin. The Nephilim stumbled to the side and watched from the corner of his eye as the armored warrior lunged forward, the spear’s tip searching for something vital.

His actions almost reflex, Aaron swatted the spearhead away with his sword of fire, severing it from the body of the shaft. He spun around, the weapon in his hand now seeking Malak’s heart, momentarily amazed by the fluidity of his thoughts and movements. No longer did he feel the struggle inside him between what was angelic and what was human. But now wasn’t the time for reflection.

Malak had dropped what was left of his spear and grabbed hold of Aaron’s fiery blade, halting its deadly progress less than a half inch from his ornate chest plate. Aaron bore down upon the blade with all his might, but Malak’s strength was incredible, his armored hand glowing white hot with the heat of heavenly fire. Suddenly there was a blinding flash, and the combatants were thrown apart by the force of the powerful concussion. Aaron shook away the cotton that seemed to fill his head, coming to a disturbing realization: Malak had broken his blade. The warrior had actually destroyed his sword of fire. He quickly scrambled to his feet. Malak was already standing, flexing the hand that had held back Aaron’s sword of fire. The armored glove had already cooled, returning to its original color of ore.

A strange sound filled the air. Malak was laughing—a high-pitched titter that reminded Aaron more of a small child amused by cartoon antics on television than the laugh of a bloodthirsty warrior. Then, as abruptly as it had begun, Malak’s laughter ended, and where there had been nothing in his armored hand, there were suddenly razor-sharp throwing stars. Aaron heard their metal surfaces grinding together as Malak bent forward and let the blades fly. He spread his wings and took to the air, the stars finding targets instead in the bodies of the Powers’ angels that were unlucky enough to be standing nearby watching the conflict unfold.

He glided backward, keeping a cautious eye on the armored warrior already on the move. Not paying attention to his surroundings, his back hit up against something solid and instinctively a sword grew in his hand. He spun, hacking at what was behind him. Angels scattered in a flutter of wings and trench coats, hissing menacingly, as Aaron’s blade passed through the steel poles of a basketball hoop, sending the backboard crashing to the gymnasium floor.

Distracted, Aaron didn’t notice Malak until it was too late. The armored warrior tossed a net made of thin, flexible strands of the same black metal as his weapons and ensnared the Nephilim. The weighted ends of the net restricted Aaron’s wings, and he fell to the floor atop the downed backboard. Eager to vanquish his prey, Malak charged; a dagger caked with the blood of earlier kills clutched in his armored hand.

Aaron concentrated on a new weapon, and another sword came to be in his grasp, melting through the tight weave of the net. But before he could free himself completely, Malak was upon him. He tried to turn away, but his movement was hindered by the net and the weight of his armored assailant, and the dagger’s blade bit deep into his already wounded shoulder. Aaron cried out, thrashing violently beneath Malak’s attack and managing to knock him to one side. With his sword of fire, he sliced upward through the metal mesh, cutting an opening big enough to crawl through.

As he sloughed off the net Aaron watched with muted horror: His armored attacker brought the knife blade to the face of his helmet, the tip of a pink tongue snaked from the mask and licked the Nephilim’s blood from the weapon’s edge. For an instant he wondered what kind of creature resided behind the concealing helmet of scarlet, recalling Camael’s haunting explanation of the Powers’ use of the handicapped. He thought of his foster brother, steeling his resolve against his foe and the others he would eventually have to face. Though his shoulder burned as if on fire, Aaron held his sword tightly and slowly pointed the fiery blade across the gym where his opponent waited.

“You,” Aaron said in a booming voice filled with authority. “Let’s finish this.”

Malak giggled again. His knife disappeared and he withdrew a double-bladed battle-ax from the air to replace it. The warrior hefted the heavy weapon in one hand. “Bootiful,” he said through his mask of red metal.

Bootiful.

The word hit him like one of Lehash’s flaming bullets, and Aaron lowered his weapon in shock.

“What did you say?” he asked the scarlet-garbed warrior.

Again Malak giggled, that high-pitched titter that put his nerves on edge.

“What’s the matter, Nephilim?” he heard Verchiel ask with mock concern.

Aaron chanced a glance at the heavenly monster. He was standing before the bleachers, hands clasped behind his back, a throng of angel soldiers surrounding him. One of them had Vilma slung over its shoulder, as if she were nothing more than an afterthought.

“Has something plucked a chord of familiarity?”

Malak was suddenly before him, swinging the blade of his double-headed ax. Aaron sprang back from the vicious blade, studying his attacker’s movement, the single word still echoing dangerously in his head.

Bootiful.

The ax buried itself deep into the shiny, hardwood floor, but Malak quickly retrieved it, coming at him again. The warrior swung his weapon of war, and this time Aaron responded in kind, deflecting the ax with his sword of fire.

“Why did you say that word?” he hissed, launching his own assault against Malak.

The warrior giggled, childlike, as he ducked beneath the swipe of Aaron’s blade.

“Why did you say it?” he shouted frantically, an idea almost too horrible for him to comprehend beginning to form in his mind. His attack upon the Powers’ assassin grew wilder, driving Malak back across the gym.

Malak countered as fast as Aaron struck, blocking and avoiding the weapon of heavenly fire with ease.