14
If the way you furnish your apartment reflects your soul, Don didn’t have one. No chairs, tables, or beds – just empty floors and undecorated walls. Amanda had spent the better part of the day crying in a corner, while Don stood by the front door, checking the peephole and sucking on a cigarette.
It had been his idea for her to stay with him. It was hard to say how quickly she’d be connected to Sarah’s death, but sooner rather than later she expected the authorities to come knocking. If no eyewitnesses, there were bound to be surveillance tapes of her somewhere.
Amanda hugged her legs tighter, resting her head on her knees, stifling a sob. Don hadn’t said a word since he spoke to the angel in the brown cloak. Not that he was a big talker in general, but she could definitely have used a couple of reassuring words.
“You said…” Amanda finally pushed herself off the floor. “You said that the twelve angels weren’t there for me?”
Don nodded, examining into the whirling smoke above his head.
“I, um, I thought they came because… because…” Amanda’s voice faltered.
She couldn’t bring herself to say it out loud. They had been friends since high school. Sarah hadn’t been perfect in any sense of the word, but she didn’t deserve this. Amanda’s mind kept replaying the event. One moment they’d been talking. She’d dipped a piece of sushi in the soy. Sarah went to the bathroom. Then just blood. So much blood.
“People kill each other every day,” Don said.
“Then, why did they come?”
Don shrugged. “The Heavens work in mysterious ways.”
“Isn’t twelve angels a lot?”
“It is.”
“Who was the angel in the brown cloak?”
Don’s lips tightened. He stubbed out his half-smoked cigarette, and let the last of the vapors drain out of his nose. “Someone who is where they’re not supposed to be…”
Amanda crossed her arms. She hated talking to Don. All he ever gave her were cryptic answers and half-truths. She really needed someone to hold her.
“I need to talk to Marc.”
“Marc is busy.”
“What do I do then? Just sit here and wait for the police?”
“Just do whatever it is that you humans do.”
***
The last cries from the battle were dying down when Marc stepped out of his chariot and onto the wet sand. Fresh carcasses fought the old bones for space on the ground. The battle had been more costly than anticipated, but in the end, Lucifer’s forces had been vanquished.
Tall shadows walked beside Marc as he journeyed deeper into the wasteland. Pale faces, hidden under flowing dark robes. The Fallen were neither mortal nor divine, condemned by the sins of their fathers to forever roam the infernal plains and bury the dead. Silent specters drifting between the corpses. Exiles.
Nobody knew what they did with the dead, and Marc wasn’t particularly interested in finding out. They’d just been there for as long as he could remember. Never taking a side. Only appearing after great battles.
With the triumphant roars of Baphomet echoing in the distance, Marc entered a valley. Demon blood painted the white sands black and pooled where the grounds could swallow no more. A single tree stood at the base of the valley, its leafless branches gnarly and dried.
Marc bent down at its roots and picked up an old bone. The first sinners, purged from the world by the Great Flood. Even their souls erased from history. Only fragments remained now. He tossed the bone away and picked up another one, inspecting it closely. Tiny cracks, light in his hand – nothing that provided him with a greater insight.
Why Lucifer had sent such a large force into the desert still escaped him. He watched the ground slowly gobbling up the demonic blood. There had to be something here. Marc stuck his hands on to the coarse sand, letting it seep through his fingers. He started digging, frustration tugging at his senses. Abaddon’s words echoed through his mind.
‘Even if you scour every bone left by the Great Flood.’
Nothing but sand. With a sigh, Marc looked up. A single specter drifted into the valley, slowly zigzagging between the corpses.
“Nephilim!” Marc called out. “What lies hidden in these sands?”
The dark shape ignored his words, silent and unwavering in its task.
“Where is Phanuel?” Marc stood up and walked over to the Fallen, grabbing its black robe. “Tell me!”
The specter’s translucent eyes stared at him indifferently.
“Hide thyself!” the specter whispered, lips barely moving.
“Tell me!” Marc said again shaking its wispy form.
“The floodgates of Heaven shall open. Hide thyself!”
“Stop reciting scripture!” Marc's eyes flared with anger.
“The judge and the watcher. Hide thyself!”
Marc let go of the Fallen, who unruffled continued with its work. Those were the words of warning to Noah before the Great Flood. It wasn’t surprising to hear them in this place. But a thought struck him.
Marc filled his lungs. “Baphomet!”
His voice boomed out of the valley, rising toward the bleeding sky. The roars died down in the distance, and before long, the beats of massive wings filled the air. The greater demon landed next to Marc, his armor slick with blood.
“The last of the enemy has been torn asunder,” Baphomet said. “This is a great victory that shall long be remembered.”
“Yes, yes,” Marc said impatiently. “Do you remember who gave the warning to Noah?”
The demon let out a low guttural sound. “I believe it was the Angel of the Face. Why?”
Marc blinked. The lines in his head suddenly connected. His suspicions about Amanda’s mark. The False Oracle’s testimony. Phanuel. The watcher’s warning to Noah. The Judge’s sentence passed on the fathers of the Nephilim. The Angel of the Face.
“The tree is blooming,” Baphomet rumbled as a few black petals sailed by. “A lamb is gnawing on its roots.”
“I got to go,” Marc said, striding out of the valley.
He whistled loudly, calling for his chariot. With thundering hoofbeats, he shot into the sky.