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THE BRITISH FIELDS were waking to the refreshing cool of a crisp spring morning. Nocturnal creatures turned to sleep, yet the rest of creation had not yet stirred. It couldn’t be quieter. Early sunlight grew in strength, chasing night’s last shadows. Before long, the barest bit of sun peeked over the horizon. Dewdrops atop the highest hill captured the first rays, and grass blades held the shining droplets like tiny mirrors. A brief rose hue first painted the sky, heralding the gold to follow. Then the colors all threw their arms over the plain.
Nechum stood atop the church steeple to greet every dawn and to bask in its glory as a faint reminder of God’s greater glory. He closed his eyes. His empathic sense felt the earliest risers on the move. They’d be cupping their coffee mugs, drinking in the scented steam while breakfast sizzled in their pans. Others, still under sleep’s spell, would curse the day for showing up, then burrow themselves under the sheets.
Feeling the sun’s heat fully emerge, Nechum bowed his head, folded his hands, and sang the same hymn as he had done each morn:
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Praise God from Whom all blessings flow.
Praise Him all creatures here below.
Praise Him above, ye heavenly hosts.
Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.
-
After a final “Amen,” Nechum pulled out the notes he scribbled the night before and re-scanned their contents.
“Captain Jediah,” he mentally read to himself “Two of his wingmen, a messenger and a Destroyer. That’s six angels, including myself.”
Jediah...long had he heard of him. What angel hadn’t? He secured a long-celebrated victory. Conquering a beast like Apollyon—surely this Jediah had to be one of those mighty, no nonsense commanders that Nechum envisioned—as confident as soldiers come.
Akela he had met a day ago. Nechum smiled, happy to have an optimistic brother to lighten this dangerous enterprise, but the last three team members were an enigma to him. Nechum guessed Laszio and Eran’s role easy enough. Jediah would need wingmen, but this Alameth, an angel of death, seemed more out of place than even himself.
Nechum withheld a worried sigh. A Destroyer in their midst rarely bode well. They were God’s judgment arm as much as the personal escorts of God’s adopted children. Pain and sorrow followed them often.
Refolding his paper, Nechum stared into the sky as its intense colors softened to common blue. “I know Your timing is perfect, Lord, but I wish You granted me more time to prepare.”
Despite lacking wings, Nechum dove headfirst off his perch. He concentrated on the shingles and phased through both them and the attic into the sanctuary. After a somersault, his graceful feet landed with less force than a feather, and his knees bent in one fluid motion, absorbing the velocity. He straightened, then took a seat by the pulpit. His company would arrive soon.
Though pitiful by comparison, Nechum liked the sanctuary. It mimicked home. Rich light streamed through colored glass, staining the whitewashed walls in its spectrum. A wooden cross stood tall in the center—right where the Great Throne would be. Brass candelabras copied the fiery seraphs when lit during evening services, and though no incense burned nor were coals stoked on an altar, the spiritual aroma of the worshipers’ prayers and songs lingered there for days at a time.
Nechum flinched at the sound of footsteps. Over his shoulder, he saw three figures approach the aisle way. Their heads were covered with blue cloaks, but Nechum didn’t need his empathic sense to know they weren’t actual ministry angels. Most telling was the sword hilt poking out from behind the leader’s back.
Nechum stood to receive the three as they removed their coverings and bowed his head. “Welcome, brothers.”
The one with the sword, whom he guessed had to be Jediah, bent his head in turn. “Thank you. Are you Nechum?”
“At yours and our Lord’s service,” Nechum replied. Placing a hand over his figurative heart, he made an even deeper bow. His eyes were drawn to the slight glint of their golden, armored wings that peeked from under their loosened disguises. “Forgive me for saying so, sir, and I mean no disrespect, but you may want to hide your wings and sword a little better.”
The leader drew the fabric closer to himself and loosened the scabbard straps. The sword slipped further down his back under his cloak. He regarded Nechum with a kind tone. “No. Please speak. We need your judgment.”
Nechum peered closer. Jediah wasn’t the hardened officer he expected. Even as he commanded his wingmen to rest as they waited for the others, there was no demanding tone. No impression of a domineering spirit. His brown hair hid red highlights that only revealed themselves in direct sunlight. His brown eyes glowed like lacquered wood, and gold lines, translucent as amber, mixed with those warm, earthy tones. To Nechum, they captured the fleeting majesty of a sunset—as well as its sadness. There laid strength and courage but also potent sorrow.
Is he the one?
Nechum turned his attention to his wingmen, Laszio and Eran. They spent a while examining the porcelain angel statues and frowning at their misinformed feminine image. Already, Nechum sensed a close bond between the two. Their braided locks matched, right down to the length and the polished silver beads that tied them. Their grey eyes showed tints of pale greens and blues, and were as tumultuous as the restless sea. They itched to test others’ strength and character, as well as their own.
A yellow blur dropped through the ceiling and landed between the pews like a meteor.
Before Nechum could raise a shield, Jediah had pulled him behind himself and drew his sword. Laszio and Eran had also armed themselves.
“Ow.” A hand grabbed the pew’s back. A second hand did the same. Then Akela’s curls emerged, followed by the rest of him. He swayed back and forth to a stand. “Ow.”
Nerves shot, Nechum released an exasperated breath.
“Akela?” Laszio’s face soured with annoyance. “What are you doing?”
Akela stumbled around the pew bench. “Crashing, apparently.” He rubbed his scalp and rolled his neck. “Misjudged my distance again.” After wiping the bleariness from his eyes, he beamed. “Oh, hi, Nechum. How’re you doing?”
“Fine, but are you okay?”
“Yeah. Yeah,” Akela said with a wince. “Happens a lot.” He shook his head, then whipped his gaze around, surveying the group. “So is this everyone?”
Jediah sheathed his sword. “Almost.”
A light tapping echoed from the sanctuary doors. The faintest grey wisps leaked through the middle crack. Clouds then billowed beneath the door. It crept along the carpet, then churned into a pillar that gained height and form. The cloud peeled away. Shrouded in his fogs and his sliver grey robe, the angel of death chosen to accompany them stood. His long hood hid most of his face, but as his head tipped up, Nechum could see a pair of emerald eyes just beneath the fabric.
Respectful, Nechum kept a slight distance and bowed. “Welcome, brother Alameth.”
The angel of death returned Nechum’s bow; his expression more blank than a sheet of paper.
Nechum invested all his empathic power to find what scraps of emotion were in Alameth only to come up dry. The greens of his eyes teetered between darkness and light—a delicate balance between joy and despair, and Nechum dreaded what it might imply. It looked barely stable, with only a practiced discipline preventing utter chaos.
Now it seemed to Nechum that two were in desperate emotional need.
***
Night had not yet ended in Mexico after the two foolish boys scrammed from Isla de las Muñecas. Hanging doll trinkets swung as the chilled wind whistled between thin twigs, and Elazar fingered the two dolls the intruding boys abandoned. “More trophies,” he thought sarcastically. “Great.” Such meager offerings were a pittance compared to the lavish sacrifices he once received from the ancient peoples. Still, scaring the two youths witless was a pleasant diversion to the demon.
Elazar stepped over the last demon messenger who dared bother him. He stopped a moment to admire his handiwork. The imp laid unconscious with his chest ripped open and his energy pooling like blood. Elazar smirked. It wouldn’t be till noon tomorrow before the whelp could move again.
The cluttered path of toys and sticks took him over thicker roots and into thicker brush. Moonlight peeked through the rustling canopy above. After dropping off the dolls in a rotted shack, Elazar reached a still pool. Setting himself down on the sandbank, he stared into the waters. His blue ministry garb had long darkened. His pitch-black hair reflected the unfeeling light he basked in, but his one good eye locked onto the reflected scar that carved the other.
His empathic sense stirred to a presence behind him.
“Look at you. The great Elazar. How does one go from ruling kingdoms to conjuring ghost stories and cheap tricks?” scoffed Zivel.
Elazar smiled ruefully at the sound of his name on Zivel’s tongue. “Ran out of messengers, I see. And how’ve you been all this time, Xipe Totec?”
“Get with the times, Elazar,” Zivel huffed. “The age of gods is long over. That old moniker is dead and buried along with the Aztecs and their tombs.”
Not caring to give that so much as a response, Elazar pulled out the medallion he stole from the demon messenger’s pocket. His thumb stroked the engraved dragon. “So what does Lucifer want from me now? What new carrot has he got to dangle in front of my nose today?” His senses resonated to Zivel’s jealous fury.
“He wants someone ‘taken care of’, and apparently...” Zivel’s voice lowered to a rumbling grumble, “he thinks only you can handle him.”
Elazar flipped the medallion like a coin repeatedly in his fingers. “Name him.”
“He wants Captain Jediah.”
At that, Elazar stilled. “Jediah?” he mumbled. Lowering himself to loom over the water’s surface, he stared once more at his wavering reflection and his jagged scar. Jediah’s name passed his lips again but in a low growl that vibrated against the waters like a curse.
Elazar breathed deep. His energy glowed as a red aura compounded within his chest. He concentrated to shift it from his shoulder, down his arm and into his hand. His fingers tensed. A translucent crimson shield surrounded the medallion in his grip and levitated it above his palm. Then, with little thought but mountains of repressed rage, Elazar tightened the force-field like he was splitting a skull. The brittle medallion cracked. It wrenched into a crumpled ball, then splintered to shards, and by a flick of his fingers, the force-field vanished, releasing shrapnel that sprinkled the ground. “I accept.”