Gabriel lifted his head from the couch to look at Aaron. “Hello,” the dog said.

Lorelei finished her ministrations and gently pulled Vilma’s shirt down to cover the dressing. “The burns were pretty bad,” she said, packing up her supplies. “Looks like Verchiel had a good time with her,” she added, jaw tightly clenched. “I’ve cleaned and dressed them using some special oils to help her heal faster. Physically, I’d say she’s going to be fine.”

“And mentally?” Aaron asked, struggling to contain his guilt. It was exactly what he had feared, one of the reasons he had left Lynn to begin with. Verchiel had used someone else to get at him.

Lorelei looked at the sleeping girl on the couch. “Remember, the whole process of becoming a Nephilim does quite the job on your head, and some of us are stronger than others.”

Aaron nodded, knowing full well the painful truth of Lorelei’s words.

“We’ll just have to wait and see,” she said, taking the leftover medical supplies back to the kitchen.

Aaron found himself staring at Vilma’s face. He could see her eyes moving beneath her lids. Dreaming, he thought as he watched her, and hopefully only the good kind.

“Did Camael come back yet?” Gabriel asked as he stood up and stretched, lowering his front body down to the ground while sticking his butt up into the air.

Aaron hesitated, not a good thing when dealing with a dog like Gabriel.

“He hasn’t come back yet, Aaron?” the dog asked, showing concern as he completed his stretch. “We should go look for him.”

Aaron squatted down, taking the yellow dog’s head in his hands and rubbing behind his floppy ears.

“What’s wrong?” the Labrador asked. “I can sense that something isn’t right.”

“Camael did come back, Gabe, and—”

“Then where is he?” the dog interrupted.

“Gabriel, please,” Aaron said exasperated. “Let me finish.”

Gabriel sat; his blocky head cocked quizzically to the side.

“Camael did come back,” Aaron continued. “But he was hurt.”

“Like I was hurt before you made me better?” the dog asked.

Aaron nodded, reaching down to stroke his friend’s thick neck. “Yeah, like that, only I couldn’t fix him.”

Gabriel stared at his master, his chocolate brown eyes filled with a special intensity. “What are we going to do?”

He thought of how to explain this to the animal. Sometimes communicating with Gabriel was like talking to a little kid, and other times like an old soul with knowledge beyond his years. “Do you remember Zeke?” he asked, referring to the fallen angel who had first tried to tell him he was a Nephilim. Zeke had been mortally wounded during their first battle with Verchiel and his Powers.

“I liked Zeke,” Gabriel said with a wag of his tail. “But you did something to him and he went away. Where did Zeke go again, Aaron?”

“I sent Zeke home,” he explained. “I sent him back to Heaven.”

“Just like the other Gabriel,” his best friend said, referring to the archangel they had encountered in Maine a few weeks ago, whom Aaron had also released from his confines upon the Earth.

“Exactly,” Aaron answered, petting the dog.

“Did you have to send Camael home, Aaron?” Gabriel asked, his guttural voice coming out as a cautious whisper.

Aaron nodded, continuing to scratch his four-legged friend behind his soft ears. “Yes, I did,” Aaron said. “It was the only thing I could do for him.” Of all the breeds of dogs that he had encountered while working at the veterinary clinic, it never ceased to amaze him how expressive the face of a Labrador retriever could be. He could tell that the dog was taking his news quite hard. “He told me to tell you good-bye—and that he’d miss you.”

Gabriel slowly lowered himself to the floor, avoiding his master’s watchful gaze. He placed his long face between his two front paws and sighed heavily.

Aaron reached out to stroke his head. “You okay, Gabe?” he asked tenderly, sharing the dog’s sadness.

“I didn’t get a chance to say good-bye to him,” Gabriel said softly, his ears lowered in a mournful show of feelings.

Aaron lay down beside the big, yellow dog and put his arm around him. “I said good-bye for the both of us,” he said, hugging the Lab tightly. And they lay there for a little while longer, both of them remembering a friend now gone from their lives.

The leader of the Powers host flew in the predawn sky, circling high above the Saint Athanasius Church and Orphanage. He could feel it in the atmosphere around him—change was imminent, and he reveled in it as the cool caress of the morning breeze soothed his healing flesh. He would be the harbinger of a new and glorious age.

Verchiel took his body earthward, gliding down toward the towering church steeple, where he clung to its side like some great predator of the air. He gazed down from his perch at the open space of the schoolyard below. It is time, he thought, time to call his army, to gather his troops for the impending war. Verchiel tilted back his head and let loose a wail that drifted on the winds, calling forth those that had sworn their allegiance to him and his holy mission. The cry moved through the air, beyond the confines of Saint Athanasius, to affect those still held tightly in the embrace of sleep.

A child of three awakened, screaming so long and hard that he ruptured a blood vessel in his throat, vomiting blood onto his Scooby Doo sheets. On the way to the emergency room, all he could tell his parents was that the bird men were coming and would kill everyone.

A middle-aged computer software specialist, recently separated from his wife, awoke from a disturbing dream, in his cold, one-bedroom apartment, determined that today would be the day he took his life.

A mother squirrel ensconced in her treetop nest of leaves, woke from a fitful rest and senselessly began to consume her young.

Verchiel ceased his ululating lament, watching with eager eyes as his army began to gather, their wings pounding the air. They circled above him like carrion birds waiting for the coming of death, then one by one began their descent. Some found purchase upon the weatherworn pieces of playground equipment, others roosted on the eaves of the administration building, and the remainder stood uncomfortably on the ground, hands clasped behind their backs.

Verchiel was both saddened and enraged by how their numbers had dwindled; victims of the Nephilim and those that believed in the validity of the prophecy. They will not have died in vain, he swore, spreading his wings, dropping from the steeple to land on the rusted swingset, scattering his warriors in a flurry of beating wings. All eyes were upon him as he raised himself to his full height, balanced on the horizontal metal pole. Today victory would belong to him. He raised his arm, and in his outstretched hand formed a magnificent sword of fire, the Bringer of Sorrow.

“Look upon this sword,” the leader of the Powers proclaimed, “for it shall be your beacon.” He felt their adoration, their belief in him and his mission. “Its mighty light will shine before us, illuminating the darkness to rout out evil. And it will be smited,” he roared, holding out the sword to each of them.

Their own weapons of war took shape in the hands of those gathered before him, and they returned the gesture, reestablishing a camaraderie that was first forged during the Great War in Heaven. A buzz like the crackle of an electrical current moved through the gathering, and he saw that Malak had arrived, bloodred armor polished and glistening in the light. What a spectacular sight, Verchiel thought. No finer weapon had he ever created.

Malak walked among the angels, an air of confidence surrounding him like a fog. Their eyes were upon him, filled with a mixture of awe and disdain. Some of the angels did not approve of the power that had been bestowed upon the human animal, but they dared not speak their disfavor to Verchiel. They did not understand human emotions, and were not able to see the psychological advantage he now held over his accursed enemy. But when Malak rendered helpless the one called Aaron Corbet, and the Nephilim’s life was brought to an end, they would have no choice but to concede to the hunter’s superiority.