Last of the Mighty (17 page)

I was only out for a few seconds. I came around to find my back on the floor and a table leg hurrying toward my face.

I rolled left.

Uzza's boot kicked the air out of my lungs. Four broken ribs, a nearly-shattered sternum.

Trying to catch my breath, I spied Amos in the corner. He was suspended in midair, Azazel's hand palming the black man's head like a basketball.

We were done. There was no way we could win against three Watchers and two Nephilim.

I sprang to my feet the way they did in karate movies. Back arching, palms pushing off the floor.

It didn't work.

My injured thigh couldn't take the weight and I toppled back to the concrete.

Tartys's club punched me again. Two more ribs snapped. Another kick from Uzza to my gut. Blood fell from my mouth.

Uzza lifted me over his head and flung me into the wall. My head cracked against it and my body spilled into the craps table below. It fit me like a casket.

While lying on the green felt, Uzza showed up at the table's edge.

“How many…chips, sir?” I muttered, blood sloshing from my mouth.

He clocked me with his gold forearm. He was going for the head, but I blocked it with my knuckles. Every bone in my hand splintered.

Tartys and his table leg had their way with my knees, bludgeoning them into mush.

Azazel strolled up next to Uzza. I hoped Amos wasn't dead. With the padded sides of my craps table coffin blocking the view, I couldn't see him.

“Oh Og,” said Azazel with what appeared to be pity. “Had such high hopes for ya, buddy. Shame.”

Uzza was about to hammer another something into me when Azazel stopped him. Must've been playing Bad Cop/Worse Cop.

“Whattaya say, Augustino. Ain't too late to switch, y'know. Come on, my brothah, one word and we call this thing quits. We get outta here… Catch a movie… Have a beer… It's that easy. All ya gotta do is join us.”

A coughing fit seized me, expelling air, pain, and blood in equal parts.

“That a yes?” he asked.

Words were too heavy to leave my throat. All I could do was shake my head.

Azazel's hard, wide fist crushed me in the nose. Blood gushed out from all my cranial exits.

Zaze wound up again, had his fist cocked and ready, when something came out of nowhere and floored him. A thousand-mile-an-hour bulldozer jacked him into Uzza and Tartys, and all three buckled to the concrete.

I didn't have the strength or required number of unbroken bones to raise myself up to see what was going on.

“Augustine.”

“Dad?” I asked, the word struggling to make it out of me.

My father's face peered down at me, tears making his eyes shine like Christmas lights.

“I am here, my son.”

“Well, well, weh-hellll.” Azazel had gotten up. “What a pleasure to see Gad-ri-el”—he said it like three words—“in the hoouuse.” His eyes inspected my father as he approached him, carefully. “Looking good. Years've been kind. But you have been naughty, haven't ya, little bro?”

Squaring off against him, Gadriel spat, “No Fallen is brother to me!”

It was the first time I'd seen my dad in anything but a tunic. He was wearing a navy blue tee and khaki pants.

Uzza and Tartys had also made it to their feet and were edging up to my dad at the craps table. Behind them, Shemja-za and Chool.

At seven-five, Gadriel seemed so short in their presence. Even the Nephilim were taller.

Gadriel posted himself at the table rail, guarding me from the others. “Strike him again,” he warned, “and I shall—”

“Strike him?” Azazel asked. “Why strike him when we have you?”

Gadriel ducked under Azazel's roundhouse and rocked him with the most vicious uppercut I'd ever seen. All nine feet of Azazel was lifted into the air and he sailed up and back, in a perfect arc, until slamming into the floor with a heavy thud.

Tartys blasted his club at Gadriel's head. My father blocked it with his forearm gold then twisted it away. In a fraction of a second, my father was behind Tartys with the club pressing into his throat. I'd never seen anything move so fast.

“Uzza!” boomed Gadriel. “The fate of your son rests with you. Linger and I will crush this Half-Soul's throat!”

The Viking Watcher grumbled, but when a strange sensation—heavy and haunting—slowly permeated the room, Uzza seemed to forget all about his son.

Panicky, the Watchers and Nephilim gawped this way and that for the invisible source of their fear, hoping it was just their imaginations.

That's when I heard it. Distant howls, like those when I was on the cloud with my father.

A sudden draft stirred, bringing with it an increased sense of alarm. The fact our room on the middle deck had no windows made it even more disturbing.

The wind whirled and gained strength, quickly whipping into a hurricane so fierce it pitched my heavy craps table like a boat in a storm.

The Nephilim and Watchers were crouching now, eyes darting, each one hoping that the coming bogeyman wasn't coming for him.

As the clamor and shrill cries grew louder, Azazel yelled, “Run!” and a scamper of feet fled up the stairs and across the top deck above me.

Hellish shrieks were everywhere, swirling within the tsunami gusts around my dad and me, louder and louder, building to an ear-piercing crescendo…

When suddenly...

It all went quiet.

The stillness and silence was eerie, harrowing.

I could hear the nervous rhythm of my father's breath, the gentle lapping of the tide against the concrete ship.

Then…

“SEIZE HIM!”

Even at that volume, I recognized the voice.

Phaeus.

A humungous pair of sword-bearing, white-winged thug-angels—Phaeus's underlings—did as ordered and marched to my father.

Gadriel stood tall as the guards stationed themselves at his shoulders.

Phaeus scouted the room. The carnage made his lip jump and his wings quiver. At the craps table, he bent over and looked in.

I wanted to spit at him, scream at him, send my every limb and digit straight to his face. But my body was so battered, I couldn't even whisper.

Phaeus put a finger to my forehead and said, “Sleep.”

****

I woke to another angel's face staring down at me. It was chubby and kind. Compassionate. Like a giant grandfather with wings.

While looking at the extent of my injuries, the new angel asked, “Pray tell, Phaeus.” His voice was agitated. “Why have you yet to heal him?”

“He is an abomination.” Phaeus stepped into view. “Watcher born. Which is precisely why you ordered his capture, dear Vero. I deemed it inappropriate to heal something as low as a Half-Sou—”

“He is the stem of Jashobeam!” Vero blared. “A Mighty Man!”

Vero, Phaeus's boss.

I opened my mouth to tell Vero how Phaeus had lied, how he should be thrown from Heaven, but all that came out was breath, blood, and spit.

“And regarding the charge that the boy is a Nephilim,” Vero continued, “need I remind you that my Court has yet to speak on the matter? As your superior, Phaeus, I command that you heal him at once.”

“Sir, I—”

“Heal him!”

Though Vero was Phaeus's superior, he apparently couldn't heal. Every angel must have some random special power. My dad drew dream control and Phaeus scored healing touch.

Phaeus reluctantly ran his hands over me. In less than a minute, my every broken bone, ripped tendon, and bloody wound was repaired.

I sat up, leered at Phaeus, and said, “You're a liar—Amos!”

I suddenly recalled when I'd seen him last—Azazel about to squash his skull. I looked for him. He wasn't there. Neither were the dead park ranger, Barphook, or Darkon.

“Where's Amos?” I asked.

“
Silence, my son
.” Gadriel was in the corner, but speaking in The Committee. “
The hands that healed you also healed your comrade. And please consider that it might be unwise to interrupt our accusers while they debate our future
.”

“
But Phaeus
,” I answered him. “
He lied. Vero needs to know
.”

“
And he will
, my son. At the proper time
.”

Grudgingly, I kept my mouth shut.

Vero and Phaeus spoke, at length, in Hebrew.

Through The Committee, Gadriel explained that Phaeus and Vero were discussing whether there was enough evidence for my father and me to stand trial.

After what seemed like hours, Vero approached us. “Phaeus and I are to depart.” He smiled politely. “I shall send a messenger shortly with information concerning the date and time of your trial.”

I wanted to smash in Phaeus's irritating, self-satisfied grin.

“Until then,” Vero dipped his chin, “may the Lord richly bless you.”

In the blink of an eye, Phaeus and Vero were gone, leaving my father and me alone with the two hulking guards.

The angel sentries loosened up after Phaeus and Vero had left, allowing Gadriel and me to wander freely about the middle deck.

After a fatherly hug and some small talk, Gadriel told me what to expect from Vero's Court of Judgement. How that whole thing worked and the possible outcomes of our trial.

“If we are found guilty, I would go to Pit,” Gadriel said. “Yet with my head held high. For in my heart, I am certain that I have not offended the Lord our God in any way.”

It was hard not to believe him. He was so humble and sincere.

“And you, my son, will be ushered into Heaven.” He smiled. “I promise you will find it most agreeable.”

Guess I could deal with that. Still, I'd just turned sixteen. Kind of wanted to get a few more decades under my belt before heading off to Paradise.

I opened my mouth to say something, but my tongue went dry. It dawned on me that this could be the last chance I'd ever get to speak to my father alone. A couple things had been on my mind for a long time.

I blurted it out. “Did you love her?” And then another question unspooled from my lips before I knew it, before I could reel it back in. “Do you love me?”

Gadriel's eyes misted. His chin sunk to his chest. He stood, silent and without motion, like he was remembering his time with my mother, living every moment with her again. Tears splashed at his feet.

“Augustine,” he said, lifting his face. He hugged me, firm and caring and sorry that he couldn't have done it more. “Yes, my son. I love her still, with all of my heart. As I do you.”

“Then why'd you leave?”

“It was the most difficult thing I've ever done. But I had to depart in order to protect you. And your mother. I remained for a year. I held you, bathed you, fed you. I tucked you in, kissed you on the head, and rocked you to sleep.” He smiled, stroking my hair as if I were still just a few months old. “I read books and tickled you and, oh, your laugh, Augustine, it was music to me.” He gazed up and I could tell he was listening for it, the infectious laugh of Og the infant. “I treasured every moment with you and your mother. They were the best of all my years on earth.”

He paused until my eyes urged him to continue.

“The Symphony began to resound with talk of what I'd done. I believed my secret was safe, but the enemy had somehow gained knowledge of it. In a dream, I was told to flee, to hide. I feared for your lives. Since your mother had no contact with The Symphony, chances of the enemy locating her were slim. You, on the other hand, were more challenging. As the child of an angel, it was your birthright to access to The Symphony. The enemy listened for years for you to give yourself away. Yet your silence, coupled with Sandrine's prayers, as well as mine own, kept the dark forces at bay.”

“Until recently anyway.”

“It was bound to happen, Augustine. And regardless of what Vero and his Court decide, I want you to know that I would do everything the same. Marrying your mother, in our own special way, of course, and becoming your father have been my life's two greatest blessings.”

That eerie wind rustled again, spinning, growing stronger.

Vero's messenger.

When the angel eventually materialized, his solemn eyes went to my father and then to me. “Prepare yourselves,” he said, “for the trial regarding the Watcher Gadriel and The Mighty One Augustine Caffrey is to commence forthwith.”

The whole place transformed before us, morphing into Vero's Court of Judgement. The floor became one solid piece of white marble with diamond-shaped rubies, sapphires, and emeralds set into the stone at various places. The high, domed ceiling glittered in gold, copper, and ivory. The sides of the Court were open, and light flowed in between Greek columns that held up the roof. Sculpted into each column was a scene from the Bible—Adam and Eve in the Garden, Abraham and Isaac, Daniel with the lions, Mary's visit from the angel… Beyond the columns, outside, there was a trimmed lawn and formal garden with a pebbled path that curled its way through manicured hedges, roses, trees, arbors, and fountains.

Vero sat on a large and intricately carved wooden chair inlaid with pearl and alabaster. Phaeus, his attendant, stood behind and to the side of him. Gadriel and I were posted to Vero's right and left, a few feet in front of him, facing each other, about nine feet between us.

Seven stone benches formed a U in front of Vero. Sitting on the first bench, immediately to my left, was a ten-foot angel wearing a gold forearm guard along with those bronze shin protectors common to first-century Roman soldiers. I figured him for a member of the Ninth Choir because he only had one more piece of armor than a Watcher. The angel sitting to his left had a breastplate in addition to the forearm band and shin guards—a representative of the Eighth Choir.

Uncle Will had been right. The more armor and weapons an angel had, the higher his rank. However, as only seven Choirs were present, I couldn't tell you what extra gear the Second and First Choir had. The Third Choir was the highest rank in attendance and, on top of a dagger and sword like Phaeus's, the angel of the Third Choir also had a war axe and a fourteen-foot spear with a pointed tip the size of Mount Fuji.

There were no onlookers either outside or in. No crowded courtroom scene or amphitheater full of people watching. Just the eleven of us.

Vero clapped his hands and addressed the jury of angels. “I trust that my attendant Phaeus has made each of you aware of the charges and evidence brought against the Watcher Gadriel and his alleged son, Augustine?”

The angels murmured their assent, each one passing his eyes over my dad and me.

“May I assume,” Vero went on, “that the prosecution has spoken and been heard?”

Another round of bobbing angel chins.

“Then let us press on to the defense. Gadriel…”

“Yes, my brother,” he replied.

“Is this boy your son?”

“He is.”

Whispers ran around the angels, their sandaled feet shuffling uncomfortably.

Phaeus's face smeared with an ugly little grin.

Vero continued, “And who is the mother of your son?”

“Sandrine. A nun of the Dominican Order.”

Vero said, “Of course you realize that siring a child with a mortal is a violation of Watcher law.”

“I do.”

“And that these violations carry with them the strictest of punishments?”

“Yes.” Gadriel stood tall, chest out.

“Do you have an explanation as to why you chose to sin as you did?”

“I did not, nor have I ever sinned, my brother,” he declared. Bold, dignified.

“Well what would you call breaking the Law of God then?”

“There are reasons that I bore a child. An oath, however, forbids me from discussing the situation with anyone. Including you, dear Vero.”

“Being cast into Pit is a high price to pay for honoring an oath, Gadriel.” Vero stared at him sternly. “Are you willing to pay that price?”

“I am.”

“And what of your son? Are you willing to look on as the executioner's blade takes off his head?”

My father gazed at me, tears pooling in his eyes. “If I must…I must.”

Vero studied us for a long time, while his index finger made outlines around his plump lips and stroked his chin.

In the lull of activity, I tried to use The Committee to ring up my father only to realize that my head was completely silent. In here, The Symphony didn't work.

Finally, Vero's eyes swiveled back to his angel jury and he said, “I am finished. The floor is open for discussion.”

“Phaeus is a LIAR!” I screamed.

But only in my head.

My dad's eyes told me that he would never approve of such an outburst. He was so calm, so sure everything was going to work out. How I wished I were more like him.

The angels conferred amongst themselves for an hour. In Hebrew. Slowly and restrained at first, but getting more animated as time wore on. I couldn't tell if most of them were for us or against us.

After the debate, each of the angels stood and approached Gadriel, all greeting him with a warm hug. They spoke with him at length. There were laughs as a few angels appeared to be catching up with Gadriel after centuries of not hearing from him. Others were more serious.

Then it was my turn. You might think the sight of seven, ten-foot-plus angels in battle armament all walking toward you was a glorious thing. Try frightening.

A couple angels, from the lower Choirs, exhibited something of the same kindness toward humans as the Watchers. I figured the Ninth Choir was probably where Guardian Angels came from. And though I could still feel that rare angelic love from the members of the upper Choirs, they were far more suspicious of me. Especially the dark-skinned eleven-footer with the spear from the Third Choir. He kind of looked like Amos. The Amos who nearly killed me with the Fourth Nail.

“It is quite a special treat indeed to meet you, young Gibbor,” said the angel from the Ninth Choir as he shook my hand. “We have not had a human visitor to our Court for many millennia.”

“Well,” I corrected, “part human anyway.”

“But human nonetheless,” the Eighth Choir chimed in. “And unlike us, Augustine, you have the advantage of being made in God's very image. And for that, I honor you.” He bowed to me.

Yeah. Bowed. To me? Craziness. If I were Merryn, then I could have understood it. She was the good one, not me. And how were you supposed to respond to angels bowing to you anyway? Thank you didn't sound right. Neither did awesome. A high five was probably out of the question too. But I had to say something, right?

Yet, words never came.

Sixth Choir guy rescued me. “Your story is a compelling one.” He had an Asian look to him. “Never before has a Nephilim and a Mighty One been bound together in one body.” His smile was so pure. “It is, in a word, riveting.”

Fifth Choir made his way to the front and bowed his head to me. “I too honor you, son of Adam, seed of Jashobeam.”

Jashobeam. I'd done some research on my forefather. He was more than one of King David's original Mighty Men. Jashobeam had been their leader, a warrior who had slain eight hundred in a single battle.

One by one, each of the seven angels bowed their heads to me. To honor that image-of-God part of me that lived in every human soul.

Embarrassed, I looked over at my father as the angels were doing their thing.

His smile beamed, and the proud tears that striped his face glistened like diamonds.

When the angels were seated again on their benches, Vero asked, “Has each of you arrived at a decision?”

A few said, “ay,” while others nodded. A couple responded in Hebrew.

“Ninth Choir,” said Vero. “Your verdict, please.”

The angel to my left stood and said, “Innocent.” Then sat back down.

“Eighth Choir.”

He stood. “Innocent.”

“Seventh.”

“Guilty.”

“Sixth.”

“Guilty.”

I was a split second away from shouting, “NO!” when my dad silenced me with a look. His previous words about doing your best and trusting God with the outcome came back to me. That's why Gadriel was so calm; he'd done everything right. He'd left me and my mom not because he wanted to, but because it was best for us. How hard that must have been for him. In that moment, looking into his eyes, I finally trusted my dad, and also my Father, and I closed my mouth.

“Fifth Choir,” Vero resumed.

“Innocent.”

Three to two. One more innocent and my father and I would walk.

“Fourth Choir.”

The angel stood. “Guilty.”

Only the mega-warrior with the spear was left, the tallest one in the room. The one who seemed to only see the bad in me.

“Third Choir.” Vero shifted in his chair.

The angel stood, the spear like a staff in his hand.

He raised it a few inches off the ground.

Then dropped it like a gavel as he gave his verdict.

“Guilty!”