Nephilim. Mary Ann Loesch
have no contact with such things. The longer he stayed on the earthbound side, the better he understood the vices of humans. Nothing like wallowing in the muck and mire of sin to help you appreciate your job.
“Dammit.” Nathan stubbed out the cigarette. “Let’s see what we’ve got.”
Hands pressed together in prayer pose, he took a long breath and focused on first blocking out the noise of the mortals. The city sounds faded away until only the hum of sin, the only sound Nathan could never completely shake, remained. With his eyes closed, he whispered an old Hebrew chant. A soft swirl of wind tickled his body, lifting his hair and engulfing him in a wave of peacefulness as he slid into the comfort of being behind the veil. A strong sense of homecoming coursed through him.
A new sound nudged at his keen sense of hearing, desperate for his attention, but Nathan kept his eyes closed. It grew louder until he recognized it as weeping. Higher and more melodic than the cry of humans, it was heartbreaking and beautiful all in the same moment.
“An angel is crying,” Nathan whispered.
“There’s more,” Azal’s strong voice rang in his head. “So much more, Nathan. Your brothers and sisters need you.”
“What’s going on, Azal?” Nathan felt his head would burst as the lament and mourning grew louder, heavier. There were feelings here he couldn’t quite absorb. Under the anguish, another emotion brewed and threatened to bubble over. Fear.
“Angels are dying.” Nathan could barely hear Azal above the roar of sorrow. “We need your help, Nathan.”
Nathan covered his ears and tried to block the rush of noise. He pushed himself free of the veil, his body soaking up human essence like a balm as he returned to Earth. He opened his eyes, relieved when the sounds stopped. After a few deep breaths, he tried to stand. Dizziness forced him to steady himself before moving toward the kitchen. He rummaged in his cabinets looking for the small vial he kept hidden behind the spices.
Gulping down the amber elixir in the bottle, Nathan staggered toward the bed. He fell against his sheets, grateful for their softness, and managed to roll over so he stared up at the ceiling. His heart pounded, threatening to burst free of his mortal shell. He couldn’t shake the deep sorrow he’d experienced.
What had been happening behind the veil? What had Azal said?
The soothing effect of the amber liquid forced its way into his aching head. Just as he succumbed to it, Azal’s words floated back.
Angels are dying.
4
Faye couldn’t sleep. She tossed and turned, little snatches of a dream flittering in and out of her subconscious. The part of her aware that she dreamed tried to push away the dark vignettes, but only succeeded in pulling herself further in to the seedy depths of another person’s mind.
Faye could never completely make out the face of the black-haired boy in the dreams, but she felt his emotions, heard his thoughts. There were times she caught a clear glimpse of his eyes, or the twist of his mouth, but other than that, his face remained a swirl of gray in her mind. She watched him prowl the city. The dark alleys and cross streets offered infinite places to become one with the shadows, and were as familiar to him now as his childhood home had once been. Of course there was nothing left of that old white house with its peeling paint and shoddy floorboards. He’d made sure of that. The fire that burnt the building to the ground had been magnificent to watch, and the sense of freedom that came with it–Faye knew he’d do it all again in a heartbeat.
The knife kept him going. Faye watched him crouch down, pull the weapon out, and caress the blade. A tiny drop of blood welled at the tip of his finger. The boy examined it, fascinated when the crimson liquid pooled and fell to the ground.
“Momma,” he said. The knife had belonged to his mother, Faye was sure of it, and she knew the boy viewed the weapon as an extension of her. A little picture of the woman flashed in Faye’s mind–tall with weathered skin and oily hair the color of dishwater. Her lifeless eyes reminded Faye of a shark.
The boy held the knife with reverence and examined the bone handle. There were carvings deep in the surface, along with letters written in an unfamiliar language. He ran a finger over them, tracing their bumpy outline, and smearing his blood on the handle. It seeped into the pores of the bone, leaving no trace behind to mar the knife’s appearance.
The blade looked dull and dirty, but if flashed just the right way, it sparkled. One could almost hear it sing of the agony it rendered to those unlucky enough to be caught in its path.
He stood and swung the knife out at Faye, though she knew he couldn’t see her. She watched him pretend to battle an imaginary opponent for a few minutes before delving deeper into his mind. Faye tried to get a sense of who the boy pretended to fight, but his only thoughts were of his mother. He wondered how Momma had gotten her hands on such a special knife. After all, she was just a common killer with no sense of the greater picture. He could only assume it had been given to Momma to pass along to him when the time was right. Perhaps it had been a gift from his father. Shame the man hadn’t been around to teach him how to use it!
The boy had discovered on his own it could do more than just kill.
A man crept into the alley, staying just on the fringe of the shadows. Faye pulled a name from his head. Tom. Her heart quickened as she sensed his intentions–sex with the young teenager.
“Watch out!” Faye called, but her words were not heard in the dream. Helplessness planted itself in her stomach, a sick little flower that blossomed strong.
The boy turned and stared into the shadows before sniffing at the air. Urine, sweat and alcohol–Tom’s body odor gave him away, and he lumbered out from his hiding spot.
“I’m not going to hurt you.” Tom stepped toward him. Faye’s heart beat faster, knowing the man lied.
“But I’m going to hurt you, mister, if you come any closer,” the boy said, brandishing the knife.
Tom chuckled and took a tentative second step. “Don’t make this hard. I hate it when they struggle.”
The boy lowered his head, but not before Faye had seen anger flash in his eyes. She shivered and pressed a hand to her mouth, as Tom, with an overconfident swagger, edged closer to the boy.
“I promise to be quick, kid.” Tom rested his dirty hand on the boy’s shoulder and Faye felt the bile rise in her throat. She wanted desperately to intervene, to step forward and break the confines of the dream. Her heart pounded louder, almost blocking the sound of the boy’s voice.
“Me too,” the boy said as he plunged the knife into the soft belly of the man before him.
* * * *
Faye gasped for breath. Damn. She hated those dreams. They’d been occurring regularly the last few months, but whenever she woke up, she couldn’t quite remember all the details. The boy always starred in them, though she struggled to remember what he’d been doing, or the contours of his features. Whatever happened in the dream, whatever sight she’d seen that caused her heart to race, would be erased from memory, though often the boy’s residual emotions would remain behind. This time wasn’t any different. Already the visions faded, but the sense of loss, of utter abandonment stayed. Or were those her own feelings? Sometimes it was hard to tell. Faye rolled over in bed and grabbed the little notebook on her nightstand.
Momma. She wrote the word down and circled it twice, knowing it meant something important. It was the key to…her mind struggled to make the connection.
“It’s the key to…” she said, her voice shaky.
The significance