SELECTED PASSAGES

2

THE SECRET MANUSCRIPT OF THE MALAKIN

Few know how it began or what had happened before. Not that this really matters because there was no before.

It occurred at a moment when time itself did not exist, when matter was no more than a speck of energy floating

in the darkness of space.

War. Night and Day. Law and order. Light and dark. Good and evil.

The explosion erupted. Indescribable. Unimaginable. Deafening. The universe expanded, spewing out

fragments of blackness, forming waves of cosmic dust, establishing parallel dimensions. Entire worlds were

created. Stars were born and died; nebulae appeared in the oceans of plasma. Galaxies condensed.

For billions of years the winged ones wandered alone, untouchable in their infinite sanctuary. And when

the sixth day ended, God was pleased with his work. Of all his wonders, the human race was the one he most

adored: his creation could learn, evolve and love.

Yahweh rested on the seventh day and gave the five archangels the task of commanding the heavens, ruling

paradise and serving humanity without interfering in its course. But, eaten up with jealousy and greed, these

first-born envied the human race. Michael, the Prince of Angels, decided that men were not worthy to be God’s

heirs and resolved to attack earth. He sent assassins, stirred up cataclysms, made volcanoes erupt, caused

earthquakes and froze the planet.

Paradise was divided. The first revolt was quashed, and the conspirators expelled. The tension between the

giants grew, culminating in a devastating battle, which split the divine hosts forever. Lucifer, the Dark Archangel,

challenged the authority of almighty Michael, attracting one third of the legions to his cause. But his ambitions

were equally malign and, once beaten, the fallen angels were thrown into hell, where they awaited an opportune

moment to wreak vengeance.

Millennia later, the pockets of rebellion that were initially put down, would flare up once more. Archangel

Gabriel, the Heavenly Prince’s most loyal servant, received a mission to descend to Haled to plan a new

catastrophe. But angels are vulnerable to human feelings in their earthly bodies. For the first time, Gabriel

experienced the warmth of the human soul and understood the love he felt for God. He rejected his brother’s

orders and so began a new war, a civil war, the eternal dispute over paradise, which continues to this day.

Reunited in First Heaven, Gabriel and the rebel armies embarked on a major campaign against the established

forces, headquartered on the fifth celestial level. Fourth Heaven, Acheron, became a violent combat zone, where

cherubim have been fighting day and night for two thousand years. When the rebels advanced, demolishing

fortresses and gaining ground, Michael, afraid of losing the throne, ordered the Haniah, the Return, which

decreed that all his allies on duty or simply present in the material world should return at once. With the enemy

contingent growing, Gabriel did the same thing, and Haled was abandoned. Access vortexes to superior

dimensions were closed off, with just a few left open, guarded by powerful sentinels.

The elohin caste, whose nature is to live among men, obtained special permission to remain in the physical

world, as did other separatists, who refused to return. The only condition was that they would not intervene

3

in the course of the war and would always be ready to serve the archangels when duty called. While a bloody

sword battle raged in paradise, the two sides established a truce on earth – a fragile, delicate treaty that could

collapse at any moment.

Isolated in Sixth Heaven, the malakin order issued their predications. This would not just a war that had

broken out.

It was the beginning of the end.

4

PROLOGUE

The Brazilian countryside, present day

For most angels, the big problem on earth is not human corruption or social degradation. It’s the smell.

Levih and Urakin were sitting at a table in a restaurant, a roadside dive at the back of a run-down gas station,

its walls blackened by pollution from trucks and its windows streaked with grease from fat fryers. It was night

and the place was busy. Truck drivers, bus passengers and transport workers were eating and drinking in what

was the last highway stop for kilometers. The oil-splattered floor grew increasingly slippery. In the air, the reek

of fuel mingled with the stench of urine that wafted intermittently from the door-less restrooms. A selection

of sandwiches and savory snacks filled a chilled display case on the counter, attracting insects to a nocturnal

banquet.

Levih, sitting on the right side of the table, was an exception among the winged ones. Known as the Friend

of Men, he belonged to the ofanin caste, the order of angels that protected and defended humankind.

He had roamed the world, on humanitarian missions, feeding the desperate with spiritual nourishment,

trying to lead them away from perversion. He had a young face, blue eyes and very white teeth, which gleamed

when he smiled. A graying fringe fell over his forehead, the white strands making it difficult to tell if he was

20, 30 or 40. A beard of the same color skirted the edge of his chin and the lack of a mustache revealed the

delicacy of his features. He wore blue trousers, a beige shirt and a moss-green jacket of material so fine that it

resembled a lab coat. His slender body was a perfect match for his clear skin, sharp nose and rosy cheeks.

Sitting opposite, Urakin, the Fist of God, did not share the same opinion of men. He was a cherubim, a

warrior angel, and he didn’t like all the disorder one bit. Tall and muscular, with a strong, square body, it was

easy to mistake him for a heavyweight boxer or even a grim-faced trucker. His alarming, robotic expression

drew attention to the scar above one eyebrow. His thick neck gave way to a round face, with bald head, small

ears, and a close-shaved goatee beard. He wore army boots, a dark shirt and brown parka with a khaki hood

thrown back.

A group of drunken truck drivers began to sing a sports team’s anthem. It stopped raining, silencing the

patter of drops on the glass-fiber roof. An old song was playing on the bar radio: “Can’t Take my Eyes off You”.

“So, you’re the leader of the mission?” asked Urakin, his eyes fixed on Levih. His voice was rasping and he

spoke slowly, still rather uncomfortable in his recently materialized physical form, which celestials call “avatar”.

“It seems so,” Levih replied pleasantly. He peered over the heads of the other people there, as if looking for

someone about to arrive. “It’s curious. A far from normal partnership”

“What do you mean?” The comment made no sense.

“Our castes. A pair of opposites. Have you thought about how rare that is?”

”I wasn’t hired to think,” came the response. “What are we waiting for?”

5

“My sandwich.” But when he realized how impatient his partner was, he added, “I’m trying to figure out

the best route to our destination.”

“You managed to get a car.”

Through the window could be seen an old van parked on a patch of waste ground, almost in the forest,

west of the bus stop. “Have you been in Haled for long?”

Levih smiled and, despite his adult appearance, there was something childlike in his face. The ofanin are

essentially good, so amiable that they often border on the naïve.

“For some time.”

A man in a yellow apron announced that the sandwich was ready: French bread with butter and cheese.

Levih went to get it, returned to the table and opened a road map, at the same time inserting a straw into a can

of soda.

“I don’t know how you can stand to eat such rubbish.” Urakin looked nauseated.

“You get used to it,” retorted Levih, not paying much attention. He pointed to a spot on the map.

“Have you ever been here?”

“Santa Helena?” That was the name printed there. “Never heard of it.”

“Me neither.” The ofanin closed the map and pushed it to one corner of the table. “So tell me. How is it

that two celestials, one of them an archon, could disappear without a trace?”

“That’s our mission?”

“To rescue them. That’s why we’re here.” He took a sip of the soda and took a generous bite out of his cheese

sandwich. “Kaira, Divine Spark, an ishin master in the province of fire, and Zarion, the cherubim who protected

her. They vanished from around here two years ago, maybe a little more.”

“And why are they only sending us now?”

“Why do you think?” Levih leaned forward and whispered, like someone sharing a secret. “We shouldn’t

be here. They shouldn’t have been here. We had a truce, have you forgotten?”

“I doubt that Gabriel broke the truce. He trusted his commander. And what do we do when we find them?

“I was told to proceed according to the original mission, whether they’re dead or alive.”

“And do you know what or who they were following?”

Levih was about to answer but he stayed quiet. Two uniformed police officers entered the restaurant. They

wore navy blue uniforms and bullet-proof vests. A high-caliber pistol, radio, truncheon, handcuffs and bullets

hung from their belts. They headed straight for the angels’ table, without looking right or left.

“I’ll take care of this,” Levih said, just as one officer came close.

“Good evening, pal.” The policeman didn’t wait for Levih to

respond. “Is that your vehicle outside?” And he pointed to the van parked in the lot.

“It’s a friend’s.”

“What I meant to say is,” the second officer never took his eyes off Urakin, “you need to come with me.”

“Is there a problem?”

“Nothing serious. I need to see the documents. We just want to check…”

“Let’s get this over with.” Fist of God got up. Levih gulped down the rest of his sandwich and followed

them, cleaning his fingers on a cheap paper napkin. He was confident that they would resolve the problem,

after all persuasion was an innate characteristic of his caste. They use it to stimulate emotional reactions, to

convert malign spirits and lead humans to the path of redemption.

Urakin remained on his guard when they left the restaurant. The officers hadn’t scared him, but there was

something strange about the way they walked – he couldn’t figure out what it was. And there was an unpleasant

smell.

A police vehicle was parked at the entrance to the waste ground, its doors open, blocking the van’s exit.

There was a superior officer at the wheel, wearing the same uniform as the others, but with a captain’s insignia

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The pistol in his holster was not police issue – it was a 45 ACP caliber SIG-Sauer, chrome with black handle

and trigger, an expensive weapon and pretty rare. Levih reckoned the officer was 35 years old, maybe a little

less.

Yet, despite being a law enforcement agent, he looked like a criminal. His body was typically military, with

especially powerful forearms. His eyes were black and somber, topped by black eyebrows. A beret partially hid

his equally dark hair. He got up as soon as he saw them approaching. He stared at the angels, examining them

for several seconds, then glared challengingly at Urakin, and finally announced like a judge reading out a

sentence:

“This car was reported stolen. We’re after the thief. Where are the documents?”

Judging by his tone, Levih understood that the accusation was serious. Ofanin don’t approve of violence,

but he knew exactly what to do.

“Captain, my friend and I are very tired,” he argued, “and we’re in a hurry. I’m sure you can understand.

Now, why don’t you forget about this misunderstanding and move your car out of our way? It would be a great

help, and we’d be eternally grateful.”

Levih usually had no problem persuading mortals, but the officer was unconvinced. He frowned and put

his hand on the pistol grip.

“We’re in a hurry too, pal”.

Within an instant, Urakin foresaw the attack. He heard the two policemen behind drawing their weapons

and decided to react, as any good soldier would. Stretching out his hand and reaching for the van’s door handle,

which was very near him, he pulled violently. The door hinges gave way, tearing the metal with a screech. At

the same time, he used the piece of metal as a club, hitting one of the officers in the middle of the forehead.

Before the policeman could fire his weapon, his spine snapped with the shock of the blow – his body fell, inert,

sprawled beside a bush, as the other officer squeezed the trigger.

Levih was frozen, too shocked to react. His caste’s code prevented him from hurting any creature, especially

human beings, even in self-defense.

Urakin heard a crack and felt two bullets hit him – one in the shoulder and the other in the stomach, luckily

a long way from his heart. He launched himself into battle, and, like a bear, grabbed the shooter by the head

with both hands, suspending him in the air.

The captain was no stranger to combat, but he preferred to retreat, and then drew his pistol. As luck would

have it, his weapon misfired and on seeing the damage that the cherubim could cause, he ran off, putting as

much distance as he could between himself and the angels.

“Go and get him!” yelled the Fist of God, but Levih refused.

“Stop what you’re doing. That’s an order!” He could not abide assassins.

“Do you still think…,” Urakin twisted the officer’s neck, “they’re human?”

When his victim died, he dropped him to the ground, ready to tear out his heart in one automatic movement.

On closer examination, the two cadavers were unlike normal corpses. The bodies began to shrivel, as if the

organs, the blood and even the bones were drying up. All that remained a few seconds later was a stain of

excrement bubbling inside a blackened shell, shrinking as it cooled down.

“Captors,” muttered the Friend of Men. “How did they find us?”

“It’s their job”, said the Fist of God

“How did you know?”

Urakin walked over to the back of the police car, whose hazard lights were still blinking. He opened the

trunk, breaking the lock with his super-human strength. Three dead men lay in a heap inside. Their uniforms

and appearance were identical to the entities that had attacked the angels. “I could smell their rotting flesh.”

Levih examined the dead officers closely.

“What the hell! They copied human form perfectly.”

7

“Any form,” corrected Urakin, “I’ve come across a few of them before.”

He closed the trunk. His warlike nature clamored for more action. “Are we going to stay here doing nothing?

Their leader could still be within our reach.”

“Better let him get away,” said the ofanin. He was the leader for the time being. “This incident has nothing

to do with our mission. The captors could just be around here hunting lost angels. It’s a disaster that they found

us. But we can’t let this setback hold us up.”

“Whatever you say.” The cherubim are practical and totally loyal.

Urakin took a deep breath and only then did he notice how much he was bleeding. The bullets hadn’t killed

him, but they had left him exhausted. He needed to eat.

“You know that revolting sandwich?, he said, placing his hand on tiny Levih’s shoulder for support, “I think

I’ll take you up on your offer.”

8

1. CAN’T TAKE MY EYES OFF YOU

University of Santa Helena, mountain region of Rio de Janeiro

Santa Helena was not a warm place, even in autumn. Hotter days were wet and humid because of the tropical

climate, but at mountain altitude there was always a cool breeze keeping the temperature pleasant. It was very

early in the morning, and a carpet of leaves covered the campus square, which was surrounded by old buildings

that housed classrooms and student halls of residence.

In one of these dormitories, young Rachel was aware of a burst of light which soon became a whirling,

beautiful, colored image, like photos of galaxies and supernovas in books.

She distinctly remembered being in bed when the wraith-like girl appeared near the ceiling. Rachel felt no

fear, despite the incredible scene. She must have been dreaming – that was her logical conclusion.

The girl appeared to be a ghost. Her long hair swirled as if in water, while her face seemed translucent. She

must have been about eight, no more than that, and was wearing a patterned nightdress under an adult’s coat,

with an embroidered symbol on the chest, which Rachel could make out as the remains of a stylized letter ‘I’,

or something like that. She had a soft toy in her right hand, a grubby teddy bear with large black eyes, a long

nose and a round muzzle.

Her mouth wide open, the floating girl was asking for help – or at least that’s what Rachel concluded. The

muffled words came haltingly out of the child’s mouth. She was being sucked into a tunnel behind her, but at

the same time something was holding her in place. She was anchored – that was the right word – to the room

by a chain, or perhaps a cable, half metal, half organic. This strange cord went from her navel down deep into

Rachel’s own abdomen!

Rachel gave a silent scream. Her body began to hurt, to burn, and her skin was on fire.

The girl vanished and all of a sudden Rachel saw a man’s pallid face, with grey eyes like two lumps of ice.

His malevolent presence was loaded with hate and sadism. She could feel his cold breath and was as afraid as

a child, petrified and impotent.

She screamed again, louder this time, as loud as she could. She mentally pictured the bedroom door, the

outer door, and used all her willpower to flee, run, but her body weighed her down.

She saw a brilliant golden light.

She woke up.

Rachel awakened with the sun on her face. Someone had opened the curtains, finally releasing her from

that cruel nightmare.

When she could see properly, she breathed a sigh of relief. She was back in the real world. The colors were

vibrant and palpable, not dull and dark as in her dream. The smell from the flower beds calmed her down, and

9

even the noise made by the freshmen in the yard was like a liberating blessing. She was back in her second-

floor room, with a window facing the campus square.

Her boyfriend, Hector, was sitting at the foot of her bed, ready to protect her from any threat – this was the

feeling she had. Hector was one of the university’s most brilliant students, class president, adored by all the

girls, and popular with the older students. Handsome and elegant, he had a perfect body. A talented athlete,

he had won dozens of college swimming competitions, as well as gaining trophies and medals before starting

university. His charm increased when he styled his blond hair with gel, winning over the lecturers with his

“good-boy” air.

He bent over to tie his shoelaces. Judging by his outfit of T-shirt and sport shorts, he was going out for

another of his daily walks in the mountains, which he did religiously, always at the same time.

“Another nightmare?” It was Hector who spoke first. “Do you think it’s something you’re eating?”

She made an effort to speak. Her throat was dry. Her voice was hoarse.

“What’s all the noise?” There was an unusual amount of activity in the campus square.

“It’s the last day of classes. Tomorrow’s a holiday. Did you manage to speak to your mother?”

Rachel sat up on the bed to regain her senses, rubbed her green eyes and yawned. Her long red hair fell

straight to her waist. She had clear, smooth skin and a few freckles on her nose. She was wearing just a red

tracksuit top decorated with the university emblem. She looked at her hands, to make sure she was awake.

“I tried calling her all day yesterday but nobody answered.” She crossed her legs, stretched her spine and

pushed the quilt to one side.

“What are you going to do?”

“Try again. And again. If she doesn’t answer, I think I’ll stay here,” she said, bitter, but resigned, “I have a

pile of books to study and a test first class on Monday.” She pointed to the books on her desk.

“The university’s going to be deserted over Easter,” said Hector. “It would be dangerous to stay in the city.”

“Dangerous?” Rachel didn’t know if this was advice or a joke. “Santa Helena hasn’t registered a crime for

more than ten years.”

“Dangerous for your health. You haven’t been well recently. You have headaches all the time. You eat a

hamburger and throw up. What if something happens? The nearest hospital is twenty kilometers away.”

Hector was right, and she knew it. But she didn’t want, and didn’t know exactly why, to upset her parents.

And she liked to be alone, that was true. It had been weeks since she’d seen her mother, but her family had

always lived like that: each one with their own problems, things to do, plans. They didn’t love each other any

less because of this. It was almost a tradition that children, grandchildren, parents, grandparents saw each other

only at Christmas and rarely at Easter. Rachel had never agreed with this custom but she respected the majority

opinion. The problem was that, personally, she had never learned to be distant, so she dealt with the subject

by simply distracting herself, concentrating on other things, such as her relationship with Hector and her

studies. She tried to think of an alternative, and just because Hector had brought the subject up, she risked

asking:

“Do you think your mother would like to meet me?” It was a touchy subject. She was on dangerous ground.

Hector sighed as he got up from the bed. With his trainers laced up, he was ready to leave.

“We’ve already had this conversation, Rachel.” They had in fact done so, but in a romantic way. There had

been nothing serious, until now. Hector’s selective memory startled Rachel.

“My dad’s sick. I don’t want you to meet them now.”

“That’s what you said a year ago.” She wanted to make it clear that she could remember. She didn’t want

to suffocate him, but his attitude was ridiculous in her opinion. He was acting as if he were ashamed of what

was between them. Hector had many qualities, but when the subject of his family came up, he was strangely

paranoid.

“We’ve been together for months.”

10

“I’m not going to argue with you,” he checked his watch. “I have to go now, otherwise it’ll be too late.”

“OK.” But it was far from OK.

“Do you want some advice?” He changed the subject. “Write about your dream. Write it all down on paper.”

She frowned. Hector gave her a kiss on the forehead.

“It’s a well-known cure,” he explained when he saw that she wasn’t going to say anything, “a tip from my

psychology lecturer.” And he left a yellow notebook for her. “Now I really do have to go. See you for lunch.”

“In the cafeteria, 12 o’clock?” They always ate together.

“OK.” And he dashed out, slamming the door.

Rachel was still shaken. She got up and went to the bathroom – at Santa Helena College every student had

their own room, with bathroom, so it wasn’t necessary to share with others. She turned on the shower. The

water came out in a powerful jet, the steam fogging up the mirror.

The problems with Hector put aside for the moment, the dream about the young girl came back into her

mind. The University of Santa Helena, like any other remotely located institution, was full of mysteries. The

older students insisted it was haunted. The rumors about the monastery around which the college complex had

been built talked of mediaeval relics, black magic rituals and indigenous ceremonies. The stories gained credence

with each academic year, when new freshmen arrived and the older students invented and reinvented fragments

of the legend.

An idea crossed her mind for a moment. Not that she believed all that nonsense, but she couldn’t help

thinking about it.

What if it wasn’t a dream? What if the girl really was asking for help?

She undressed and turned the radio on before getting into the shower. A song began to play.

“Can’t Take My Eyes off You.”

11

2. THE SENTINELS

Southeast Asia, in a distant past

Dawn painted the mountains. On the plain the village awoke to a new day, a hot, dry morning, creating mirages

on the desert horizon. Shrubs and date palms encircled the group of leather tents, where almost fifty families

lived together. A freshwater spring stood protected in the village center, with water for camels and mules,

providing everything that that the community needed to sustain itself. They were hunter-gatherers and nomads;

they knew nothing of agriculture and were gradually developing a limited form of pictographic communication.

Working as a team, they stocked up food, made clothes, painted their adventures on cave walls, made weapons

of stone, bone and wood.

A beetle buzzed over the tents as a red cloud covered the morning sky. It was very windy, the children ran

off, the animals were restless. One of the villagers put his head out of his tent, telling the others not to be

alarmed. He went out, walking barefoot on the sandy ground.

He walked alone for several miles to greet the explosion. Neither young nor old, he had a receding hairline,

a mature, bearded face, thick fingers and a robust appearance. His only piece of clothing was a lion-skin loin

cloth. He carried neither spear nor club.

Looking towards the mountains, he saw a golden figure ahead. The fragile tissue of reality sent out waves

of vibrations at the very moment the aura condensed, with the contours now becoming visible, finally manifesting

as the image of an almost human creature in gold armor that covered his entire body. The headpiece was in

fact a finely wrought metal helmet protecting his head, leaving his face on show. His honey-colored hair fell

to the shoulders, where two white-feathered wings lay folded. The slender silhouette emanated serenity. From

his waist hung a metal scabbard, housing the inimitable Scourge of Fire.

“Gabriel, Master of Fire,” the prostrate villager greeted the apparition. ”It’s a long time since we last met.”

“Arise, my friend,” said the archangel, extending his right hand in a gesture of friendship. “There’s no need

for formalities.”

“Your visit fills us with happiness.” He spoke on behalf of the entire village. “I’ve told my children about

you. Everyone’s anxious to meet you: the young and old, men and women, hunters and craftsmen.”

“Perhaps this is not the best time.” Gabriel’s expression was cold. “I have come in the name of Archangel

Michael, the supreme prince of the legions. We have special orders for you, sentinel, which need to be carried

out without fail.”

The villager felt his chest tighten. This couldn’t be good.

“How can I help you, great one?”

“Your mission on this planet is over.” His tone was sharp now.

“We command you to return to Seventh Heaven. Summon the other sentinels; you are the only one who

knows how to do this. All who live in Eden must return to God’s house.”

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“But why? To what end?”

Gabriel looked towards the encampment and paused for a while before giving the news.

“The archangels have decided that mortals do not deserve to continue to exist. We will exterminate them

while there’s still time, and to do this we have need of your help. We must have everyone’s support.”

The villager frowned and took a step back. He could not believe what he had heard

“What?” he muttered, finally managing to say something.

“When?” “How?”

“Soon, very soon. We are going to freeze the planet, expand the polar regions, turn the seas, lakes, rivers to

ice. No land will survive to stain creation. It will be done. It has been decided.”

“No.” It was too shocking. “This is heresy. Who are you to interrupt the course of the whole human race?

Who are the archangels to speak in God’s name?”

“We were legitimately chosen by God, “he reminded the sentinel with magisterial authority. “The seventh

day is not his; it is ours. Our time, our reign, our era. There is nothing above us.”

“And your word. You’re forgetting your word.”

“My word?” But for the gravity of the occasion, Gabriel would have laughed out loud. “Take a look at yourself.

All you have done since you came here is to disobey divine orders, living with humans, fornicating with their

women, settling with these cave-dwelling animals. Mortals are weak and their nature is evil. They are murderers,

without honor, selfish and perverse. “

“I can’t deny it,” the villager bowed his head. “But not everything in human nature is necessarily cruel.

They have an indomitable spirit, free in a way we have never been and never will be. Perhaps because of their

ability to create life, they exercise a kind of sacred love, sublime, purely divine. If you knew them better, you

would understand what I’m saying.”

“That will never happen,” Gabriel said, and went straight to the point. “What I offer is simple. Return and

you will be honored. All who insist on staying will die in disgrace.”

“Then we will die. We choose to die. We have a mission and we will remain in our homes until the

Awakening.”

Gabriel shook his head. He touched the hilt of his sword, but he did not draw it.

“The prince knew it would be difficult to persuade you, sentinel, and that’s why he sent me. What you do

not understand is that I also have a mission and I will accomplish it.”

“What does Raphael think about this?” He was referring to the archangel known as God’s Healer. “What

does he have to say about this cataclysm you have planned?”

“Raphael has no power over us. He will do what he has been ordered to do, as will you.” He threatened to

draw his sword. “One final warning. Return with me. That’s an order.”

The villager flexed his muscles, ready to fight to defend his cause. One thing was certain, he would not

surrender so easily. Two sand-colored wings sprouted from his shoulders.

“There is only one who can give me orders, and his name is Yahweh.” The Master of Fire relaxed his guard.

“Is that your final answer?”

‘That’s my only answer.”

“I hope you will reconsider”, he retorted, gathering strength to dematerialize.

“I could say the same, archangel.” And as Gabriel vanished, he repeated “I could say the same.”

The giant disappeared in the same cloud that had brought him, and so the storm abated.

But he would be back.

13

4. APARTMENT 617

Sirith flew over the big city through the astral plane, scouring the streets and buildings. He was one of the

captors, an inferior demon belonging to the lowest caste in hell. In his spiritual form, he looked like a bald

vulture, with rolls of flesh and a very long, rough hairless neck. His wings were atrophied, which would have

made flight maneuvers complicated for him but for the laws of physics in the astral world, where there was no

gravity.

From above, he saw the housing complex, with graffiti on the walls, clothes hanging on lines and TV

antennae on the balconies. The landscape beyond the tissue of reality looked opaque; it was if he were floating,

contemplating a shipwrecked civilization. In the early hours of the morning, the raindrops fell around his body

but he didn’t feel them – they were physical and were projected like illusions, holograms, untouchable through

the membrane.

Sirith swooped down, scanning bedrooms and alleyways. He spied inside the houses since there were some

he couldn’t enter. Descending towards a square, he landed on a football court. It was empty, there were no

humans around. He sniffed the ripples in the membrane and found what he was looking for.

He shot up into the sky, passing a street light, making it flicker.

He went through a concrete wall, into a corridor of one of the highest buildings, with dozens of small

apartments. Pausing outside number 617, he sensed demonic vibrations. Sirith passed through the wooden

door, appearing instantaneously on the other side.

Inside the apartment, a tiny place with all the windows shut, he saw three young people sitting around a

mat. One was a young girl with dark hair, holding a lighter in one hand and a spoon in the other. Sirith could

see her burned finger tips and dark nails as she lit the lighter with her thumb, slowly melting the grains, which

gradually liquefied until they became an oily extract.

Behind them, in the astral plane, two demons were nudging each other, crushed together like spectators at

a show. Sirith recognized them. One was Guth, a twisted creature, with red eyes and perforations all over its

body and green skin. The lack of genitals made it impossible to know what sex it was. On the right, lying on

his back was the demon called Bakal, a skinny creature with an immense hole in the sternum. The heart was

exposed, a withered, necrotized organ, with black veins and red lines.

One of the boys picked up a used syringe from the floor, pressed the plunger and drew up the drug. Then

he sank the needle into his trembling arm. Sirith noticed that the surface of the skin on the arm was rigid, full

of puncture wounds and blisters from multiple previous injections. He flapped his wings forward, heading

towards Guth, who hadn’t yet noticed he was there.

“Hey,” he said. He used their demonic names, the ones they had been given in hell. Like him, they were the

spirits of humans of old who had fallen into the abyss, abandoning their human identity, reborn as satanic figures.

“Not now.” Guth was waiting for the young guy to puncture his arm. “Not now!” The boy pressed the

plunger and the substance flowed into his body, causing a temporary state of ecstasy, detachment, giving him

14

a ‘high’. His knees gave way and he passed out. Guth took a deep breath, experiencing the same sensations,

thereby strengthening his aura, fed by the constant infusions of energy. This ritual took around ten minutes,

until finally the euphoria abated, giving way to a sudden bad feeling – it was Bakal’s turn to go into action.

Recomposed, Guth twisted his head and turned towards Sirith.

“What do you want?” His tone was sharp.

“Do you know who I am?” They had already crossed paths in some hole or other but it was difficult to

remember every face. Demons don’t make friends, just temporary alliances.

“You look like a chicken to me,” he said scornfully, eying the captor’s defective wings, “Tell us why you’re

here and be quick about it. Can’t you see I’m busy?” He was turning aggressive. “You’re on my patch.”

“I am Sirith,” the captor introduced himself, not at all upset at the mockery. “We met in Zandrak.”

“Ah, now I know.” The ghoul lowered his voice. Insult turned to sarcasm. “Sirith, to what do I owe this

pleasure?”

“I heard that you control this sector.”

“Yes, I do, “he replied with a sinister smile. “You’ve caught me in the middle of my work.”

“I have a proposal which I’m sure will appeal to you.”

Guth could hear rhythmic breathing. He looked to the left – Bakal was clamped on the back of one of the

boys, sucking out all his energy, leaving him lethargic and drowsy.

“Say what you have say, Sirith,” demanded Guth. “You’ve come at a far from convenient time.”

“I’ll be brief because I don’t have a moment to lose,” Sirith said. “I’ve located angels on the physical plane.

I want your help to capture them.”

“On the physical plane?” That was a rare situation.

“Yes. Some days ago, in a gas station to the east of the border.”

“Why didn’t you deal with them?” Guth remembered that Sirith had no influence. He knew he commanded

a small brigade.

“One brigade is not enough,” he explained. “There was a cherubim there, a bloodthirsty, ferocious fighter.

We need to recruit a horde of troops.”

“That’s why you came to me?” It was obvious. “How many do you need?”

“A lot. All we can muster.”

“Give me a number.”

“A thousand. Five hundred at least.”

‘It must be serious.” The demon’s interest was sparked. “What’s in it for me?”

“You can keep the two. They’ll be yours.” And he added, scratching his wrinkled neck, “The ofanin will

probably please you.”

“An ofanin?” Bakal came out of his trance. “Capturing ofanin brings bad luck.”

Sirith changed his strategy. Now that he had their attention, all he had to do was persuade them to accept

his deal.

“You’re satisfied with so little”, he looked over at the young drug addicts. “What you’re doing is a disaster,

a disgrace to our division.” His voice deepened. “You are demons, emissaries from hell, not ghosts or spirit

devourers. How long are you going to continue wallowing in this pigsty?”

Guth hissed and showed his canine teeth.

“What the fuck is this?” He stood up to face Sirith. “Do you think you can trick me, you shit? You come

into my territory, ask me to organize a horde and offer me two angels. And you? What’s in it for you?”

He had his reply ready.

“The celestials I’m referring to are going to meet an archon, an angel order leader. My agents were spying

on them,” he revealed. “All I want is her. The rest I leave to you.”

“Oh, why didn’t you say so before?” The green-skinned demon knew that the archons were sacred in their

castes, and naturally more valuable.

15

“A horde”, Sirith insisted, “When can you organize it?”

“At any time.” Guth opened his arms, nose in the air. “These ghouls here would follow me inside Lucifer’s

toga.”

“Excellent. I’ll inspect the troops then. This time tomorrow?” Guth said nothing. Now it was the girl who

had the syringe, ready to plunge not into her arm but the jugular. Guth couldn’t resist the temptation. He

completely forgot about the visitor and crawled to the mat.

“So?” pressed Sirith.

“Tomorrow,” agreed Guth, not paying much attention. He gave a half-hearted salute. “Now get out of here.”

He waved his hands as if he were swatting an insect. “Leave us in peace.”

Sirith didn’t argue. He spread his wings and flew off. He rose to the roof, passed the electricity cables, a tree,

and saw the city once more from above.

In the apartment, Guth and Bakal looked at each other. The girl pulled the needle out and fell onto the mat,

frothing at the mouth. She was choking; she couldn’t breathe because of the overdose. Her heart stopped.

She was dead.

16

29. TRENCH WARFARE

Northeastern France , July 1st, 1916

Denyel was pretending to be asleep, not always convincingly. With his rifle propped between his legs, he leaned

against the logs and boards that shored up the trench walls. He tipped his helmet forward and closed his eyes.

He heard a clicking sound, someone opening and closing pincers nervously. A whistling noise, a strident whining

from far off caught his attention. At first it was like gust of wind, then a whistle. Then came the explosion. The

ground shook. It rained earth and stones.

“I can’t sleep,” complained a soldier with an Irish accent. “I don’t know how you manage. I don’t know

how you still try.”

Denyel pretended to wake up. Bartley Smith was someone he’d come to call a friend, or something close

to that. The Irishman was sitting next to him, slurping the remains of some cold soup, with his rifle leaning

against the side of the trench. His uniform was the standard British Expeditionary Force: dark green, with brown

boots and metal Brodie helmet, which the soldiers hated. He had a small, thin face, was slightly built, with red

hair and brown eyes.

“I have no problem sleeping,” said another recruit, Edward Hughes, a flabby individual with a large belly,

already in his thirties. He was scraping mud off the sole of his boots. “I pretend they’re drums. They sound

identical, don’t you think?”

Denyel looked through the periscope. The sun was rising. It was a clear day, with a blue sky. He tried to see

beyond the barbed wire, but the enemy positions were hidden behind clouds of gas. The machine guns never

stopped firing from both sides, kicking up rocks and dust. The area between the British and the Germans was

a death trap, sprayed by uninterrupted bursts of artillery, which pounded the soil day and night with explosive

munitions. The grass had disappeared, the trees were just broken posts. With his angelic powers, he could see

a gathering of phantoms, an army of useless, invisible creatures wandering aimlessly, some shouting frantically,

others trying to advance, some hiding in their dark corners. He turned to his comrades. He sheathed his bayonet.

“Do you think it’ll be today?” asked the Irishman

“We’ve been bombarding the Germans for five days”, said Denyel. Three more soldiers joined the group.

“If that isn’t a preparation for an attack, I don’t know what is.”

“It’ll be heavy,” agreed Edward, the fat soldier. “The artillery are throwing everything they’ve got at them.

Did you hear that last burst? Not just grenades. They’ve got mortars, too.”

“It’ll be a massacre,” smiled a mustached Londoner nicknamed Mr. Hyde because of his extraordinary

strength and excessively hairy body. “There won't be any survivors. I’ll get some Mausers for my collection.”

Their chat fizzled out at the approach of a commissioned officer, Lieutenant Aaron Cooper, a young aristocrat

of dubious character, who had been in charge of the platoon for six months. His uniform was similar to the

enlisted men’s, but he wore a cap with a royal emblem. His high black boots had no laces, like riding boots.

17

Attention!” yelled a sergeant, a Welshman of fifty with a thick mustache and a tough reputation. Everybody

stood up, chest out.

The lieutenant passed through the trench, quickly inspecting the troops. The he stopped in the middle of

the men.

“Good day, men. I have news from high command.” He crossed his arms. “General Haig has authorized the

infantry advance for 7:30 a.m. today.”

General silence. “That’s right. We’ll finish off these sausage eaters.”

The silence continued. No-one celebrated. No cheers, no response. It was 6:40 a.m., which gave them less

than an hour until the beginning of the push forward. Cooper fitted on his gloves and adjusted his cap. He

continued:

“This will be the biggest offensive yet launched. I know that many of you are tired, that many want to

go home. Do your job and we’ll bring this war to an end by autumn,” he promised, trying to raise their spirits,

“Today will be decisive. It’s our chance to write our names and that of the 23rd Division in the pages of history.”

And he finished with an upper-class “Good luck, gentlemen. Long live King George.”

It was discipline and training more than anything else that made the soldiers respond. The lieutenant saluted

them, and moved on to another section of the trench. Bartley Smith nudged Denyel’s arm.

“7:30?” he whispered, so that the sergeant couldn’t hear. “Why didn’t they tell us before?”

“So it’ll be a surprise attack.”

“Surprise for them, not for us.” He tipped out the mug of soup. “Oh shit! I forgot to write that letter. I had

it all in my head.” He took a piece of paper from his pocket. He tried the blunt pencil. “I should have realized.

They gave us hot food last night. The last supper.”

“We’re not going to die Bartley.” In fact, their chances were good. The enemy had been pummeled for days.

It was hard to imagine that anything was still moving there. “It’ll be more like a hunt. Don’t you like hunting?”

The Irishman’s thoughts were elsewhere.

“Montmartre. It’s a Paris neighborhood, my wife’s favorite. I want to visit Paris when the war’s over. Were

you ever in France?”

“Yes, a few years ago.”

“How long have we been in this hell hole?” He had lost all sense of time.

“Almost two years.”

“As long as that?” Another explosion. “You’ve never said if you’re married.”

“There’s just one passion in my life. Rose.”

Their laughter drowned the rattle of the machine guns. The tension evaporated, just for a moment. Rose

was a rat that roamed the shelters, did the rounds of the latrines, a kind of company mascot that the men fed.

She had become tame and had never bitten anyone.

Another loud bang. An unusual explosion, muffled, with no rattle of machinery, no whistle of falling metal.

“That was no mortar,” whispered Edward Hughes

“They’re detonating the mines,” said Mr. Hyde. He prepared the tripod and fed the magazine into the Vickers

machine gun. When it goes quiet, the infantry will go in.”

At 7:20, ten minutes before the appointed time, the fury of the canon went quiet. Along the forty kilometers

that comprised the British front line, the entire Fourth Army was ready to attack. Revolver in hand, and whistle

round his neck, Lieutenant Cooper scoured the battle field through the periscope, waiting for a signal from the

colonels.

Denyel was the first in line. He checked his equipment. His Lee-Enfield rifle was loaded, the barrel clean.

He had four number 36 grenades on his belt and a metal-tipped truncheon for hand-to-hand combat.

18

Like most exiled angels, Denyel had been ordered by his new masters, the malakin, to the frontline of every

conflict. He was authorized to use his divine powers in self-defense, but was forbidden to employ them to save

the life of humans or alter the course of any battle or campaign. He was expected to kill, like any soldier, as

long as he didn’t exceed earthly skills or show his supernatural powers.

The lieutenant checked his wristwatch and climbed the wooden ladder. He fired once into the air, and blew

his whistle, followed by the other platoon commanders. Covered by the machine guns, the troops went over

the top, advancing together towards the devastated area.

The initial impulse to run soon gave way to a march when the German rifles stayed quiet. Not a sound came

from the German lines, suggesting that a good number of the enemy soldiers had already succumbed.

The units were organized in extended lines, with two or three paces between each man and a hundred

meters between rows. Behind the assault groups came the support troops, and last of all, the reserves. It was an

olive-green multitude, reflected Denyel. Almost the entire Expeditionary Force had been mobilized for combat,

a total of twenty-thousand soldiers on the north and south flanks.

The advance was slow for the first few meters because of the irregular, unstable terrain. There was a lot of

smoke, almost as thick as London fog. Soldiers slipped in pools of mud caused by the rain and drainpipes. The

ground was treacherous, full of debris, barbed wire, lumps of metal and concrete. But the greatest risks were the

landmines and unexploded bombs.

“I’ll tell you something.” Bartley the redhead was walking behind him. “I’m not scared of dying. I’m scared

of being dead.”

“I’ve already told you that no-one’s going to die,” objected Denyel. He was confident in the allies’ strategy

but, as they got nearer to enemy territory, he noticed a disturbance in the veil of reality, a detail imperceptible

to human senses. Apart from one or two phantoms, the astral plane was deserted, an atypical scenario for a

sterilized area. There should have been shadows, howling specters, spirits patrolling the membrane, souls trapped

in eternal agony.

Denyel jumped on top of the Irishman, and when the fog lifted one bullet came from the enemy positions.

Then came the hails of ammunition. Grenades, rifles, mortars, shells. The angel looked at the sides, saw dozens

of machine guns clustered on the flanks, in the rearguard, some recently mounted, set up in the craters opened

up by Britain’s own bombs. A body fell on him, three men dropped at his feet.

“We need to fall back!” screamed the cherubim, trying to protect himself under a brick structure. A bullet

grazed his ear, another hit him in the clavicle.

Bartley was rigid, paralyzed. The angel saw a safer position thirty meters away. Ignoring his wounded shoulder,

he put his friend on his back and got up cautiously. But the danger was great, there was no way out. Lead

ricocheted, bullets whizzed. He jumped into a crater and laid his friend on the ground.

“You said it would be like a hunt,” complained the Irishman. Denyel noticed that he had been hit, too. His

back was bleeding; his helmet had disappeared in the confusion.

“It’s an ambush”, he thought out loud. “They were hiding in the underground shelters.” A wooden handled

stick grenade – the famous German Stielhandgranate, known as the “potato masher” – slid into the crater but

luckily, it didn’t detonate. Another soldier fell and rolled into the hole.

“Shit.” The Irishman put his hand on his uniform and saw the blood seeping out. “I never wrote that damn

letter.”

“Never mind.” Denyel searched his pockets. He found a bandage but there was no hope for his friend.

“I had so many things to do.” His face was leaden, his breathing weak. “I wanted more time, it needn’t have

been much.”

His heart stopped, the light went from his eyes. Bartley died with his eyes open, and the angel heard him

murmuring, already through the membrane: “Paris is lovely at this time of year.”

A light with opaque contours radiated in the astral plane, outlining a kind of vortex, a tunnel that immediately

sucked in the young Irishman’s soul. The cherubim took a deep breath, and lay the body on the ground, while

19

the battle continued in the physical world. He could hear rhythmic steps, and the sound of boots told him who

it was. Five Germans circled the crater, two of them armed with Bergmann sub-machine guns, while the others

held rifles. They looked at him, and, as if he were drawing his sword, he raised his hand to his gun belt. All he

found there was his Webley Mark revolver and he used his cherubim reflexes to shoot all the Germans in the

forehead at the same time.

When he stopped shooting, Denyel went back to the battleground, and what he saw there was an unforgettable

scene, horrifying, appalling. In a few minutes it seemed that the entire Expeditionary Force had been annihilated,

slaughtered by superior German strategy. The previously uneven terrain had been laid even with a carpet of

bodies, the earth spread with fallen men as far as the eye could see. Some were groaning, still alive, drowning

in the rivers of blood, suffocated by the successive layers of flesh. In the spirit world, a swirling vapor swept

through the trenches, with phantoms regrouping, firing at imaginary adversaries.

On the morning of July 1st alone, British losses amounted to nineteen thousand. The day ended with seventy-

two thousand British, French and German dead. The Battle of the Somme, which would be described in history

books, lasted a little over four months and accounted for a million dead or missing. It is considered the bloodiest

British Army battle to this day.

Denyel looked at Bartley’s body, turned around and contemplated the enemy battery. He could make out

more fallen expeditionary soldiers, among them pot-bellied Edward Hughes, the formidable Mr. Hyde, with his

Vickers in his arms, and further ahead, Lieutenant Aaron Cooper, lying with his whistle between his teeth.

When he had noticed the phantoms earlier during the march, Denyel could have sounded the alarm, and

had he done so, perhaps his friends would still be alive, rather than having perished so tragically. But that would

be an inglorious act against all angel codes. He was a soldier, too, a fighter for more noble causes, a celestial

warrior with a mission to accomplish.

He would remember those words for years: “I’m not scared of dying. But I’m scared of being dead.” And

also that spectral lament: “Paris is lovely at this time of year.”

He sat on the ground, bleeding. He took a bite from a bar of chocolate, unscrewed the top of his flask and

had a swig of Scotch. – pure malt.

Grabbing his rifle, he crawled back to the allied positions to join the new assault groups. He tried to put his

emotions to one side, to forget his earthly comrades. He recalled a phrase that he himself had said, which helped

him to go forward every time his judgment wavered.

It wasn’t a war. It was a game.

20

55. FIRE AGAINST ICE

The angel’s blood spread on the floor, creating a red stain on the Athean marble. Andril was in no hurry, he

was savoring every second of his sweet victory. He had total control of the situation. Nothing could stop him

now. Levih was dead, Denyel and Urakin were prisoners, and a horde of captor spirits would land soon, a troop

of demon soldiers from hell ready to carry out his orders. Kaira was still alive, but was emotionally disoriented,

and with the destruction of her team, she was in no condition to fight. Even so, she was dangerous, especially

if she wasn’t exterminated in the correct manner that Yaga had taught him. Knowing this, Andril had drawn

up a plan, a strategy to liquidate all his enemies in one go and also establish himself as Michael’s chief archon.

He spread the blood with his foot and when he least expected it, a tremor made the temple shake.

From death comes life; from sacrifice, victory – Kaira couldn’t get these words out of her mind. They echoed

like a prayer, a mantra, an order, something absolutely impossible to forget – One flame goes out, another is lit.

The pain of losing her friend to a shot in the back from a cowardly assassin gave way to instinctive fury, an

uncontrollable hate, to a feeling that she now knew was exclusive to humans. All she needed was a spark, a flash,

as Denyel had said, a catalyst to invoke angel powers, or more precisely, a trigger, an emotional stimulus. It had

been that way in the phantom condo, the ice cave, the toll booth in the Amazon – and it would be thus in Athea.

Andril was on his knees on the marble; Kaira’s aura expanded, projecting waves of heat, igniting thermic

flames of radiation. The floor shook again, the rigid columns swayed. Andril frowned, lost his balance, and tried

to support himself on the nearest pilaster. Sirith dived to the left, narrowly missing the block falling from the

roof. A crack opened up, running between his legs.

“What’s going on?” the captor stammered.

“Did you really not notice, idiot?” the angel swallowed a smile. “We’re in a volcanic cove. Athea was built

on top of a volcano. And Kaira is an angel of fire.” Suddenly, the extraordinary Sirith was no longer so exceptional.

Drops of lava seeped through the crack. Andril took five steps back, cursing the legacy of the dead Levih. It was

unacceptable to him that someone with such fragmented memories should be capable of invoking the supreme

powers of a caste leader. The ishin become more powerful when in contact with primary elements, and the

Athean volcano was not an ordinary crater, but one of the great volcanoes of antiquity, a pre-historic structure

that had helped to shape the planet before the existence of man.

Another strong tremor.

Afraid of punishment, Sirith did what he had to. He aimed the Thompson at Kaira and pulled the trigger,

using the rest of the ammunition in the magazine. The bullets flew out in sparks, only to dissolve on meeting

the angel’s protective shield. Terrified, he turned on his heels and ran to the back of the temple in typical captor

fashion; they always fled when cornered.

Andril ignored him – after all, who needed Sirith? He focused all his aura’s energy on materializing a pointed

stake of ice, which grew like an extension of his arm, a weapon cold enough to resist the sphere of heat and

penetrate Kaira’s heart. He gathered his strength, maneuvered the stake, but Kaira, knowing the attack was

21

coming, touched the floor with her forehead. She felt the magma bubbling, tasted the fury of the volcano, and

connected herself to the earth as she had done in the jungle river. Without knowing how, she made a tongue

of flame come out of the ground, an incendiary geyser that opened up a crack between her and Andril. The

White Angel jumped back to avoid falling into the scalding abyss.

Levih’s martyrdom was a terrible reality, but there had been a reason for it. Everything happened for a reason,

as he himself used to say. Kaira didn’t believe in fatalism, she thought it was necessary to act. But perhaps the

ofanin was right in a way – perhaps there was a higher will, which was not always expressed through successes

and joys. This is what Levih had wanted to say on the boat, and although he denied it, that also summed up

Denyel’s philosophy. With this sacrifice, she finally understood what it meant to be an angel of God. The

universe is like a symphony, with sad, energetic and sometimes off-key notes. We lived not only to listen to the

song, impassive to its chords, but also to participate in it – suffering , smiling and loving.

Kaira said goodbye to the Friend of Men. She raised her head, her red hair falling over face. It was no longer

necessary to control the earthquake, the catastrophe was irreversible. Athea would be destroyed one way or

another, but first she would have to deal with Andril.

Outside, an avalanche rolled down the cliff. The mountains and islands shifted, a sign that not only the

temple, but the whole bay was succumbing to the volcanic eruption.

The petrol tanker made a side maneuver and took advantage of the deep waters to anchor on the quays.

The smell of oil and pollution infested the lagoon, and, even imprisoned in ice, Denyel and Urakin could see

beyond the skiffs a horde of captors throw the kind of rope nets normally used to land troops. The creatures

crowded the deck, and the magic nature of the vertex, free of the oscillations of the tissue between the two

worlds, allowed them to show themselves not as humans, but in their real form. When they were not transformed,

the demons had a hideous appearance – some were pot-bellied, others had huge pustules covering their bodies;

others looked like skeletons, with bones on display, their shriveled skin just dark stains and the genital organs

torn off. Many had wounds, bleeding sores, rotten teeth, swollen faces. In place of weapons these slaughterers

carried rusty iron bars, nail-studded clubs, machetes with dented blades and chains spiked with razors. The first

twenty captors left the anchored ship, led by a cross-eyed sergeant who smelled of decomposing flesh. They

began to climb the hill by the stone steps, advancing in two lines, like carnivorous ants on the march. They

got to the lookout point, passed the obelisk and halted when they came across Denyel and Urakin trapped

inside the crystal column.

Two demons observed the operation from the vessel bridge. One of them was Guth, the creature with green

perforated skin who had recruited the satanic brigades. The other was Bakal, an entity with a black heart and

bulging veins.

“Two appetizing snacks, right away,” said Bakal, looking at the petrified angels.

“There are others inside,” observed Guth, salivating.

“Yes, the archon.”

“The archons,” he laughed evilly. “There are two of them.”

Kaira was on her feet, face to face with the enemy. She conjured up a projectile of fire, a solid missile of red

flames but Andril’s defense came just as fast. He raised a crystal shield, a carapace that absorbed all the energy

of the impact. This barrier decomposed, but saved him, and Kaira immediately called up a new missile, instantly

repelled by another shield, and so on another four times, until they both tired.

Then Andril attacked, using the location itself as an ally. He froze one of the columns beside Kaira to breaking

point, making it so cold that it cracked, and, unable to support itself, gave way, launching shards of marble,

22

rocks that, though frozen, were magic and so could not be evaporated. Kaira swerved, seeing the beam graze

her nose like the trunk of a felled tree. A splinter caught her head, leaving a deep cut on her forehead.

Taking advantage of the distraction, Andril attacked again, firing a cloud of hail, stones heavier than normal,

thus harder to repel. His assault demanded a keen response, so Kaira brought her palms together and then

opened them, creating a gust of thermic waves that spread in the form of a fluorescent line, distorting the

molecules in the air, melting the hailstones below. The radiation dispelled the hail and subdued the White

Angel, who retreated into an ice shell that protected his front, but left him vulnerable to burns from behind.

With his shoulders seared, Andril went towards Kaira, who accepted the challenge. The fight from now on

would be a dispute not only of energy and will, but also of strength, speed and vigor.

On the steps of Athea, the cross-eyed sergeant drew close to Denyel. He was a fetid, gross creature, wearing

an iron breastplate and a skirt made of human skin. He gave a toothless smile and spat on the ice when he saw

the angel’s situation, imprisoned by the curse, with his sword raised and his feet off the ground. He let his spiked

chain go and gave one of his soldiers an order:

“Give me a decent axe. I’ll break this with one blow.”

“Sirith wants them alive,” warned a tall, skinny recruit, so hairy he looked like a monkey.

“Sirith?” The captor looked at the collapsing temple. “Fuck him! We take orders from Guth”. And then he

announced, “Take whatever you want. As much as you want. This one here is mine.”

“I’ll have this other one,” said a second sergeant, wielding a cudgel, ready to tear Urakin to pieces.

In the temple, the wounded combatants continued their battle. Andril turned his palm upwards and solidified

a huge piece of ice there, a star with sharp points. This object flew like a disc, and Kaira’s response was to twist

her hip, creating a ball of magma between her fingers. She hurled the globe too late, and as a result, was hit by

the explosion and thrown several meters backwards as far as one of the columns that comprised the third ring.

She slid down the pilaster, spitting blood and saliva.

When she recovered, she saw Andril breaking into a trot. He jumped up and showed his crystal wings,

which, despite their strange consistency, were perfectly efficient in flight. He conjured a sword of ice from his

fists and dived towards Kaira to plunge it into her skull. Kaira hugged her knees and felt her back burning,

sprouting two wings, not with white feathers, as she had expected, but translucid, red and flaming. With its

power renewed, the dome of heat turned into a cupola of pure energy, which not only repelled the ice blade

but also dragged her rival away, rolling him as far as the exit door.

The exhausted fighters returned to the duel, this time in mid flight, grazing the marble beams. Andril

summoned a mixture of ice, snow and crystal, and the Divine Spark made a ball of flames appear. The energies

collided in the center of the temple.

“You tried to destroy me before, don’t you remember?” roared Andril, his voice hoarse from the titanic

effort. “You will never succeed. You cannot defeat me; I am indestructible. Our powers are equal, but I cannot

die, which makes this confrontation futile. Pardon Levih’s death. Every battle has its losses.” He spoke as if he

were apologizing. “We’re quits now. Urakin killed Forcas, you banished Yaga, utterly destroying her. It’s only

fair that we reply with equal brutality. Give up and I will release your friends. I will allow them to escape from

here with their lives.”

The offer surprised Kaira and she gave it serious consideration. The Heart of Ice was a terrifying divinity and

had saved him many times. Kaira had no idea how it worked, but she had seen it used both during the escape

from the cathedral and in the regression ceremony. In logical terms, it really was impossible to beat him. If

Andril kept his word, she could still save Denyel and Urakin, even if this was just a temporary solution.

23

It had been some time since Kaira had felt guilty. She bore the guilt for having failed in her first mission

and not having believed Urakin and Levih, for having abandoned them in the ice, for not having noticed Sirith’s

infiltration, and finally for not managing to protect the Friend of Men. Could she possibly live with the death

of two more comrades, who the White Angel was capable of exterminating with just one thought? But the big

question, perhaps the most important one, was whether they would forgive her. They were not invincible, but

they had stout hearts, they were warrior angels and they would never accept her bowing to Andril.

“You are afraid,” guessed Kaira. “Just as I cannot kill you, you cannot beat me. If I fall, the explosion will

bury the Oceanus.”

“Afraid? Absurd!” And he repeated, “Listen. I am the only one who can save your comrades. What do you

say?”

“I say that angels…”, and she remembered Rachel, saw again the moment when her eyes lost their color,

“should save children, instead of killing them.”

The battle of strength was so great that, at the point where the energies were concentrated, the union

between cold and magma produced a block of sparking rock, frozen hard on the outside, brilliant and incandescent

inside.

The surface cracked in a swirl of gases, terminating in a luminous explosion that hurled fire and crystal

through the door. The captors braving the steps above at that moment were obliterated, swept away by the

scarlet wave, impaled by the crystal shards. The demons lower down were protected behind the skiffs, safe from

the assault.

Kaira and Andril were pushed upwards, hit the ceiling and then fell down, bleeding, exhausted. The temple

would have been destroyed had the Atlanteans not strengthened their buildings with invisible magic layers,

which did not stop them from being demolished, but made them more resistant.

Kaira got up, looking for Andril and saw him going down the underground passage, reaching the dark stairs.

There was still time to catch him before the eruption, before he escaped via the sacred waters of the Oceanus.