Morning Star (Sins of the Father 3)

A blessing? No, a blight on the world. A curse. But nothing I could have ever done in my short life could compare to the complete devastation Belphegor would cause if his plan came to fruition. Time, no, life itself would grind to a halt, every human withering slowly in Sloth’s blissful, fragrant paralysis. No. I could never be as terrible as Belphegor. Taint, curse, abomination that I was – I still had work to do.

I cried out in anger, in sheer pain, lifting the flaming sword to the heavens, howling as my mind begged for whichever archangel owned this terrible relic to come reclaim it. Yet I knew they wouldn’t come. This was something I’d stolen from them, fire from the gods, something that shouldn’t have ever come into mortal hands. And it was consuming me. It was killing me.

The world burst into white as the sword’s fullest fury unleashed. I could hardly hear my own screams over the horrific outpouring of energies, a blast so powerful that I should have been obliterated on the spot. Yet light kept spilling from the blade, piercing the dark of night, reaching down to the world below. I gasped as I saw the entire city, even the woods and mountains beyond lit up like pure ivory – from darkest night to starkest white. Even the shadows were gone.

A light in the darkness.

And there, layered just above the terror in my voice, were Belphegor’s own screams. The sword’s rush of power kept flowing. It felt as though I was touching the heart of the sun itself. I was going to lose that hand for sure – if, by some miracle, I managed to live at all.

The sword’s light flickered, then faded. I caught a final glimpse of Belphegor before my eyes fell shut, my body giving out. His clothes had been torn from his body, the skin seared from most of his torso, his arms nothing but exposed bone and flesh, purified by the light of divinity. Miraculously, his face had survived, the crimson light gone, his eyes now filled only with tears of terror. I almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

But more importantly, every petal in sight, even those drifting to earth – even those that had taken root and grown across the city – had burned to ashes. The sword’s power had destroyed them all. Belphegor’s plan was no more.

As one, the two of us fell back to earth. My wings were nowhere to be found, gone from my shoulders. Was I just too weak to fly? Maybe the sword’s fire had incinerated the corrupted parts of me, taking the nephilim away.

Did that mean I was going to die? My head turned slightly towards the ground thousands of feet beneath me, and I chuckled despite the thick lump in my throat. This was it. I was a goner either way.

Mom, I thought. Dad? I’m coming to see you. I’m coming home.

28

I should have passed out from the pressure and speed of the fall, but I was horribly, terribly conscious through it all, waiting for a painful death when I inevitably struck the streets below. I wondered if I would break through the roof of a car, instantly killing its driver and causing a pileup. Or if I fell just right, I could be skewered on a flagpole. How would they even get my corpse off it? Man, what a way to go.

Belphegor shrieked as he plummeted, the light of the archangel’s sword not only burning his flowers and most of his body, but apparently nulling his demonic magics as well. Whoever the hell owned the damned thing had to have been so powerful that their leftover essence in the blade could actually hurt – no, absolutely debilitate a demon prince, a member of the Seven.

But my descent slowed. I was still falling, though not quite as fast. Slowly I realized that there were hands clasped underneath me, carrying me by my back. The air rushed and sounded with the beat of great, huge wings, each flap sending a gust across my skin that made me shiver.

Far below, from a distance away, I heard a sound that would infest my nightmares. Bones crunched and meat squelched as Belphegor’s husk struck concrete. His wails filled the night, as pained, desperate, and begging as something human. The thing carrying me in its arms chuckled.

Was it an angel? It had to be. I forced my eyes open, almost immediately needing to shut them again when all I saw was an overwhelming radiance, a blazing light not dissimilar to what the sword had produced.

The sword which, I noticed, was still grasped in my fingers. I sputtered softly, laughing to myself. Even plunging to my death, something in my body was trying to hold desperately onto it. I kept my eyes shut, allowing my savior to carry me. Savior, I thought, little dribbles of hope filling the cavity left by fear in my chest. Maybe it wasn’t my time yet.

Who else could it be but Raziel, though? I relaxed as I descended, jerking slightly when we touched land, when I was laid slowly onto what felt like a silken bed. Through my eyelids I could tell that the light had faded, and it was okay to open my eyes again.

“Thanks, Raz,” I mumbled. “You really saved my bacon.”

I blinked, my vision still blurry, seeing nothing but the outline of someone humanoid. Somewhere nearby, Belphegor was whimpering, sticky sobs emanating from his ruined lips. I could hear the voices of my friends whispering hurriedly to each other. I made out Florian’s words clearest of all,

even though he had to croak them out.

“Mason,” he said. “Dude. That’s not Raziel.”

My fingers dug into the satiny surface that I now knew to be flower petals. I sprang to my feet, fighting the dizzying rush of blood that shot straight to my head. My shoes scuffed at the ground as I stumbled away from the thing that had rescued me, away from the bed of flowers. Slowly my sight returned, and I could see that these blooms were pink. Not Belphegor’s poison, just some peonies that Loki had planted there.

But more importantly, there was the person who had saved me, standing barefoot on the flowerbed. My breath caught in my throat as I studied him, taking in the impossibility of his long, golden hair. It flowed down his back, down to his ankles, nearly touching the ground. I couldn’t tell where his hair ended and his wings began.

Those were gleaming and metallic, too, every feather sculpted out of filaments so delicate that they could have been wires of the finest gold. The man stood there completely naked, his body lean, his skin smooth, almost pulsing as if with its own radiance, like a lantern illuminated by divine fire. Then his wings unfurled, stretching so long and so high that they shadowed me from the moon. My jaw dropped as I counted them, each wing like a huge, shimmering golden leaf.

Six. He had six wings.

My legs buckled. I fell to my knees, my hands cold against the pavement. I felt as though I could be blinded by the archangel’s beauty, but especially his face, which I was only truly seeing for the very first time. His eyes were bright yellow, nearly as gold as his hair and his wings, his features far too flawless to be human. He watched me imperiously, his mouth in a straight, unreadable line.

I ran my tongue across my lips, tasting salt from new tears, my muscles tightening with awe, wonder, and despair. I’d never seen anyone or anything so beautiful, so perfect, yet terrible, horrific in its majesty.

“Dear God,” I heard myself mutter.

The archangel chuckled, his voice like soothing balm, like the sound that silk makes as it rushes over bare skin.