Authors: Nic Widhalm
“Hash,” Hunter said quietly. “I need to do this.”
The older man stared into his pupils eyes and must have seen something that changed his mind, because in the end the older man relented and released Hunter with a warning: “Two hours. Don’t test me.”
So, Hunter had made his way into the surrounding country, aware as he hiked through woods covered in snow and fragrant with pine, that he had no idea where he was. Cautionary tales from his youth flared to life. Stories of hikers lost for months, their remains found only after the snows had lifted and some hiker stumbled on their bones. He needed to be careful. But strangely, despite the horror stories chattering at the back of his mind, he wasn’t scared. The farther he stepped from the fortress the more certain he became that he couldn’t get lost. Not here.
Just to be sure he tried a little experiment: eyes closed, Hunter spun until his legs began to tremble and stopped, flinging out his hand and pointing. Opening his eyes, he followed the direction of his finger for half a mile, until the trees thinned and, sure enough—there were the soaring castle towers, just peeking over the evergreens. Certain that the castle would pull him back if he became disoriented, Hunter turned back and hiked until his legs felt like jelly.
He’d told Hash he needed to get away, to spend some time in the yearly ritual marking the death of his father—and in a sense, that was all true, but the ritual had taken on a deeper meaning this year. Hunter had to find a way to survive.
What would Dad do?
He wondered, reflecting for almost thirty minutes on his gruff, short-spoken father. After turning the question over and over Hunter finally admitted he had no idea. He hadn’t really known his father. The man had spent a lifetime pretending Hunter was someone else; someone popular, social…normal. And Hunter had spent his lifetime pretending his father cared about him.
Now, the last month having stripped his illusions, Hunter realized the truth—his dad had been an asshole. Truly. And Hunter no longer cared to maintain the fantasy that his had been a normal childhood with a loving family. His father would have had no idea what to do in this situation, because Hunter’s father had never been in a place where his back was against a wall, the stakes life and death. Hunter had out-grown the old man.
So—what would Hunter do?
He expected to hear an answering…
run!
It’s what he’d always done, moving job to job, city to city, taking his severance check without complaint and knowing better than to ask for a reference. But this time the answer surprised him:
Fight
. Fight Mika’il, fight the whole damn
Elohim
. He wasn’t the same man from a month ago. He wasn’t the man who stood by while his prick of a boss pushed him around, cut his insurance, insulted his work while Hunter said nothing. He wasn’t the same man who let his wife ridicule him, cheat on him, pretend to love him while telling her friends she was married to a loser.
Hunter stood. Facing the castle—the tug of the fortress pulling him like a lodestone—he began the long trek back, resolved to not go gentle. If this threat existed, if Mika’il really wanted to get rid of him as Hash suggested, Hunter would make her work for it.
She could crush you with a breath
, a small voice whispered in his mind.
His stomach suddenly cramped, and Hunter felt a desperate need to urinate. What the hell was he thinking? Mika’il was a
Seraphim
! She was the angel Michael, the leader of the great host, the prince of heaven, the slayer of the beast. Hunter was a defunct beautician.
He stopped in his tracks, his legs beginning to tremble, and all thoughts of returning fled.
I’m going to die,
he thought
. There’s no way out; I’m through. I can’t match Mika’il’s power, her resources. I’m a college-dropout, for Christ’s sake!
The back of his throat tingled, signaling the early signs of vomit. And just when he was sure, absolutely
sure
he was going to lose his breakfast right here against this tree…the pine
shifted
, and Hunter was looking at a mailbox.
A normal, metal box on a normal, metal pedestal, holding a dozen small chambers numbered for an office park or apartment building. The top was dented and scuffed with years of use, but still serviceable. It carried no marks of an object living in the wild for even a day; no debris, no scat, no dirt or fallen leaves. It was just a mailbox.
And then it was gone, vanished with another shift, and Hunter was again staring at a large, slightly wilting pine.
“What the—” Hunter started, but was interrupted by a sudden whirlwind of needles and leaves that roared through the forest. He covered his eyes, whipping his head about to find the source of the sudden storm. And then, as quickly as it began, the cyclone stopped and Hunter found himself staring into the crisp, penetrating green of Karen’s eyes.
“Hunter.”
He almost leapt to hug her, but stopped himself at the last second. Karen was
Adonai.
Even though Hunter didn’t give two shits about some war in the beyond, the Arch in front of him certainly did.
“I’ll kill you as soon as look at you,”
Karen’s words flashed through his mind, reminding him of the pledge she’d made before Hunter’s christening.
“Um..” Hunter said dumbly. What did you say to a woman who had promised to kill you? “I’m sorry…”
Karen placed a hand over Hunter’s mouth, her eyes blazing. She was clothed in deep, midnight black, the fabric clinging to her body but dark enough to mask the curves Hunter remembered so well.
“Nice threads,” Hunter mumbled against her palm. Karen rolled her eyes, then flicked her head sideways, the move so subtle Hunter thought he might have imagined it. Following the motion, Hunter’s eyes focused on a thick copse of pine trees to his left. He frowned, wondering what could be so important about a bunch of…and then, suddenly, he saw it.
The trees weren’t really there.
What the…?
Then, Hunter heard the music.
“Damn,” said one of the black clad strangers. Valdis thought it might have been the leader, the one called “Bath.” The melody cut off as Bath spoke, the discordant song fading into the twilight sky. “He’s awake.”
Valdis winced. Hunter wasn’t supposed to come to his senses until after they freed him. The six other strangers surrounding Valdis stiffened. Someone muttered a curse.
They had spent
planning this; waiting for the moment when Hunter was free and far enough from the
Elohim
that he could be influenced, and now the plan was falling apart. Bath was so arrogant, so damn
certain
he could cloud Hunter’s sight until the Power made his way into the heart of Denver. Valdis prayed the rest of his plan would go more smoothly.
Around them shops were closing for business, the managers turning the signs from “open” to “closed” as the sun descended behind the mountain peaks. Valdis, Jackie, and their small group of
Adonai
stood in a close circle within a parking lot of a suburban strip mall. For the last few hours they’d followed Hunter as he walked through what he imagined was empty forest, his feet quickened by the strange magic of the Arch, and his eyes blinded by the Cherubim’s queer melody.
They’d almost made it. The large Power walked along the side of the road, eyes clouded and feet preternaturally fast, oblivious to the cars streaking past him. Valdis and Jackie had followed with their strange group, surrounded in a kind of magic the priest couldn’t explain. They shouldn’t have been able to cover this much ground, not this quickly, not in only a few hours. Hunter, the priest could understand; it was one thing to accept that an angel in human clothing could bend the laws of space-time, but Valdis and Jackie were human. It wasn’t right.
The plan had seemed ludicrous when the small, oddly effeminate Bath had explained it to Valdis. The priest—who was in no real position to negotiate with his new allies— had reluctantly gone along, praying Jackie would keep her mouth shut. And surprisingly, for once she had.
Valdis had never thought they would get this far, however. He would have told Bath as much if the olive-skinned man didn’t frighten him so terribly. Valdis had read about the Apkallu, he had unearthed their artifacts, made his life work the discovery of their secrets—but no matter how long he spent studying them in books and parchment, in person they were far,
far
different
. Bath was more than powerful, more than a beautiful, angelic being—he was
primordial
. In the Cherubim’s eyes Valdis saw the beginnings of the universe; a power beyond the earthly, beyond the material wonders Valdis took for granted. And that was before Bath sang.
“What the fuck is she doing?” Jackie muttered, her voice low and angled so only Valdis could hear it. Everything had been on track until a few minutes ago, when Hunter had inexplicably turned and started walking in the opposite direction. Valdis had watched as Bath cursed, and the red-haired one, the “Arch” presumably, had vanished, reappearing next to Hunter.
Valdis sighed. “Probably improvising. I know I am.”
The surrounding businesses were locking up, but there were still enough people that any confrontation between Hunter and the
Adonai
wouldn’t go unnoticed. And Valdis, knowing what he did, and having seen what Hunter could do—the images of those broken men in the ally still plagued his dreams—was sure that when the Power realized what was going on,
attention
would be the least of their concerns.
“No,” Hunter mumbled, his eyes fixed on the trees. They had faded to a bare resemblance of pine. Beyond, Hunter could make out the shapes of an industrial park. Shapes moved behind the thin, faded trees, sliding between nebulous buildings, squirming and squiggling in Hunter’s sight. “No. Dammit.
No.
”
Karen looked on, her gaze softening slightly then narrowing again. “You just couldn’t keep walking, could you?” Looking over her should she called out, “Might as well give it up.”
The foliage around Hunter began to evaporate. Underfoot, the dirt and needles shifted to a pitted asphalt, the white, skeletal aspens morphing into lamp posts whose light was just beginning to illuminate the lapis sky. As the forest faded to metal and concrete, Hunter's ears strained, searching for music. He knew it was there…somewhere.
“Bath,” Hunter hissed.
Karen’s lips curved in a sly grin, and she stepped back. The dying sun silhouetted her frame, the intoxicating curves of her body standing out despite her plain clothing. Hunter’s mouth went dry for a moment. After Mika’il he’d assumed all other women would pale by comparison—but not Karen. Watching her, his heart racing, Hunter felt like a little kid on the monkey bars.
She moved farther back, the mountains tall and distant against her silhouette, and several black-clad figures rose from behind a parked car and came forward to meet her.
A parked car.
The sudden roar of a truck speeding past brought him to his senses.
He was standing on the corner of I-70, hundreds of cars whizzing past in the crunch of rush-hour traffic. An industrial park stood to his left, the parking lot beginning to empty as office workers left for the night.
What the hell?
Just a second ago he’d been alone in the woods, stressing over whether to resist Mika’il, lost in memories of his father, trying to figure if he could trust Hash.
Now, somehow, he was back in Denver.
“Karen?” Hunter asked, his voice cracking on her name.
Her face softened again. She looked over her shoulder at the figures emerging from behind the car, and when she turned back Hunter thought he saw regret in her eyes. “Why did you have to be born Capulet?” She asked, then disappeared in a blur. Hunter’s eyes only registered the fading afterimage of where she had stood.
“Now!” A voice cried, and the black-clad figures rushed him. Hunter had only the barest second to recognize he was being attacked before an elbow smashed into his jaw. Falling to one knee—how many times had his jaw been broken in the last month?—he felt a boot hammer his abdomen. A sharp, dry crack sounded, like firewood popping in the cold, and pain blossomed through his body.
The sky exploded in red.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Across the parking lot, hiding behind a row of parked cars, Jackie and Valdis watched as figures flew through the air.
It’s not possible
, Jackie thought as Hunter threw one of the black-clothed men thirty feet across the asphalt to crash against an SUV.
Impossible. Just…just…
impossible!
No one can do that
.
But possible or not, it was happening. Jackie watched as the man rolled away from the SUV, a body-sized dent in the door, shook his head and ran toward Hunter. Friskin stood his ground, and, even though Jackie couldn’t quite make out his face from this distance, she would have sworn his eyes turned jet black. The man ran at Hunter, but before he could reach the Power the ground suddenly erupted, ropey green tendrils ripping through the parking lot, dislodging large chunks of asphalt and piping. It was Hunter’s turn to fly through the air, and only a second after he skidded to a stop another of the black-clad figures jumped him, pinning the large man’s arms to the ground.