The Powers were the first to react. With bird-like squawks, they leaped into the air, wings pounding, weapons of fire clenched in their hands. Camael reacted in kind, propelling himself up to confront his attackers above the gym floor.

Malak turned to Aaron, a malicious grin gracing his pale features. He began to lift the mace, but this time, Aaron was faster. He brought forth his wings, and as the mighty appendages unfurled, the body of his right wing caught his attacker, swatting him aside. Through the chaos, Aaron set his sights on Vilma, who was thrashing wildly in the clutches of her angelic keeper. Desperately trying to ignore the throbbing pain in his head and shoulder, he began to make his way toward the girl and her captor, carefully avoiding the burning bodies of angels as they fell from the air, victims of Camael’s battle prowess.

From the corner of his eye, Aaron glimpsed movement and turned just in time to avoid the blade of a broadsword as it attempted to split his skull. He stared into the still-grinning face of Malak. The armored warrior was already bringing the enormous sword around for another strike, but Aaron brought his own blade up to counter the attack before it could cut him in two. Malak stepped in close and drove a metal-clad knee up into the Nephilim’s ribs. Aaron cried out in pain, but responded in kind, throwing an elbow into the bridge of Malak’s nose.

The warrior of the Powers stumbled back, blood gushing from his nostrils. He brought his gloved hand to his nose and stared dumbfounded at the blood, and then Malak began to laugh. He plunged both hands into his magickal arsenal and emerged with two curved blades of Middle Eastern origin. “Pretty,” he said through a spray of blood dripping from his nose. He brandished the unusual weapons and came toward Aaron again, his level of ferociousness seemingly endless.

Suddenly there was a rumbling growl, and a yellow blur moved between Aaron and his attacker. He watched stunned as Malak took the full weight of Gabriel’s pounce and was knocked backward to the gym floor.

“Save Vilma,” the dog barked, slamming the top of his thick skull down into the forehead of the Powers’ assassin.

Across the gym floor littered with angelic dead, Aaron could see Vilma struggling with her captor. The Powers’ angel was holding her wrist in one hand, while in the other was a dagger of flame. Aaron darted forward, but froze as the fearsome visage of Verchiel crossed his path.

“I’ve not forgotten you, animal,” he snarled, the mottled scars on his once flawless features beaming a ruddy red. Like some great prehistoric bird, Verchiel opened his wings to their fullest and advanced. “I rather like the idea of killing you myself,” he said with a predatory grin.

Aaron glanced quickly toward Vilma and back to his newest adversary. Taking a combat stance, he held his heavenly weapon high. “Let’s do it then,” he said, determined that nothing would keep him from the girl.

Then, as if Heaven had decided to answer his prayers, an angel fell from above, its body engulfed in flames. It landed atop Verchiel, knocking him to the ground. Aaron looked up to see Camael hovering above him, his suit tattered and torn, his exposed skin spattered with the blood of the vanquished. “Save the girl!” he ordered, before turning to defend himself against another wave of Powers’ soldiers.

Vilma’s captor had driven her to the floor, a fiery blade beginning to take form dangerously close to the delicate flesh of her throat. There was murder in the angel’s face, and Aaron knew there was a chance that he would not reach her in time. But the image of a weapon took form in his mind—and a spear made from the heavenly fire that lived inside him became a thing of reality. Solid in his hand, he let the weapon fly and watched with great satisfaction as the razor-sharp tip plunged into the neck of the Powers’ angel, knocking him away from the struggling girl and pinning his thrashing body to the bleachers.

Aaron was on the move again. “Vilma!” he shouted. The girl was in shock, stumbling about as she gazed around at the nightmarish visions unfolding before her. He called her name again, and she turned to look in his direction with fear-filled eyes.

He stopped before her and held out his hands. “It’s me,” he said in his most soothing voice. She stared at him, an expression of surprise gradually creeping across her features. He was pretty sure that at the moment he didn’t look like the boy she’d said good-bye to in the hallway of Kenneth Curtis High School a few weeks ago, but now was not the time for explanations, all he cared about was keeping her alive. “It’s Aaron,” he continued, slowly reaching for her.

Vilma blinked, then turned and made a run for the door. Aaron dove for her, his powerful wings allowing him to glide the short distance and take her into his arms. “Please,” he said, holding her tightly. “Listen to me.”

She fought, punching, screaming, and kicking. She turned in his embrace and began to pound his chest with her fists. “No! No! No!”

“Vilma, it’s really me,” Aaron said in her native Portuguese. I’ve come to help you.”

For an instant she stopped fighting, looking into his eyes as if searching for lies in his words.

“Please, Vilma,” he said again. “You have to trust me.”

She sagged in his arms, the fight draining out of her. “I want to wake up,” she said in a voice groggy with shock. “Just let me wake—”

There was an explosion from the center of the gymnasium, and Verchiel emerged from the conflagration, face twisted in madness as smoldering body parts of soldiers once in his service rained down around him.

“Aaron,” Camael cried from above as he pitched another victim of his flaming swordplay at the Powers’ commander. “Take the girl and leave!”

Gabriel charged across the gym. “Yeah, let’s get out of here.”

The yellow fur of the dog’s face was spattered with blood, and Aaron wondered what it had taken to keep the armored Malak down. He gazed upward looking for Camael. The number of Powers’ soldiers had diminished to five and still the warrior that he had learned to call friend fought on. “Camael!” he cried, Vilma slumped in his arms, his dog at his side. He gestured wildly for the angel to join them.

“Leave me!” the former leader of the Powers shouted as he swung his sword in a blazing arc, dispatching two more attackers.

“Nephilim!” Verchiel screamed as he strode across the bodies of his soldiers.

If they were going to leave together, it had to be now. Aaron again gazed up at his mentor. “Camael, please.”

“Get out of here now,” Camael commanded. “Too much depends upon your survival. Go. Now!” Then he spread his wings and hurled himself at Verchiel.

Aaron wanted to stay, but as he looked at the trembling girl in his arms, the realization of Camael’s words slowly sank in. The citizens of Aerie were depending on him, and if he was indeed the Chosen One, he owed it to them to make their prophecy a reality. As much as it pained him, he knew that Camael was right. He had to leave.

“Aaron, we should go,” Gabriel said from his side, his warm body tightly pressed against his leg.

“I think you’re right,” Aaron answered. He took one last look at Verchiel and Camael locked in deadly combat, then spread his ebony wings wide to enfold them all.

“Nephilim!” Verchiel screamed as Aaron pictured Aerie in his mind. “You will not escape me!” And they were gone.