Apocalypse Rising by Eric Swett

his friend was hidden away. “We'll keep it that way as long as we can. The last thing we need is some other commander sticking his nose in where it isn't needed.”
    “Yes, that would be inconvenient, wouldn't it,” she said. “What will he do?”
    “He will do as he was told, as will I.”
    “Yes, yes, your slavish devotion to orders is well known. The price you pay for being earth bound. Or is that a requirement for assuming mortal guise?” Her words were light and friendly in sound only. Even the highest members of the Host craved time on the mortal plain, but very few were granted the right.
    “Either way, events are taking shape, and I am ready for it.”
    “Do you know where he is?”
    “No, nor do I know what he looks like. No one has seen him since his fall, but I know he has used the power more than once this morning and each use is getting closer to downtown. Soon he will be here, and with every use of the power he will be easier to detect.” Robert did not mention that the last use of the power had been strong enough that Adriel herself could have detected him if he were in town.
    “I see then. Well, happy hunting. I have some work of my own to do today, so as much as I would love to float around and chat, I had better get going.” The Angel drifted upward fast enough that Robert knew she was going to do more than perform some simple tasks. Well before he reached his first stop she would have word spread that the prophecy was coming true. He did not trust her, but she had her uses, and served his purposes. A time would come when her usefulness would run out, and something would have to be done about her.
     
     

CHAPTER NINE

    I wake in darkness. The room is quiet except for the hum of a swamp cooler wedged into the room's only window. Little streams of light peak around the edges of the pull down blinds. As my eyes adjust, I see a small desk with a chair, a couple of overloaded bookshelves, and a coat rack. I sit up, my shoulder aching, but not enough to keep me down. Swinging my legs off the edge of the ancient cot I am on is a struggle. I have not felt this weak since the day of my fall. I head for the door, anxious to find Lilly, afraid of where I may have ended up.
    I open the only door and squint as bright light penetrates the room. I walk into the light, accepting that I am at the mercy of whoever is there. To my surprise, and disappointment, there is no one. The room has the too sterile feel of a hospital waiting room, minus the nurses, or the music piped in through decades old speakers. There are pictures of old California missions in black and white and a small, uncomfortable looking bench-pressed against a wall. Two other doors flanked the one I had come through. One leads to freedom, the other, answers. I choose the other.
    I walk into the sanctuary of a church, pleased to see the small, tasteful place of worship rather than one of the mega-churches. I have never understood the appeal of so much splendor. The money spent on such complexes rivaled the greatest temples of ancient times. Worship, true worship, did not require gold and glass. It required faith, nothing more. Worn wooden benches line the sanctuary in perfect rows. I head toward the alter; the weight of my imperfect faith pulls me forward, drawing my eyes to the simple cross hanging at the back of the apse.
    I kneel at the steps leading up from the sanctuary and bow my head. Prayer comes hard to me. It always has, and I think it always will. Humans always assume that they are the only ones who seek God through prayer; they would be shocked to know that Angels musk seek his wisdom, and guidance, much in the same way. An eternity spent in His light makes it easier to understand His will, and to feel His blessing upon you, but He rarely speaks directly with all but the highest of hosts. I have prayed little since I left the heavens.
    I am silent, uncertain where to begin, or even how. I remember the words of an old priest that I