Seven Archangels: Annihilation

Jane Lebak

Chapter 12

         When Mephistopheles summoned Camael, he arrived immediately.

         The Cherub checked him over thoroughly in a silence unbroken by anything. Camael stood, arms folded, wings tense, hands gauntleted and sword gleaming in its scabbard.

         "Are you aware," Mephistopheles said, "that your sister attempted to impersonate you?"

         Camael rolled his eyes.

         They stood in a corner of the main hall near the Lake of Fire, but the heat benefited them by creating a relative privacy.

         "Did you kill her?" Camael said.

         Mephistopheles shook his head. "We were ordered specifically not to kill her, if you recall. Yesterday, in fact."

         Camael said, "She's really only of dubious value."

         "She's about as valuable as you are," Mephistopheles said, "but he wants to use her at least once more."

         "Far be it from me to say he's misguided. Look," Camael snapped suddenly, "quit probing me, okay? You did it once. I'm not going to suddenly turn into her."

         Mephistopheles murmured, "You can't be too thorough."

         "You can be too thorough if it gets you knifed."

         Mephistopheles said, "Try it."

         Camael said, "I would, but Beelzebub would beat me senseless."

         Mephistopheles enwrapped Camael in a Guard using the technique he'd reverse-engineered from Lucifer's. Letting out a yelp, Camael struggled, but Mephistopheles gripped him, iron-willed, and drew the Guard tighter as if squeezing him.

         "Beelzebub might not arrive in time to beat you senseless."

         Camael tried to spit at him, but the Guard caught that too.

         Mephistopheles took a deep breath, then turned his back. Down went the Guard, and Camael dropped to all fours, wings splayed across the rocks.

         "I know you hate your betters, but at least let's be civil."

         Camael struggled upright. "I'll sell you out to Asmodeus in a heart-beat."

         "Would you like to work for a loser?" Mephistopheles opened his hands. "Be my guest."

         Beelzebub appeared. "Hey, you two. I can feel the fight all the way across Hell. Would you mind keeping it down?"

         Camael pulled on a rock to drag himself to his feet. "Just as long as he keeps his nasty hands to himself."

         Beelzebub looked at Mephistopheles in shock. The Cherub glared at Camael.

         "My," a voice drifted over to them. "Discord in the high command?"

         Beelzebub flashed a smile at Asmodeus, the commander of Hell's army, tilting his head so the firelight glinted off his hair. Mephistopheles drew his wings tight, then folded his arms.

         Camael could feel the Cherub-Seraph pair communicating on a level even subtler than projection, a breathless back and forth so reflexive that by rights no one should be able to detect it. Certainly he never had before. But the pair shared a volume's worth of dialogue in a handful of seconds, all while Beelzebub straightened his sword and stepped toward the other Seraph, and Asmodeus swept back his cloak to reveal his armor's dull gleam and the shine of his black boots.

         "Shouldn't you be selecting our next target?" said the captain.

         "I'm amazed that you're able to show your face in public after you so spectacularly failed to keep Michael out of Hell during our experiment." Beelzebub moved to stand closer to Asmodeus. Camael realized how tall both Seraphim were, how they'd both drawn themselves up marginally taller, so minutely no one ought to have noticed, except that Camael did as his thoughts floated away while he listened to the gentle vibrations in the air between Beelzebub and Mephistopheles.

         A second dark Cherub appeared. This one was shorter, brown-haired to Asmodeus' black, dark-eyed to his blue. He took his place by Asmodeus's side, hands clasped at his back.

         Camael couldn't feel the interplay between Asmodeus and his Cherub the way he could between the other two. Momentarily he detected Beelzebub drawing power from Mephistopheles, but Mephistopheles was doing very little with his part of the bond.

         "It's an internal matter," Beelzebub was saying, head tilted.

         Asmodeus said to Camael, "You can retake your place in the armed forces if you desire."

         "Thank you," Camael said, "but I'd rather be effective."

         "Effective," said the other Cherub, making the syllables as slow and long as a country road in the heat of high noon. "Is that how one describes himself when our lord gives an assignment and he doesn't complete it?"

         To Camael's surprise, Mephistopheles said nothing.

         Beelzebub said, "Did Lucifer ask you to handle anything special, Belior?"

         Belior looked at Mephistopheles. "How long will it take? And did you force him to take Gabriel so you could claim to be the smartest surviving angel?"

         Asmodeus said, "No, we mustn't squabble. We don't want to deny that Mephistopheles has done us a great service."

         Camael noticed something even subtler than even the Cherub-Seraph communications: Mephistopheles had turned off, utterly tuned out. He wasn't playing the game, was barely even paying attention. Beelzebub had stretched out to utilize the Cherub's wit without Mephistopheles engaging in the conversation whatsoever. Camael had seen Gabriel do exactly that so many times—in fact, right before they'd captured Gabriel, he'd been off on an endless series of rabbit trails in his own head. Israfel had frequently laughed and called him their distracted genius.

         For some minutes, Beelzebub traded jabs with both of their rivals just fine while Camael felt his own detachment, wondered why he couldn't be at home for real—bantering rather than bickering—and if Gabriel would have a funeral, and if God would forgive Remiel for turning into Camael and going to Hell in the first place. Had there ever been a difference?

         Yes, Mephistopheles had said as much: Camael was less twisted.

         At the time Jesus had died, roles had been reversed. Asmodeus and Belior had the top two spots in the Maskim, and Beelzebub with Mephistopheles headed Satan's army. He'd reversed the roles for a reason—keep the more popular Seraph at his right hand and not in control of the army. Mephistopheles and Beelzebub in their ascendancy could grab a handful of soldiers for an assignment, but the army was not theirs. Keep the four of them at one another's throats and if one of them tried to seize power, the others would step in and stop it. If Asmodeus became too popular, Satan would doubtless "promote" that pair back to being right under his thumb and give Beelzebub and Mephistopheles back the army. But for now, Mephistopheles was a hero to the lower orders because of his discovery, so Asmodeus would stay down for a little longer.

         Five minutes had passed. Asmodeus and Belior left. Beelzebub said, "Good riddance."

         Mephistopheles shuddered. "He's ugly just to look at."

         "Not that you were much help." Beelzebub snorted. "What on Earth made you form a tertiary bond with him?"

         "The same thing that prompted all my bonds," Mephistopheles said. "Terminal bad judgment."

         Beelzebub whacked him with one of his wings.

         "You've got a secondary yourself with that backstabbing piece of tenure." Mephistopheles didn't bother turning his head. "At least Asmodeus can't hear my thoughts."

         Camael said, "What's the assignment they keep talking about?"

         Mephistopheles said, "Lucifer entrusted it to me."

         "I'm not going to steal your glory." Camael folded his arms. "Like I could even follow whatever it is you figured out, and Lucifer even used me as his focus." He leaned against a rock. "But you know Belior is going to tell him you can't do it, and I don't feel like looking at his smug face."

         Beelzebub said, "It's going to be hard for us if you don't finish."

         Mephistopheles said, "You can't help." Then he squinted. "Actually, Camael, I'll consult with you later. Maybe you can, since you're the only one with experience."

         Camael shrugged. "And?"

         "He wants me to simplify the process, so anyone can do it, and do it long-distance."

         Camael swallowed against terror.

         Beelzebub said, "And he wants it done yesterday, naturally."

         Keeping his voice steady, Camael said, "And you think—do you think it's possible?"

         Mephistopheles said, "For me."

         Beelzebub took a step backward, waving a hand. "Wow, the ego in here is getting kind of thick, isn't it?"

         "Then you take care of it," Mephistopheles said. "Wait, I forgot—you can't."

         Beelzebub glared at him.

         Camael looked aside, still feeling their bond. Dear God, what a corruption—a bond that should have completed each other—

         And instead hatred. A Seraph and a Cherub yoked evenly but hating it, refusing to pull together. Asmodeus and Belior were the same way, magnets repelling but lingering nearby one another because in the back of their minds they knew they should, this ought to be good for them both, and instead it was mutual using. Two that should have been one.

         Camael looked at his hands. Two that should have been one.

         If there'd only been one of him, only one Irin, would he have fallen? Or would he have stayed?

         It hurt to always be around Seraphim and Cherubim. They didn't have the same thing as the twins had, but it reminded him.

         Only six primary Seraph-Cherub bonds had been broken in the winnowing (according to Gabriel.) Maybe one of them could help Raphael. Maybe Raphael and Ophaniel would become inseparable. Maybe Camael should just quit thinking.

         Maybe it was time to go home.

        

 

         Saraquael got only one glance at Remiel before summoning Raguel for help.

         She arrived just as he was ready to approach the Cherubim for their answers, but immediately he asked God to send word for him and flashed with her to his home. Raguel appeared a moment after, and Saraquael put up a Guard in case someone from Hell was listening.

         "Don't send me back again." Remiel clenched his shirt, white-knuckled. "I can't."

         Although normally gold-speckled, Remiel's eyes had a sharp quality, and Saraquael felt her will raging against half-hearted constraints. Every feather on her wings stood apart from the others.

         "You don't have to." Saraquael realized Raguel had manifested his sword but hadn't drawn it. "I can't imagine how awful it must have been."

         "You needed me, but I can't go back. They're horrible." She collapsed toward him, and he held her against his shoulder, enwrapping her in his teal wings. He exchanged looks with Raguel, who intensified his alert.

         "I'm sick of Seraphim and Cherubim." Her heart pounded against him, and in the next moment Saraquael realized she was crying. "All tied up in one another, and they should be happy, and bonds and wholeness, and I can't—"

         Saraquael hummed to her, a tuneless croon from deep in his heart to deep within hers. She relaxed, and he added words, a language unheard on Earth for three thousand years but primal nonetheless. In his arms, she began to relax.

         So did Raguel. Saraquael shook his head.

         "I found out Mephistopheles' assignment." Her voice was muffled, but she was also projecting the words into his head. He found her echo odd, as if she were more than just herself still. "He's trying to make the process streamlined so any angel can do it. And at a distance."

         Raguel bristled. "But that—"

         "That changes everything," Saraquael murmured.

         "He says he can."

         "Criminy." Raguel shook his head. "We should have invaded."

         "Why in blazes didn't you?" Remiel pushed backward out of Saraquael's wings. "I prayed to God that you would come down there and avenge Gabriel, and like a bunch of pussy cats you wrote a nice letter on a quality bond paper and said pretty-please don't murder anyone else in cold blood—"

         Saraquael said, "It wasn't that—"

         "'Stop or we'll say stop again.'"

         "Remiel—"

         "How do you think Gabriel would feel if he found out his death warranted nothing more than a citation?"

         Raguel said, "But he's not dead."

         Remiel whirled. "What?" She turned on Saraquael. "You said you were planning a funeral! That it was all a game of pretend!"

         "You—" He stepped backward. "I'm sorry. I messed up. I didn't realize you didn't know."

         "You kept me ignorant!" Flames erupted around her as if she were a Seraph. "I was more useful to you fallen!"

         "I promise, it was a mistake!" Saraquael raised his hands. "He didn't die, but he's not well either."

         Her eyes had gone totally gold. Her wings spread, and Camael's sword was in her gauntleted hand. She seemed bigger than the room containing them. "Let me see him."

         "You can't." Saraquael paled. "He's not well enough."

         "You're lying!" He could tell she was trying to flash out of his house, probably thinking, To Gabriel! To Gabriel! Only the Guard on Uriel's house would make it seem Gabriel didn't exist. In this state she could pass through Guards, but she wouldn't know which Guard to pass through in order to find him. "You're lying to me—he's dead."

         Saraquael forced himself to step closer. "He's weak. He may still die. But he's alive for now."

         "He's dead—or let me see him."

         Given what Uriel had said about stray angelic residue, the emanations coming off Remiel right now would julienne the Cherub. "None of us can see him. He's just too fragile."

         She had started emitting light, and Saraquael had to fight her contagious tension. "Where's Raphael? Mephistopheles said he might be dead too. Is Raphael dead?"

         Saraquael was close to her again. "Listen to me. The contact with Camael is distorting what you feel. I won't lie to you. You're my friend." Her breathing was still too rapid, her eyes sparking. "You're home, not with them."

         She said, "I have no home." Her head dropped. "I have no more home."

         She tried to flash away, but Raguel's Guards contained her.

         Eyes aglow, every feather spread, she pivoted on Raguel like a hawk ready to kill. "Let me out of here!"

         Saraquael tried to bind her with his will, then Raguel, but she was so slippery, half there and half in the labyrinths of the mind.

         "Damn you!" she screamed. "You don't know what it's like! You don't know what I'm going through!"

         She blasted through the Guards, and for a moment only fire remained.

         Saraquael's head dropped as he stood, empty, because she'd gone mad.

         "We have to follow!" Raguel grabbed him by the shoulders. "What if she goes back to them?"

         "I can't feel her anywhere." Saraquael's voice quavered. "This is my fault. I should have called her back sooner."

         "It doesn't matter now," Raguel said. "Let's follow her trail."

         Saraquael concentrated as he had for Remiel's game, only the game was long over and the hide-and-seek carried a deadliness. Hide and seek: find Remiel. Find parts of Gabriel. Find and find and find.

         Saraquael gathered all creation in his mind the way only a poet can, absorbing it all and loving it, knowing it, and distilling it to a phrase. A breath later, it fell into stanzas, life a rhythm and a repeating pattern. Lives as rhymes, motion as themes, gravity and energy as meaning. An angel gone mad can't be tracked, but she still has an effect on the universe around her, like skywriting after the plane has landed. His heart expanded into the poetry of existence until he found the dissonance, one word out of rhyme and rhythm, careening madly to escape its own meaning.

         Saraquael flashed after her, Raguel at his side projecting more than a little awe. But who cared how tricky it was to find her, as long as they did? Their results weren't being graded on degree of difficulty.

         They located her in a jungle on Earth, lost in blackness and wrapped around herself like a fetus in the womb. Shaking with her every sinew taut as a violin's strings, she huddled against the moss on a tree.

         Saraquael said nothing, just sat beside her. Raguel kept watch.

         For half an hour she remained cocooned, her thoughts cycling but always rapid. Saraquael tried not to travel down the delusions that streamed from her mind like ribbons of roads. She still wore Camael's armor and half the time she still wore Camael's thoughts—until momentarily Saraquael wondered if maybe this weren't Camael trying to play-act Remiel after all.

         "Sing with me," Saraquael whispered.

         "I can't sing. No angels can sing now."

         Saraquael hummed.

         "We can't sing," she repeated. "Silent Earth. Silent Heaven. So quiet. Terribly, deadly quiet."

         Raguel put out a soundproof Guard.

         Saraquael sang, and she cuddled around herself again, head down, losing tears expensive as champagne. Saraquael could feel her soul reaching for the song without grasping it. But at least she was paying attention.

         Raguel joined with his bass, and Remiel focused further. Saraquael could truly feel her beside him now, not just the emptiness where he knew she was and the terror of the small lives peeking from the infinite nooks the jungle offered. Snakes and mice and birds watched in sympathy, near enough that all three angels could detect them.

         Remiel raised her head and looked around, discerning the pairs of eyes, the scales and softness and light breathing.

         She reached her hand to Saraquael's on her shoulder, drew an unsteady breath, and joined the song.

         Together they sang for another five minutes. When the last notes ended, Saraquael said, "Now will you believe me?"

         Tear-stained, Remiel nodded. She dragged some errant strands of hair from her face.

         Saraquael glanced at Raguel, who redoubled the soundproofing on the Guard.

         "He's alive for now, but we're not sure how much longer." Saraquael swallowed. "When Raphael rescued him, the job was nearly complete."

         "But Raphael should be able to heal him."

         "Raphael and Uriel working together couldn't fix him. Parts are missing, and I guess they're important parts. That was why we wanted you to search the cell. We need something like a rope."

         Remiel gasped. "I know what you're talking about. That was there when they started, but when I went back into the chamber I didn't find anything like it."

         "Uriel said the parts can't survive on their own for more than about a day, so the beads you found were a quarter the size of the one we found right afterward."

         "But no heartstrings." Remiel dropped her head. "And without heartstrings, there's no way to attach them to one another."

         Saraquael said, "They didn't explain it all to me, but that's the rundown."

         "I don't suppose we could all donate a bit of our heartstrings and spin them together?"

         Saraquael said, "If we can, no one's mentioned it."

         Remiel rested her head on her forearms. "He's really going to die. After all that." She leaned into Saraquael and drew up her wings. "Oh, God, why?"

         God did not answer, so the three angels remained in place, silent, until Remiel shifted away from Saraquael. "I can't be alone." She tilted her face toward him. "I was alone there the whole time, even when I was with them, and then I wished I was alone. Don't leave me alone."

         "Let's move." Saraquael felt around until he found a better place, and he flashed the three of them to Heaven.

         In a clearing with picnic tables, Israfel and Zadkiel had set up a game of chess on a picnic table surrounded by pines. Beneath a threatening sky, they huddled over the board and didn't at first notice the newcomers.

         Raguel looked over Israfel's shoulder. "Checkmate in four."

         As Zadkiel dissolved into giggles, Israfel snapped, "You too? It's bad enough when Ophaniel does it. 'Checkmate in twenty-five, unless you resign in ten moves when he takes your rook."

         Zadkiel had her hands over her mouth to cover the grin. Israfel got up from the table and conjured a small harp to her hands.

         "Glad you're back," Zadkiel said to Remiel.

         "I'm glad to be back."

         Zadkiel gestured to her uniform. "You can relax a bit. I'm not going to barbecue you."

         Glancing at Camael's armor, Remiel tensed.

         "Unless," Zadkiel added, "you'd like me to pummel you in chess too."

         "Those are fighting words." Remiel wished away the armor to wear a pair of jeans and a cotton turtleneck. The gauntlets took longest to vanish.

         Israfel's fingers flew over the harp strings so quickly they blurred.

         Zadkiel cleared the board and started sorting pieces.

         Remiel recoiled. "Why are you making me black?"

         Zadkiel shrugged. "I didn't think about it. I don't care." She scooped the black pieces back to her side and turned around the board. They set up, and Remiel went first.

         Saraquael relaxed, listening to Israfel's music, feeling the strength of Raguel, knowing both of them prayed constantly, as did the chess players, offering the very game as prayer.

         Remiel didn't look up from the board. "What's that song called?"

         Israfel said, "It's the tune to Psalm 51 the way David did it originally."

         "It's a strange range."

         "Part of it is the limitations of this instrument, but you're right. It's huge."

         Zadkiel laughed as she moved a piece. "Gabriel could handle it."

         "Gabriel is insane to sing with," Israfel said.

         "I know." Zadkiel sat back as Remiel studied the board. "I'd be there struggling along, and I'd see the notes ahead of me are just going up and up and up, and I'd get this message in my head from him, let's switch parts, and he nails this note that would curl my hair while I'm trying to figure out what the tenor part is supposed to be."

         "That's my fault," Israfel said. "The angel of music can just switch parts without notice, so he got used to snatching the very high parts I couldn't hit."

         Zadkiel laughed as Israfel added, "Show-off."

         Remiel moved, and Zadkiel returned her attention to the game.

         Zadkiel took one of Remiel's pawns, and as she lifted it off the board, she said, "Where does the flame go when it's out?"

         Saraquael flinched. Israfel's song hesitated.

         "You put a pawn to the side of the board," Zadkiel said, "but what happens when God lifts an angel off the board?"

         Remiel took the pawn from Zadkiel's fingers and set it on the table. "It's out."

         Raguel stared at the board as if trying to predict checkmate in ten. Saraquael closed his eyes, smelling the richness of pines, but he had nothing to say. Remiel touched the pawn with one finger over its bald head.

         "I know there's nothing after this," Israfel said, "but—maybe there should be."

         "That's why what they did was so wrong. It would have been completely over for Gabriel, everything, and we'd have lost him forever."

         Israfel said, "It's going to happen anyhow."

         Remiel said, "I saw what they did to him. That kind of damage you can't survive."

         "God could recreate him," Raguel said. "He'll have to."

         "I doubt he will," Israfel said. "We live with the consequences of our choices."

         Remiel's eyes flashed. "Did I miss Gabriel making a choice?"

         "Satan's choice," Israfel said. "Mephistopheles' choice."

         Zadkiel wove her fingers together. "And it seems so arbitrary, too. Michael I could have understood, but Satan doesn't especially hate Gabriel. It could have been any of us."

         Remiel scrutinized the chessboard even though Zadkiel seemed to have forgotten it was there.

         Israfel said, "I'm just not sure how we're going to deal with it afterward. How can anything be the same, with one of us missing forever?"

         Remiel said, "Humans do it."

         Israfel stared up at the pines dark against the sky as if she didn't see them, only an eternity with one fewer light to say he loved God. "We all lift and embody different aspects of God. Without Gabriel, does that mean some aspect of God will go forever non-illuminated?"

         Saraquael shivered.

         Raguel paced. Saraquael projected at Zadkiel, who noticed Remiel's concentrated stare at the board and made a quick move with a pawn.

         "We're eternal," Israfel said. "Or we're supposed to be. We've always known we were eternal. Even Rahab got re-created."

         Raguel said, "It's going to be worst for Raphael."

         Saraquael noted Israfel's sudden lost look. He said gently, "Israfel's a primary bond for Gabriel too."

         Raguel flinched. "I'm sorry."

         Israfel grimaced. "That's okay. No one else acts as if I'm losing him, so why should you?"

         "Israfel, I'm—"

         She blew an errant strand of hair from her eyes. "It makes me wonder if Gabriel would even notice if I were the one chained in Satan's basement." She looked over at Raguel and offered a smile. "But you're right: even for primaries, he and Raphael are exceptionally close."

         Zadkiel said, "Raphael will feel like an angel torn in half."

         Saraquael winced, and Zadkiel's eyes flew wide. Remiel only said, "Don't worry. It's an accurate metaphor."

         Saraquael said, "Raphael might ask God to annihilate him too. And when God refuses, I don't know what he'll do. I imagine he'll just bury himself in the Vision for aeons. And maybe time will help. I can't imagine."

         Zadkiel's eyes flew to Israfel, who lowered her gaze. "Don't worry about me." Israfel took a deep breath. "I couldn't abandon Ophaniel and Zophiel to grief in order to escape it myself. But I'm not sure what will happen to the parts of me where Gabriel's been anchored since pretty much the dawn of creation."

         Zadkiel walked over to Israfel and grasped her hand, and Israfel forced a smile she couldn't reinforce with her heart.

         Remiel moved a knight onto a black square.

         Saraquael said, "You and Raphael will eventually recover your equilibrium and reach some kind of acceptance."

         Israfel said, "I can't see it."

         Zadkiel said, "Humans divorce, and humans mourn and accept, but a Cherub and a Seraph are so wound into one another's hearts that they're always going to feel it."

         Saraquael noticed Remiel again, sparkling, and projected to Zadkiel, who returned to the chessboard and moved a bishop.

         Saraquael said, "The hardest thing will be the first time you laugh."

         "No," Israfel said. "Please, you're too much a poet, Saraquael. I don't want to know what's going to happen."

         Remiel traced a finger along the edge of the board nearest herself. "You'll forget yourself one day and laugh at something and feel guilty." She ran both hands along the side edges of the board. "You'll think to yourself how ungrateful a friend you are, that you're being disloyal to the memory and the pain, but it will happen again, and someday before the end of time you'll be at peace, except for sometimes when you remember a brilliant, delicious age that ended tragically."

         She knocked over her king and stepped away from the table.

         Saraquael nudged some fallen pine needles with a stick. "At least humans can hope in a life after death. They might delude themselves as to what that means, but they can believe they'll have a reunion. We don't have that, and we can't lie to ourselves about it. He won't be happier. He won't be watching over us. We won't meet again."

         "Stop it!" Raguel slammed his hands into the table so all the chess pieces jumped. "He isn't dead yet! God might not allow it—he might re-create him! Why torture ourselves with things that might not happen?" He folded his arms. "We didn't spin our wheels like this over the damned."

         "You're wrong." Remiel plucked an evergreen frond and brushed the needles against her lips. "We did mourn, and we did talk about the pain, and we hung together because we didn't know if it could happen again, but we certainly didn't want it to." Remiel snapped the twig. "And we did recover, although it took a while. Remember how broken Uriel was afterward, how Uriel cried? I remember thinking God cried too, and that the damned deserved Hell if only for those tears." She tossed the halves of the branch onto the chessboard. "But that's the key. The damned deserved the Hell they're in, and even though they have no hope, that's their choice. Gabriel didn't side with them, and he's being destroyed as if he's worse than they are."

         Raguel flashed away.

         Israfel put her face in her hands, and Zadkiel hugged her. "I think God's going to resolve this soon," Zadkiel murmured. "We won't linger in confusion much longer, and whatever happens, God will be with us."

         Among the evergreens and beneath the swirling grey of the sky, four angels remained silent.

 

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 >.