Then in the East her turn she shines,
Revolvd on Heav’ns great Axle
31
Finding a new skin was always a problem for him.
Had he been like his sister, Belial, he’d simply tempt, seduce and lie his way into getting what he wanted. But over the years he had formed a personal code. One he did his best to follow.
No subterfuge, no games.
He would get what he needed simply by asking.
So his choices were limited. There weren’t too many humans out there who would willingly give up their bodies without the promise of some kind of reward. Which was why he found himself in Central City East, a section of downtown Los Angeles known as “the Nickel” or skid row, just blocks from the Angels Flight-a hillside rail tram that had only recently reopened for business.
The body he occupied-the body he was now forced to replace-had been found right here, a young man in his mid-twenties who had been a heroin addict since he was seventeen years old and had no qualms about leaving this world behind.
The young man’s speech had been slurred by drink and drugs, but he was cognizant enough to know what was being asked of him. Rewards no longer mattered. He had simply wanted a change, and was more than willing to take his chances in the afterlife.
“What’s it like out there?” he had asked.
“Like nothing you’ve ever known.”
“Will I see God?”
“I can’t give you any promises, but I
“I’m willing to take my chances.”
“Are you? I don’t want to do this unless you’re absolutely sure.”
“I’m sure,” the young man had said. “There’s just one thing I want to know before we start.”
“Ask.”
“Your name. I need to know your name.”
He remembered resting his palm on top of the young man’s head and thinking that, despite appearances, this was a good soul who would do well in the otherworld. Telling him his name was the least he could do.
“Michael,” he’d said softly. “They call me Michael.”
But that was then and this was now.
After the fight in the alley and the severe loss of blood, the young man’s body was no longer useful to him. So Michael had patched up his wounds, gotten some much-needed rest, then used what little strength he had left to make his way back to skid row.
He hadn’t felt good about leaving Jenna behind. His instinct was to stay with her, keep watching her- especially with Zack still on the loose. He hadn’t intended to lose an entire day and much of the night, but what choice did he have? She seemed to be in good hands at the shelter, and with any luck he’d be back listening to her song before morning.
He began roaming the streets, feeling the life draining out of him with every step he took. He could, of course, abandon this body where it stood, but traveling through this world without a host was difficult and would only complicate his task. And he found it much easier to communicate with these beings when he looked and sounded like them.
As always, skid row was crawling with the wasted and the disenfranchised. Old and young, male and female, each one of them victim to human prejudices and often to their own mental or emotional weaknesses. They carried a sense of hopelessness so deeply rooted in their psyches that they saw no other remedy than to give up and give in. They drank and drugged themselves into oblivion, waiting and hoping for that final release.
Was he wrong to exploit that wish?
Maybe.
Maybe it made him no better than his brethren.
But his intent was pure. That much he knew for certain. He was here to
He was a good hour into his search when he found a candidate. Older than he would have liked-late fifties or possibly early sixties-but there was a natural muscularity to his frame that couldn’t be disguised by the oversize shirt and the ill-fitting jeans.
The man lay sleeping under the marquee of an abandoned movie theater, huddled close to the boarded-up ticket booth, his hair long and gray, the equally gray stubble on his chin making the transition to full-grown beard.
He looked physically healthy and didn’t seem to be suffering the ravages of booze or drugs, so Michael had to assume he was mentally ill.
Which was both a blessing and a curse.
A blessing because his body wouldn’t give out so quickly, yet a curse because it was difficult to explain to someone suffering from mental illness why you want him to make the ultimate sacrifice.
A dilemma that Michael would just as soon avoid.
So he continued on, moving past the old man and dismissing him from his mind.
Half a block up, however, he felt a stab of pain in his side and realized that his stitches had torn loose and he was bleeding again.
He didn’t have much time.
Staggering to a bus stop, he sank onto the bench and checked the wound, doing what he could to stop the flow of blood. The moon hung low in the night sky, nearly close enough to touch, and as he sat there, holding his side, he thought about what was coming in just a few short days:
The last phase of the lunar tetrad.
The fourth in a quartet of full eclipses, unbroken in sequence, over the span of a single year. The last of four moons sliding through the umbra, turning a deep shade of copper.
A blood moon.
There were those who believed that consecutive eclipses were a signal from God. A sign that his son would soon return to the earth, that the dead would be resurrected and final judgment passed.
But there were others who knew better. Those-like Michael-who had been here from the beginning and had witnessed the creation of man and the world he inhabited.
Those who wanted possession of that world.
The dark rebels who had once been Michael’s friends.
The rebels had always thought of themselves as the heroes of the story. The bringers of light, the purveyors of truth, the bold few who had dared rise up against a tyrant to make their world a better place.
But history is written by the victors, and when the War in Caeli came to an end, those who had dared defy their father were beaten down and broken, labeled traitors, exiled to the belly of Abyssus.
To the world at large, they were seen as infernal spirits. Dark angels.
Daemones.
To their minds, however, the only thing that separated them from the so-called angels of God was their
