Seven Archangels: Annihilation

Jane Lebak

Chapter 9

         Camael had found the ice fields and their barren fury, wind and sleet above and frozen heartlessness below. Motionless for a moment, he began to be coated in the stinging ice.

         Beelzebub found him there and shouted a command—come back with me. This Camael ignored. Beelzebub might be a Seraph and Satan's number-two guy, but what was that after all? The number two bully in a world of bullies.

         Beelzebub struck him, and Camael turned golden-speckled eyes on him. I feel nothing. I feel nothing.

         The sleet coated his hair and eyelashes. Camael could hardly see.

         Beelzebub pounded the message into his heart the way a Roman had pounded a nail into Jesus's feet: Come with me!

         This time Camael went. They landed in the dark of Beelzebub's chamber in the lab area.

         "Why would you go there?" Beelzebub snorted. "It's worse than the Lake of Fire."

         Camael pursed his mouth in defiance as the ice melted off his body and collected into a puddle at his feet. No one else had been at the ice fields. Wherever Gabriel was now, it would be lonely and without warmth too. The ice fields had seemed as good a place as any.

         "I heard about the little show you put on in the common area. Everyone has. That was just about the stupidest thing you could have done. I protected you," Beelzebub added, a hungry growl that made his "altruism" sound like the appetizer of a fine dinner for which Camael would be picking up the check. "Asmodeus wanted your skull on a pike, but I think even he was a little amused by the discomfort it caused our lord. You just keep that in mind, and keep your head down."

         Camael shrugged. "I knew you'd cover for me. You want me intact."

         After a blind standoff, Beelzebub said, "I covered Mephistopheles. You I would let Lucifer chew up and spit into the Lake of Fire. The fallout was going to come on him, and no one disgraces my Cherub."

         "Have it your way." Camael flared heat through his hair to resettle it. "Are you quite through, or should I fall at your feet to grovel my thanks?"

         "Spare me. I've got an assignment for you." Beelzebub shifted in the darkness; he probably took a seat, but Camael couldn't be sure. "Our lord wants to pick out his next victim. You're to go to the surface to hunt out lone angels—any of the Seven, or any of the choir heads. When you find one, report back."

         Camael heated the last of the water from his skin. I feel nothing.

         Beelzebub said, "It's ridiculous to start scanning when we're not ready to try another one, but that's Lucifer's order. Asmodeus has agreed to keep a lookout as well, and you don't want him suddenly proving useful after all this time."

         Camael snickered. "As if."

         "You see through him. I don't think he does."

         Smirking, Camael folded his arms. "I think he does. I think he just knows how much Asmodeus irritates you."

         Silence from Beelzebub. Camael flashed to the gates of Hell, signed out, and went to Earth.

         Lone members of the Seven.

         Do I count?

         Remiel spread her wings to hover in the sunlight over Antarctica, ice like mica shimmering on the gold feathers. The frigid air kept her aloft, and she let it penetrate: not as rude as the ice fields, just a gentle, honest cold for her dishonest, hot heart.

         I want to go home. I feel nothing.

         Remiel descended, letting her wings fill as she glided to the crunchy surface. I want to go home. At home, everyone could be sad together, and maybe no one would say Gabriel was dead because she hadn't been good enough to prevent it. But she wondered if they'd know, the same way everyone knew Camael had fallen, and since Camael had fallen that meant she was flawed too and had only survived the winnowing by chance. And now here she was, Camael herself, and there wasn't really a difference.

         Prayer would answer everything—would confirm the worst in one horrid moment as possibility collapsed into an eternal reality about which she could do nothing. So why pray? Until she reached out for God and God provided an answer, Gabriel both existed and didn't exist in a bizarre contortion of quantum theory, the same way she could be both Camael and not Camael. Why become fully one or the other, fully grieving, fully fallen, fully a failure? Life on the dividing line would require the most precise dance she'd ever demanded of herself, but then again, precision came easily when you had to cut parts of yourself away from other parts. She could continue this way: it was all an elaborate game of pretend.

         An elaborate game of pretend. Pretend who you are. Pretend Gabriel still exists. Pretend your deception had any effect whatsoever. Pretend God still loves you.

         Sensing a question sent to her, she startled at a friendly soul's touch. Before considering the consequences, she sent a reply.

         Saraquael appeared at her side. "I'm so glad you're safe." He hugged her so tightly he squeezed her armor, and she grabbed him as if holding onto a life preserver. With her eyes closed, she tried to put down her guard, tried to feel at least relief.

         "Hey, you're okay." He patted her back, then pulled away. "They didn't discover you."

         She looked at herself, still wearing Camael's armor and Camael's hard features. It was a wonder Saraquael could stand to touch her at all.

         After a momentary silence, Saraquael said, "I was surprised you didn't come straight home."

         "How could I?" Her voice cracked. "What they did—might do again— It's all an elaborate game of pretend this way."

         "Wholesale pretending." Saraquael looked at the snow dusted over his boots. "On the brink of a lie but not quite, never entirely establishing the truth. I understand what you're doing"

         She shook her head, swallowing against the moment—Saraquael might tell her, might bring down the duality and kill Gabriel in her heart forever. She blurted, "It's crazy down there. It's one big party for the lower orders, and the top tier is backstabbing and outmaneuvering one another continuously." She stared at Camael's sword lashed to her side. "They're all wondering if there's going to be a funeral for Gabriel."

         "Yeah," Saraquael murmured. "I'm wondering the same thing."

         I feel nothing.

         Saraquael raised his head. "I'm afraid I need to ask you to go back in."

         Remiel went mask-faced.

         "We think parts of Gabriel might have been left behind in the room where they did it."

         "There weren't," Camael said. "I was in there."

         "It might be subtle, like beads of mercury or a glaze on the walls." Saraquael rubbed his chin. "We need you to look again."

         Camael gazed off at the white glare of sky on snow. I feel nothing. "I'll do it. But there's nothing."

         "Thanks." Saraquael put his hands in his pockets. "Have you found out their next move?"

         "They sent me out here looking for archangels who are alone. Any of the Seven or any of the heads of choirs."

         "I don't count, I hope?" Saraquael chuckled. "I'm with you."

         Camael forced a laugh, touching the hilt of Camael's ever-present sword with gauntleted hands. On a regular basis, he realized, Camael couldn't feel his own sword. I feel nothing.

         "I'll let Michael know," Saraquael said. "From now on we'll travel in pairs or greater."

         Remiel used to be a pair all by herself. "How is Raphael coping?"

         "Badly." Saraquael's eyes dimmed. "But he's doing whatever he can."

         "It stinks," Camael said.

         Saraquael sent his agreement.

         Camael turned away. "You'd better go. I don't want you seen if Beelzebub is spying on me to make sure I'm not double-crossing him while he's double-crossing me."

         "It sounds like you need a scorecard to keep track," Saraquael said just before vanishing.

         Camael grabbed the hilt of his sword, spread his wings, and resumed a patrol for angels he hoped not to find.

        

 

         Uriel came home to find Jesus rocking Gabriel in a chair that hadn't been there earlier.

         Uriel bowed, projecting thanks. Jesus inclined his head.

         "Raphael needed some time to connect with others." Uriel gestured toward Gabriel. "Are you going to heal him?"

         "The job is yours."

         Uriel pivoted slightly aside. "I was hoping you'd changed your mind."

         The Throne walked to the next room and leaned against the wall.

         Jesus followed.

         "I was wondering, maybe when he's done with that sling, if I could crawl into it too."  Raking back unruly hair, Uriel said, "It's daunting. He's a mess."

         Jesus looked grim.

         Uriel went further into the room, which unlike Gabriel's room here or Gabriel's own private spot in Heaven (naturally it was a library) was outfitted casually. The furniture consisted of a rainbow of cushions and a low table. Not a straight-backed chair had entered the walls before Uriel had summoned them for Gabriel's room. Chimes hung from the ceiling, and bead curtains divided the alcoves off the main room.

         Uriel sprawled on one of the cushions, then gave a sigh. Jesus settled on the one adjacent, and Uriel moved closer to lean against his leg. "How have we done so far?"

         "You've made all the correct calls."

         Uriel remained silent.

         A bird sang through one of the open windows, and Jesus spoke back to it, coaxing a smile from the angel. The pillows took Uriel's weight enough for the Throne to enjoy the human warmth of him so near, and shortly the angel's pseudo-heartbeat matched his. A wave of weariness broke through Uriel, ignored strain that had pitted the surface of Uriel's strength.

         Jesus touched Uriel's hair. "The work is delicate, but I know you're capable."

         Uriel's eyes stayed closed, but all Jesus's words penetrated, and the images he sent approximated the work that had to be done. The way Jesus explained it, Gabriel had been "unlaced" and Uriel needed to thread everything back together again. Raphael's undifferentiated healing power had made everything stronger, but eventually what was needed was very directed, needle-fine soul-work to rejoin every part of Gabriel to every other part.

         Uriel marveled at the magnitude of stitching together a soul.

         Jesus explained the way the interior of an angel fit together like puzzle pieces or grooved beads on a string, so the task wouldn't be as impossible as actually forming a soul. Where parts were missing, Jesus assured Uriel some regrowth could take place if only a small segment of any particular "bead" was there, but what could not be regrown were entire "beads" or the string itself.

         Uriel shuddered.

         Jesus said, "It's not as easy as fitting together cardboard puzzle pieces, but not as hard as fitting together the molecules that make up the cardboard."

         "You'll have to help me."

         "I'll be with you," Jesus said, "but the work is yours."

         Uriel lay against his arm and reached up to touch the bundle that was Gabriel, imagining the business of relacing a friend. Drifting, Uriel thought about what might be found there. No secrets, but perhaps unrestrained emotions or thoughts Gabriel might not want anyone to handle. They'd already been awash in Gabriel's memories once, and now Uriel wondered if Gabriel might resent it if they succeeded, how all his most private self had been so transparent to his rescuers.

         "Raphael should do this."

         Jesus said, "I chose you for a reason."

         His fingers traced the lavender feathers on Uriel's outermost wings. Uriel stretched a little, then settled back against him. "When should I start?"

         "Let him begin to awaken on his own. He's so soft inside right now that you'd tear the eyelets if you tried."

         Uriel said, "Until then?"

         "Keep hunting for what's missing."

         With clenched fists, Uriel prayed, trying to force back fear while holding tightly to the Father, resting against his Son, and enfolded by the Spirit.

 

 

         Michael returned to Uriel's living room to find Uriel in prayer, Raphael in the other room pacing with Gabriel in the sling, and Mary setting food on the table in the kitchen.

         "Did I forget to tell you angels don't eat?"

         "Uriel reminded me before. Have a cookie."

         Michael made himself solid enough to eat it.

         Raphael returned to the kitchen. "What did the executive council decide?"

         Michael took the mug of hot chocolate Mary handed him. "It took a couple of votes, but we reached consensus to send a written warning to Satan that we'd retaliate if he made another attempt on anyone. Until that time, we wouldn't take action against them."

         Raphael's eyes widened. "No invasion? Raguel actually voted for that?"

         "Israfel was the toughest sell," Michael said. "She nearly burned the place down."

         Raphael's wings closed around Gabriel.

         Saraquael's arrival spared Michael from asking how Raphael would have voted. The Dominion shook some snow from his hair, told Mary he didn't need any hot chocolate, repeated his protest, then agreed to just one cup. His cheeks were pink and his brown hair windblown.

         "You found her?" Michael asked while Raphael tried to demur that he didn't want a cookie.

         Saraquael nodded, although a cloud drifted over his eyes. "They had sent her out to patrol the Earth. Her orders were to find lone archangels. Members of the Seven or heads of choirs."

         Michael huffed.

         Saraquael said, "I can spread the word that no one is to head out alone. Meanwhile, she'll search the room where they worked in order to find anything missing."

         Uriel had joined them. "That's of paramount importance right now."

         Michael looked at Saraquael, who said, "She told me there was nothing left behind, but she'll check again."

         Michael couldn't help but glance at Gabriel.

         Wings tight around the Cherub, Raphael paled.

         "Parts of us weren't meant to exist in isolation," Saraquael murmured. "How long do you think they can last?"

         Raphael walked away.

         "They can grow back as long as something is left," Uriel said, "but you can't grow an entirely new piece."

         "So we're segmented?"

         Uriel nodded.

         Saraquael sent a nonverbal question: Do you think you can do it?

         Uriel picked up the cup of vegetable soup Mary was trying to foist on someone and gestured toward it. It will be like trying to put the tomato back together.

         Saraquael left. Michael felt his last message—that he was going to write that letter now—but he avoided saying he was leaving before his emotions flooded out and hit Raphael.

         Mary looked up. "You guys kept mentioning Rahab. I assume you're not talking about the harlot of Jericho. Is he a demon? I've never met him."

         Michael and Uriel exchanged a look. "Rahab," Michael said, and then he looked down.

         Uriel only glanced aside.

         Mary said, "It's okay if you don't want to tell me. I was just curious."

         "Ezekiel 28," Uriel whispered.

         "Rahab did fall," Michael said, "but that's not why he keeps coming up in conversation. Before the winnowing, when God was creating the Earth and everything else, he gave some of us assignments so we could participate."

         Uriel interjected that God had been perfectly capable of doing the whole thing himself, but the angels were enjoying the process so much that God stretched it out and let them participate too.

         Mary said, "Like the way I used to let Jesus stand on a chair and help me bake bread."

         Uriel's eyes sparkled violet.

         Michael said, "Some of us were told to gather handfuls of dirt from around the globe when it was time to create Adam. Things like that. Rahab was asked to separate the upper and lower waters at the time of Creation. And Rahab, for whatever reason, refused to do it."

         Mary's eyes widened. "But this was before the fall?"

         Michael nodded. "I didn't see it happen. But after he refused, God destroyed him."

         Mary stood in shock.

         "Someone interceded," Michael said.

         "It was Ataf," Uriel said. "Rahab was a Cherub. Ataf and the rest of Rahab's Seraphim asked God to restore him. God did."

         Mary said, "And then he fell anyhow." She looked down. "What a waste."

         Michael said softly, "He became one of Satan's top demons, a member of the Maskim like Mephistopheles, Asmodeus and Beelzebub. We don't know exactly what happened, but Rahab tried to prevent Israel from escaping Egypt across the Red Sea, and when he didn't succeed, he disappeared. We haven't seen Rahab for three thousand years, but the reports we got from Hell were that Satan destroyed him by chaining him under the Lake of Fire."

         Mary's eyes had a glazed look. "That's horrible."

         Uriel stressed that they didn't know if the story was true.

         Michael said, "But as Gabriel would have said, none of the evidence contradicts it."

         They were quiet for a while. Uriel finally said, "God re-created Rahab the first time. I only have to fix Gabriel. It's an entirely different order of magnitude."

         Michael looked at the reddish soup. "But how do you do it?"

         "Jesus told me." Uriel moved closer to Michael, studied him, then went partially insubstantial. Michael felt a sudden lurch as his sense of balance told him up was sideways, then a tingling in his fingertips which suddenly seemed a mile away from the rest of his body. The teacups rattled in their saucers, and Michael heard indistinctly the clattering of bead curtains against themselves even though he felt no wind. At the same time he detected Uriel's marvel toward God for making them this way, and the moment after that the world returned to normal.

         Uriel wore a tremendous grin, and both eyes sparkled.

         Mary clasped her hands. "That's terrific! If you can grab the parts on Michael, who's whole, then you can definitely move them around on Gabriel!"

         Michael clapped Uriel on the shoulder. "And remind me not ever to annoy you."

         Uriel sank onto a cushion without responding, but Michael could feel the relief in the air. Raphael even returned from the other room.

         "Finally some good news?"

         Uriel couldn't stop smiling.

 

Copyright 2008, Jane Lebak

Cover

Copyright 2008, E. J. Mickels

E.J.Mickels II—aka 'Hisart'— a multi talented artist, has a BFAA in Drawing with Minors in Illustration and Graphic Design from the University of Akron. A veteran of the USAF, he has traveled through Europe and most of the USA.

E.J. ventured out as an Illustrator and has appeared in The Sword Review as well as Ray Gun Revival and in Dragons, Knights and Angels. He also wrote and keeps his own web-site-< www.Hisart.us >—which contains a small fraction of the art he has produced. He works in any medium and is just as comfortable setting at a PC with pen and tablet as he is with a chainsaw, airbrush or welder. He has done custom motorcycle and helmet work, as well as in the distant pas,t worked as a tattooist. He is also a writer, he participated in NaNoWriMo 2005, and maintains his own blog 'Sword and Pen' at < www.hisart777.blogspot.com >.

E.J. is currently the ArtWrangler at Double-Edged Publishing's Fear and Trembling magazine: < www.fearandtremblingmag.com >.