Fall of the Angels Read online

  “It wouldn’t have taken a serpent to convince me,” I respond with a smirk. “I’d have headed there straight away. Seems pretty unfair to put a temptation like that in front of Adam and Eve.”

  “Ah, they’d have messed up one way or another. Humanity was doomed to sin. That was God’s plan from the beginning. You could even say he did Adam and Eve a favor by putting a temptation in the Garden that no mortal could have resisted. Makes them more sympathetic, I suppose.”

  I nod. It’s an argument for another day, but I can see where Augustus is coming from. I’m more concerned with the sudden thought that’s gnawing at my insides all of a sudden.

  If these trees can show the past, there’s one assumption I feel I can safely make.

  If I’m right, the ramifications are enormous.

  “Would this tree,” I start, choosing my words carefully, “show what happened to my dad?”

  Augustus inhales, and his expression softens. I don’t need telepathy to know he expected me to ask that question. Because we’re short on time, I’m sure he’ll tell me to hold that thought, and we’ll come back to it when Heaven is not engulfed in angelic warfare. But I hope he understands how important that answer is to me; that questions like the one I just asked can haunt men until their dying day. If these trees can provide me with an answer to what happened to Malcolm Ford, devoted husband and loving father of two boys, I deserve the right to see for myself.

  “Yes,” Augustus replies. “You can go back to that day and see for yourself what happened. You only need to envision what you want to see before you grab the orb. You don’t even need to know the date. These trees are pretty good at filling in the gaps when it comes to requests.”

  I envision my desired memory unfolding like a flickering motion picture projected onto a dusty screen. The jumpy, sepia-toned film would show my father dying heroically at the hands of Malphas in an effort to protect his family. The demon’s version—where Dad became a prisoner in exchange for our freedom—is a coiled snake lurking in the dark corner of my mind.

  In my heart, I know the demon was trying to manipulate me when he spun that yarn. In trusting Colin, I chose to accept his version of reality. However, I also know memories can warp, and events can be altered when viewed through the lens of history. I’ve seen it firsthand in the courtroom countless times.

  In the end, my assurance comes from knowing my father. He would never be stupid enough to trust Malphas. I’ll use these trees to get to the truth. For now, I want to help Augustus as quickly as possible, so I can return home. My friends and family are depending on me back in Sherwood, and I have no intention of letting them handle the fallout of Malphas’s assault by themselves.

  “Will you bring me back here when we’ve dealt with this conflict?” I ask.

  Augustus nods emphatically. “Absolutely. Once we settle things inside the gates, I’ll take you wherever you want to go. There’s a few other places up here I think you’ll find fascinating.”

  I spare one final gaze at the hypnotic time trees and their pulsating blue light before turning my attention to the ruby-lined path between the trees. I see nothing but a vanishing point up ahead where the inky blackness overhead mingles with the ruby and sapphire glow of our surroundings. The kaleidoscope of brilliant colors lends an otherworldly feel to this whole place.

  I point my finger down the path, and Augustus motions for me to lead the way. I start walking and, within a few steps, the inexplicable pull of the time tree loosens its grip on me. I didn’t realize until that moment how much it felt like I was walking in deep sand. The tree’s pull was almost magnetic in the way it summoned me to its side. My mind has cleared now that I’ve shaken off the unwanted mental intrusion, and I notice the path underfoot is eliciting a soft trill every time I take a step. It’s a pleasant, soothing noise that puts my mind at ease.

  Within what can only be a few seconds of Earth time, our surroundings begin to change. Wispy vapors surround us, and the time trees begin to dissolve into undefined blue clouds. The path starts to disappear next, like the fading of a distant taillight. Before long, Augustus and I are encased in a darkness that is suffocating in its absoluteness. The transition is so disorienting, I abruptly stop walking, and Augustus slams into my back. He grabs my shoulder to keep me from falling.

  “Whoa, easy there,” he says.

  “What’s going on? Where did this darkness come from?”

  The rising panic is unmistakable in my voice. The floor has fallen out below me in a way I’ve never experienced. The pitch-black demon pit in Wintergate Falls was terrifying, but I at least had firm ground under my feet. This transitory place has me perched on a precarious ledge atop a swaying skyscraper. I would have toppled over headfirst had Augustus not grabbed me.

  “It’s a tunnel, it’s a tunnel,” he tells me. “Nothing more. Disorienting at first, I know. I should have told you about them when the crossover began. My apologies; I was distracted. Just keep walking, and I promise the picture will change once our destination emerges from the darkness.”

  “I don’t know if I can.”

  I sound like a small child who is too afraid to jump in the pool. The mere act of jumping forward seems simple to those who’ve done it a thousand times before. But for the uninitiated, the thought of making that leap turns their legs to jelly. I know physically I’m capable of lifting my foot and placing it in front of me. What I can’t overcome is the disorientation and its assault on my equilibrium. I’ve lost any sense of which way is up and how to move forward.

  “I’ll push, and you take one step forward. We’ll do this together. Are you ready?”

  “Yes,” I bleat. The knot in my stomach twists itself tighter.

  The nudge in my back corkscrews the world back onto its axis. I extend my foot and take a wobbly step. Augustus continues to apply pressure, and I put my other foot out. The ground grows more stable under my shaky legs. Like a newborn giraffe, my first few steps are unbalanced and fraught with uncertainty. Each stride brightens the world around us and restores order to my delicate inner ear.

  I break into a jog as the illumination grows more pronounced. The sooner I can escape this tunnel of doom, the better. The echoing footsteps accompanying mine tell me Augustus has chosen to jog as well. I look down until the ground reappears beneath our feet. This time, a rough-hewn stone walkway rises to greet us.

  I round on Augustus, whose expression reads remorse.

  “What the hell? Humans aren’t built for that! I couldn’t even walk in there.”

  “It’s my fault for not explaining what would happen,” Augustus offers. His face is so downcast I feel a twinge of regret for getting so upset. He continues, “Heaven is a massive place. So massive, in fact, that traveling from one place to another requires the compression of time and space in the manner you just experienced. It is similar to the wormholes you and I can create to teleport ourselves, only much faster. Even if I could have teleported us here, it would’ve taken too long.”

  “So I guess I’ve got God to thank for the sensory deprivation and the motion sickness?”

  Augustus smirks, perhaps happy to see I didn’t lose my snarkiness inside the darkness.

  “You could. Or you can take it up with his architect. That’s who we’ve come to visit.”

  “I thought God designed the heavens and the Earth at the beginning of Genesis?”

  “He did. But like most of God’s knowledge, he shared his designs with another. In time, God began to trust this architect to handle the business of Heaven on Earth. When Ezekiel was shown a vision of the new temple in Jerusalem, he was there. When God needed someone to tell Joshua how many times to march around the city of Jericho for the walls to fall, he sent his architect. Time and time again, the architect has helped God shape the course of history.”

  “Sounds like a prestigious designation. Does this architect have a name?”
>
  Augustus lets out a hearty laugh that tells me a lot about this mysterious architect. Peter prefaces all his “you won’t believe what happened last night” stories with that same kind of laugh. If that telling chuckle is somehow hereditary, I’m guessing this architect is a real character.

  “He’d prefer it if you called him the Bronze Man. That was his designation in the Bible, and he’s quite proud of it. I’ve taken to calling him Bron just to deflate his ego a bit. He hates it.”

  “I’ve met some high-powered attorneys like that. Is he more the egotist or the painfully oblivious type?” Augustus smiles, places his arm around my shoulder, and guides us up the path.

  “A little of both, mixed with a sprinkle of crazy and a dash of delusion for good measure. He’s like your crazy uncle who makes family gatherings awkward. Tough to handle, but harmless, really.”

  “I never had a crazy uncle growing up.”

  “You should have met my family. All we had were crazy uncles!”

  We both laugh as we climb the rough stone walkway. It snakes between two high canyon walls that are streaked with a mixture of orange, red, and brown, resembling the color of Martian soil. As we climb, the walls move gradually apart until a wide swath of sky separates them. The sky here is a deep, soulful blue. I’m reminded of the sky before a thunderstorm. It’s a nice change from the black skies that stretched overhead in the first two areas of Heaven I visited.

  I don’t know what I expected the home of God’s architect to look like, but as we come over the crest of the hill and the path levels off, I’m certain that the residence sitting before us is not what I had in mind. It’s a simple sand-colored adobe home, not too different from the ones Pueblo Indians used to make for themselves. A small ladder leans against the side of the house facing us, and smoke curls from a chimney on the far side of the roof. The only thing odd about the structure is the doorway, which looks big enough to accommodate someone ten feet tall.

  As we draw closer to the house, a series of thuds and crashes emanates from inside its walls. It’s as if a giant beast has awakened inside and is stumbling around blindly for the door. I give Augustus a concerned look, but he merely shakes his head as if to say, don’t worry, he’s being dramatic.

  A giant flesh-colored dome emerges from the doorway, followed by an enormous pair of shoulders. I realize now that the Bronze Man is unfolding himself as he exits the doorway, which is somehow too small for his massive frame. He rushes out the door so frantically that he trips over his own feet. The resulting clatter of footsteps sends rumbles echoing up the canyon walls. Despite this, he tries to maintain an air of civility and importance as he scrambles upright. At his full height and with his chiseled bronze chest puffed out, he strikes quite an imposing figure. His perfectly clear eyes sparkle like diamonds in the sun as he scans the area for the source of the disturbance.

  When he spots us, he bellows in a voice like a cracked megaphone:

  “What being under Heaven feels compelled to disturb the work of God’s chosen architect?”

  Looking up at him, Augustus is nonplussed.

  “Oh shut it, Bron, you big oaf. I know you were in there sleeping!”

  “Augustus Shaw, is that your voice I hear?”

  Bron stoops low to get a better look at Augustus. His face is about three feet from mine and the size of a wheelbarrow. His features are flat and perfectly smooth, like a face carved from stone and sanded to a high polish. The nose below his gleaming eyes barely protrudes from his face, yet his nostrils are wide and currently flared. His pursed lips maintain a hint of his rosy complexion, a color that contrasts sharply with a body that is appropriately bronze from neck to toes. He looks as if someone attached a Ken doll’s head to the body of an Oscar statue. From his absurd size to the clashing skin tones, God’s architect is a lot to take in at first glance.

  “There’s a young man here I’d like you to meet, Bron,” Augustus explains. As he says this, Bron’s head swivels toward me, and his eyes squint to get a better look. Augustus continues. “This is Silas Ford, my great-great-grandson and God’s newest nephilim. Silas, meet Heaven’s architect.”

  I realize as Augustus is introducing us that Bron is the first non-human creature I’ve met that wasn’t trying to kill me. This assumes Bron doesn’t want me dead, of course. Realizing this leaves me at a loss for words as I struggle to understand how I’m supposed to greet a giant bronze man.

  Out of my mouth blurts: “Um, nice to meet you, sir.”

  Bron takes no notice of my greeting, instead choosing to look me up and down like he’s appraising a car before purchasing it. I want to tell this bronze behemoth that I’m not entirely comfortable being put under his microscope, but before I can say anything, Bron speaks.

  “Nephilim, did you say, Augustus?” he asks. “Not quite the build you’d expect for a warrior of the Lord most high. No indeed! The arms are far too scrawny, and the posture is like that of a time tree.” He pauses and reaches down to point at my stomach with a hand the size of my torso. I take a step back, my agitation toward his appraisal growing. “Not to mention the midsection is round and soft like a woebegone lump of bread dough. Where’d you find this one, Augustus?”

  “I died protecting my home from Malphas and his demon army,” I announce, cutting off Augustus before he can answer. “I saved my whole town from being wiped off the map. Even with scrawny arms, a doughy midsection, and poor posture. Put that in your chimney and smoke it you goofy bronze bastard.” I give Augustus a withering look. “We done here?”

  Augustus is merely bemused by my reaction to Bron’s insults. He chuckles as Bron lifts himself to full height and strokes his square chin. After a moment of consideration, he nods and claps his hands enthusiastically. The cacophonous noise again echoes off the canyon walls.

  “Augustus Shaw, I have changed my assessment of this one!” he booms. “What he lacks in physical stature, he makes up for with gumption. As you know, Augustus, that trait is hard to quantify but immensely important in your line of work. Young Mr. Ford seems to have inherited that trait from you. If I recall correctly, you possessed moxie in abundance during your time doing the Lord’s work on Earth. That and your measurable physical gifts made you quite formidable.”

  “Two things, Bron,” Augustus answers right away. “First, I still possess plenty of gumption. Second, why don’t you ask our old friend, Gregori, if I’m still a formidable foe.”

  The delighted expression melts from Bron’s face. He’s suddenly serious.

  “Ah yes, I heard about that. I never took Gregori for a traitor.”

  Neither did I. The shock of his betrayal stands in the way of me fully comprehending what one treacherous angel almost cost me. I bought into his lies when he took me high above Sherwood and told me I had a destiny. I so badly needed to believe that there was a greater purpose behind all this pain and suffering, and Gregori preyed upon that weakness. There was a plan, alright. It was just one concocted by Gregori and Malphas to unleash an unspeakable evil upon the world.

  I’m still frustrated with myself that I let the angel pull the wool over my eyes. My logical approach to daily life was overwhelmed by how Gregori made me feel. I was duped.

  It won’t happen again.

  “Then I’m sure you’re also aware of what’s happening inside the gates,” Augustus says.

  Bron nods solemnly. “Total chaos. Incalculable destruction. Something must be done.”

  “Why do you think we’re here?” Augustus responds. Bron is inquisitive now, and my attention is definitely piqued. Anything that moves us closer to my departure is highly interesting to me.

  “What are you planning, Augustus Shaw?” Bron asks, his creaky voice more level.

  There’s a wild look in my great-great-grandfather’s eyes as he prepares to answer, and I’m once again reminded of my brother. Whereas Colin and I share similar traits, Peter
is Augustus made over. Just from the brief time I’ve spent with Augustus, I can see the bravado that made him such a prolific nephilim and likely contributed to his downfall. Here’s a man who attacked his mission with a reckless abandon. As we stand ready to confront Gregori’s rebellious brethren and end Heaven’s civil war, there’s only one question that seems worth considering:

  What do you have planned, Augustus?

  His answer is one word: “Lightfall.”

  This mysterious answer causes Bron to gasp.

  “You can’t be serious, Augustus. That was designed as a last resort.”

  “I’m sorry, have you looked inside the gates? Our options went up in smoke the instant Gregori wrapped his slimy hands around Silas’s neck. There’s no going back, Bron. You know that.”

  “Lightfall would change everything. Heaven would never be the same.”

  “Judging by where we are now, I’d say the status quo is in desperate need of change.”

  I can’t stand being left in the dark any longer. Ignorance never suited me.

  “What is Lightfall?” My pair of companions look at me like two parents who are sitting on bad news and have no idea how to tell their child.

  “Just spit it out already,” I urge them.

  Augustus motions at Bron, who reluctantly tells me, “Lightfall is the protocol by which God’s angels are removed from Heaven. Unlike the first time, Lightfall casts out all the angels.”

  “It’s the eject button that can end this bloody conflict before Heaven is torn apart,” Augustus adds. “It won’t be easy flipping the switch. But I firmly believe it’s our only way forward.”

  “You neglected to mention the issue with your plan,” Bron chides.

  “Oh, please tell me it’s something horrible,” I say sarcastically.

  “The angels…they would be ejected…to Earth.”

  I just had to open my mouth, didn’t I?

  Chapter 3

  3. A Lovely Day for a Prison Break