"United and Divided"
They heard the screams three minutes before they reached the city. Michael and Gabriel flew over Vega's walls and nearly tumbled from the sky as they saw the devastation wrought by New Delphi's army. Together they flew in a wide circle around the city, searching for Alex and Noma. Michael felt Gabriel's grief.
"This isn't your fault. Julian already had this planned."
Gabriel glanced at his brother, wishing his heart would believe Michael's words.
Michael abruptly veered right, yelling, "There they are."
Noma and Alex stood together in the mouth of one of the city's gates. Noma's white wings glowed softly in the remaining electric light. A dagger glistened against Alex's throat.
The Archangels folded their raven wings against their backs and dived steeply, flaring their wings just enough to land. They stood five yards from Noma and Alex. Michael took one step forward, arms outstretched and palms up.
"Noma, talk to me. What's going on?" He kept his voice gentle and nonthreatening. He knew Noma was fast enough to pull the dagger across Alex's throat before he could stop her.
Noma's already tense frame became rigid as Michael spoke. She tightened her grip on the dagger. With no emotion, she said, "I am taking Alex. You will not follow. You will not send anyone else to follow. You will not leave this city for forty-eight hours."
"Noma, please," began Gabriel.
Noma took a step back, jerking Alex with her. A thin line of red appeared beneath the dagger.
"If either of you fail to obey these instructions, the Chosen One will die," she continued. She glared at her brothers.
"It's okay Michael," said Alex.
Their shoulders slumped. They could fight and beat Noma, but she would kill Alex before they could separate them. Noma had been trained by Lucifer, the best warrior in all the realms. She had excelled under his tutelage. Seeing their defeat, Noma pulled Alex tightly against her and took off, the dagger still pressed to his throat.
Michael watched them until they disappeared into the night. He felt a hand on his shoulder. Turning, he faced his brother, his bewildered eyes searching Gabriel's face for something, hope maybe.
"Come here," said Gabriel.
Michael let him pull him into a hug and let loose the sobs tearing at his chest. They did not part until Michael's sobs had subsided.
"I'm so sorry," said Michael. "I've failed Father. I've failed our brothers and sisters, and I've…" He paused, forcing himself to calm down. "And I've failed you." His head dropped, unwilling to meet his brother's gaze.
Gabriel gripped Michael's chin and forced him to look up. "You have not failed any of us. For too long you have bared this burden alone, and that is my fault. For now on, I will stand by your side. This time, I will be your strength."
Gabriel's love flowed through Michael, giving him strength enough to control his emotions and stand tall. Michael carefully locked away his thoughts and feelings for Alex.
"Let's save Vega," he said.
They faced the hissing eight-balls that had been slowly encroaching upon them. In sync, they drew their swords and stepped forward seven paces, placing themselves in an open space. Back-to-back, they settled into a fighting stance. The eight-balls surged towards them, hands like claws. Neither Archangel moved, instead waiting for their attackers to reach them. Just before the eight-balls overran them, they struck. Each movement was deliberate, well-practiced. Their blows were powerful and elegant, the swords and extension of their bodies. After three minutes of fighting, there were no more eight-balls near Michael and Gabriel. Both brothers quickly scanned the other, only relaxing when they were sure neither was injured. They smiled faintly at each other, amused at their similar behaviors.
"General Riesen is a Dyad. He is leading this attack," said Gabriel.
"By whose order?" asked Michael.
"Mine." Gabriel bit at the word, but didn't avert his gaze from his brother's.
"He will be at Riesen tower." Michael turned away and swiftly moved through the city, Gabriel at his heels.
They traveled by foot so as to more easily render aide, though it took longer. Fifteen minutes later, they reached the tower. Bodies littered the base. They picked their way through the hallway and got in the elevator. They didn't want to give away their presence any more than they already had by flying up. Michael pushed the button to take them to the third floor. A faint buzzing came from the broken speaker. When the elevator stopped and the smudged metal doors slid open, both brothers tried to go first. Gabriel snorted as he stepped back to let Michael out first.
The hallway leading to General Riesen's office was empty. The doors were agar. This time, Gabriel went first, shoving his brother behind him. Michael shook his head in exasperation. They pushed the doors open fully. The room was nearly empty, save for a man in a chair and the lifeless body of Claire Riesen.
"Come to survey your work?"
Across the room sat Dyad Riesen, his blue-rimmed eyes amused. He sipped from a glass before setting his scotch beside the half full decanter on the end table. Uncrossing his legs, he lifted himself from the armchair and stretched.
"I think you will be pleased, Gabriel. The city is nearly ours," he said. He moved to a window and looked out upon the falling city.
"The plan has changed. Withdraw our forces," said Gabriel, his voice demanding obedience.
Still looking out the window, Dyad Riesen said loudly, "Seize them."
Eight-balls poured into the room, some through doors and others through windows. Dyad Riesen stepped back as his window was busted by frenzied eight-balls pushing their way in. The Archangels fought against the onslaught, relying on their bodies rather than weapons in the rapidly tightening space. Sheer numbers overwhelmed them. Gabriel fell first, Michael seconds behind him. Eight-balls pressed against them, forcing them still. They felt the bite of cold metal against their skin. They bucked violently, trying to dislodge the eight-balls. Despite their efforts, the stakes were driven into their upper backs, pinning their wings. Quickly, they were stripped of their weapons and yanked to their feet. Several eight-balls gripped each brother.
Dyad Riesen stood in front of them, two shackles dangling from his hands.
"I am sorry to do this to you, Archangels. You see, before I took full control of this body, the human noticed something odd about you, Gabriel. His suspicion only increased with your actions, even after I had full control. Thank you for your help with that by the way."
He smiled at Gabriel and gestured for two eight-balls to come to him. He handed them the shackles. They scurried away from Dyad Riesen and disappeared behind the Archangels. Michael's and Gabriel's arms were pulled behind their backs roughly and the shackles locked around their wrists. Even with all the movement, the stakes were still firmly in place. Dyad Riesen smiled benignly before continuing.
"General Riesen is a smart man, very sharp. Had to be to found and run this impressive city." He swept his arms out as through to encompass all of Vega. "He thought, and me by extension, that it was strange you would order such a large attack against the place where your brother nests. You would never try to kill Michael. You won't even kill the Chosen One. He was at your mercy for weeks, at yet still he lives. General Riesen put together the pieces. There was something very wrong with you. He tried desperately to hide this information from me, but by then, it was too late." He smiled again, this time more to himself.
"I did hope he was wrong, but made a plan nonetheless. When you said to withdraw my forces, I knew General Riesen had been correct, and here we are." He said the last part cheerfully, clapping his hands together as he spoke.
Dyad Riesen addressed the eight-balls. "Lock them up." He returned to his armchair and happily downed the rest of his scotch.
The eight-balls dragged the Archangel brothers through the city to the prisons Gabriel was once held in. They were shoved into separate cages and the doors sealed shut. The eight-balls left, cackling madly. Michael sighed and folded himself upon the floor, closing his eyes once he was seated.
"What are you doing?" Gabriel asked, his tone sharp.
"Meditating," replied Michael.
"Perhaps you haven't noticed brother, but we are imprisoned. I would like to get free."
Michael cracked an eye. "How do you suggest we escape?" he asked coolly.
Gabriel glared at him for a moment before turning away with a huff.
"We wait," Michael said, returning to his mediation.
Sargent Ethan Mack dragged a hand across his eyes. His limbs were heavy with fatigue. Hell in a hand basket, his grandmother used to say. Yeah, that just about summed it up. He looked over his shoulder at the civilians huddled together against the brick wall. They looked back at him with wide eyes filled with terror. He gave them a reassuring smile.
"We're almost there. A couple more blocks," he told them.
Sgt. Mack checked his gun, hiding his worry when he saw how few bullets he had left. He motioned for the civilians to follow him. He hoped that once they made it to House Whele, they would be able to mount a defense. He knew were David Whele kept his guns and ammo hidden. Slowly, he edged out around the corner onto the street. This road was the fastest way to House Whele, but it was exposed. They would have to move quickly. Seeing their way was clear, Sgt. Mack herded the civilians before him, pointing down the road in silent direction.
They moved slowly, stumbling on debris littering the road. Sgt. Mack bit back a sigh of frustration.
"Come on people. We need to get going."
He spoke firmly, wanting to keep them calm but needing them to follow his instructions. Their pace picked up some, but was still too slow for the Sgt.'s liking. He reminded himself they were civilians and didn't have the training he had.
It took them about five minutes to reach House Whele. He led them to a room on the first floor with only one doorway and no windows. It would be easier to defend, the single door acting as a funnel to slow and attackers. Sgt. Mack surveyed the eight civilians: four men, two women, and two children. The women and children were huddled together on the tan sofa and one of the men had sprawled across a plush dark brown leather armchair. The man gingerly rubbed his right knee.
"How is it?" asked Sgt. Mack.
"Hurts like a bitch, but I'll be alright. Just can't let any more of those nasty black-eyed freaks get the jump on me," said the man.
Sgt. Mack nodded sympathetically and turned to the other three men. Two were young, hardly out of their teens. The third man was far older, pushing sixty, but in decent shape. Sgt. Mack faced the older man.
"This place is our best chance for safety within the city, but we need supplies. I'm going to scout out the area and see what I can find. Keep them safe while I'm gone." He handed over his gun and leaned in close. "There isn't much ammo left. Be careful."
The older man nodded. Sgt. Mack patted him on the shoulder and left the room. He headed for David Whele's office first. There was a false bottom in one of the desk drawers were Whele kept a pistol.
He was almost to the office when two eight-balls appeared from around the corner at the other end of the hallway. Sgt. Mack pulled out a knife strapped to his right thigh. One eight-ball ran towards him while the other crawled along the wall. Sgt. Mack held his ground until they were ten feet away and then hurled himself at the one running, burying the knife hilt deep in the eight-ball's left shoulder, nicking the collarbone. He curled his left hand into a fist and executed two quick jabs at the eight-ball's face, breaking the nose, before pulling free his knife. The eight-ball stumbled backwards. Fingernails dug into his back and hot rancid breath moistened his neck. The other eight-ball had latched onto him. He threw his weight backwards into the wall and elbowed the eight-ball in the gut. The first eight-ball righted itself and charged him. Sgt. Mack flipped the knife over in his hand and drove it over his shoulder, getting the second eight-ball in the face. He yanked the knife sideways. The eight-ball howled in pain and loosened its grip. He shook it off. The first eight-ball rammed into him, knocking the breath from his lungs. The knife clattered against the tiled floor. They grappled against each other, slipping on the now still body of the other eight-ball. Sgt. Mack struggled to free himself. He lodged a foot behind the eight-ball's right ankle and swiftly moved his leg outward. The eight-ball fell to the ground, landing on its injured shoulder. Sgt. Mack followed it down. He grabbed his knife and pulled it across the eight-ball's throat.
He had seen Michael do that move with the feet during Archangel Corps training, but had never tried it himself. If Michael had seen him just now, he may have gotten a glimmer of approval from the Archangel. Woohoo, gold star. He stood and immediately put a hand against the wall. His head rang and his vision tilted. Every muscle ached. He staggered to the office, his body shaking in protest. He sank into the chair behind the walnut desk. His eyes slid shut. A scream outside brought him back to consciousness. He rifled through the drawers until he found the one with a false bottom. The pistol and an extra full magazine greeted him. Relief flooded through him. He checked that the pistol was loaded and tucked it snugly into the holster on his hip. He dropped the extra magazine into a pocket.
He found two rifles and a box of ammo in David Whele's bedroom. He looped the rifle straps over his shoulder and carried the ammo in his hands. On his way back to the civilians, he stopped by the kitchen. He spied a half a loaf of bread on the counter. He grabbed it and checked the refrigerator. There was a block of cheese and a nearly full bottle of prune juice. David Whele had to be the only person left alive who liked prune juice. Sgt. Mack took the cheese and juice. Now wasn't the time to be picky. Everything else in the kitchen required cooking. He scanned the room for something he could use as a bag. There was a chef's coat hanging on the back wall. He rolled his eyes. Of course House Whele had a chef. He laid the coat open on the floor. He placed the box of ammo, bread, cheese, and juice in the center and folded up the edges of the coat, using the sleeves to tie it closed. Once finished, he returned to the civilians.
"It's me," he called from the other side of the door.
One of the younger men opened it and took the makeshift bag from him. They didn't have any trouble while he was gone. Sgt. Mack passed around the guns and ammo to the men. The two young men took the pistols, the one from the desk and the one Sgt. Mack had given to the older man. He and the older man took the rifles.
Once that was settled, he used the knife, which he had cleaned off while in the kitchen, to cut a slice of bread and cheese for everyone. They ate quietly. Sgt. Mack unscrewed the lid on the juice and took a swig. He shuddered at the bitter taste. One of the children giggled nervously. He locked eyes with the little girl and smiled gently.
"Your turn," he said, passing her the bottle.
She sniffed it and crinkled her nose.
Sgt. Mack chuckled. "Drink some. I know it's gross, but we need to keep up our strength."
The girl took a tiny sip and passed the bottle to the woman beside her.
After eating, Sgt. Mack did some stretches. His muscles felt tight after sitting. He had just finished when they heard scuffling in the hallway. He put a finger to his lips as he looked at each person in the room. He picked up his gun and motioned for the women and children to go to the back of the room. He gave his knife to the man with the injured knee and indicated he should guard them. The scuffling grew louder and was joined by raspy breathing. Sgt. Mack positioned himself directly across from the door and motioned for the other three men to form a loose half-circle around him. The scuffling was now right on the other side of the door. He put a finger to his lips one more time, turning slightly to the women and children behind him. He lifted the rifle to his shoulder. He wouldn't use it unless someone came through the door. The other three men mirrored his actions. Everyone held their breath. The people in the hallway, it sounded like nearly a dozen, began to move further along. Sgt. Mack was just about to breathe again when one of the children whimpered. Everything went silent. Sgt. Mack tensed. The door flung open and eight-balls rushed in. He pulled the trigger, an eight-ball dropping as his bullet found its mark. The other men were shooting too, but their aim wasn't as good, though the old man was holding his own. Even injured, the eight-balls kept coming. Sgt. Mack took down two more, but there were still six standing. They were beginning to crowd the men. Sgt. Mack's gun clicked hollowly. He was out of bullets and there wasn't time to reload. He flipped the gun around and used it like a bat. The other men were in a similar position. An eight-ball danced in front of him, snarling as it tried to swipe at him.
"Come on, you filthy beast," muttered Sgt. Mack.
"You don't stand a chance without the angels," spat the eight-ball.
Sgt. Mack was so surprised to hear one talk that he failed to dodge a hit to the head from another eight-ball. He straightened up just in time to block a blow from his.
"You are an angel, moron."
The eight-ball hissed, contempt etched across its face. It swiped at Sgt. Mack again.
"The Archangels have been captured. Without them, it's bye bye humans," said the eight-ball gleefully.
One of the younger men slipped behind the eight-ball, pistol poised above its head.
"Wait," yelled Sgt. Mack. "I need this one alive."
They dispatched the last two eight-balls who were edging towards the door to escape. Sgt. Mack leveled a steely glare at the eight-ball who had spoken.
"Tell me about the Archangels. Where are they?"
"Bye bye humans. Bye bye humans," sang the eight-ball.
Sgt. Mack looked at the two men holding the eight-ball. "Bring him."
He spun around and led them into the hallway. He paused for a moment, thinking.
"This way."
He ushered them into a small storage room. Again, he glared at the eight-ball.
"Where are the Archangels?"
"You can't make me talk. Nothing you do will make me tell you."
"I might not make you talk, but I bet I can make you scream."
He took a newly loaded pistol from one of the men and put a bullet in the eight-ball's foot. The eight-ball grimaced, but didn't make a sound. Sgt. Mack motioned for the men to move away. The next bullet ripped through a cheek. The eight-ball screamed and lunged for Sgt. Mack. He flipped the monster over his shoulder and pressed a steel-tipped boot against its back.
"You've screamed. Now how about you talk?" He tapped a finger against the pistol barrel for emphasis.
"They're in cages. Square blue glass."
"Good. That wasn't so hard. How many guards?"
"I don't know."
"Too bad," said Sgt. Mack. He pressed harder against the eight-ball's back.
"I don't know. I don't know. I was told to take them there and then return to Duma." The eight-ball's breath came in ragged gasps.
"Who is Duma?" asked Sgt. Mack.
"A dyad. Human and angel sharing the body. The man used to be a General."
"Alright," said Sgt. Mack. "You can leave."
He let the eight-ball get up and shooed it from the room. The three men walked back to the room the others were in. Before going in, Sgt. Mack shot the pistol one more time, putting down the eight-ball before it rounded the corner.
The group sat in silence. Sgt. Mack had just finished updating them.
"Well, we have to get them out of there," the older man said.
Sgt. Mack studied him. The man was clearly tired, but his eyes shown with a sharp intelligence and he spoke with fierce determination.
"Yes boy. I'm going with you," he told the Sgt.
"We'll leave in a couple hours."
The older man nodded and leaned his head against the back of the sofa. Might as well get some rest.
Alex's hands were shackled above his head. He tugged at the chains, but they were secure. Shuffling off to the side caught his attention. There was a scraping noise and then the room burst into warm firelight. Noma stood beside the lit torch held in a bracket on the stone wall. She smiled sadly at him.
"Welcome, Alex Lannon."
The deep, rich male voice washed over him, dragging him back into unconsciousness.
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