From Heaven To Earth (The Faith of the Fallen) (9 page)

Peter awoke from his nightmare and felt like he had just stepped out of a
spinning subterfuge. He fell on the tile several times on the way to the
bathroom and vomited before reaching the toilet. His migraine medication had
run out a few months ago and every night since, his parent’s death invaded his
dreams.

Peter was a well-built man of 190 pounds. His light brown skin was shaved
smooth everywhere on his body: a job requirement, and one that he abhorred. A
small patch of hair could make his half-breed combat armaments dysfunctional
and leave him defenseless on the field, but at times Peter considered death
preferable over manscaping his entire body for the sake of full
synchronization.

His night terrors had become progressively vivid. He was always a
spectator, a part of everything but incapable of action. He had meant to call
his doctor to get a refill on his prescription, but the last six months had
been hectic. New half-breed gangs tried to prove themselves every week, and
they always left death and property damage in their wake. Constant
investigation made Peter feel purposeful, but he admitted that between
half-breeds and combat armor testing, the past six months had been more than he
could handle. He stood over the toilet and waited to vomit again but could not.

“I hate this shit,” he muttered as he went through his cabinet for
aspirin. After a hot shower he felt a little better. He threw his towel on the
puddle of vomit and went into his bedroom to get dressed. He checked his phone
first. It was dead. He plugged it in, turned it on and let it load while he
found his uniform.

He put on some boxers. His phone vibrated and did not cease, so he
assumed he had a call. He picked it up. It continued to vibrate against his
ear.

“18 text messages? 19? 20?” He tried to open them but once his phone
counted his texts, it moved on to his voice mails. He grunted, threw the phone
on his bed and let it finish while he dressed. Afterward he opened his inbox.

“They’re all from Mary,” he said and called her.

“Sir! Finally. Did you get my texts?”

“No. What’s so urgent?”

“It’s Gerald,” she said. “There was a report on the news about him.”

“There’s always a petty theft or something he’s involved in. He hasn’t
committed any serious crime for ten years. At least not that I know of. Why are
you bothering me with this?”

“Sir,” she said. “He could be dead.”

“Dead?”

“Yes, I sent you the news report. It should be in your e-mail.”

“Alright, I’ll look at my files and get back to you.”

“You sound skeptical, sir. He could finally be out of your hair.”

“It’s because I am. I’ll get back to you.” He hung up and went into his
office.

A map of the city was on one wall of his office. Different colored flags
that marked half-breed activity and specific sightings of wanted half-breeds
covered it. Paper clippings of accidents were strewn across the other walls.

He stared at the picture of his parents on his desk, at their smiles: his
mother’s playful crooked grin, the shining optimism she always wore despite
their family’s financial struggles, and his father’s half-smile.

Peter’s father, Peter Ian Herrero the third, was an engineer and had
always been away from home for extended periods of time. Intermittent affection
did not satisfy Peter’s mother. When she was out with her girlfriend’s one
evening, she met an incubus by the name of Tam, short for Tamick. When she
caught his hazel eyes, she could not look away from him. Tamick could not
remember if he had used any demonic means to seduce her that night, but the
love they felt for each other was real. The affair continued until the evening
she and Peter’s father were murdered.

Peter and his parents had lived in a small townhouse, in a gated complex
known for vandalism. It was all they could afford. Peter’s father thought he
heard a knock on the door in the middle of the night. He ignored it. A few
minutes later, he heard banging followed by yelling. He recognized the voice as
eight-year-old Peter’s. He woke his wife and told her that he thought Peter was
locked outside. She tried to assure him that he was upstairs asleep. He went to
the door anyway.

He looked through the peephole and saw his son at the door. His wife
opened the door to Peter’s bedroom and found him fast asleep cuddling a brown
stuffed horse. She opened her mouth to call out to her husband when she heard
an explosion downstairs.

She ran to the top of the stairs to see a living, screaming flame:
Peter’s father. He died seconds later. His fire did not. It fed on the carpet,
the wood floor and the walls.

A young exous with dark skin and smoldering spiky hair came into the
home, followed by a boy with long green hair and young Peter. She glanced at
Peter’s room and gasped when she saw him upstairs with her. She looked back
downstairs and saw the half-breeds smiling at her confusion.

The skia in the guise of her son became black ooze. The ooze grew taller
and formed into an Asian skia. Primary and secondary colors flashed
intermittently within her wings and lit the foyer with their glow.

“Mommy? Why is it smoky?” Peter asked in a sleepy daze. When he saw the
flames he cried.

“Douse my flames, Chek,” the exous child said. His eyes flared as he
looked at Peter’s frightened mother.

“Why, Riki? Let it burn!” Chek, the green haired boy yelled.

“I want to have some fun with them first,” he said.

Chek snuffed the fire out with his will.

“What are you going to do?” the skia asked.

“I’m going to see what’s beneath the wife’s clothes,” he said. “I want to
see why my father decided to sleep with a human.”

Peter’s mom yelled for help and tried her best to escape the grasp of
Riki and Chek, but they easily pulled her into Peter’s room and onto his bed.

“Peter, call for help! Call 911!”

Peter tried to run downstairs. The skia grabbed him and held him up by
the neck of his cowboy pajamas. He flailed about and hit her on the cheek. She
held him as far away as her arms could reach. He squirmed out of her hold and
ran downstairs.

“He’s going to call the cops!” she yelled as she ran after him.

“Get him in here,” Riki said to Chek, who chuckled and walked out of the
room to retrieve Peter. As he walked downstairs his laughter grew higher and
wild, like a hyena’s.

“Why are you doing this?!” his mother had asked Riki.

“You are Trina Herrero, right? Wife of Peter Herrero the third? The
half-breed hunter?” Riki asked.

“Half-breed hunter?”

“The name Tamick ring any bells?”

“I don’t know who you’re...”

Riki silenced her with a slap.

“He’s my father. You know him. Your body knows him well.”

“We have jewelry and money!” Trina said, avoiding the subject.

“Jewelry?” the skia asked.

“Take whatever you want! Take everything! Just leave us in peace! It’s
down the hall in my closet,” Peter’s mother answered.

“Julie, you can have the jewelry,” Riki said. “And the cash.” He smiled
down at Peter’s mother, and his eyes glowed. “I have what I want.”

He heard Peter bawl behind him and knew Chek had him in the room.

“Bring him over here,” Riki said to Chek. He ripped Trina’s nightgown off
and looked over her dark nakedness. He licked his lips.

“I want him to watch.”

* * *

Photos of happy children and adults of all ages and nationalities filled
one wall of Peter’s office and spilled over to the others. They were all photos
of half-breeds.

Three large photos were at the center of the photo wall: pictures of the
children involved with his parent’s death. When he had captured them, he
tortured them mentally first.

Peter captured their family members and closest friends. He threatened to
kill them in front of them if they did not show contrition for their sins
against him and his family. It did not take long to break their pride. All he
had to do was render their powers inert. Without them, they were on his level.
At that point of desperation they felt fear, despair and guilt just like
humans.

He killed the half-breed’s loved ones one at a time despite that.

Then, he moved on to physical abuse. Without sedatives or anesthetics,
his associates harvested their innards to research them for his armor
prototypes. When they were too desensitized to react to mental or physical
abuse, he killed them.

Their pictures reminded Peter of how he had taken their lives from them:
everything they were, everything that made them happy. That truly satisfied
Peter. Silencing their heartbeat was just a consolation. He longed to add
Julie’s photo to the trophy wall.

He opened Gerald’s file. At least one vendetta could be settled this
evening.

Gerald’s known crimes included several counts of rape, murder, theft and
property damage that dated back over fifty years. He had been one of Peter’s
first assignments, and it had been nearly impossible to apprehend him. Gerald
had no real pattern or reason to his crimes. He would rob a bank, murder
someone or break into a mall and steal clothing: he would never hit the same
place twice.

Peter had decided to try a “Wanted” poster to see if anyone would call in
a sighting. It took only a week before a woman in an apartment complex downtown
called and said he had been staying with one of her neighbors.

Peter was amazed that Gerald had been so careless as to stay stationary
long enough for someone to notice. Peter talked with the building’s owner and
organized a stakeout.

His associates fitted him with a prototype body armor that utilized
synthetic Inner. Once the synthinner was injected into his body it would obey
his will.

Its uses were limited only to physical changes: camouflage, exponential
speed and strength increases and sensory intensification. Safety mechanisms to
regulate synthinner and prevent Inner deprivation were installed on the suits.
Inner deprivation felt like heroin withdrawal to half-breeds. Minor cases could
be cured with rest. The human body’s reaction to Inner deprivation would cause
death if not given medical attention.

Peter had uninstalled his regulators immediately.

They set remote traps on the window, the front door and the bed. When
triggered, long metal spikes would spring from the traps and hooks would extend
from the spikes to catch Gerald’s wings.

Peter and five men waited for the fallen angel to arrive. Around 3 a.m.
they heard drunken slurs, stumbling footsteps and a woman’s voice in the hall.
They cloaked and checked their hook guns one more time before Gerald entered.
He and the woman shared messy kisses before they fell onto the bed.

The civilian will complicate things,
Peter thought.

Peter looked at his men. They were ready.

He pumped synthinner into him and willed a speed increase. He dove at the
woman, tried to pull her out of Gerald’s grasp but accidentally pulled them
both from the bed. One of his men triggered the bed’s trap.

Spikes burst from the mattress, and four hooks popped out of each of
them. Gerald saw Peter’s men for the first time. He put one arm around the
woman’s throat and the other around her waist to hold her still.

“Make a move on me and I’ll kill her. Uncloak so I can see your faces
better.”

Peter uncloaked himself, and his men did the same. Gerald’s eyes fell on
Peter.

“I could see your men but not you. Did you think I would be so stupid as
to let myself be seen with all of those posters up? I wanted you to find me.”

Gerald pushed the woman away and assaulted Peter’s squad. His first punch
killed one of Peter’s men, and it took two to kill the one behind him. The
woman scooted around them all and ran out into the hall.

The remaining humans fired their guns.

One spike-hook went into a wall. Gerald blocked two with an arm. Peter
and his solider sprung the hooks. Gerald whipped his arm and the humans around
and tore the large hooks from his arm.

Peter increased the amount of synthinner in his blood and felt it burn
inside him. He ran to meet Gerald, landed a kick to his stomach and knocked him
on his back.

“Get up and shoot his wings!” Peter yelled at his men.

He turned into Gerald’s punch, felt little pain but heard his jaw crack.
He saw surprise on Gerald’s face, attacked him in his daze and left him on the
ground, coughing for air. Peter retrieved his gun. He smiled at Gerald writhing
like a wounded serpent and reloaded his spike. When he looked up from the gun,
Gerald was gone.

He cursed, heard the window break and pushed the button on his gun to
trigger the trap. He heard it clang. Gerald howled and raged as he tried to
free his fettered wings.

He brought him to Mayor Saffron alive as he had requested. After a week
of study, Gerald had escaped.

Peter would not let that happen a second time.

“He’s three hours late.” Shrazz paced around his apartment.
“How is it that demons are punctual, but archangels think they can just stroll
in anytime they want?”

Shrazz heard a flutter above him and an unusually large dove landed on
his table. Shrazz stared at the dove and smiled.

“Leoran I presume.”

The dove grew. When it was half of Shrazz’s height its feathers fell
away. Its beak sank into its face and became thin, stern lips. The dove’s wings
grew enormous and folded over its body. When they unfolded, in the bird’s place
knelt a muscular angel.

Though his face looked ageless, Shrazz could see his blue eyes were
burdened with the troubles of someone who had lived dissatisfied for centuries.
His silver, wispy hair seemed alive itself, held aloft without any trace of
wind.

A large golden Chi-Ro was set in the center of his celestinite
breastplate. A silver facemask covered the bottom half of his face. One large
hand rested on the curved hilt of his short sword; to Shrazz’s eyes its
sizeable hilt was better suited for a two-handed blade.

“You are not at all what I expected, Shrazz,” Leoran said.

“Come again?”

Leoran paced around his apartment.

“Short, scrawny. Underwhelming.”

“Satan witnessed my credentials himself.”

“Your brute strength and intuition impressed him then, but no more. Your
intuition told you to send your skia mistress when it should have been you. A
cowardly and costly decision, Shrazz.”

“Last I heard everything was going smoothly. He was pleased.”

“Things change. Have changed. You will bring the angel here. You will
wait for me to return. I will collect him.”

“Riell is the most dependable woman I have ever met. Satan agreed. I have
followed his design.”

“You will step in, bring the angel here and wait for me. Perhaps then
Satan will spare you. If I decide to.”

Shrazz grabbed Leoran’s throat, pulled a fist back to renegotiate the
terms of their relationship and demonstrate his worth when the palm that held
Leoran tingled, burned, and sizzled. Despite himself he yelled, and tried to
pull back, but Leoran held his wrist fast. Steam rose from their connected
skin, blue flame billowed, and Shrazz fought back another yell.

“He may be the mastermind, but I am the one with access to Earth,” Leoran
said. “He has no real power here. I could easily slay you, and if you do not
uphold your duty, I shall.”

He released Shrazz.

“I will apprehend the angel as I intended,” Shrazz growled, and immolated
his injured hand to dull the wound.

“I’ll return here at the same time in seven days,” Leoran said.

“Until then,” Shrazz answered.

Leoran reverted back into his dove form and flew outside.

Shrazz’s hand pained him more than anything else ever had, but that was
not why tears fell from his eyes. Five minutes ago he had optimism. Leoran
stole it away, and branded fear and doubt deep inside him.

Satan had betrayed him. He never should have trusted him. Now he had to
fulfill his bounty to survive, only for survival’s sake. Somehow he had fallen
in love with the idea of change, with the idea of himself being the spearhead
of that change and Riell the shaft.

Riell. He had betrayed Riell.

His tears fell freely, and as much as he wanted to set his apartment
aflame and bury himself in its ashes he knew his only chance at redemption lay
in his mission: the angel. He had to find him.

He knew Riell would want notice before he visited her at home, but he had
to insure her safety.

He closed his eyes and tuned out the noise around him: the dripping water
from the ceiling, the scuttle of rats in the far corner of the room and the
cars outside. It all had to go.

Shrazz’s eyes snapped open and his pupils dilated.

A murderer!

Shrazz zoned in on the man with his extrasensory abilities. His sinful
energy’s aroma titillated him. Saliva flowed in his mouth. Black magic. He
smiled.

Tonight won’t be so bad after all.