when it looked as though shit was about to hit the fan big-time.
Francis saw himself taken down by a legion led by Dardariel. Remembering the pain of the event, he was glad it was over. He’d expected to die that day, to be executed for his betrayal of God, and if Dardariel and his armies had had their way, he would have.
But God had seen things differently.
Francis slowly awoke from the special presentation of
Did God realize how close they were to repeating the past? Did He even care?
It was something to consider.
Francis opened his eyes just in time to see the studded gauntlet descending, and felt it land squarely on the side of his face.
“Oh yeah,” he slurred, his mouth filling with blood that began to spill from the side of his swollen mouth. “That’s something I’ve really missed.”
He was chained to a wall in the dungeon of an ancient Mesopotamian prison, one used by angels for questioning war criminals who had fled to Earth when Lucifer’s rebellion had been struck down. It was a lovely old place of wet stone and mold that still stank of torture and divine bloodletting. As he dangled from his chains, he had to wonder if he wasn’t the only one of late to be a guest in these ancient accommodations.
Dardariel flexed his muscled shoulders, his magnificent wings shining in the light of a burning brazier in the center of the room. He brought his gauntleted hand to his nose and sniffed Francis’ blood.
“Your blood stinks of corruption,” he said. “Not like the blood of one who was shown mercy by his Creator.”
“I had an omelet with a shitload of garlic in it yesterday, maybe that’s what you smell,” Francis suggested, as he spit a wad of blood onto the dungeon floor.
Dardariel surged forward with a powerful flap of his wings, burying his metal-sheathed fist in Francis’ stomach.
“I could never understand His mercy toward you.” Dardariel was close to Francis’ face, his breath smelling of something akin to cinnamon. “When so many others were cast down to Tartarus—it was as if He saw something in you.”
Francis was about to crack wise, but Dardariel’s words struck a note, and he again found himself thinking of what he had lost in Heaven, and how he could never get that back.
Even if he was to be as nice as pie, something cut right from the Disney mold, it would forevermore be denied to him.
For Heaven wasn’t the same anymore.
“The Lord God showed you mercy and this is how you repay Him.” Dardariel had backed off and was pacing before Francis.
“Why did you do it?” he asked suddenly.
“I know this will probably get me hit, but why did I do what?”
A wing lashed out and was followed by a fist. Francis felt as though his jaw had been ripped away and thrown across the room.
“I’m psychic, too,” he mumbled, getting used to the taste of his own blood.
Dardariel stared, his eyes like two burning coals in the dimly lit dungeon.
“I’m serious,” Francis tried again. “What did I do?”
The angel lunged forward, hands striking the stone wall on either side of him.
“You murdered the general.”
Francis looked directly into the angel’s eyes. “I did not.”
Dardariel could barely contain his rage, first striking the wall, then Francis, hitting him again and again.
“Beating me to a pulp can’t change reality,” Francis said, struggling to hold on to consciousness.
The angel dropped his hands to his sides and weapons from Heaven’s armory took shape.
Francis blinked blood from his eyes as he tried to focus on them.
“Are those sais?” he asked, recognizing the Japanese martial arts weaponry. He had a fascination with ancient armaments, and kung fu films.
“Why yes they are,” Dardariel said, just before jabbing one of the fiery metal batons into the former Guardian’s chest.
For the briefest instant, Francis felt the fires of Heaven inside his accursed body.
But that was more than enough.
He wondered where all the noise was coming from before realizing that it was his own screams of agony.
“Now, tell me again how you had nothing to do with Aszrus’ death. . . . I dare you.”
It took a moment for Francis to compose himself, the feeling of God’s divine fire still worming its way through every aspect of his being.
“You might as well take those pig stickers and shove them in my eyes. My answer isn’t going to change,” Francis snarled. “Your beloved general was already dead when I arrived on the scene.”
Dardariel surged forward again, one of the flaming sais jabbing toward Francis’ chest.
Anticipation made Francis scream.
The point of the sai stopped a mere hair from his chest. Francis looked down at the hovering point, and then up into Dardariel’s unwavering gaze.
“And why would someone the likes of you arrive on the scene?”
Francis swallowed hard, feeling the heat from the weapon tickling the center of his chest.
“My employer heard a rumor,” he explained. “Asked me to look into some things.”
“Your employer,” Dardariel said as if his mouth was filled with poison.
Francis said nothing, knowing that any answer he gave would likely result in pain.
“So somebody else was assigned the deed, and you were sent to make sure that the job was done.”
Francis closed his eyes and sighed heavily. “Listen to me,” he said. “I didn’t have anything to do with killing your general. My employer knew how this murder would be perceived, and wanted to be certain that the right individuals got the blame.”
Dardariel raised the sai’s point to Francis’ eye.
“Not to point fingers,” Francis said quickly. “But one particular side has quite the itchy trigger finger and is just looking for an excuse to fire the starter’s gun.”
For a moment it was like all the air had been sucked from the room. Francis felt it, and from the look on Dardariel’s face, the angel felt it as well.
“Are you implying that one of us wants a war, Fraciel?” asked a voice from somewhere in the darkness of the dungeon.
Dardariel turned, the sais disappearing in a flash of golden flame.
A powerful figure emerged into the light cast by the burning brazier.
It had been a long time since Francis had laid eyes on the Archangel.
“Hey, Mike,” he said flippantly. “Long time no see.”
The Archangel Michael was dressed to the nines, looking as though he’d just stepped off the fashion runway, though Francis couldn’t be sure that he’d ever seen a seven-foot-tall warrior of Heaven, with skin like white marble and hair the color of pure gold, walk the runway before.
“Nice suit.”
The Archangel stopped beside the brazier, his gold-flecked eyes glistening in the dance of the flames there.
“Even after all you’ve endured, you still have not learned to respect your superiors,” Michael softly spoke. His voice was like a fine violin—a Stradivarius—expertly tuned. He reached into the brazier, careful not to catch his sleeve afire, and removed one of the blazing coals.
“The Lord God gave you a very special gift, Fraciel, and this is how you repay Him?”
Francis tensed, pulling on his chains.
