Camael could not hold back his laughter, although it wracked his body with painful spasms. “Do you hear yourself?” he asked through bloody coughs that flecked his bearded chin with gore. “You presume to know the grand schemes of He who created all things—He who created us.” He averted his gaze, no longer able to look upon the foul creature before him. “If Lucifer could hear you now, he would embrace you as a like-minded brother,” Camael added with a disgusted shake of his head.

“How dare you speak his name to me,” Verchiel raged, falling down upon his own knees and grabbing Camael’s face. “Everything I do, I do for the glory of His name. When this is done, and things have returned to the way they once were, I shall sit by His side, and all shall know that my actions were just.”

Camael stared into Verchiel’s dark eyes, falling into the depths of their insanity. “Things will never be as they were,” he whispered, shaking Verchiel’s hand from his face. “And they will call you monster.”

Verchiel jumped to his feet, his scarred features twisted in fury. “Then monster I shall be,” he shrieked as he raised his flaming sword and brought it down toward Camael’s head.

Camael had been saving his strength, a small pocket of might that he hoped would enable him to return to Aerie. He reached behind himself, finding the knife that still protruded from his flesh. His hand closed around the hilt and he yanked the offending object from his back, bringing it around and up to meet the sword’s deadly arc. Verchiel’s weapon shattered on contact with the mystical metal, and the Powers’ commander cried out, stumbling back as burning shrapnel showered his exposed flesh.

Camael unfurled his wings, thrusting them outward, hurling the scarlet-armored warrior away from him. His body screamed in protest, blood filling his mouth, but he did not let it deter him.

“You cannot hope to escape me, traitor!” Verchiel screamed, the mottled flesh of his face decorated with fresh burns. “You’re already dead!”

Camael enfolded himself in the comforting embrace of his wings and willed himself away from the school, with Verchiel’s furious words echoing through the recesses of his mind.

“Not quite yet,” said the warrior on his way to the place hidden from him for so long, the place he now called home.

Verchiel stood in the gymnasium at Kenneth Curtis High School surrounded by the burning bodies of his soldiers. “We’re close,” he said to his fallen comrades, now nothing more than smoking heaps of ash.

Malak had retrieved his helmet and stood by his master’s side, his face bruised and spattered with blood. The alarm bell continued to toll and the sprinklers rained down upon them. The wails of fire trucks could be heard from outside, and Malak howled softly in response to the sirens’ cries. Verchiel turned to him and the warrior abruptly stopped.

“You’ve failed me,” Verchiel told him, and the warrior cowered in the shadow of his disappointment.

“There is something in him, this Nephilim, that was not there in the others that I have hunted,” Malak said in an attempt to explain his failure. He shook his head slowly, as if attempting to understand the perception himself. “A fire burns inside this one—a will to live.” Malak looked up into the eyes of his master. “A purpose.”

“Do you have it?” Verchiel asked, ignoring the ramblings of his servant. “Do you have the scent of our enemies?”

Malak nodded, a simpleton’s grin of accomplishment spreading across his face. “They cannot hide from me anymore,” he said, eyes twinkling mischievously. “Like blood in the white, white snow; I can follow them.”

“Excellent,” Verchiel hissed. He would remember this day, this very point in time when his plan fell neatly into place.

Through the billowing smoke, he saw shapes moving into the room, firefighters, their bodies covered in heavy, protective layers of clothing. In their hands they carried the tools of their trade: high-powered flashlights, axes, and thick hoses. Verchiel felt Malak bristle beside him.

“There’s somebody in here,” he heard one of the firefighters say, his voice muffled by the oxygen mask that covered his face.

A powerful flashlight illuminated the angel and his servant. Verchiel did not hide himself, instead he unfurled his wings and held his arms out so they might gaze upon his magnificence. Through the thick smoke and the clear masks that covered their faces, he could see their eyes bulge with fear and wonder, and reveled in their awe of him.

Malak growled and from the air plucked a fearsome sword, still encrusted with the blood of a previous kill. He started toward the humans, but Verchiel reached out, grabbing hold of his armored shoulder.

“Leave them be,” he proclaimed for all to hear.

Two of the firemen had fallen to their knees in supplication, while another fled in sheer panic. Verchiel could hear their prayers.

“Let them look upon me and know that a time is approaching when the sight of my kind will be as common, and as welcome, as the sunrise.” Verchiel’s voice boomed above the sound of the fire alarm. “There are snakes living amongst you,” he proclaimed as he closed his wings about himself and his servant. “And there shall come a time of cleansing.”

And as Verchiel willed himself away, he left the firefighters with a final pronouncement.

“That time is now.”

Aaron did as he was taught. He saw Aerie in his head; the high, chain-link fence that ran around its perimeter, the run-down homes, the weeds pushing up through the cracks in the sidewalks. In the beginning there was complete and utter darkness, and then a sense of movement. It was like traveling through a long, dark tunnel. He opened his wings, pushing back the stygian black that enveloped them and saw that they had successfully arrived. He had rescued Vilma—but at what price?

He looked around. They were standing in front of Belphegor’s home, and nearly every citizen was waiting. The old fallen angel was sitting in a beach chair at the sidewalk’s edge, a sweating glass of iced tea in his hand. Lehash, looking none too pleased, and Lorelei stood on either side of the multicolored chair. It was quiet in Aerie, quiet as the grave.

Aaron felt Vilma shiver in his arms and pulled her closer, gazing into her wide, dark eyes. “It’s going to be all right,” he whispered, holding her tighter.

“Is she hurt?” Gabriel asked, sniffing at her body.

Vilma writhed and her shirt rose up to reveal the angry burns on her belly.

“Oh, my God,” Aaron said, starting to panic. “Somebody help me.” He looked frantically at the people around him.

Lorelei moved forward and placed a hand on Vilma’s brow.

“He hurt her … tried to trigger the change,” Aaron said. “There are burns on her stomach and I… I think she’s sick.”

“I’ll take her from here,” Lorelei said, and gently began to pry the girl from his arms.

“Will she be okay?” He didn’t want to let her go.

“She’s been with Verchiel,” Lorelei responded coldly as she removed her dungaree jacket, wrapping it around the shivering Vilma’s shoulders. “I can only guess what that monster has done to her.”

Lorelei began to lead Vilma away, and Aaron reached out to take hold of her arm. “Thank you.”

She turned slowly to look at him; there was fear in her eyes. “Does that mean that you owe me?” Lorelei asked.

Aaron nodded as he let go of her arm. “Anything.”

“Don’t let them down,” she whispered. “They’ve waited so long—sacrificed too much—to have it all taken away.”

He had no idea how to respond, but Lorelei had already turned and was leading Vilma away. “C’mon, honey, let’s see about getting you fixed up.”

“Aaron?” Vilma suddenly protested.

He was going to her when Gabriel cut across his path. “It’s going to be just fine,” the animal said to the girl, and the expression on her face told Aaron that she could understand the dog as well as he. Gabriel stretched his neck and nuzzled her hand lovingly. “We’ll go with Lorelei and she’ll make you feel better, you’ll see.” Gabriel looked back at Aaron. “I’ll go with her.”