Chapter Text
Prologue
Alex Lannon rolled over, inelegantly flopping his arms to the sides like a puppy first learning to use its gangly limbs. He left his eyes closed, reveling in the last vestiges of whatever dream he had awoken from, lingering in the feeling of warmth and protection that wrapped around him more than the silken sheet that tangled about his bare torso and legs. He felt an inexplicable sense of peace, of love, that stayed with him even as it faded, settling into his unconsciousness as he slowly struggled toward the morning glow that played just outside.
The light – the light was too damn bright. His eyes – when he tried to force them open – felt like they were burning. God, his head hurt – his whole body hurt – but his head seemed as if it was swollen three sizes too big. He groaned, a bone-deep groan. His tongue was like sandpaper, his throat was on fire, his body so very, very weak. His stomach – ugh, his stomach twisted in a knot and it took every bit of his will not to spew its contents all over himself, for he certainly didn’t have the strength to turn over…
He was dying, no doubt about it. He was dying. Everything had come to naught, all the plans, all the battles, all the sacrifices, they wouldn’t mean a thing because he was going to die right there, wherever there was.
He closed his swollen eyes again and tried not to cry, tried to just breathe, just lay there and breathe. Maybe death would come quickly; maybe his suffering would end soon. Breathe. At least that didn’t hurt.
…didn’t hurt too much…
Sleep once more pulled at him, offering comfort and escape. Gradually, that subtle feeling of love, of peace, returned, swaddling him again like the softest blanket, shushing the drumbeat in his head, soothing the burn like cool water. An ethereal spirit, a will-o-the-wisp of the heart, he tried to reach out to it and failed. The sensation would not be captured but nor would it leave. Alex would need to be content knowing that he was not alone, he would never be alone.
The late afternoon light filled the room with a gentle radiance, lending a golden warmth to almost everything in the small space. Alex let his eyes open slowly – a faint memory of something painful tied to the action – and took in the area around him. He was in a strange bedroom, one he was sure he had never been in before. The furnishings were expensive, vaguely feminine, but impersonal – a guest bedroom. The Reisen’s had had a number of these rooms, extraneous spaces that he and Claire had made use of more than once.
He lay on a twin bed – again, sign of the transient nature of his occupancy – with the covers tucked firmly around him. That was weird. He knew that he was a restless sleeper, prone to tossing and turning. Even in the barracks, his blanket had often ended up on the floor by the time morning muster had sounded. Either he had not moved in his sleep, something he found impossible to believe…
…or someone had recently tucked him in.
It was an odd thought, but then again, his circumstances were odd. Unlike some of his more sexually-promiscuous friends from the Archangel Corps, he was not accustomed to waking up in strange bedrooms.
Alex turned his head cautiously to the side (why cautiously?) and scanned his surroundings a little more intently. A small wood escritoire sat near the door, the cherry polished to a lustrous shine but nary a paper or pen upon it, a matching chair with carved feet tucked underneath. A cheval mirror stood in the corner, tilted at an angle that leant soft light into the room. Diaphanous curtains on the windows, silk pillows and upholstery, everything had the feeling of good taste and good breeding, and lots and lots of money.
On the antique-looking nightstand at his side, a half-filled glass of water sat next to a bottle of pain relievers. He had the vaguest memory of forcing down a couple of them sometime during the night (or had it been the day?) but where had they come from? No matter what, the water was sorely tempting, his parched throat begging for relief. He downed it in one long, blissful gulp.
Tentatively, he sat up in the bed (again, why was he so afraid of movement?) and tried all his limbs. No damage, no cuts or bruises. His head felt a little foggy, a kind of pressure inside, but that was the only thing he could find physically wrong. The lack of memory, however, was deeply disturbing. He closed his eyes, trying to cast himself back to the last thing he could recall…
People, lots of people, and food and drinks and more drinks, bottles’ worth, shots…a party – no, a wake! A funeral he forced himself to attend and then a wake for…
…for Charlie. Commander Charlotte Lannon.
For his mother.
The pain shot through him like a lance, a psychological blow that felt more than physical. Breath shuddered in his chest and tears sprang forth unbidden as a low moan crept forth from the very depths of his soul. For a few hours he had forgotten that his mother was gone, really gone, that she had returned to that vague land of unreality she’d existed in since…well, forever…more of a concept than a person. Until a few weeks ago, he hadn’t really known her, his loss had been at a disconnect, a second-hand mourning. But now, now that he had seen her smile and laughed with her and had her hold him in her arms…it wasn’t fair, it simply wasn’t fair.
No one should have to lose their mother over and over again. Not even in Vega.
He sat that way for a while, letting the grief wash over him, letting the sorrow work its way through his system. The desire to crawl back into the bed was strong – he could seek out that shadow world of forgetfulness again, hide from reality, hide from the bitter truth – but he didn’t. He’d lost too many people to think that burrowing himself into the blankets would make any difference in the way he felt.
Finally, he pushed his way up to standing, his balance a little off. Grief still sent little tremors through him, aftershocks of emotion, but he walked gingerly over to the window to look out and see if he could figure out just where the hell he had woken up.
The view was spectacular, it had to be one of the best in the city, facing toward the La Madre mountains, now backlit with the oranges and pinks of the late afternoon sun. Gorgeous.
La Madre – the mother.
Was everything going to remind him of her?
At least he knew he was still in Vega. Now he just had to determine where and how he had gotten there. The fuzzy little murmur of pain was threatening to grow, pressing on the inside of his skull. He grabbed the bottle of pain relievers and headed toward the door, intent on finding something with which to take a couple more.
As soon as he opened the door from the bedroom, he recognized the simple, elegant, expensive design that had been Becca Thorne’s personal style. He was in her apartment – no, make that his mother’s apartment, or at least where his mother had been staying. Becca was dead, and in some strange recompense, Michael had insisted that Charlie stay there…
And now Charlie was dead, too.
The memories started to swirl around him now, coming fast and furious, his times with his mother here in this space. Bringing her breakfast that first day, feeling thrilled and yet awkward. Having lunch with her a few days later, finding out the truth of his parentage, his angry shouts and accusations. He’d been so cruel, so hateful, how could he have been so thoughtless? He should have been hoarding every minute he had with her instead of yelling and running off. Charlie had come back from the dead, for him! He should have glued himself to her side and basked in her formidable love.
Formidable indeed, so formidable that she’d taken on Julian and his eight-ball army and even tried to defeat Lucifer, all for the sake of her son.
But she hadn’t been able to defeat the Archangel Raphael.
Michael’s sister, Raphael. Raphael the healer, who had instead murdered his mother.
Alex rubbed his forehead with one hand, trying to push back the incipient headache that now lurked somewhere behind his eyes. He leaned against the doorframe and for a little while he indulged in some well-deserved self-pity.
It was incredible, really, how his life was so impressively, monumentally, celestially fucked up!
Ethan sprawled across one of the oversize armchairs in the plush living room, his head lolling off to one side, his mouth open. An initial panic seized Alex, but then a deep and discordant sound echoed from the sleeping form and he had to grin. How someone that slight could snore that loudly was an oft-discussed mystery in the barracks.
“Ethan,” he said softly, nudging his friend’s shoulder. “Ethan, wake up.”
Ethan’s lids flickered open just enough to show the whites of his eyes. He groaned and rolled to the side, clutching at his head. “Oh, god, I think I’ve been possessed.”
Alex laughed while he watched his friend curl into a tight ball on the chair. “I’m not saving your sorry ass if you are, you owe me money.”
“How can I pay you back if I’m possessed?” Ethan groaned again. “Seriously, you’re the Chosen One, just…put me out of my misery or something.”
Alex glanced at the bottle he had retrieved from the side table in the bedroom, then tucked it into the chair near Ethan’s head. “This is all I’ve got today.”
As he pulled his hand back, the light glinted off a silvery band on his little finger. He gazed at it, distracted, little glimmers of memory of the night before making their way forward to his consciousness.
“Your mother’s wedding ring.”
Things were still disjointed, the events of the evening returning in pieces. Alex shook his head, trying to clear it, then grimaced – that had been a mistake. Now he realized why he had previously been so tentative in his movements, a natural self-preservation instinct. The threatening headache burst forth and made itself fully apparent. “Take a couple of those and give me the rest,” he said to his friend, “I’ll find something to wash them down with.”
While Ethan opened one bloodshot eye to wrestle with the pill bottle, Alex went into the kitchen area. It was quite neat and tidy. That, too, was odd. He had expected at least some sign of the previous night’s gathering, but everything had been cleaned, put away or taken out.
Everything except for a plate of muffins that sat incongruously on the counter next to a pitcher of orange juice and two cut-crystal tumblers. A folded paper stood between the two glasses; Alex pulled it out to read.
“Hydrate as best you can. When you feel up to it, Jenkins would like to meet. We have much to plan.”
The handwriting was strong but elegant. Not Michael’s – no, he preferred to print, square, precise letters like an engineer.
Gabriel.
Alex sighed as he filled the glasses and traded one of them with Ethan for the bottle of pain relievers. He shook out two of the pills, then three. Somehow, he had a feeling this headache wasn’t going to go away any time soon.
PART ONE
Hebrews 4:12 - For the Word of God is quick, and powerful, and sharper than any two-edged sword, piercing even to the dividing asunder of soul and spirit, and of the joints and marrow, and is a discerner of the thoughts and intents of the heart.
Chapter 1
Gabriel had done many difficult things in his long life: betraying his brother, Lucifer; burying David’s tiny battered body; dealing with the rejection of his beloved twin after the start of the Extermination War; watching Charlotte die at his own sister’s hand….
This, however, had to be near the top of the list.
He and Michael had flown from dawn’s-light to dusk, from the towers and lights and people of Vega…
…to New Haven.
Charlotte’s home, what might have been their home, if not for…
He banished the thought as best he could, concentrating instead on the lazy circle he flew around the perimeter, yet the memory of her was never far away.
A peaceful little town. A peaceful life.
This could have been his life…
Jenkins and the rest of the Wildcats had gone ahead two days before. As planned, they had packed up their motley collections of vehicles and set out northeast, toward the old states of Kentucky, Indiana and Ohio, taking Alex with them. The caravan would travel more slowly than the angels, with the limitations of trucks, people and gradually decaying roads causing constant (but not unexpected) delays. There was nothing like a simple road trip anymore.
Flying was more direct, and it wasn’t as if Gabriel didn’t know the route. He’d traveled this way before, without Charlotte’s knowledge, on a recon for Michael. He had felt ashamed as he had carefully searched out the scattered towns, villages and homes, ashamed because he had been going behind Charlotte’s back, deceiving the woman he loved, and he’d hated it.
Now he felt just as badly, yet in a completely different way. As he led Michael through the skies around the town they called New Haven, as he showed his brother the carefully crafted façade of abandonment – the vines-enmeshed rooftops, the judiciously-placed fallen trees, the fields planted in a bountiful chaos, how everything had been covered over, camouflaged, made to look as if there was no one there – he saw Charlotte’s hand. She had been a master at deception, glorying in all the ways the buildings and the homes and even the streets could be transformed from those of a quaint little village to what looked from the air to be a deserted ghost town.
She had told Gabriel that her people had some leftover technology – they even had the know-how to use it – thanks to the ranks of the military that had originally formed the Wildcats. They had a variety of drones and other kinds of spyware that would be helpful for many things, including giving a bird’s eye view (or angel’s eye, as the case may be) to help with deception and defense.
She’d also told him that unlike the city of Vega, the Wildcats used satellite radios, bouncing off of the military comm satellites that still coursed through the sky. The celestial machines had never taken notice that their human makers had been all but eliminated, and her techs had claimed that they should be up for another century or so. As long as the Wildcats had the proper working hardware, they would be able to keep in touch with people all over the country, perhaps all over the world. It was something to keep in mind.
Even now, both archangels had small satellite radios and earpieces, although Michael was much more comfortable with the technology than Gabriel. Michael was used to the chatter of strange voices in his ear. His brother was less sanguine - it was not only annoying, it interrupted the peaceful delusion of the flight.
The memory of Charlotte explaining the radios to him, describing how they had camouflaged the towns and villages, how they had hidden the crops with nets and wild plants, how they had cloaked the workings of the refinery with rust-colored paint and underground vents – it gave Gabriel a small spark of warmth in his chest. He had loved listening to her when she talked about her own. HER own, the place she had created for her people, all of her children. She was so very, very proud of it. He hadn’t even minded that she had, essentially, beaten him, that she had foiled his attempt to eliminate the human race. She’d won that battle and probably won the war – he’d never even known that New Haven existed and might never have. Humanity would have survived because of Charlotte Lannon.
Humanity would have also survived because of her son. Their son. Alex Lannon, the Chosen One, as stubborn and strong willed as his mother. Gabriel wondered if he and Alex would ever see eye-to-eye on anything other than defeating Lucifer.
Well, at least they had that.
Now the two archangels approached the tail-end of the convoy as they neared New Haven. Gabriel pointed to the road up ahead, just a little more worn than the others. If one hadn’t been looking for it, it wouldn’t have been noticeable. The convoy below them slowed, entered into a tree-lined path…and disappeared.
A small smile played over his face. Another one of Charlotte’s deceptions. She’d become a veritable magician, able to make entire battalions disappear into the environment. His heart swelled with pride even as it felt as if it were ready to break in half.
The archangels gently made their way to the ground at the edge of the copse of trees. The road here was packed dirt, well-rutted but still showing grass and weeds in the center. It could be ten years old or it could be a hundred, for donkey carts or Humvees.
Jenkins had explained that the main military compound was actually outside the village proper, just short of New Haven, almost a small town of its own. The convoy would stop here first. The caravan of trucks and vehicles halted beneath a stretch of ancient oaks and maples, turned deep orange, russet brown and fiery red in the slanting rays of the late afternoon sun. The autumn colors contrasted brilliantly against the faded wood of the agricultural buildings and the dilapidated metal storage units that hid the well-kept and well-organized materiel of the Wildcat war machine.
This was not their final destination, however. The archangels watched as the silent troops exited the vehicles to take up position in parade beside them. The soldiers solemnly straightened their uniforms, brushing away dust and wrinkles, then helped each other tie black scarves over their left forearms, covering the Wildcat patch they wore on their sleeves.
The convoy had become a cortege.
At the front of the line, Jenkins sat on the bumper of the MRAP he had been riding in. His head was bowed and his hands were wrapped around a brass urn. He both looked and felt ten years older than when they had begun their mission – had it been only a few weeks ago?
Alex walked up and stood nearby, less than comfortable in the strange surroundings but unwilling to break the commander’s reverie. As Jenkins raised his head, there was a weariness in the commander’s strong features that hadn’t been there before.
“I’m glad you’re here, Alex. It will help people, knowing that we succeeded, that she succeeded, that it wasn’t all for naught.”
The younger man’s face twisted into a grimace. The urge to run was screaming inside him once again; he didn’t want to do this, he didn’t want to be here, among these people, feeling their grief. His own was more than enough.
Jenkins stood, holding the urn in the crook of his arm, resting the other hand on the Alex’s shoulder. “I understand. I’d rather crawl in a hole and pull it in after me right now, too. But we have to do this, for Charlotte, for her people. They’re your people now, too.”
Alex silently bobbed his blond head. He licked his lips and breathed deeply. “I know.” The words were little more than a murmur.
The silence around them was interrupted by the muffled clop of horse hoofs on the packed dirt street. From between two buildings, a regal black mare strode forth, more than five feet tall at the shoulder, her long, wavy mane and tail brushed to an ebony luster. The young soldier that led her was in full dress uniform complimenting the horse’s shining tack. He carried a pair of tall, black riding boots tucked under one arm.
Jenkins’ face lit up at the sight of the horse. He carefully set the urn down inside the MRAP and approached her, his hand out, a soft, warm smile on his face.
“Freyja, you old beauty.” The horse whickered at her name, bouncing her head for a pet. Jenkins obliged, pulling her long face up to his own, resting his forehead against her muzzle. He sighed, his eyes closed. “I’m sorry old girl, I didn’t want to bring you out for this.” He turned back toward Alex. “This is Freyja, Alex. Your mom’s horse. Colonel Andrews found her running wild down in Kentucky and he brought her home. He gave her to your mom as a present when she succeeded him.”
Alex tentatively walked up to the horse; he’d only seen pictures of the beasts before, never in real life. “She never talked about having a horse.”
“No, she wouldn’t. It was one of the few perks she allowed herself; a horse that wasn’t a farm animal, a work horse. Charlotte didn’t like to laud that over anyone, the fact that she had Freyja. She used her to ride whenever she could – around town, back and forth to the other camps. Sometimes, well, sometimes she’d take the old girl out for a run just to clear her head.” He rubbed the horse’s snout tenderly and was rewarded with an affectionate nose bump. “I think Freyja may have been her very best friend.”
He saw Alex’s uncertain expression and smiled in encouragement. “Go ahead, you can pet her. She’s probably the sweetest, fastest thing you’ll ever meet.”
Reaching up timidly, Alex ran his hand down the horse’s lustrous black mane. Freyja bobbed her head once again and snorted.
Alex backed off in fear and Jenkins chuckled. “Don’t worry, that just means she likes you. Here,” he grasped the bridle and pulled the horse toward Alex, then showed him how to hold it and where the animal liked to be scratched. “You give her a little love while I take care of this.” He then turned toward the soldier standing nearby and put out his hands. “Thank you, Carter. She looks beautiful.”
Carter handed over the boots, his eyes shimmering in the fading light. “I was proud to do it, sir. For Commander Lannon, sir.” He gave a crisp salute and backed away.
Stroking the horse’s velvety nose, Alex watched Jenkins carefully maneuver each empty boot into the stirrups. They were placed backwards, facing away from the horse’s head, exactly opposite of how he thought they should have normally been.
Alex’s questioning look was not lost on the commander. “It’s an old military tradition,” Jenkins explained, tightening the second boot in place. “Freyja will come after us, after your mom’s ashes, but before the troops she led. The boots are a way to show that she’s looking back to them, one last time. Kennedy, MacArthur, Mountbatten, Reagan, they all were honored this way.” Walking around, he stroked the flanks of the ebony mare. “I thought Charlotte deserved it.”
Once again, Alex was struck by how little he knew about his mother and just how much she was loved and respected. He felt his chest tighten and he looked up into the horse’s large brown eyes. It might have been his imagination, but he thought that Freyja knew what exactly was going on, that she knew she would never see her mistress again. Still, even in the midst of her own sorrow, she seemed to offer a calming sense of comfort, a gift of friendship.
Alex bent his head toward her muzzle and closed his eyes.
Jenkins reached into the MRAP and carefully pulled out the bronze urn. He stood and sighed heavily, then looked back toward the collection of troops and their vehicles. “Let’s do this then. Mouse!” he called.
The tiny captain pulled her radio from its holster. She, too, took a steadying breath, then sent out the command. Their eyes locked for split second and the commander could see the shine of tears held barely at bay.
They progressed into New Haven at a slow walk, Jenkins in the lead, carrying the urn, Alex immediately after him, following his mother’s ashes. Behind them, Carter led the mare, her hoofs almost silent, as if she knew to make as little noise as possible. The battalion next entered onto the main street paraded in stately rows, boots treading softly, engines running at soft idle.
The sun was just going down in the west, casting long shadows and a rose-gold glow. In the gentle light, Jenkins could see people coming out of the various houses and buildings along the thoroughfare, each carrying a single lit candle. They stood along the street, hundreds and hundreds of them, of all ages and races. As the cortege moved past, he could see their reactions. Men wrapped their arms around the shoulders of those near them, women held children close. Strangers reached out to hold each other’s hands. Some had their heads bowed, others rubbed handkerchiefs and sleeves against eyes and noses. More than one turned away, their grief a spectacle they did not want to share.
All along the street, the candles turned the gathering dusk into a sparkling, shining channel of light, a gentle passageway of love and respect for the woman who had left an indelible mark upon everyone assembled there.
Charlotte Lannon had come home to rest.
The archangels stood at the back of the line, watching as the soldiers and vehicles gradually made their way through the center of the tree-lined town. Gabriel’s eyes had never left the pair that led, his jaw clenched, his brow furrowed as he tried to hold back the emotions that threatened to overwhelm him once again.
“I don’t think we should follow them, Michael,” he finally said, his voice little more than a gruff whisper. “Let them have their time of sorrow before we show ourselves.”
Inwardly, Michael sighed in relief. He hadn’t been sure how the town would react to the presence of the two archangels, especially to Gabriel. He’d been torn between acknowledging Gabriel’s need to grieve with that of the townsfolk. This resolved the issue. He rested a supportive hand on his brother’s shoulder. “We will return tomorrow when things are settled.”
Gabriel turned away without responding. With a rush, he spread his wings and took to the sky.
New Haven
The town hall was packed with rows and rows of soldiers, shopkeepers, farmers and other civilians, crowded into what had once been a high school gymnasium. The space still had basketball hoops on either end and a raised stage that had been used for countless graduations and prom courts, but now it served a more communal purpose. Bleachers lined the sides of the long room and chairs had been unstacked and set in neat rows to fill in the middle, every one of them full. It may not have been the entire populace of the town, but it was more than a thousand people, all waiting to get the news that they would take back to their family and friends.
The huge overhead lamps burned with a harsh white glow, blanching out the tanned and wind-worn faces of many of the attendants. No one complained, however; it was a rare treat to use the old generators, to have access to microphones and speakers and lighting, a hint of the importance of this particular gathering.
A folding table and four chairs stood unoccupied next to an old wooden podium, the only items on the stage when the inhabitants of New Haven had started to arrive. Now that the room was filled – perhaps overfilled – they were still empty. A gentle murmur ran through the assembled mass, still coming to grips with the funeral procession of the night before. Furtive hugs were exchanged, voices hushed and eyes downcast
Finally, a small group, led by Commander Jenkins, walked somberly onto the stage. The three members of the Tribunal – a soldier, a farmer and a merchant – took their seats. This was the trio of delegates that made up every town government throughout the Wildcat sphere of influence. The large medallions they wore upon their chests shone in the bright overhead lights, the only mark of their status.
Jenkins moved to the podium, tapped the microphone and listened for the distant echo. He looked out into the faces of all of the people, his people now. Not for the first time, the weight of his new responsibility felt heavy upon his broad shoulders.
“I want to thank you all for gathering this evening. I know that this is a difficult time for you, for us. We all feel the loss of Commander Lannon, each of us in our own way. To some of us she was a commander, a mentor, a guiding light. To those lucky enough to know her well, she was a companion, a confidant and a friend.” A soft, sad smile flit across his somber features. “No matter how you knew Charlotte Lannon, she made an impact on your life. I think it’s safe to say that few of us would be here today without her strength, her foresight and her leadership.”
A gentle murmur rolled through the crowd. There were more than a few heads bent in sorrow.
“Although Commander Lannon dedicated her life to us, to all of us in the community, she had a family of her own, a family she thought had lost at the very beginning of the War.” The murmur rose to a low rumble. Jenkins raised his hands for silence; he knew that this was news to many of the attendants. “Yes, yes, it’s true. Some of you know that this was the reason that we deployed on this last mission, and why she came along. Our assignment was to find her son, her only child, to find him and secure him from forces that aimed to do him harm.
“And we did find him. We found out some other things as well.”
He paused, letting the momentum grow. “The Extermination War, as we know it, is over.”
The room erupted into a roar of cheers and yells. This was news that many had thought they would never hear.
After a short while, Jenkins raised his hands again. He was loath to quell the excitement – the people needed a ‘win,’ yet there was so much more to say. “Yes, yes, it’s true. I’ve got more, though. Please, settle down, we need to continue – thank you, thank you.”
The excitement that had filled the room settled into a quiet rumble. Jenkins leaned toward the microphone again. “I’m happy to say that we’ve brought the commander’s son back to New Haven, to meet you, to see the community that his mother helped create. Alex?” he looked off stage to his left. “Alex, would you come out here?”
The young man stepped out of the shadows, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment, and made his way awkwardly to Jenkins’ side. The crowd once again started to clap and cheer, and the commander put his arm around Alex’s shoulders, making him blush even more.
Jenkins smiled broadly. “Alex Lannon, Captain Lannon – yes, he’s a soldier just like his mom – he’s also a special young man. In the past few weeks, I’ve trained and fought alongside him and I’ve come to know that he is every inch a Lannon, just as brave and just as bold as his mother. I also know that she was very, very proud of him.”
The room once more filled with applause and Jenkins let it run its course. It was important that the people accept Charlotte’s son as one of their own, as part of the community. It was the reason he and Michael had decided on this rather grand introduction – hopefully it would make what was to come a bit easier.
He waited for the noise to settle down then released his hold on Alex and held the sides of the podium instead. It gave him the air of gravitas that he wanted to convey. “The thing is, Alex is more special than you or I might expect, even as Commander Lannon’s only child. I know that over the past 25 years, there have been a lot of stories, a lot of people claiming to be the one to save us all. There is one story, many of you have heard of it, of a child, born at the beginning of the war, hidden away by the Archangel Michael, destined to be humanity’s savior in these dark times. That child was called the Chosen One.”
There were nods of assent and vague agreements from the crowd. Jenkins leaned over the podium, his words solemn. “Alex Lannon is the Chosen One.”
It took nearly five minutes for the ruckus to settle down. Some of the citizens of New Haven were silent, perhaps dumbfounded by the news. Some erupted into colorful curses of disbelief; there was more than one “I’ll be damned” that floated up from the group. Many questioned their neighbors – not everyone had heard of the Chosen One – the legend was not the center of religion here as it had been in Vega.
Alex stood next to Jenkins while it went on, wishing that he could somehow climb into the podium to get away from the stares, the questioning looks. He knew more than anyone how little he fit the role of ‘savior’; there were still days when he found it difficult to believe himself. Nonetheless, he understood that the people needed to see him, they needed to accept him if any of them were going to make it through the coming days.
At least that was what Michael had said.
Finally, Jenkins put his palms out, asking for attention once more. A young woman called out from the center of the room. “Did the Chosen One win the war? Did he kill Gabriel?” Various other voices echoed the question.
Jenkins sighed. This was exactly what he had been hoping to avoid. He hadn’t exactly planned out his speech, but there were things that he did and did not want to say. Now he was backed into a corner and he couldn’t see any easy way out.
He laid his forearms on the podium and ran his fingers along the upper wooden rail, then set his hands down flat. His voice was quiet now, not the boom of authority he had projected before. “No. No, Alex did not kill Gabriel.” He paused, weighing his words. This was the most important part of his speech tonight, the part he dreaded the most. “I’m sorry to say, we have a new enemy, an enemy more powerful than we’ve ever seen before and one that we cannot defeat alone. The truth is, we’re in a new war, one that we absolutely must win if we are to survive.
“We did not actually win the Extermination War; we did not actually defeat Gabriel.” He swallowed. “Gabriel has joined our side.”
The room exploded into cacophony, shouting and expletives and tears, a tragic, heady mix of disbelief and dismay. Everyone in the room had lost at least one friend, one loved one, to the Dogs of Heaven, to Gabriel and his hordes, it was impossible to believe that he was now their comrade.
And against whom? More than one person cried out for an explanation, for the name of this new foe, this danger that was so great that they would count Gabriel as an ally.
There were a number of Jenkins’ people in amongst the crowd. They had been briefed on the situation and as impossible as it seemed, they trusted their commander. To a soldier, they all stood a little bit straighter, eyes darting left and right, muscles tightening, ready for action. They would not let this devolve into a mob scene.
Jenkins, on the other hand, looked as if he had been deflated. He hadn’t known how things would go – he hadn’t written any script or brought along any notes for this most important meeting. He had been gauging the audience as far as how much information they could handle, and it seemed as if he had gauged them quite wrong.
His first real act as the leader of the Wildcat community and he had failed. It felt as if he were facing imminent chaos.
Michael walked from the side of the stage toward the podium, his every step marked by resolve. He nodded briefly to Alex, then moved toward Jenkins and spoke in low tones. “I think it is time that these people met me.”
He continued downstage to the center and looked out at the raucous, agitated crowd. There was a presence to him, a presence and a determination that everyone in the room could sense.
“I AM…” he spoke with all of the authority and power of the Archistrategos, the Supreme Commander of the Heavenly Host, “…THE ARCHANGEL MICHAEL.”
The sound echoed off the walls of the gymnasium and instantly silenced the collected crowd. To a person, the assembly stared up at him, dumbfounded. Unlike the residents of Vega, these people had not had the experience of an archangel in their midst.
Michael stood for a moment, scanning the room, his dark eyes slowly taking in each and every resident, or so it felt. Just as he had with the people of Vega, he would need to guide the people of New Haven in the right direction, to make them see the need for the course he and Jenkins had charted. From their collected expressions of distrust, even of the Archangel Michael, it wasn’t going to be easy.
“Many of you know my history with your people, you know that I have fought alongside humans against the eight-ball army.”
“You mean against Gabriel’s army!” someone shouted from the back of the hall. There were various noises of agreement from around the room.
“Yes, against the eight-balls that had aligned themselves with my brother. But what Commander Jenkins told you was the truth – Gabriel no longer leads those troops; he no longer fights that war. He has united himself with me, with the Chosen One, with humanity, against anyone who would raise a hand against them.”
Michael knew this was not the time to bring Lucifer into the equation – the mere thought that Gabriel was going to be involved was enough to cause dissention in the crowd, but he needed them to understand that their former enemy was a necessity. “In the coming days, it is likely that we will be facing another war with a different enemy, a different general for the eight-ball army. Commander Jenkins and I agree, we need to use every available soldier, every leader, every combat ready veteran. Gabriel has proven himself time and time again in the theater of war; we would be foolish not to use his experience.”
“He’s goddamn Gabriel!” someone in the back shouted. “His only experience is KILLING HUMANITY!”
There was a general rumble of concurrence as Michael turned cold blue eyes in the direction of the comment. His gaze settled on a man in an open uniform shirt, older than most but still powerfully built. The man’s grizzled hair was in a short buzz cut but his beard was ragged, as if he was trapped between his military and his civilian lives.
Michael was quick to size him up. “You were a soldier before the Extermination War, were you not? You fought for your country?”
Everyone’s gaze quickly turned toward the older man. “Master Sergeant United States Marine Corps, sir.” The honorific was shouted out with less than the usual respect. “Two tours in Afghanistan.”
The archangel thought this over for a moment. “You were involved in conflict?”
The man smirked. “That’s why we were there. Teach those rebels a thing or two.”
Michael clasped his hands behind his back and tilted his head ever so slightly to the side. “And if you had still been there when the Extermination War had begun, still been in Afghanistan when the angels fell from the sky, would you have continued that?” Somehow, he made it seem that he was having a private conversation while at the same time his voice reached to the very back of the room. “Would you have continued to ‘teach those rebels a lesson?’ Or would you have banded together with them to defend yourselves, to fight for humanity, to teach the eight-balls a lesson?”
The grizzled man pressed his lips together tightly, his face darkening. He did not respond. The men and woman around him rustled uncomfortably.
“We’re not asking you to forget what Gabriel did, to negate his part in the War.” Jenkins spoke up as he looked out over the now-silent group. “We’re asking you to understand that for any of us to survive what’s coming, we must work together. Humans and archangels, New Haven and Helena, Vega and New Delphi and anyone else we might find. We all have to work together.”
“What is coming? You still haven’t told us?” It was an older woman, her face tanned and weather-beaten, her eyes clouded with cataracts. Her tone wasn’t belligerent, simply committed. Others nodded in agreement.
Jenkins sighed and shook his head. “We’re still figuring that out, Alice, we’re still figuring that out, and when we know, we will tell you. You’ve trusted us for the last 25 years to do everything we could to keep you safe, I’m asking you to trust us for a little while longer.” The commander didn’t say what he was thinking – that they only needed to trust him a little longer because there would be no need to trust him after that, that one way or another, this was going to be the end – but he could tell, more than a few people understood, including Alice. The older folk knew, they felt it.
The rumble started up again and he tried to hush it with a placating gesture. “I know this isn’t everything that you wanted to hear. I know you’re going to go home to your family and friends and they’re going to have questions and you’re not going to have all the answers – I don’t have the answers yet, either. But I want to tell you one thing – before we lost the Commander, before Charlotte Lannon died, this was the path she set us on. You can ask Michael and her son and anyone in First Platoon and they’ll all tell you the same thing – this is the course that she meant us to follow.
“Commander Lannon said something to us before our last operation, something that I think you should all know. She said ‘now is when we get to choose who is our enemy and who is our ally.’ She said ‘now we grab hold of Fate and make it our own.’ And that’s what we’re doing. We’re doing everything we can to ensure our success in this next battle, because it may be the most important one. We need to look beyond the past and to the future, because if we don’t, we aren’t going to have a future. It’s that simple.”
“If you’re saying that this is going to be the final battle,” Alice spoke up again, her voice strong and resolute, her filmy blue eyes nonetheless piercing, “then tell us one thing – who are we fighting? We deserve to know.”
Jenkins and Alex both looked at Michael. This was exactly the situation that they had tried to avoid and yet here it was. The commander’s face was telling – if it had been anyone other than this woman, this respected elder of the community, he probably would have pushed the question off. Yet even Michael could feel the wisdom of the older woman’s gaze. She had seen much in her years on earth, life and death, happiness and suffering. She had fought more than eight-balls, and she wanted to know what it was that she would be fighting here in her last days.
As did they all.
Michael cast his eyes toward the side of the stage. Gabriel lurked in the shadows there, a mere outline of a form against the bright stage lights, but there was no mistaking the way he dropped his head in regret.
The archangel turned back toward the old woman, then out to the audience at large. “She’s right,” he announced, his voice once more filling the space. “You do deserve to know.” He breathed deeply, setting his feet apart and placing a hand on the hilt of each of his swords. “Our new enemy is my other brother.
“Lucifer.”
It took nearly two hours for the auditorium to empty, two hours for people to settle down enough to leave, to go home to their families and tell them that while the Extermination War was over, Armageddon was right around the corner.
There was shouting, there were tears, there were near hysterics. Jenkins gave up trying to speak again after about five minutes – nothing was going to get through. The people had to work things out themselves. He’d seen the same thing on the faces of his troops when he’d explained it to them prior to this town hall meeting – they’d been incredulous, then horrified, and justly scared to death. His troops, however, were full-time soldiers; they knew how to take that fear, compartmentalize it and get on with their duty. These people weren’t, and they had every right to be afraid.
The people of New Haven had been living with the dread of attack for more than 25 years. Sometimes it was better, sometimes it was worse, but it never went away. Right now, it was pegged out at absolute maximum.
Eventually the last of the town folk had dispersed into the night. Jenkins and the members of the Tribunal had done what they could to talk to groups of people, to try to quell the nascent hysteria, to explain that there was a plan in the works. First Platoon milled around, looking as brave, professional and competent as possible, sending out little unseen vibrations of “we’ve got this!” with every nod of a head, every pat on the back. It was an act, everyone knew it, but a placebo is called that for a reason.
Finally, Jenkins sat on the edge of the stage while First Platoon went to work dismantling the rows of chairs. The Tribunal came up as a group, as drained and deflated as the commander.
“That went…” the merchant, a middle-aged woman, started then left off with a long sigh.
“Like shit.” Jenkins finished for her. “Although I don’t know how else we could have expected it to go. There’s just no good way to give people bad news.”
The farmer, a man just a bit older than Jenkins, was more philosophical. “Now they know. We’ll get the word out to the other communities before it spreads by rumor, and everyone can prepare. Giving them something to do, giving them purpose, some control over their lives, it’ll help.”
Jenkins rubbed his forehead with both hands – he had the mother of all tension headaches. “I’ve got runners going out tonight; there will be meetings tomorrow in all of the satellites and other villages and until then comms are on lockdown. I want to stay ahead of the hysteria.”
All three nodded. “What about the actual battle logistics?” the soldier asked. “You said you have something in mind.”
The commander nodded, his eyes closed, his fingers pressed just above the bridge of his nose. “I’ve had people working on it for a couple days already. As soon as we identified the target. We’ll be putting the specifics together tomorrow morning and implementing ASAP.” He squinted up, the dark circles under his bloodshot eyes heightened by the bright overhead lights. “I’m sorry, I need a couple hours of shut eye right now if I’m going to be any use at all. It’s been a helluva couple weeks.”
They all made conciliatory noises and made to leave the auditorium. The merchant paused, her hand on his forearm. “Malcolm. You’re doing a good job in an impossible situation.”
He gave her a sad little grimace. “I wish I agreed, but thank you.”
“I mean it. We all miss her, but we’re grateful that we have you.” She squeezed his arm. “Come ‘round the store tomorrow, I have a peppermint ointment for those headaches. In the meantime, get some ice and put it on your head. It’ll help.”
“I’d like to drown the whole damn thing in a bucket of it.” He gave her an exhausted, rueful half-grin. “Thank you, I’ll be by tomorrow.”
“See you then.”
He watched her go, with her sweet smile and kind eyes, yet beneath it he could see something else. Something they all carried, something beneath the strength, beneath the leadership, beneath the self-control.
Fear.
Michael had watched from one side of the room as Jenkins and the rest of the Tribunal had done what they could to keep the people in the auditorium from panicking. They’d done better than he had expected, going from one group to another with calm voices, gentle persuasion and definite but not overt signs of authority. It reminded him of firefighters back in the Second World War, pouring water on buildings to keep them from burning to the ground, efficiently going about their jobs even while bombs might be dropping around them. The archangel could actually feel the tension in the room gradually ebb.
At least somewhat.
Alex had done what he could, too. A newcomer – and therefore suspicious – he had the advantage of being both Charlotte Lannon’s son and the Chosen One. Although not as popular as Jenkins and the Tribunal, there were a few people that came up to him either out of respect, curiosity or because they might not be able to get an audience with others.
Michael, however, had no such problems. The denizens of New Haven had done their very best to stay well away from the archangel, offering sideways glances and furtive peeks instead of questions and requests for reassurance. He didn’t mind; few of the inhabitants of Vega had ever found the fortitude to actually look him straight in the eye, and those that had were usually his enemies.
Gabriel had never made an appearance, which was certainly for the best. Michael had felt his brother watching from the darkened wings of the stage, standing behind the ancient, faded velvet curtains, a little like a troll hunkered down beneath a bridge. Part of him pitied his twin, part of him still held on to the residual anger – how had Gabriel let himself be so manipulated, so maneuvered into exactly the position Lucifer wanted him in? Even after all these years, after their reconciliation, Michael could still not understand how Gabriel had been led so astray.
Eventually the room had cleared out to the point that Michael felt his presence was no longer needed (not that it had ever been really wanted.) He said his short goodbyes to Jenkins and his companions, told Alex that he would see him in the morning, and headed out the side door of the auditorium.
The night air was crisp, not yet frosty but certainly heading that way. The stars, however, were nearly crystalline in the clear sky. Michael took a moment to peer up, his dark eyes tracing across the heavens, memories of other places, other worlds, other peoples, rolling through his mind like a film on fast-forward. As fatalistic as he generally tried to be, right now he felt trapped. Trapped by Father’s absence, trapped by Gabriel’s actions, trapped by his promise to the Chosen One, trapped by his own need to save Lucifer’s body so long ago. Those crystal stars seemed so very, very far away.
“You’re Michael, aren’t you?”
The voice was gruff but familiar. Michael slowly lowered his gaze, turning around to find a group of men and women behind him. A half-dozen or so, the bearded man from earlier in the evening stood in the lead. A sergeant in the Wildcats from the insignia on his shirt. And not the only soldier in the group.
“I am.” Michael’s response was icy. “Is there something I may do for you?”
“Yeah,” the man rolled his shoulders back, building up his bravado. “You can tell us why your brother Lucifer gives two shits about us humans. From what I hear, it’s you archangels that cast him down. His beef is with you, not us.”
Michael took a long, calming breath. Now was not the time to be reactive. He understood that these people were frightened. He would need to be as Jenkins and the Tribunal, working to ease the fear, lessen the panic.
“That is very true. However, we’ve learned that Lucifer has designs on the Chosen One, and that means humanity. We need to work together to defeat him.”
“‘We need to work together,’” the soldier echoed, mocking the archangel’s accent. “Says you. I don’t take orders from you. My superiors don’t take orders from you. I think we need to remind some people of that.”
The group started to move in on Michael but he held his ground. “Your superior is Commander Jenkins and he and I are in agreement on the matter.”
“Jenkins,” the soldier spat out the name in disdain. “You come in, you and Gabriel and your Chosen One, and we’re all supposed to get in line to go fight for you, to die for you, just because Jenkins says so? Fuck that, archangel. Go fight your goddamn brother by yourself. We’ve gotten along just fine without you and your fancy Chosen One for this long, we don’t need you.”
“My brother – “
“Your brother? YOUR brother. YOU are the problem. YOU! Angels! All of your kind.” He pulled a thick metal pipe out of his back pocket. Others brought out cattle prods, bolt stunners, heavy wrenches. “Maybe it’s not just the eight-balls we need to get rid of, maybe we need to get rid of all of you!”
Michael slowly pushed the sides of his long coat back with his thumbs, exposing his two swords. “I don’t want – ”
The agony was instantaneous and intense, an electric shock that hit him between the shoulder blades and violently coursed through his body. He’d been too focused on the group in front, too concerned with placating them, and he’d never heard anyone come up behind. They had caught him by surprise. His arms flung up, his head snapped back and along with the incredible pain, he had the most ridiculous feeling of déjà vu.
Michael crumpled to the ground, every one of his muscles spasming in terrible concert. There was nothing he could do as the citizens of New Haven gathered round to take their fears out upon him.
Gabriel had wanted to leave earlier, but he had stayed for Michael’s sake. Not that his twin had asked him to. No, God's Sword was not that way, but when Gabriel had seen how the people of New Haven had shied away from Michael, had gone out of their way to avoid being near him in the crowded auditorium…well, no one liked being made a pariah, even if they were an archangel. Gabriel had decided to stick around for moral support, if nothing better.
It wasn’t as if he had anywhere else to be.
They’d agreed to rendezvous at a small cabin on the outskirts of the military compound, a place usually reserved for visiting commanders and the like. Jenkins had offered it for their use and while they didn’t necessarily need it for sleep, it would be nice to have some quiet place to unwind, to talk.
He had stepped out onto the loading dock of the auditorium, flipped his hood up and made ready to take to the sky when he felt…something. Or had he heard it? He tilted his head, trying to catch whatever it was, within or without, reaching out with his senses and his thoughts…
The breath exploded from his chest in shock.
Michael!
Gabriel landed just a few yards away from the melee, his feet hitting hard and making an audible thud on the solid-packed dirt. He quickly counted almost a dozen people standing in a circle around a central figure on the ground, various weapons in their hands, everything from cattle prods to shovel handles. He saw one of the forsaken stun guns that Charlotte had brought to Delphi laying on the ground, its wires extended, already used.
His arrival took their attention away from Michael’s still form. With both hands, he nonchalantly flipped back the hood on the leather duster and casually rolled his shoulders to tuck in his wings. He stood with his feet apart, his hands still at his sides, unarmed, purposefully non-aggressive.
His voice, however, rolled like thunder. “Leave my brother alone, he does not deserve your wrath. He has done nothing but fight for humanity in this war. Your quarrel is with me and with me alone.”
One of the men pushed his way forward, a burly type wearing green fatigues, an unkempt beard and sergeant’s stripes. He held a length of pipe that he’d been about to use on Michael’s still form.
“Quarrel?” the man asked in disbelief, spittle flying out with the word. “Quarrel? You’re Gabriel, aren’t you? You’re the son of a bitch responsible for destroying the whole goddamned planet. I think we’ve got a little bit more than a ‘quarrel’ with you.”
Gabriel slowly closed his eyes, breathed deeply, then opened them again. His voice was quieter now, resigned. “I don’t deny it. I only ask that you leave Michael out of whatever retribution you feel you need to take.” He glanced at his twin, lying prone on the dirt road. “For what it’s worth, his only sin has been trusting your kind.”
He lifted both hands in an attitude of surrender, then slowly reached down with his right hand and pushed back his coat, unknowingly echoing Michael’s actions of only moments before. Everyone tensed and weapons raised. “I’m going to take my sword off and throw it over there,” he said, jerking his head away from the group, away from them all.
No one said anything for a moment and Gabriel cocked an eyebrow at the one seemingly in charge. “Do it,” the sergeant growled.
Without ever taking his eyes off the man, Gabriel reached for the sword, using only two fingers to pull it out of its scabbard. True to his word, he flipped it off to the side, away from everyone. “Alright then. No weapons.” He raised both hands again. “I’ve nothing else.”
“Right then. Let me tell you something,” growled the lead man. “I learned one thing in the war. Never, ever, trust an angel.” With unexpected quickness, he pulled one of the stun guns out from behind him, instantly aiming and burying the dual spikes into Gabriel’s upper arm.
The archangel’s eyes went wide, and as he fell twitching to the ground, a single thought ran through his mind.
He truly, passionately hated those weapons.
Jenkins was tired. He was tired and his head hurt and things had not gone well. Okay, they’d gone as well as could be expected, given that he’d pretty much announced the potential End of Days, but still, it could have gone better. Commander Lannon would have done better. He knew that, not in a feeling-sorry-for-himself-way, but in a deep down, need-to-get-better-at-this kind of way.
If he got the opportunity.
Mouse ran up to him as he was heading for the door of the auditorium. “You wanted to see me, sir?”
He rubbed at his forehead again. “Did I?”
“Yes, sir, you said this afternoon to come see you after the meeting. You had something you wanted to talk to me about?”
“That was before everything went to hell.” He frowned. “Honestly, Mouse, I’m sorry, I don’t remember what it was about.”
She gave him an understanding smile. “That’s okay, sir. Opening Night’s never easy, and it was a pretty tough crowd.”
He couldn’t help but to laugh – gently, trying not to make his head hurt any worse. “Yeah, it was. Why don’t you walk with me and maybe it will come back to me.”
She agreed with a smile and they headed out into the cool night air.
“Give me your honest opinion, Captain,” he said after a few feet. “How do you think people took the news?”
“Well, sir, I think…” She paused suddenly and stopped walking. Her head turned back toward the gymnasium. “Do you hear that?”
Jenkins listened. The echoes of shouting and jeering could be heard from around the far side of the building. “That doesn’t sound good, that doesn’t sound good at all.”
“No, sir,” Mouse was already drawing her side arm, “no, it doesn’t.” She nodded to him and together they sprinted toward the noise.
Three gunshots rang into the air. Instantly, a dozen people fell into protective crouches, looking like so many rats around a garbage pile.
“WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?!!!” Jenkins head reverberated with his own voice; he was going to pay for this later but right now the adrenaline was pumping too fast for the pain to catch up. He could see Michael on his hands and knees off to the side, obviously too weak to do anything, and in the middle of the pile…
“Get off him, you ignorant fools!” The commander charged toward the group, grabbing more than one person and throwing them to the side. “Back off, back off!” He reached down to the gory mess on the ground, his fingers finding bloody gashes, exposed bones…and a pulse.
Mouse stood off to the side, radio in one hand, already calling for back-up, while the other held the pistol on anyone who dared make a threatening move. “Who is it, sir? Are they alive?”
“It’s goddamn Gabriel, that’s who,” came a belligerent voice from the group. “Deserves everything he got.”
Jenkins stood up and rushed toward the speaker. “Beaumont! Is this your idea?”
The grizzled soldier came forward with a self-congratulatory swagger, smacking the metal pipe against the palm of his other hand. “You mean did I finally take down Gabriel, something you never could in 25 years? Damn right I did.”
Jenkins fist flew without warning, connecting solidly with the other man’s jaw and sending him sprawling across the road. The pipe flew out of Beaumont’s hand and clanked against the building, a dramatic exclamation in a now silent tableau.
“Mouse,” Jenkins called out between heaving breaths. “You will notify the relevant parties that Sergeant Beaumont has been Dishonorably Discharged by Executive Command. He is also under arrest.”
“Yes, sir.” She bobbed her head toward the end of the building. “MP’s are here.”
“Good. See to Gabriel, will you?”
There was a split second of hesitation before she answered. “Yes, sir,” she repeated, and holstered her weapon.
Jenkins rubbed at his knuckles as he scanned the rest of the group. “The rest of you are all very lucky Gabriel is not dead, or you would be looking at capital charges. I would highly suggest that you volunteer for the most dangerous details you can find in our upcoming maneuvers.” His eyes scanned the chastened men and women. “I know who you are, and I don’t forget. Now get the hell out of here!” he shouted. “Leave your goddamn weapons and get back home and be grateful you picked a fight with an archangel.”
Michael pushed his unsteady way through the group as they disbanded. “Gabriel,” he called softly.
Jenkins held him back. “I’m sorry, Michael. He’s unconscious. She’s a field medic, let her do her job.”
Michael nodded but said nothing. He watched in silence as Mouse gently rolled Gabriel onto his back, supporting an arm that flopped at a very wrong angle. She looked up at her commander and the other archangel with wide eyes. “It’s bad, sir, way more than I can help with. He’s going to need a full med team.” She reached for her radio again.
Jenkins pulled Michael off to the side. “Did they attack you, too?”
The archangel seemed dazed. “Yes…mostly the stun guns, the cattle prods.” He rubbed unconsciously on his upper arm while he shook his head in a mix of sorrow and disbelief. “Gabriel came to my rescue. He…he sacrificed himself for me. He threw away his sword, he never even defended himself…” His voice trailed off. “Why would he do that?”
Jenkins was fairly sure that he knew the answer but kept silent. “Are you ok? Do you need help?”
“I’m weak,” Michael continued, “not really hurt.” He watched while a couple of corpsmen appeared from seemingly out of nowhere with a stretcher and supplies. They gently worked to get Gabriel’s unconscious form onto the gurney even while Mouse continued to apply pressure bandages, to splint his leg, to tie down his dislocated arm.
Michael watched them, stunned into immobility. As they made to leave, he suddenly moved to intercept them. “Stop. He’s an archangel.”
“He’s hurt, Michael,” Jenkins countered. “I don’t care what he is, he needs help, lots of it.”
The dazed look was replaced by one of determination. Michael’s hand brushed over his brother’s bruised and battered face. “He’s an archangel,” he repeated. “I can heal him better than your human doctors.”
The commander pursed his lips. This was new territory for him, working with archangels. He couldn’t afford to lose his new allies. “Are you sure?”
“I’ll need assistance and somewhere safe and warm that he can stay for a day or two.”
The answer came to Jenkins like a gift from above. He nodded. “I’ve got just the place.”