They Who Fell by Kevin Kneupper

isn’t a joy on its own. But it’s nice to have plans.”
    “Plans get rid of all the fun,” said Rhamiel. “We’ll improvise. You should talk to Ecanus. He’s not exactly of our stature, but I’ve never met someone so creative about his cruelty. He simply follows his own fancies wherever they lead him. He’s a tad dark, but there’s something to learn from that. We could topple a building, or you could perform some of those miracles you’re always going on about.” He downed his drink, and approached the edge of the balcony.
    They had a perfect view of the ruined city. The skyline was nothing but jagged rows of dilapidated buildings in various states of decline. Rhamiel stood at the brink, facing outward, and lifted his wings. Then he held out his arms and dropped. His wings caught the air, and he began to glide. Zuphias followed shortly, and soon they flew side by side, aimlessly circling the tower.
    “Let’s follow the wind, and see where it takes us,” Rhamiel shouted. They rode a current of air, hardly needing to flap, and drifted lazily over the city. Nothing much happened for a time. The buildings were empty, and the streets were quiet. Rhamiel and Zuphias flew in silence, looking on the crumbling works of man below them. The current was unstable, and veered from street to street. Both were soon lost in flight and in their own thoughts. It was a form of meditation for them—calming, and a welcome break from the politics that often engulfed their home. Neither was much for all that, but many of their comrades felt compelled to busy themselves with petty bickering.
    Then Rhamiel spotted it. Something moving on the ground. Just a speck in the distance, but it intrigued him. He motioned to Zuphias, and they flew lower. Closer, now, and the scene became clear. They could see two people, moving. And next to them a body.
    “That looks like Abraxos, doesn’t it?” asked Rhamiel. Quiet and something of a loner, Abraxos was prone to solitary flights. He’d been the equivalent of a heavenly security guard before the Fall, patrolling its vast boundaries without ever engaging in formal warfare like Uzziel. He was mostly a non-entity to them, but this was too interesting to resist. They moved in, flying lower, and drew their swords.

CHAPTER EIGHT
    T hane could see them in the distance, up in the skies. Two dots, rapidly approaching, with fire waving from their sides.
    “Tongues! She’s talkin’ tongues!” he shouted into the radio, and lifted Faye over his shoulder.
    Holt knew instantly that things had gone bad. Glossolalia was a sure sign you were being targeted from above. Some said it was the true angelic language, but if so, they’d never been heard to speak it. Others thought that it was a trick of the mind—that it was the angels worming their way into the brain somehow, scrambling the synapses temporarily to render their prey vulnerable. What was known was that speaking in tongues meant that they were around, and that they had targeted you.
    Holt raised a hand to preemptively silence Dax. He was prone to chatter, and this wasn’t the time. Then he leaned to the edge of the window, trying to get a good view without giving himself away. He could see Thane entering a nearby building, carrying Faye and hoping to find cover. It wasn’t likely to work. The angels knew they were there, and they’d tear the place apart to find them. The angels came into view, drifting in the air over the body. Two of them. They were having some discussion or another between themselves, and leisurely began inspecting the carcass.
    “Holt!” Thane’s voice came through the radio’s static. “Faye’s back, but she’s not lookin’ so hot. Too woozy to fight.” Whatever mental connection there was must have broken, either from the distance or from the angel otherwise losing sight of her. But he’d been in her head, and that could be a nerve-racking experience. She’d be shaky and confused, and would need some time